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

beer bad, friends good

I am ending my vacation laid up on my couch with my neck and shoulder all bent out of shape. Knock on wood, this doesn't rival the Week of Great Pain, 2001 (or whenever it was), but I'm immobile by choice and fairly whiny. Then sherroldish came by and brought me a gift of a potted plant, and a cheeseburger and french fries and Tylenol with codeine. Dear god, I love her.

I've been pitter-pattering on my laptop all day from a supine--I think--position, while my BtVS season two DVDs play in the background, mostly without sound. I've watched everything from "Surprise" to the finale, which is on now. I still get rabidly eroticized at the end of IOHEFY when Spike steps out of his wheelchair a la Bob Roberts, and kicks it aside with rage. Sweet Jesus, he is the hotness. But also Angel. Angelus, I should say. In the black silk and leather with the pale skin of evil. I think I've watched this season for what might be the fifth time now, and each time he digs his way in a little deeper, like a tick. I've got this one smirk in particular burned on my retinas though I've already forgotten the context. And the sight of him polishing Giles's glasses...holy cow. And then to Spike again, allying with Buffy, stepping up to meet her in front of the police car, and playing along for Joyce when Buffy pretends to be in a band. He was never more fucking pretty than in season two. He was sex in black boots. But again...Angelus. I must admit to feeling the man love.

Funnily enough, I am writing Spike-and-Angel snark today. Heh.

I think I had more to say but the codeine is kicking in. Codeine and whiskey. Mmm. I am the love child of sloth and booze.

ETA: Reason #318 why kjv31 is the savviest fanboy around.
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