(no subject)

Couldn't take it anymore. Put the garbage in larger bags and put those in the hallway. I'll take them out tomorrow evenning (since I'm not allowed to today). There is no more maggot-nest in my kitchen. I'm sure Lola is pleased too, that I no longer need to freak out with the bleach.

(I need another shower now.)

WTF?

People keep honking their horns, keeping me otut of my sleep. And I sleep on the non-street side of the flat. Argh.

*stares at email*

I'm not reading this.

I'm not reading this.

I'm not reading this.

They're not actually going on (for about 4-5 emails now) about how FPF is inherently better than FPF because the characters are more interesting, are they? Are they?

Argh. Can I smack them? Please? Pretty please? And Vali, if I can find a suitable quote-blurb about the legality of RPF somewhere in list archives or wherever, can I use it to BASH THEIR SKULLS IN?

Funwith stats

Okay. Someone from Disney has visited my site in the last couple of hours. And someone from Cablevision Systems Corp. visited twice. Iceland? Who do I know in Iceland?

Hee

Cammie is the most amusing person on this planet. Mice!Sync! Oh my god.

Lalala lalala lalalala

I'm writing a grungeboys story, and it occured to me it's rather geared towards a fan public. It's really stream-of-conciousness, and it just doesn't feel like anything I've ever read in published fiction. Here, this is what I mean:

She likes to watch them. They're always touchy-feely, but it gets worse on the road. She can't even remember the number of times she walked into the room they all shared to see them lying there like a two-piece puzzle.

She felt strange in the beginning, joining them, being in the same room, let alone the same bed. But they can't afford seperate rooms, much less seperate beds, and they made room for her, let her lie in the middle, where she could feel strangely like a third piece of the puzzle, even though she knew she wasn't.

Nick noticed her discomfort, because Nick always notices things. Because Nick watches people. He watches and notices and then one day comes up to her and asks "Jess? Something wrong?" and even though it could've just been an innocent question, but she knows he suspects, and she knows he knows that she knows.

It feels so ... fandom-y. This is why I label this 'original slash' rather than a short story or something. Whatever. I have no idea what I'm talking about. I'm gonna go back to Jesse and her touchy loveboys.

(Is Jesse a Mary Sue? I suspect so. Should I be worried about this?)

Research question.

What's a good brand of used car to be rickety old? Like, the kind that a struggling band would drive across the country to go to gigs?

(no subject)

Gonna be offline for a bit, cause Steve's gonna install a new CD-Rom and a soundcard. (Squeee!)