Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

Hello, world.

As I just told A., I'm only operating at about 16% power today. In the grand tradition of fannish reciprocity or symbiosis or something, I pimped her into the first two seasons of QAF, and she then turned around and made me a CD of all the season three episodes I hadn't seen. Which I watched last night. For eight hours. Straight. I just lay in my bed rather like Ted during his whole porn-habit arc, and watched ep after ep, breaking only long enough to go out and catch some salmon. Salmon and chocolate.

So now I've seen all the eps and my eyes are gritty--the entire *world* is gritty. Gritty and grainy and sort of flickering, because I'm really really really really tired. Too tired to have anything coherent to say at this time, as A. can attest, as I just went into her office and made breathless little squeaks of pleasure like a stoned rat. I really really really really love Brian. Brian and Justin. They make me so dippily, giddily happy.

Listening to fangirls squee about their obsessions can be like listening to parents coo about their babies. If you don't share the fascination, you smile politely and wait it out.

On the bus this morning, there were two guys behind me having relationship angst. They were speaking in tiny, quiet voices that remained buttoned up tight and small as they uttered lines from a bad script:

Guy: I don't blame you. I am responsible for my own feelings. I need to take care of myself, and to learn to give myself what I need.

Then about two minutes of silence pass, which is a *long* time in a conversation. So basically the first guy just says this into the void as if he's talking to himself, and there's a lot of nothing, and then much later, as a disconnected response, I hear a hurt little voice:

Guy Two: I can make it easier for you.

Guy One: How?

Guy Two: I don't have to be there.

It went on like that for a bit, this very tiny, very polite meltdown of a relationship, sad and strange.

I. Am. So. Sleeee...

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
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