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pure FORESHADOWING
15 June 2005 @ 10:43 pm
Having been thrust into a position of gainful employment somewhat against my ever-lazy will, I have completed my first day of The Job. The Job requires me to operate complex and posessed machinery, and do battle in the depths of my mind with the evil anonymous genius who created our inventory system as a form of torture more elegant and dreadful than anything heretofore known to man.

I also feel, and I think with some reason, that after one's first day of work, when asked how it went, one really shouldn't be in the position to say, "Well, everything was pretty much fine except for the foam in my pants." Nor should one find oneself trying to very subtly hint that perhaps capuccino shouldn't be served until a priest visits, to cleanse the "you know, bad juju from the burnt coffee."

But honestly, I am telling you, that I have never found myself pitted against a more worthy advisary than I was today. Me and the capuccino maker, staring each other down, eye to nozzle. I pressed the button, and put the cup beneath the dispenser, and it -- craftily -- waited until I became impatient and moved the cup to send forth a pulse of scalding espresso. Maimed by the hot liquid, I bit back my shriek, and shot the perplexed, bored, and vaguely concerned customer a tight smile as patently fake as Milli & Vanilli's singing.

"Just a minute," I said, and threw myself back into the fray. Which, I would like to add I felt was a very courageous thing for me to have done, seeing as how I had already been injured in the fight. (Remember, though, I am intrepid.) This time, I was on to the machine, and managed to finagle the espresso out.

Victory, I truly believed, was mine. That's why I think it's safe to say that in the context of this story, I am a classical tragic hero, and my hamartia is my hubristic pride. Because I believed the espresso was the real uphill battle; I believed the espresso was my Gettysburg, my D-Day, my Battle of Bunker Hill.

In reality, though, the espresso was nothing more than the Battle of Glorietta Pass, and I surged onward, blithely unaware that the foam was to be my Waterloo, if you'll allow me to continue mixing my metaphors with the wanton panache I am prone to use.

Lulled into a false sense of security, I never saw the foam coming, but lo -- through the nozzle and out of the cup, and onto my pants it leapt! Hot milk flew everywhere, into my hair, my face -- momentarily blinding me as it hit my eyes. I thought that perhaps I would be disfigured for life, but I did not drop the cup.

Instead, I turned to the customer, and said, calmly, "I'm sorry. The machine seems to be broken. Would you like just the espresso?" and offered him the cup as hot milk dripped down my neck, and my pant leg.

Naturally, he declined.

That machine, I tell you truly, is cursed. Or, it's waging a jihad of some kind against me. Either way, I have looked into the face of my enemy, and it has shown no fear.

During the quiet hours of the early afternoon, I approached the Diabolical Machine again, this time with the proper respect. Twenty cups of half heated foam and espresso (or not) later, I managed a pretty creditable foam, and I have never been prouder of myself. I felt like an alchemist! I felt like I had rendered iron into gold! I turned milk into foam, real foam, and I even managed to get it into the cup. Genius is clearly the only way to describe that accomplishment.

Now, granted. I have yet to duplicate that when, oh, say, a paying customer was waiting patiently beside the cash register, but it was only my first day.

Lastly, I'd like to say the following things, just for the benefit of the advertisors out there who are clearly confused on the following points:

1. A vagina is not a flower. I like Georgia O'Keefe, too, but please, get over it.
2. A man's facial razor is not a car. Sure, you want to make it masculine, but let's stop being ridiculous, shall we? A close shave isn't going to turn anyone into a qualified street racer. Honest.
 
 
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pure FORESHADOWING
I don't know what it is about long car rides that I love so much. There's something about the way land passes by, and the fleeting glimpses you get of people you'll never know going through lives you'll never really be a part of, that I find fascinating. I love the feel of the car beneath me, humming as it passes over the asphalt, the wheel solid in my hands, air whistling past as I go fast, faster, fastest. I love the fat yellow lines, broken into dashes like a marker's been dragged, skipping, over the road.

I love the weird ass places you find in the middle of nowhere: vulture festivals and good eats slathered in hot sauce that's enough to blow you back in your chair, and leave you staring at the whirling ceiling fan, hands folded in your lap as you contemplate the meaning of your life, and how much your tastebuds meant to you.

I love the way you pass through the day like you're driving through the sky, like you're in a tunnel progressing from light to dark, and by the time you get where you're going you've left all the light behind.

I love having the window down, and putting my hand into the wind. You can feel the resistance against your palm as you drive, play your fingers through the air that suddenly feels solid. It reminds you that yeah, we're surrounded by oxygen. It makes me wonder about what it would be like to fly.

*~*

I am, let's face it, a contrary human being by nature. I am so contrary that there is a whole stack of movies I haven't seen, simply because I heard too much about them. All of it was positive, but I heard so much about them that I decided I didn't care, and had absolutely no interest in seeing them.

This contrariness has carried over, to an extent, into my fandom adventures. Or, I should say, I tried to carry it over. Then everyone started raving about Battlestar Galactica, and I got contrary -- until I was forced to watch an episode, and lo, I was a born again fan. I was the Billy Graham of Battlestar Galactica, in my heart.

Rinse and repeat, and the same has happened for Stargate Atlantis, the new Hansel of fandom. (So hot right now!) My flist was filled with people saying "OMG RODNEY MCKAY" and "JOHN SHEPPARD YES" and I raised my nose.

"Not me," I said. "No, never. I've got this new FatF toy to play with, and it goes really fast."

Then, naturally, I read a few stories, developed a cringing affection for SGA fic, and it was my secret shame for all of five minutes before it was my public shame and I was demanding recs and fic like Audrey II demands blood in Little Shop of Horrors. And then, oh, and then I saw an episode.

And I fell, I really fell. But the problem is that Rodney McKay is really -- frighteningly like the ex I was in love with for a year after we broke up, and for who I guess I still carry a lonely lonesome torch and other assorted country song like things. And I love Rodney. I love Rodney too much. My love for Rodney McKay is too conflated with the lingering country song emotions I experience from time to time for The Ex for me to feel anything but creepy as I read the fic, watch the show, love the fandom despite myself.

I do it anyway, though. I mean, in a big way.

So, naturally, I thought the best way for me to deal with that was to post it to the internet. And then ask you all for recs to new SGA fic, or encourage you all to write, as I myself am broken and cannot get up to write again. Plus. MYLOVEISSOCONFLATED.
 
 
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