late nights, bright lights

The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, right?

Well I have a problem, guys.

Tonight I actually wrote an mpreg story. In all earnestness (as much earnestness as I can have while writing; it all ends up leaning towards crack in the end), with attention to detail and proper spelling, just to get a Sam/Castiel fix.

I developed a soul and turned around and promptly killed it in exchange for Sam/Cas because THAT is how desperate I am for readable OTP fic these days.

There isn't even a rehab for this! My life has moved past the point where I can even take myself seriously.

So apparently I'm posting this to see if I am alone in this, to see if any other brave souls out there have braved the depths of depravity (aka: fandom) in order to find what you so longingly seek. Share your tales, brave warriors, and share your pain. Also I guess I'm saying I'll whore myself out for half-decent Sam/Castiel fic.

Okay, but on a more serious note for today.

I had a good day today. Like, better than normal. I don't really know why, don't know if I can put my finger on exactly why. My butt hurts from sitting like a monk on the floor all day (and I mean like, all day) and I'm going to have to spend the next three days in a wrist brace, but I'm feeling good.

I talked to some strangers on the internet, which is normally a little weird, but this time turned out to be really good. I think I made new friends :D

I wrote... Very little of my Nano novel. Maybe 300 words. But I did host a write in that a whooping five people turned up to, so that was cool. I ate a potato and discovered delicious (man, lists with tags and cross referencing? It's everything I want in my life).

I also laughed so hard at some cracked out spn fanfic that I thought I had pulled a muscle/died and gone to heaven (crack heaven).

Dunno even know what it is, but I just feel GOOD today, you know?

Why yes, yes it is, lol!title.

Title: Awful, Horrific, Beautiful, Perfect
Fandom: Supernatural and Good Omens
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Word Count: 670
Warnings: spoilers through the end of s4 of Supernatural. Nothing really for GO.
Summary: If Castiel is having doubts, if he is questioning, it is better to talk to someone who has already been there.
Author's Notes/Disclaimer: Anything you recognize is property of its owner, either CW/Eric Kripke or Neil Gaiman and Terry Prachett. I'm just toying with them for the fun of it.

( Here. )

Ever spent so long in someone else's skin that blinking at the clock, seeing it's almost five thirty and finally noticing the cramps in your legs feel so surreal?

I gotta stop doing this to myself.

I'm writing for kink_bingo this year. It's going to be challenging, I think. I've been out of all my fandoms for so long, I feel like a stranger (srsly, there's no one familiar to me in the Newsies fandom anymore. And where's my shoeboxers at?). And on top of that, all my previous forays into the more pornographic instances of fandom have been kept drastically secret, for fear of ceaseless mocking from my peers (that's you). I shan't be posting it here, at any rate, only to the new dreamwidth account. That is, if I finish anything.

Speaking of, that rascally scamp ace_hart already has her first bingo. Whiskey tango foxtrot*, Ace, leave some for us.

I'm trying to think of k_b as an early exercise for nanowrimo. Getting my writing muscles in tiptop shape. Also, on that note, I'm not sure I care to hear your thoughts, internet, about how fanfic is a mockery of writing so save that, plz. I won't be ficcing anything that the original author has explicitly stated s/he did not want anyone touching.

Imitation = flattery. That's the way I always thought it worked, anyways.

Now, to brainstorm a little more and do my favourite part of any fanfic research... Find the perfect lj icon to go with it!



*canoe.

Most depressing/awesome thing ever, depending on how you look at it.

Note: You probably won't understand it, 94% of my readership.

So I woke up looking and feeling like I met all the qualifications to join the Legion of Tempestuous Fury (well, not that my NCAA basketball pjs look much like lorica segmentata). After I stumbled into the bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself (gag and shudder go here). It was pretty gruesome. Evidently the thirty two point buy system was very kind to my wisdom score, not so much my charisma.

But with a mere ten minutes, a little toothpaste and some lip gloss, I was transformed into a fantastic representation of Larissa's madness (plus a sweater, because it's damn cold out that early in the morning). And I was not the only one to notice it. So put that in your plus two pipe of life and smoke it.

But I understand it, and it thrills me like it shouldn't.

And now, ( some pointless rambling about colours. )

2021, 01/27/2009, Churchill Institution for the Mentally Different

The idea was, forgive my use of the word lightly, crazy. Actually insane.

Dave held up the photo in the book, smile lit up with an inner glow like he had just found Jesus.

But even I had to admit, it looked amazing. "Chile, really?" I had always loved the mountains. South America could be nice.

"We could do it." Dave nodded to reinforce the point. "We could."

Fresh air, no more medication (less than twenty four without it and I was feeling great), no one else around to bother me or try to medicate me. Just me alone with my thoughts. It could be everything I'd always needed.

"What do we need?" I asked.

**

It started with a plastic iv needle taped to my arm but not actually inserted into anything.

"The nurse is going to hook up your meds right before lights out and we want her to think it's all connected, so don't move too much and don't draw any attention to the needle." Dave was putting the final touches on the tape. "It looks good. Real convincing."

"I'll be back about three hours after lights out. Right after the first set of rounds. I'll have clothes and supplies. I'll sneak you out through the window. You can climb down an ivy trellis, right?"

I nodded. I had no idea, but damned if I wasn't going to try.

"We'll have everything we need in the Jeep; fake passports, cash, road trip music," he grinned sheepishly. "Ready to leave this life behind?"

I nodded again. I still had no idea, but damned if I wasn't going to try.

1258, 01/27/2009, Churchill Institution for the Mentally Different

I went to the dining room for lunch.

The other patients all stayed clear of me. I tried not think of why, and just got my food and sat well away from everyone else.

I don't feel crazy, I don't. I feel like a normal young woman. Everything seems fine to me, this world, the reality seems exactly as it should. No aliens spying into my brain from orbit, no government conspiracies that only I know about. No monsters chasing the edges of my vision or long and meaningful conversations with my own shoes.

Then why am I here? Is it really so bad on the days when I'm not myself that the other patients and even the nurses and orderlies look at me sitting here with my ham sandwich like I'm about to throw a chair through the window and try to eat my own leg?

Why am I crazier than anyone else out there?

So I guess I'm always the last to hear, officially this time. Is someone stealing out of my inbox again? Anyways, without any further ado.

0643, 01/27/2009, Churchill Institution for the Mentally Different

Apparently the fact that I'm sick has been common knowledge for a few years now. So common they've actually had my committed during the breaks between my true lucid moments. I woke up in a hospital this morning, greeted by a shy-looking orderly and a constant iv drip of sedatives. Apparently this is reality now. Luckily, I'm one of blessed ones. I know reality is fluid, I know I'll be gone from this place- at least in my mind- in almost no time at all. None of this has to be real if I don't want it to be.

According to the orderly, I'd only managed two real sentences before; "Have you seen my book?" and "Above all, to thine own self be true." The staff whispered these words amongst themselves whenever my name came up in conversation. The rest of my noise had only been febrile murmurs and quiet raving. I was the most famous crazy person they had at the Churchill. Apparently only a few days of consciousness every few years was a record or something.

So when I propped myself up on one elbow and said quite clearly to him: "What day is it today?" it scared him more than a little. I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack. He leaned heavily against the dresser by the door. "Tuesday," he said. "January 27th."

I nodded, trying to remember the designations for the months and what it actually meant when he said it.

"Can I get you something?" he asked, flicking his hair out of his eyes in what looked like a nervous-habit sort of way.

"Water?" He nodded and slipped out of the room. I heard the door lock behind him. Oh how lovely.

The room was very clean. White walls, white tile floor, white bed linens. Besides the bed and the dresser there was a blue armchair by the window (which looked over a small, dreary courtyard) and a bookshelf behind that.

I slid out of bed, hold fast to the iv stand for support. I don't remember being out of this bed any time in the last few years and I was worried about falling. But my legs held and I made it over to the chair, dragging it half around to face the shelf. Stacks and stacks of coil notebooks and sketch pads, every one with my name in big block letters on the cover. And dates corresponding, I supposed, the dates I had started and ended with the particular book.

Well, it turns out I was a lot busier than I remember over the last few years. That was a thought that was a little more disconcerting than most others.

I picked up the first book my hand hit and flipped it open just as a key scratched in the lock and the man came back with my water...