my heart is a glorious machine;

Currently I seem to be undergoing the worst period ever to befall me. Details are probably not wanted (nothing very odd, though, just...a lot, okay?), but I feel tired and squashy and extraordinarily fly-off-the-handley and have spent quite a lot of the day in bed -- not because I felt sick, just exhausted. I did get a reasonable amount of sleep, however, and that felt good. And Heidi bought me Hockman's (...with my money), so that was nice, and I've been curled up with books, and -- oh, rewatching Angel S5. ALKHSFDLKHG WESLEYYYYY. I AM SORRY, I CANNOT HELP IT. EVERY TIME HE TALKS MY INSIDES DO FUNNY THINGS. Like, his quiet voice? When something is either very very wrong or very very right? And he goes so quiet and enunciates his consonants very carefully and his voice is just a little rusty and aklghkhfghg. Also I need to write fic about Wesley and Giles bonding over Fairport Convention and being in Giles' car or something and it's on the tape player and they're all "COME ALL YE ROVING MINSTRELS AND TOGETHER WE WILL TRYYYYYYY" and then they pull into the school parking lot and get out and straighten their ties and are like "WE WILL NEVER SPEAK OF THIS TO ANYONE." (Also why Wes is intimately familiar with Tam-Lin. I AM JUST SAYING. THIS IS NOT SELF-PROMOTION REALLY EXCEPT FOR HOW IT TOTALLY IS.)

-- I sound very chipper just now. Actually I feel rather bouncy, despite having been MASSIVELY CROSS all day long, and in addition to being cursed with femininity, also blowing my nose constantly and having a brief bout of nausea and losing the cord for my iPod twice. But I did switch box-springs with Timmy last night, because mine was too long for my mattress and his was too short and I couldn't get my under-the-bed-boxes under the bed, which made the room even more unpacky than it might have been otherwise (and very cluttered and difficult to walk in especially when wearing granny boots), so my bedroom is a little less crazy and I feel a little better being in it. I made the bed, even. I need to organise the closets better and find places for the rest of my books (...I have so many! It's fantastic, most of them are actually mine; I had no idea I personally possessed so many books! but I have no bookshelf now cos there isn't room for the one I had!) and pound nails into the walls and find a chair for my new-old desk and put up the fairy-lights, which could take a while. Yes yes, I have Mum's old desk (minus the massive hutch, which does not fit very comfortably in the corner designated for the desk -- sort of a pity as it contains much room for books) and have banished that silly flowered too-short thing with the pink swivel chair of rubbishness and ick to Heidi's bedroom and Mum's desk is wooden and a little battered but very cosy and sort of old-fashioned and very desky. Only at the moment it's mostly got candelabra and formal gloves and skeleton keys and my voting registration card on it instead of Things Which Belong To A Desk. (This is mostly on account of Lack Of Chair, I think.) I really need to take pictures soon, especially of the Book Nook, which may be the most fantastic closet I have ever had.

This bounciness is fortelling good things for the future, I think. I am tired of being woeful and cranky but it is not much good getting myself to not be when I am. (Well, most of the time anyway. Sometimes I can say shut up you are brooding and being a prat and there is no good reason, go do something productive and/or interesting and you will feel better! but lots of the time I am just miserable and there is little in my power that can change it. Which only makes me miserabler.) 

Cold, you have been hanging around for nearly two weeks pretending you are about to leave and lingering instead. GO AWAY.

(OMG WESLEY READING T.S. ELIOT OUT LOUD. THIS SHOULD HAPPEN. UNFORTUNATELY FIC WOULD JUST NOT BE THE SAME AS HEARING IT. THERE SHOULD BE A MINISERIES OF SOME KIND SPECIFICALLY FOR THE SAKE OF HAVING WESLEY READ "EAST COKER" OUT LOUD. I WOULD DIRECT BUT MY DIRECTIONS WOULD MOSTLY CONSIST OF THINGS LIKE "*WIBBLE*" AND EVERYONE WOULD BE ALL "...WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?".)

Capslock I hereby banish you.

Dear Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,

PLEASE, JUST STOP SHAVING ALREADY, OKAY? ALSO, YOU ARE MADE OF AWESOME AND I THINK I AM MADLY IN LOVE WITH YOU.  (However, because of this I am afraid I have doomed you to a miserable existence (look at the statistics, yeah?), but now at least there is a distinct statistical possibility that you will reference T.S. Eliot (you're really such a "Prufrock" sort of bloke, you know), or at least, like, Dylan Thomas or something. Child Ballads, Welsh, I don't know. -- Actually, didn't you already reference something awesome and I forgot? (Yes I know everything has long been written and filmed, but though people assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff. So, you know.))

P.S.: Also you should get a long coat. Preferably something in dark blue wool, maybe double-breasted, with slits in the back? Yeah. Oh what, everybody else's got a coat, come on!

Today my bicycle finally acquired a name.

I spent much of the afternoon at the library with Sarah, Hannah, and Victoria (Alessandra left yesterday to spend Pascha -- Orthodox Easter -- in Maine with her family), except for the part I spent doing yard-work (not entirely voluntarily, but Sarah and Hannah stopped to chat after church and Caroline stopped to chat and play with Leandra whilst walking her dogs), and the other part I spent running an errand to get sugar, and ask about hair dyeing materials at Sally's. The errandy bit was interesting, as it involved me on a bicycle dodging things and being berated roundly by the-voice-in-my-head (which has weirdly taken on many characteristics of Spike's; don't even ask) and, alack, getting my first tan of the season. I shall have to be more vigilant with the sunscreen after this.

Anyway, I attained a bag of sugar and rode downtown to the library with the bag dangling off my handlebars and thudding awkwardly hither and thither. I had my satchel with me, of course, but it was full to bursting with hardcover books for the library, and therefore not much help. We met up in the midst of the stacks and poked books at each other and were not very good at being quiet. I found some stray books, and Sarah found an Angel novelisation which amused us greatly. Later we wandered downstairs to watch the children while Mrs M went to the supermarket, with Sarah and some assorted youngsters. Hannah and Victoria and I somehow got onto the topic of The Death Of Moony The iPod, or The Cruel Murder Of Moony The iPod, depending on whom one asks, which turned into plotting out a murder mystery game in which we solve the mystery of Moony's untimely death and pretend to be other people and have silly names (I am Winifred Partridge, grieving -- so far as we know -- fiancée of the late Irving Podsworth; also I am probably a vampire, which is wont to cause trouble as the late Mr Podsworth was, as most of you know, a wereipod werewolf). Frodo-the-action-figure, for reasons only partially known, is a major participant in the proceedings.

There was then the traditional migration to Hockman's, and, as we headed out the door, several of us said "Quickly, to the Angelmobile, away!" nearly in unison, which resulted in a group effort to quote the entire monologue from memory. ("And prancing away like a magnificent poof is truly thanks enough!") Hopping aboard my bicycle, I had an epiphany, and cried out, "I've got it! I've been trying to name my bicycle for ages, and from now on, it shall be known as -- THE ANGELMOBILE!" Agreement and hilarity ensued. (And it's all true. I've been scrambling after a name for some time, as I've got to call it something when I'm shouting at it. I thought briefly about Serenity, but my bicycle could only be called such by the blackest of irony, as it has attempted to kill me on several occasions. The Angelmobile suits its crotchety personality and delusions of grandeur, and my sense of geekery and fangirlism OH SHUT UP.) This distraction enabled us to lose Sarah, who called a minute or two later from Hockman's scolding us for not being there. We scolded her for not being here, and I managed the feat of bicycling one-handed while eating an apple: rather suavely, I might add.

Then we bought a lot of chocolate, and the following dialogue also ensued.


Then someone got to singing "Early One Morning" and I put my hands over my ears and attempted to eat Victoria. We're a lot of ridiculous geeks, we are. (Fortunately, so are the proprietors of Hockman's, so they aren't terribly worried.)

I bicycled home quite happily (despite "Rest in Peace" remaining firmly lodged in my head, forcing me to sing it out loud all the way home), satisfied with having had a great deal of exercise, and cosied up with a book and my newfound chocolate and the window wide open with the breeze coming in and Solas' live album (preparation!), with breaks in between to bake peanut butter cookies and eat some of them.

I am very fond of Saturdays.

So, I've decided deduced that sometime during the period in which Angel first moves to L.A. and is getting drunk a lot due to mopeage, he meets the Doctor in a bar, and they have a few beers and angst about the downsides of semi-immortality and the blonde young women who are no longer in their lives. (Also they probably save the world, completely by accident, and possibly in a manner that necessitates the quoting of "The Hollow Men".)

Search your feelings. You know it to be true.