March 8th, 2004



Strange thing that I am, I like having too much office work to do rather than too little, but I'm in that place now where I have so freaking much to do that I can't figure out what to do first. I'm sort of immobilized. Which means I should go to lunch.

And now I'm back. I move like a blur, don't I?

Only got around to writing this weekend late on Sunday, but got another scene done, so decided not to hang self.

On Saturday, sherrold came over and we watched the first 3 episodes of S3 QAF. Including the great Kinney knock-out. Whammo! I find myself wondering what people think about that--can imagine that some people might come down on Michael's side, other people on Brian's. (Though Michael himself comes around afterward and basically admits to being a pissant.) My bias is obvious. I think it's a thing of beauty, not because I dislike Michael or anything, but because it was such a fitting, romantic gesture. The Beast savagely defending Beauty and all that, even though Beauty left him for a violin-playing twink. Brian reminds me a lot of Spike there. You could make the argument that the set-up was forced--Michael can be a thoughtless little twat, but it's hard for me to believe that he'd say that. Hal Sparks played it well though.

Had a great time with Sandy; she was balm on my fannish soreness. Maybe I will even go to the next Seattle bash. Dare I? Dare I be a peach-eater? Hmm.

I have been playing out a story in my head with Whore!Spike, where Angel kicks him out of the agency with no possessions and tells him he's unwelcome and that he'd better not bother any of the others, et cetera, and everyone is forced to go along with Angel because he's in full fury mode, as he was after the whole Wes-Connor thing, except in this AU that never happened, so Wes is one of the people who keeps silent and lets Angel kick Spike out, but months later he's bitter about it. "You're angry," Angel says when the subject comes up, after he's finally come around a bit. Wes: "Yes, I'm angry, Angel. At you, myself--you made a decision for all of us, without consulting us, and I should have called you on that. That's my job, but instead of doing it I tip-toed around you for months, fearing your temper, your disapproval. I'm not my own man. I'm your minion."

Well, that's going nowhere. I'll file it in my head under "R" for "Reams of dialogue that might have turned into cool stories that are instead lost to posterity because my head doesn't have a built-in tape recorder."

Back to work!

small talk about the weather

It was a gorgeous day here. One of those days of utter balm where, around sunset, the sky over the mountains turns pink and you see a certain slant of buttery light through the tree branches and remember you're alive. A sort of *wow* moment that lifts you out of the Matrix, makes you contemplate working out at the gym, traveling to Alaska, hiking--all in pursuit of that crisp, clean, fresh-brained feeling. Afterwards, of course, you sink back down into sleep, plug back in, and eat a lot of french fries.

My car tags are expiring. Bathos. I will soon be moving into the red zone of illegality, as the car would never make it to the emissions testing center. I am vaguely planning to buy a new one next time the trading window opens on my company stocks. I could have gotten in under the wire this time but was disheartened. I had finally roused myself--first time ever--to access my online account and check up on the status of my stocks. It's a handy thing, the online account. It handily told me that if I'd cashed out some stocks in October during the 52-week high, I'd have had thirty-thousand more dollars. I could have paid off a credit card, my student loan, and still bought a car, and when I was done, I'd still have the EXACT SAME AMOUNT OF MONEY I DO RIGHT NOW.

I know: "You can't live your life like that, Anna, and really, isn't it great that you have stocks *at all*?" Yes. Of course it is. Shut up.

I don't know why I'm feeling the urge to dish out all this mundane news. In a happier, couch-potatoey vein, I'm loving this whole cable "On Demand" feature so much I'm practically fellating my remote. I've discovered a bunch of cool movies I can watch on my own flaky schedule, along with all the HBO series, some Monty Python, and a Tracey Ullman special. Oh, and there's a ton of free Cinemax soft-core porn. Sometimes I tune in and just stare at the breasts for a few minutes. If I watch too long, though, I start to crack up.

If I could bring fan-fiction to life with the power of my mind (and wouldn't it be cool if I could wish certain people into the cornfield?) I'd have an all-slash, all-the-time channel. And another one for everything else worthy of being enacted by imaginary actors.

I'm thinking I need food.

ETA: I just had to call Comcast about something and discovered that they've only been offering the On Demand service for the last week or so. Apparently it's been available on the east coast for a while, but it's new here, so I haven't even been missing anything. Yay! ...and I am a dork and I still need food.


Why is it that trying to convince myself I want to sit down and write feels more like I'm trying to sell myself on the idea of sticking pins in my eyeballs.

Me: You really want to write.
Me2: Excuse me, you want me to stick *pins* in my *eyeballs*?
Me: No. *Write*, you lazy ass.
Me2: But I can't write while I'm lying on the couch. The computer is in the other room.
Me: Duh.
Me2: You mean I'd have to get up?
Me: You really are a masterpiece of lint and inertia.
Me2: But "Scream" is on. I've only seen it 41 times. 42 is the magic number. It's the meaning of life.
Me: I'm crushing your head! Crushcrushcrush!
Me2: This couch is comfy. If I lift my hand in front of my face, it's like my hand is Skeet Ulrich's head and my fingers are talking lips.
Me: ...
Spike: I'm sitting here in a bloody holding pattern, you stupid bint. Three more scenes, tops--is a little closure too much to ask?
Spike2: I'm still a whore and even though I've found true love in the well-muscled arms of a rich and manly Scotsman, I really think I should be with Xander. Why don't you lie down and ponder that for a while, hmm? I realize I'm speaking in a strangely out-of-character voice but I think my argument is convincing.
Me2: I am feeling...sleeeeepy.
Me: Laziest. Bitch. Ever.
Me2: Hey, I could go write this in my LiveJournal and kill ten minutes!
Me: *explodes, shattering bone fragements and brain matter across the walls*

The end.