Wishful thinking
Jun. 22nd, 2004 09:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaaraGoodness, it was hot today. Luckily, we've managed to wheedle Pop into buying us an air conditioner, so I sat in front of it with my laptop plugged into an extension cord to prevent the circuit-breakers from activating. Our house has more crossed wiring than the Millennium Falcon.
I wrote a little - about half another post, my daily drabble, and some other little character sketches - but mostly I read. I'm halfway through Moby-Dick again. I love Starbuck. He gets so screwed over by Ahab. I don't want him to die. I think I'll write an alternative ending where he, Ishmael, Queequeg, and Stubb all survive. Or maybe I'll just read up until the three Chase chapters and stop there. Sometimes I want to believe that the people I care about live through the whirling vortex of death. No one deserves to suffer for someone else's obsession.
Some random guys hit on me on the Metro today. I hate when people do that, because there's no way to move away from them on a packed car. I gave them my best You come any nearer and I will personally kick your ass glare, which shut them up, but it was still annoying to know they were watching me. I suppose I could always have pulled out my handy nickel-plated pen and poked them if they'd gotten too close for comfort. Writers always have weapons at hand.
So yeah, not much to report. Another un-ode-worthy day. Bad choice of words. Now I'm going to have to write an Ode to Tuesday. Bad ode bunny!
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
Xander
Anya and I spoon together like two normal people, enjoying a normal evening of television-induced brain annihilation. And then my sleep-fogged mind reviews the last week, the last year – my entire life – and I know that normal and Xander are definitely not two words that will ever be used in the same sentence.
Am I supposed to be the Man of the House now? Giles knows more about demons; Spike's a better fighter. I'm just That Guy, the comic relief who supplies weapons and stands on the fringes.
And then Anya kisses me and my thoughts wave a cheerful goodbye.
I wrote a little - about half another post, my daily drabble, and some other little character sketches - but mostly I read. I'm halfway through Moby-Dick again. I love Starbuck. He gets so screwed over by Ahab. I don't want him to die. I think I'll write an alternative ending where he, Ishmael, Queequeg, and Stubb all survive. Or maybe I'll just read up until the three Chase chapters and stop there. Sometimes I want to believe that the people I care about live through the whirling vortex of death. No one deserves to suffer for someone else's obsession.
Some random guys hit on me on the Metro today. I hate when people do that, because there's no way to move away from them on a packed car. I gave them my best You come any nearer and I will personally kick your ass glare, which shut them up, but it was still annoying to know they were watching me. I suppose I could always have pulled out my handy nickel-plated pen and poked them if they'd gotten too close for comfort. Writers always have weapons at hand.
So yeah, not much to report. Another un-ode-worthy day. Bad choice of words. Now I'm going to have to write an Ode to Tuesday. Bad ode bunny!
<<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>><<<<>>>>
Xander
Anya and I spoon together like two normal people, enjoying a normal evening of television-induced brain annihilation. And then my sleep-fogged mind reviews the last week, the last year – my entire life – and I know that normal and Xander are definitely not two words that will ever be used in the same sentence.
Am I supposed to be the Man of the House now? Giles knows more about demons; Spike's a better fighter. I'm just That Guy, the comic relief who supplies weapons and stands on the fringes.
And then Anya kisses me and my thoughts wave a cheerful goodbye.
