...and I CAN'T believe I'm actually going to get the opportunity.
In November, I'm taking a short trip into Pennsylvania. (Is that REALLY how it's spelled?? O.o) To visit an INCREDIBLY reputable photographer who owns his own personal studio.
No, I'm not going alone.
Yes, I know this guy is legit.
We're going to do a photoshoot all day in various costumes to be used as stock photography. Specifically, there will be a set of Angel photos in time for use on Christmas cards and Christmas themed photomanipulations. I will be modeling. Exciting, right? It gets better.
I'M BEING PAID FOR IT.
After this November, I will officially be able to say I'm a professional model. :D
Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, naysayers!
*scurries off to do a TON of situps*
Friday, September 19, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Prologue
Writer's block seems to have lifted... Friggin blogger messing with my indents....
Night closed in around the lone rider like the petals of a great black flower. The moon was full overhead, but its blue shadow cast little light and no heat, as though some great force was dimming the celestial body‘s power. The chill of the air took on a biting edge, and Carthis released one hand from his death-grip on the horses reigns to exhale heat across his cupped fingers. Under him, the horse labored on the brink of its demise; even as cool as the evening had become, it was coated in a fine sheen of sweat. Its footing failed from time to time, but it pressed on, urged by rider and panic.
Carthis risked a look back over his shoulder, and made a quiet, furious noise as a low hanging branch slapped his face just as he returned his eyes to the road. He squinted, blinked tears summoned out of reflex from his eyes, and urged the nameless horse still faster.
The boy that had walked into the tavern some miles back had been unmistakable if one knew what they were looking for. Hooded black cloaks were not unusual by themselves, nor were black staves as tall as a man. The young man had been pale, though; in a town full of sun-browned farmers the cream skin of a scholar stood out. Eyes as ancient as the moon overhead had combed over the room, and chills had walked up the spines of the simple folk as he inspected them. The farmers attributed it to the recently opened door, but Carthis knew better.
At nineteen he had dabbled in magics he never should have touched. He had made dark deals for petty power that was long lost, and all he had to show for it was knowledge. Knowledge of what the boy was.
Knowledge that the boy was looking for him.
Reapers were not truly incarnations of death, though most believed them to be. As children they were selected, always at the age of ten. They all survived where they should have died; some fell from trees, some caught terrible diseases, some got caught under the ice of rivers not frozen enough to play on. All the children survived as if by miracle, without a scratch. Within a year, a rider would come to their home in the dead of night, and the child would vanish. From there, no one knew what happened to their children.
Carthis knew. The first decade of their lives, they trained in a tower far, far beyond the reaches of mortals, learning magic and the fundamentals of the universe. When they had learned all the could behind walls and from books, they would leave, and enter the lands of men again. Their purpose was not to bring the end of life upon normal mortals; such things happened naturally and under the gentle guidance of the true incarnation of Death himself. Their purpose, ostensibly, was to hunt those who had enough magic to delay their own demises. There were those who had sacrificed too many innocent lives before their time; they too were marked for the Reapers.
Those who had traded their souls for mortal power, like Carthis, were a special prize. He had eluded the Reapers for ten years. Rather then make the mistake of fighting back, he simply fled them. In the tavern he had watched the boy slowly judge every soul in the room, able to see exactly how long they had before their death, and sought one who’s time had long passed. Carthis had gone out the back door, stolen a horse and fled into the night.
He risked one more look back over his shoulder, but the moonlit road was empty. His eyes glanced forward, and his stomach dropped out as a slim figure in a hooded robe stepped into his path, head bowed. He tried to pull back on the reigns, but the exhausted horse didn’t respond. As if time had slowed, he watched the reaper point the staff at the ground, and watched cold blue fire spring from both ends. One formed a sharp spade, the other formed a long, sharp scythe blade. The horse charged onward to run the thing down; it sidestepped, and lifted the blade effortlessly into the equine’s path. The blue blade passed through from its chest to its haunches, and Carthis felt the weight drop out from under him as he was suddenly airborne.
There was the sickening crunch of bone behind him as the horse collapsed, stone dead, and then the wind left Carthis’ lungs in a painful rush as he met the earth again. He groaned, dazed, and shook his head. He couldn’t feel a thing below the knees, but a quick inspection showed his legs intact. He tried to crawl away, near desperate, and the hooded figure slowly walked up behind him. The rider rolled onto his back and help up a hand, panting. “Wait!”
The Reaper paused, tilting its head and idly swinging the scythe.
“Let me see your face.”
“Excuse me?” The voice was feminine; not the boy who has spooked him from the tavern. Carthis sat up, and rubbed his knees. Already he could feel pins and needles in his toes.
“You caught me, fair and square. But I want to see the face of my death.”
She chuckled, amused. One hand lifted to drop back the hood, and he looked into a sharply angled face of a woman who couldn’t be over thirty. Her eyes were impossibly dark even in the night, but her hair was a pale blond and shoulder-length, and danced freely around her face. He nodded appreciatively, and wiggled his toes in his boots. She smirked, the scythe slowing to a stop. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.” He grunted and shook his head. “Balls, girl, how did you find me? I’ve always been a step ahead of your kind.” He worked to get to his feet, shaky.
She laughed out loud, and leaned forward, unfathomable eyes dancing. “Honestly?”
He nodded.
“I came for the horse.” She moved, lightning fast, and arced the blade high over her shoulder, cleaving him from the crown of his head to his feet. His body collapsed back into the dirt, and Carthis stumbled forward, disoriented. The night seemed suddenly a great deal brighter, and he landed on his knees. He looked about, surprised. Behind him his body lay as if it had been thrown by the horse and impact had killed him. Ahead of him the body of the horse lay in a heap, and a pale, blue shadow of a horse stood over it, stamping its feet and plainly confused as he.
“Horses have souls?” He blinked at it stupidly, and looked to the girl. She walked towards it, reaching up to stroke its nose.
“They have minds. Thoughts. Pain and fear. We can pull the essence of what they are out of their bodies, same as humans, but it isn’t recommended.” She knelt before the body of the horse, and tugged out what looked like a quill pen that had been dipped in the same blue that formed the blade of her weapon. She walked around the body, and inscribed runes on its haunches and shoulders.
Carthis stood again, frowning. “So what’s to keep me from running away?”
“Why don’t you try?” She ignored him, and moved to the horse’s forelock, brushed the hair back and inscribed something there. The scythe rested loosely against her shoulder; for once a Reaper looked less then menacing. Carthis turned, and ran as fast as he could down the road. He wasn’t more then five body lengths away before his chest simply refused to move forward, and his feet went right out from under him. He scowled as he landed, and looked back. A blood red line of light ran from where his heart should have been to her staff.
“Oh.” He glared. “You could have told me.”
She smirked at him, straightening. “It’s more fun to watch them try to run.” She stepped back and planted the spade end of the scythe into the dirt, and set her feet apart. Carthis watched in horror as the corpse of the horse stirred, and got to its feet like a new colt learning to stand. It didn’t move right, all awkward angles and clearly snapped forelegs, but it stood nonetheless. Once the horse’s soul and corpse stood in the same place she slowly finished each of the five runes. There was another crunch when it was complete as the forelegs mended. The horse, now intact, shied to the side. She reaches up to soothe it, and it calmed under her hands.
“Animals hate your kind. Well, aside from cats.”
She looked over at him, and raised a delicate eyebrow. “You know a lot about us.”
“I sold myself to Death for knowledge.”
“And then you ran. Foolish.” She nodded slowly. “Yes, animals fear us. They can sense what we are. But undead animals don’t.”
“The horse is still dead?” He blinked, and shuddered; even without a body he could get chills.
“So are you.”
“Point taken.” He frowned. “So we’re riding that thing back to wherever you came from?”
“No.” She smirked again, mirthlessly. “I’m riding. You’re running.”
“Wait, wait, what?” He blinked. She mounted up, and tugged the scythe, which returned to a simple staff. The jerking motion pulled him forward, and he glared. “You bitch.”
“Sariah. My name is Sariah.” She looked back, and twitched her hood back up. “And you are my prisoner.” She urged the horse to run, and run it did, and dragged Carthis behind.
Night closed in around the lone rider like the petals of a great black flower. The moon was full overhead, but its blue shadow cast little light and no heat, as though some great force was dimming the celestial body‘s power. The chill of the air took on a biting edge, and Carthis released one hand from his death-grip on the horses reigns to exhale heat across his cupped fingers. Under him, the horse labored on the brink of its demise; even as cool as the evening had become, it was coated in a fine sheen of sweat. Its footing failed from time to time, but it pressed on, urged by rider and panic.
Carthis risked a look back over his shoulder, and made a quiet, furious noise as a low hanging branch slapped his face just as he returned his eyes to the road. He squinted, blinked tears summoned out of reflex from his eyes, and urged the nameless horse still faster.
The boy that had walked into the tavern some miles back had been unmistakable if one knew what they were looking for. Hooded black cloaks were not unusual by themselves, nor were black staves as tall as a man. The young man had been pale, though; in a town full of sun-browned farmers the cream skin of a scholar stood out. Eyes as ancient as the moon overhead had combed over the room, and chills had walked up the spines of the simple folk as he inspected them. The farmers attributed it to the recently opened door, but Carthis knew better.
At nineteen he had dabbled in magics he never should have touched. He had made dark deals for petty power that was long lost, and all he had to show for it was knowledge. Knowledge of what the boy was.
Knowledge that the boy was looking for him.
Reapers were not truly incarnations of death, though most believed them to be. As children they were selected, always at the age of ten. They all survived where they should have died; some fell from trees, some caught terrible diseases, some got caught under the ice of rivers not frozen enough to play on. All the children survived as if by miracle, without a scratch. Within a year, a rider would come to their home in the dead of night, and the child would vanish. From there, no one knew what happened to their children.
Carthis knew. The first decade of their lives, they trained in a tower far, far beyond the reaches of mortals, learning magic and the fundamentals of the universe. When they had learned all the could behind walls and from books, they would leave, and enter the lands of men again. Their purpose was not to bring the end of life upon normal mortals; such things happened naturally and under the gentle guidance of the true incarnation of Death himself. Their purpose, ostensibly, was to hunt those who had enough magic to delay their own demises. There were those who had sacrificed too many innocent lives before their time; they too were marked for the Reapers.
Those who had traded their souls for mortal power, like Carthis, were a special prize. He had eluded the Reapers for ten years. Rather then make the mistake of fighting back, he simply fled them. In the tavern he had watched the boy slowly judge every soul in the room, able to see exactly how long they had before their death, and sought one who’s time had long passed. Carthis had gone out the back door, stolen a horse and fled into the night.
He risked one more look back over his shoulder, but the moonlit road was empty. His eyes glanced forward, and his stomach dropped out as a slim figure in a hooded robe stepped into his path, head bowed. He tried to pull back on the reigns, but the exhausted horse didn’t respond. As if time had slowed, he watched the reaper point the staff at the ground, and watched cold blue fire spring from both ends. One formed a sharp spade, the other formed a long, sharp scythe blade. The horse charged onward to run the thing down; it sidestepped, and lifted the blade effortlessly into the equine’s path. The blue blade passed through from its chest to its haunches, and Carthis felt the weight drop out from under him as he was suddenly airborne.
There was the sickening crunch of bone behind him as the horse collapsed, stone dead, and then the wind left Carthis’ lungs in a painful rush as he met the earth again. He groaned, dazed, and shook his head. He couldn’t feel a thing below the knees, but a quick inspection showed his legs intact. He tried to crawl away, near desperate, and the hooded figure slowly walked up behind him. The rider rolled onto his back and help up a hand, panting. “Wait!”
The Reaper paused, tilting its head and idly swinging the scythe.
“Let me see your face.”
“Excuse me?” The voice was feminine; not the boy who has spooked him from the tavern. Carthis sat up, and rubbed his knees. Already he could feel pins and needles in his toes.
“You caught me, fair and square. But I want to see the face of my death.”
She chuckled, amused. One hand lifted to drop back the hood, and he looked into a sharply angled face of a woman who couldn’t be over thirty. Her eyes were impossibly dark even in the night, but her hair was a pale blond and shoulder-length, and danced freely around her face. He nodded appreciatively, and wiggled his toes in his boots. She smirked, the scythe slowing to a stop. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.” He grunted and shook his head. “Balls, girl, how did you find me? I’ve always been a step ahead of your kind.” He worked to get to his feet, shaky.
She laughed out loud, and leaned forward, unfathomable eyes dancing. “Honestly?”
He nodded.
“I came for the horse.” She moved, lightning fast, and arced the blade high over her shoulder, cleaving him from the crown of his head to his feet. His body collapsed back into the dirt, and Carthis stumbled forward, disoriented. The night seemed suddenly a great deal brighter, and he landed on his knees. He looked about, surprised. Behind him his body lay as if it had been thrown by the horse and impact had killed him. Ahead of him the body of the horse lay in a heap, and a pale, blue shadow of a horse stood over it, stamping its feet and plainly confused as he.
“Horses have souls?” He blinked at it stupidly, and looked to the girl. She walked towards it, reaching up to stroke its nose.
“They have minds. Thoughts. Pain and fear. We can pull the essence of what they are out of their bodies, same as humans, but it isn’t recommended.” She knelt before the body of the horse, and tugged out what looked like a quill pen that had been dipped in the same blue that formed the blade of her weapon. She walked around the body, and inscribed runes on its haunches and shoulders.
Carthis stood again, frowning. “So what’s to keep me from running away?”
“Why don’t you try?” She ignored him, and moved to the horse’s forelock, brushed the hair back and inscribed something there. The scythe rested loosely against her shoulder; for once a Reaper looked less then menacing. Carthis turned, and ran as fast as he could down the road. He wasn’t more then five body lengths away before his chest simply refused to move forward, and his feet went right out from under him. He scowled as he landed, and looked back. A blood red line of light ran from where his heart should have been to her staff.
“Oh.” He glared. “You could have told me.”
She smirked at him, straightening. “It’s more fun to watch them try to run.” She stepped back and planted the spade end of the scythe into the dirt, and set her feet apart. Carthis watched in horror as the corpse of the horse stirred, and got to its feet like a new colt learning to stand. It didn’t move right, all awkward angles and clearly snapped forelegs, but it stood nonetheless. Once the horse’s soul and corpse stood in the same place she slowly finished each of the five runes. There was another crunch when it was complete as the forelegs mended. The horse, now intact, shied to the side. She reaches up to soothe it, and it calmed under her hands.
“Animals hate your kind. Well, aside from cats.”
She looked over at him, and raised a delicate eyebrow. “You know a lot about us.”
“I sold myself to Death for knowledge.”
“And then you ran. Foolish.” She nodded slowly. “Yes, animals fear us. They can sense what we are. But undead animals don’t.”
“The horse is still dead?” He blinked, and shuddered; even without a body he could get chills.
“So are you.”
“Point taken.” He frowned. “So we’re riding that thing back to wherever you came from?”
“No.” She smirked again, mirthlessly. “I’m riding. You’re running.”
“Wait, wait, what?” He blinked. She mounted up, and tugged the scythe, which returned to a simple staff. The jerking motion pulled him forward, and he glared. “You bitch.”
“Sariah. My name is Sariah.” She looked back, and twitched her hood back up. “And you are my prisoner.” She urged the horse to run, and run it did, and dragged Carthis behind.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Dragons.... ^.^
Okay, more silly internet crack.
I am called "Draconic" for a reason. :D
Please click my eggs, it helps them hatch! :)
Please click my eggs,
it helps them hatch! :)
I am called "Draconic" for a reason. :D
Please click my eggs, it helps them hatch! :)
Please click my eggs,
it helps them hatch! :)
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The mugging story.
It's taken me a while, I've been trying to think of how, exactly, to tell the story of what happened to me. I think it's better to post the overview then to continue dallying; I already give this blog little enough love. (Blame the summertime for my inactivity... really. XD)
Two weeks ago, on a Sunday night, four young men ordered a pizza to a house in a very nice neighborhood that looks occupied, but isn't. I'm a delivery driver, and I was on the closing shift. I delivered it.
They took the food, and made a show of getting the money together. One of them offered the money; I gave them the benefit of the doubt and took it, but he didn't let go of the cash in his hand. Another one grabbed me from behind, and they tried going through my pockets.
Someone said from behind me "Just let it go."
In that situation, you are told to just give them what they want, surrender because they are less likely to hurt you, but I couldn't even think anything past rage that someone would take advantage of the fact that I will not judge them on look alone (it was four young black men) and an inner voice screaming like the Valkyries that I will not be made a victim just because my gender is "weak."
I managed to get one hand into the pocket with my pepperspray (I carry a canister of military strength pepperspray with me everywhere... only quasi-legal), broke the hold of the guy behind me, and shot him full in the face.
The other guy and I were still holding the money in my other hand, and I then turned my free (mace wielding) hand on him and shot HIM in the face, advancing as he tried to run away. I NEVER let go of the money.
All four of them ran for it. I chased them halfway down the block, seeing red and debating getting my car and running them over, I was THAT mad. Then the reality of it all kicked in, and I got back in my car, called my manager, and we reported it.
All four have been caught, ID'd, and two of them are going to serve time right away. One is a minor and stuck in juvie until he's 18, then he'll be sent to prison, the fourth is on house arrest with an ankle monitor; his father is a VERY disappointed police chief.
Turns out these four were THE thugs in the neighborhood, with one hell of a badass reputation... and they got punked out by a 5'7" 125lb white girl with mace.
Two weeks ago, on a Sunday night, four young men ordered a pizza to a house in a very nice neighborhood that looks occupied, but isn't. I'm a delivery driver, and I was on the closing shift. I delivered it.
They took the food, and made a show of getting the money together. One of them offered the money; I gave them the benefit of the doubt and took it, but he didn't let go of the cash in his hand. Another one grabbed me from behind, and they tried going through my pockets.
Someone said from behind me "Just let it go."
In that situation, you are told to just give them what they want, surrender because they are less likely to hurt you, but I couldn't even think anything past rage that someone would take advantage of the fact that I will not judge them on look alone (it was four young black men) and an inner voice screaming like the Valkyries that I will not be made a victim just because my gender is "weak."
I managed to get one hand into the pocket with my pepperspray (I carry a canister of military strength pepperspray with me everywhere... only quasi-legal), broke the hold of the guy behind me, and shot him full in the face.
The other guy and I were still holding the money in my other hand, and I then turned my free (mace wielding) hand on him and shot HIM in the face, advancing as he tried to run away. I NEVER let go of the money.
All four of them ran for it. I chased them halfway down the block, seeing red and debating getting my car and running them over, I was THAT mad. Then the reality of it all kicked in, and I got back in my car, called my manager, and we reported it.
All four have been caught, ID'd, and two of them are going to serve time right away. One is a minor and stuck in juvie until he's 18, then he'll be sent to prison, the fourth is on house arrest with an ankle monitor; his father is a VERY disappointed police chief.
Turns out these four were THE thugs in the neighborhood, with one hell of a badass reputation... and they got punked out by a 5'7" 125lb white girl with mace.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
A great adventure...
....two words. Kingda Ka.
Seriously... nothing can compare to that ride.
And.... the hair got cut.
Six flags was awesome, and I'll give a full update on it later. John's birthday is today, and we're going out to see Wall-e.... so... updates to come. :D
Seriously... nothing can compare to that ride.
And.... the hair got cut.
Six flags was awesome, and I'll give a full update on it later. John's birthday is today, and we're going out to see Wall-e.... so... updates to come. :D
Friday, June 20, 2008
The "Friend logs," part two.
Good plans and bad plans.
At the far end of the street I live on, there is a tiny, fenced off dirt road on the left, and one of the nations highest rated golf courses on the right. Of course, to a bunch of half-drunk 20-somethings, the golf course WOULD present the bigger, shinier target for merrymaking, but they have actual POLICE that work there.
So, after polishing off an indecent amount of Southern Comfort on a summer night, we decided (my friends Tim, Chuck, John, and myself) to take the dirt road instead. It's about a three mile trek to get there, and we walked the whole way.
I should probably mention that at the end of this tiny dirt road is a complex that has belonged to the MAFIA for the last, oh, century or so. In the twenties and thirties, the mansion and the complex around it was a very "happening" place, but it's been quiet for quite some time.
We creep down to the end of the road, and there's this huge, locked, black wrought-iron gate sitting in front of a bridge. The bridge is beautiful, arching over a lake that you'd never suspect is there, and leads up to this HUGE house, and massive driveway set into the woods. The planning began.
John, always nimble, immediately climbs the gate. Tim and Chuck have their misgivings, both of them are pretty big guys. Being the "girl" of the group has always given me issues; I only had brothers and male cousins, and spent my whole life trying to be "one of the guys." So, not to be outdone, I wriggle through the cracks in the fence. (I was a skinny little critter five years ago.) Chuck is an ex-navy boy, not terribly tall but pretty damn stacked, and he has now been out-couraged by both the little people. So HE finds a way of circumventing the gate. Tim is about six foot three, and big as hell to boot, but Tim is about a pin away from CRAZY and he finds a way through, too. I don't remember how, I was already creeping over the bridge.
When we get closer, we can see that the mans proper rises up on a hill to our right, and to our left is a private tennis court. So John decides to sneak up to the house, and gets about a thirty foot lead on us. The other three of us are creeping through the yard behind him, when all of a sudden... floodlights over the ENTIRE COMPLEX go on.
We freeze. There's the sound of barking in the house. THESE PEOPLE ARE IN THE MAFIA AND THEY HAVE A HUGE PRIVATE LAKE TO HIDE THE BODIES IN!!!!
Tim, who's ahead of Chuck and I, turns back to us, eyes all round. After a second he speaks, voice in a low, calm whisper.
"I...have a plan. That plan is... RUN!!!!" And the three of us go tearing off like madmen back across the bridge.
John, up ahead, turns back to look at us, and all he sees is us disappearing into the darkness towards the bridge. Cause we're loyal like that. So he of course comes running after, stealth forgotten, and we all squirm through the gate. I think we were halfway down the road towards out house before we slowed down, every one of us in stitches and laughing ourselves stupid.
Tim's line still lives on in infamy.
At the far end of the street I live on, there is a tiny, fenced off dirt road on the left, and one of the nations highest rated golf courses on the right. Of course, to a bunch of half-drunk 20-somethings, the golf course WOULD present the bigger, shinier target for merrymaking, but they have actual POLICE that work there.
So, after polishing off an indecent amount of Southern Comfort on a summer night, we decided (my friends Tim, Chuck, John, and myself) to take the dirt road instead. It's about a three mile trek to get there, and we walked the whole way.
I should probably mention that at the end of this tiny dirt road is a complex that has belonged to the MAFIA for the last, oh, century or so. In the twenties and thirties, the mansion and the complex around it was a very "happening" place, but it's been quiet for quite some time.
We creep down to the end of the road, and there's this huge, locked, black wrought-iron gate sitting in front of a bridge. The bridge is beautiful, arching over a lake that you'd never suspect is there, and leads up to this HUGE house, and massive driveway set into the woods. The planning began.
John, always nimble, immediately climbs the gate. Tim and Chuck have their misgivings, both of them are pretty big guys. Being the "girl" of the group has always given me issues; I only had brothers and male cousins, and spent my whole life trying to be "one of the guys." So, not to be outdone, I wriggle through the cracks in the fence. (I was a skinny little critter five years ago.) Chuck is an ex-navy boy, not terribly tall but pretty damn stacked, and he has now been out-couraged by both the little people. So HE finds a way of circumventing the gate. Tim is about six foot three, and big as hell to boot, but Tim is about a pin away from CRAZY and he finds a way through, too. I don't remember how, I was already creeping over the bridge.
When we get closer, we can see that the mans proper rises up on a hill to our right, and to our left is a private tennis court. So John decides to sneak up to the house, and gets about a thirty foot lead on us. The other three of us are creeping through the yard behind him, when all of a sudden... floodlights over the ENTIRE COMPLEX go on.
We freeze. There's the sound of barking in the house. THESE PEOPLE ARE IN THE MAFIA AND THEY HAVE A HUGE PRIVATE LAKE TO HIDE THE BODIES IN!!!!
Tim, who's ahead of Chuck and I, turns back to us, eyes all round. After a second he speaks, voice in a low, calm whisper.
"I...have a plan. That plan is... RUN!!!!" And the three of us go tearing off like madmen back across the bridge.
John, up ahead, turns back to look at us, and all he sees is us disappearing into the darkness towards the bridge. Cause we're loyal like that. So he of course comes running after, stealth forgotten, and we all squirm through the gate. I think we were halfway down the road towards out house before we slowed down, every one of us in stitches and laughing ourselves stupid.
Tim's line still lives on in infamy.
The "Friend logs," part one.
There are SO many good stories of crazy things that have gone on between my friends, as they get retold I am going to log them here so they're never lost.
Scare tactics
Months ago, one of John's oldest friends moved in with us when times got tough. I'd never had a real roommate before, and really... the sheer number of funny stories that come from living with your friends will boggle your mind.
John enjoys sneaking up on people, he's been doing it to me for as long as I've known him, and I'll tell you, I used to startle EASY. I still startle, but I'm a hell of a lot harder to sneak up on, now. (Paranoia.)
Our roommate, Eric... not so much. He's a great guy, but mildly obsessive compulsive, and he's got a bit of a temper. World of Warcraft tends to suck him in, and piss him off, because... well, the horde are universally 15-year-old pussies who like nothing more then killing you while you're minding your own business and trying to complete quests.
So John and I are watching TV, and I need to go to the bathroom, which lies past the computer room. Eric is at his desk, playing WoW, and I walk past him without a word. On my way back out, I see John, doing a military crawl to the doorway, one hand stretching out towards Eric's leg. I don't even blink, just walk past him without acknowledgment.
Eric is frowning at the game, completely in the zone... and John grabs his leg, shakes it, and starts barking like a rabid pit bull. At the time? We didn't HAVE a dog. Poor Eric shouts in near panic, his knees slam up into the tray his keyboard is sitting on, and he starts spitting curses like the girl in the Exorcist. John starts cackling, and I'm standing in the other room, giggling too. Eric looks at John, fuming, and shouts, "What the hell is WRONG with you!??"
And John, still on his belly and grinning up from the floor, without missing a beat, replies, "Impulse control problem?"
And Eric just.... stops, and sighs, and starts laughing too.
'Cause really... How can you argue that?
I love living in this house sometimes.
Scare tactics
Months ago, one of John's oldest friends moved in with us when times got tough. I'd never had a real roommate before, and really... the sheer number of funny stories that come from living with your friends will boggle your mind.
John enjoys sneaking up on people, he's been doing it to me for as long as I've known him, and I'll tell you, I used to startle EASY. I still startle, but I'm a hell of a lot harder to sneak up on, now. (Paranoia.)
Our roommate, Eric... not so much. He's a great guy, but mildly obsessive compulsive, and he's got a bit of a temper. World of Warcraft tends to suck him in, and piss him off, because... well, the horde are universally 15-year-old pussies who like nothing more then killing you while you're minding your own business and trying to complete quests.
So John and I are watching TV, and I need to go to the bathroom, which lies past the computer room. Eric is at his desk, playing WoW, and I walk past him without a word. On my way back out, I see John, doing a military crawl to the doorway, one hand stretching out towards Eric's leg. I don't even blink, just walk past him without acknowledgment.
Eric is frowning at the game, completely in the zone... and John grabs his leg, shakes it, and starts barking like a rabid pit bull. At the time? We didn't HAVE a dog. Poor Eric shouts in near panic, his knees slam up into the tray his keyboard is sitting on, and he starts spitting curses like the girl in the Exorcist. John starts cackling, and I'm standing in the other room, giggling too. Eric looks at John, fuming, and shouts, "What the hell is WRONG with you!??"
And John, still on his belly and grinning up from the floor, without missing a beat, replies, "Impulse control problem?"
And Eric just.... stops, and sighs, and starts laughing too.
'Cause really... How can you argue that?
I love living in this house sometimes.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Allergic to cleaning.
I am exactly what the title suggests.
To give you a little history, my paramour and I have been together for the last seven years, and we're heading into year eight. We're not married... me fault, I put on the breaks because I did not want to have a divorce in three years 'cause I married a man who doesn't do his share of everything.
Now that he's working and I'm not, he gets to throw the same things at me that I used to at him, and though I look chastised (don't think I'm fooling him for a second) after a stern lecture, inwardly I'm cackling and muttering "How do YOU like it? Hmm?"
I'm slowly going insane from boredom, and if I don't find a nice job somewhere with air conditioning and internet access, I'll probably start picking the threads out of the couch one at a time. The problem is, I'm vastly overqualified for basic retail, but without a collage degree I'm limited to a rather short list of positions in my paygrade. (Seriously, I type 60 wpm, I'm fluent in most basic computer programs, and can handle vista without sobbing and throwing my computer in the lake. I taught myself how to use Adobe Imageready in FOUR HOURS. The first thing I ever made was
and it's the first time I EVER used an animation program. I'm qualified as sin, SOMEONE hire me!!)
I know, I know, I'm getting to the allergies.
Since I have nothing better to do then farm gold on my world of warcraft account, play Halo 3 online, and drink coffee, my working other half likes to assign me to do housework. Housework, to those who don't know me, goes against every fiber of my being. He will say "Kitty, when I get home in five hours, I want the dishes to be washed, the bedroom cleaned and all the dirty laudry washed and dried and folded."
I will salute and say "Yes siiiir!" And then sign on world of warcraft. He comes home and if he is VERY lucky and the Horde were being monumental cunts (in the way that only 15 year old boys can be) ONE of these things will be half done.
On those wonderful days he's off work, and decides "LETS CLEAN TODAY!" I cling to my bed and stolen sleep and mutter about when the stabbings will commence and who will help me hide the body.
I will make a concerted effort to help clean, but within fifteen minutes I'm sneezing and crying because my face is exploding, and he'll send me and my sniveling, handicapped self off to go shopping. Just being IN the house will cause the allergies to flare up, till I'm two benadryl in, chanting about bunnies and how the world is dizzy and the walls are making me mad. My allergies are to pet dander, dust, mold, and cleaning products without proper ventilation. This is on a normal cleaning day.
Today was an all new level of housework death. I was trying to vacuume the second living room. We just removed a couch from there to make more room, and revealed a floor covered in fur and ceiling chunks from when we tore the ceiling down. I didn't know the bagless vaccume was full. I don't clean, so I'm an idiot with these things. As it was full, all these wonderful allergens were thrown RIGHT up in my face, and within the first minute I'm sneezing. Then coughing. Then feeling nauseous and fleeing to the bathroom.
I swear to god, I'm so bad at housework that I THREW UP. My roommate gently explained that the vaccume was full and completely took over while I retched in the bathroom and then fled from house to buy our puppy treats.
So now I'm avoiding work any way I can, and sucking on my intercrack like my life depends on it.
I don't know how I lived before having a blog.
To give you a little history, my paramour and I have been together for the last seven years, and we're heading into year eight. We're not married... me fault, I put on the breaks because I did not want to have a divorce in three years 'cause I married a man who doesn't do his share of everything.
Now that he's working and I'm not, he gets to throw the same things at me that I used to at him, and though I look chastised (don't think I'm fooling him for a second) after a stern lecture, inwardly I'm cackling and muttering "How do YOU like it? Hmm?"
I'm slowly going insane from boredom, and if I don't find a nice job somewhere with air conditioning and internet access, I'll probably start picking the threads out of the couch one at a time. The problem is, I'm vastly overqualified for basic retail, but without a collage degree I'm limited to a rather short list of positions in my paygrade. (Seriously, I type 60 wpm, I'm fluent in most basic computer programs, and can handle vista without sobbing and throwing my computer in the lake. I taught myself how to use Adobe Imageready in FOUR HOURS. The first thing I ever made was
and it's the first time I EVER used an animation program. I'm qualified as sin, SOMEONE hire me!!)I know, I know, I'm getting to the allergies.
Since I have nothing better to do then farm gold on my world of warcraft account, play Halo 3 online, and drink coffee, my working other half likes to assign me to do housework. Housework, to those who don't know me, goes against every fiber of my being. He will say "Kitty, when I get home in five hours, I want the dishes to be washed, the bedroom cleaned and all the dirty laudry washed and dried and folded."
I will salute and say "Yes siiiir!" And then sign on world of warcraft. He comes home and if he is VERY lucky and the Horde were being monumental cunts (in the way that only 15 year old boys can be) ONE of these things will be half done.
On those wonderful days he's off work, and decides "LETS CLEAN TODAY!" I cling to my bed and stolen sleep and mutter about when the stabbings will commence and who will help me hide the body.
I will make a concerted effort to help clean, but within fifteen minutes I'm sneezing and crying because my face is exploding, and he'll send me and my sniveling, handicapped self off to go shopping. Just being IN the house will cause the allergies to flare up, till I'm two benadryl in, chanting about bunnies and how the world is dizzy and the walls are making me mad. My allergies are to pet dander, dust, mold, and cleaning products without proper ventilation. This is on a normal cleaning day.
Today was an all new level of housework death. I was trying to vacuume the second living room. We just removed a couch from there to make more room, and revealed a floor covered in fur and ceiling chunks from when we tore the ceiling down. I didn't know the bagless vaccume was full. I don't clean, so I'm an idiot with these things. As it was full, all these wonderful allergens were thrown RIGHT up in my face, and within the first minute I'm sneezing. Then coughing. Then feeling nauseous and fleeing to the bathroom.
I swear to god, I'm so bad at housework that I THREW UP. My roommate gently explained that the vaccume was full and completely took over while I retched in the bathroom and then fled from house to buy our puppy treats.
So now I'm avoiding work any way I can, and sucking on my intercrack like my life depends on it.
I don't know how I lived before having a blog.
Getting to know Kitty (a.k.a. reasons to hit the "back" button on your web browser.)
My name is Kitty. No, seriously; it's short for Kathryne. Yes, it's a cool spelling, feel free to use it; my mom was AWESOME.
Formerly (and lets be realistic, I still lurk) I've been a member of Myspace, Livejournal, and DeviantArt. On each of these sites I have posted various different types of journals. Myspace is all about who knows who "IRL" and it's helpful for tracking those pesky friend people who for some reason care if you live or die. Deviantart is (was) a respectable art site where I could post my musings, random essays (you're reading the blog of someone who writes essays for FUN, people) drawings, digital paintings, and photomanipulations. More recently that site has flushed itself down the pooper in a mix of porn, teenage angst and obsessive fandom. (I swear to fuck, if I have to see one more picture of Naruto with a million faves and comments like "Kawaii so desu!" [Translation: "That so cute" in Japanese. That constantly gets screeched by thirteen year old American girls who wouldn't be able to learn a second language if they spent the next sixty years overseas.] I will murder those cute little idiots with broken shards of the Naruto DVDs.)
Livejournal I just post porn stories thinly disguised as "Erotic fiction."
I began following another blogger here a few months ago, and learned about a NEW kind of blog, where the smart, crazy people can basically rant about smart, crazy things and console one another because we live in a world full of idiots. You probably think I'm one of those officious bastards that thinks they're smarter then you and uses big words (like officious) to make you feel less smart.
This is not the case. In fact, I looked officious up in an online dictionary to make sure it was the right word before using it.
The fact is, I love words. I've been writing stories since before I had a grasp of the alphabet, chattering my make-believe tales at my mother endlessly until she sat me down and explained the difference between storytelling and lies. Seriously, I'm 25 and that day stands out in my memory with the kind of clarity that only life changing moments have.
I pride myself on my vocabulary, and enjoy teaching these words to others. I also LOVE learning new ones, so never be afraid to throw an interesting word my way, it'll often become the word of the month. (When I don't get new words, I resort to words like "Douche" for the word of the month. I still can't call someone a douche without giggling in my head... and now you have an idea of my maturity level.)
I am not racist, sexist, or any normal -ist. I have been accused of being a intellectualist (no, that's not a real word, apparently, but it SHOULD be.) I have serious issues with stupid people. I have to put up with them, and I don't see the harm in enjoying it. Seriously, I meet some of the most AMAZINGLY STUPID PEOPLE ON THE PLANET.
I have a BRILLIANT wit, but it's a lazy little bastard and only shows up once a week or so. I normally babble like an idiot, but about once a week I'll make some perfectly timed, earth-shattering comment that drops everyone around me into giggles. I often feel drained afterwards, as my brain goes into cooldown mode to charge up for the next one.
I have some of the most insane, hilarious, messed up friends in the world that I couldn't live without, and so many wonderful conversations have been lost and forgotten because the tradition of oral bookkeeping is no longer an art form. Another reason to add this blog to my list of "Internet crack."
When met in person, I'm the most creepy, blue-eyed, cheerful, bubbly, intelligent and patient person you've ever seen outside a TV show. The fact is, I actually ENJOY customer service (I know, I'm a freak) and I'd work forever in retail if it just paid better. Of course under said bubbly, happy, you-wanna-be-my-bff personality is my darker side. I swear like a truck driver with tourettes syndrom, I'm sarcastic, and I have a smartass comeback for EVERYTHING that has to be bitten back like some foul word-monster trying to use my tongue as a springboard for universal domination. This is not to imply I have a split personality, oh no. I just have two very different outlooks on the world that peacefully coexist in the kind of mental paradox that sent both therapists I had into near-convulsions after three weeks. Really, did you know therapists can choose NOT to have you come to them anymore? I've had it happen TWICE.
When you take my insanity and jack me onto the intercrack, however, both halves form up like some old power rangers episode and suddenly I'm cool as shit. (That may be the intercrack talking.) I can take my inspirations and use them intentionally, rather then as a wit-burp that leaves me with heartburn. I fail miserably at spelling, and if I could meet the inventor of the spellcheck, I'd probably ask for an autograph. I have a gift for wording and description; and a writing style that (usually) engages the reader... in spite of the generally massive ramblings my intercracked-out self is capable of.
Move over people, I think we have the new word of the month.
I play video games with boys a decade to my junior, and kick their ASSES; I write erotic fiction (heh...hehehe...) and spend a great deal of time online ogling attractive geeky boys (I have interesting tastes), boobs (I have an obsession with titties that is somewhere between an 18-year old boy's slack-jawed stares and a hungry baby's demand for FOOD. I can't explain it), and pictures of the Master Chief of Halo fame's bulky Mjolnir suit. I love alcohol, but it doesn't love me anymore, although for gods sake I will nurse a bottle of Blackhaus till I'm passed out in a corner.
Oh, and I take god's name in vain. A LOT. On the list of "reasons I'm going to hell" this is probably pretty far down... although it IS like, one of the commandments... God damn it.
I have opinions on EVERYTHING and like to share them with anyone interested. I tend to gather people to me like a bug-zapper attracts bugs (my analogy is more accurate then you know) and can at any time call upon hordes of indignant, angsty teens to rise up in my defense as my minions. I should start a cult, but we're getting into that "lazy" thing again.
I could go on, but really, that's the basics. If your intention is to troll me, or flame me, really, there's much easier targets. I KNOW that people only do that because the internet gives them courage and anonymity. (OH. MY. GOD. I spelled that right on the first try.) If I met you in real life and you said that shit to me, I'd knock your teeth out with my Blackhaus bottle and wear them around my neck, so really, nothing you say here will phase me. I will, however, laugh at you for hours for making the attempt.
So comment at will, ask questions, tag me with memes if you really want (though I reserve the right to shove said meme up your rainbow hole if I don't feel like doing it.)
If nothing else, you will learn some interesting swear words and turns of phrase, here. Just don't tell mommy where you learned them, or she might take your Intercrack away.
Formerly (and lets be realistic, I still lurk) I've been a member of Myspace, Livejournal, and DeviantArt. On each of these sites I have posted various different types of journals. Myspace is all about who knows who "IRL" and it's helpful for tracking those pesky friend people who for some reason care if you live or die. Deviantart is (was) a respectable art site where I could post my musings, random essays (you're reading the blog of someone who writes essays for FUN, people) drawings, digital paintings, and photomanipulations. More recently that site has flushed itself down the pooper in a mix of porn, teenage angst and obsessive fandom. (I swear to fuck, if I have to see one more picture of Naruto with a million faves and comments like "Kawaii so desu!" [Translation: "That so cute" in Japanese. That constantly gets screeched by thirteen year old American girls who wouldn't be able to learn a second language if they spent the next sixty years overseas.] I will murder those cute little idiots with broken shards of the Naruto DVDs.)
Livejournal I just post porn stories thinly disguised as "Erotic fiction."
I began following another blogger here a few months ago, and learned about a NEW kind of blog, where the smart, crazy people can basically rant about smart, crazy things and console one another because we live in a world full of idiots. You probably think I'm one of those officious bastards that thinks they're smarter then you and uses big words (like officious) to make you feel less smart.
This is not the case. In fact, I looked officious up in an online dictionary to make sure it was the right word before using it.
The fact is, I love words. I've been writing stories since before I had a grasp of the alphabet, chattering my make-believe tales at my mother endlessly until she sat me down and explained the difference between storytelling and lies. Seriously, I'm 25 and that day stands out in my memory with the kind of clarity that only life changing moments have.
I pride myself on my vocabulary, and enjoy teaching these words to others. I also LOVE learning new ones, so never be afraid to throw an interesting word my way, it'll often become the word of the month. (When I don't get new words, I resort to words like "Douche" for the word of the month. I still can't call someone a douche without giggling in my head... and now you have an idea of my maturity level.)
I am not racist, sexist, or any normal -ist. I have been accused of being a intellectualist (no, that's not a real word, apparently, but it SHOULD be.) I have serious issues with stupid people. I have to put up with them, and I don't see the harm in enjoying it. Seriously, I meet some of the most AMAZINGLY STUPID PEOPLE ON THE PLANET.
I have a BRILLIANT wit, but it's a lazy little bastard and only shows up once a week or so. I normally babble like an idiot, but about once a week I'll make some perfectly timed, earth-shattering comment that drops everyone around me into giggles. I often feel drained afterwards, as my brain goes into cooldown mode to charge up for the next one.
I have some of the most insane, hilarious, messed up friends in the world that I couldn't live without, and so many wonderful conversations have been lost and forgotten because the tradition of oral bookkeeping is no longer an art form. Another reason to add this blog to my list of "Internet crack."
When met in person, I'm the most creepy, blue-eyed, cheerful, bubbly, intelligent and patient person you've ever seen outside a TV show. The fact is, I actually ENJOY customer service (I know, I'm a freak) and I'd work forever in retail if it just paid better. Of course under said bubbly, happy, you-wanna-be-my-bff personality is my darker side. I swear like a truck driver with tourettes syndrom, I'm sarcastic, and I have a smartass comeback for EVERYTHING that has to be bitten back like some foul word-monster trying to use my tongue as a springboard for universal domination. This is not to imply I have a split personality, oh no. I just have two very different outlooks on the world that peacefully coexist in the kind of mental paradox that sent both therapists I had into near-convulsions after three weeks. Really, did you know therapists can choose NOT to have you come to them anymore? I've had it happen TWICE.
When you take my insanity and jack me onto the intercrack, however, both halves form up like some old power rangers episode and suddenly I'm cool as shit. (That may be the intercrack talking.) I can take my inspirations and use them intentionally, rather then as a wit-burp that leaves me with heartburn. I fail miserably at spelling, and if I could meet the inventor of the spellcheck, I'd probably ask for an autograph. I have a gift for wording and description; and a writing style that (usually) engages the reader... in spite of the generally massive ramblings my intercracked-out self is capable of.
Move over people, I think we have the new word of the month.
I play video games with boys a decade to my junior, and kick their ASSES; I write erotic fiction (heh...hehehe...) and spend a great deal of time online ogling attractive geeky boys (I have interesting tastes), boobs (I have an obsession with titties that is somewhere between an 18-year old boy's slack-jawed stares and a hungry baby's demand for FOOD. I can't explain it), and pictures of the Master Chief of Halo fame's bulky Mjolnir suit. I love alcohol, but it doesn't love me anymore, although for gods sake I will nurse a bottle of Blackhaus till I'm passed out in a corner.
Oh, and I take god's name in vain. A LOT. On the list of "reasons I'm going to hell" this is probably pretty far down... although it IS like, one of the commandments... God damn it.
I have opinions on EVERYTHING and like to share them with anyone interested. I tend to gather people to me like a bug-zapper attracts bugs (my analogy is more accurate then you know) and can at any time call upon hordes of indignant, angsty teens to rise up in my defense as my minions. I should start a cult, but we're getting into that "lazy" thing again.
I could go on, but really, that's the basics. If your intention is to troll me, or flame me, really, there's much easier targets. I KNOW that people only do that because the internet gives them courage and anonymity. (OH. MY. GOD. I spelled that right on the first try.) If I met you in real life and you said that shit to me, I'd knock your teeth out with my Blackhaus bottle and wear them around my neck, so really, nothing you say here will phase me. I will, however, laugh at you for hours for making the attempt.
So comment at will, ask questions, tag me with memes if you really want (though I reserve the right to shove said meme up your rainbow hole if I don't feel like doing it.)
If nothing else, you will learn some interesting swear words and turns of phrase, here. Just don't tell mommy where you learned them, or she might take your Intercrack away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
