B1ue

As always, I look forward to your reaction Nephylim, though Kevin's was a welcome bonus. I had not thought of it in terms of letting go, so I'll have to give it some more thought. Mostly, I wondered how one of my modern characters wound up in a sword and sorcery era. I'm trying to screw down the story I started in my last entry.

It is difficult to make sense of my dream this afternoon. Sometimes, my mind forms a coherent narrative, with a distinct beginning, middle, and end. I blame being an English major for those days. But, more often it's more typical, with my dreams being more variations on a theme than simply one story. There are points to be made, however. I was a magical practitioner in a holy order, one dedicated to the eradication of an undead menace that was so far winning. Zombies would probably a good enough analogue, but I called them ghouls. There were several things we knew about the ghouls: 1, that they were not a natural occurrence but the result of a magical curse set about by a demon; 2, that once the curse fully took hold the ghoul was a literal extension of the demon's will, to the point that the body could work some of the demon's own magic; 3, that this taking over could be prolonged, defied, but never had we managed to cure someone. I myself was extremely skilled at containing the curse within the infected's body, for all that we rarely bothered with such techniques. Once someone had been bitten by another ghoul, claimed we called it, that was it. It was often better just to kill them. All that was nice and pretty up until the point my son was infected. In every variation, my son was infected. There were different reasons, all boiled down to being all my fault. There was a man in the hospital that I refused to allow my son to see. In some cases I merely thought it better he not see the man brought down so low. In one case, the man was my son's lover, and the there was no way in hell I was putting up with that. Another, where the boy was not my son but my younger brother, the man was my lover, and my brother thought of him as a surrogate father. Yet another, there was no man, and my son merely had an argument and simply wandered off into the night. In all cases, we quarreled, and the boy stalked off into the night. He was neither mage nor divine as I was, and could not hope to protect himself from ghouls as I could. So of course, we was infected. He had some weapon skill, so he survived, but he was infected. As adamantly as I had denied my son to go off on his own, so I denied my holy superiors the right to kill him. "He will be cured!" I shouted, pouring my strongest magics into containing the curse within his body, and taking further precautions of setting him into a holy circle, protected by warders of my own order. Such protections did not work forever, but they worked. As did my daily pruning back the efforts the curse had made in my son's body while I was out researching or fighting. It wasn't possible to rip the curse out by magic, or rather it was, but that would just kill him. You can be sure I checked this fact, on the very man my son had defied me by seeing. I think seeing me kill someone so casually, and ostensibly for him, shocked my son. This was a side of me hed never seen before. And would get to know all to well. For in every variation, I failed. And I killed him myself. The first time through, the ghoul occupying his body killed a dozen or so other children, residents of the order's orphanage that I'd stashed my son inside. They were innocent I'd deliberately risked by letting my son live, and their blood was on my hands. That was what I kept thinking as I held the ghoul down by magic and cut it in half with my sword. Thankfully, the rest of the time, I managed to get back before he'd munched on anyone besides my own holy order members, who'd volunteered for the duty. The demon usually tried to trick me, using my son's voice to plead for just a bit longer to live, using magics to confuse and hobble me. But as strong as the demon would have been face to face, he was limited with a puppet. As for the other trickery, my mundane eyes might have seen my son's face, but in mage-sight, all I could see was a body filled tip to toe with the curse. I would wonder later if I could have reclaimed his mind at least, perhaps gotten the opportunity to say goodbye, and sorry, but I never in the moment tried. My life's work was to kill ghouls. So every time, I killed him.

Who's ever good company when they're stressed? I myself get snappish and, with my vocabulary, tend to start insulting people's intelligence, parentage, and sexual function in two languages. My work has been a bad influence on me, not least for reintroducing me to my original accent. I'm glad you're so far able to restrain yourself. I WOULD have snapped at the bitch. Hope today went better, and that your burdens were eased a bit. --Gabe

As I say, not sure where this is headed, and the beginning may be screwed to all hell. Only thing I know for sure is that all this sounds different happening to someone else. ***Untitled Piece*** Funny how life works out. Two months past, I was curled up in his arms, trying everything I could to not think, 'There will not be too many more nights like this.' He was going into the Army within weeks, and within days I had to leave to start college. Because of his grades and my heart, neither of us could follow the other. Every hour we could steal, we spent together. He was the only person I'd ever loved. He was worth the nights without sleep. I meant it when I said I stole hours. He had a girlfriend too; he'd never lied to me about her, but I don't think she was quite aware of me. I pretended to be visiting his little brother, those times we happened to be there at the same time. I think it was her who spread the talk around that I was actually sleeping with the boy three years younger than us all. It was ridiculous, not least because the younger brother was damn near an exact copy of the older, and why settle for the cheap knock-off when I could go after the real thing? But even my friends weren't sure. The brother's friends believed, and were caught between disgusted and impressed. His parent's believed, and were suddenly as hostile as allowed by their good manners and the relative positions my parents and they occupied in the community. He believed. That night was the last night. I did not say goodbye or sorry. And two months later, now, I was in a midterm study session with his now ex-girlfriend. I prayed for her every night. Just don't ask who I prayed to. And now I had to make like I didn't want to choke the bitch with her class notes. "Jeremy!" she exclaimed when she opened the door, "Where have you been all this time?" "Oh, here and there. Getting to know my roommates." 'Avoiding you like the plague carrier I know you are, and had the infection to prove it.' Mina smiled. "Well, you shouldn

Bit late, but whatever. I had not thought about voices as a turn on before I heard Josh Turner sing. He's already an extremely good looking man, but damn his voice is hot. I feel it's because we live in a world of nasally tenors that the baritones and bass stand out.

Thank you for the kind words. I can assure you, such a torrent about why I am a Christian is quite atypical of me. I believe. Nearly everyone I associate with does not. And when I openly admit to being both Gay and Catholic, people tend to go cross-eyed. So I'm used to keeping these thoughts well under wraps. I just thought, with such a grim story, an explanation of where I'm coming from on it might forestall quiet, well-intentioned suggestions that maybe I needed to see a psychiatrist. I'm glad though, that I gave you something to think about. Edit: This is one of my favorite quotes, that if not in substance in spirit summarizes every prayer I've ever made to Him. "Grant us, in our direst need, the smallest gifts: the nail of the horseshoe, the pin of the axle, the feather at the pivot point, the pebble on the mountain, the kiss in despair, the one right word. In darkness, understanding." Lois McMaster Bujold, Paladin of Souls I've probably quote this somewhere on this blog before now. As I said, it is one of my favorite quotes.

I won't go into the same detail as Kevin, but unlike him I can define a moment when I knew. 1) Age 15. First time I met a particular boy. Realization hit me like a hammer. I was dizzy for months.

Had this image in my head for about a week. Needed to excise it. "Why are you praying?" Fitzpatrick screamed, activating the neural whip in her hands. The bright blue pulse entered her prisoner's skull, arresting the flowing intonation in his throat. But only for a moment. He swallowed, spat, then continued on as if it had been nothing. "Holy Mary, mother of God..." They'd been at this for a while. At first, she'd been cheered when it started. Former priests, as this man was, were high on her list of least favorite subjects. It was odd, because the perverted faggots should have been wonderful to experiment on. She should have been able to draw immense satisfaction from working them over, forcing them to realize that God did not exist, that their determination to cling to such illegal modes of thinking was nothing but cowardice, but it was hardly ever the case. Sometimes they broke fast, and could be gold mines on occasion, as the unthinking reactionaries still tended to place their trust and their secrets in their illegal clergymen, but mostly they were just pains in Fitzpatrick's ass. Her initial cheer evaporated when the actual words dutifully recorded by her computer penetrated, and the cadence in which he said them was recognized. Out of all the gall, the bastard was praying at her. In her indignation, what few scruples she had evaporated. "God...does...not...exist!" she said, punctuating each word with another pulse from the whip. Fitzpatrick had been exposed to the whip, once, during her training. Every pain receptor in her body seemed to flare at once with the stimulation, her stomach muscles going strangely slack or tight as the pulse flat refused to allow her body to vomit. That one touch haunted her dreams for years, but it gave her a real understanding of the work she did everyday. This priest had been exposed to hundreds of such stimulation in the last hour. She was slightly in awe he could even speak, let alone remember whole prayers. Perhaps he couldn't. He seemed to be saying the same one over and over a lot. "Why do you still call to a figment of your imagination?" He'd met her eyes, once or twice during the session, but didn't even acknowledge that remark with a frown. He simply carried on. "Pray for us sinners..." "Prayer is nothing! It does nothing! Gives you nothing!" she cried. "Are you blind? Are you stupid? How much more proof do you need that God is nothing but a lie? Your kind says miracles happen, but what miracles can come from a being that can do nothing, not even stop your pain?" "Amen," he said. Then he looked up, meeting her eyes. "But He is. He is doing something. And if you cannot see it, you are the one blind." He turned away, and resumed his pace. "Glory be to the father..." Fitzpatrick sighed. There was nothing for it. That was the only reaction she'd gotten in a session long enough to drive almost any other person to madness. The only explanation she could see was that he was already crazy, and so they could not trust anything out of his mouth anyways. She hated the waste on her time, but at least she finish up. She stepped back, and with a smooth motion extracted her sidearm. "...is now, and ever shall be, a world without--." *** Now that's out of the way, how about I say a few offensive things, yes? I blame the Old Testament for the misunderstandings people have about Christianity. Catholicism in particular, at least as I understand it, but Christianity in a wider sense too. The Old Testament made things too easy for it's adherents. It is easy to have faith when faith alone kept fire from touching you. Shadrach in the charnel, singing of His glory, must have made a terrible impression on the Babylonians. It is equally easy to follow a god who provides a 60' pillar of sand to act as your GPS navigation device. Who will turn rivers into blood in protecting you and yours. Who can, will, and does provide tangible proof when such proof is demanded. I encountered someone who told me that God cannot exist, because if He did, the world would have no problems, since he'd provide miracles enough to keep his followers in the style in which they'd like to be accustomed. I thought, My God, what a moron. Christianity isn't like that. Christ performed miracles yes, in front of thousands sometimes, but on the whole, they were quiet ones. Do you really think all 5000 people knew there was only a scattering of bread and fish in that basket? That people who saw the corpse didn't think they might have been mistaken when the soldier's daughter lived? Yes, people said, people testified, but it wasn't like they had EEG devices back then. Even people who witnessed might have been able to doubt the evidence of their eyes. The Bible says they believed, but I'm sure some did not. Many, I'd think. If Christianity isn't about pillars of flame, it is about more quiet forms of faith. A grown, important man taking them time to speak to children. It's about the head of a saint rolling just so to stare accusingly at his murderer. It is about a woman giving her last coin in the faith that it will make a difference in her life. It is a man, dying, finding it in himself to offer comfort to another. A woman in mourning wiping the sweat and blood from the brow of the condemned. Instead of a man defying fire, it is a man chained, yet still singing to His glory. The martyrs are telling, I think. In the Old Testament, the martyrs would have been saved. The bitter cup would have passed their lips. It is a bit grim that we wear crosses to show our faith. It is a reminder of the greatest miracle performed for our sakes, yes, but also the cost that our beliefs sometimes carried, because God would not save us from that fate. Not on this world. There is a reason St. Peter is the father of Catholicism. Yes, yes, his name signifies that he is the rock upon which the church was built, but any biblical scholar, or even someone who's read a Dan Brown novel, knows the Bible we have wasn't all we had to work with. I feel confident the church patriarchs could have done a bit of editing, should they have felt the need. Paul, from the perspective of someone who thinks in Old Testament terms, would have made a much better example, which is why he did most of the proselytizing. But Peter, ah, Peter was the man who denied. Who, before Thomas, doubted. Who failed himself, when the chips were down and when Christ himself reached out a hand and asked him to step forward. We are told that it was John whom Christ loved best. But it was Peter, that sank beneath the waters, who became the rock. Faith isn't supposed to be an easy thing. It isn't supposed to be blind. That was the miracle of Saul/Paul, after all. Faith is supposed to be tested, and sometimes found wanting. But it is also supposed to be a light in dark places. It cannot save us from the gallows. But it can touch us, let us walk to our deaths in peace.

There's a reason "'Fore she was Momma" is one of my favorite songs. And also why my parent's, instead of trying to claim the moral high ground in any argument with us kids, instead offered a story from either their own past or their siblings as to how making that particular stupid decision would only end in tears.

I cheated a little this week. Before I go buy a book, I'm supposed to write a short story. I need not publish it, show it to any one, or even keep the file, but I do need to write it. This gives me an extra incentive to write, plus it makes me feel that I've really earned what is pretty much my own indulgence in life (Starbucks not counting, as the coffee served at work should be poured back into the cleanser bottle where it can actually serve a useful purpose). However, Sarah Rees Brennan, author of The Demon's Lexicon is so incredibly awesome I had no choice in the matter. I needed her book, hardcover or no, story written or not. How is she awesome? Let me enumerate the reasons: 1. She's a fricking hoot. Absolutely hilarious. Her blog is a scream, especially the parodies. Google "Prince Caspian Parody" and "Sarah," and you will find my gateway drug into her world. 2. Really, "Peter the Magnificent and Prince Caspian the Super Fine" deserves an entry of awesome all it own. A sample: PETER: Edmund, I have something to say to you. You

Oh, yeah. I hold Armand against you too. Bastard.

He's right that your responses to this post is remarkably blunt and make you seem unintelligent. Mark is talking about writing. He's talking about his own writing, specifically his Chronicles of an Academic Predator. Mark says as much in the opening sentence of the post. It is not an advertisement of said series, merely a way of letting his readership know his thoughts regarding the latest set of stories within the series, of which he posted the final chapter yesterday. "Huh?" is, to put it mildly, a disrespectful response to such an offering. If you don't read his work, he's not talking to you. That you needed this explained to you makes me want to retract the word "seem" in the first sentence of this follow-up comment. Enough of that. As I think about my reactions to C.A.P., I was honestly surprised when you wrote here "I'm a great believer in giving people second chances," because, especially in "Be-Rad," and less so in "Man In Motion," and "Summer of Love," that did not seem to be the case. I came across a trope yesterday called "Ron As a Death Eater" that I felt fit those books fairly well. Once a person goes to the bad at all, that's it, they get written off completely. Any redeeming characteristics they may have once had either disappear or they become warped to the point that, for example a tendency to be boisterous becomes a tendency to become physically abusive. The clearest examples of this in your own work are how Brad views Billy and Jake. While it can be said that this is less your views speaking and more the fact that Brad is self-righteous my-doesn't-stink prick, often when a character falls out of favor with the main character of a book, circumstances keep any redemption from being not just likely, but possible at all. Billy dies shortly after his fight with Brad, and Jake is sent away to boarding school. These are not the only examples, of course. I honestly wondered if Marcel was going to suffer the same mischief as Bitty. And it is these characters that made me realize that, in fact, your writing does offer second chances to its characters. Marcel took his, grabbed it with both hands, and was better of. As did Louis. However, once they blow that second chance, they're toast, as in the case of Bitty, Jake, Bruno, Sam, Jeff, and so forth. I still hold Billy and Lark against you. That you turned these likable characters into a corpse and a user so that Brad and Marcel could grow as characters irks me.

I like the taste of tequila. But my father is a citizen of Mexico, and if I didn't like tequila on top of not liking the taste of beans, my family might possibly have disowned me.

Just checking in. Truly, this quiz gives some depressing results, considering how warm the colors that I, at least, had to choose from. ColorQuiz.com And the actual results: B1ue's Existing Situation Needs excitement and constant stimulation. Willingly participates in activities that are thrilling and offer adventure. B1ue's Stress Sources "Unfulfilled hopes have left him feeling uncertain and even a little fearful about the future. Needs to feel secure and avoid further disappointment; fears he will be looked over, lose his position, or lose respect. Has little hope that things will get better in time and his negative attitude leads him to place impossible demands on others or to compromise or bargain." B1ue's Restrained Characteristics Current situations force him into compromise and placing his own hopes and desires on hold for the time being. Is bothered when his needs and desires are misunderstood and he feels there is no one to turn to or rely on. His self-centered attitude can cause him to be easily offended. Is satisfied and finds contentment through sexual activity. Current situations force him into compromise and placing his own hopes and desires on hold for the time being. B1ue's Desired Objective "Not a team player and is unwilling to be involved in most activities. In the past he was over involved and now emotionally drained. Due to his fear of over involvement, he now chooses to remain uninvolved with the activities around him. " B1ue's Actual Problem "Inability to reach his goals, he is afraid to create or pursue new goals because he fears the rejection and let down they may cause him. He is feeling anxious and escapes by withdrawing into himself and protecting his emotions leaving him moody and depressed." Thank you for using http://www.ColorQuiz.com/ Please recommend us to your friends. At first glance, I thought "Wow. All that from picking grey over maroon the second go?" After reading a few others, I felt less hunted by the results, because I could read myself into any of the sets people have spawned. And looking back over mine, only the section where it says I'd prefer something where I just didn't have to deal with other people the get my job done is spot on to the point of uncanny.The bit about unfulfilled hopes making me gun shy is pretty far off the mark, for example. So I'll just treat these results like my horoscope, and get along with my life. Though I am somewhat smug that I only had one "Actual Problem," where almost everyone else had two.

:Aside: It just occurred to me I forgot to forsake buying books during this year's Lenten season. Oh well, next year.:/Aside: Sometimes life just comes together. I was in college. My friend and I were walking on the footpath to the library, her doing most of the talking while I half listened/half boy watched. I was 21 a the time; that was what i did. And a good job too, since I noticed before she did a drop dead gorgeous blond surfer guy, short too, walking towards us in the opposite direction. Usually, as my eye sight at a distance was already starting to wane at that point, I let my gaze slide right off whoever I was looking at until I was close enough to actually make out detail, but not this time. He looked me right in the eye, and we smiled at each other from across the crosswalk. My friend was oblivious to this half-second interplay, and was equally oblivious to the fact that the light for the cross walk was changing to yellow. I couldn't have done it better if I'd rehearsed it. Every motion was smooth. I simply came to a stop, and grabbed the back of my friend's t-shirt. I wish I could have seen her face, but the sudden widening of the surfer guy's smile and the years my friend and I had together painted a very good picture. She'd been in no danger; the car could have gotten that much speed in only a few feet, but only a few seconds later a car passed right through where my friend would have been walking. She berated me, asking why I didn't just say something instead of grabbing her like that, but I didn't really respond. The smile across the way had broken into soft chuckles. We were smiling still at each other, still holding eye contact until he actually walked passed me. I turned around and walked backwards for a few steps, which finally clued my friend in that something else had been in the water. I probably could have, maybe should have, starting walking forwards, towards him, instead of backwards with her, but I didn't. I just savored the last few seconds I had of his retreating back, before turning around and continuing on with my friend. Eh. He was probably headed for class anyways. And who'd skip class over some random guy you shared a silent moment with? Well, alright, I would have, but I'm known to be crazy sometimes. I never did explain to my friend what had happened. I just kept quiet, and let her do most of the talking.

I would have been a bit weirded out too. Even if he'd been pretty. But I suppose that was nice of him. Doubtless the darling factor NaperVic brings up had something to do with him moseying on over.

http://poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/dane_geld.html

I listen to Happy Hardcore, a genre of Techno that my friends cheerfully refer to as crack music. I finally ripped a couple old CDs of the stuff from high school onto my iPod this week, so I had absolutely no problem staying awake all night at work. My coworkers think I'm crazy, since a side effect of Happy Hardcore is that I grin maniacally and occasionally make movements into dancing. I've forgotten how exhausting it is to be a full adult. It feels like I never have a chance to catch my breath, and it looks like I'll continue to be busy all day everyday until the beginning of next month. And I only get a reprieve then because I wasn't able to enroll in a summer class that I wanted and allocated time for in my schedule. I haven't written a word in over three weeks! I hate to admit it, but being laid-off was so relaxing. I almost wish I'd known then I was going to be going right back to my old employer (and when), because then I would have been able to enjoy what amounted to a vacation properly, instead of wasting quite a bit of with worry. This week's book is Meg Cabot's Pants on Fire. It looked cute, so I bought it, but it'll be one of the books I hand over to my nieces in a couple days, which is why I'm trying to finish it in between sleep and work. Its not a serious novel, even by my lax standards, but it's been fun nonetheless. The only thing drawing me out of the book is that she's trying a bit too hard to reach out to her homosexual fanbase. Tanya Huff can spout lines like, "he was the secret and not so secret desire of every teenage girl in town, and some of the boys too." Actually, she can do a great deal better than that. Mercedes Lackey can call someone effeminate without it being an insult. Tamora Pierce can casually mention a gay character without even pausing for breath. Cecily von Zeigesar can even say the "g" and "f" words without her characters blushing. When Meg Cabot tries to do these things, it comes off as awkward and false. She'd do a lot better to just roll with her usual tropes and let the readership pick what they relate to, I think. I've not read her entire ouvre, but from what I recall she's not done something like this before or since, so maybe she agrees on some level.

...same as the old boss. I'm going back to the job that laid me off earlier this year. Apparently, they weren't lying when they said I'd be called back if they developed an opening. I know, I'm shocked too. I just wish I had managed to find something else steady and solid, so I could have enjoyed not retreating back there, but the money is too much to shrug off. Besides, the company that currently employs me will likely fold us within the year. So, yeah. Being a grownup sucks. I'm also somewhat suspicious of the timing. The week they called me to make the offer was the first week in which I did not collect unemployment. I may be overly suspicious, but that's an interesting coincidence. Last entry, I mentioned my new eagerness for the comic series Runaways by Marvel. I also mentioned that I keep mentally pairing off the two males on the team, despite pretty solid evidence that both are straight. That it was only the proliferation of Nifty stories featuring a dumb jock and a younger, nerdier guy that made me think of it at all? Yeah, well, I've read farther, and now I"m not so sure about that. There's this one scene where the jock, Chase, wakes the nerdier guy, Victor, from a nightmare. Victor jumps up, and is naked. Chase screams at the gratuitous male nudity, but all of five seconds later has completely calmed down and is having a heart to heart with Victor. Which makes my suspicious mind go, "Hmm." In this same story arc, the two are shown to be bonding quite well over their shared admiration for another teammate, Chase's girlfriend, and over their shared love of all things mechanical. My point is, if the writers had intended for them to pair off somewhere down the road, they laid the ground work for it pretty well. In other news, when I make my trip to the environs of Yosemite in a few weeks, I will be loaded down with as many preteen books as I can stand to be parted from. After years of work, my family has finally converted my niece to being a book nerd like the rest of us. We also claimed another niece, who's a bit younger and was always a bit of an inside girl, so the victory isn't as sweet. In encouraging this, I'm loaning out my collection. I may get a third of it back someday, but hey, they need the books more. Besides, its an opportunity to rebuy Tamora Pierce's "Protector of the Small" series. My current copies are getting a bit raggedy.

I feel dumb. I just NOW realized where you got the title of your last blog. Glad things are resolving for you. Vic may have the right idea for you, if you feel opening he lines of communication won't put you in danger of once again dragged back into it with the guy.

Eh. Sucks for the kid, but I'd not worry overly about the values she's passing on to her daughter. At least as far as promiscuity goes. We don't necessarily pick up our parent's bad habits. I'm not an alcoholic, not an addicted smoker, and the only illegal substances I've ever partaken of were tobacco and alcohol. Instead of picking up my parent's vices, I've picked up wholly different ones. On that note, promiscuity in and of itself is not exactly a bad thing. When it stems from a lack of self-worth, yeah, that's no good, but enjoying sex is not a bad thing. Neither is enjoying sex with many partners. Like MikeL, I'm aware of the statistics, and despite them people that think they're sluts but haven't even broken into double digits on the number of partners they've had in their lifetime make me laugh. Knowing what little you've told us of the daughter, it's that she's showing her kid that a person isn't a complete being outside a couple that bothers me. That's right into the self-esteem thing I mentioned, and that's good for no one. Not much you can do about it, but hope that things work out enough that you can once again be a part of there life again. Or you can just not worry about it. My parent's claim that kids continually surprise their elders with their strength and resilience, and they'd know. Between their own memories, watching their siblings, and then watching the next generation grow up, they've observed a hell of a lot of people grow into adults.

After much searching, I did in fact turn up a fanfiction Victor (nerdy Hispanic kid)/Chase (White jock) pairing. After much thought, since the author went for the most logical, true to the cannon approach to bring this decidedly non-cannon pairing about, I've decided I cannot possibly beat this offering. Anything I do will either copy it, or build on its premise. Haven't decided which way I'm going to go. A lot will depend on this month's issue of the comic. I'm rather new to this waiting a month nonsense for the next 16 page dribble, particularly not waiting for something that will change the franchise for all time [Dun dun dun!]. I am not sure I approve.

I've been on a flurry lately. Must be all the extra coffee I've been drinking. I've been having it black for the last little while, because I feel strongly that powdered creamer is something that happens to other people, and by itself, sugar in coffee just seems silly. My parents will be so proud. California living has finally gotten to me. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but evidence that I've gone around the bend to crazyville has manifested. I've, more and more, been noticing that my stomach has began to follow its own marching orders. In essence, I'm developing a belly. Dammit. This horrifies me, because I've seen many, many guys that have "frontpacks" and the thought of joining their ranks makes my skin crawl. I never realized I was this shallow, but I've always been among the genetically gifted, so I guess its just something I never had to worry about before. I'm worrying now, even more today, because I noticed a little something when I was washing my face in the bathroom earlier today. At the same moment that my stomach feels distended and bloated completely out of proportion, I've lost enough weight over the last year that I can once again count my ribs through my shirt. The last time I was this skinny was my freshman year of college. So, clearly, I'm not fat. Not even fattening. I may be out of shape, which is why I feel the way I do, but I had to have lost a LOT of weight, and I never have had all that much to spare. But, while I intellectually know I've been basically starving myself up till now, for the first time in my life I feel fat. Every time I eat, I feel my stomach, and this has discouraged me from eating as often or as much as I might otherwise have. I'm leery of even so much as starting an exercise program to bring my abdominal muscles back into the loose line I'm willing to accept, because what if I don't stop at "not gross." And worse, I highly doubt I'm going to be taking in enough calories to make up for a new regimen, at least until I stop being physically ill whenever I eat, which means I'd just be starving myself faster. In the words of another crazy Californian, that would be so not hot. I may have to discuss this over with my cousin. She's had body issues in the past, and also has been quite willing in the past to slap the shit out of me when I deserved it. Since she's packed on a few dozen pounds over the last year (and the bitch has never looked better, gah!), my new found SoCal syndrome will probably be greeted with even less sympathy than my usual spate of bullshit. Been reading more comics lately (I've been on a kick--I was deprived as a child), including the Young Avengers hardcover. This, for those unaware, made my list for two reasons. One, it is connected in theme and at times in story with the Runaways, another Marvel line that I've been reading. Number two, it, from page one, featured as part of its band of protagonists a homosexual teenage couple, including a boy that resembles a kid I had a crush on in college. Three cheers for literacy! Seriously, how awesome is that? Since the comic is written by and for straight males, my favorite character is quite clearly the "girl" in the relationship, a trope that has always annoyed me, but for once I'll let it go. He's not flaming, so I suppose merely making him a bit on delicate side can be considered progress enough. And, really, the trope only seems to act as a live wire against my nerves, so maybe I'm just weird. It's probably because I tend to be smaller and a bit more "feminine" than the guys I date, so people treating me like a woman has had time to really dig in there as a source of irritation. My reasons for reading the Runaways are more typical reasons for why someone would read a comic. The writing cracks me up, with enough deadpanned sarcasm to make me grin uncontrollably, and give me ideas. There is also a particular character that I find interesting. He's a tall, nerdy, Hispanic kid that grew up in Los Angeles. He also happens to be an cyborg whose "father" is a megalomaniacal robot, and he's apparently straight, but otherwise I wish this comic, his character in particular, had been around and available to me ten years ago. Who knows, I might be willing to go by my first name now, if that had been the case. In the meantime, since I am unable to leave well enough alone, I keep mentally paring him off with the other single guy on the team, who is a taller, white jock with a penchant for violence and automobiles. I kind of doubt the writers will go that route, particular with the couple on the Young Avengers and the Runaways already having a female homosexual couple, but Ive made a note to scour fanfiction.net for that ship at some point in the future.

Welcome to the club. Just remember that Fridays are fish taco nights, and you'll fit right in.

The movie quote is from Sin City, I forgot to mention.