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

At Annie's request...

I am updating my LJ. But I've nothing very interesting to say. I frittered and fucked away my weekened--quelle surprise!--and am facing yet another Monday with a sense of limp, unlaundered depression.

I did answer some e-mail yesterday in honor of the international feedback day thingy; granted, I'm bad at sending feedback, but it's more the not-answering of my own feedback that englooms my conscience, so I chipped away at my inbox and answered, by my grand estimate...about 1.8% of my outstanding e-mail messages. Yeah, well. Let me remind the world for the 1587th time: I suck! Whee.

(Confidential to the lovely person who wrote asking about me about a Wish List: I haven't replied yet because I'm still messing about with it. The list, I mean.)

In the Updates on My Disturbing Fantasies department, a new storyline diverged from the original premise and I decided--wait, did I say "I"? To rephrase: a small clump of mutant, sexually excited brain cells somewhere in the depths of my lizard lobe that I bear no responsibility for decided that one day Chipped Spike left Sunnydale for L.A. and needed some extra money and tragically slipped and fell into a hotbed of prostitution, as so often happens, and--I'm just going to hit the high notes this morning, as I really need to be working instead--and he signed a contract without reading the fine print and one day he violated his contract unknowingly and his madame (shut up) said "Ah ha!" or something rather less fruity, and said, "Now you are mine forever!" or something rather less melodramatic, and she sent him to charm school in Hell, so that he could be The Best Prostitute Ever! And so of course Spike was buggered six ways from Sunday for the next century or so, and returned gloriously triumphant with a truly valuable skill set that would advance him in his chosen career. And then he started attending ritzy L.A. do's, the same ones that the A.I. gang, now including the Sunnydale peeps, were reluctantly attending, and one night he met a nice boy named Wes and gave him a blow job, the end.

I will never, *ever* write that story.

Now I must work. My life sucks. Not as much as that of people out on the street or those with no arms or legs or those who are actually legally dead. But even so, I'll reserve it as my God-given American Right to bitch about my relatively prosperous and materially abundant life, as a member of the five percent of the world who uses forty percent of its resources and hates her job need to work.

Confidential to co-worker: Stop snapping your sunflower seeds, man! Or I'll pop a cap in you!
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