November 16th, 2003


okay, incest *is* trendy.

Just read a fantastic Angel/Connor story by deepad. I'd say, ignore the title, Summer Lovin'--just skip right over it to the story itself, as its tone and level is not what that title might suggest. It's on Slashing the Angel, under "new fic." I really couldn't stop reading this, got sucked in by its undertow until I was completely immersed. Just amazing. Thanks to kittygoslingp for the rec. I'd quote some of the story, but a paragraph or two out of context probably isn't going to represent it well, because I think its real accomplishment is the gradual, cumulative weight of details from Connor-not-Connor's point of view, all the sharp, between-the-line readings that tell us exactly what Angel must be thinking and feeling without us having to go explicitly into his head. The descriptions of Angel--how he talks and moves, the subtlety of his expressions--are some of the best I've ever read, period.

ETA: One longish, more spoilery note about the story. Collapse )

And now I hear the pancakes singing each to each, and I do think that they will sing to me....

the big slothy suck

I am doing that thing where I keep clicking to refresh my friends list and my e-mail in order to avoid opening Word and writing anything. If I'm not careful, I'm about five minutes away from heavy drinking.

At least we've crossed the threshold of noon. It wouldn't be *morning* drinking.

Shyeah. Am assiduously not-thinking about it. Avoidance is a marvelous thing sometimes. Oh, it's marvy. I drank far less than I'd intended on my business trip, though. In fact, for the past week, there have been several times when I've been too tired to drink. Coma-sleep can be just as addicting as drink, though. This is my unlife. I just cycle from one addiction to another.

I bought new sheets. I had two sets, flannel, and I wore them out. Threadbare and tattered. Enormous holes, right at foot-level. The new sheets are Egyptian cotton, and they shrank in the wash; barely fit around my bed now, though they're ostensibly the correct size. Must try to find a different brand; but the cotton is great, feels fantastic.

Bought a new portable CD player too. I'd put that off for months, even though my old ones were so tragically fucked up that they skipped on just about every song and wobbled the CD so that it sometimes wouldn't even play. I think they may have scratched my CDs too.

I wear things down to their bones. Clothes, shoes, etc. Because I don't have money and/or I'm just too lazy to shop. And then one day I'll blink and realize my shoes are scuffed and stinky and my shirt has an indelible stain and my thrift-store frying pan is a grotesque amalgam of crud and abrasions.

I'm oversharing. Must continue to avoid myself and my thoughts. I live in my head a lot, all the time. And then one day I'll blink out of an internal haze of slashy fantasy and realize that I still exist in the world, that the sky is heaped with cloud strata and glowing down over the Seattle hills like El Greco's Toledo and there's wet leaves plastered in layers all over the streets and the air is like wine. And I realize I'm not *seeing* anything--that half the time I'm just oblivious and blind, lost in trivialities, that I'm almost thirty-five and I don't even *try* to live outside my head anymore, I just cart the body around to buoy the mind. I exist inside a bubble of self, hermetically sealed.

I hate when I can't bring myself to write. It's all I have. I'm just pointless baggage otherwise, a little package of existential junk getting routed from one point to another, birth to death.

I really, really don't want to die. I have huge death issues. That's why I don't pay attention to life. I might get too attached. Everything is scary.


To live, I must eat. To eat, I must go to the supermarket. To go to the supermarket, I must leave my apartment. Therefore if I do not leave my apartment, I will die.


I'll tell you why. Because after I went to IHOP this morning, I went shopping and I was so stuffed on PANCAKES that the mere thought of putting another bite of food in my mouth, ever again, made me bilious. I honestly could not make myself buy anything other than soda and a loaf of Emergency Wheat Bread. But I can eat no more bread. I've eaten it with peanut butter, I've eaten it with cheese, I've eaten it with a slather of mustard. No. More. Bread.

Someone, please, just drag a dead cow onto the front walk of my apartment building and toss some asparagus through my window, okay? Please?

To leave my apartment, I would have to put a bra on and everything. It's just too much. I'd have to lift my arms, and then find some shoes, and then climb the stairs, and the car is cold.

As you can see, I've emphasized all the horrifying bits so that you can better understand my angst.