On the flip side--things not worth reading...
...are the ten thousand million billion pieces of fucking spam I get in my work inbox. Home, too. But at work, it chaps my ass, because I could redirect 99% of it to my trash folder using my junk-mail filter: it works really well. Too well. When I have it on, I inevitably lose work e-mails also. So I sacrifice my inbox to track my work, but everytime I get hit with spam, there's a distracting brain-ping of sheer disgust. Spammers. I really, really, really loathe what they do. If a serial killer targeted spammers? I'd smile. (At least for half a second, while I indulged the hope that other spammers would be scared into ditching their sleazy excuse for a business.) If I found out someone I knew was a spammer, I'd probably never speak to them again, at least not without a lip-curl and a basilisk stare. It'd be like knowing a racist. It's vile, how they spew their rubbish into your personal mailbox.
Thus endeth my rant for the day.
In other news, last night I wanted to toss off (yeah, yeah) a few Spike scenes. Just throw-away stuff for LJ, not even real writing. But I couldn't get myself in the proper gear. After a while I realized it was because I was still in the thrall of my femme-Spike fantasy, and it hasn't yet reached "climax." It remains unresolved. Fantasies are sex--not just in the obvious way, but in a narratively erotic way, where hours of rambling, erratically shifting storylines serve as foreplay, as you build--deferring, straining, deferring again--toward kink and climax, the money shot, the pay-off. All my fantasies race toward the finish line for a trifecta of revelation, confrontation, and validation.
To start, you have character X and Y, who become distanced from their social family in some way: they're secretly pitching woo, or paired up for a buddy mission, or romancing the stone in some alternate dimension. Or maybe they're still embedded in a tightly-knit ensemble of friends, but circumstances entwine them like codependent Siamese twins in a way that no one else can touch. Hurt. Comfort. Whatever. The build-up can prolong itself endlessly: adventures, angst, romance, conflicts. This lasts until the metaphorical marriage is bedrock solid, unbreakable: love has been declared, some passionate form of slavery established, a commitment made. And then comes the revelation to friends who have to try to wrap their minds around the unexpected love of X and Y. O bizarre, freakish, socially unacceptable love! Confrontation follows, and then validation as one guy--the dominant, accepted member--pledges himself like a protector and champion on behalf of the other guy--the reviled outsider--by placing himself between his beloved and his friends, sometimes in a literal physical way, with growls and glares.
Variations and twists perpetuate themselves. In a Spike and Xander fantasy, the reactions of the gang are usually fairly mild. I might hurt Spike in a way that makes everyone else equally protective, so that they're sympathetic and encouraging, and save a fun confrontation scene for Angel, who gets alpha-male and testy with Xander. An especially odd or illicit relationship--Xander is underage! Spike is a woman!--brings frisson to revelations in a way that swallows up the need for big confrontations. I once had a fantasy line where Spike was an indecently rich vampire watcher with a soul, working with Giles to train Buffy and falling for Xander while he was still in high school. So you'd have the scene where Giles finds out and is full of mixed emotions, and of course the scene where Buffy and Willow squeak in shock; but maybe the real thrill comes from the first time the girls visit the mansion and find the two guys in the kitchen, in robes and pajama bottoms, cooking, brushing up against each other as they move around familiarly. Or it's in a series of other fancies: the small looks they give each other, Spike training Xander to defend himself, buying him a car, rescuing him from his miserable home life, and in general being a soft-eyed, happy vampire when he was such a terse, broody, scary bastard before: all the staples of a certain genre of romance, their edge honed through reaction shots.
Anyway. I haven't reached the finish line with femme-Spike. He's--she's--still wandering through my customized version of Pylea with Riley and Xander, not yet portaled back to meet the gaping astonishment of Buffy et al.
I did write a little bit of sidelines yesterday, though. I'm not a total wanker. I am, however, still enthralled.