April 8th, 2003

elijah

five by five...or maybe three and a half

Blood pressure is fine, anyway. Went to the doctor's, got that confirmed. Guess I'll just wait and see whether this recurs. Almost wore a white shirt today, then caught myself, rolled my eyes, and put on something darker in case, you know, I began SPEWING HUGE GOUTS OF NOSE BLOOD ALL OVER THE OFFICE.

From a Salon article on Jon Stewart's The Daily Show: Political humor used to belong to the left, but that all changed in the 1990s, when the priggishness of political correctitude injected new vitality into a segment of the population that had been shut out of comedy's pantheon: assholes. Be sure to read through to page two where they transcribe a discussion on the war between Stewart and Colbert.

Mental note, must try to insert the question "Well, what do you expect from a slave-banging, Hitler-loving queer?" into every conversation today.

At work, my SEAS--Spam Emergency Alert System--informs me that, "Everything is fine with you except your AEK." Inspection of the message's contents provided no further details about this cryptic acronym which is holding me back from perfect enlightenment. I can, however, increase the size of my member to please my woman lover, if I just click here. I'll let you all know how that works out.

Last night I successfully cheered myself up quite a lot by reading Buffy Summers and the Spiders from Mars, and I think everyone else should read it too. ::beams:: I'd include about ninety quotes here to to tempt people, but--as always--lazy, and besides, people shouldn't need tempting. Plus there's slash, and the death of giant spiders, and lots of muffins.
elijah

yo-yo

Don't they have some little piece of software that lets you graph your mental health chart via LJ mood entries? Mine would just yank you up and down, up and down, all over the place.

I declined over the course of the day into a truly foul funk that I don't dare inflict on anyone. Even though I really needed S. to drive me to the DVD store, I backed out, because when I called to cancel, in one room of my mind I began to waffle, and as I was waffling, from another room I began screaming at myself: are you fucking insane? you can't even form complex sentences! for god's sake, pull the sheet over yourself and hide your monstrous aspect from the world!

It's a very physical sense of depression. It's full metal zombie mode, when I literally can't move my facial muscles, and the ache in my throat is burrowing upwards, trying to surface like a mole from my mouth, and the rest of me from chest to eyelids wants to weep, and everything seems hopeless. I've been sapping my own trenches to bring this on. It's my own fault, letting my erratic nature take sway. It's like one little nudge and it all begins to crumble or topple, a domino chain heading for full collapse. Not taking my meds as regularly as I should, cutting the exercise, picking up the bottle again. There are periods when I have such hope for myself, such certainty, and then time spins me around and all of a sudden I'm hunched in my room, alone, in tears, paralyzed except for the occasional burst of words.


elijah

huh...

Spike hatred from unexpected sources slaps me hard.

This bit of Angel/Spike from rubywisp was well timed to please and distract me.

Earlier, I read With an Alien People Clutching Their Gods and loved it with astonished awe. There are stories that you see dubiously recced as "just like an episode!" and then much more rarely there *are* stories that read just like an episode. An extra-long, supercharged episode...in progress. Damn it, I need to make a bookmark folder or something, just for WIPs. I'm losing track. Wasn't I reading a dark A/S WIP? It was the best thing ever. It was, what, three freaking days ago that I recced it? Already its memory begins to dissolve at the edges in the acidwash of mundane time. Everyone should have yahoogroup update lists, I say...writers, take note.

My fantasies turn dark. I imagine Spike castrated and brutalized by humans, wearing his dick around his neck. I can't really get past it, though. There is apparently no comfort for hurt in this story, even with the application of magical healing.

My femme Spike storyline has played out, gone dry as dust. I need new amusements, to rock and lull me to bed at night.

I need some kind of food, but I can't think what.

I do read the LJs of people not on my friends list, from time to time. People should rec LJs more. You don't see much of that. It more often happens that people quietly friend other people, and now and then link to a post, or mention them, but I'd like people to tell me that LJA is the funniest thing since sliced bread, and LJB has loads of cool spander content, and LJC has a sparkly hoot of a life that you can't help gawk and giggle at in admiration. Et cetera. If I were a better person--read: not so frelling lazy--I'd friend everyone who friends me and let filters sort it out, because it's not as if I bother with friends-only posts all that often. There are at least a few people not signed up for LJ that I'd like to be able to read my personal content, for one thing. And I'm just more out there than most. More often I self-censor at the actual writing stage rather than at the privacy level, mostly stuff having to do with work that I think better of.

I'm just babbling to while away the minutes as I try to decide what to do next with my life. Find something to read? Go back to bed? Lie limply on the couch and suck the teat of cable tv?

I wonder what Harlan Ellison's doing these days, by the way. Does he have a blog? Or is he too fucking good for that shit? He probably has a whole rabid philosophy of objection to them, for all I know.

Edited to add: Mely just posted a wicked cool, must-read essay on parallels between the Spike/Buffy and Faith/Buffy relationships. Potential spoilers only through LMPTM.

Also, apparently what I needed to eat was a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich. Tongue and Stomach are glad I figured that out. The coup has been cancelled.

current mood: None, or other