Intaglio 2.0

It's not a queer theory post; stop drooling.

( I actually had a dream I can even remember. )

To start: since last Friday I've been running on an average of three hours' sleep a day.

( School. It matters. )

Housecleaning. It's not my favorite thing.

I like even less when horrible paper dust and flotsam rains a blizzard down on my freshly cleaned floors.

I am grateful for the new insulation, fellas, really. But.

Oh. There was also the part where I accidentally released some sort of chemical vapor in the bathroom because apparently Tilex and Lysol toilet cleaner are not friends?

It burned. In the back of my mouth. In my eyes. Dropped everything and fled to the guest bath, showered in my clothes, coughed up a little blood, realized I wasn't going to pass out and therefore could not possibly die from exposure, so it probably wasn't chlorine.

My lungs are still raw. But they've always been touchy. I just hope I don't get sick between here and there; there's the usual dorm croup going around because the incoming freshmeats and their parents are visiting in droves again, and I might actually catch it in an already-hurt state. Mouth taste was a little sideways yesterday, but it's fine now.

Strange, my eyes were what hurt the most, and they're fine.

So I took a nap and rewashed the linens and refused to clean the floors again, and slept.

Yesterday was more real world obligations. I was so tired I don't remember most of them.

( Dreaming and Star Trek fic writing talk. )

Um. I swear the original purpose of this entry was...

( Yesterday: awesome day was AWESOME. )

Today was doing a bunch of stuff I didn't want to do and then taking another nap, during which the subject appeared to be why Kirk/McCoy rules or something.

I had fun dreams about the book stacks, tattoos, and Lost in Space.

My recall is fragmentary and has been for (two?) years. There's rust and spiders in the filing cabinet.

Lately, there are a lot of staircases--going down, coming up, running for the windows, knives, blood, fire and paper and squalor. And a few musicians.

The grind begins tomorrow.

Dear Subconscious,

I don't love you, either.

Pure hatred,

Me.

Pretty awesome dream.

( They'll never bury your bones. )

C'mon, join up, and I'll be frank:
Unless you do, you'll walk the plank!

Hah. He was also Dr. T. I loved his mannerisms with a desperate and unhealthy love. <3

I'm not entirely certain I'm at all capable of the normal kind, actually.

Such is life.

En shen en.

Did I dream what I am hearing, thinking I heard, now? As a fragment of memory.

I suspect it was a dream, antic, confused; I shouldn't have examined meaningless celebrity photos before bed.

Someone had wrote or was saying, something about benefits tremendously from the trio of features that make any album radio ready, and I can't remember what they--

Wait! I think they were clips from the Today show reruns while I tried desperately to locate something worth watching. Okay.

You really have to display information
To discover relativity

It is possible to have excellent self-esteem and be worth nothing at all.

If you said his love was better you know you'd be lyin'
Your new boyfriend looks a lot like me!

I was so thoroughly asleep that I dreamed I got up and turned the alarm off.

My alarm is a loud, indescribably unpleasant, continuous single tone that takes about ten minutes to run down. There is no snooze button. (Welcome to 1985). Those don't work for me, anyway.

I once tore a fancy digital snoozy clock out of the wall so hard that the cord snapped. I was slightly irritated by the snooze function and its tendency to recur.

Anyway. This morning, according to the clock, it took about six minutes for me to realize that I was still dreaming.

Last year I was so sleep-deprived that I could easily ignore the thing, until "this one time", when it finally woke up my Stepdad from across the hall--with the door shut.

I was not and am not exaggerating when I say it's loud.

I suppose I should be Mary Sunshine and note that at least it's proof I slept deeply.

Also. Could someone please advise the general population that correcting someone is not an acceptable way to say hello? It's possibly the single rudest greeting that there is. It is offensive and vile and does not make one think highly of the perpetrator. At least flat insults are earnest and make the giver dirty-faced first.

Isn't he great? *Waves to Roy.* So pretty with his gun under his chin. Can't do it. CLICK CLICK.

Some days it's like this picture.

Actually, it's like this one other picture I have, which is the mood perfectly, but it's behind the gory content filter and I don't have reposting permission.

See? I'm ethical. ;p

I know what I want I know what I want I know what I want.

And 'round and 'round the needle spins.

I'm actually in a very good mood. I had wonderful dreams. The housekeeper and I got loaded and danced around to whatever was coming out of the stereo. Not that kind of dancing. She was a nice lady.

Ill health. The trees for the forest. Uncertainty. What's that in the past? Consider what you put under the rug.

Oh, shut up, Google, it was harmless fun. =^p

I had an interesting night. I kept waking and sliding down into sleep again, drowsy and satisfied.

I dreamed of the water people, of the land-and-water-people, of the falling towers and the trench. Water people emissary. They broke me apart on the beach, stones and bottles and beercans and signs. I escaped into the sea, blood and personhood behind on the shore, and took two husbands from the deep-shelf-people. (I was kelp-cap people, accustomed to the sun and the hot flow that pulls us east and south once a year. We take human children, then, in the summer.)

They wanted to eat my human son. I took him back to the land-people as compromise.

We were not mermaids.

I've dreamed about the water people before, but they were always a bastardized ripoff of Michael Turner's people; I've heard he calls them the Blue and the Black, now, after the color of their home waters (Aspen is Blue royalty; Vana was Black--deep sea, frozen sea--royalty. I've wanted to do more with Vana for a while now.)

Vana/Aspen ftw.

"Poor child. So much you don't understand."

Anyway, always Michael Turner's before, but these, this water-woman I was now, she was my people, my original!people--the sea born antagonists of the panther sorcerers.

Research has since taught me that cat-morphs are awesome, but a lot more science than I care for. I spent two years trying to find an easy route, and switched to snake people for six months of that...

I don't talk about originals to any depth on the Internet, both because I haven't worked with them at all in just over five years, and because I don't feel like dispensing free content. At the minimum, I will have a published thesis c/o my university within the next two calendar years, and at least one more after that, and I intend to write assorted other nonfiction or nonfiction-based projects.

If it turns out that I start dragging in a decent living with the nonfiction, but none of my fiction is ever touched with a ten foot pole, then you'll start getting it for free over the Internet in serial form. *Nods.*

So, you'll probably see it all within the next four to five years, anyway. XD

Almost completely closed. Sealed as much as it can be without me being dead. (It's the only one you can't totally shut.)

Everything else partially shut. One half-shut. "Have some compassion!" *Snort.*

Only one that's open and running too hard, idling too high?

Willpower. Force of will. I am somehow not surprised.

"Power addiction, force addiction, bullying behavior, narcissistic rage, wild fits of anger."

Shut up, subconscious. What do I care why he did it?

RESET.

This is what I wanna do

Click, clack, boom. *Smirk.*