book lady

(no subject)




Let me get this straight.

I rescue you. Mulitple times. I get you a house, I get you good contacts in the city, I get you a support system for your yelling, angry, bitchy self. I even go down the romance subplot, which I now profoundly regret, you giantic weeping asshole.  I kept you from KILLING YOUR SISTER, because apparently, being somehow responsible for the death of your sister kind of really sucks, doesn't it? Because of me, you're free, you're supported, you're free, and you're a better person, you fucking jerk.

And NOW, when I decide to stand against the political institution that will literally kill my sister, THAT'S when you pitch a bitch fit and decide to bail?

And I was at full rivalry! Your little profile said that we had AGREED TO DISAGREE.The developers lied to me!




Next playthrough I'm going full lesbian. You guys are assholes. -_-

(no subject)

Oh, hey, Livejournal?

Yeah. Yeeaaaaah. I've been unfaithful. I've found someone else. I've moved to greener pastures.

I made a tumblr.

So far, it's all penis jokes, pictures of amazing ladies from videogames, and some of the nerdiest nerding this side of the Bay of Nerd.

Go follow me. I'm so alone.

That is all.
book lady

(no subject)

Find a crazy girl with slow eyes and big hands and give her a sword to fill them. They wrap her large fingers around the cloth-wrapped hilt and say, now you will know how to defend yourself, ne? This is the art of death. She learns quickly and well. Left unattended, she practices. A servant enters the room at the wrong time. The skin of his neck parts itself like the flesh of a peach to her blade and the back of his skull obligingly forms an escape for the tip. Lips of bone.

Calmly, she thinks, there is not enough room in this man’s head for the idea of my sword.

They take the sword away, and teach her the Ikebana, the flower arrangement. They press her big hands around the petals and say, form the seven hills of Buddha. Be both simple and graceful. This is a living art. She learns quickly and well, but she is still crazy.

When she dies, she decides not to be. When she dies the second time, she has no other option.

book lady

(no subject)

Yesterday I got fed up.

I was working at the information desk with a coworker that I despise. He's a thug, pure and simple. I have no idea why he's working in a library. He does not ask, he demands, he's appallingly rude, he interrupts when I'm trying to talk to patrons, and he violates libray policy at every turn. Yesterday I intervened when he was letting a patron get away with something that we frankly don't allow patrons to do, and he started cussing me out with the patron standing just on the other side of the counter. After they left, he laughed at me, asked me what I was going to do about it, and went right back to texting.

So after my shift,  I went to my supervisor, who went to her supervisor, who is tiny and very earnest and incensed to her very core by the idea of someone flouting the rules.

In a word:


That is all.
book lady

(no subject)

Oh thank god.

Replaying Enslaved stil gives me a profound feeling of grasping weakly towards a plate of cookies that's been jerked rudely away. Were they perfect cookies? Hell no. The edges were burnt and they overdid the baking powder a little, but they were damn good all the same. Enslaved had its issues, but they were more than fixable, and what it did well, it did really really well. It's extremely cinematic, the environments and character designs are superb, and the interaction between all of the characters makes your jaw drop. The weird, nebulous, shaky thing between Trip and Monkey makes you squirm with how complicated and uncomfortable and full of nuance it is. DO WANT, in other words.

New deadbolt and different locks have been installed on my door, and hopefully that puts an end to it. That was weird. Really, really weird. But hopefully my door won't open unless I want it to open. The worst part was the handyman who came to repair it. The last time he came to fix one of my shelves, he showed up early in the morning a full day before he was supposed to. Since I'm a woman who lives alone, I didn't want to let him in. His reponse? To get angry. And condescending. When he changed my locks, he kept it up. It was clear that he didn't believe me that my door had just opened, and it was clear that he thought that I was making it up. Which was fun. In its own way. I mean, I live alone and all, and I'm female, so there's no way that there's some kind of statistic that points to the fact that I'm really fucking vulnerable to crazy shit.

Eh. He's gone. I have new locks and a vague desire to bake cookies. Fuck him.
book lady

(no subject)

A few weeks ago I was getting ready to go out and run some errands when I discovered that my purse was full of random items from around my house. They were all things that would take effort to find and remove from wherever they were, and my purse was crammed full of them. There was a tape dispenser, a book of stamps, a sea shell, a framed picture, an action figure, a DVD, and a Nintendo DS, all of it just haphazardly thrown into my purse.

Creepy? Yes, but sort of funny. I put it down to either sleepwalking activity or a particularly unhelpful poltergeist.

This morning I woke up to find that the door to my apartment was wide open.

Nothing was taken from my apartment. No one was there. The keys that had been hanging crookedly on their hook were now hanging straight.

This just stopped being funny.

EDIT: To leave my apartment or not leave my apartment. These are the questions I find myself asking. Hmmn.
book lady

(no subject)

I'm begining to realize that I may have something resembling a writing process.

It's like this. I finish a chapter. I'm (marginally) happy with it, and fully ready to move on. And lo, I am off like a shot! I have ideas! Hooks! Concepts to explore! Relationships to flesh out! And what-have-you. I'm usually very excited in this stage of the proces and usually manage to pound out a couple thousand words in a short of time, made all the more difficult since one hand is usually busy patting myself on the back the entire time.

A week passes. Maybe less.

I look at what I've come up with and I hate it.

This happens nearly every time, and the only truly miraculous thing is that I tend to forget this fact and figure that I've merely lost all talent, motiivaton, ect. ect. and will be found floating face down in an open sewage pit as a result of my failure.

I spend a few weeks moping and picking at it alternately, and jotting down notes and fragments to myself during Russian in between all the conjugating and verbal aspect nonsense, hating every minute of it until I come to some sort of new, fantastic breakthrough that I feel I can work with.

That's right. Through no fault of my own, I appear to unconciously write rough drafts. 

Also, I stall. Apparently by fucking around on Livejournal.

That is all.
  • Current Music
    Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, "Desert Song"
hark a vagrant

(no subject)

There ought to be a name for the very specific sense of existensial dread you get when you're working on a scene you've been working on for the past two months with your male L.I., blissfully slapping on adverbs and whatnot as he goes on being miserable and traumatized and devilishly mysterious only to stop dead, your heart in your mouth, your thoughts ticking like a bomb timer counting down-
Wait.... This is-  He's-


Am I,
you realize with horrifying slowness, writing Edward Cullen?

In other words, I should not be allowed to write dialogue. Or romance. Or anything ever.


(no subject)

I just got drunk-dialed by my ex-roommate.

I'm not really sure how to deal with this. I'm still crying. Heck, I started crying towards the end of the conversation, which led to me breaking things off early. Her end was basically one long stream of apologies. She wouldn't stop saying how much she missed me and cared about me and whatnot, which I dealt with about as well as can be expected, i.e. panicked. And she kept saying how she understood when I said that I needed more time the last time she tried to contact me and I kept getting the feeling that she was trying to tell me that she knew I'd meant that as a dig when I hadn't, I really just needed more time.

She wants to start being friends again. I haven't seen her in four months, and that's long enough to remember why I loved her, but not nearly enough to forget how she sat me down and told me everything that was wrong with me.

I'm not good at relationships. Any relationship. I'm not particularly good at this relationship in particular, and I don't know what to do. I miss her, but because of her I landed in one of the scariest, loneliest, and most miserable patches of  my life, and I don't know how to tell her that without coming off as trying to get back at her.

I don't know what to do.