Somehow, no matter what I do, life keeps serving me up "1: a castrated man placed in charge of a harem or employed as a chamberlain in a palace."
I feel unwell this morning. Uncomfy. If I were Angel, I'd be reading La Nausée on a stomach of bad blood and brooding about the nature of my existence. I guess it's a hangover, but I only had one short drink, so that seems grossly unfair. My karma must be unbalanced.
I have nothing special to say. I want to be amused. I want a big present. I feel tired and sad.
This isn't about attacking Buffy. Remember, 'I' statements only. 'I feel angry.' 'I feel worried.'
My obsessive longing to read a long, wonderful S/X story is kind of pathetic. I was thinking this morning that my see-saw has tipped away from S/B and toward S/X simply because S/B has such a huge number of dedicated writers and plenty of stories, whereas S/X needs love and attention. That plus my slashy inclination, which is always ready to resurface.
Last night I dreamed I was a hard-boiled detective. A femme fatale came to my door to offer me a case, but I denied my identity. When she left, I followed her to a shopping mall. She ordered a taco from the food court. I sidled up to her and confessed I was the private dick she sought. We sat and waited for her taco. A nearby child in a wheelchair kept pointing a toy gun at me. Several times I told him never to point his gun at anyone. Eventually, I took the gun away and put it up out of his reach. Everyone was very uspet that I'd done this. I yelled angrily, "If you'd shot someone, you'd understand!"
Clearly, this dream manifests my fear of
Edited to add: I'm at work, and I'm only just realizing there's a massive strike beginning in Baghdad. Everything I say seems hugely irrelevant compared to this...