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In addition to automatic drawing, I'm still writing Star Wars (Original Trilogy-focused) fanfiction. And it's got all topical. There's a Donald Trump analog, a Nigel Farage analog, a Vladimir Putin analog (who happens to be my female OC's sister), a canon character standing in as Hillary Clinton, a subplot about Twi'lek slave trafficking, a resurging human supremacy movement, lots of LGBTQ characters, two polyamourous triads, and several protagonists flipping the script and going bad. It doesn't solve anything, but it helps.

Art Sustains

Automatic drawing (Google it) has given me a place to put my outrage fatigue. Watching so many people people pine for a false past when we could have a real future...realising that the people who bullied me in high school were exactly who I feared they are...feeling fully powerless while genocidal bigotry and scientific/ historical ignorance are all but hailed as the new counterculture...the toll taken on my mental health has been catastrophic, and I'm nowhere near as vulnerable to this fascist uprising as I could be.

But yeah. Automatic drawing. For the first time in my life, I've found a creative pursuit where "bad" and "good" are irrelevant. It's all instinct and emotional honesty. I'm not judging myself or waiting for anyone else to judge me; I'm not trying to organise words or pair colours. It's pure freestyling.

My favourite method is to play a song, and let my synesthesia take the lead. My first drawing, which I plan to give to my father (the artistic patriarch of my family) is called "Dischord x 'King of Pain'/ The Police". It's full of drips and strands that seem to be clawing their way towards each other, as if to bring the disparate and disconnected shapes together. Hopefully I'll find a way to post them here.

It's nice being proud of something you made. Especially considering the fact that creativity is literally the only skill I have.

I'm on Facebook if you want to find me. Had to deactivate my Twitter because I was getting death and rape threats from Nazis. As you do. https://www.facebook.com/glamoursnipe
Whoa. It has been a minute. And a year.

Me, over the past several months: suffered nervous breakdown, diagnosed with several mental illnesses, still happily married and living in York.

You can have the world by the tail in a downhill drag; mental illness ain't got one fuck to give. That's the takeaway. That's how I can be severely depressed despite having literally nothing to be depressed about.

But enough about me.

Rough Harmony (Fanfiction)

As I said, I've been writing fanfiction again, returning to my previous post-ROTJ interpretation of the Star Wars universe, but nipping and tucking to reflect the current political/ social climate. Brexit becomes Ord Mantell's Bright Jewel referendum; Donald Trump becomes Corellian Chancellor Jonek Vlarr; xenophobia and Islamophobia become a human-supremacy movement; Rupert Murdoch's media conglomerate becomes a series of Inner Rim news outlets using the post-Empire era to sow seeds of fear and distrust in the public. There really is no better fandom for political commentary, I'm finding, plus it helps me be less on the nose with my thoughts.

But here's an exception. Though most of my current pieces have been politically-motivated, this one is a return to Porn-Without-Plot form, and I flatter myself to say it's probably the most uninhibited I've ever been while writing sex. Mindless smut can be just as cathartic as an intellectual purge, so I'm not going to underrate it. I may post more, I may not; I'm just particularly satisfied with this one.

If the LJ-cut isn't working (it's acting hella weird on my end), I apologise for the endless scrolling you're about to endure. I've built up a lot of rust since getting assimilated by Facebook.

TITLE: Rough Harmony
PAIRING: Wedge and Simone Antilles (OFC), with a side of Hobbie Klivian
RATING: M or N-17, whichever means more to you.
WARNINGS: Alcohol, drug use, exhibitionism, voyeurism, playful violent threats, implied male/ male, OFC, modern-day pop lyrics modified for this universe, smutty smutty smut
SYNOPSIS: After the Ord Mantellian elections hint at a possible resistance, two Rogue pilots and a Rebel assassin decide to blow off some weirdly specific steam.
SETTING: Seventh Wave Entertainment Complex, Coruscant, 11 ABY
READ THE PREGAME: (for context) https://www.facebook.com/glamoursnipe/posts/1284285935023185

Who knows how these things happen?Collapse )

Who knows how these things happen?

There was alcohol. There was music. There was possibly - okay, probably, definitely maybe - a line or two of dreamdust. As always, Wedge seemed to grow more hyper, sillier, with every drink he downed, in near-direct opposition to the supposed effects of booze. It must be a Corellian thing. Add that to Simone's usual kinetics and no wonder Hobbie just might have been muscling aside kids ten, fifteen years younger in the adjacent 'fresher for a pick-me-up. There's an unspoken rule at the Night Factory that once a substance enters the 'fresher, and especially once arrayed for consumption over the back of a toilet, it's share and share alike, no money need change hands. And call Hobbie old-fashioned, but dreamdust just hits the spot whenever he needs to prolong the nightlife.

Even so, they didn't make it to last call.

The Seventh Wave is never truly deserted, but they don't pass more than a baker's dozen beings as they navigate their way through the ever-expanding labyrinth of Reese Compton's debauchery and Simone Antilles' curiosity. By now the vivid fractals wreathing Hobbie's vision have settled into a mellow blur of colour. Somehow, against perhaps one too many odds, they've reached the flat Simone and Wedge used to share before they moved offworld, set aside now for when Coruscant makes the itinerary. Already Simone's shirt is ripped up the side from a drunken cartwheel smack into a housekeeping droid, and Wedge can't stop trying to sing about living among the creatures of the night, lacking the will to try and fight, and whoever took his self control. Evidently Simone stands accused at the moment. Wedge has his arm hooked around her shoulders, pushing his full weight into her body and slurring the lyrics into her ear as she fumbles with the keypad, needing three tries, punctuated by attempts to deep-breathe her laughter calm, to tap in the correct code. Once the light chimes green Hobbie just assumes it's his cue to take off back to his stateroom and leave this pair to whatever they get up to, but Wedge reaches over and flat-out grabs him before he can turn away. All three tumble through the door in a fog of booze and sweat and damp clothing, and Hobbie dull-roars "Party!" as the door hisses shut, just to keep the feeling of inclusion going.

It's cool in here, almost cold, but not too bad. Wedge immediately addresses the stereo, looking for something bright and upbeat, Simone setting the light to a pink-tinged radiance that evokes the sunset on her homeworld. Hair ubraided, she plops on the foot of the bed and loses her high leather boots, then her dark-coloured socks, yanking them taut in an obscure threatening gesture when Wedge glances her way. They're both drunk enough to find anything funny, and this is no exception. Satisfied with the promise of a flinty female vocalist and an eerie, pulsing wall of synths, Wedge stalks over to the bed, head lowered, thick dark hair shadowing his hooded eyes as he struggles to hold a straight face. But Simone is prepared, lashing out with her makeshift weapon right across the jaw. With a yelp of ersatz rage, Wedge charges her, but she drops the offending socks and scoots along the bed out of reach, rolling fully upright and trying to present an intimidating stance as the mattress wobbles, sullying the effect.

"Your move, creep," she taunts, beckoning him with an outstretched hand, her hips winking at him as they tick back and forth.

"Creep?" Wedge leaps onto their bed with a crazed grin, lands on one knee, and scrambles to his feet, trying not to wipe out as Simone bounces around. The mussed bedding does its level best to trip him up. Off base, with no-one around to check his hospital corners, Wedge is quite the slob, letting dishes cake in the sink and strewing his discarded street clothes from hell to half of Hutt Space. "I'm your husband, you bloodthirsty bitch, and don't you forget it!"

It's at this point Hobbie starts to feel like a bit of a third wheel for the first time all night. He watches, slouched uncomfortably against the back of the sofa, as they hop all over the bed like teenage girls at a slumber party, too giddy to reflect what's happening beyond the floor-to-ceiling window at their backs with any accuracy. This doesn't last long before Wedge drops to his knees on the mattress again, giving up, content to let Simone wave her ass in his face, sliding his hands under her bibbed shorts and sinking his teeth into a buttock. While that's going on, Wedge gnawing away, Simone plucks a pillow off the bed and flings it in Hobbie's direction. It's a direct hit upside his head and she cackles through her smile, so he digs a throw cushion off the pile on the sofa and pitches it back, just for rebuttal's sake. The outsider feeling lifts a little, but descends anew at the sight of Simone losing her balance and Wedge seizing the opportunity to pin her, threading his fingers into hers and stamping them down on either side of her head. He bumps their noses together, and she voices that low-key cackle again.


"Hi. Speaking of which - "

And the music plays on. "It isn't hell if everybody knows my name tonight/ It's hard to feel the rush, to brush the dangerous..."

Either way. They're over there. He's over here. The liquor cabinet beckons louder than the caf machine - easier on his hand-eye coordination to prepare, anyway - so Hobbie pours himself a shot of Red Dwarf, adding crysfizz to increase volume more than improve flavour. Right now his tongue is properly scorched from several pints of Thuris and a few shots of Whyren's, not to mention one of the two pleezer tabs they procured off Dom Meregrin, the less principled of the Night Factory's two bartenders. Right now, on the bed, Simone is wiping the second tab onto her tongue, a hushed giggle frothing from her throat as she holds it out to Wedge in offering, and he dives right in with an enthusiasm Hobbie never expected his superior officer to show for a psychoactive substance. Or maybe he's more interested in his wife's tongue and the pleezer is just a handy bonus - who can tell? At least he got a tab all to himself, Hobbie thinks, popping it into his mouth while he turns his back to nurse his drink, his heart thrumming cheerily in his behind his ribs as the effects of the alcohol wash over his limbs, bringing life and light to muscle, bone, durasteel, and synthflesh. Behind him, the galaxy's happiest couple sighs and chuckles as they wind around each other, hands roaming, ragged breath humidifying the room, until the tab dissolves. He hears Simone gasp, a sharp desperate sound of need that goes straight to his balls, and turns his head just enough to get them in his peripheral vision, trying all the same to keep his bloodheat from heading in the same direction.

"So, Rogue Five." Hearing Wedge invoke his callsign off the battlefield always leads to something interesting, so Hobbie faces the bed, greeted by a pair of devious smirks, casting his drink aside as a matter of course. "No, we haven't forgotten about you. In fact, Simone and I think you deserve a treat tonight. After all, rumour has it you finally told your sperm donor to get wrecked."

"Something like that, yeah." Sperm and his father - not a train of thought he wants to board. He's still entertaining the idea that he was conceived via protein synthesis in a test tube. With an effort, Hobbie shoves away the image of Lux Klivian's particular brand of dispassionate scowl, bestowed just before he marches away with his hands linked primly behind his back, one flat in the cup of the other. His eyes land on Simone, tangled beneath her husband with one of her own hands curled beside her face, the other resting on Wedge's ass, urging him to snug his groin tighter against hers every few seconds. She gazes back with sooty eyes, rimmed in kohl and dusted with silver spangles. Her smirk dissolves into a hazy smile. Are these two for real? "Not sure I follow."

"Well, it's come to my attention that you have a certain...need. Or a fetish, to call a stave a stave. And guess what, Klivian? Keeping it to yourself wasn't doing you any favours. See, I have a fetish, too, which I'm sure you've heard all about through eyewitness accounts. One I don't often indulge outside this place because of basic galactic etiquette. Shame so few of us have much to say about sex, nothing honest or productive, even in this evolved age. Makes finding someone whose kink is compatible with your own a real chore, and usually it's pure luck of the draw."

"Wedge likes to be watched, or at least caught in the act," Simone purrs, smiling up at her husband and folding one leg over his restless hips. "That's his favourite thing ever."

"Well, second to you," Wedge murmurs, sweeping the back of his hand over her cheek. It's a tender, heartfelt gesture that somehow doesn't clash with the turbulence now building in the room, red as the Sanguine Nebula and demanding attention.

She takes his hand and presses a kiss into the palm with a sigh, and that moment of reassurance and devotion somehow leads to the start of serious business. There's a near-palpable shift of dynamic, the pair still a pair, but stretching out a magnetic field meant to include Hobbie alone. Simone nods, Wedge's hand moving with her, and Wedge nods back. Let's do this.

"So what's it gonna be, Klivian? Are you sufficiently uninhibited by controlled substances? Are you comfortable enough with your fantasy to let us bring it to life?"

He hopes his own slack-jawed nod is enough to answer the question. His feelings are like living things right now, turning his body into a hive, queened by the need they implied, the need to just watch. The dreamdust colours have settled into the outskirts of his vision, but his nerves seem to be reaching out, primed to make good use of the pleasure-enhancer streaming through his system. Wedge climbs off Simone and they strip the mangled linens off the bed, tossing them indifferently to the floor. That done, they approach him as a unit, predators with a playful streak, pupils dilated by hunger and the pleezer tab they melted between their tongues. She shapes her body to the music, but he simply focuses on the target and moves forward. Hobbie allows them to lead him over to their bed. Simone sneaks her hand under the lapel of his utility vest and slides it off his arm, Wedge following her lead on the other side. Reaching the foot of the mattress, they rotate him back around to face them, and he sits.

"Just stay put. I'm going to undress her for you. Would you like to see her body?"

"What do you think?"

Hot-eyed and glowering, Wedge steers Simone a few paces back to give Hobbie an unobstructed view. First he unhooks the braces holding her bib into place, letting it drop over her belt. Soon as he grasps the hem of her ruined shirt, however, she puts her hands over his, stiffening.

"What's the matter?" Wedge wants to know.

"Nothing. Kinda. I just remembered, Hobbie has never indicated that he finds me remotely attractive, so I need to prepare for his reaction."

Oh. Oh-kay.

While it's true he isn't often - or doesn't bother, married woman and all - looking at Simone through his usual lothario's eye, it's not as if there's nothing to see. Truth told, apart from Excellent Hanuko (who's almost always in a class by herself), Simone has the loveliest skin Hobbie's ever laid eyes on. Smooth and creamy as the milk in an expertly prepared caflat, set aglow by various suns, with just enough freckles bridging her nose to soften the effect of those severe cheekbones. And whatever opinion she has of her thighs, which must not be all that great, they'd be right at home on a warrior goddess. If Hobbie regrets anything tonight, it's the fact that he likely won't get to hold those sturdy thighs ajar and lick the inside of one from her knee all the way to her pubic bone...at least without losing his fourth and final intact limb.

"Fair enough. You heard her, Rogue Five, she needs to prepare for you to hit the floor when you see how stunning she is."

Hobbie lifts his brows high in agreement. "Sounds good to me, boss."

"I just don't want you to expect more than the reality you're about to get." Sighing, Simone releases Wedge's hands and faces Hobbie again, a look of nervous resignation shaping her face. "What I mean is, I'm not B'rinna."

That Twi'lek Reese pesters night and day? Really? For the life of him, Hobbie can't imagine why her name would come up. Now. Of all times. At least until his brain scans back to their humiliating (on his part) battle underground, and he remembers: at the beginning of the second round, he'd tried to throw B'rinna off her game by activating her pleasure-serving nature. Long story short, he kissed her. Not his most respectable tactic, and to some extent he feels a ballbusting kick was the least he deserved for it (if only because he's supposed to by standards of polite society), but if he got any sort of charge from that liplock, sexual, predatory, or just plain instinctual, you couldn't prove it by his memory. In that context, it felt no different from knocking the slave girl's legs out from under her, a cheap trick designed to give him the upper hand. He's always been a dirty fighter.

But Simone had been watching their clash from some distance away, so he really can't blame her for thinking that, in a particularly heated moment, Hobbie just plain couldn't resist planting one on the famously gorgeous Twi'lek in his immediate proximity. Or that since his taste of her, he'd resent having to settle for less than B'rinna's part-natural, part-manufactured physical perfection. Plus he knows what dancers go through, the neverending deluge of criticism, and how Simone spent most of her formative years having every component of her looks dissected, arranged, and labeled by ruthless choreographers, for ruthless choreographers.

"You don't say." Damn if he can't stop smiling. Damn if this isn't shaping up to be the best night of his life. And damn if he isn't high enough to clear Coruscant airspace, and horny enough to lift a Stardestroyer with his dick. He stands, absently aware that he's wrestling out of his tunic, chucking it who knows where, and slips in behind Simone, barely whispering his hands over the tension in her shoulders. Wedge arranges his features in a way that warns Hobbie to tread lightly, but permits him to carry on so long as Simone doesn't mind. "I know you're not B'rinna. You're human, for starters."


He kisses her temple in what's become a lifelong habit, backing off slowly to appease his boss. "I can be. I've seen you in a bikini, Simone, so that's everything but the naughty bits. You have a beautiful body. I'm pretty sure your husband doesn't disagree."

Not bothering to second the motion, Wedge sets to work completing his task, his teeth bared slightly as he peels her down to her plain black bra and panties, robbing her of those in turn. Hobbie understands now that, while nothing has been formally established, Wedge is the dominant half of this partnership, guiding Simone with hard-earned love and trust. And he can tell by the way Simone sways into each brush of his hands, each soothing kiss, that love and trust are the only absolutes within their marriage.

Naked now, Simone stands with her right shoulder and left hip set at opposing angles, invisible bones pushing against each proffered curve to exaggerate it as much as possible. The coy descent of her eyelids is at odds with her standard outta-my-way attitude, but Hobbie likes the look of her lashes feathered across her cheek. While she's not known for wearing deliberate seductiveness well, the pose is a holdover from her years as a professional dancer, meant to create a fluidity of line that echoes music structure. It works. He's seen less effective from celebrated calendar models. Her fine skin moulded to her collarbone, her muscles cresting within her powerful limbs, her erratic constellations of moles, her pebbled nipples and wide-set hips and saucy round ass, even the relative softness of her belly, crowning a mat of hair several shades darker than what spills down her back...if there's anything before the two men to criticise, it's for being cosmetically incorrect rather than aesthetically unappealing. All he can think is what a perfect substitute that belly must be for a pillow, or maybe a platter for aging a summer afternoon deliciously on fruit.

Behind her, in stealth mode, he can see Wedge shedding his street clothes, treating himself to a caress of his wife's bare skin each time something hits the floor. When he steps into view, Hobbie's eyes can't help it - they go right to that notorious cock, engorged with blood and fire. It's a task not to be intimidated; here's a man who's made "Look at the size of that thing!" one of his best-known quotes, and all you want to do is turn it back on his anatomy.

Of course he's already seen the Rogue Leader bareassed, in the showers, his crank slumbering against his balls but still inviting hoots and hollers from his squadmates. They've invoked serpentine creatures while assessing Wedge's equipment, long-range weapons, landmark skyscrapers, you name it. It makes the guys feel better, Hobbie guesses, to treat an oversized member like a malformed beast that inspires apprehension over desire. But this is an all-new sight, an all-new limit, Wedge standing here without a fek to give, lean, battle-scarred, face and shoulders flushed, his cock ripe and ready for fucking. Hobbie decides to stop wasting time and make short work of his combat boots and training fatigues, despite feeling ridiculously boyish next to his squad leader. His height advantage and comparable muscle mass only go so far, at which point you have to start comparing a mat of chest hair to a smooth, freckled plain, not to mention Hobbie's polite aristocrat dick. For once he's grateful for his impressive collection of scars and cybernetics.

By now his cock is by no means dormant, but it's got some catching up to do. Nerves, probably. He lets them watch - quid pro quo, as the saying goes on Ralltiir - this process of dry-wanking, keeping his hand loose and slow but just snug enough to torment himself, pausing every so often to take his pulse and temperature with a squeeze.

"Getting all systems go, huh?" Wedge teases.

"Ha, trust me, Commander, I'm not having any trouble with that. You two could power all of Coruscant for the rest of your lives if you keep this up. I'm just trying not to die from the wait over here."

Wedge's brow clouds over again. "Well, don't get your hopes too high, because you're not putting your dick in either of us. Look to your heart's content, maybe some light physical contact if we're feeling generous, but keep your parts and labour to yourself."

Parts and labour - probably Hobbie's favourite Wedge-ism, and he can tell by Simone's stifled chuckle that she enjoys it, too. "Believe it or not, I am fully okay with that. Just don't halfass your performance."

"As if we ever do," Simone assures him, taking a playful bite of her husband's lower lip as he approaches for another kiss.

"Ow! Freak..."

On this cue, Wedge grabs her above the elbows and sends her sailing backward onto the bed. He follows close behind, shifting his focus to the apex of her thighs. So far she hasn't let Hobbie in on that secret; all he's seen is hair. In the interest of full disclosure, Wedge slightly tilts her hips in his squadmate's direction as he unlocks her at the knees, inviting him to take it all in, the delicate fissure and the ruddy petals lurking just inside.

"Rogue Five, I think you and I are good to go, but if you'll give me half a moment to inspect the conditions...here." One finger skims up her slit; a second joins the same path partway down, applying pressure at the halfway point, splitting her florid lips apart and releasing a faint waft of scent. She moans to further encourage him, getting her restless hands all over his neck and hair and face. "Mmm, hot and humid, that's a good sign. Now let's see if I can make it rain."

Settling into the open space, Wedge draws up, bathing her in two gusts of breath, hot followed by cool. Before a soft curse can flee Simone's mouth, he paints his tongue over her core, dragging it slowly up and away as her fingers lock tight in his hair. Repeating the process a few more times, stopping to fluff her clit with each return, he brings his hands back to the insides of her thighs and lifts her knees above her hips, nudging and pressing until they fan out a full one-eighty degrees, causing her to unfurl like a nocturnal blossom.

"Good girl, open wide," he says thickly. "Show our friend how limber you are." He buries his face again, winding his tongue down her pleats and folds until he can stab it deep inside her, his thumb circling her clit.

"Oh, damn!" Hobbie exclaims, gathering up his cock and balls just to keep his hands busy. He's not wholly convinced what he's seeing is real - Wedge and Simone, sure, but not the lecherous image of her thighs butterflied to the mattress as he digs in, devouring her pussy like a crazed chocoholic at a dessert cart. If it's not real, he should sneak into the Night Factory 'fresher more often.

Pleased to have successfully opened the skies, Wedge reaches up to take Simone's trembling hand. Clinging tight, he pulls away for a moment, hesitates, holds her clit in peril between two fingers, and dives down hard, latching his lips around it and sucking. Hobbie groans aloud, watches her flesh stretch into his mouth, hears her shrieking, and tries to imagine her budding orgasm reaching its full vibrant bloom courtesy of Wedge's fine-tuned oral skills. Her hips judder, her belly collapses in on itself, and she adds her own deliberate gyrations, content to ride out her climax all over her husband's face.

Wedge surfaces, his lips soaked, rubbing the crick in his neck and rumbling with laughter.

"'I'm not B'rinna' - you dodgy little minx."

No sooner do the words leave his mouth than he pounces with a quickness, tipping Simone to one side so he can straddle her thigh, draping the other leg along his shoulder and hugging it close. That's all he needs - he's in position before she can recover, aligned before she can react, inside before she can respond, his hips lunging neatly forward to spear her depths.

"Watch, Lieutenant. Watch me fuck her."

So he does as he's told. It's his first time outside his own experience or a pornographic holofilm seeing a cock slick in and out of a pussy, and the outsider's perspective pools in his groin with the weight of a black hole. Nothing can escape this outbreak of lust, not light, not darkness, not matter or antimatter, nothing. Wedge moves in deep, slow, measured thrusts, retracting all the way back until at least half the head clears her portal, letting the light ignite the wetness she's deposited over him, then sinking as close to the hilt as his length and her depth will allow. Several gnarled veins wrapped around his shaft seem to swell with pride at the audience appreciation.

Hobbie snorts, the standard response to a Corellian trying to best a Ralltiirian in bed. "Show off. But talk about locked and loaded."

With the same single-minded focus he brings to the seat of his X-Wing, Wedge adjusts their angle so that each incoming plunge can rasp his pubic hair over her clit. Hobbie considers the muscles activating all over his back and ass and legs, not questioning how women could get turned on by such a display. Simone, not content to let Wedge do all the work, takes to clamping her sheath down on the retreats, grunting with the effort, hooking her fingernails into his nipples as if she plans to rip them clean off at the first false move.

"Oh, fekking hell, this never gets old. No matter how many times, I can't wait to do it again. Oh, gods, take it, Simone, yes."

"Mmm, yeah, I will. Just don't stop, don't even think about it. I swear I'll draw blood if you do."

"Maniac. So help me, you're going to feel this for days. Every step you take. If you can even get out of bed." Slowing the beat of his hips, he leans forward, snaring one hand around her throat and showing her a full death-glare. "What's more, I'll flip you like a sack of potatoes and jam it straight up your ass if you threaten me again."

Although this thread of conversation could well be staged for his benefit, Hobbie doubts it; there's too much evidence giving this away as the exact height and pitch of their arousal, plus it sounds like they've had multiple previous variations of this exchange. Could be Wedge has more in common with Reese Compton than their rivalry suggests, the only difference being accessories and technique.

Cursing a blue streak, Wedge builds and maintains a thunderous rhythm until his wife voices a series of moans, each one deeper than the last...then finally, with his hips churning against hers, picking up speed until a full rotation is completed before resuming the initial slow, deliberate grind, Simone tosses her head back and starts making enough noise to wake the dead, or at least the entire Seventh Wave complex. She claws his shoulders and squirms to fully express the intensity of her release, except she looks like she's trying to escape, and Wedge keeps his hand on her throat and his stream of profanities running until her movements wane. "Oh, baby," she keens, twitching beneath him, each breath coming apart on the exhale. Immediately her husband's face softens, and he skims his hand away from her throat and into her sweat-logged hair, lifting her face toward his so he can kiss some calm into her, her leg crushed between their bodies.

"Now that's just hot," Hobbie proclaims, thinking he could come at any time, only the slightest stimulation needed, but warning himself not to prove it.

"Argh! Okay, I gotta have a time out. Everything's spinning." Panting and cursing, sobbing laughter, Wedge unplugs himself from his wife, a fresh crop of sweat sheeting his skin and and dusting his chest hair. Gripping the base of his cock in one hand, he reaches over and gives Hobbie a chummy slap on the shoulder, preempting any worries that may come up. "Just relax, Klivian. The show's not over. There isn't much we wouldn't enjoy doing for you."

"We don't do butt stuff," Simone interjects, and if Hobbie isn't mistaken, there's a vague tinge of regret in her voice. For his sake alone, he suspects.

Wedge looks genuinely confused. "Since when?"

"Okay, if spanking counts, or my fingers, then yeah, we do butt stuff. Just not phallic penetration. You know what I mean."

"I can see why," Hobbie says, biting his lip and wincing as another round of feverish throbbing sets into his tortured shaft, referring pulses all the way to the sides of his face. "It's a good thing you're not gay, boss; they'd know you by the trail of dead."

Wedge just growls at that, his cock still poised menacingly over Simone's inflamed gash, the flesh of her thigh gone dead-white where his fingers press in, and Hobbie swears he can feel, smell even, their generated heat from where he's crouched at the foot of the bed.

"Still your call, Klivian. Should I go back in a different way, or did you have another activity in mind?"

"I want her to suck you good and hard," Hobbie says, surprising himself only a little with his authoritative demand. He addresses Simone next. "I want to see just how much of that you can fit in your mouth."

"In that case, prepare to be astounded." She draws her leg from beneath her husband, bouncing to her knees and snaring him in a one-armed embrace, the other descending a bit more slowly than necessary, her intent to grasp Wedge's cock obvious in the angle of her wrist and set of her fingers. He groans into her mouth, dipping his tongue deep as she glides down and scoops up his balls. She wiggles her bottom, which he roughly captures in both hands, smudging a bead of pre-ejaculate over her belly as he draws her in tight. The break their kiss, breathless, and Simone turns back to Hobbie. "Kneeling just like this, lying back, sitting on my face? It's your show, after all."

"Hmmm..." He wasn't anticipating so many questions or specifics, but they aren't off-putting, per se. No, he's just coming to believe that his enjoyment isn't necessarily subject to his own preference. "Whatever works for you, so long as I have a clear view of everything."

They lumber around on the bed for a few seconds, Hobbie keeping what he considers a minimum safe distance. Wedge flops onto his back with his feet outspread, cupping the nape of Simone's neck as she rocks it back and forth, prepping her muscles for the assault, rubbing her jaw to get it in good working order. Watching her ready herself, Hobbie suddenly realises that he'd rather not flay the skin off his dick when he starts pulling in earnest.

"Wait. I need something..." He makes a few gestures to indicate lubricant, hoping they don't get too lost in translation. Luckily, Simone flicks her chin toward the night table on the left.

"Top drawer. Help yourself."

He rummages for a moment, hoping she doesn't mean the pot of cream embossed with a high-end logo and highfalutin language he doesn't understand. But after a twice over through the drawer's contents, it's clear she does. "Seriously? This is for your face!"

"So? Put it on your dick," she trills tartly, gazing down at the appendage in question. "From the pristine looks of that sucker, you've been wanking with expensive skincare for years." Wedge interrupts his T&A massage to burst out laughing.

Hobbie collects a dab of pinkish goop and resumes his perch on the edge of the bed, pouting. "Made out of mouth, as always."

"Yeah, but there's a way to shut me up," she retorts. Wedge voices his anticipation with a groan, teasing his cockhead under her lower lip, hint hint.

Though her lips are fairly petite and delicate, Simone takes full advantage of her broad smile and strong jaw while welcoming all that girth into her mouth, Wedge snarling his assent as he offers more. She sucks half his length twice, digressing with a tongue bath before going for three, four, five. Then there's a moment of suspense while she locks his cock in place and upends her throat, holding them both at the same vertical angle, and allows it to plunge all the way in, the tip of her nose vanishing into his pubes. Wedge makes a noise like he's been scalded, and Hobbie doesn't blame him one bit.

"Bloody hell, woman!" Wide-eyed, he feels his hand moving faster, gripping tighter, at the sight. His cockhead is weeping so much it's left a puddle just southeast of his navel. "Now I need to see you doing the same thing with those swords of yours. She's really talented, isn't she?"

Simone spits out Wedge's cock for a moment and takes a gulp of air, shrugging, a few stray locks of dirty-blonde hair spilling over her shoulder in the process. Wedge sweeps them away, his touch steadying her face, unable to take his eyes off her. "Not so much. I can only do it for a second before I want to gag."

"Trust us, no-one's complaining. Least of all me," Wedge says, his laughter shapeshifting into another agonised moan as she resumes her services. "Mmm, yes, such a naughty, sexy, whore-wife," he hisses, gazing hotly down at the link they've made, accentuating each word with a shallow thrust into Simone's mouth.

"Play with his balls," Hobbie suggests, jostling his own in one hand as if he's about to throw dice. "Lick them. Get your mouth all over him. I like how you're making him lose control. Wedge, that means speak up when it feels good. Really let go and let me hear it."

They do all the above as if he's holding a scorecard and they're determined to get a perfect 10.

Reluctantly Wedge pulls Simone off his dick, into his arms, petting her damp cheek as she gives him her neck to kiss. "Enough of that. It's time. What's your poison, Lieutenant? How do you like to finish the job?"

Inspiration strikes right away, and they're too far gone for mind games. "I want to see her bounce up and down on your cock. I want you to lie back and give her the ride of her life. Simone, that sound like a plan to you?"

Simone can't quite smooth the snags out of her departing breath, and Hobbie is glad. "Aces high."

Once she's astride Wedge, Hobbie has a brief mental lament that the Rogue Squadron people know has built a name on ending lives, not exchanging pleasure, and how most of the same people consider the destructive version more honourable than the creative one. It's too easy, for one thing; the creativity behind the destruction is the real challenge because it's what minimises casualties. But since pleasure is a thing people seek and want and enjoy, pursuing it isn't as noble as putting yourself in the position to suffer, or some such rot. Ordering his mind back to the present, he watches Simone sink down and swallow Wedge whole, her pussy showing only token signs of resistance, taking in more than their first round indicated. She lets him soak inside her, shaping her box to accommodate an invasion both familiar and foreign. No matter how much of each other they get, they always seem just this shy of starvation for more. That must hurt like hell, loving someone so much your heart feels full to the point of bursting at all times, but you can't resist the what-if of pushing it even further toward the brink, hairsbreadth by hairsbreadth. It must be the most exquisite pain next to an orgasm, only longer-lasting, housed in the heart instead of the body.

"Hard?" Simone asks, bracing her arms above his shoulders, bunching a double handful of pillow, her pussy flush against his balls.

"Go," Wedge huffs greedily, clapping his hands down on her buttocks and lifting them a bit so he can echo her rolling hips. A nipple finds its way into his mouth and his lips hang on for dear life, breath gusting in and out of his nose. For a spell Hobbie alternates his gaze between their bodies colliding and their faces contorting, eventually choosing output over mechanics.

Then there's little but heated motion and wet noise, capped off by Hobbie's parts and labour mirroring the pace set at his side. Somewhere in this delirium, with her husband's hands flared over her pelvis and his thumbs converging at her clit, Simone announces her third orgasm, the event passing like a meteor through an overcast sky, but making his body plead to follow suit nonetheless. He wonders if this is a one-off or the start of an ongoing trend, if it'll ever come to Simone nestled between the two men, with Hobbie still not allowed to penetrate maybe, but at least he'll get a full measure of that luscious skin. Hell, he can't say he'd altogether mind making Wedge the sandwich filling, Hobbie and Simone holding him up like a deflector shield as they pump out a tempo of their choosing.

Whatever you do, he cautions himself, don't ask. Not tonight.

At some point Hobbie finds himself stretched out parallel to his squad leader on the mattress, his vision skewed sideways. When he lets himself come, clutching his spouting cockhead against his middle, he feels as if his skull is flying apart in fifty directions, his mind laid bare for anyone to read, misread, adorn, deface. For what feels like an eon he thrusts mindlessly into his slick hand, his seed scorching his skin, coiled around himself as if he's taken one of Simone's blades to the gut, wailing at the pleezer-enhanced intensity and wish fulfillment of it all, the mismatched length of his legs, real and synthesised, quivering.

Wedge's face and his hold on Simone's hips have gone equally frantic, his body lurching violently beneath her, plunging so deep at the critical point it's a wonder she doesn't start choking. "Oh, Sith - I'm gonna come!"

"Yeah?" In a single lithesome movement, Simone frees Wedge's cock from its sumptuous confines. The three of them watch it land on his belly with a soft smack, head purpled and glistening as it bobs back up, still wanting contact. Husband and wife reach for it at the same time. Locking eyes, hands moving in counterpoint along his shaft, Simone's half-smirk meets Wedge's pained grimace in a clash for equilibrium just before his orgasm breaks loose. Wedge chokes out a laboured grunt as the initial launch arcs high, streaking Simone's collarbone and the underside of her chin before joining the beads of sweat on his chest, then utters diminishing wails of pleasure with each subsequent blast, taking cursory aim at his wife's breasts, but more invested in the power of his climax than carnal target practice. For a moment Hobbie thinks Wedge is just going to lie there forever with his eyes slammed shut and his teeth bared and his spine clenched, shooting this particular load, but before the thought can truly alarm him the flow dies. Just his voided cock and balls spasming below ribbons of cum dripping off his torso, his hazel-brown eyes struggling to refocus above that. Weakly he draws his fist up his full length, hilt to head, wringing out whatever might linger inside. Exhaling sharply, mindblown, he recognises Simone with a smile and transfers his hand to her face, smoothing a thumb over her lips, the two sharing a chuckle as her fingertips skate up his sternum, collecting a trace of his spill before dipping into his mouth.

Rapt, Hobbie doesn't protest when Simone collects more of their combined juice from Wedge's cock and urges him to sample it as well. A leftover ache from his own finish haunts his core, burning dully. He sort of blanks out most of the flavour, but keeps enough wits about him to declare it not disgusting. He delivers his final verdict while her index finger swirls around the inside of his lower lip. "Damn. Just...damn."

"We're guessing that was good for you, Lieutenant."

"Oh, hell, yes. So hot and wild and dirty, you can't imagine." He licks his lips, swallows, licks them again. The mattress sinks lower as Simone dismounts, stretching out on her side between the two men, facing Hobbie. Wedge spoons her close, coiling his leg around her and kissing the sideslope of her neck, making her sigh and wiggle one last time. Hobbie was going to offer to fetch a towel, but apparently they aren't opposed to wearing their mess to bed, so he declines. Besides, if the sticky reek of sweat and spunk and female essence gets to be too much, the bath's not going anyplace. "I guess this is where you kick me out so you can have your postcoital cuddle in peace."

They blink sleepily at him, and Simone places a cooling hand on his shoulder, tugging a bit to urge him closer, leaving it there once he complies. "Nah, we think you should stick around. You'll never find your way back to your room in your condition, anyway."

"Good, because I didn't want to wake up tomorrow wondering if this was real. Thanks, you guys," he says, kissing Simone's hand as he relaxes, angling his neck to close the gap between their heads.

"Anything for a friend."


One upside to this dumpster fire of a political climate in both the USA (where I'm from) and the UK (where I live): my writer's brain has experienced a renaissance the likes of which I haven't seen since the late aughts. I'd completely abandoned fanfiction to focus on my marriage and my career as a makeup artist, but dude, I am BACK, and I'm going hard with the catharsis.

So...how are you lot?

Shellshock Wholesale

Goddamn, 2016, you really are a fucker.

I'm An Immigrant, Too

Paul and I got married on 24 May. And then Brexit happened a month later. It's just not a good era to live in a predominantly white English-speaking country, is it? Truly a letdown to the generations raised on the internet, discovering that, cultural mandates and taboos aside, we all have more similarities than differences as human beings. Considering all the lovely French, Polish, Greek, Indian, Filipino, Thai, and Pakistani people I've met since moving to York, I will not let an elitist scumbag like Nigel Farage suggest that a person's worth in and to the world hinges almost entirely on being squeezed out of the right cooch within the right land borders. Never. I want my legacy to be such the diametric opposite to his, and to Donald Trump's, that people wonder centuries from now if we actually belonged to the same stage of human evolution.

The good news is, I left the States as a well-known makeup artist within my city's fashion scene and can look forward to an interesting and creative career once my spouse visa is granted. I may hold on to my US Citizenship, though, since a major selling point, to me, of becoming a British citizen was being able to work and travel freely within the EU. Paris and Milan might still be in my future, but the script faces re-writes.

On a final related note, the worst part, by far, is hearing all the stories of emboldened racists throughout the UK attacking Middle Eastern, Eastern European, and Asian people with cries of hateful triumph, none of which I've faced so far because, you know, I'm white (mostly--some Native American and Southeast Asian going on in this bloodstream) and speak near-flawless, if Americanised, English. If I make it to the Anti-Brexit rally in York this Saturday (not likely because Paul and I are going on holiday), I plan to hold signs that say "I'm an immigrant, too"/ "We're all foreigners someplace". And so help me, Wedge, if my xenophobic father-in-law, who once referred to Shadiq Kahn as a "Paki" like that was the only vote of no confidence necessary in his right to serve as London's mayor, ever refers to me as an "expat", I am going to make him take all the seats so fast his spine's going to look like an accordion. I am an IMMIGRANT, motherfucker. IMMI-to-the-GRANT. Say it, accept it, BELIEVE IT.


I live in England now. And I have done for just over two months. In case anybody was left wondering.

You Have No Idea

I have conversed at length with several atheists from the Middle East. And you want to whine about how oppressive and challenging it is to be a Christian in the United States? Pfft, yeah, you're breaking my heart.

Please Consider Donating


Good night, Deah, Yusor, and Razan. You deserved a better legacy--it breaks my heart that this literally is the least we can do.


Here's what I'm taking away from the Chapel Hill shootings, and frankly, it should be obvious to anyone who doesn't consider 'Murrica the centre of the known universe: to faith or not to faith is the lesser issue, compared with living in a society that glorifies violence, vendettas, vengeance, and good old boot-in-the-ass aggression, while scoffing off compromise and compassion as the wuss' way out.

Make no mistake, here: I hate most religions pretty much equally. Loathe them. Detest them. I may or may not reserve extra contempt for the Abrahamic triad, what with all their emphasis on second-class citizenship, and may or may not find certain aspects of Eastern mysticism charming for their childlike lack of guile.

The point is, people are still people. Islam and Muslims, for example, are two different nouns. An abstract idea and its concrete subscribers. And while I have absolute zero interest in practising Islam (or Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, etc.) itself, I'm always ready to sit down and rap with a Muslim in search of the common ground I value more than conflict.

All the blame should be placed on the ideology and the SPECIFIC extremist crusaders using it to promote fascism--who, it goes without saying, should be clearly identified before they're pursued. Any rational person can put an individual ahead of their systemic beliefs or rejection thereof; any rational person can simultaneously harbour respect for human life and distaste for thoughtschools they find detrimental to society. But common sense is known to hit a wall when your culture is stuck on a destruction narrative, if only because it's so much quicker and easier than creation.

Another thing: I don't want to spend much time on this tip, but it's really frustrating that when a Muslim or an atheist goes on a killing spree in the States, half their respective communities have to step forward with disclaimers...whereas when something like Eric Rudolph or Timothy McVeigh happens, it goes without saying that Christians are innocent. They never have to face the court of public opinion the way the rest of us do.

(But to hear FoxNews talk, it's open season on Christians. Of course it is. Pull the other leg while you're at it; I could use the extra height.)

I'm Gonna Make it After All

Noticing a pattern with this idiocy in my body (aka. fibromyalgia). Of course it takes me a little longer than usual to fight my way out of bed, but then I run at normal speed once I've had some coffee and spun an '80s playlist or two. Then comes the midmorning energy spurt, which I usually squander applying makeup, running errands, networking a bit, whatever needs doing. Right after noon--depending on when I eat lunch--I crash like Flight 815. Takes roundabout two hours to coax myself back from the brink of sleep, but I don't fully regroup until 5-6PM, when another manic (by comparison) blast hits. I'm glad this is starting to reveal itself, because once I get on top of the sequence, I can dominate it instead of the other way round.
Just dropping this off here until MakeupAlley stops acting a punk.

REVIEW: Kat Von D Shade + Light Contour Palette

This may not be the most universal palette of its kind, but it's definitely the most cohesive I've seen so far. Compared to contour palettes from Anastasia, Tarte, Ulta, and It Cosmetics--lovely as all those are in their way--not one colour in Shade + Light had me thinking, "What in all time and space am I supposed to do with THIS?" Instead, I immediately assigned each powder to a specific light-manipulating detail.

LUCID: Ivory, to enhance high points of the face

SOMBRE: True taupe, to hollow out cheekbones, reduce forehead space, and sculpt the nose

LYRIC: Pale yellow, to lift darkness and discolouration, esp. around the eyes

SHADOWPLAY: Soft bronze, to warm up facial perimeter

LEVITATION: Peach, for a social lubricant between the darker and lighter shades

SUBCONSCIOUS: Neutral brown, for extra definition--or showing an obnoxious double chin who's boss

One thing I didn't expect to like so much about this palette is the semi-matte finish of the highlight shades--but now that I've put it into practice, I absolutely ADORE it. There's a lot to be said for using similar textures to offset one another, bringing some features forward and receding others, then targeting just a few specific areas (crest of the cheekbone, nose bridge, cupid's bow) with shimmer.

Money well spent. We have a keeper.

Manifesto Time

"JE SUIS CHARLIE" says the marquee at Asheville Pizza & Brewing company. And I had to read it out loud in solidarity. Parce que oui, je suis Charlie.


I'm Nigeria, too. And Palestine. And Tibet. And the World Trade Center. And Flight 93. And the Oklahoma Federal Building. And Olympic Park in Atlanta. And Matthew Shepard. I'm everyone who's ever taken a bullet, a beating, or a bomb for someone else's ideology...if not prejudice. And if an atheist commits an act of terrorism in the future, I'll stand with the victims then, too. Human rights before personal beliefs, always.

Homemade Brain Candy

Say what you will about acupuncture, but it often ends up being a psychological purge as well as a pain treatment. Today, through no intention of my own, the subject of my fantasies came up: I'm not a person who hosts an entire brain channel overtly sexual fantasies. I'm really not. Obviously I enjoy that aspect of my relationship with Paul, and I think about it a lot, but not to the point where it becomes a mental Penthouse Forum letter to myself. And if there's, for example, an interlude in the Seventh Wave saga where I feel like Wedge and Simone Antilles should be making love, or Luke Skywalker and Xanadu Bloodshy need another night together, I have no trouble getting to that place.

But most of my FANTASIES, as in recurring hypothetical scenarios I use to entertain myself, aren't about sex. What they are about, since I did notice a common thread during our session, is DOMINATION.

There's the rock star fantasy (that's manifested in a number of my writing projects)...the fantasy where I emerge victorious in hand-to-hand combat against multiple opponents (ditto)...and the Houdini fantasy, where I escape all sorts of confinements and deathtraps (not yet). Maybe, as a woman, I consider sexual dominance too obvious and would rather achieve it by infiltrating one boys' club or another...I don't know. But it's always nice to talk about these things with someone who doesn't do shock.

We also discussed how space--the cosmos--represents freedom to me, whereas nothing makes me feel more threatened than going around in circles. I never liked the Tilt-a-Whirl, at all. At least a ferris wheel gives you a nice view while it spins.

On a Separate Note...

My doctors think I have fibromyalgia. Confirmation/ diagnostic process to begin next month. Physical therapy twice a week in the meantime. Wedge, give me strength.

Departure Vector

(Something I wrote after the last election. Enjoy.)

Time to break it down and--hopefully--keep it down. So there was a post I ran across the other day that brought my blood to a nice, high, rolling boil. I'm not going to name names because the original author and the sharer are people I know and respect, despite featuring no common ground in the political sphere with me. This is not about them, it's about the terminology used...because it contained a lot of lingo the right-wing community likes to display like flashcards when debates are afoot. Specifically, what they see as the "liberal agenda". But each accusation is so fragile, so quickly and easily demolished, that even a professional eyeshadow-swiper/ lipstick-wielder like me can make rubble out of them. So let's pop in a few quarters and press Start, shall we?

"High Taxes"
So what you're saying is, you don't want to pay it forward. You have no interest in sustaining the society that sustains you; you'd rather just pig out on whatever you can get from it, and then give it the finger. Where I come from, that's called being a parasite, and--since most of you won't shut up about being wingmen of Christ--it's effectively the polar opposite of WWJD. Granted, I'm no fan of taxes being siphoned up by war machines and corporate bailouts, but if I were offered proof that the same mandatory percentage were contributing to a stronger infrastructure, education system, medical/ scientific community...even just incentives for veterans, battered partners, or the impoverished to pursue a higher quality of life...you wouldn't get a snarl out of me. And no, it's absolutely not fair to slice the same percentage from all stops along the economic continuum. Throw "punishing the rich for being successful" at me like it's some kind of unhittable curveball, and I'll line-drive "punishing the poor for lacking the means to buy more toys" right back at you, so don't even get me in that batter's box. (Of course, we could narrow the wage gap and that would resolve a lot of this, but never mind, this is America; we don't go in for rational solutions.) Maybe it's time to start looking at your country as an immediate family member, and forge a "personal relationship" (if you see what I did there) based on symbiosis, teamwork, and quid pro quo. It's there for you, you're there for it, and things just might stabilise after all.

"Reverse Discrimination"
Otherwise known, in most cases, as "not appreciating it when someone flips the script on your prejudice(s) and makes a fool out of you". Tsk, tsk, tsk. Well, allow me to spell out the fine print you've been ignoring: no-one has the right to call you out for merely being white, or male, or straight, or moneyed, or Christian, or whatever conservative criteria you typify. There's no shame in being any of those things, even all of them at once. But if you stand on those attributes while being a joik to someone who can't or won't join your club, all bets are off.

"Murder of Children"
Sigh. Because all abortions are brutal late-term numbers performed on promiscuous, low-income slatterns (smack tracks optional) by mua-ha-haing sadists (clown masks optional) with disastrous and often fatal results (exploding vagina optional). Get serious. Of course, when I think "murder of children" I think of something like the Sandy Hook massacre, but potato/ potahto, tomato/ tomahto, amirite? The killer used a Second Amendment toolkit to wipe out a bunch of post-natals, so it doesn't count. I regret to inform you (no, really) there will never be a foolproof way to stop abortions from ever happening again, but we could bring down the numbers with a one-two punch of comprehensive sex education and affordable birth control...ah, bugger, there I go again with the rational solutions.

"Mass Dependency"
You wanna talk mass (and woefully misplaced) dependency, what about our energy companies ripping up the planet for finite quantities of power sources while thwarting our attempts to implement cleaner, more accessible options...because it'll mean less green wallpaper for their offshore bank accounts? As I said before, we could revive the "made in the USA" label and treat our workers like autonomous human beings worthy of living wages, healthcare, and time off in the process...but, no, it's their own bloody fault they can't pony up enough money for education, safety nets, or the white-collar American Dream, so let 'em eat cake. (Maybe if they prayed harder and paid their tithes, God would give them a leg up.)

"Lack of Personal Responsibility"
Oh, for Wedge's sake. I can't touch this one without using the word "hypocrisy" or its synonyms about a baker's dozen times, so I won't.

"Moral Decline"
Hang on...you mean...the mind-boggling notion...the Straight Outta Bizarro World concept...that homosexuals, freethinkers, free spirits, and people (ie. women) who enjoy sex for its own sake...are NOT moral or social liabilities? That people's choices, beliefs, and lifestyles don't have to be Xerox copies of your own in order to be viable or functional? That my gay friend Marcelo isn't out to HIV-bomb your children any more than I'm out to convert them into little fuchsia-haired, pottymouthed, polysyllable-dropping atheists? Oh, snap, there goes your entire life's mission. Seriously, you fail at being the hero in the choose-your-own-adventure plot of your life, because you want to create an enemy using people who shouldn't get more than a cameo in a mob scene, even if they do tend to stand out a little more than the people on either side of them. If you're truly offended by someone's behaviour and want to tattle on them to your God, knock yourself out. But until someone takes/ threatens lives, causes injury, makes off with personal property, or destroys more than they create...stop worrying about how they screw in their lightbulbs and mind your own beeswax, if you have any.

Done and done. Accepting high-fives, death threats, or whatever else you've got.

Because We're Creepy Like That

Numerous retaliations later, it seems that Mrs. Kimberly Hall (FYI: If You're a Teenage Girl) has pearl-clutched her way into the slut-shaming Hall of Fame.

Wedge be praised.

When the original article first blighted my Facebook newsfeed (courtesy of several right-wing Southern neo-Christians), and curiosity had its way with me, I reached the last sentence and...I'm hard to shame as far as human sexuality goes; I consider it a waste of time and a slap in biology's face. But for the most uncharacteristic moment, I felt dirty. Dirty for ever walking with a little extra sway in my hips, dirty for ever writing graphic sex scenes with a little too much relish, dirty for ever choosing a bang-pow red lip over a discreet nude, dirty for ever leaving my house in anything more revealing than, for instance, a body bag.

Surely, I thought once I regained my mental footing, I can't be the only one thinking, if her saintly boyspawn can't see a braless girl (And how many of us wear a tit harness under our peejays?) without reducing her to a monodimensional phallus receptacle, doesn't that say more about THEM than HER?

Surely we're all within our rights to proudly display whatever character trait has the floor at a given time, be it desirability, intellect, compassion, nerdiness, or modesty?

Surely "moral purity" is a case-by-case concept, and to the extent that no-one is killed, injured, or otherwise screwed over, no side of your personality is worth more basic respect, courtesy, and self-control than the others?

What a relief to know I'm not alone in this. After all, while my handsome, sexy, brilliant, witty fiancé has an obvious fetish for the junk in my trunk, it doesn't prevent him from acknowledging the contents of my brain or heart just as often.

Danielle's Faith in Humanity: Commanding Lead
Kimberly Hall's Self-Righteous Outrage: Goose Egg

Born on the Wrong Side of the Pond

These photos from my summer holiday/ tour of my future home [York, UK, with a bonus week in Cornwall] are set to public view, so hopefully y'all can see them.

Glamoursnipe Takes Great Britian

Union Jill

Just got back from one rockin' romantic adventure in the UK. Raise your hand if you'd like to know more.

A: No leaving the bed until I've racked up at least six hours of sleep.

B: Coffee can't wait. Especially when it's chasing a fistful of Midol.

C: Avoid the news in all formats, including satirical. Read Carl Sagan instead. Get caught up in the infinite.

D: Spend a minimum of five minutes cuddling and/ or playing with each dog.

E: Try to keep a lid on any snide remarks about why America doesn't deserve a "birthday" celebration this year. Might as well soak up our freedom while some vestige thereof remains the law of the land.

F: If all else fails, bear in mind that I've only a week's wait to get my Union Jill on with the love of my life.

Real-Time Visibility

Sorry I vanished without a trace for so long. That's what happens when your life starts making demands: a marriage to plan, a UK holiday to book, a career to pursue. The latter begins today--look below if you want a hint--and when I get home, I'll answer the comments I've been neglecting and check in with the rest of you.

So, this is it. Wedge, give me strength.

TAG: Confidence, Bullying, Inner Beauty

Does your confidence ever suffer? Why?

Not as much as it used to; lack of confidence is no longer something that permeates my life and personal identity, but we all have our structural damage, and mine always seems to strike in the form of selling myself short. I set high standards for other people, but nearly impossible ones for myself, and why? Because I’m vain, insecure, a perfectionist, I fluctuate between inferiority and superiority complexes, and I feed on validation. Because I want to be impressive, and no-one’s harder to impress than me. Because I’m too human for my own good.

Do you lose confidence when you don’t feel attractive?
Of course, because I’m quite visually oriented, but again, it has more to do with meeting my own standards than society’s. Maybe that’s a warped upside, but it is what it is. Most of the time, though, I’m cool with my physical appearance, in that it rarely factors into my sense of self-worth—it used to, particularly after I moved up north and put on so much weight and just went around feeling trapped in my own body. I still don’t love my body, but enough work has gone into improving it that I’ve achieved a point of, “You’re not ideal, but you’ll do. For now.” But I lose ten times more confidence from writer’s block or creative ennui than I do from my premenstrual zits. Surely that counts for something.

What makes you feel confident about yourself?
My individuality, more than anything, then my humanism, then how passionately I can give a damn about something or someone, once I do. My determination to be and express myself has cost me a lot of alleged friends, but at the same time, it’s rewarded me with Paul, ie. the best thing that’s ever happened to me, so it’s impossible to underrate the positive.

Have you ever been bullied?

Ouch. Guess it's time for some full disclosure about my school experience. Kindergarten through fourth grade, apart from a certain teacher who should be receiving my therapy bills any time now, weren’t so bad. I wasn’t the best or most popular student, but I wasn’t exactly suffering…most of the kids, and the teachers, probably saw me as an eccentric loner who rocked at reading and science but sucked at math and sports, dismissing me accordingly. No problem, except when my inner attention junkie had the floor. Fifth grade was pretty brutal, my first taste of full-on bullying…I don’t know what was going on; I think one or two of the popular boys just singled me out for their own reasons and, being as well-liked as they were, more kids jumped on board than didn’t. Lots of crying myself to sleep when I was ten. In grade six things leveled out again, but I’d changed somewhere along the line; my trust and work ethic were a shambles, so I spent every day in every class with my guard up, completely spaced out, carrying a grudge from the year before, and waiting for the worst-case scenario. Seventh grade on was where the excrement hit the air-cooling device, and it was set on a loop. The whole school was a booby trap of abuse, attacks, standoffs, and threats, and the only way to avoid it was to hide or ditch. Which I did. Often. Once for so many consecutive days that a rumour got started wherein I’d offed myself. Actually, I think that was when I had pneumonia, but still…I hated school with a pitch-black passion, and if I didn’t have a legitimate reason to stay home, I’d fake one.

Have you ever bullied anyone?
You know, I suspect I have, because I’m a naturally abrasive person, I don’t always use a filter between entertaining thoughts and expressing them, and when you’re in a situation like mine, you take your revenge where you can get it. But I don’t remember any incidents in detail, so bullying must not have much going for it, at least not for me. I do know that I’ve said some horrible things about Andrews, North Carolina (the setting for all this) that weren’t entirely called for. Obviously Andrews was the wrong place for me—I belong somewhere more metropolitan, bohemian, freethinking, and conducive to my interests—but that never licensed me to look down on people who could be happy in a down-home rural atmosphere. Finally, something that does in fact require an apology from me.

How did bullying or being bullied make you feel?
Being the bully, as I said, didn’t have much impact on me, other than making me feel like a douche in retrospect. If I felt anything positive in connection with it at the time, it was most likely gratitude that I wasn’t the target, for a change, and human emotion doesn’t get much cheaper than that. As for being the target…you feel, or I felt, either invisible or way too prominent in all the wrong ways. It was just an inescapable sense of worthlessness, or inability to do anything right…because even when I tried to fight back, in my total ineptitude, I was accused of egging it on or bringing it on myself. So, yeah: damned if you do, damned if you don’t. To give credit where it’s due, it did inspire me to fully embrace being an outcast. At first, I tried to conform and fit in and dress like everyone else and like the same things they did, then an epiphany point-blank asked me, “Why bother? Has it stopped them from making hell out of your life? No. Consider this your license to cut loose and be yourself…or at least find out who that is.” Most significant, though, is the reality block it created…while it was going on, and for years after, I had no use for the real world. In this case, I am totally at fault, but it explains why my grades were such a bastion of suck: at home, instead of studying or doing my assigments, I’d read, write, watch movies, blast my stereo and act out scenes from all those things, anything to disconnect or dissociate myself from who I was at school. It was, I knew even then, an effort to become someone else—still me, but from a different point of view, where I was appreciated, if not admired. What if I were a rock star, a futuristic action heroine, part of the in-crowd; what if I lived in a city where I could walk by the water during the day and under neon lights at night; what if there was a guy who openly and proudly considered me—as in, me—the love of his life? It was also a way out, the only viable way I had. I couldn't work up the guts to run away, and suicide was too no-going-back, too uncertain. So escapism won because it was the most gratifying, not to mention the most fun. It was good for my creativity, but bad for my social skills…even now, once in a while, I struggle to get out of my head and do things, rather than just imagine them. Luckily, I have more incentive than ever before.

How do you deal with bullying?
At this point, I don’t bother with it; I don’t engage them, I don’t accept their game invite at all. My instinct when someone starts giving me static, especially online (which seems to bring out the asshole in a lot of people), is to leave the situation, treat myself to a little catharsis about how some of us need to go home and rethink our lives, then it’s water off a duck’s back from there. As for how others should deal with it…your guess is as good as mine. I learned the hard way that whatever you do will most likely make the situation escalate before it improves; one thing that does give me some relief is the fact that it’s become such a hot-button issue now. What I’ve noticed is that it’s comparable to rape, though, in that you see a lot of victim-shaming going on—they asked for it because of their style, or because they’re gay, or they’re overweight—so I think the first step is to start putting the blame where it belongs.

Do nicer or more interesting people seem more attractive to you?

Yes, because when looks are all a person has to offer, and their entire life is consumed by maintaining them, then it’s like trying to get full on the smell of a five-course gourmet meal. For me, it’s the Kim Kardashian effect: I would gladly do her makeup for a photo shoot, but would I want to get coffee or a beer with her after? I doubt it. Shallowness, I can forgive in non-excessive doses; we’re all shallow to a point…hollowness is a dealbreaker. Though I do appreciate physical beauty, I’m not threatened by it for its own sake, nor do I think it automatically cancels out any virtues or enjoyable/ useful attributes available from the same person. But appearance is an empty container; it’s made to hold something, preferably something besides (or at least in addition to) vanity, malice, hypocrisy, nihilism, etc.

(I didn’t answer the next two questions, because they struck me as rephrases from the CONFIDENCE section.)


Your Brain is 47% Female, 53% Male

Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female

You are both sensitive and savvy

Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed

But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve

Thoughts on The Hunger Games Trilogy

So why Team Peeta? In addition to feeling like he had more to offer Katniss on several fronts, expanding and challenging her narrow existence as the Man of the House—Gale, being in the same exact position, couldn’t give her that—he’s also the type of person who doesn’t reveal himself all at once, but in small doses and only as needed. Those are the characters, in and out of fiction, that I eat up…I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of my initial attraction to Paul. I honestly feel that if Peeta had let it all hang out during his private scoring session, he would’ve walked away with a higher number than eight…maybe not even with Katniss, but sharing a ten with Cato, Clove and Thresh, at least. But that’s not how he rolls. Surely he was smart enough to understand that while Katniss’ eleven was a coup for attracting sponsors and great for the District 12 prep team’s morale, it was also a trap, that the moment they were in the arena, the Careers were going to be all over her like black on a crow. Katniss was a threat to more than the other tributes, the Gamemakers wanted her dead, and Peeta (among others, there aren’t a lot of fools in this series) knew it. But I digress. It’s also crystal that his feelings for Katniss are the real thing, whereas I think that Gale’s out-of-nowhere desire was more reactionary, triggered by jealousy and possessiveness. Not the headfucking Twilight kind, per se—Gale has too much honour for that rubbish—but for years Katniss had been his partner in crime, literally, and now that he perceives a threat, he responds by making the same gestures of affection in private that Peeta and Katniss share in the public eye. But do I feel that Gale and Katniss were, at one point, good for each other, and would have stayed that way if they'd left their hormones out of it, [spoilerspoilerspoiler]. I honestly never saw them as a couple, even from the very first page/ frame they occupied together. They’re Alpha Twins, they’re that perfect male-female bromance non-archetype that I used for Xanadu and Kyle, and it's too bad they had to lose it because it’s just so rare. Also, it’s Peeta’s plain simple good-guy persona, more than anything else, that draws me to him: a garden-variety personality trait gone exotic in a society where goodness is overridden by power trips or survival mode.

Two characters I don’t envy, despite their ostensibly cushy little lives, are Effie and Haymitch. In fact, the two of them damn near break my heart. Imagine doing what they do every year, collecting somebody’s son and somebody else’s daughter, trucking them off to the Capitol and giving them a week of luxury, advice, and training, making an effort to get to know them as individuals as well as competitors in the interest of keeping them alive, only to watch as they’re impaled or decapitated or bludgeoned or poisoned on a live television feed. That’s almost—not quite, but a big almost—as brutal as what they do to those poor kids. If I were in Haymitch’s shoes, with the added double whammy of PTSD and getting stabbed in the back for his rule-bending victory, I’d probably be a blistering lush, too. Plus I’m inclined to think that Effie’s Clueless Ditz act is the result of needing most of her brain cells to fend off some kind of psychological breakdown.

Cinna, the stylist, is probably my favourite character, and the one I feel I’d most likely inhabit in this universe. I could see myself being an espionage mastermind through a seemingly superficial and harmless medium of fashion and face paint. In a way, he’s a style geek’s dream come true. Cinna was always welcome on the page and screen, even when all he had to offer was a record-scratch WTF moment. What character doesn’t, or on that note, shouldn’t? (I’ve even taken to giving Cinna some love via my makeup once in a while—his only concession to flamboyant Capitol style is a streak of gold eyeliner, so I ran with the concept, substituting silver because my colouring likes it better.)

I think that Thresh, the ill-fated male tribute from District 10, is the other character I most identify with. He wasn’t in it to win; he was in it to survive, if that makes sense. But he was sane enough to take his chances alone, rather than join a cabal of bloodthirsty maniacs. Apart from Katniss, Peeta and Rue, I don’t think that anyone in the arena had more soul than he did, as further evidenced by his reaction to Clove taunting Katniss about Rue’s murder. I admit, the first time I read the book was at the Westfield (Massachusetts) Athenaeum—library, to all us plebs—and I’m surprised I didn’t get thrown out for barking “Yes!” when Clove got dealt with.

There is a Biblical undertone to the Games themselves, as well as the relationship between the (almighty godlike) Capitol and its (lowly human) surrounding districts. I’m not surprised that the soundtrack opens with a song called “Abraham’s Daughter”, because it really is like the story of Abraham’s test of faith on a nationwide scale: prove your devotion to your ruler by sacrificing your children. Only no one steps in at the last minute to call the whole thing off, because unlike God—whom I merely regard as a narcissistic sadist for coming up with the whole Isaac thing, a dick move for the ages—the Capitol couldn’t define “mercy” via multiple choice question. Panem makes no effort to hide who the real monsters are. If anything, the Capitol flaunts it right up in your face. Because they know that if someone else gets their hands on the throttle they’ve built by siphoning the rest of the nation’s resources, their round-the-clock fancy costume party is over.

Elbow Sex! Elbow Sex!

If you'd like to venture a guess as to why I currently have confetti in my hair, rice and toast crumbs in my bra, toilet paper in my purse and a sprained pelvis...you're go.

Rockin' the Reject Stamp

"Sometimes I suffer from chronic inability to relate to other people. And sometimes I celebrate it as evidence of how hard I rock." ~Me


I've lost count of how many message boards, communities, and other miscellaneous web pages I've defected from because I was dumb enough to think, "Oh, cool, finally, someplace I'll fit in." And walked right into a cabal of haters.

What amazes me is how warm, welcoming and supportive, by contrast, the beauty community has been--so much for women boiling down to claw-popping, hair-pulling stereotypes who only want to catfight each other into submission; guess that's not unless they're after the same man or pair of Louboutins. (Rimshot! Please, don't call the acolytes of the political inquisition to lynch me for that one.)

So have the fan communities. I've never had a legitimate reason to regret my fangirling. Question it, rethink it, reformulate and reprioritise it, sure. But no regrets.

But I regret almost every other group I've tried to belong to, entering intrigued and exiting dejected, wondering all over again what's so wrong with, so objectional about, me.


That's when Paul comes along and promises that he and I will always be a clique of two...that I'm Danielle Ophelia Southcott, his beautiful, sexy, brilliant wife, and the most amazing person he's ever known...that even when my character is charged with a felony, even when something falls way short of my hopes, even when I feel like the stupidest, most reviled person in the world...he'll still open his arms.

"Where there is desire there is gonna be a flame/ Where there is a flame someone's bound to get burned/ But just because it burns doesn't mean you're gonna die..."

Because I have too much to live for. No matter what happens, I'll always be half of Love's Most Unstoppable Force.

Go to Zero

You Are Powerful

You naturally take a dominant role in life. You take charge of situations, get things done, and make things happen.

You get impatient when things aren't moving along quickly. You value your time, and you don't like for it to be wasted.

You question the status quo, and you don't agree with people just to make things easy. You have no problem stating your opinion.

You love a good challenge, even (especially) if there's a good chance you'll fail. It's better than being stuck in a rut.

You can thrive in any environment, and you've been known to switch things up just for the heck of it. You can be productive anywhere and with anyone.

You can lead a group, but you prefer to work on your own or with a few people you trust. You don't deal well with dead weight of any kind.

The description fits, but I don't know that I'd call it power. Compulsive rebelliousness, maybe.


Maxed out my icon limit again. Pleased with myself.


Not much else going on; just fighting off a cold that I brought home specifically to infect as many people as possible. At least, that's my brother's version of the story and he'll stick to it--I don't know. Maybe he figures if he lies enough, he'll get Pinocchio Syndrome in his shorts.


Admit It. I've Never Looked Lovelier. :p

Flawless Victory

Typical cyberbullies. Talk all the shit in the world, then go suspiciously silent when one-upped.

Put it down as the latest in a long line of effortless wins for me.

Not This Shit Again...


If one more waste of blood from the Tea Party uses the term “Real America/ Americans” to describe small, conservative-leaning rural towns and the populace thereof, I am going to kick them through a jet engine. Forgive me for reviving a phrase that went out with whalebone corsets and the minuet, but how DARE you?

Listen up, motherfuckers: I’ve lived in Bible-Beating Backwoods North Carolina and I’ve lived in Neo-Commie Collegeville Massachusetts. One state, two state, red state, blue state. And since neither place is located in the Matrix, or Bizarro World, it’s safe to say that neither has the market cornered on American Reality. But no, you can’t accept that, because it would throw off your agenda of invalidating anyone whose mindset is inconsistent with your own.

Brace yourselves, but when I think of the States, my brain doesn’t stick on the image of a rural hick town. It’s part of the equation, but so is Times Square, the Seattle Space Needle, Fenway Park, a farm in Indiana, lava from Mauna Loa dissolving into the Pacific, St. Augustine, Joshua Tree, Mardi Gras, roadside produce stands, music festivals, universities… this is what happens when you expand the clearance area of your brain, instead of narrowing it down.

We all know your “traditional moral values” racket, how you fob it off through your patented a la’ carte approach to Christianity and the Constitution, and that nothing makes you happier than seeing a progressive outnumbered or hearing one of your kids parrot your outrageous social claims, but has it ever crossed your mind that it’s not enough to hate something or want it erased from the cultural landscape? Or are you just under the impression that covering your eyes like a kid in a scary movie and chanting “You’re not real, I don’t believe in you, you’re not real,” will make the so-called Diversity Monster go away?


Complete Absence of Shock

You are an outcast learning to cope and understand the ways of those around you. Your blunt honesty and intellectual capacity cause others to mistake you for egotistical...when really, you ARE just smarter than everyone else.

Take the Star Trek Quiz
STARRING DANIELLE (aka. me), NATALIE (a friend), AND PAUL (my fiance')

DANIELLE: One thing that really aggravates me about fandoms--ANY fandom--is the pointless quest to milk every relationship between two characters--be it respectful, hostile, protective, or parasitic--for sexual tension. Desperate much? Not every feeling is a precursor to sex. When you play like all bonds lead to the sack, you're basically writing them off as a means to the cheapest possible end...and I'm speaking as someone who thinks that sex rocks. Regardless of how much you love it, it's not always necessary.

NATALIE: Total truth. You see it in every single fandom in existence, though. Now, I will be the first to say there are a few shows out there that absolutely play with their slash audience, totally intentionally and are blatantly feeding them--but not every relationship that is deep translates to a sexual relationship, IMO. And I think a lot of members of fandoms are really screwing their own heads reading them that way. Is that what you think love looks like? Really? Kind of along the same lines, people thinking every bad guy is "redeemable" just because he's hot--folks out there willing to forgive any number of depraved acts by putting the character on some kind of pedestal "oh, but really he's just hurting, etc". Slippery slope, man--would you forgive those kinds of actions in your life?

DANIELLE: Could not have said it better. Seriously. Yes, there are characters that lend themselves to ships and slashing. Kimber and Stormer from Jem!, my girl-girl OTP, come to mind. But this practice of throwing two people together at random simply because they both send your libido into a tailspin...I just don't have that gene. It's submental, in a way, not to mention dismissive of how people's feelings work. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, for example--I know that's a huge thing among the fangirls, including some people I consider friends. Which, more power to them, but beyond their First Amendment rights, all I can think is, "WHY?!" And don't get me started on Han/ Luke slashers. I just want to rip out a major artery with my teeth.

NATALIE: Never, ever, EVER got Harry/Draco. Likewise with Harry/Snape. There was definitely more to their relationship, but it sure as hell wasn't sexual. Makes no sense to me. I love the derivative nature of fanfic and I think it's brilliant as a social experiment and a growing art form. BUT, as a reader, if I don't see something in the canon material to support reasoning for the relationship, outside of basic attraction to both characters in a pairing, then I simply can't get on board with it. YES yes yes, dismissive of how feelings work, and how romance/relationships work. Dude, I'm not interested in a smutty romance that makes no sense--if I wanted that I'd read a friggin' Harlequin. Each to their own and everything, and I don't want to crap on other people's OTP, but I agree that the desperation factor of sifting through every little glance and turning it into something it isn't reeks of a basic lack of understanding of human nature. Han/ Luke slashers, just...no. Not saying every fan pairing has to be canon to have validity--not by a long shot. But interpreting ANY form of tension, as sexual tension, does a great disservice to the quality of the writing on the show you love.

DANIELLE: Han Solo would no more sleep with another man than he'd impregnante Chewbacca. (And you can bet your ass some sick douchebag out there has written a fic about that.) That's the part of it that gets to me, the complete refusal to align a character's actions with their personality. Luke...I don't know. His sexuality is pretty ambiguous, so he's more flexible. Similarly, there's quite a bit of Luke/ Wedge out there, more than you'd think, and I don't have a problem with it because Wedge is such a reserved character, it's not a stretch to picture him being full of surprises. It's not my favourite thing to imagine, but it doesn't make me roll my eyes hard enough to see my brain, either.

NATALIE: Agreed. There is a huge portion of fandom that reads any staunch heterosexual as closeted. I think that's a very slippery slope too. Like you, I can't fathom Han ever climbing in bed with another man. Like the picture [of Katniss and Cinna] you posted, I'm sorry, but [the relationship Greg House and James Wilson] just flatly isn't sexual tension, unresolved or otherwise. While [other pairings from shows such as Torchwood] blatantly are.

DANIELLE: I was so anti-Hilson in the beginning, and for the most part I still am, but toward the end, it was like, "Ah, screw it. They're such perfect soul mates, NOTHING is going to cheapen what they've got. Have at it."

PAUL: This is why fandoms are bad--they are inherently full of internet perverts. Just read the book, watch the TV series and move on.

DANIELLE: Perverts--yes, and I admit, I can be one of them. But I'm a discriminating pervert.

NATALIE: Paul, true, but perverts need friends, too. Danielle, I loved the relationship between House and Wilson, but never, ever saw it as sexual. Likewise with Sam/Dean on Supernatural--I am the first to say their relationship is deep, and that they are soulmates is absolutely canon because they shared a Heaven, but at the same time I still can't see them screwing. Haha.

DANIELLE: I've actually considered writing a Hunger Games fic--but it wouldn't have anything to do with sex, or a pairing. It would centre on District 11's reaping, when Thresh and Rue are called. I have some interesting theories on how Thresh became a tribute, and told from Rue's POV, the whole thing would be pretty devastating.

NATALIE: I'd read it. I've seen The Hunger Games but haven't read the book, and read none of the fanfic. Rue was my favourite character though and I would definitely be more interested in backstory from her district. (I'm sure there was more in the books).

DANIELLE: Rue's death absolutely gutted me, in the book and the movie, and Thresh was the tribute I related to the most. So they're both hard characters to shake. And District 11 has probably the most draconian authority practices, which is where some of my personal ideas come from. If you get a chance, definitely read the books. They may be marketed toward young girls, but that's some deep stuff in there.

NATALIE: Will do. Let me know if you write the fic, would like to read it.

DANIELLE: I will for sure. Like I said, right now I'm just sort of jotting down ideas and theories.

On Fire

(And yeah, I've added another fandom--complete with OTP, icons, and at least one possible short fic in the making--to my small but cherished list. The only difference is, I'm not giving one the boot to make room for another, as I did last time. Everyone still gets to play.)
Brain, I love you. No, really. We've had our battles: you're really good at sabotaging my sleep and really bad at navigating writer's block. And I know that you and my heart can only communicate through a neutral mediator. But--since the subject of movie scores came up yesterday--if I could dedicate a song to you right now, it would be the Superman theme. Just because you're such a superior model to the majority of others I encounter day after day after night after day, I'm half-convinced you're some kind of mutation. If so, I worship the gamma rays or toxic waste that came in contact with you.

Drive Like a German

This is so my song. It didn't used to be--but I've become that person who goes screaming by everybody on the highway, while they're asking each other, "What is wrong with that maniac?"


Sorry. This fucker logged out without my go-ahead and I couldn't remember my password. It took Paul to remind me, when I finally told him what was up. Hope everyone enjoyed their holidays.

Hit 'Em Up

Of all conceivable reactions to the Sandy Hook massacre, guns flying off the shelves like Cabbage Patch Kids circa 1983 was not what I had in mind. You disappoint, disgust and depress me, America. But what else is new these days? #PartoftheRebelAlliance&aTraitor


I want a new drug

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