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...It's been the kind of year that makes me wish I'd slit my wrists when I was twelve.
And I'll leave it at that, to be honest.

I have some contracts to fill. Illae--he's considering changing his name, but that's what I'll call him for now--insisted on it. I owe him that much, he says (which I do, of course. But he'll never let me forget it, will he?)

So I'm afraid I'm going to have to take a trip back. I've tried not to think about it for practically a year now--it wasn't safe, and I was driving myself quite literally insane--but it's time, isn't it? Time to visit my dear self-loathing Dru and fierce Lee and resentful Illae and a row of cocky, self-assured, hysterical sins, and always, always Leo. Immer wieder, as they say.

Consider this my project. From February of 2011 to sometime that June, I wrote an entire novel. I figure now I've got a (somewhat) completed project under my metaphorical belt, I can declare my allegiance to the most brilliant and horrific thing I've ever done. I don't know how long it'll take. I don't know how many people will want to punch me in the face for my delusions of grandeur at 5:46 AM on a Wednesday (probably a lot). Inspiration is back. I'll keep it there.

Oh, by the way, love you all.

The Azizan Revolt: 01

Oi, Lee! Happy New Year.

Surmounted by Scorn

“There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.” –Albert Camus

Prologue:

Key in the lock, a quick turn to the right, and Lumina Deneve pauses. Stares at her front door as if she had never seen it before. With a quick jerk she turns it back to the left, the other way around, and hears the tumblers turning. Perplexed, she blinks at the door and wonders how, in all the hundreds of years she has come in and out of this house without once slipping in her security, she can have forgotten to lock the front door behind her.

And then she glances through the glass front and spots the pair of shoes waiting in her entrance hall. Much too small to be hers. With a snarl, she puts her whole weight into throwing open the door and commands, “Dru, get out of my house.”


For a moment, there is no reply,Collapse )

Interview with Falks

We’re sitting in my room, and he’s looking around at it as if it somehow fails him. I immediately regret not picking up my socks or removing the laundry from atop my piano, but at least I don’t have any underwear lying about.

“What?” I ask.

Interview with FalksCollapse )


Optimistic Theory

I've read this stuff about love being the end of the world and I've heard these things comparing love to whistles and I have consulted the renowned experts of this field. Fear not, I've done my research well.

And then the anecdotes.

Love is a & b, it's the letters of the alphabet, it makes up everything, building blocks to the worlds I'm trying to live in.

It's the motive that makes people do incredibly stupid things, it's the justification behind crimes.

Love is like wearing a bra the same color as your shirt so it's really obvious and doesn't hide anything and mildly embarrassing because everyone can see it.

Sorry. Shades of Bo Burnham.

Love is chanting with a bunch of people who have stolen your soul and suddenly feeling moved to tears by the fact you belong now.

The love we glorify isn't about sustaining a love; it's about the search for reciprocation. There is no satisfaction in what comes easily.

It's about the journey to find something that makes you realize how hollow you are, and seeking to alleviate it.

I read love stories and all it does is aggravate me, because like half the people on this planet need that reminder?

It's spontaneously noticing things you didn't know. It's looking at someone's hands and just about swooning. It's hearing a confession and not knowing the right thing to say. It's watching your friends want like that and being so jealous you curl in on yourself. It's stealing phone numbers and frightening others. It's doing something you never thought you could because someone else needs you to. It's a psychic revelation from standing by as a witness. It's knowing that they're more important than you are, and living in denial, and letting yourself be taunted because if it's not a joke you might end up taking yourself too seriously--so be lighthearted with your heavy heart.

Love is thinking you'll never move on because you're always hoping to see someone else when you dream. Love is making other people mock you because you need to be bruised or you'll float off the ground. Love is doing dumb things to get information you'll never use; it's saying dumb things even when you're at your wittiest; it's laughing at yourself because you're so ridiculously pathetic and amusing.

Love is closing your eyes and telling yourself you're beautiful. Love is laughing at what people can discern from a four-minute, out-of-breath encounter. It's symmetrical stabs from inside your ribs and it's laughing and laughing and scaring yourself.  I myself keep my heart on a chain so it won't escape me and do stupid things. So far it's worked fairly well.

So don't be freaked out when I say I love you, because, narcissist that I am, my one and only love remains myself. But I do love you like I love all the facets of my life, the things that make me grin and laugh to myself (and totally frighten my neighbors) when I'm walking on the way home. If you're lucky, I probably love you more than I love, say, sitting on a heater when you're half-frozen from waiting at a bus stop, but less than I love word-processing programs. And if you're just plain insane, it's likely I love you more than I love new notebooks.

Okay, self, time to step off the soap box and do your math homework.


Tags:


So I've been running a fever for four days (my brain is still wheeeeee), and it feels like someone drove a nail into the back of my throat and is having it poke me occasionally. So what did I do?

I accepted drugs from Four, who was hosting a shindig. Of course, these drugs consisted of one Advil, because my temperature spiked and I was acting like I was tripping, and he didn't want me to keel over on his couch. I was a little saner later.

I played Russian roulette. There were seven of us, and amongst seven eggs were six hard-boiled and one raw. We all leaned over plates and smashed the eggs on our foreheads, and whoever got the raw egg got an egg shampoo. So of course I smashed it on my face and the egg started dripping, and I pulled it away from my face and looked at Four and went, "You suck. I love you, but you suck." So he gave me a giant chocolate bar.

I discovered that Swiss bank accounts are appetizing.

I went door to door, asking strangers to trade me a paperclip for something of equal or greater value. What I wound up with was $15, two really sucky movies, a knife, and someone's soul. Of course, the other two groups who did this came home with things like computer monitors and penguins and small T-rex models. So I lost. But I got to keep $5 and some soap.

I played cards. Badly. Very badly.

And now I'm sitting here typing and getting snot all over the place. God, my brain.

Still wondering when Eleven will find this...

Sleight Short


Story: Sleight
Characters: Jane "Max" Pepper & Max "Menin" Vendom
Pairing: None
Rating: K
Warnings: abuse of the French language; spontaneous shifts from English to French to English
Notes: Another little bit from stars & other trite nonsense. This one explains how the menin introduced their nicknames to Max. At some point it randomly goes into French--that's to illustrate an Observant mindset, which will be explained in the story.

Mitron & MeninCollapse )

Excerpt from Old Yirda?


Cryptic little bit about a couple of cryptic things that happened to a couple of my cryptic characters that I just felt the need to type up. I wrote it about a year ago, and I'm going through my old notebooks. Bear with me.

excerpt from Old Yirda (maybe)Collapse )

A to Z


I have begun a new project, which ought to do something about the numbers floating around in my head for the last... seven months. It's called the Amazing Adventures of Zero, or A2Z, for short.
But I'm drawing it.
And I really have no confidence in my artistic skills.
So I suppose I'll end up typing up chapters and sending them here, for perusal. Maybe then Kaoru will realize where I've gone...

Vanishing

If I were going to vanish, what would I do?

 

(full entry)Collapse )

Sleight Excerpt


The boy was asleep.

On the couch he slept as though he were a ragdoll someone had tossed without a care: in a twisted tangle of limbs, strewn onto the sofa as if he had been thrown. And yet he did not move, apparently comfortable.

Max doubted he would have slept half as comfortably if he knew she was lurking. Hopefully he wouldn't notice; his face was pressed into the couch cushions anyway.

full entryCollapse )