Intaglio 2.0

Fanfiction. Mine. Master list. Sorted by fandom. Updated on a when-I-feel-like-it basis.

I've switched from reposting at ff.net to reposting everything I ever had at ff.net here, because dear god, the formatting.

( Cut 'cause it's sorta long. )

BIG INTERNET HUGS Y'ALL.

BIG BIG THANKS weskerismybitch and nyohah for the thoughtful gifts: prettyful layout + extra userpics x Tron music or figures (I can't deciiide) = AW HELL YEAAAH.

It is 2011 and we don't have orbital shuttles to the moon colony yet.
Because we don't have a moon colony yet.
We don't even have a space program anymore. (Fuck you, Mr. President. Respectfully. With a strap-on as thick as a baby's arm.)

I am 28 and have been for two days now. I made this badass icon to celebrate. Feel the 80's bb.

I found the building's acoustic sweet spot; I can finally leave the radio on and hear it throughout the house!

I have a car! I'm making payments on it, and I'm learning to drive it. My personal goal is to have my real grownup license by Spring Break 11. She's an '01 and she smells like vomit where the party girl who used to own her urked in the back and let it soak in instead of cleaning it like a decent human being, and NO AMOUNT OF PINE SOL has been able to kill the smell. Seriously, I've tried it twice now. But the CD changer and the air conditioner both work. AT THE SAME TIME, so the majority of my serious needs are met.

I got a 100% on my major paper of the past term. From my scary Japanese sensei. According to her rubrik, not only is that a literal perfect score, but "meets standards for publication after suitable revisions."

I can't be space uke anymore, because I'm being computer controller instead.

I want to update this more frequently and stay in touch better, but really the most I can promise is that I'll try very hard. Basically, as soon as I graduate from this program in December--meaning work on my thesis starts in nine days and remember how invisible I was last time? Yeaah.--but anyway as soon as I'm done with this one, I start my Technical Writing Masters.

So, basically, if I don't freak out and leap off a building from the stress, I'll have two Masters degrees just in time for the end of the world.

Hopefully I'll also be a real live Worker Bee with an Actual Job by then.

I'm not really sure about the whole meeting guys thing; I have a feeling like I'm going to be moving within the next two years, probably toward the West. That'll put me closer to all my United States friends, so I'm not worried at all. I just wish I knew when and how it was happening, but I'll just trust that it will.

Meantime: Spring Break at Universal Citywalk erry night in MAAARRCH; 80's Night DECENT MUSIC ERRY THURSDAY Y'ALL. That's my backup plan if my stepcousin who doesn't actually like me doesn't want to go on a road trip: get hammered and dance with all the other nearly-thirtysomethings.

I have fantasies of making myself a Clu-style jacket out of Goodwill finds and reflective tape, but I can't actually sew.

Also: I really love Starbucks. Sometimes that prefab, commercialized bullshit cafe` is the prettiest, nicest, best-smelling part of my day.

I think we're done here.

How's life treating ya, babycakes? ♥

I just came up here to say that I got enough sleep and I can feel where I could live with three or four more nights of that.

( Lachrymose. )

I'm sure that's a little off, somewhere, but I don't care anymore.

Oh, I may end up with Ariadne/Arthur. I need to break him, and she's so adorable. No one will ever suspect. Worlds wound tight. The city breathes while they sleep.

See, Cobb/Arthur doesn't work because there's all this gluing back together, holding each other up. Drying your eyes.

You've got it so, so wonderfully backward.

Similarly: Eames has a mouth like a gutter creature, but I can't see him doing the crucial thing. Which is driving the poor boy to tears.

You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling.

There will also be insanely overlarge sentient world-ending ships trying to out-top each other. That will be so much fun.

I always have a certain amount of trouble with the comfort portion of hurt/comfort. How strange.

I promise I did originally come up here to say today is beautiful, just lightly chilly and blue with autumn oncoming. I sprawled on the lawn. Life is so much clearer from a worm's-eye view. Makes the earth tilt a little. Makes the world seem like something you could actually hold on to, like it's permanent, like it means anything. You can smell the grass and feel the water and the dirt.

Well this entry was full of useless TMI. Ta!

My Internet was brokedick this morning. Which was--frustrating. I've got three new voices to work on. Two, really, but my Romulan has been in need of an overhaul for so, so long.

( It starts as an explanation of method and goes batshit fangirl from there. There's your warning. )

But yeah, no, I'm telling you all this, essentially, to tell you that Philip Seymour Hoffman's gay movie boyfriend?

Hi, Christopher.

I'm so tired.

( She thinks that I get up with the sun and dream my life away. )

What, no, this was supposed to be a bullshit post about my admittedly exciting social successes.

Oh well.

From rivetspoon.

( Here we go again. )

I guess I could lock this stuff, but none of it's really a secret.

Oh, and I'm Republican.

I'm still running on California time.

At least I'm only physically tired. I hadn't realized how...utterly low. I was feeling. All. The. Time. Before. Emotionally.

And with my William Shatner impression out of the way, this: I have to get my list of data together for that paper I'm going to finish by flying through it in four days when I've had the whole term to do it? At least I've actually done the reading for a change, and have something to show my professor this afternoon if I hustle; I'll send it at five, like a real workday champ.

It's Not Your Fault: Disconfirming Identity Communication as Social Support for Survivors of Suicide, I think. Which is a lengthy title, but absolutely clear. Length is only Wrong if it confuses or obfuscates.

What is this catharsis of which you speak.

If I had been paying as much attention to my classes as I did to the freaking roleplay, last year, I wouldn't be out on this limb trilling this message. However, it is significantly repairing a key faculty interaction.

You can't say relationship, everyone assumes The Graduate when you say the r-word, nevermind that she's a married mother of three hyperactive young boys and hasn't hardly time to find socks that match, let alone think of doing anything improper.

No, you're a twenty-something female coed, so YOU MUST BE VULNERABLE TO SEDUCTION AND/OR A DIRTY SLUT.

We've come so far. Woo feminism. Way to not assume anything. Nice.

I was so sure this entry had a point. I'm gonna go write in my sketchbook and then hit the books IRL.

Oh, excitement.

Okay, it's been a year, I figure I'm safe. From what I'm not sure, to start using this as a personal journal again; stream of consciousness for the win, woo woo brain piss.

( I more or less think like this, when I'm unguarded and not showing off for company. )

I just wrote my first poem in months!

And my first true, personal, persona non obligata poem in well over a year and a half.

To celebrate, an observation:

many words are fabulous, entirely independent of their meaning.

One of my personal favorites is explicit.

It is nothing less than the sound of surgical scissors whispering closed
over an opened vein.

I only care about the missing datum: his parents' income level.

'Sides, you and I both know the real power in this world ain't magic. It's money! Buckets of it.

Sixty-forty, like I said.