April 19th, 2003


What would Jesus fucking Christ do?

I'm wandering this morning in a fog, hungry, vaguely thinking, "It's a shame I never took the time to eat that hamburger last night...I'll have one now!" Get out to the kitchen, pick up pan from stove, stare at its charred surface with a frown, and realize...I did eat a burger.

So I was pretty drunk last night. And it often makes me loose-tongued and unpredictable. I was feeling pretty generous toward the world after about three drinks: goodwill toward men, blah di blah.

This morning not so much. This morning I've still got other people's issues in my head and I'm thinking: Your Gay Spike hate makes Gay Xander cry. I'm thinking: my guys skeeve you? Bore you? Thanks ever so. I'm thinking that every second Tuesday I'm going to randomly drop a rant into my LJ where I bitch at femslash's "slick, quivering pussies" and the "disgusting way they rub against each other" and I'm going to explain to everyone repeatedly why this is something that pushes all my buttons, no matter how times I read it.

Which is all false, by the way, just so you know.

I'm truly sorry to be such a bitch, and apologize to my slash-skeeved friends. But I feel like a cat that can't purge a hairball and have to get some of these thoughts out. Vive la difference, yeah. But man...I just want to be in my Jasmine zone of slash love and not feel self-conscious because my guys have working dicks that do dick-like things together. So slash is palatable only when the guys are neutered like Ken dolls, always dressed, and careful not to scare the children?

I have nothing to say to that. I'm just going to take my upset, vibrating self somewhere else now, probably offline, before I work myself up any further. My goal with my own rantiness is just to put my head down and push through with the hope that I'll pass to the other side of the storm sooner rather than later.

These are all just *my* issues, of course. And my issues are with issues, like dogs on leashes barking at each other, and not with the people who own them, who in this case I quite like, even though I'm not sure how clear that is, and I'm probably going to piss people off, and disclaimers like this don't excuse the fact that I'm acting like a whiplash drunk, unpredictable and creepy.

Ah, fuck.

Edited to add: Wanted to make clear also that I'm not drawing battle lines; because I find kerfuffles (someone needs to boot that word, like an overly cute kitten) unproductive and boring. I'm just venting a little steam in what I hope is a not-too obnoxious way. I also feel slightly better for having eaten a burger. Cow solves everything. Except it doesn't. Will try to write now.

Does my ass look fat to you?

Decided to stay home today instead of going out to be social. Danger, Will Robinson.

In a timely way, celli has a post on Ten Things I Wish I'd Known Before I Entered Fandom, number eight of which is, "You don't have to agree with everyone." Sigh. I know. I know. I like number nine, too, "Fandom can be fun," which has the quote: "But we actually all entered fandom in the first place because it made us smile." Thing is, I usually am having fun. Big fun! But I'm like one of those giddy spinning tops that you let loose on the surface of a table--it's doing fine, can go long periods of time whirling zippily, but if it's nudged, it may suddenly bobble and spill and stop.

coffeeandink says: "I hereby declare this week Melymbrosia Unfriending Amnesty Week. Bored? Infuriated? Tired of managing your friends list through filters? Can't even remember why you put this journal on your list anyway? Make your day run a little more smoothly -- defriend!"

I'll go ahead and make the same offer. Defriend me if you will! I promise not to have a crisis.

Do I take myself too seriously? I don't know. That's one of those things where sometimes you can't see what your own ass looks like without a mirror. I take *other* things too seriously, I know that.

Where exactly does one get a life? Wouldn't it be cool if you could actually custom-order one? Go to an agency, have them set you up with gym and museum memberships, a night class, some charity work, the attendance info for clubs and groups--say, a writer's group--where you'll find a ready-made set of acquaintances with similar interests. And so on. Of course, the problem is you'd then have to actively pursue all this. I'd probably fork over the fee and then groundhog back into my blankets and go to sleep.

On parting note, must rec tightropegirl, someone I've known for years in fandom and am thrilled to see get an LJ. Some great posts to kick off with too, on writing fan fiction and pro fiction. Go, read, love, I say.



I can't believe it's just quarter to ten. It feels like three in the morning.

Have been drinking heavily today and was thinking about various Buffyish things and realized for the first time that Giles, Xander, and Spike--arguably, *all* of BtVS's primary male characters--have been presented suggestively as borderline alcoholics, or at least having a huge potential for it. Definitely heavy drinkers whenever faced with personal problems.

Of course, maybe there's not a wide selection of dysfunctional behaviors to saddle prime-time characters with. Self-mutilation, promiscuous behavior, heavy drug use--these are hard-core, whereas drinking is legal, commonplace, and easily understood as a vehicle of vice.

And it's clear, I think, that all the BtVS regulars are heavily fucked-up by their Hellmouth history, and stagger around under a weight of accrued pain, more or less bereft of close ties--at least ones that are peaceful and grounded in something other than shared trauma. I mean, aside from the guys, there's also Willow, whose magical addiction arc is a clear metaphor for alcoholism (echoed in a minor key by Amy); Buffy, whose S6 Spike relationship also plays like addiction; Riley and the vamp suckage; Dawn, with her kleptomania; Anya and her twin obsessions of money and sex (though she's by far the weakest example, I know), and so on.

Tara was arguably the only sane person on the Hellmouth Clean-Up Crew, the only one who managed to maintain emotional and psychological stability, and look what they did to her. Poor, lovely bitch.


the cruelty of the keyboard

After reading the latest Subtleties thingy at least ten times, I just now found a stupid typo in it. I say:


I will now formalize this writerly rule, which says: Your typo will always be placed in the most intense part of your story, so as to deliver maximum distraction.