Goooooood morning, internet!

I woke up at about 5:30am today, frantically pounded out my words for yesterday¹, and then fucked around for a little bit. Around 6:15, I determined that I should probably go back to sleep.

Except I didn't really want to. On a fundamental level I object to sleep in the same way I object to death². But typically when I wake up, I feel quite strongly about immediately going back to bed. This is a bad habit, and why I have been known to hit "snooze" on my alarm for upwards of an hour, yes I know that's a terrible idea and not actually any more restful³.

But I awoke and processed the situation and despite falling asleep at my laptop sometime ambiguous last night I felt...reasonably spry, actually. So instead of setting a three-hour alarm⁴ and going back to sleep, I turned on the alarm and opened my book.

CORRECT DECISION!

I think I have been unaware of just how critical long, uninterrupted, stretches of reading time are for my self-care. On Sunday of FaerieFest, I spent from about 5:00pm to 6:30 lying in a hammock re-reading Good Omens, and I swear it was better than a nap.

So I think my mental assessment of "booooks?" is going to involve a lot more of keeping one relatively close at hand than it used to. Fiction is important, damnit, and I bet if I find compelling enough stuff to keep by my bed, my mind will be willing to trade thirty minutes of reading it until the second alarm comes on for hitting snooze four times.

(Ah, but getting me to stop reading...)

So it's just before eleven, I've burned the morning re-reading Feed, which is the least bad way to burn an unemployed morning I can think of. I haven't quite finished it yet, which is okay (I need to swing by a Friendly Local Bookstore⁶ and pick up the next two --they were from the library originally, I read them before I had an automatic Buy This for all Seanan books). My immediate plans are to eat breakfast, and maybe do some room cleaning and laundry and post-faerie stuff, and otherwise be a bit productive.

I think today will be a good day.

~Sor
MOOP!

1: 750words lets you set your own time zone. For the first couple years of the site (including my longest streak, double-including the breaking of my longest streak) I kept it strictly set to midnight, local time.

When I restarted it, I pushed the timing back to better fit with my nocturnal nature. Somehow this turned into just permanently setting it at the latest zone (Hawaii, which typically has its midnight at 6AM my time) and occasionally (and increasingly frequently) writing my words in the early morning before going to work.

Now, it's entirely possible that if I don't need to leave the house by 6AM, I will go back to waking up at a less ungodly hour (I have woken up at a time starting with four at least once a month for the last school year) and then I can go back to actually writing my words in the damn evening like I'm supposed to.

2: That is to say, with every fibre of the core of my being. We, as a community of humans who understand such delicate things as "innovation" and "medical technology" should have fixed this by now. I mostly feel the same way about menstruation, but recognize that some people like the power inherent in the Sacred Feminine blah blah blah make the blood stop staining my boxer briefs, kthanks.

3: Currently I'm not working on it, with the vague concept that once I get to the new place, I will make an Active Effort to design my room such that I do not get to go back to bed after hitting snooze.

4: I have not exactly worked out the correct lengths of time for me to be unconscious, but at least the first few subscribe to the typical "one and a half hours" I hear thrown around as an average. So 1.5, 3, 4.5, and 6 hour alarms are all typical for me. I'm pretty sure 8 is better than 9, but I'm not sure how that plays with 7 vs 7.5.

I come by my sleep fascination honestly, I have a father who drives⁵ a car bearing the license "MORFEUS" and who did his thesis on sleep labs. My ADHD makes me neuroatypical enough that they probably don't want me for most sleep studies :(

5: Well I did. He abandoned that vanity plate when he left MD. The Chicago one was ASA AQA (American Society of Anesthesiologists, something quality something?). I dunno what he's got down in Texas.

Mom's was Galileo (named after the Star Trek shuttlecraft, not the astronomer, much to the chagrin of at least one lonely dude who had just moved to the state and followed her to a busy parking lot to meekly inquire if she knew of any stargazing clubs). The next car was technically named Catbus, but she kept the same plate until she moved to Chicago, at which point she switched to GREYK L. Her newest car is called the Gullfire, and if you need me to explain the reference, you need to hang out with mom more.

I eventually figured out that most people *don't* have vanity plates, and was kinda disappointed by that knowledge. If I ever obtained a car, I would probably determine it worth the extra 50 dollars to have one that says MOOP! on it.

6: I interviewed quite nearby to a Soulless Chain Bookstore, which is actually where I changed my clothes. They had both Blackout and Deadline (for some reason Porter Square Books never seems to have the third) but being as I knew my bike ride home would take me past two separate indie shops, I resisted.

Further resistance came from not going into either the Harvard Book Store (which I just learned is clever enough to own harvard.com) or PSB. Look at how good I am with money! Resistance will break as soon as I realize there are sequels to Wee Free Men and other Pratchett nonsense I've never read (most of it, honestly) and then I will have no money and even fuller bookshelvesstacks.

Postscript: Fun fact! I'm pretty inconsistent about tags, but the "footnote-orgy" tag I've used on this post is only allowed to be used on posts where the footnotes have footnotes --not just when I do like eight of 'em. YAY!

I am the most secret¹ introvert you will ever meet.

No seriously. Nevermind that I bounce and bubble and have the extrovert's tendencies to reign² over groups of friends and easily talk to strangers. My introversion does not typically take the form of shyness. What it does take the form of is being worn out by social interactions, and the more numerous the encounters, the faster they just completely fry my brain.

So, spending a day on the computer writing stories and reading blogs while in my room? Perfectly fine. Spending that same day, doing that same thing in the middle of Times Square? Oh gods, do I need to curl up and de-social afterwards. The casual and brief interactions with a thousand strangers are enough to chop away at my ability to deal with other people, piece by piece, until I just want all of you to go away forever please now.

It's not just the number of people I have to deal with that can drain me of my social reserves. It can also be the complexity involved in an encounter or encounters --and as my social reaches its limits, I turn from bright and smiling to impatient, withdrawn, and bitchy⁴.

"So, Sor" I hear my adoring fans say, since I seem to use this particular trope an awful damn lot in my writing -you know, the thing where I imagine you guys asking a question relevant to the topic at hand and then I answer it? Segue! That's what they're called, I use this particular segue an awful lot.

I need to get more clever with my writing.

"So, Sor" I hear my adoring fans say. "Can you better explain that complexity thing to us?"

I'm so glad you guys asked exactly the question I was planning to answer! Funny how often that works out, ya'know?

The complexity of an interaction boils down to a triad of factors: A) how intimate me and the other person are; B) whether there are more than just the two of us in the interaction; and C) how intimate the non-me people in the interaction are with each other.

Generally (but not always), high intimacy levels for: A) means that the interaction takes up less social energy from me, for B) means it takes less social energy if A was low and SIGNIFICANTLY MORE if A was also high, and for C) means it generally takes less. Or in other words, I do best when I am extremely close to only one person at a time in any given situation, or when the other people in the situation already know each other relatively well.

This is possibly one of the least useful traits for someone poly to have, ever. Because, see, if I am extremely close to Foo, and extremely close to Bar, and Foo and Bar have never met each other, and the three of us go out to crepes, I will quietly and quickly run out of energy fretting about them interacting and my interactions with each other and making sure I pay enough attention to each of them and don't pay overmuch attention to the one, and aiee.

This is probably the main reason I suck so bad at threesomes⁵. This is *definitely* the reason why I went marginally insane at Arisia this year, with a little bit of the added disparity where to some people my general insecure fretting that they're enjoying themselves and I'm doing okay by them was an annoyance, and to others it was necessary.

(I hate fucking up the how-much-is-too-much "we okay?" insecurity thing. I am usually better than I was at asking often enough to be relevant without asking so often it's a pain. I think I've sorted it out now)

And of course, intimacy is not limited to romantic relationships --eventually I will introduce Lauren to Veronica, or Alys to Maddie, and those situations will be just as fraught and awkward⁷ as the romantic ones.

The ways to make such group interactions easier on my social capacity are all easy, albeit occasionally impractical. The big simple one is to just have more one-on-one interactions⁹, followed closely by the slightly more complex getting everyone to become friends with everyone else.

So there you have it. Instead of your standard sim bar that turns red when you haven't interacted with people enough¹¹, I have one that turns red when I interact too much¹⁵. So, if I get all awkward and withdrawn around you, it's probably just best to let me get a little space (the span of time it takes me to walk to the bathroom and back can do wonders for a temporary restabilization) and your usual bubbly sorceress will be back in no time.

~Sor
MOOP!

P.S: I handwrote this, and it turned out like seven fucking pages. The things I do for you people!

P.P.S: Where, "you people" equals me.

1: Well, insomuch as anything about me is a secret. I keep very little of myself hidden except my present emotions² and the extent of my insecurities. Well, and my daydreams, but that's more because those are stupid and boring to people who aren't me, rather than any real reason of secrecy.

2: Which is to say, literally what I am feeling at the present. I will happily tell people about the emotions I've had in the general to recent past, but if I am currently in a negative mood, it's unlikely you'll hear of it.

3: Reign is not quite the correct term, but being the "loud bubbly one that everyone else flocks to" is definitely one of those things I do. I blame my mother.

4: And I do *try* to apologize for the bitchiness when it happens, but I am not always mentally able to, I'm sure. In short, this is *why* I get withdrawn when I get oversocialed. So I don't have to be bitchy in the first place.

5: Taken literally, I suspect the phrase "I suck at threesomes" would actually be quite the turn-on for most people. I am not a unicorn⁶, bobspamit!

6: Unicorn = polysnark word for Hot Bi Babe --ie, the pretty girl who will come into you and your SO's life and date you both and never have outside interests and take care of the kids and be your kinky sex-slave, etc, etc.

7: Okay, maybe not *just* as fraught and awkward. It's pretty fucking scary to lock eyes with someone you love truly-deeply-dearly and say "this is foo, who I also love truly-deeply-dearly". I don't need my Beloveds to be the best of friends, but I'd like it if they at least got along⁸.

8: And of course, if someone I'm dating absolutely hates someone else I'm dating -or if is just profoundly uncomfortable around them- I'll take that as the warning sign it is, and act accordingly.

9: One-on-one interactions with people I'm close to tend to be an absolute breeze. If we have a relationship such that curling up in the same room on our separate computers and just being with each other makes sense¹⁰, then I am happy with this relationship indeed.

10: And part of making sense involves the desperation born of long distance -if we don't see each other in person so often that merely lounging feels like a waste, of course we're not going to just sit around, regardless of how intimate we are. I'm looking at you, oh, practically everyone I care about.

11: If you haven't played the Sims, they have eight mood bars¹². The goal of the game is to keep all of them full, or in the green. When they get red, you've got problems!

12: Social, energy (sleep), comfort, hunger, hygiene, bathroom, room (aesthetics), and fun. The fact that I could do that by memory is probably an indication of a misspent youth.

13: Okay, admittedly I have a standard not-interacted with people for too long social bar as well. I probably *also* have mini-bars for the people I like best of all --if I haven't gotten my fix of old so-and-so, I'll get all sad.

Because, you know, it's been a couple days since I've done one.

So, three years ago, it was 2006, and I decided that I hadn't been creepy enough lately or something. So I asked people to describe how they moved and smelled --those little things that the internet just doesn't know anything about.

In the three years...I'm still show-offey, especially in regards to my flexibility and now (depending on the company) my dancing ability. I fidget constantly. My beautiful wonderful ring that I wear day in and day out does not actually stay on my hand if I am doing *anything* involving fine motor skills, including typing, and occasionally gets twirled when I'm just standing around chatting.

I still don't know what I smell like. I've discovered that Dominik is the pinnacle of male smell technology for me --that combination of cigarettes and Austrian gentleman goth and dominance and cologne just combines in the most absolutely amazing of ways. One of my favourite moments of freshman year was when I wound up borrowing a vest for a dance, and had it in my room for a week. Yes, I was creepy enough to just randomly wear it, and take long adoring sniffs.

I've added a handful of other people to my good-smells list, though I still maintain that my nose is not nearly talented enough to pick up on such things.

Yep! ((iirc, the Paul I stole that from had a good boy-smell to him too. Hum. Wish I could remember better.))

---

Unrelatedly, I've started poking vaguely at the whole scheissentagzunfixen¹ thing again. In this particular case, it's involved creating three new shiny tags, inspired largely by the essays I've been writing (and writing and meaning to post)

I-Write-Good-Shit: Personal is kinda a repository for thoughtstreams, and stuff about me. Angsting about crying or getting old or love goes here. (If I think it's good --it's a subjective trope.)
I-Write-Good-Shit: Public is a repository for things that I think of as "essays", despite the fact that most of them aren't written in any proper manner. It also includes things like my discussion of food that so many of you are chagrined by, and other things that are humourous.

The two will eventually (hopefully) comprise a sort of "best-of" look at this journal.

((Ignore the fact that I already have a tag called Past!Sor-is-Awesome. Multiple tags for the same thing is kinda one of defining themes of my personal scheissentagzunfixen.))

The third is just a management tag --it is called Read-The-Sorkin-Manual^{3, 6} and serves as a user-manual for me and this journal. Eventually, I will simply replace my userinfo with a link to it or something.

Yep.

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Scheissentagzunfixen. Rough translation: Your tags are shit, make them better. Coined by the abfab² Dan4th at some point or another.

2: No, don't worry, you did not actually hear me say that. And definitely not as one word.

3: This is, of course, riffing off the traditional tech support cry of "RTFM!!!". I actually thought about using Read-The-Fucking-Manual at first, but as always⁴, I'm trying to scout out better words to swear with, ideally ones that can be used in front of my future students. Also, I rather like the idea of swearing in my own name, and it's especially fitting in this context.

It should also be noted that the "k" is a perfectly acceptable spelling of my name --The Katters pronounced my name with a hard c (k sound, sor-key-ress) instead of the soft c (s sound, sor-see-ress) at some point, and I found I rather liked it. So, for future reference, if you see me spell my name Sorcy, or Sorcyress, or Sor Cyress, those are all meant to be with the s sounds, where Sorky or Sorkyress or Sor Kyress are hard sounds.

4: This is legit. I'm a *big* fan of interesting swears. I think this comes out more in my actual speech than in my writing style --I don't feel I type "Son of a cock" or "Son of a priest"⁵ nearly as often as I say them.

5: Favourite swear ever, no lie. I do occasionally use "Son of a priest, a whore, and a purple *spoon*" when I'm being especially drastic.

6: Taking bets for how long it takes me to typo and wind up with a tag called "Read-The-Sorkin-Manuel" can begin.....now.

ETA: Footnote-Orgy, which does not refer to a post with a lot of footnotes. It merely refers to a post with at least one footnote that stems from a previous footnote. ((Which is why, in the body of this text, the footnotes skip from 3 to 6 --4's source is in footnote 3, and 5's source is in footnote 4.

I may also go ahead and make a "promiscuous footnotes" tag or something like that, for the posts with upwards of five footnotes or something.

I blog more when my moodbase is negative.

The above statement may or may not actually be true. What *is* true is that I write more when my moodbase is negative-- cryptic elljay and twitter posts, BehindtheWalls, paperjournaling, letters I'll never send¹, long whiny rants in chat, all sorts of things. When I am unhappy or frustrated or angry or emo or depressed or melancholic or angsty or hurt or lonely or scared, my words tumble onto the page with a rapidity and a desperation that defies all else. When I need to write, I need to write, and better sense of all the things I should be doing right now just can't prevail.

You lot are lucky that I have an increasingly good handle on how much posting is too much, though as I've said before, it's my journal and I'll blog if I want to. Vera has no such luck, in moods such as I've been in since late yesterday, the number of text files littering my desktop climb steadily upwards. When I'm paying attention, I can get it all into the Behind the Walls file, where the most of it belongs. When I'm not, my negative emotions creep into every essay, story, script, or homework I start, and I save them into a dozen disconnected files. My school notebooks lose pages as I tear out the personal stuff, and the ink marks on my right hand reach their sharpest pronunciation.

I feel like I must be on the verge of a panic attack right now. Since yesterday evening, I've done nothing *but* write, it seems, I go through the motions of sleep and walk and breakfast and class, but they are all secondary to taking words out of my mind and putting them into a file of one sort or another. I'm trying to keep them under control, but Jesus, there are an awful lot of them, aren't there?

And of course, right now, I can't talk about it, because I largely don't know what it is. More importantly, I don't have the time to talk about it, and the people I could talk about it to, don't have the time to listen to me. "She's not going to put her life on hold for a couple hours, just because I can't manage mine."

(I'd like to think that the she in question would. It scares me that I can't/don't/won't trust her enough. Or maybe I just know she's happy with her own life right now (because right now, it is oh so perfectly normal, and I want it oh so badly²) and I don't want to ruin that.)

It doesn't help that everything that's hurting me right now is either entirely within my control (schoolwork. Fucking schoolwork) or entirely without. I can't magically make things better for the people I love (god fucking damnit) and I won't work on the things I need to get done for school (damn fucking godit.) Escape from this is available, I just need to force myself into enough masks to pretend I'm stable enough to actually get things done.

And at this point, I need to write my scene for scriptwriting during Calc class. If I can get an idea. That doesn't suck. And that fits the prompt. And isn't just an excuse for me to be vitriolic.

*shrugs* If you've read this far, you're probably going to comment being all sweetly "hugs" and whatnot. That's very kind of you, and it's certainly better than advice I can't or won't use, but it's not really going to make a difference one way or another. It is, as they say, just that time of the month.

K.
MOOP!

1: Letter I'll never send: Sometimes, when I am very hurt or scared or alone, I will turn to the nearest shoulder I have. Usually, that shoulder winds up being in California, or New Zealand, or Maryland, and I can't actually talk to it for whatever reason. So I write a letter, spilling out all my fear and anxiety, just to get it on paper and pretend that it'll all be okay, that I am being safely held by someone who cares about me. I'm not generally actually writing the person a letter, and when I find them later, I'm often not inclined to send such depressing fare, but the act of getting my words out, and pretending I am held often is enough to help.

Occasionally I will also use the term to denote state of the relationship addresses that I use to sort my brain out. I think that almost every person I've ever been romantically involved with has at least one. Some are harsh and bitter, but most of them turn out scared and insecure, me confessing my love and fearing that confession. Mostly, their goal is to let me figure out what little things have been bothering me, how they are my fault, and what I can do to fix them.

The current BehindtheWalls file is littered with these, but they really mostly tend to show up in notebooks and scraps of paper when I get the chance to write in the real world.


2: This is last month's rant, but I suppose it's still applicable. I dearly love being who I am and being with who I'm with, and doing the things I do, but sometimes...I just wish I could be a typical teenage girl. I wish I could celebrate Valentines day with a boy my age³ who goes to college with me⁴ and gives me a bouquet of my favourite roses⁵. I wish I could be busy with school and clubs and not running off to dance funny dances or hang out in coffeeshops with people I'm ten years younger than. I wish I could achieve America's ideal, put my hair up in pigtails and smile and make fun of those geeks who play games and watch cheesy romances with my gal pals and never read anything more mentally taxing than the latest gossip girl book. It all boils down to someone I'm deeply and irrevocably not, but worrying about broken nails, and where to get my hair done seems so much easier than stressing out about whether I'm good enough for the girl three thousand miles away who I love, and how to come up with a script for class that's actually creative.

3: Boys my age are idiots.
4: My college is something like less than 25% male. They are all gay, or taken.
5: I haven't got one, I don't think. Maybe deep red? It's not really something that I find all that important or relevant to my life, and I prefer flowers that will last forever, anyways. (That being said, sunset roses are really pretty.)

Apologies for missing yesterday, I suppose. This is really only just my project, I think, so I don't know why I feel the need to offer apologies to anyone else. Still though. It's just been...a long day. Didn't get a chance to post, not really, so I'm just going to skip the ninth and go onto the tenth.

The tenth is more relevant, anyways.

One year ago today, it was 2008. And I had a bit of a panic attack. Nothing too serious --just me bailing on reality for a bit, climbing my tree, talking to the denizens¹. Being shoeless and in a t-shirt in a tree, at night, in what I think I remember being wet. All of this (including and especially the bodymisery²) is very normal for me.

Different from most every panic attack prior to that date, this was the first time I have any memory of being able to Get Help with my insanities.

I'm up there, in my tree, with Gabe just holding me --not trying to help me, not trying to sort me out, just being this presence wrapped around me in a way that no one had ever really done in the real world³. And somehow, he gave me the strength to know that I would listen to someone else, and that the only way to do that was to use that tool in my pocket and call someone.

I forget exactly what I got Magus to tell me when I called him...something along the lines of "You're a worthwhile person, okay?". And...it worked. We talked a little on the phone, and a bunch on IM. It's frightening to trust like that; I'm still not really any good at it.

But at least I'm getting better.

Oh, and Sor? You're right here:
And I have no idea why I'm telling you all this and I think I may need to go sit quietly back behind my walls for a little bit, but that's probably not the right answer except it's safer there
Only not, because walls trap people inside them

Soyes. I'm actually planning to discuss the entry from today more when I get around to making my resolutions2008 post. But damn. It's nice to know how to trust people. And it's really really nice to know that I have people who, when they ask how I'm feeling, I can say I feel shit and babble a bit and they'll comfort me and randomly and for no reason tell me I'm pretty⁶.

Take care of yourselves, y'all. And call me if you need that shoulder --I mean it.

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Annnd slitting Alis's throat. Yeah. I get fucked up during panic attacks. Luckily, denizens don't die like that.

2: Bodymisery --using the world around me to inadvertently hurt myself. Letting myself be hungry or freeze my ass off. Yes, I know I should do that sort of shit, but when I'm in that sort of state, I can't bring myself to care or believe I deserve the proper human comforts I tend to love.

3: I have this thing...since I was very young, most every time I've cried, I've had this desperate want for someone to just be there to hold me and help me feel better. Of course, if I called them or in any way got them to come do such a thing, it would be tainted by the fear that I was hurting someone through my own misery, or dragging them away from something more important⁴. As such, I have *been* held like I needed when I cried, twice now even. It's mind-bogglingly amazing to realize you're living one of your fantasys.⁵

4: Yes, I know this is *really* stupid. You don't have to tell me.

5: 2008 I got to live three big ones, that I remember. Yeah. Yeah. It was an amazing year.

6: Gods, I love that. I never get tired of it, and I'll probably never stop blushing and smiling like an idiot.

Meant to hit twiddle¹-5 and accidentally hit twiddle-4 instead, which lead me to this page instead of twitter, and yeah, I guess I can update this every once in a while, considering I've been hein^{2, 3} about actually doing so recently.

Soyeah. Am alive. Am working like an absolute madwoman --the four days before the 24th, and the two days after the 25th. Luckily the next week or so is better --I think I work the 29th, 30th, and...3rd, but have all the other lovely New Yearsish days off, which is nice. Work is...worky. Boring as all hell, but I get money, and slacking around with my assistant manager is fun. (This is not to say I dislike my other coworkers, they're just not as entertaining as Phyllis.

Pretty much everything I've been doing outside of work is watching TV and playing Nethack. Veronica and I have gotten through the second season of Buffy. I would do some babbling/spec about what's gonna happen next, but, see, everyone on my entire friendslist has probably either seen all the Buffy they want to, or have no interest in seeing any of it, meaning they either already know what happens, or don't care. Damnit.

Oh, but the Middleman! The Middleman is something that most non-Talia⁴ people haven't seen, and I've only seen three episodes thus far, and a little out of order, but *oh*, is it wonderful. The main character is a bit of a dreamboat who swears using gosh darn it all to heckism, non-ironically, and it's terribly cute! And he likes milk!!

So yes, go watch The Middleman. It is excellence.

Um. Yeah. That's life. I don't even have dance to babble about right now, because I'm in placething -Maryland!- and there isn't weekly dancing here, merely every other week. Le sigh, and stuff.

***

Goddamnit, I used to be so good at writing clever, witty, essaythings. Whatever happened to that? If growing up means turning boring, perhaps it's not as good a thing as I've been lead to believe.

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Okay, technically I mean command. I'm slightly uncertain why I steadfastly continue to call it the twiddle key --I think it's a momism or something.

2: hein = heinous. Call it watching too much Buffy, my language tends to take on a little bit of the scansion of whatever media influence I've had most of recently.⁵ I originally picked hein up from the Lauren/Emily duo.

3: Well, I mean, more hein than usual. Considering that I last posted, oh, two days ago, I don't think there's any worry that I'm still around and minorly obsessed with this thing.

4: Non-Talia, mom, Keith, Eric (Maccytu), Magus, and whoever else has had it forced upon them.

5: Reading the Catcher in the Rye was hell for me for a couple days until my internal monologue got back to semi-normal. Nethack simplifies my voice, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea⁶ steampunkifies it a bit, and Buffy makes me start to do a little tiny bit of the Buffyspeak. (obligatory warning: TVTropes will ruin your life.

6: Oh yeah, did I mention I'm reading that? Old school science fiction for the wins. I picked it up at the store one day because I was bored and needed something to read, and found myself totally engrossed. I'm only up to chapter ten or eleven or so, but damn, Jules Verne could apparently write.

This bit may very well be important: This is my livejournal. It is for me posting my own thoughts, however often I would like, on whichever topics I see fit.

From this point forth, no one is allowed to attempt to censor my entries in any way¹, and if they try, I will just laugh, and continue to write as I see fit. Fuck you, Curry, It's my moviejournal, and I'll poutpost if I want to.²

( That said, let's talk censorship! )

That being said, I might as well end this post by shooting myself in the foot and opening an honestybox.⁹ Ask me a question! I promise an honest answer. Answer not guranteed to be posted in livejournal, the Sorcyress reserves the right to answer with "I don't feel comfortable telling you that because...", NOT limited to one per customer, Reading small print has been proven hazerdous to your eyes

~Sor
MOOP!

1: There is actually an exception to this rule --if I give out information about you and you alone that you would rather not be public, you may contact me and tell me I'm an insensitive bitch. (This has happened before, with Aly's last name, Alex's school, Erika's age, stuff like that) You can't make me take down anything else without a damn good defense

2: To be perfectly honest, about ninety percent of all my references ever are Rocky Horror call lines. So, yes, I know that this was a song first, but when I reference it, I'm not referring to the song, I'm referring to Riff-Raff glaring at Frank.

3: Your big gun...IfyouknowwhatImean. C'mon, I can't have been the only one who thought that, can I? (Answer: Yes. Yes I can.)

4: Mature, reasonably intelligent, adults who still use words like 'sucky' to describe things. Sigh. One of these days I'll get around to make an active attempt to betterify my vocabulary. Until then, I think I'm stuck with things like faboo, and zohmgar, and boyf⁵

5: Boyf, pronounced...uh...boy-fff. Shortening of boyfriend that my brain has determined is totally awesome. Have not yet slipped up and said it in real life. Yet.

6: There is no footnote six

7: Teenaged and earlier sexuality is a different essay, which I won't go into here, to save space.

8: Well, first after going "zohmygod, *blushes fiercely* really?!" and smiling like my face was going to break.

9: This is half just because I'm a huge comment whore.¹⁰

10: ...also, a huge footnote whore.

Multitasking is all well and good, but when I've got two chat programs running (for a total of four or five active chats), *and* am trying to watch Daria on my computer...well...my brain leeks out.

(Extra evidence: I totally know the difference between leeks and leaks. Actually, I don't, as I'm not really sure what a leek is other than 'edible', but I know it's the wrong word for the job)

But it's okay because I can glow in the dark now, so all our troubles are over because my brain had leaked out (ha!) anyways during camp today and yesterday.

SERIOUSLY! Knowing my general bitchery¹ and volunteeritis (especially in regards to girl scouts, ESPECIALLY in regards to Day Camp), I'm not totally shocked that I'm so worn out. But still, being over eighteen and no longer a program aide is crazy draining. No hour long lunch breaks for me. :(

It was totally radder last session when I could skieve off for an hour and a half to follow Blue around like a lost puppy dog and/or make sure she's eaten something hang out with people. Being responsible for a whole unit of girls, and therefore having to come back to the unit and eat with them? Totally le sigh.

ONTHEPLUSSIDE, I do still like working and playing and hanging out with them. I really do have an incredible unit --they are pretty enthusiastic, and do not tend to be THAT obnoxious. Plus, the PA's in my unit are awesome(damn you Eric!) wonderful!

((And to continue on the Origins thing, we decided during set-up to use 'Smurf' as our collective replacement curse word. The girls haven't quite figured out why we keep mentioning them. :D))

My voice is, of course, borked. We'll see if it's there enough to even warrent having a traditional 'No Voice Club' Thursday morning with Pony. Regardless, I am WAY psyched for the sixth grade sleepover tomorrow night --it basically involves herding eleven year olds around all night. And fire. Loooots of fire.

What else is there to say, really? I'm alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic. Lather, rinse, repeat. The people are amazing, the job is amazing, the weather is...well, way too smurfing hot, but that's par for the course, really. Yay girl scouts!

Apropos of nothing, I've done five hours of dancing in the past three days --three on Sunday, when I dragged Pickpocket with me to Oella, and two last night when I dragged DarkEric (See Maccy-Tu, I specified, just for you!) to SCD. Ohhhhh, lordy have I missed doing SCD. Luckily, I appear to not have forgotten everything, much. And I get to go next week, though the week after that I shall be in Caliland.

(EIGHT!)

Gyyuh, I should eat something, pack, shower, and sleep. Which involves ignoring the internet. And forgetting about all the lovely people on it. And not watching more Daria. I'm not sure which of those is most difficult.

Talk to you lot later!

~Sor
MOOP!

1: Bitchery as in 'I am people's bitch'², not as in 'I am the meanest fucking bitch you ever met'
2: I am not trying to turn this into a footnote-orgy, but really, I probably ought to explain that. The really short version appears to be something along the lines of "I am people's bitch". The longer version will involve the word 'submissive' getting bandied about (probably incorrectly) and will eventually get written and posted³.
3: Also to write is my 'Oh good, I've gotten over myself' essay discussion thing re: shaving.

DISCLAIMER:

It's three thirty in the morning or so. I really really should be sleeping, but, for whatever reason (see the first point of the actual entry) I'm not. So...this is basically me with the meandering verbosity that kinda marks my entries turned up to eleven. Be warned.


***


Hey, guess what, TVtropes will ruin your life.

I mean, on the plus side, it gave me things like this ad for sliced bread and This bitchin' essay justifying the idea that Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes is actually The Narrator from Fight Club (Srsly. Go read. WARNING: SPOILS FIGHT CLUB. Which is actually a good movie, so I think you should try to not have it spoiled.)

But then...then there's the negative side.

Penelope and Sylvester are lovers, and her "perils" are actually S&M roleplaying. They are actually both enjoying her inheritance money with their travels. (From the Wild Mass Guessing article on 'The Perils of Penelope Pitstop')

What...the....FUCK?!

I mean, I know that my childhood icon is fetish fuel. Hell, she was fetish fuel for half my barbie games ("Okay, and now the bad guy has tied you up so that he can marry you..." --course, inadvertantly, the so-called 'damsel in distress' would pull out some major asskicking and escape...maybe *fetish* fuel isn't the right word for it, but there was definitely some inspiration there)

But taking the fetish to the extreme and suggesting that the super-evil Hooded Claw could *ever* win the heart (Or, well, body) of such a virtuous and awesome maiden as Ms. Pitstop...I fucking hate rule 34¹. Gyah, stabstab.

Soyeah. Some things just can't be unseen, and that makes me a decidedly unhappy Kat.

Also, I really need to sleep. Ta!

~Sor
MOOP!

1: This is not actually true. Rule 34 is completely hilarious, solong as it's not happening to a very small number of things from my childhood that I view as sacrosanct. Penelope is one of them, apparently². I will not detail the others for fear of one of you linking me horrible horrible stories as some sort of twisted revenge for my schadenfreudic nature.

2: Okay, that's not even true. Penelope Pitstop clearly ought to have porn written about her, she got tied up more than *Wonder Woman* for crissakes. But I draw the line at the Hooded Claw, he was a bad guy! This was the sixties, morality was clear cut, she would never willingly fall for the likes of *him*. And I just don't do non-con³...

3: Nono, not Noncon, the annual science fiction convention hosted by Vassar College's NSO⁴. I'd totally do that if I could. Non-con, the shortening of non-consensual fiction. Y'know, rape and stuff. Rape is never cool.

4: NSO = Nonhuman Student Orginization or No Such Organization iirc. Important alums include Magus and Shaenon Garrity⁵ of Narbonic fame. Presumably lots of other people that I know and like as well.

5: Also, have I squee'd about Skin Horse, Shaenon's newest project, yet? She made cobras, battlebots, centipedes, and silverfish fisking *adorable*. Also, main character is an action transvestite⁶. Yay!

6: Unrelatedly, Eddie Izzard appears to be my generations version of Monty Python's Flying Circus. In rehearsal the other day, someone made a reference, and half the cast⁷ launched into a ten minute medley of quotes, with the other half listening in rapt admiration. It would've continued for several minutes longer, had we not been called for make-up.

7: Theatre Quote of the Day:
Terry (LD): Okay Dave, now put your right leg up around her.
Dave⁸: *complies*
Terry: ...Okay, um...actually, don't do that.
-OR-
Any and all references to neon Jesus and being trapped in bars of light.

8: Not to be confused with David, who is a big friendly gay boy who is far too pretty to be believed⁹. And was randomly attempting to grind with me earlier. Prompting me to say that his penis was far too close to me, at, of course, one of those moments when everyone naturally falls silent at once. Head -> desk, repeat.

9: So's his boyfriend, which is just about the clearest example of "hmm, maybe I should declare myself a boy *anyways*" I've had in ages¹⁰.

10: I did mention that this entry was going to meander a bit, yes? Oh good.