Oh, god.

( In which V and I have the Wrongest Conversation Ever (TM) )

(no subject)

Somebody stop me before I once again run my head into the brick wall that is the RPS debate?

(no subject)

*clenches teeth, bites tongue* I am not getting into this again. I'm not. The whole RPS debate's become a brick wall I'm tired of beating my head against. No matter what we say, the antis always come up with the same fucking arguments and don't listen to what we're saying. *twitch* Also, and this may just be me, but I get the impression that the debate is getting a lot more rabid -- on both sides, probably, but most notably on the anti-side. My theory is that three years ago, people who wrote RPS and FPS and were open about that were few and far in between. These days, people flock from popslash to Smallville and HP, so it's a lot harder to pretend that we (RPSers) are a freak minority or whatever, because hey, those cool new writers in your precious FPS fandom? They used to write, and in some cases still write, RPS.

Nyree tricked me into writing two drabbles for her. (Tricked, I say! I was tricked!)

Randomly, this guy's posts in customers_suck are cracking me up.

We are not holding out on you. As a matter of fact, we'd be more than happy to get you the bottle if it meant you'd bugger off. But no more means no more. You want someone to wave a wand and get you another bottle, ask for that Potter kid.

And:

So let me get this straight- you don't know the name, the brand, the type of grape, the region, and you barely remember the color, but you want me to help you find it instead of just CALLING THE FUCKING RESTAURANT?!?! Well, why didn't you say so? Lady- you don't need to drink. You've got two brain cells left, and they're fighting. According to the Cheers' Buffalo Theory, alcohol kills the weak brain cells first. In this case, I would call that a liquid lobotomy.

Gaaaah! There's a guy walking on the window ledge across the street, cleaning the windows. I can't watch. *covers eyes* I have vertigo-by-proxy. Argh.

Am not going to Paris this weekend. Just thinking about the whole rigmarole of packing and leaving and shit made me tired, as I've not slept well lately (I need to start running again, except of course both my knees are currently out of commission), and although I do adore and miss Paris, I'd rather spend the next four days holed up in my flat doing nothing, writing, plotting my novel, that sort of shit.

( Survey, stolen from Fleur. )

I need a smoke.

(no subject)

I hate my life. First the server goes down for two hours, and now we've a flipping virus and argh! And of course this is JUST when I need Excel (the affected program) for work.

Excuse me while I hit my head against the nearest flat surface.

(no subject)

Elfie? I need to get some sleep, pet. I'll see you when I get back, all right?