Dear fandom:

fletch·ing
n.
The feathers on an arrow.

This word, it does not mean what you think it means.

Sincerely,
the most entertained reader of mistaken words ever

Dear fandom:

McCoy does use other insults besides "green-blooded hobgoblin" and "elf". Seriously, "I'm a doctor, not a ___" is a catchphrase; not being more creative with epithets is just lazy. (And, yeah, keep that down to once per fic unless there's a really good [read: hilarious] reason for more.)

Also, what I said about t'hy'la last week? Still applies. It's not a goddamn pet name, all right?

Also also, n00bs please go watch some TOS. Chekov is not all that sweet and innocent. Seriously, I don't even know seventeen year olds NOW who are as naive as he's being characterized sometimes. He's sneaky and brilliant, okay? And although I know I've been guilty of this, pleeeeeeease stop writing out his and Scotty's accents phonetically. Please.

Sincerely,
ohmygodIhavespentwaytoomuchtimereadingficlately

PS, I'm sorry for bitching so much, here, have a link to a story that made me snort cranberry juice with lols: High Times on the USS Enterprise.

"This," said Sulu, holding up a plastic baggie with a flourish, "is Warp Core weed, lovingly grown in the 'ponics system by yours truly."

"While I am aware of your ability as an herbologist, Mr. Sulu, I am unaware as to how cannabis will better help me understand humans."

"Cannabis won't help you to understand humans, Spock. But smoking it will. It will relax you and help you get in better touch with your senses and emotions," Jim paused for a moment, "I think."

*teehee*

In the past... uh, five hours... I have gone from 130 tabs to 65. I know, 65 is still ridiculous, but at least I can close and reopen Firefox if I need to... it took a half an hour for all the pages to load the last time I had to restart. :o My name is Dani, and I am addicted to tabs. I need help to break the habit... xD but right now, I just need sleep.

Dear Heroes:

Darling dearest show. You know I love you. You're wonderful. But these days...

Well, you seem to be... not yourself. A little bit schizophrenic.

You're still delivering on the pretty. You know you're hot, what with all the blond women and the dark-haired pretty boys. It's just that pretty doesn't get you everywhere in life, you know?

I'm not going anywhere, baby. You know I'm yours. Just... try and sane it up, okay? Jessica is gone, and no one wants a repeat of that kind of crazy.

Love and kisses,
Dani

I work, as if you didn't all know, at the Salvation Army. I'm a secretary, I handle a lot of the social services work and answer phones and stuff. So I deal with a lot of the batshit crazy element of my community.

On the phones, though, things are usually bearable. I had a call today that pissed me off so much I was literally trembling. And this lady isn't even part of the community.

Me: the lovely, usually level-headed secretary
BSC: the batshit crazy "Christian"

BSC: "You don't know what Christian is!"
Me: "Trust me, I know from Christian, and you, lady, are no Christian."

( remove the plank from your own eye before you remove the speck from that dude's )

So, yeah, maybe I'm a hypocrite, maybe it's stupid to argue something I'm not entirely faithful to, but I HATE HATE HATE stupid faux-christians who just make the really faithful, decent, Christlike ones look like a bunch of tools by association.

Un-dear lady who called me today,

Please. Come to my church on Christmas. I dare you. I know what your voice sounds like, I know you're not from around here.

You know what? You were right about one thing. I'm not a born-again Christian anymore, and I have no qualms at all at punching your fucking face in. Not even on Christmas.

I triple-dog dare you, bitch.

Yours in Christ knuckle-cracking anticipation,
your friendly neighborhood Salvation Army secretary.

WHILE I'm already being a bitch, maybe I should talk about my work a little bit.

No, ma'am, we won't furnish your house for you. Get some milk crates and work your way up, just like the college kids do. Just because you have to pay at the thrift store doesn't mean it's going to be any more that $15 for a bed, probably. If you want to hang up on me, you can go fuck yourself on a bare floor.

No, sir, lying to me about the last time you were here won't get you food assistance quicker. Actually, you won't get any at all. Can no one read the "EMERGENCY FOOD PANTRY ONLY" sign? That means you every-six-month users have to go hit up the rest of the pantries in town. What? You already used them all and you have no food in the house? Well I guess you shouldn't have spent everything that's not food stamps on cigarettes and scratch tickets. And stop having kids, for the love of god.

No, Tom, I don't want to talk politics with you. I don't want to plot to make my Republican mother freak out. I have to live with her. I don't want to hear about your awesome sound system, I don't want to borrow your DVDs, I don't want to debate the Stones vs. the Beatles. I want you to leave my office.

No, creepy guys from the soup kitchen, I don't want to talk to you. At all. Please get out of my office. Please don't hit on me while I'm in line for lunch. Just stop it.


......*breathe*


Okay. I feel better now.


Dear reasonable people in actual need,
Sorry about all those assholes who make me snappy and suspicious. I like you. I really do.

Love,
your friendly Salvation Army secretary.

Dear Plattsburgh,

Generally, I like you. You may be a little boring sometimes, but you're beautiful and usually peaceful and I appreciate that about you.

But what the fuck is up with this weather, yo?

I am a fat chick. Fat chicks + heat = bad things. THIS IS RICOCKULOUS, my city. Please turn it down, oh, ten or fifteen degrees and about 30% humidity. I'm begging you for a good thunderstorm.

Hopefully and with love,
Danielle