So, the end of the year meme makes me uncomfortable, and I'll tell you why -- the 'telling stories' question. Because it makes me think on a meta-level what it says about me that I can write some of the stories I've written, and then my carefully constructed self-image of myself as a relatively rational, quirky but vaguely harmless person explodes into this weird, sekritly sociopathic threat to humanity as we know it. I mean, I suppose in order to *write* someone like Tom Riddle or Lionel Luthor, I must be able to *understand* on some instinctive level, and that means that, I, too am a total and complete ice cold fuck on the inside.
Which, you know, I guess I could be more or less fine with, if ultimately that turns out to be the truth.
It's possible I think far, far too much, and in a much too circular logic kind of way.
Oh, in other news: the ring's off my finger, though I do have a very interesting bruise there. I keep staring at it and thinking that if it was on the correct ring-finger and I had been married, ever, it would be a really cool metaphor for -- you know, something.
I think maybe later I'll do a recs post. I've read a million hundred stories I've loved lately, but right now I'm too pre-occupied with wanting to make and eat cookies. More with the eating; if someone were to make them for me, I wouldn't say no. That's for sure.
