( rockin' geekgrrl, tweet tweet tweet )

LoudTwitter is looooud

Okay, seriously? HOLMES GROUP-WATCH IS THE BEST THING EVER. I haven't had this much fun in a long time! We watched The Speckled Band, first the Granada version and then the Russian version, to make comparisons, and squeal over closeness, and make comments about Watson's eating habits and the fact that Holmeses play their own theme songs and that Holmes is actually really creepy.

♥ I loved every minute of it.

And now I have a bunch of new friends! HELLO NEW FRIENDS! I post kind of a lot, I hope that won't annoy you. People seem to think I'm amusing, hopefully you will too. :D



Now, I have some chicken soup with rice to eat, and a podfic to re-record in the basement. ONWARDS TO GLORY.

This night just keeps getting better and better, and everything good about it is related to Holmes fandom. It's better than drugs, guys, I swear to god.

Anyway, the win: I recovered the raw files for chapter three so I didn't have to rerecord it after all, and I just finished editing it down. This brings us up to the hour and a half mark for this story. The parts start getting longer now, and then they get a lot shorter, but I expect the end result to be about five hours long. Have I said that already? I probably already said that somewhere.

Also, someone in the group-watch chat showed me a gorgeous piece of fanart for the same part I just recorded, and you should see it: PTSD freakout comforting. I want this as my new wallpaper, seriously. (Right now it's a comic strip of sadynax's, which is just too cute for words.)

So I have to post that, and then I can go to bed, hey, before the sun comes up! I'm not on a normal sleep schedule by any means, but I'm migrating closer to something like one, slowly.

I almost can't believe that my father just ordered me to clean my room. ALMOST, but I make a point of believing just about anything, and the man does know just what to do to bother me the most. The state of my room is none of his goddamn business in the first place, it is nowhere near as bad as he's making it out to be in the second place, and I'm not a goddamn child to be told what to do like that any more and I haven't been in quite a while.

Ugh, this has me so irrationally pissed off.

Well, I'm probably a little oversensitive from lack of sleep and from the disgusting heat and humidity, but still: where the hell does he get off telling me my room is a fire hazard? Maybe if it was larger than a closet I'd have more room to arrange things neatly, but-- and this is literally the only time I have said this since I moved in-- I have the smallest room in the house and probably the most personal belongings of any of us. What does he want me to do, suspend things from the ceiling?

I'm sure he'd just be delighted if I threw out half my stuff.

That on top of asking me to clean the kitchen floor for his Father's Day present. I feel like fucking Cinderella, only I don't have any friendly rodent pals or any prince on the horizon. Although my godmother is a lesbian, that's almost like having a fairy godmother, right?

Day 14 - A song that you listen to when you're happy

Ani DiFranco - Little Plastic Castle

In a coffee shop in a city
Which is every coffee shop in every city
On a day which is every day
I picked up a magazine
Which is every magazine
Read a story, and then forgot it right away
They say goldfish have no memory
I guess their lives are much like mine
And the little plastic castle
Is a surprise every time
And it's hard to say if they're happy
But they don't seem much to mind

2. How many characters do you have? Do you prefer males or females?

I think my last count was somewhere close to thirty. I'd have to go back and refer to my archives (lol that sounds so pretentious but seriously it's archived GreatestJournals) to get an exact count, but if I didn't make it past thirty then I was almost there.

Overwhelmingly, I had more male characters. Out of ~30, only maybe five of them were female, and I can only remember the names of two off the top of my head (Amarante, who was the last one created, and Maeve, for whom I used myself as a PB, pretentiously enough). If we count female characters I did a significant amount of writing for without being the actual creator, we can add Nika to the list.

And really that's kind of tricky, because how much of a claim can you have on a character someone else created? Can I count Parker as my character at this point even though Kristin came up with him, or will he always be hers even though I'm the only one who's written him in two years? I don't really know. I don't think I dare to call him mine, honestly.

Even taking this fandom-wise, I generally tend to write males much more often than females. I probably write one story involving a woman as a main character for every twenty stories about men. [Insert speculation about self-loathing here, or something.]

My birthday is in one month.

This kind of freaks me out.

( oh look, she's depressed again. )

Is it a little bit sick of me to feel better after reading Transmetropolitan? I think that might be kind of fucked up of me, but you know what, I don't feel like crying any more. No matter how bad things might seem, my life is never going to be as fucked as Spider Jerusalem's, and that's vaguely reassuring.

Of course, it probably doesn't hurt that I pretty much cried myself out before I picked up the books.

I had plans to watch movies, I don't know what happened to those. Well, I know what happened to my afternoon: I got kidnapped. They told me I could see kittens and I didn't ask what the catch was. The catch was, I had to go into Bass Pro, which always makes me feel incredibly out of place and I literally had to bite my tongue to keep from calling my sister a redneck hick because, uh, I would have gotten beaten up by anyone who overheard me say it. Seriosuly though, the girl wants camo-print PACIFIERS AND BOTTLES if she ever reproduces. I can only pray such a thing doesn't happen any time soon. Anyway we had to go there to get my father his gifts (shirts, short-sleeved button-down shirts), and then we had to go to Walgreens to get a card (which I had to pick out, because Rachael was too busy looking through silly bands trying to find a fucking porcupine, don't even ask), and then for some ungodly reason my mother decided to bring us to a six-year-old's birthday party, and then the thunderstorm started and when I got home my father made me want to cry and that pretty much brings us up to date.

Speaking of the little sister, she turns 17 on Monday. I don't know how to handle that, either. (It seems like "I don't know how to handle it" has become my default state.) Like, theoretically I understand that time passes and people grow up and mature, but it's still kind of a kick in the gut to realize the brat is almost legal now. Wasn't I just seventeen not that long ago? (No. It really was that long ago. I started this journal when I was seventeen, shit.) She's definitely getting an IOU for a gift, though. She's fucking impossible to shop for.

...I did get to hold kittens, though. Tiny little claws dug into my chest and they cried incessantly until I put them back down. I prefer my cat. Even if the standoffish bastard doesn't cuddle with me any more.


I really want to cut my hair. Like, boyishly short. Too short to curl. It's only a few inches long right now but it feels like it needs to be a lot shorter. Every time I've cut my hair recently I've gone shorter and shorter... if I didn't have a weirdly-shaped skull, I would probably end up shaving it.

I am going to bed early tonight. No more of this up until dawn bullshit, it just makes my grip on sanity that much more tenuous.