So this is my first weekend of the school year. I have chocolate (I assisted a friend with the eight page summer Calculus assignment. He was appreciative) and I just got a job that pays surprisingly well. It's basically taking pictures and filling in paperwork. I am the paperwork queen. I can fill in paperwork like a boss. And my camera is a boss camera, too. It has three different interchangeable lenses. Yeah. That kind. So. But that's half of why I like people right now - they apparently want to give me chocolate and cash for doing what I end up doing anyway. (There is an ungodly amount of paperwork involved in being a senior. Like, a lot a lot.)
Also, I have a party this afternoon, the reunion party from Mame. I'll get to see bunches of people again (except for the FOUR PEOPLE WHO LEFT FOR COLLEGE. They know who they are. And probably don't read this blog) and eat junk food and ignore the literature analysis paper I have to write. (In my own defense, I've already written a paper and half a short story this weekend.) And that's the other reason why I like people right now - because so many of them are cool and throw parties to which I can go.
In general, though, I like people anyway. There are the occasional [inventive expletive deleted] whom I wouldn't mind if they just sort of fell off the planet, due to some freak accident with a trampoline and a tomato, but by and large, people are cool. Rousseau is right, in my opinion. Even the people who I'd prefer were quietly turning into further debris in Earth's ring might be cool in another context. For example, the most hated teacher at my school (disliked to the point where pronouncing 'false' as 'faltz' is both instantly recognizable and will get you smacked for reminding people of her) is also a loving mother and volunteer. I just would prefer to never be in her company ever again.
But I like people, in general. I've got fundie friends (although I'm not entirely sure they've caught onto my beliefs), jock friends, friends who spend their days working on linux stuff (Oh, yeah, that experiment? Only semi-successful. The computer gained sentience and growls at me whenever I try turning it on), and friends who give me blank looks whenever I use a word with more than two syllables. I like all of them, as long as we stay off certain topics of conversation. People are generally nice, and I find it pays to give them all the benefit of a doubt.
Also, people like happy people who like them back. It forms a feed-back loop of shared chocolate and party invitations, one that I take full advantage of. If people are willing to give me chocolate, eclairs, and party invites because I give them recommendations and smile a lot - I'm completely good with that. That... doesn't sound like I meant it. But still.
Showing posts with label parenthetical statements. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthetical statements. Show all posts
Saturday, September 8, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
An Actual Post About Stuff
Hello people. I know there are at least a couple of you out there, because the majority of the hits on this blog are from the US instead of Russia. (On the subject of blog hits, someone got here using the search 'scared I drank mold.' I am, of course, the premier source of information on what to do if you're suffering from mold poisoning. Obviously.) You three are cool.
My musical is going more or less swimmingly. I love it. There's an awesome review here. I'm not mentioned, because I don't have a huge part, but still. And everything said in the article is true, and everyone in the show is awesome (especially some other people who weren't mentioned - Kitty, Claire, and Andrew, you are all too cool). I'm going to be taking pictures of my costumes tomorrow and doing a post with pictures, because the costumes are amazing. And I sort of want to buy the party dress for a Homecoming outfit, just to see how people would react, because I love it.
I'm quite happy right now, is it obvious? I've gotten enough sleep for the first time since dress rehearsals about two weeks ago, so I'm on my own little natural high. Wheeee!
I've discovered during the course of the shows so far that I'm possibly clinically oblivious to certain normally obvious things, like when I'm being flirted at. However, someone is beating me with a metaphorical cluebat, which is appreciated, and I will have updates on that later, I hope.
| No, please use it! I'm so confused! |
Later today, I'm going to a movie to see off one of my best friends, who's going to college in four days. Then tomorrow or the day after, I'm making random pancakes with Kitty and her girlfriend, to see her off to college. I'm in a bit of a Peter Pan state, therefore, covering my ears and going 'lalala I'm never going to grow up you can't make me lalala.' Very mature. But since I've been writing college essays in between doing Camp NaNo, it's not working very well. At least I can reuse them once or twice. And then I have to write my resume and get senior pictures taken tomorrow and apply for scholarships and go on a final college visit and figure out how to take Creative Writing as a class (thereby making NaNo a legitimate use of my time) and survive five more shows and audition for the next play and...
You know, excuse me. I'm going to go and watch childhood cartoons for a while and pretend I'm six.
| YES. |
Friday, August 3, 2012
Chapter Two
Um. In this chapter we learn that 'paraphenalia' is indeed a euphemism. This chapter, while probably no more than a strong PG-13, is still not recommended for people of an Upright and Decent composition, or people who have an overly-good opinion of me. But chapter two is done! Woo!
"What is it?" asked George, sounding both horrified and fascinated.
"I don't know," said Stranger, eyeing it warily. "An eldritch horror?"
"Those have more tentacles."
"This thing has enough places to put tentacles."
"I don't think the Great Old Ones were into flappers, Strange."
"I'm desperately trying to come up with an explanation here other than the obvious," Stranger said. "That my late uncle didn't actually own what, for all intents and purposes, appears to be a hundred-year-old flapper marionette Real Doll."
"The world is a horrible place," George said, patting Stranger on the back. "You learn to block it out eventually."
"I'm the cynical one here," Stranger replied. "Why are you lecturing me on my own game?"
"Because you just inherited a 90 year old man's collection of 'paraphenalia,' which appears to be a code word for sex toys and drug stuff. You've been sheltered, my man. You need some sort of buck-up speech."
Money Pusher, in the corner, gave a little cough, to remind them of his presence. Surrounded by crates, some closed, and some open to reveal their risque contents, he looked as out of place as a nun in a den of depravity. He'd told Stranger his name, and Stranger had resolutely forgotten it as soon as possible. Money Pusher seemed more appropriate.
"If you two gentlemen might halt your investigation of the inheritance for a moment, there are still papers to sign," he said primly. It was almost impressive, watching him keep his calm and professional and above all priggish manner, surrounded by the toys of the depraved from before he was born.
Glad of the chance to ignore the bit of uncanny valley and anatomical impossibilities that was sitting in the middle of his living room, Stranger went. An hour later, he'd signed a stack of papers four inches high, in triplicate. He had no idea what any of them were for, but evidently the process of taking custody of... certain items was a long and fraught process, and at least a couple seemed to be waivers. He wasn't all that worried about it, though. It wasn't as if he was ever going to use any of his new inheritance. It would be just his luck to contract a new and virulent disease from the ancient wood and ivory toys. Plus there was the whole pre-owned aspect. He shuddered at the thought.
"Very good sir," Money Pusher said, smiling a prim little smile. "Enjoy your new inheritance. I suggest you find somewhere dark and cool to store it, however - humidity has the most awful effect on antiques."
Stranger nodded, a bit dazed. George had fallen asleep half an hour since, sitting in an armchair, his feet up on a crate yet closed. As Money Pusher left - by god, even his walk was prim - George snored once, loudly, and woke himself up. Sitting up a little blearily, he asked, "What now?"
"Now," Stranger said, grimly, "We catalogue it all."
-----
It was nearly midnight before they finished. Even George was looking a bit ill by then. The drug stuff hadn't been too bad. In fact, Stranger had even let George have his pick of the various bongs that they'd unpacked, as a sort of payment for helping out.
(When George had chosen the pink glass dragon bong, Stranger had raised an eyebrow.
"What?" George had asked, defensively. "The workmanship is amazing. And it will look good in my apartment."
Stranger had somehow managed to refrain from asking both, "Which apartment?" and "A pink dragon bong will look good?" He was quite proud of that.)
Unfortunately, the drug paraphenalia had not made up the majority of the crates. Now, after nearly twelve hours work, they were standing amidst piles of the shredded paper packing material, crates and lids, and piles of enough erotica to probably kill lesser men. George's laptop, which he'd thoughtfully brought with him when he'd heard that Stranger had to deal with a lawyer, now displayed a highly inappropriate spreadsheet, as opposed to its usual calculations and accountant-speak that could make the most hardened paper-pusher cry. They knew exactly how many of each object they had, what condition each was in, how old they estimated it to be, and a decision on whether they ever wanted to touch it again. (The answer, for every single item, was NO, with a varying number of exclamation points.) They also knew that neither of them would speak of this night again, to anyone.
After a long, quiet moment, George turned to Stranger and said, "Want to head back to my place and get thoroughly, pass-out drunk?"
"Oh, hell yes," Stranger said, fervently.
-----
When Stranger woke up, he was lying on the ground. At least, he assumed it was ground, and not floor, because it had that unpleasantly gritty feeling of concrete, as opposed to the polished tile or plush carpet of George's place. Which meant he was no longer in George's place. Crap.
Unfortunately, to see if his assumption was correct, he was going to have to open his eyes - not exactly a thrilling prospect. Of course, continuing to lay sprawled on an unknown concrete surface wasn't thrilling either. Getting run over wasn't on his top-ten list.
His inner debate was interrupted by an obscenely loud groan, just beside his head. It sent a wave of agony through his skull, and he gave his own groan. This triggered a response from the other groaner, and they spent the next minute or so trading groans, like some sort of hang-over-based ping pong. Finally, however, Stranger managed to pull himself together enough to say something coherent. "George mufflewaughwuffle?" Semi-coherent. The name was there, anyway.
"Stranger wufflemufflewaugh?"
"Wifflemifflewuff. Grumblegroan?"
"Mumblemufflewaugh." It was George, and he was as hung over as Stranger was. He was obscurely comforted by that. Misery loves company, and also increasing the general amount of itself in the area. That must have been what prompted him to open his eyes, he decided later. That was the only explanation for why he did it, when he knew the agony it was going to cause.
And cause agony it did. He whimpered. Next to his ear, so did George. Smothering the urge to fall back into a feedback loop of hang-over-ness, Stranger sorted through the shafts of pain and actual information his eyes were receiving. Sunlight, almost right above him, so they were outside and it was around noonish. Blessedly, there appeared to be leaves obscuring at least some of the cursed Day Star's light, so probably either in a park or one of the posher avenues. Either was possible. Rolling over - away from George, because rolling towards him would almost inevitably result in smacking skulls, and he didn't even want to contemplate that kind of pain - he investigated the ground level surroundings. It seemed to be a sidewalk, with actualy greenspace beyond it, so it probably was a park. Or a very, very posh avenue. A squirrel ran past him and up a tree a few yards away, chittering at him halfway up the trunk. He scowled at it.
A burst of laughter from a ways along the path alerted him to the presence of other humans in the area. Struggling, he managed to get up on his elbows to find them. A pair of old geezers were sitting at a bench, with a little folding table and chess board set up in front of them. They were talking and arguing like old geezers did. They were a prime example of the geezers who populated every park in Boston, and Stranger therefor dismissed them immediately.
To his right, George was getting himself semi-upright as well. Stranger whispered to him, "Do you have any clue where we are?"
"Shhh," moaned George. "Not so loud. And I'm not entirely sure what city we're in."
Stranger looked at him in horror. "We wouldn't have left Boston, would we?"
George just shrugged, his eyes closed. "Don't think I have my phone. So don't know." Stranger looked at the geezers again, speculatively. They'd at least know where they were.
Getting to his feet was a struggle, but he was quite proud that he managed it without actually falling over or taking more than five minutes. He was almost able to remain completely vertical without the aid of a tree, even. When he looked for his quarry, he found them sitting in the same place,but no longer playing their game. Instead, they were looking at him, with that grin that only old geezers missing most of their teeth can level at the young. A grin that says, 'In my day, I'd have been able to drink three times what you did, my lad, and have not a headache nor a sense of naseau the next morning to haunt me.' Stranger plastered a grin on his face, silently hating the pair of them, and staggered over.
"Ho, boy," called the one with more hair. "Have fun latht night?"
"Hope it was enough to balance out this morning," cackled the one with more teeth. "Don't know if there's that much fun in the world."
"Excuse me," Stranger said, in his best polite-to-a-fault voice. "But would you two gentlemen be able to tell me and my friend our current location? I'm afraid we rather lost track last night."
"I'll say you did," said Toothy. "You lost track real hard." He ws still grinning. His teeth, as many of them as there were, were all a vaguely off-putting shade of brown.
Hairy spoke up. "Well, right now, you're in the park that'th next to the old packing plant, except they got rid of that, oh, a good twenty yearth ago, tho now it'th probably another thet of apartment-th. That thtreet over there," he didn't actually point towards what street he meant, "is Oak thtreet, whifch uthed to be the middle of the plant, but it ithn't anymore. If you go down thataway, you can jutht keep going until you thee the place where Harmon'th Diner uthed to be, I think it's a Mickey D'th now, though, but you'll thee it, and if you take a left, you'll find Main Thtreet, except it'th not Main anymore, it'th thomething elthe -"
"It never was Main Street, you old fool," Toothy said. "It's been Elm since before we were born."
"No, I thwear it was called Main when I wath a lad," Hairy said, turning from Stranger. "Becauthe the Mainth lived there."
"Your memory's going then," said Toothy, getting into the argument. "It was named after the trees all along the way."
Stranger turned from the geezers and staggered back towards where George was unsteadily getting to his feet. Slinging an arm around his shoulder, they wandered off in search of something familiar.
-----
It turned out that the geezers hadn't had any idea where they were, because evidently Stranger and George had passed out in the Boston Public Gardens. They had found out when George nearly stumbled into the Frog Pond. They escaped and made their way, reasonably dry and mostly sober, back to Stranger's little flat, on a necessary errand. Stranger was going to get some clothes and his laptop and camp out at George's place until his inheritance was sold off to the highest bidder. George assured him there there would definitely be a bidding war. The way he phrased it was, "Think of the internet. Think Rule 34. We'll be able to get you enough cash from this stuff that you never have to worry about selling another story again." Stranger had protested in vain that he liked selling his stories. "Then think of it as fuel for the story of a lifetime. You've got the seeds of a wicked horror story sprawled in your living room."
"Don't remind me," Stranger had said, a bit glumly. "I'm trying to forget."
But despite it all, he was definitely in a better mood by the time they got to his street. Sure, Malcolm's was closed and he was going to have nightmares about the marionette killing him in his sleep, but at least his life was almost settled again.
That's when he saw the Tall, Dark, and Mysterious Valley Girl on the building's front stoop. He looked at her, thoroughly put out. "Hello?"
"Oh, hello," she said, cheerful enough to send him immediately back into the gloom. "Are you Mr. Stranger? I'm here to make a business proposition to him."
"... Maybe?" he asked. "Are you someone who's bound to irritate him?"
A single, perfectly plucked eyebrow shot up. "Whyever do you think I would annoy him?"
Because you use words like 'whyever,' he thought. But what he said, "No reason, ma'am. It's just something I ask." He went up to his front door, ignoring both the semi-frantic and rather lewd gestures that George was miming behind his back and the presence of the - rather attractive, he had to admit - stranger, and unlocked it. "I assume you want to talk inside?" he said, in an cheery manner to match her own. It might be worth the assault on his privacy to see her reaction to the marionette still lying spreadeagle in the middle of his living room.
"Oh, yes, that would be lovely," she trilled, and followed him inside, George trailing in behind her, making obvious appreciative noises.
Nothing more was said until they were actually inside Stranger's apartment. He turned as he entered, hoping for a good view of face upon seeing the marionette, but the only reaction she displayed was a slight widening of the eyes. Not, he decided, worth having her in his apartment for the next who-knew-how-long.
Then George closed the door behind himself, and a complete change came over the stranger. Over the course of the door swinging shut and latching, she went from a ditzy socialite secretary for some lawyer that Stranger definitely did not want to deal with, to a highly scary woman in her own right, who was probably going to eat his soul. Also, she seemed to be suddenly British, her accent switching from Southern California to Cockney in a heartbeat. "Alright, boys, apologies for the act on the front stoop. I'm trying to stay a little low-key for the moment. I am here to make a business proposition, though." She looked at Stranger, her eyes gleaming. "I'm going to be your bodyguard until you get Missy the Marionette out of your posession."
"What is it?" asked George, sounding both horrified and fascinated.
"I don't know," said Stranger, eyeing it warily. "An eldritch horror?"
"Those have more tentacles."
"This thing has enough places to put tentacles."
"I don't think the Great Old Ones were into flappers, Strange."
"I'm desperately trying to come up with an explanation here other than the obvious," Stranger said. "That my late uncle didn't actually own what, for all intents and purposes, appears to be a hundred-year-old flapper marionette Real Doll."
"The world is a horrible place," George said, patting Stranger on the back. "You learn to block it out eventually."
"I'm the cynical one here," Stranger replied. "Why are you lecturing me on my own game?"
"Because you just inherited a 90 year old man's collection of 'paraphenalia,' which appears to be a code word for sex toys and drug stuff. You've been sheltered, my man. You need some sort of buck-up speech."
Money Pusher, in the corner, gave a little cough, to remind them of his presence. Surrounded by crates, some closed, and some open to reveal their risque contents, he looked as out of place as a nun in a den of depravity. He'd told Stranger his name, and Stranger had resolutely forgotten it as soon as possible. Money Pusher seemed more appropriate.
"If you two gentlemen might halt your investigation of the inheritance for a moment, there are still papers to sign," he said primly. It was almost impressive, watching him keep his calm and professional and above all priggish manner, surrounded by the toys of the depraved from before he was born.
Glad of the chance to ignore the bit of uncanny valley and anatomical impossibilities that was sitting in the middle of his living room, Stranger went. An hour later, he'd signed a stack of papers four inches high, in triplicate. He had no idea what any of them were for, but evidently the process of taking custody of... certain items was a long and fraught process, and at least a couple seemed to be waivers. He wasn't all that worried about it, though. It wasn't as if he was ever going to use any of his new inheritance. It would be just his luck to contract a new and virulent disease from the ancient wood and ivory toys. Plus there was the whole pre-owned aspect. He shuddered at the thought.
"Very good sir," Money Pusher said, smiling a prim little smile. "Enjoy your new inheritance. I suggest you find somewhere dark and cool to store it, however - humidity has the most awful effect on antiques."
Stranger nodded, a bit dazed. George had fallen asleep half an hour since, sitting in an armchair, his feet up on a crate yet closed. As Money Pusher left - by god, even his walk was prim - George snored once, loudly, and woke himself up. Sitting up a little blearily, he asked, "What now?"
"Now," Stranger said, grimly, "We catalogue it all."
-----
It was nearly midnight before they finished. Even George was looking a bit ill by then. The drug stuff hadn't been too bad. In fact, Stranger had even let George have his pick of the various bongs that they'd unpacked, as a sort of payment for helping out.
(When George had chosen the pink glass dragon bong, Stranger had raised an eyebrow.
"What?" George had asked, defensively. "The workmanship is amazing. And it will look good in my apartment."
Stranger had somehow managed to refrain from asking both, "Which apartment?" and "A pink dragon bong will look good?" He was quite proud of that.)
Unfortunately, the drug paraphenalia had not made up the majority of the crates. Now, after nearly twelve hours work, they were standing amidst piles of the shredded paper packing material, crates and lids, and piles of enough erotica to probably kill lesser men. George's laptop, which he'd thoughtfully brought with him when he'd heard that Stranger had to deal with a lawyer, now displayed a highly inappropriate spreadsheet, as opposed to its usual calculations and accountant-speak that could make the most hardened paper-pusher cry. They knew exactly how many of each object they had, what condition each was in, how old they estimated it to be, and a decision on whether they ever wanted to touch it again. (The answer, for every single item, was NO, with a varying number of exclamation points.) They also knew that neither of them would speak of this night again, to anyone.
After a long, quiet moment, George turned to Stranger and said, "Want to head back to my place and get thoroughly, pass-out drunk?"
"Oh, hell yes," Stranger said, fervently.
-----
When Stranger woke up, he was lying on the ground. At least, he assumed it was ground, and not floor, because it had that unpleasantly gritty feeling of concrete, as opposed to the polished tile or plush carpet of George's place. Which meant he was no longer in George's place. Crap.
Unfortunately, to see if his assumption was correct, he was going to have to open his eyes - not exactly a thrilling prospect. Of course, continuing to lay sprawled on an unknown concrete surface wasn't thrilling either. Getting run over wasn't on his top-ten list.
His inner debate was interrupted by an obscenely loud groan, just beside his head. It sent a wave of agony through his skull, and he gave his own groan. This triggered a response from the other groaner, and they spent the next minute or so trading groans, like some sort of hang-over-based ping pong. Finally, however, Stranger managed to pull himself together enough to say something coherent. "George mufflewaughwuffle?" Semi-coherent. The name was there, anyway.
"Stranger wufflemufflewaugh?"
"Wifflemifflewuff. Grumblegroan?"
"Mumblemufflewaugh." It was George, and he was as hung over as Stranger was. He was obscurely comforted by that. Misery loves company, and also increasing the general amount of itself in the area. That must have been what prompted him to open his eyes, he decided later. That was the only explanation for why he did it, when he knew the agony it was going to cause.
And cause agony it did. He whimpered. Next to his ear, so did George. Smothering the urge to fall back into a feedback loop of hang-over-ness, Stranger sorted through the shafts of pain and actual information his eyes were receiving. Sunlight, almost right above him, so they were outside and it was around noonish. Blessedly, there appeared to be leaves obscuring at least some of the cursed Day Star's light, so probably either in a park or one of the posher avenues. Either was possible. Rolling over - away from George, because rolling towards him would almost inevitably result in smacking skulls, and he didn't even want to contemplate that kind of pain - he investigated the ground level surroundings. It seemed to be a sidewalk, with actualy greenspace beyond it, so it probably was a park. Or a very, very posh avenue. A squirrel ran past him and up a tree a few yards away, chittering at him halfway up the trunk. He scowled at it.
A burst of laughter from a ways along the path alerted him to the presence of other humans in the area. Struggling, he managed to get up on his elbows to find them. A pair of old geezers were sitting at a bench, with a little folding table and chess board set up in front of them. They were talking and arguing like old geezers did. They were a prime example of the geezers who populated every park in Boston, and Stranger therefor dismissed them immediately.
To his right, George was getting himself semi-upright as well. Stranger whispered to him, "Do you have any clue where we are?"
"Shhh," moaned George. "Not so loud. And I'm not entirely sure what city we're in."
Stranger looked at him in horror. "We wouldn't have left Boston, would we?"
George just shrugged, his eyes closed. "Don't think I have my phone. So don't know." Stranger looked at the geezers again, speculatively. They'd at least know where they were.
Getting to his feet was a struggle, but he was quite proud that he managed it without actually falling over or taking more than five minutes. He was almost able to remain completely vertical without the aid of a tree, even. When he looked for his quarry, he found them sitting in the same place,but no longer playing their game. Instead, they were looking at him, with that grin that only old geezers missing most of their teeth can level at the young. A grin that says, 'In my day, I'd have been able to drink three times what you did, my lad, and have not a headache nor a sense of naseau the next morning to haunt me.' Stranger plastered a grin on his face, silently hating the pair of them, and staggered over.
"Ho, boy," called the one with more hair. "Have fun latht night?"
"Hope it was enough to balance out this morning," cackled the one with more teeth. "Don't know if there's that much fun in the world."
"Excuse me," Stranger said, in his best polite-to-a-fault voice. "But would you two gentlemen be able to tell me and my friend our current location? I'm afraid we rather lost track last night."
"I'll say you did," said Toothy. "You lost track real hard." He ws still grinning. His teeth, as many of them as there were, were all a vaguely off-putting shade of brown.
Hairy spoke up. "Well, right now, you're in the park that'th next to the old packing plant, except they got rid of that, oh, a good twenty yearth ago, tho now it'th probably another thet of apartment-th. That thtreet over there," he didn't actually point towards what street he meant, "is Oak thtreet, whifch uthed to be the middle of the plant, but it ithn't anymore. If you go down thataway, you can jutht keep going until you thee the place where Harmon'th Diner uthed to be, I think it's a Mickey D'th now, though, but you'll thee it, and if you take a left, you'll find Main Thtreet, except it'th not Main anymore, it'th thomething elthe -"
"It never was Main Street, you old fool," Toothy said. "It's been Elm since before we were born."
"No, I thwear it was called Main when I wath a lad," Hairy said, turning from Stranger. "Becauthe the Mainth lived there."
"Your memory's going then," said Toothy, getting into the argument. "It was named after the trees all along the way."
Stranger turned from the geezers and staggered back towards where George was unsteadily getting to his feet. Slinging an arm around his shoulder, they wandered off in search of something familiar.
-----
It turned out that the geezers hadn't had any idea where they were, because evidently Stranger and George had passed out in the Boston Public Gardens. They had found out when George nearly stumbled into the Frog Pond. They escaped and made their way, reasonably dry and mostly sober, back to Stranger's little flat, on a necessary errand. Stranger was going to get some clothes and his laptop and camp out at George's place until his inheritance was sold off to the highest bidder. George assured him there there would definitely be a bidding war. The way he phrased it was, "Think of the internet. Think Rule 34. We'll be able to get you enough cash from this stuff that you never have to worry about selling another story again." Stranger had protested in vain that he liked selling his stories. "Then think of it as fuel for the story of a lifetime. You've got the seeds of a wicked horror story sprawled in your living room."
"Don't remind me," Stranger had said, a bit glumly. "I'm trying to forget."
But despite it all, he was definitely in a better mood by the time they got to his street. Sure, Malcolm's was closed and he was going to have nightmares about the marionette killing him in his sleep, but at least his life was almost settled again.
That's when he saw the Tall, Dark, and Mysterious Valley Girl on the building's front stoop. He looked at her, thoroughly put out. "Hello?"
"Oh, hello," she said, cheerful enough to send him immediately back into the gloom. "Are you Mr. Stranger? I'm here to make a business proposition to him."
"... Maybe?" he asked. "Are you someone who's bound to irritate him?"
A single, perfectly plucked eyebrow shot up. "Whyever do you think I would annoy him?"
Because you use words like 'whyever,' he thought. But what he said, "No reason, ma'am. It's just something I ask." He went up to his front door, ignoring both the semi-frantic and rather lewd gestures that George was miming behind his back and the presence of the - rather attractive, he had to admit - stranger, and unlocked it. "I assume you want to talk inside?" he said, in an cheery manner to match her own. It might be worth the assault on his privacy to see her reaction to the marionette still lying spreadeagle in the middle of his living room.
"Oh, yes, that would be lovely," she trilled, and followed him inside, George trailing in behind her, making obvious appreciative noises.
Nothing more was said until they were actually inside Stranger's apartment. He turned as he entered, hoping for a good view of face upon seeing the marionette, but the only reaction she displayed was a slight widening of the eyes. Not, he decided, worth having her in his apartment for the next who-knew-how-long.
Then George closed the door behind himself, and a complete change came over the stranger. Over the course of the door swinging shut and latching, she went from a ditzy socialite secretary for some lawyer that Stranger definitely did not want to deal with, to a highly scary woman in her own right, who was probably going to eat his soul. Also, she seemed to be suddenly British, her accent switching from Southern California to Cockney in a heartbeat. "Alright, boys, apologies for the act on the front stoop. I'm trying to stay a little low-key for the moment. I am here to make a business proposition, though." She looked at Stranger, her eyes gleaming. "I'm going to be your bodyguard until you get Missy the Marionette out of your posession."
Friday, July 13, 2012
And Suddenly, the Author Changed Her Mind!
(Ooh, lookit, a blog post that was not scheduled. Oooh!)
So I was writing the synopsis for Americana, and I actually got halfway through it last night. I was quite proud of myself. Then I actually read it, and realized that it was an accidental but very unsubtle Jesus metaphor. Which is absolutely not at all what I wanted to write. So. Those character things I've been posting in lieu of actually giving you lovely people (All like, two of you. But you're both lovely!) real posts? Those are going to be put on hold, in a 5-star spa specifically for characters of indecisive authors. They will get written about, I'm just going to have to rework some stuff so Americana doesn't turn into some sort of author tract.
My plan was always to write a comedy this August, and the best comedy I've written (and my favorite thing I've written, period) was written without character summaries, without a plot outline, and without a clue what I was planning on doing. All I had were chapter subtitles. (Chapter Four: In which there is an explosion, our hero is mailed to Chesterwick, and there is time travel; necessarily not in that order.) I'm going to do that, this year. It's fun, I'm able to be funny - it's way more funny if not even the author is expecting it - and as an added benefit, I suddenly gain time to write my college essays. Win-win-win!
So I was writing the synopsis for Americana, and I actually got halfway through it last night. I was quite proud of myself. Then I actually read it, and realized that it was an accidental but very unsubtle Jesus metaphor. Which is absolutely not at all what I wanted to write. So. Those character things I've been posting in lieu of actually giving you lovely people (All like, two of you. But you're both lovely!) real posts? Those are going to be put on hold, in a 5-star spa specifically for characters of indecisive authors. They will get written about, I'm just going to have to rework some stuff so Americana doesn't turn into some sort of author tract.
My plan was always to write a comedy this August, and the best comedy I've written (and my favorite thing I've written, period) was written without character summaries, without a plot outline, and without a clue what I was planning on doing. All I had were chapter subtitles. (Chapter Four: In which there is an explosion, our hero is mailed to Chesterwick, and there is time travel; necessarily not in that order.) I'm going to do that, this year. It's fun, I'm able to be funny - it's way more funny if not even the author is expecting it - and as an added benefit, I suddenly gain time to write my college essays. Win-win-win!
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Rambling Thing About Yesterday
So. Yesterday. Yeah. About that.
So the day started at four, when I left for a friend's new house. Shut up, it's summer, I'm technically nocturnal now. I had my swim suit, because he has a hot tub, and if there is a hot tub I will rewire the house to be able to play whatever videogames are being played from within the hot tub and/or set up a string-and-can system to be able to participate in the conversations. Because hot tubs are that awesome. But then I showed up, and found out that the hot tub no longer worked due to some mechanical issue or another and I had never gotten the text telling me this. Sad face. Plus I now had to wander around for the rest of the day with a halter top bikini under my clothes.
Then there was the awkward hour and a half where Rockband was played, other people were given directions to the house that consisted of, and I quote, 'Just keep taking lefts until the road isn't blocked off any more,' more Rockband, a search for the ring I lost (which turned out to be at home,) and finally sitting and staring at each other while Devin sat in the corner making prank calls to random numbers.
Then Baustin received a text inviting us all to Chickenfest, which we leapt on because we'd completely run out of ideas of what to do since there was no hot tub. Having learned from experience, when we drove over I rode with Baustin, because Austin is a scary driver. And considering the fact that we saw him nearly cause three accidents in the twenty minute drive there, it was a wise choice. Seriously, freaking SCARY.
Then we got to Chickenfest (there were no chickens in evidence, sadly) and I discovered how much testosterone poisoning I was suffering when I turned into a freaking Valley Girl at the sight of Jess, my one stereotypically girly friend. I squee'd. I don't do that unless I'm in fangirl mode. Of course, I got free unlimited rides and a VIP pass for the concert from her because she didn't want to 'waste it on the guys,' so yay for me, I guess?
The concert was Stefano, apparently an American Idol reject. It probably says something about me that while the tweenage girls around us were screaming his name, I was spending way more time checking out the keyboard (and keyboardist) and sound system (and sound guy). Still not worth the bleeding ears from the tweenagers, though.
Then we (the guys and the girls) all met up by a gigantic motorized street-legal shopping cart and BSed for a while before Baustin wandered away, then called me to say that I had to head to the woods because FIREFLIES. Of course I promptly headed towards the woods. Jess followed, because no way no HOW was she letting me hang in the woods with the guy she wanted to be Her Guy. Right about then I remembered why I only have one girly friend, because she was becoming highly irritating and I just wanted to hang with my best friend and watch fireflies.
There were fireflies. It was cool. Then we all got slightly lost in the woods.
Yeah, walking through the woods after dark with no flashlights and no clue where we were going was a bad idea. Moving on.
There was a playground back in the festival area, so of course we took over the tire swing and just hung out talking and listening to the slightly above mediocre cover band perform in the tent behind us. Then I left, or tried to leave, and when I found out I couldn't due to directional issues I went back and found out everyone else had left. Which, of course, meant that I headed to the VIP concert section and listened to the final concert of the evening, a better cover band, and rocked out until my ride showed.
*A recent survey revealed 95% of my friends are guys. A further 4% are girls that are about as 'girly' as a pink flamethrower. Then there's Jess.
Friday, June 22, 2012
I'm Blind and I Can't Even Use My FIngers to Read
"It is a rare mind indeed that can render the hitherto
non-existent blindingly obvious. The cry 'I could have thought of that'
is a very popular and misleading one, for the fact is that they didn't,
and a very significant and revealing fact it is too."
- Douglas Adams
(42nd post - w00t!)
First and foremost, if there are any errors in this post that have escaped my notice, I apologize. I'm half-blind and hunt-and-peck typing my way through this post, because of reasons that will become clear.
The following is me complaining about blood-related things. Don't read if squeamish.
There, my warning-duty is done.
Today, I tried to give blood. I've done so successfully three times in the past, and had one unsuccessful attempt, so I was feeling relatively confident in my ability to let them sap off some of my fluids. I even got up early (7:00 am is early during the summer) to get to the bus on time for my appointment.
I'm currently typing this rather more slowly and inaccurately, because I have two pricked fingers wrapped in medical gauze, and I have the same amount of blood in me as I did this morning. Evidently I'm slightly anemic, and do not have enough iron to be able to give someone else some. Bah. Vegetarians don't need iron, we need cellulose.
But I did get a free cookie out of it, so that's cool. I just need to reschedule my appointment to such a time as I have remembered to take iron supplements.
Blood-stuff is over.
Summation: my fingers hurt. Typing hurts. Bah.
Relating to the blindness bit: funny story, that.
I have a super strong glasses perscription, to the point that without my glasses I cannot make out faces at seven feet. If I were glasses-less, I'd have to be about four inches from my screen as I type this, to make sure I could actually read what I type. I'm regularly asked if I'm legally blind. (Answer: not yet, but give it a couple years, I'm sure it will happen eventually.)
My current (read: soon-to-be former) glasses I got off one of those glasses-sites, where they're super cheap and look cool. While I quite like how they look, the site (which shall remain unnamed) did a sucky job on the anti-glare coating and didn't use the high-index polycarbon that I asked for. In short, the glasses are super shiny and roughly half an inch thick at the edges. Not good. Also, they have this unfortunate tendency to fall off my face at innopportune moments
But I was okay with this until this morning. This morning, that tendency of my glasses to fall off was demonstrated, and they fell off and onto the floor. I was even okay with that, because it wasn't exactly unprecedented.
Then I picked them up and the left side basically exploded into its component parts.
Suffice to say, I had a problem with that.
After I spent several fruitless minutes trying to use an eyeglasses screwdriver and sheer pluck to get the tiny little screw through its hole so the lens would have someplace to actually be, I gave up, called someone who could actually see to come fix it. Had I been able to make out what my father was actually doing to them, I might have complained.
He did get them fixed before my appointment, so that was good. What was bad is that he used superglue to do it. There is now a thin sheen of superglue covering the left lens of my glasses. Not enough to be visible to anyone, but more than enough to make seeing through it nigh-impossible. So I'm half blind until further notice, and reading anything one-eyed is giving me a headache. So. Not fun.
- Douglas Adams
(42nd post - w00t!)
First and foremost, if there are any errors in this post that have escaped my notice, I apologize. I'm half-blind and hunt-and-peck typing my way through this post, because of reasons that will become clear.
The following is me complaining about blood-related things. Don't read if squeamish.
There, my warning-duty is done.
Today, I tried to give blood. I've done so successfully three times in the past, and had one unsuccessful attempt, so I was feeling relatively confident in my ability to let them sap off some of my fluids. I even got up early (7:00 am is early during the summer) to get to the bus on time for my appointment.
I'm currently typing this rather more slowly and inaccurately, because I have two pricked fingers wrapped in medical gauze, and I have the same amount of blood in me as I did this morning. Evidently I'm slightly anemic, and do not have enough iron to be able to give someone else some. Bah. Vegetarians don't need iron, we need cellulose.
But I did get a free cookie out of it, so that's cool. I just need to reschedule my appointment to such a time as I have remembered to take iron supplements.
Blood-stuff is over.
Summation: my fingers hurt. Typing hurts. Bah.
Relating to the blindness bit: funny story, that.
I have a super strong glasses perscription, to the point that without my glasses I cannot make out faces at seven feet. If I were glasses-less, I'd have to be about four inches from my screen as I type this, to make sure I could actually read what I type. I'm regularly asked if I'm legally blind. (Answer: not yet, but give it a couple years, I'm sure it will happen eventually.)
My current (read: soon-to-be former) glasses I got off one of those glasses-sites, where they're super cheap and look cool. While I quite like how they look, the site (which shall remain unnamed) did a sucky job on the anti-glare coating and didn't use the high-index polycarbon that I asked for. In short, the glasses are super shiny and roughly half an inch thick at the edges. Not good. Also, they have this unfortunate tendency to fall off my face at innopportune moments
But I was okay with this until this morning. This morning, that tendency of my glasses to fall off was demonstrated, and they fell off and onto the floor. I was even okay with that, because it wasn't exactly unprecedented.
Then I picked them up and the left side basically exploded into its component parts.
Suffice to say, I had a problem with that.
After I spent several fruitless minutes trying to use an eyeglasses screwdriver and sheer pluck to get the tiny little screw through its hole so the lens would have someplace to actually be, I gave up, called someone who could actually see to come fix it. Had I been able to make out what my father was actually doing to them, I might have complained.
He did get them fixed before my appointment, so that was good. What was bad is that he used superglue to do it. There is now a thin sheen of superglue covering the left lens of my glasses. Not enough to be visible to anyone, but more than enough to make seeing through it nigh-impossible. So I'm half blind until further notice, and reading anything one-eyed is giving me a headache. So. Not fun.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Can't Quite String Together a Coherent, Long Train of Thought
I'm semi-officially a senior in high school now. Summer vacation has started. I should be freaking out over both of these things, and figuring out how best to get maximum enjoyment out of my summer.
Instead, I spent two hours yesterday cleaning up after previous renters to make a house ready for new ones. Ew. Certain things I'd really prefer not to clean up, and someone else's nasty kitchen or odd-smelling bathroom are definitely high on that list.
On the upside, there's a pool party this afternoon. I love having so many friends with pools. It means I don't have to pay for a pool pass, ever. Maybe, if I go swimming enough, I'll even discover a heretofore latent ability to *gasp* tan. Unlikely. But whatever.
I discovered a lava lamp in the attic today. Yes, it's now in my room. Shut up, it's blue and purple and highly distracting. I spent half an hour earlier just watching it. Lava-stuff goes up... Lava stuff goes down... Lava-stuff goes up... Lava-stuff goes down... Then I distracted myself from that distraction by trying to figure out the relative density of the lava-stuff in heated and unheated forms, compared to the liquid in which it floats. Then I realized I had to factor in cohesion of the lava-stuff to itself, and how much it weighed, and measure the time it took to float up and down, and while I was searching for a stopwatch I realized exactly how bored I am. And how much of a nerd I am.
(No, of course that didn't stop me. As far as I can tell, if the water at 50 degrees C has a density of 988.1 kg/m^3, then this material has a density of roughly 900kg/m^3 at the same temperature. When unheated, I'm thinking it's something like 1050kg/m^3 or more. Of course this is probably all wrong, considering some research I did, which led me to realize that the water isn't pure [duh], so that density is off and therefore so is everything else. Plus I have no clue what the wax is, etc. etc. There's only so much Google can help me with. But it was a pleasantly nerdy distraction from my distraction from my distraction.)
I just realized my soda is the same color as my lava lamp. Interesting.
Instead, I spent two hours yesterday cleaning up after previous renters to make a house ready for new ones. Ew. Certain things I'd really prefer not to clean up, and someone else's nasty kitchen or odd-smelling bathroom are definitely high on that list.
On the upside, there's a pool party this afternoon. I love having so many friends with pools. It means I don't have to pay for a pool pass, ever. Maybe, if I go swimming enough, I'll even discover a heretofore latent ability to *gasp* tan. Unlikely. But whatever.
I discovered a lava lamp in the attic today. Yes, it's now in my room. Shut up, it's blue and purple and highly distracting. I spent half an hour earlier just watching it. Lava-stuff goes up... Lava stuff goes down... Lava-stuff goes up... Lava-stuff goes down... Then I distracted myself from that distraction by trying to figure out the relative density of the lava-stuff in heated and unheated forms, compared to the liquid in which it floats. Then I realized I had to factor in cohesion of the lava-stuff to itself, and how much it weighed, and measure the time it took to float up and down, and while I was searching for a stopwatch I realized exactly how bored I am. And how much of a nerd I am.
(No, of course that didn't stop me. As far as I can tell, if the water at 50 degrees C has a density of 988.1 kg/m^3, then this material has a density of roughly 900kg/m^3 at the same temperature. When unheated, I'm thinking it's something like 1050kg/m^3 or more. Of course this is probably all wrong, considering some research I did, which led me to realize that the water isn't pure [duh], so that density is off and therefore so is everything else. Plus I have no clue what the wax is, etc. etc. There's only so much Google can help me with. But it was a pleasantly nerdy distraction from my distraction from my distraction.)
I just realized my soda is the same color as my lava lamp. Interesting.
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