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

someday...

I'm going to start collecting all the sentences I misread in LJ--which resemble the sentences I mishear offline--and then post them, e.g., "Went out book shopping and surprisingly did not buy any robot books." It might add something, too, if you know that by "robot books" I wasn't thinking "books about robots."

I've been reading people's posts about Friday's SGA episode, but I was tired that night and taped it, and haven't watched it yet. I'm not sure that I can or should. I'm not sure that watching it can compete with reading people's squee. Seriously. I appear to be in one of those occasional perverse moods where I resent canon in a serious way for not being *actually* gay. Whenever I see someone call John and Rodney boyfriends and it's riding that line between playful fannish wishful thinking and utter earnestness, I shiver and adore it, but I also want to cry a little because I want it to reflect something totally real. Real as in fictional reality, I mean. At least I seem to have gotten over my Star Trek stage of fannishness, when I 99% believed that Kirk and Spock and company existed somewhere, really and truly, in an alternate universe.

Ha ha ha!

I wasn't on medication at that time.

I've slept half the weekend. That's not exaggeration. I also watched The Matrix, which is one of those movies that's so amazing I wish I could watch it every time as if it's the first time, erasing my memory of it between viewings. If only this were the Matrix, etc etc. Oh hey, huh, deja vu....

I still haven't done that office work I need to do. Wow. I so don't care either.

Now I'm off to have cookies. I'm always saying that, aren't I? I need to clear my cookies. But for now I'm going to sit and nosh and read bad, bad writing. I'm just about finishing up my inexplicable Patricia Cornwell jag. Reading her is like watching trashy horror movies. I apologize again to people who honestly like her stuff; I did once, and it's not that she's unintelligent. She's just insane. I could make a list of everything that I find viscerally squicky about her writing, which has zero to do with her descriptions of dead bodies and autopsies, but I'll just sum up by saying that the protagonist is characterized by a martyr complex, delusions of persecution, moral superiority, an emotional monotony that's the equivalent of a flat brainwave, Mary Sueism, and a consistent and mind-boggling absence of any sense of humor. All of which I can't help but feel reflects back on the author, who lurks creepily between the lines like a peeping tom behind a clump of trees.

Mmm, viciousness. I feel so cleansed now. I have a kind of glow.

ETA: You know, sometimes I look at this icon and say to myself, "Oh yeah, *hot*, baby." And other times I look at it and John seems to be thinking, "Hmm. Potatoes."
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