Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.

claws of adamantium

I know I'm not at my best when I feel a surge of savage irrational hatred at a cashier who requires picture ID with a credit card. Not his fault, so I tightened my lips and left empty-handed before I could give into pointless and embarrassing viciousness. The store's a block away and sometimes I go there daily. You'd think they'd know me. But the point I have to remember is that I'm furious at the world; the world is not furious at me.

I notice that I'm also susceptible to the contagion of other people's anger. It makes me angry. WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO FUCKING ANGRY?! I want to scream at them.

Ha ha ha! *not pointlessly seething*

I am miserably dyspeptic and have a tight-chested feeling that I need to stave off before it gets worse. I also need to do my laundry or there will be no more clean underwear in the world.

inapickle is always cheering. So is listening to songs like "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves," "Rocky Raccoon," "Imaginary Lover," a Latin cover version of "I Will Survive," an American Idol cover of "The Dock of the Bay," and "Drive."

The last one is by Melissa Ferrick. Someone posted a YSI link to LJ the other day and then the post vanished into an alternate dimension when I went back to look for it and thank them. It is the most erotic song ever and I have to remember to post the file tomorrow, for poshcat if no one else.

Next up: Brandy, you're a fine girl. Or maybe I'll go finish watching Aliens. I say we take off and nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure. Actually, Ripley may be my role model today.
Burke: Hold on one second. This installation has a substantial dollar value attached to it.
Ripley: They can *bill* me.

Ripley: Did IQs just drop sharply while I was away?

Burke: Look, this is an emotional moment for all of us, okay? I know that. But let's not--let's not make snap judgments, please. This is clearly an important species we're dealing with and I don't think that you or I, or anybody, has the right to arbitrarily exterminate them.
Ripley: Wrong!
Also, what can be better than this description from the first-draft director's script:
Newt screams as the hurricane airstream sucks her across the floor toward the airlock. Bishop, torn virtually in two, his pastalike internal organs whipped by the wind, grips a stanchion and reaches desperately for Newt as she slides past him. He catches her arm and hangs on as she dangles, doll-like, in the airblast.
I'm taking my pastalike internal organs off now. Goodbye, cruel world. Try not to explode in a nuclear holocaust of flaming alien viscera while I'm away.
Tags: hard stuff

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