September 19th, 2005


monday is a beehive

  • I haven't slept in a week. Almost literally.
  • I haven't been to the grocery store in three weeks, but it turns out you can live indefinitely on delivery pizza, café sandwiches, and cookies.
  • I've been working late into the evenings and coming in on weekends, not so much because of some sudden conscientious drive to sweat and toil, but in a kind of funked stupor.
  • This site proves that I can spend hours at a time--feckless hours--staring at David Hewlett's face and Photoshopping him unto the last hurrah, my record being twenty subtle and pointless variations of a single image using image adjustments and filters. Saved variations, of course. Unsaved tweaks are even more minute and endless. My current wallpaper:

  • Google image search is also dangerous and I now have 20 pictures of Julian McMahon, fortysomething of Viggo, and a hard-to-explain 7 of Ron Perlman. I have a rich and heteroclitic fantasy life. Strangely, heteroclitic doesn't mean anything like what it suggests.

    Posts I've been meaning to make. The one where I:

  • Ramble about how first-season Profiler is still good. Popcorn watching. Serial killers. Julian McMahon.
  • Create McSweeneyesque absurdist stories from spam subject lines: This Secret Built a Small Empire; Re: Octavio; The Fit Go Half Renaissance; Marina, the Russian Girl; Get Your Own Replica; Stun Her with a Rolex!
  • Quote from Pearls in Vinegar: The Pillow Book of Heather Mallick.
  • Muse on how Alien 3 and Alien: Resurrection aren't as terrible as I remember, and how Sigourney Weaver is ridiculously hot.
  • Show off new icons.
  • Rec approximately 50 SGA stories.
  • Yawn and grumble.

    subject line from googlism
    • Current Mood
      yawn, grumble

    The One with the Fungus of Youth and the Sex-Change Machine

    "Posts I've been meaning to make...."

    And then, I almost forgot, there's the story with this dialogue that I'll never write:
    "I realized something today." Rodney shifted away and stared at the ceiling. "I'll never be able to resume my career. I mean, I could publish but I'd have to become a recluse. Dr. Rodney McKay, the J.D. Salinger of astrophysics."

    "That would suck." John was quiet a moment, then said, "You know, the government could give you a new identity."

    "'The government.' I love how you say that as if there's only one."

    "The Canadian government then."

    Rodney made a grumpy blatting noise like a failure buzzer on a game show. "Sorry, you should have said, 'The Canadian government, of course'. But it's not a bad idea." His tone turned musing. "I wonder if I could persuade people that I'm my own daughter."

    "Oh, hey--you could spell your name R-a-h-d-n-e."

    "Cute. Why not i-e. Then I could dot the "i" with a little heart."

    John rolled onto his side to gaze at him, suspecting he'd just missed an eye roll. "You know, by the time we get back and re-settle on Earth, the program might have gone public."

    "The SGC comes out of the closet. Those odds are about as good as a colonel coming out in the military."

    John glared at him for the unfairness--it was at least halfway unfair--but it was lost on the other man, who continued talking past the moment when John might have rejoined with indignation.

    "Even if they did," Rodney said, "I don't think it'll further my reputation to become known as 'That guy who got rejuvenated by a fungus and sex-changed by alien technology.'"

    "Valid point," John admitted.