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

dissociable chew bolshevik

My spam is surrealist. Meanwhile, people are talking about genre, porn, fanfiction.net, attitudes toward writing, etc.

And in other news, I was on crack last night! Apparently. I wasn't even drinking. I worry. But now I'm at work. I floated here under a Biblical deluge of rain. I have no meetings today! A Monday without meetings is a...well, it's still a Monday, but 10% nicer.

Random quote from Morford's morning fix: "Meanwhile, the universe took the tiny shriveled raisin that is Rep. George Nethercutt's soul and tied it to a little string and flung it around its head ten times really fast until it made this neat whooshing sound and let it fly, smack into a granite slab, where it stuck, momentarily, and slowly oozed down and plopped onto the ground, where it was promptly devoured by fire ants."

nwhepcat and others are master drabblers. There are drabbling communities. The drabble form seems uniquely suited to LJ. I was thinking I should drabble more--I mean, as long as I'm dribbling away my energy and talents in LJ instead of working on actual stories, maybe it would be fun to try and toss off short stuff, since even my wittering fantasy sketch writing tends to go long and take a while to get down. Then I decided I should not "drabble" per se, because I am anal-retentive and always take word limits seriously, plus what if I started Thinking Seriously about what to write? That'd be stupid. Why am I still talking?

Sometimes in the middle of fantasizing I'll come up with some dialogue I want to remember. If I don't jot it down, I forget utterly. I just realized that the other night I ran to my laptop and scribbled a whole scene...and that I later erased this document, a reusable scrap file, and overwrote it with one of my LJ entries. Also, I had something in my head night before last; I remember thinking, "Ooooh!" And that's gone too. However, I do have a scrap of paper in my backpack on which I jotted a Xander line: "I have respect for you. I have enormous, throbbing respect for you." I probably stole it from somewhere, unconsciously.

Sigh.

Meanwhile, another Xander is sitting in a dance club with Wes and Spike. Three men who, after my mental makeover efforts, would bring tears of joy to the Queer Eye. Wes and Xander have Spike bookended in a booth, arms laid along the seat back in a matched, trapping way. He's like a paranthetical remark slouching happily between them. Xander leans away for a moment, licks his own wrist and salts it, picks up a tequila shot and a lime, brings his wrist to Spike's mouth. Spike tongues all the way up to meet the shot Xander pours in and then Xander pushes the lime between his lips. Afterwards, Wes leans in and kisses him and Xander slides his hand all the way up the inside of Spike's thigh and massages there.
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