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Well, I have been trying to write a fairly gloomy entry about how I do not feel fantastic and circumstances not to mention hormones seem to be conspiring against me and huddling in dark corners with lots of mysterious maps and papers and whispering in code, but today has not been the sort of day that inspires great moaning from me. (Here I could likely talk about how I am nearly as good at suppressing emotions as Ten is, and it would be completely and utterly true. When I have a good day, it is mostly on the surface; there is always some horrid beastie lurking beneath, waiting to spring the very moment it becomes most irrational to do so. Which makes me feel horrid and unstable, but when I have a good day I can mostly ignore it. Which is probably not terribly good for the brain, but I do like moments of sanity here and there.)
Honestly, now that I'm here, I have no idea what to go on about. I haven't posted in a very long time -- anywhere -- and this would make me feel tremendously guilty if not for this strange business of stuffing emotions into convenient drawers bursting with stray socks and things. Mostly I have been reading the f-list rather dimly with that wretched feeling I get where my head feels as though it is sloshing with thick, nasty corn syrup.
(Shut up, self, nobody wants to read about you been unhappy and unpleasant.)
Today I cleaned the bedroom, which looked like a miniature war zone and has looked this way since, er, July. It needs a mighty vacuuming, but I've got muffins to bake for breakfast tomorrow and anyway I have been in that dratted room cleaning things half the day and I want to read a book, gorram it. I also made cookies, because the gingerbread was gone and I was not capable of waiting until tomorrow for desserty things to show up in my refrigerator and cupboards (and anyway you've got to be careful about pies; the nice thing about cookies is that you can eat lots of them without anyone noticing, at least at the beginning when the container is full -- pies in their neat slices do not lend themselves nearly so well to compulsive comfort eaters unless said people live alone). Oh dear, commas, I'm sorry. You can come out to play now, I promise.
Also I have nearly finished all of the library books I got out on Saturday and it is only Wednesday. This is worrying. I might be forced to, er, re-read something. Which would be dreadful. Even if there are bookmarks in at least two books on my shelves that I started to re-read and got distracted by Library Books Which Must Be Consumed In A Week's Time. Also also I would like to make an entry someday about Really Fantastic Films I Have Seen Recently but now that I've mentioned it I will probably never get to it. Anyway it would probably get all geeky and technical in the end, or just odd ("how can he be so worked up about nobody taking him seriously enough and yet flaunt a moustache like that? that is not a Serious Moustache!" -- "he's working on it! he's got a government grant!"). Also to the third power: Time Crash = unintelligable syllables of fangirly glee and Steven Moffat needs the universe on a shiny, shiny platter already, HULLO BBC.
Other thing I keep not posting: philosophical, grammatical, and anthropological musings on Firefly. Because, yes, I actually do spent great amounts of time thinking about these things. (Especially the linguistic aspects! Honestly some of the slang is so right on I wonder if Joss Whedon did a crash course in linguistics or just has an ear for things. I KNOW I KNOW NOBODY ELSE EVER CONSIDERS HOW FICTIONAL SLANG DEVELOPS IN A FICTIONAL UNIVERSE OVER SEVERAL CENTURIES SHUT UP.)
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and the thing about Thanksgiving is that it always seems to arrive when I am absolutely the least ready for it. I seem to always be at my most despondent and lonely and frustrated in November. But holidays are beautiful, and that little sequestering of magic -- well, it's nice. The thing I like about Thanksgiving is that it's very, almost reverently, quiet. I suppose it isn't nearly this way for lots of people, but my family has almost always spent Thanksgiving alone, and there's something very intimate and beautiful about it.
I haven't any idea what I'm even saying anymore; time to fix up some muffins and go to bed.
Honestly, now that I'm here, I have no idea what to go on about. I haven't posted in a very long time -- anywhere -- and this would make me feel tremendously guilty if not for this strange business of stuffing emotions into convenient drawers bursting with stray socks and things. Mostly I have been reading the f-list rather dimly with that wretched feeling I get where my head feels as though it is sloshing with thick, nasty corn syrup.
(Shut up, self, nobody wants to read about you been unhappy and unpleasant.)
Today I cleaned the bedroom, which looked like a miniature war zone and has looked this way since, er, July. It needs a mighty vacuuming, but I've got muffins to bake for breakfast tomorrow and anyway I have been in that dratted room cleaning things half the day and I want to read a book, gorram it. I also made cookies, because the gingerbread was gone and I was not capable of waiting until tomorrow for desserty things to show up in my refrigerator and cupboards (and anyway you've got to be careful about pies; the nice thing about cookies is that you can eat lots of them without anyone noticing, at least at the beginning when the container is full -- pies in their neat slices do not lend themselves nearly so well to compulsive comfort eaters unless said people live alone). Oh dear, commas, I'm sorry. You can come out to play now, I promise.
Also I have nearly finished all of the library books I got out on Saturday and it is only Wednesday. This is worrying. I might be forced to, er, re-read something. Which would be dreadful. Even if there are bookmarks in at least two books on my shelves that I started to re-read and got distracted by Library Books Which Must Be Consumed In A Week's Time. Also also I would like to make an entry someday about Really Fantastic Films I Have Seen Recently but now that I've mentioned it I will probably never get to it. Anyway it would probably get all geeky and technical in the end, or just odd ("how can he be so worked up about nobody taking him seriously enough and yet flaunt a moustache like that? that is not a Serious Moustache!" -- "he's working on it! he's got a government grant!"). Also to the third power: Time Crash = unintelligable syllables of fangirly glee and Steven Moffat needs the universe on a shiny, shiny platter already, HULLO BBC.
Other thing I keep not posting: philosophical, grammatical, and anthropological musings on Firefly. Because, yes, I actually do spent great amounts of time thinking about these things. (Especially the linguistic aspects! Honestly some of the slang is so right on I wonder if Joss Whedon did a crash course in linguistics or just has an ear for things. I KNOW I KNOW NOBODY ELSE EVER CONSIDERS HOW FICTIONAL SLANG DEVELOPS IN A FICTIONAL UNIVERSE OVER SEVERAL CENTURIES SHUT UP.)
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and the thing about Thanksgiving is that it always seems to arrive when I am absolutely the least ready for it. I seem to always be at my most despondent and lonely and frustrated in November. But holidays are beautiful, and that little sequestering of magic -- well, it's nice. The thing I like about Thanksgiving is that it's very, almost reverently, quiet. I suppose it isn't nearly this way for lots of people, but my family has almost always spent Thanksgiving alone, and there's something very intimate and beautiful about it.
I haven't any idea what I'm even saying anymore; time to fix up some muffins and go to bed.