May 12th, 2005

my idol

It's 3 AM, and I'm still awake, and so is my work. Lucky me.

So the right thing for me to do is clearly a poll. About zombies. (Forgive me, Lyra.)

Poll #492327 In the event of zombies.

If I woke up and there were zombies everywhere, I would:

Drink heavily. Lock myself in a bathroom with chips and booze, and drink heavily until it all went away.
Get pro-active. Kill the brain, kill the ghoul!
Try to figure out if I'd recently taken a hallucinogenic until I was dragged through a window, and then start screaming. Like, a lot.
Go fetal, clutching my cell phone and listening to the busy sound from 911 until it all went away or someone finally picked up.

Best weapon?

Fire, damn you, fire!
A gun. Clearly. As long as you've got lots of ammo, it'll be like shooting clay, brain eating, pigeons.
Cricket bat. It worked for Shaun of the Dead, okay?
Monster truck!! Style points, plus ability to get away. If the roads aren't blocked off. Which they might be. You never know.

In a zombie movie scenario, I think that you, Nifra, would:

die first, because, please. Just think about it, okay? You, zombies? Death is incipient.
make it a third of the way through the movie, and be the death that raises the stakes so that everyone knows that, OH GOD IT COULD HAPPEN TO THEM.
totally be the climactic death scene that brings a tear to everyone's eye, and gives the hero momentum to make it through. You'd be the Gipper!
survive! You're a perky ingenue!

Zombies are funny!

God yes! Single mindedness and total lack of brain! They remind me of hilarious people I know, but people who are only hilarious from afar! Up close, they try to eat your brain.
No, no, a thousand times, no! I am Lyra, and I say thee nay, zombies!!
I have no zombie opinion. You need to really maybe think about your work, there, Captain Crazy Pants.

This is a semi-serious question that I'm folding into the zombie-addled mix here. But. In regards to the way I have been locked into essay writing mode, the question is, Do you guys read them? Do you enjoy them? Should I stop?

I totally read your ship/character essays, and find them insightful, you needer of validation, you.
I read them, though they're long and rather addled, and even though lots of them are deeply flawed and again, way with the too long, I find them marginally interesting.
I don't click cut tags when they're on your journal, Nif. You have no idea what could be lurking beneath that cut tag. It could be a manatee in drag, or an ode to Otto Van Bismark's mustache. Either is possible.
I've read them, and think you way need to lay off the ego, kiddo.
Hold up, hold up, you write *essays*? What the hell? Why?
I'm here strictly for porn.


They happen sometimes.
Much like fish. But without gills. And rather more insistent on eating brains.
Would you please, please GOD, never mention zombies again? I mean, for me?
  • Current Music
    I'll Fly Away-Alison Kraus
giles mack daddy

"Patrick Swayze, why don't you love me?" sings Vin Diesel, plaintively.

One class left, one paper left. It's like high noon, and I'm Gary Cooper. Or Tom Skerrit, if we're talking about the TBS remake, and honestly, there is no reason to ever talk about that, so we'll just go with Gary Cooper.

Paper, I'm going to shoot you so full of holes you'll be a strainer, you hear me?

Of course you don't. You don't have ears, and are not sentient. Or written yet. Which is problematic with the hearing situation.

The point is, as though I were to have a point at this juncture, that I'm a day away from a kind of freedom. This kind of freedom will be a -- freeing kind.

What? You want eloquence? I put up a poll about zombies at 3:30 am. This should be a sign that all is filled with insanity in Nifonia.

The thing about the end of the semester - or, truly, ONE of the things - is that I always spend so much time going insane about everything that I forget that once everything is in, and done, I'll be done with these classes, and I've really enjoyed (and resented, but mainly enjoyed) these classes. I kind of still want to be taking them, and reading about history and women writers and poetry and politics and all of those things that I find so interesting.

Also, this is the time of the year where every lighter I've ever had seems to vanish, the minute I need it. I think to myself, "Self, where could your lighter possibly have gone? Two seconds ago when you didn't want to be smoking, you had the lighter in your pocket. Now your pocket has only lint and a penny. You can't even strike these things together to make a spark."

Desperate times, my friends. Desperate indeed.

And so, here's a brief link filled list of things that are positive:

1. If you like to make value judgments and also the 'Awww!' noise, this is the website for you.
2. SO. IN. LOVE.
3. Best e-cards ever. Really.
5.Salmon in drag, soup=love, and rosy perfection salad: Who knew Weight Watchers was funny?
7. Mr. Coffee Nerves?
8. The funniest thing about this is the progression of the definitions, and how it becomes very clear who the author of the whole thing is. You have to stick to it, and read as much of it out loud to your friends/victims as possible. Really. You'll love it.
9. This is not for Fox1013. Honestly. Don't click this if you're Fox.
10. "Armed, jackbooted Cola Enforcers roam the streets, dragging off anyone caught with a can of Mountain Dew. Children in school pledge allegiance to Coke"

The end.

ETA: it occurs to me that if one of you talented people could make me an icon of Mr. Coffee Nerves saying 'foiled again by potsum' from that comic strip linked in number 7, that would RULE. *bats eyelashes prettily*
  • Current Music
    such great heights-The Postal Service
In charge

*clears throat*

This is just to say that I am finally, completely, unequivocally, totally and absolutely, fabulously, wonderfully, thrillingly, chillingly done with my work.

I jumped on my bed a little when I finished my final paper. I am trying to keep a lid on all the exhiliration or I may explode with it. This would be self-defeating.

But, let me just type this sentence again: I am done with my work.



That is all.
  • Current Music
    We Are The Champions - Queen
rock star ioan

(you make me) promises promises

So. Now is the time on sprockets when I start, finally, getting caught up on old comments. It's going to take me a day or two to really get to them guys, but now that I have time to like, sleep. Eat. Breathe. I will be a good girl, and get back to you, and I'm sorry it's taken me years and years!!

And here's another thing: I've been working on this FatF thing that just...okay. It's Mia/Letty, and it hasn't gotten to the Mia/Letty-ness of it all yet, and it reads like so many snippets of other, larger fic. It's disconnected, and it's weird, and I honestly don't know if I'm going to finish it or not.

But, I feel vaguely as if posting it will make me feel better, and want to finish it. I have no rationale behind this decision. I honestly don't. So, we're not going to call this a WiP, we'll call it a -- snippet. Yes. An 8 page snippet of an as yet untitled Mia/Letty story.


Right on.

Working title on it right now is: Translation.

So. Unbetaed (because it's not done yet), but here we go. Please, any crit/comments appreciated like you don't even know.

Collapse )
  • Current Music
    The General-Dispatch

Waste Our Lights in Vain Commentary, Part the Second: In which Nifra becomes obsessed with doors, and Mercutio hijacks a story as surely as Dom ever hijacked a truck.

So, last time we saw our intrepid hero, she was talking at length about the reading of Romeo & Juliet that lead to her getting an idea of the characters she was writing beyond Romeo=Tool and Mercutio=Teh Roxxors.

First things first: anyone who wants to read the story before reading this, here's a link.

Okay, so going into this story, I knew that 1) I can't write Elizabethan dialogue. I mean, I just -- no way, man, and 2) knowing that anything dialogue-wise or attempting to sound Shakespearean I wrote would be absolutely stunningly bad against the text from which I was writing.

So I decided that the best way to do this was to just not write any dialogue, and the only way to make that work was to write a story that was very, very image heavy. Collapse )
  • Current Music
    Ladyfingers-Luscious Jackson
Girlfight! - Commodorified!!

I do not come from a nomadic tribe.

I've come to the conclusion that it's absolutely ridiculous that I have to move at the end of every year, as I am, in fact, not from nomadic stock. My ancestors are not roamers, they're stayers. They're put-down-roots-ers, making me a 'has issues with changing habitations, cannot stop the pathological accumulation of crap, finds it difficult to throw anything away due to the potential sentimental value which I will remember after I've thrown something away even if while contemplating doing that all I can think is that it looks like a crumpled piece of paper' put-down-rootser type.

Right now I am sitting in my room in the dark, and yes, it's a mess in here but it's *my mess*. I love this room. I love where I live right now. I don't want to not live here for three months. I don't want to not live here again. I want to stay right where I am for the duration. Dammit.

I've made a list of the things I have to do today: Number 1) Get over yourself. 2) Boxes: you need them. 3) Place your belongings into these boxes. 4) Seriously? Get over yourself.

Things I have to do by Monday: takethehouse fic and also the kink/cliche fic. Both of these things are fandoms I've never written before. I know I read a lot of different kinds of fic, but really, I'm feeling an overall entrenchment in things that I'm used to right now, and somehow I've created a connection in my mind between writing in new fandoms and packing my room. I can't even explain it to myself. I think it's just because I'm in an utterly miserable mood today. Last night I was fine with the idea of writing both of these things. Today I'm having an over all freak out, and wishing that if packing has to be done a ball of white light would descend from on high and hum celestial music at my things, and then pack them all appropriately and sweep my floor into the bargain.

In conclusion: fuck the sunlight, fuck everything I own, and fuck moving. I hate to move. I hate to pack. I am a ball of hate, and if a ball of white light did descend from on high in my presence, it would probably erupt into flames and run back to on high, whimpering.

Cheer me up by telling me something good. Or something. I don't know. Do a thing. I'm going to be over here, raging against the dying of the light or whatever.
  • Current Music
    Storm-Godspeed You Black Emperor!
Gloved humor

Go now, you are forgiven.


Inside the post office, there is a package. This package is, you are entirely aware, for you. You know that it has to be there. The oracle has spoken. The orcale does not lie. The oracle is and it tracks shipping. The oracle has a paper trail leading to the package, which is for you and inside the post office.

The post office has not deemed you worthy of your package. Instead, the post office has (upon your repeated inquiries as to the whereabots of your package) responded by telling you 1) "Amazon gets stuff wrong a lot", 2) "Yeah, it could be here. I don't know, there's a lot a shit we haven't processed." 3) "What the hell could be so important anyway?" and 4) "I'm really fucking busy here, okay?"

You, however, are intrepid. You are bold. You are persistent. You are determined that the post office's aggression towards you will not stand.

You are also alone in the post office. There is no one else there, not in the entire cave like edifice. You try the door to where they keep the packages, but it's locked. You begin to turn around, dispirited, and leave the post office, but then you remember that you are intrepid.

You eye the (waist high for many people, but for you somewhat higher than that) counter top beyond which you can see the shelves filled with packages, one of which you know to be yours. You look left, you look right, you begin to hum the Mission Impossible theme song as you back up enough to make a running leap and hoist yourself up onto the counter top.

When that doesn't work the first time, you do it again, humming more vehemently this time and dropping the purse that's clearly the only reason you became unbalanced and knocked over an entire display of memorial stamps.

On the floor, a strip of singing Elvises (Elvii?) wink encouragingly and up you go! And then down you go, as you fall off on the other side, but you do not go quietly. No, you take a desk chair down with you, squeaking as you go.

This merits a ten second motionless silent pause on the floor of the post office, staring wide eyed at the door through which you've convinced yourself someone is about to burst.

Intrepid, you remind yourself, intrepid.

You are so intrepid that you crawl across the floor, skittering from sorting bin to sorting bin for cover mind furiously coming up with explanations/excuses/back up plans should you be discovered, and lo! There it is!

The shelf! And upon the shelf -- a package, with your name emblazoned upon it in large black letters!

"Yes," you crow, exultant, waving your arms in the air, and dancing as you recover, finally, your prodigal package. You shake it against your ear, hoping to be able to discern the contents from the sound, but alas, this hasn't worked once in your entire life, and doesn't work now.

Scissors gleam temptingly on the desk, as if to say, "Yes, yes, use us, open your package, do it now!!" but you, wisely, pass them by.

For, lo! In the distance, what can be heard but the clomping of booted feet! Headed toward you!

Across the barrier your scramble, standing on the desk chair and several important looking documents, and catching your shirt on the countertop. A thread hangs behind you as you crawl down, and you wrestle with it in increasing anxiety as the shoes get closer ....closer....closer....until finally the thread snaps, and you grab your purse.

The door clicks open, and you shove your package into your purse viciously, red faced, and wide eyed.

"Hey, can I help you?" asks the post office employee.

Elvis winks conspiratorially at you from the ground below you as you search for something to say.

"You all right?" the employee asks, concerned at the wordless noises you're making.

You blink at him, and say, finally, "I'm fine. I have -- you know. Too much sun. Had to come inside. Gets hot. My head," and make a gesture that could widely be interpreted as "I am, in fact, insane". And then you turn around, and walk away as FAST AS YOU CAN.


You are in a horrible mood. Horrible, no good, very bad. You are, in fact, in a funk of epic proportions. Everything angers you. The small children picking flowers picturesquely by your window sicken you. You want to throw your fake plants at their heads. Next door, your favorite song is playing.

You decide that you, actually, hate that song and music in general. There is no good use for it. Except for Radiohead, which only serves to push you further into your funk. You put on clothes you've had since you were fifteen, put your hair up in a pony tail, and sulk experimentally at the mirror, simulating your own teenage angst.

Yeah, you decide. You've still got it.

You stalk into the kitchen, and open the refrigerator door, stare at everything inside and deem it all unworthy. You slam the door, and this makes a satisfying noise. So you pick up a can of bread crumbs and bang it against the counter, and open and close every cabinet loudly. You cross your arms and stare at everything in disgust, and then kick the throw rug in the kitchen.

This doesn't make a satisfying noise, and instead tangles around your foot. There's something slimy on it, and it's touching your skin. You start waving your arms over your head and making high pitched noises as you kick your foot around, trying to get the rug off it.

The rug is caught in your sandles, and staying for the duration.


You kick your shoe off, and it flies across the room. The rug decides this is far more of a commitment to your shoe than it is willing to make, and flops dejectedly back to the floor. The shoe, on the other hand, ricochets off the wall, out the window.

You frantically clean the rug-yogurt (and that's the only thing you're going to admit it could be because anything else is frankly too upsetting) off your foot, making a silent promise to yourself to disenfect your life later, and rush outside.

However, once outside, you realize that you are no longer Sullen. You still want to feel Sullen, so you slow yourself down so much that the person behind you walks bodily into you, and falls down. You remain upright, and offer a hand, being sure to silently resent it because you are Sullen.

"Hey, thanks," the person says, standing up and dusting himself.

You shrug, and look away. "Yeah, whatever," you mutter doing your best Sullen.

"Wait -- wait, is that really you?" the man says, and when you look up, you feel a little part of yourself curl up and start rocking back and forth because standing in front of you is the person you were in love with for over a year.

"How are you?" he asks, and the ground, unfortunately, doesn't open up and swallow you. Then he looks down and says, "And why are you only wearing one shoe?"

There is no good answer to that question. You know it. He knows it. Everyone knows it. And still, still, you try. Except, when you try, instead of saying something coherent and understandable to any other member of the human race, you say all in one breath, "Well -- I was being fifteen and then the rug spat yogurt on me, and I kicked out the window and then you were there."

He blinks, nods slowly and says, "So you're still doing the same, huh?"
  • Current Music
    Let Go-Frou Frou
drama pig! (foxlet)

on packing.

There really isn't much to be done, in all honesty. I just have to -- pick things up. Throw things away. Put the things I'm not throwing away into suitcases and bags, and find a home for my minifridge and potentially also my television. Get myself to my grandparents in time for dinner. It's one thirty, and all of these things are, if I'm being honest, doable.

And yet, gentle readers, and yet. I feel as though I've been asked to walk across broken burning glass into the gaping maw of hell. There's dragging your feet and procrastinating on something, and then there's me and packing. I always put it off to the last minute, but this -- this --

It would be safe to say that I own a lot of things. It would also be safe to say that I am now realizing why owning a lot of things is not really the right way to live as a human being in this world. From here on out, I am renouncing all material posessions.

I am going to live in a cave. I am going to think deep philosophical thoughts in that cave. I am going to wander out from time to time, to say cryptic things to passers by and hopefully set them on quests. I may, or may not, contrive to own a bratchet and chase a white hart into a banquet hall.

I will know the location of the Sangreal. I will eat nuts and berries and stare at the stars.

I will last five days at most in this new existence before I come crawling back, clutching my books and dvds tightly to my chest and telling them sorry, I'll never leave them again.

Packing isn't hard. I get that packing isn't hard. I get that it's something that one must just do.

But, I'd really rather sit on the middle of the floor, through back my head and scream until someone brings me my ice cream and a My Little Pony and potentially does it for me while I nap.

Yesterday I was fifteen, and today I am five. Tomorrow I expect to be a fetus.

Oh, dear God, this just occurred to me: I have to get my stuff out of the kitchen too. There's a new level of terror I hadn't previously really thought possible.
  • Current Music
    Rain King-Counting Crows