Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.
eliade

Cleaver.

I went and sat in a coffee shop for a while this afternoon and wrote. Managed to work most of my way through what I consider to be a filler scene, which was where I'd left off a while back, so that was good. Then I jumped to the next scene, which, due to certain issues of timing and hormones, turned immediately into smut. I am not sure yet if it's out of place. But I came home and half-watched "Never Leave Me" and experienced a cognitive dissonance between my Spike and canon Spike. Who in that particular episode was not especially season-sevenishly soulful. Instead, violent, in chains, agitated, choking on the memory of his rapes and murders, and finally bound and suspended over the seal, bare-chested, inscribed, and bleeding. Nice. Maybe someday I will actually be able to watch season seven again after all.

"Legacy" (SG) is playing right now on SciFi. I liked the craziness of Daniel in this one--it was poignant and not overacted, as opposed to that more recent episode when he had to play multiple alien personalities, which I wanted to like but thought was a bit much.

I made bad spending mistakes today. I spent $16 on CDs that turned out to be crap and another $16 on dinner, where I ordered pasta, salad, and garlic bread and then found out on delivery that the pasta already came with those things and I'd ordered extra, unnecessarily. Plus they had a pathetic excuse for salad. These days I try not to regret minor money mistakes, though, even knowing that they add up to become the mass of poor financial management that defines my life. I try to be like, "Eh, whatever, let it go, move on. It's just pieces of paper and in time you'll die and if you leave credit card debt behind, will it even fucking matter?"

Daniel is very pretty in his padded room. Oh god, and I'd forgotten that he does that gay butterfly thing with his hands when he's cornered.

I love craziness in my beautiful sex objects, beloved slash oddities. I like Monk, for instance, though he's really neither of those things to me, and Fawkes, slave to quicksilver madness. Spike, fucked in the head. Mulder, having himself injected with ketamine--pretty much having it drilled into his brain if I remember correctly--and pulling a gun on Scully. Obsessed, gun-wielding, pathetically devoid of his mother's love, crying alone in the dark, covered in sunflower seeds, singing to himself. Hmm. Maybe someday I will rewatch the early X-Files. Sentinel now...neither Jim or Blair had the crazy gene, though Jim was pretty repressed and bitter about his childhood, so you'd have to go AU to get a good psycho fix, like by reading Emily Brunson's Detour, which used to gut-punch me every time I read it. Not that Jim's really psycho, just mistaken for same, which makes it all the more painful.

Re Angel--I've ricocheted off the subject--chase820 suggested the hope that, post-cancellation from The WB, they'd snag a development deal with Showtime. I think it's probably a bit late for that, but the idea of Whedon on Showtime (Joss on Ice!) intrigues me. I wonder how smutty, foul-mouthed, and gay he'd let himself get if given the chance. (It occurs to me I may be tempting fate and comments on this season's episodes, but no spoilers for the last seven of them, okay? Six, seven, something like that.) I'm trying to imagine a hybrid of BtVS and "Queer as Folk." I mean, besides Chase's crossover universe. The mind fails, actually. I guess I'm not trying hard enough.

So maybe I'll try now to write some more of my own universe. Anything to take me out of the Land of 1000 Stupid Fantasies, where Spike is whoring himself to Japanese businessmen to put money on the table and also for some reason making a lot of soup and pancakes and also stitching up rips in Riley's shirts. Because apparently he is June Cleaver today. If June were a prostitute.
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