October 23rd, 2003



I mostly wrote Spike/Angel while watching Smallville last night and even muted the TV at a few points when the plot got plotty, and I don't have a lot to say about the episode except that hey, wasn't that a Buffy ep?

I love how easily pleased you S/A fans are by a little attention. *g* I'm sorry I haven't been doing much replying to comments; I appreciate them though & love you guys. In fact I seem to be in full-blown feedback slut mode at the moment. Pet me and I will twirl my tassles at you.

That madlibs writing meme is making the rounds again, I see. Not for me. What am I, a masochist? "Please, whip me with your searing honesty! Tell me how much you hate my slave-kink!" Not.

Seattle is sunny but cool today. Yesterday I was overdressed, today I am under. It is Thursday, by the way, and I am doing the happy bunny dance about this.

The many tributaries of fantasy that drench my head are starting to dry up, I think. Just a bit, anyway. I had a little flood season and now I'm all...meh. Spike/Angel, nice, but where's my drama? Wes/Spike, have pushed them in all directions and they've had the crazy wild sex and now they're kind of tired. Spike/Xander, they seem to be resting.

I have been flirting again with the what-if of Spike losing his soul and what he'd do in those circumstances. For one thing, I think it'd depend on whether he has a new human love interest to keep him motivated. As I run scenarios in my head though, I have to say, the prospect of returning to conscience-free evil seems to hold deep allure for Spike ("my" mental Spike), in the absence of romantic attachment. Storytelling to myself last night, I was imagining how he'd feel, stripped free of his hairshirt, the heavy weight of scruples. I think the "weight" metaphor works well, as if with the soul he's felt smothered in layers of soft flesh, human essence. I don't want to be fat-phobic, especially given my own body mass, but honestly, I do feel very weighted by my flesh, like it's a whole other person, and if it just fell away, leaving me this lean, clean machine of muscle and bone and liberated breath, no way would I want to go back. And one can imagine the press of a soul in that way--once it's gone, you're all like, "Gosh, I'd forgotten how much *fun* and delicious it was to be nasty, and how unimportant you tiny human ants are to me." He's hungry, he's unchipped, he can do whatever he pleases and no remorse will shackle or cripple him. Unsouled, it must feel like your vision has cleared, it must be a bracing thrill, like a rush of speed or heroin, cold and sharp and lucid (apparently so, anyway).

All this would go for Angelus as well, of course, and he seems to display behavior that supports this reading.

But I still like to imagine that Spike could control himself, with the right incentives or a strong enough, consistent enough self-image that carries over from one state to the other, buttressing him long enough to get the soul back.

I'm on a concall as I write this. It's good to multitask.

I'm restless.

I want smut. I'd write it myself but I'm too restless to do even that, and I'm trying to work. Work hard. Work hard, little rabbit! That's what I am (so completely *not*) murmuring to myself as I sit here in my cubicle listening to my coworker sing "Jimmy Crack Corn."

How lame is it that my new DVD of a Stevie Ray Vaughn concert won't play as a CD on my laptop? Grrrrrrr. How lame is it that I have almost 100 CDs with me and don't want to listen to a single one of them? Or that I have 200 more at home and don't want to listen to any of *those* either? Bugger.

Or as Hugh Grant says: "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck *fuck*!"

La la la la la, I will now listen to this mysterious unmarked CD from my good friend Sandy and see what it sings to me.

ETA: Track 8 is Ryan Adams's "La Cienega." Everything brings me back to Angel. Including, by the way, all the taxis in Seattle--they all have Angel's smiling mug on top of them, advertising the new season. Heh.

bored now.

I just ate a Hostess cupcake for the first time in maybe three or four years. It really, really sucked. I mention this in case you were thinking of emulating me. I know some of you were. Don't lie. "She mentioned Hostess Cupcakes," some of you were musing. "Why, you know, I could go for a Hostess Cupcake right! now!" By god. If I jumped off a cliff or even a very high curb into moderate traffic I know that you'd follow me like lemmings.

Lemmings, lemmings, lemmings! That's what you are.

Notorious Smut Peddler Cries 'Lemmings' at Shocked Fans

Oct. 23, 2003 | SEATTLE, Wa (AP) -- In a baffling and disturbing outbreak not seen since Farrah Fawcett's tragic Letterman guest spot, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" fan-fiction author Anna S. castigated her readers today for being, "Lemmings, lemmings, lemmings!"

"I didn't know what to think," blogger and Star Trek alumnus Wil Wheaton said in a phone interview with our reporter. Sounding shaken and upset, Wheaton said, "I only hope that she gets the help she needs before it's too late. I hate to see a BNF ["Big Name Fan"] make such an appalling example of herself."

The fan-fiction community was rocked by the outburst, which came after the confessed partial ingestion of a Hostess Cupcake by the author. Some commentators have wondered if Anna S. will try to explain her LiveJournal post by falling back on the "Twinkie defense," a theory linking junk-food consumption to aberrant behavior, popularized in the legal defense of Dan White in 1978 as a partial explanation for his murder of Harvey Milk and George Moscone.

"Of course the 'Twinkie defense' is a well-known urban legend," said one LiveJournal insider who preferred to remain unnamed. "I doubt that she'll get very far with fans on that excuse."

Anna S. was unavailable for comment at the time of this report.
In other news, there's something terribly wrong when it's October 23 and none of my 300 cable channels is providing me with any Halloween horror-movie fodder. Jesus, people. Give me some gore already. I'm sitting here watching several suited men talk earnestly in someone's living room. I don't know what they're saying. Mute is your friend. They could be talking about their experiences in the San Francisco BDSM scene, but since this is "Dial 'M' for Muder," perhaps not.

Is it fair that I should be this bored? anniesj has done her part, writing beautiful second-person (!) S/X vignettes in tones of aching sadness. Go, Annie.

Go monkey. Choose monkey.

That is never not funny.

So in cartoons this week, they're doing guest-cartoonist strips. That'd be fun to do in LJ, I think. Mysterious Guest Journalistas write each other's posts and then put them up, each person trying to capture the other poster's tone and style and content slant. And then people have to guess who is posting for who. Whom even. I'd be all anxious though. Would people mock me with love?

I notice that when I post smut, I get lots of comments. And this is nice! When I post chewy thoughts on the human soul and the ambiguous nature of demon identity--not so much. I'm not inviting enough in style or something. Or again, my notorious lack of repsonsiveness is to blame. But you know, I *do* sometimes get absorbed in a back-and-forth discussion, swapping the gum of theory from mouth to mouth, bonding with other fans through the holy communion of mental spit. I'm just not especially predictable as to when I'll do so.

Also, is it so wrong to want people to squeeze some of their tasty, copious brain juice into comments even if I don't intend to continue a longer conversation?

Wow. This is the ultimate Wank of Shame. Listen to me whine for attention! I adore myself, I really really do. Your love is going to my head, I'm floating away like a gassy balloon of self-love, up into the rarefied atmosph...hmm, where'd my monkey go?

There is hash in my cupcake.