In God's Country

Missing (The Ever-Clever Triple Entendre)

2007-07-07T06:30:45Z

Could someone please explain to me these two things?

One: What has happened to an abundance of decent Catherine/Grissom fanfiction?
Two: What do people see between Grissom and Sara?

For the past few months, I've been trying to see from the other point-of-view, from the perspective of the GSR 'shipper. I've read GSR fanfiction, tried writing for the relationship (even if it had the intent of stealthily hopping aboard the good ship GCR), and read opinions on why Grissom and Sara compliment each other and go together like peanut butter and the ever-loyal jelly.

Well, let's just say this: I still don't understand it.

Why is it that the majority of 'shippers watching CSI find this couple to be the most appealing? Is there some crucial element to this to which I am blind, some sort of chemistry embedded in the plot of the show that eludes me? From what I've seen in nearly six of the seven seasons -- discounting the finale for season six -- is a woman forcing herself upon a man and the said man showing little to no interest in the aforementioned woman. Granted, there have been a few moments -- such as when Sara first reacquaints herself with Grissom in "Cool Change" -- where they were relaxed and, hell, even romantic, with each other. (The only other scene without seemingly strained chemistry that I can recall is the one in "Nesting Dolls" where Grissom comforts Sara, and even that is arguably paternal, not romantic. And maybe the "tie me up" scene in "Pledging Mr. Johnson.") Other than these, however, the rest has been unbearably unnatural.

Take, for example, when Sara tells Grissom to "pin [her] down" in "The Accused Is Entitled." While it may be the basis for many a GSR fanfiction, it is a mind-numbingly uncomfortable scene (in the opinion of this writer). Not only does Sara make a blatant (and unwanted) advance, but she also manages to fail at making Grissom understand about what she is talking (the "relationship" between them).

Okay, okay -- I'll end that on a coherent note.

Still, this situation irritates me. One, because I see these astounding authors supporting this couple and have to wonder what they see in it. Two, because I see these pitiful writers sailing upon the good ship GCR and defecating all over it.

And this brings me to my next point.

What happened to all of the good GCR authors/stories? I mean, while there are still the authors, such as lemonjelly_, who write GCR almost professionally, there are these new writers who make nothing but out-of-character garbage.

I understand the motive behind the general lack of GCR fanfiction; obviously, with the loss of any interaction between Grissom and Catherine in the past three seasons (five, six, and seven), who wouldn't lose some inspiration? Still, what is with all of these relatively new writers producing only undiluted crap? My vote is for a preexisting correlation between the quality of the Catherine/Grissom interaction in the show and the decency of the fanfiction inspired by it. Hmm...

Then, though, how do you explain such "flukes" as lemonjelly_'s Zwischenzug, missparker85's, "Only Something in Me Understands", or Caroline's,"How Hard It Rains Now", all written during this time of lost momentum?

I'll honestly tell you that it's discouraging to see your "ship" held afloat by mostly immature writers with nothing better to do than kill whatever remains of the relationship. An obvious paranoia is talking when I think that maybe GCR appeals to a juvenile group rather than a more...sophisticated?...one.

I know that this is just a TV show; that they're only fictional characters who will die when the show ends; that none of this constitutes as "important" in the "sensible" mind.

Still, if anyone can answer any of these questions, I'd be happy to listen. :)

Thanks for your time. Have a good morning.

And From the Rain...

2006-12-23T19:17:47Z

...springs a drenched adolescent who might be a little bit (or completely) infuriated at the fact that there is, in fact, no snow on the ground in her tiny, northern home when there should be, at the present date, at least three ~~inches~~ feet of it rather than what there is currently, that being enough rain to make three feet of snow, if the temperature would permit it.

(Seriously, if freezing was fifty degrees Fahrenheit instead of thirty-two, we'd all be up to our necks in snow. But it's not, unfortunately, so my pouting might just persist.)

All right, so I've not managed to do a gosh darn thing mentioned in my last ancient post, except for sending a lengthy e-mail to a certain LJ user/brilliant author that was...twenty-three thousand five-hundred words long? I think that was it.

Anyway, I just wanted to post to say Merry Christmas/Happy Chanukah (you are Jewish, right, bemorechill?) and to apologize, because I've been a lousy friend to everyone, including off-line friends, lately. (Maybe I need to apply to the Hermit Club sooner than I thought.)

However, if any of my fantastic friends wish to tell my how life's going, by all means, please do. I've not been avidly keeping my memory stocked with things mentioned in the journal entries I've been reading every so often, so I'm not exactly knowledgeable in all the details.

In response to comments in the last post:

bemorechill: Even though I never commented *shame!* on your post, I will tell you now that I hope your stresses are next to none. (Hey, I just managed to comment today. Hee! *rules at failing at LJ'ing*) Oh, and let's hope you did well on your exams... *crosses fingers*.

lemonjelly_: All right, so it's probably true that I've been the most terrible friend to you this year, with taking months to respond or not responding at all. With you, I've been pathetic at everything pretty much, especially promise-keeping, but you've managed to keep your side of the friendship going. So thank you, thank you very much. Honestly, you've got more to offer than I can probably acknowledge: You have such talent, personality, and wisdom to boot. Really, anyone to befriend you is lucky, and anyone not taking the effort to reciprocate to your friendship is...well, just stupid. (I know, I know: Self-berating is not an attractive quality, and I do have to suppress it.) Anyhow, I hoped you've had yourself an excellent year. <-- (To be quite honest, this applies to all of my friends. You guys are wonderful beyond belief, so thank you from the bottom of my heart.)

angelfirenze: Okay, so you obviously know I haven't reviewed your fanfiction, which means that this vacation, I'm going to have to give you some heavy-duty praise. (All of which you will deserve as a gifted writer and not just for being my friend. I know friend's views tend to be biased, but really, if there's anything displeasing (the chances of which are negative, to tell the truth), I'll tell you.) Your stories, along with a few others (including blushingsigh might be what get me back into the "House" groove. (I've missed several episodes and noticed a decline in the writing. [i.e., Tritter? Needs a rectal thermometer not just in his anus but in every one of his orifices, including the gaping hole in his head where his brain should be.] Anyhow, please keep authoring such great stories and being a well-rounded individual, a title that you certainly deserve.

blushingsigh: Firstly, you, AIM, and I need to make a date and keep it, because I haven't had the pleasure of speaking to you in months, a huge disgrace, really. I've left a few comments, but an AIM conversation would be absolute heaven. (Probably because your English is excellent, regardless of what your idiot teacher said, and because you're just a true and fabulous person.) Oh, and I need to review your story, too, which I should've done a while ago along with angelfirenze.

Have a nice holiday season everyone. Keep warm. Stay safe. Keep writing.

(Oh, right, and if anyone's interested, I am currently working on a fanfiction for a...different fandom. I'm not giving clues, but when you get an alert in your inbox (which might be soon enough if I can finish my touch-ups), you might be a little...shocked. :) And that's all I say.

I Really Do Hate Blogs

2006-10-06T21:07:49Z

No joking. Really, they continue to irritate me, even if I am the world's greatest hypocrite and have one.

To tell you the truth, I never actually planned on having a blog. It just, in a sense, happened. karineinthepool, who I hope enjoyed her summer, invited me to join house_cuddy, and I agreed. And that's that. Not exactly an interesting story, and one that I didn't have to tell either. *shrugs* Right now, I'm assuming that I'm suffering from a major, acute case of what the professionals call "apathy." But again, whatever. (And for all of those who have/have had this disease, yes, it tends to be irritating to one and all, especially with the repetition of the previously used word "whatever.")

Oh, speaking of stories, I still need to:

- do CSI fanfiction recommendations (which I was supposed to do in June, for goodness sakes *palmface*).
- start writing these darn original fiction ideas in my head. (Yes, original fiction. Let me dream and aim for a publication date before my seventeenth birthday. Maybe sixteenth.) :)
- send some e-mails to some people.
- do essays and whatnot for school.
- learn how to solve those stupid -- and that is the most innocuous way of saying it -- proofs in Geometry.
- review some stories...or find some decent fanfiction to review.

And this brings me to my next point: Has fanfiction.net become the home to more moronic writers who think grammar is the type of cheese of which their brains are composed or am I just complaining without justification?

Honestly, though, it's getting worse. I have one day a week, usually, where I can guarantee myself Internet use, that being Friday, and yet, when I come on, there's nothing to read. *sighs* Well, maybe not. I do need to read -- okay I already read and loved, by the way -- angelfirenze's and blushingsigh's story/stories. That is, along with everything else that I have failed in completing during the week. Really, I've never seen such large mountains of homework as those in the land of high school -- although I image college is going to be ten times worse.

Oh, and look at this! I am almost logically connecting my topics today. Maybe I should go reward myself with a freaky orange Oreo or something. I know food as an incentive is terrible, but I've had a lack of orange cookies in my diet.

Any who, the best of luck to lemonjelly_ in her application endeavors. How, with your talent, charisma, and all-out genius, could you not do well? Oh, and angelfirenze, I hope your days in the salt mine with books are going better as well.

All right, so that's about it. Did I miss anything? Probably. I could probably elaborate, but eh, after my hiatus, don't I deserve a little time to wiggle back into my cyber self? (Oh great, now I'm thinking of that stupid Jell-O pudding commercial with the wiggling kid and dancing cow. *headdesk*)

(Thank you to angelfirenze and blushingsigh for your comments.)

P.S. -- Don't...expect regular updates. Because I am a doof when it comes to doing anything regular. And if you're thinking what I think you're thinking, then the answer is yes, including that...thing, too.

P.S.S. -- A huge apology to bemorechill for the ridiculous lack of commenting in...months...in your journal and for being the most boring writer in the House universe. Thank you for having the patience of a goddess.

I...Don't Know

2006-08-20T06:14:32Z

For all readers of my fanfiction, you might take interest in this note. It’s just a bit of a declaration. That’s all.

Okay, have not updated in more than two weeks -- sixteen days to be exact. Anyway, that wasn’t the
"hiatus" of which I spoke. I don’t know when that will be. Maybe when schools starts. Trust me, I’m going to be busy. (All Honors’ classes. This ought to be quite a laugh for God. I’m going to be doing more juggling than, well, a juggler, really, if I must use a weak simile.)

Hark, though, because I bear an article…which some of my friends may not like. *blushes* Sorry, but I do agree with it. I’m just...eh, the article says all.

Disclaimer: The original author of this article is Joel Achenbach, and I took it from The Week magazine: page fourteen, volume six, issue two-sixty six/two sixty-seven, for the weeks of July seventh and fourteenth. It was first posted in The Washington Post. I disclaim all, and as I write it here is how The Week posted it.

“Devaluing a Perfectly Obscene Word”

The F-word isn’t what it used to be, said Joel Achenbach in The Washington Post. Once the most taboo – and thus the most emphatic – word in all the English language, "the F-bomb" is now used in everyday speech as an "all-purpose intensifier". Hip-hop artists, bloggers, and people under twenty-five use "f---" so casually and frequently that it has lost its power to shock. The word has become so mundane, in fact, that even politicians such as George W. Bush, Dick Cheney, and John Kerry have all felt comfortable using it in interviews and in public. The cheapening of "f---" is a shame—"not because it is a bad word, but because, in certain circumstances, it is a very good word." Dropped into the right sentence at the right time, the word’s "rock-hard consonants" explode off the tongue, making "plain language more colorful and empathic." Drop a hammer on your toe, and nothing provides the therapeutic value of shouting "F---!" (Try shouting "Drat!" or "Dangnabbit!") To convey fury, or urgency, or comical incongruity, nothing works as well as "f---," as long as it is reserved for these special occasions. So in the interests of one of the English language’s greatest legacies, let’s all stop saying f---, unless we have a really good cause. "For the good of human communication we must come together, as a people, to protect this word, and ensure that, years from now, it remains obscene."

---

Mister Achenbach, thank you, sir. You need to come to my school, armed with a truckload of soap and toothbrushes, and force the perpetrators of the cheapening to repent their destruction. (And I know some people are going to disagree with this, so I’m going to sit right here and wait for a little while.)

Notes to Friends

angelfirenze, I’m sorry to hear about your college troubles. (You do actually have an excuse to use "the F-bomb".)

blushingsigh, I'm going to miss you. You are such an amazing person -- talented, spiritual, loving -- and did not deserve whatever happened to you. If you ever need (or want) to talk to me, don't hesitate to drop a line. I'm here for you. I might not be the best at my timing (which is why I'm leaving you a note now), but just...if the urge strikes, send me an e-mail or leave comment, and we'll talk.

To both of you: *HUGS*

---

Well, folks, I'm going on vacation for a week (hence the update), and then I'll be starting school. (Anyone want some of my "Goody-Goody Gumdrops"? There's way to much ~~sarcasm~~ sweet, sweet sugar in them.) Updates will be sporadic -- more sporadic? -- and the fanfiction juices might not be a-flowin' for the first few weeks. (Why do I have a sense of approaching doom?)

Well, I need to perform basic, human tasks to satisfy my basic, human needs, so I shall see everyone later. (Oh, and don't forget if you haven't already: free "You're Pitiful" downloads!

---

A Couple of Questions

Everyone knows that "The End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) is by REM, right? I just couldn't fit the entire thing in the space provided.

Does anyone have any clue as to when the new season of evil!CSI is starting? I haven't a clue, nor have I seen any commercials to answer my question.

Best Song/Album of the Week: "Don't Drink the Bathwater" by Placebo. Okay, I need to say this now: I am not referring to the band from the UK; I'm referring to Leslie Feist's (or just Feist's) high school band. Yes, I do own their first (and only) official release. It's such a fantastic album. If you see it anywhere (and actually like Feist as an artist) grab it and hold it for dear life, because it's rare.

(Why can't it snow? It's too hot! *jumps into a vat of ice cubes*)

"Weird Al" Has...

2006-08-05T01:23:46Z

...stolen my music-loving heart, and I don't care if I get it back. Really, the man is a genius.

And why, you ask, is he a genius? Because of what he has on his homepage, of course!

As you may or may not know (and I'm guessing it's the latter), "Weird Al" created a parody of James Blunt's "You're Beautiful". Unfortunately, even though Blunt gave Yankovich "his blessing" ("Al" always gets the artist's "blessing" before making the song), the suits working for Blunt's production company wouldn't allow "Weird Al" to put the song "You're Pitiful", the harmless remake of the century, on his upcoming (and already finished) album "Straight Outta Lynwood". But, hey, loopholes are God's way of saying "Screw the suits", so...

If you go to his homepage (yes, two links people), and click on any of the numerous "here" links, you will be able to download "You're Pitiful" for free. It's hilarious -- especially for people like me who truly hate the original song. (I do. It's unoriginal vocally and instrumentally, and it's my personal opinion that the order in which he makes songs into music videos depends on the quality. That's why "High" came after "You're Beautiful". It starts with the worst and becomes better as he keeps making videos.)

But to each his/her own.

Anyway, regardless of the title, this post is more about my fanfictions and now they're coming.

I'll say this first: I'm working on a project right now, and writing other things (including e-mails *winks and is not so sly*) in between. So I will be delayed in writing matters.

Oh, and this: No promises. I don't guarantee anything, just like I don't claim it. Some things I will never write, that I know. It's part of being a writer. You have ideas, and about ninty percent of them you don't use, even though the rate here is lower. Closer to sixty. Still, I'll go against myself, be a bum, and guarantee one thing: I don't guarantee anything...except that I don’t guarantee anything.

"The Land of Qualms" -- ...will be updated when it's updated. I have ideas, but I'm just not keen on finding the words to write them right now -- although I do want to finish the story. It's still my baby, and I still want to see it grow. Really, it will probably be my favorite fanfiction because it's a progressive (kind of, sort of) log of my writing improvement. Or I like to think so. Anyway, updates will come when they come, but maybe one before I go back to school. (WIP, PG-13)

"Therapeutic Loophole" -- ...is going to be a House/Cuddy. I've decided to make it based off spoilers for Season Three, because otherwise, it would have been a pain in the fanny to write. No, really. I would've sat in front of the computer for endless hours trying to figure a way to write it without making it completely illogical, and after sitting on your lower cheeks for four plus hours, in the same position, the feeling down there is lost. I apologize. I don't have a callous there yet...thankfully. But anyway, I suppose I should start writing it. I do have ideas, and I'm sure I could write something in a matter of days. (One-shot, PG-13)

"Seesaw" -- ...will be updated when I can actually write something for Chapter Four, entitled, "Over Coffee and Caterpillars and Children". I've about a thousand words written, maybe a bit more, but I'm stuck as to how I should go from where I am. So basically, I've no idea when it'll be updated. I'll try writing, but it's proving to be more difficult than anticipated. (WIP, PG-13)

"Tangy" -- ...is a House/Cuddy piece I've started. Thus far (and I can tell you this truthfully) I have...two-hundred seventy-one words written, including little paragraphs I have for later in the story. Yes, go on, laugh. It's funny. But at least it's started. And I don't know when this will be up and running. Maybe before school starts, maybe before Thanksgiving. As of now, like many of the stories listed/that I will list here, I don't even have a rough estimate as to when I will complete it. (One-shot, PG)

"In God's Country" -- ...is going to be an ass-kicking, epic, amazing (okay, okay, sorry) CSI one-shot involving Catherine, Grissom, and a friend of the human race named...sex. Yes, they will have sex, but it's going to focus on the spiritual side of sex, not the whole back-clawing, semen-squirting half of it. (You're welcome, blushingsigh.) Truly, this story could have been for House, and originally *retrieves pitchfork shield* it was. Then, a little person I'd like to call my sibling told me that it would be better as a CSI story, and thus, it did become one. Yes, blame her. Or me. Or whomever you wish to blame. But it's CSI "OMGhot!" Grillows and not House "OMGhot!" Huddy. That's the truth, folks. (One-shot, PG-13)

"Toxically Common" -- is a (prepare you "OMG!"'s, people) a...femslash...involving...Stacy and Cuddy. Yes! My First Slash Fanfiction -- how adorable. I'll put it in my memory box. Anyway, it's mild. Not "blink-and-you-miss-it-(ha!-sucker!)" mild, but more like "comfort!kiss!hug!maybe more if there was a sequel" mild. It's nothing like "wrists-strapped-to-the-bed-with-a-man's-leather-belt-God-what-PWP!" No way. And I've been working on it in conjunction with the project, so it's just under one-thousand words. (One-shot, PG-13)

Anything I've missed. This post is taking me forever to finish. Oh, right!

"Sun-Blindness" -- ...is a House/Cuddy fanfiction that I started two while trying to write for my craptastic summer project. It's humor, yes, and it's...fluffy. *dies* That's it. I'm putting another note under this cut. It might be up before school starts, or maybe before Halloween.

"Of Sand and Cigarettes" -- ...is a Wilson/Stacy fanfiction on which I am stuck. It seems like every time I open the document, my brain turns into a giant ball of fuzz. Therefore, writing is near impossible. So it's not going to be finish for a little while.

That's about everything. And the sequel to "Like Reality Melting"? I don't even have a document started for it. How's that for progress?

Note -- Part Deux: It seems to be, my fellows, that I write Huddy now. *dances* But, it's limited to at least semi-fluff. *cringes* Yes, fluff. The thing I once said I would never write.... I have written. Maybe it's the whole angst-addicted teenager brat in me, but...yeah. There are no words.

Spare the lj'er, use a cut. That's my logic.

(On a random note: Sister Cameron may be getting a makeover soon. I may turn her into "Sista Cameron: 'Hood Nun". It's a weak joke -- you know, like hoodlum? -- but hey, I want to see my creation with a sideways Yankees' cap, bling, and a car with major hydraulic advantages.

Well, good night, folks. I'm going to do...something.

*walks away awkwardly*

Best Song/Album Title for the Missed Weeks: "The Best of Talking Heads" by (obviously) Talking Heads. It has all your basic Talking Heads' needs, from "Psycho Killer", "Once in a Lifetime", and "And She Was". It's...too great for words.

Here We Go...

2006-07-26T03:26:26Z

Hello. Update time. Fun for all. Let's start by saying a few things. I'll even number them because I'm in one of those strange, strange moods.

ONE: Am trying to write Huddy. Am failing. Am not happy. Will not use a single subject in this first "thing".
TWO: I'll say it now: Something tells me I cannot "compete" with shadowfood's "Three's A Crowd". I like my story, and some people like my story, too. But apparently, many, many people are flocking over to her story -- and enjoying it quite thoroughly. Jealous? No, not really. Her characters are in character; her writing is decent; she has all the components for a story and adds in her own pizzazz. What can I say? She's not pretentious; she's concise. People like what she does. It's simple. It's in character. It's Huddy. It's what the people want. Writing is not a competition -- which is why compete is in parenthesis -- but it does feel like one sometimes.
THREE: If anyone cares, I don't know when "The Land of Qualms" will be updated. I have ideas, but not control of the words I need to write them.
FOUR: I might be writing a bit of an "essay" on why, I think, Sara is attracted to Grissom and why what happened, happened. But don't hold me to it.
FIVE: Yes, more journal has grown more pointless. I realize this. Don't be surprised if I take a little hiatus or something from updating.
SIX: I have no idea when I'll have the CSI fanfiction recommendations up and running. Trust me -- schedules and thyself, we don't mix that well.
SEVEN: Thank you to blushingsigh for the review for "Seesaw". Truly, my ego swelled dangerously. ;)
EIGHT: blushingsigh, I'm ready to beta your story. I apologize for not being online last week.
NINE: lemonjelly_, that e-mail will be to you by the twenty-eighth. I don't care if I have to forgo sleep for the next three nights. This is one promise I'm forcing myself to keep.
TEN: To help cure my writer's block, I am reading different fanfictions. The authors I'd like to thank are (and I am not going to plagiarize from you, because I'd hang myself before I did that):

wench_for_hire
lemonjelly_
allthingsholy
ijemanja

ELEVEN: lemonjelly_ I'll be sending you some music very soon. It's a shame I've been so pathetic in sending things to you.
TWELVE: Also, lemonjelly_, I've no idea when I'll be done with the drawing. I'm not even trying to guess.
THIRTEEN: blushingsigh, I don't know when I'll post a preview of "Of Sand and Cigarettes". After recently re-watching an episode, I've realized it's not exactly plausible, so I need to correct it.

And that's all for now. Good night.

Jeez, Why?

2006-07-18T22:55:05Z

Okay, why not just say it now? In Bible-esque format, of course.

Dearest Poplous of Thy Holy LiveJournalth:

It Hath Dawned upon Thyself that I, waffus, Haveth Been Unable to Scribe, and I Quoth, "OMG!hoteye!sex!" Huddy for Quite Some Timeth. (Too Longth in Thy Sarcastic Opinionth of Mine.) Now, as to Why This Mayth Be, I Am Not Sureth. Is Thou Wonderingth if It Is Because Thy Snarktastic...-th Doctor Hath Been Only Shownth in Repeats? I Didst Ponder This, and I Didst Come to the Conclusion That, Yes, Possibly, That Couldth Be a Contributing Factorth. But Wait! Didst Thou Also Wonderth If There Isth Something Else? Because if Thou Didst, Then Thou Might as Well Be a Geniusth. Thereth Is, In Fact, Another Reason. It Might Beth the Abundance of House/Cameron Fanfictionth and the Trickleth of House/Cuddy Fanfiction coming from Thy Scribes, but Alas, How Amth I to Be Sure? For I Am Only a Poor Scribe, too, if Thou Had Forgotten. (I Thinkth It Is Time to Cut Backth on the "Th's".)

Anyway, Before I Slay Thou with Boredomth, I Shalt Say This Unto Thou: I Will Tryth, like Anything, to Scribe Fanfiction, but There Are No Guaruntees. If Thy Muse Strikes, It Strikes. Unfortunately, Though, It Is Locked In a Closet With Thy Holy Central Air, for It Is a...Well, Let us Not Useth Such Words in a Bible-esque Passage.

Thank You for Your Timeth. If You Have Any Questionths/Comments/Concerns/Whateverths, Do Not Hesitate to Give a Holler Across the Heavens. I Shalt Beth Trying to Disconnect Thy Muse's Central Air, for It Is Squanderingth Way Too Much Holy Energy Juice.

-- waffus

WIP -- "Seesaw" (Part Deux)

2006-07-13T23:30:30Z

Title: Seesaw
Author: Waffle
Word Count: That's a bit of a stupid thing to have for a WIP, isn't it?
Genre(s): Drama/Romance
Rating: PG-13, T, CSI-2, or Naughty Waffle, whatever is your preference.
Disclaimer: When AOL gets a brain, I'll own it, okay?
Spoilers: There's a major and nasty one from "Way to Go" (6x24), which, if said sarcastically, reflects my feelings towards the writers of CSI.
Author’s Note(s): Hello again, and sorry for the delay in updating. This chapter does actually involve Catherine, and even though there is one paragraph that might make you scream from its abundance of G-SR, it's more CGR. Thank God. Reviews containing concrit and praise are much appreciated, and from last chapter, I'd like to thank blushingsigh (isn't the word "nipples" hilarious, though?) and coolcatzz (hey, better yet, why don't we have a CGR bonfire to burn it?). Part Un is running around fully-clothed at a nude beach . You'll have to catch it to read it. My apologies. So read on if you dare...and enjoy. :) Oh yes, and this is still unbeta'd.
Summary: “God, a child. She’s practically a child, with the smooth, pale skin and curious eyes, with the adorable gap between her teeth and brown hair that falls in front of those eyes when she attempts to assemble a puzzle that needs to be solved.”

---

Chapter Two: With Friends and Feelings and Faults

He’s possessed.

He must be, he thinks, because no sane man would risk what he held and still holds dear to his heart for more years than he’d like to count – but counts anyway to pass the time when he sits alone at home with his heart in his hand. And only for human contact, the touch of a being flawed like himself, only someone not as sinful, not as terrible and vile and disgusting. Someone younger and more innocent and more like – more like a child than he ever was.

God, a child. She’s practically a child, with the smooth, pale skin and curious eyes, with the adorable gap between her teeth and brown hair that falls in front of those eyes when she attempts to assemble a puzzle that needs to be solved. But maybe – maybe that little girl is actually a woman with silky, milky dermis and interrogative eyes, with the flaw in her teeth and auburn hair that falls in front of those investigative eyes as she sits atop of him topless and does what she’s wanted to do for so long, the scream welling in her throat and the heat emanating from her pores on her skin now shiny with sweat and taut with the compromising position she has assumed. And as she places her hands on his chest – fingers now long and immaculate but once short and grimy – with the nails still bitten nervously, he feels his old, creaky lungs inhale sharply and crackle as the stale air is then released painfully. It’s hard to breathe, and for a fleeting moment he thinks that maybe he should just stop because is life really worth living after committing such a heinous act and what is she doing because he feels like he’s going to burst and cause an explosion that’s as loud as the scream he feels coming to his –

“Grissom?” sounds an inquiring voice, causing him to come to his wits and to look right into Catherine’s brilliant blue eyes and shining smile. “Are you okay?” There’s a concerned tone in her voice, and in her eyes, he sees the worry not of a mother but of a friend for another friend. “Yeah, thanks,” he says, wondering what she must have thought when she walked into his office and saw him in whatever position he had taken.

She sits on the corner of his desk, as custom, and turns toward him. There is a silence, but it’s comfortable, although he has a feeling that the chance of that changing is imminent. He wants to tell her, needs to tell her, but he doesn’t want to see her reaction. “Catherine, I…”

She looks inquiringly at him, like she has been the entire time that she’s been there with him, her entire career there. Her eyes are coolly investigative, always scrutinizing whatever lies before her, always searching for that one clue that will solve the case. They follow unevenly elevated paths of crime, moving up and down, like a seesaw, he supposes, rising and falling with feelings and thoughts, and moving in sync with the case. And every so often she allows those eyes and her mind to drift from the matter at hand onto and into personal affairs and to somehow bring issues that are supposed to lie at home into work, falling from that seesaw of her professional world of death and onto the one of external life. It irritates him, yes, but at least she brings some of the outer world, with tears of happiness and the complacent sighs of children, into an occupation where cries that are cried are of sorrow and often done too often and too loudly as well. She brings this into a career where children who are abused, exploited, and disposed lie on metal tables, their pale bodies not shivering from the cool metal and their mouths not forming complaints of the frigidity and their feet not walking to the large metal door which leads them into more rooms that are just as cold – if not more cold – emotionally but not physically.

But they would not care about that if they were able to rise from that freezing metal table and walk out of that cold, cold room because their bodies would be aware of the warm air and would embrace it while their minds would be naïve to the emotionally damp and dark atmosphere surrounding them and everyone else in the building. Even her, except she is able to keep most of the chill out of her mind because she has those warm memories that seem to flame compared to what surrounds her most of the day. But not always. No, sometimes that iciness will enter her mind, and she will cry at the pain of it, that numbing headache that she can, ironically enough, feel. He reasons that this is the only professional where a person can be numb emotionally and also be able to feel every emotion that passes through that person’s body. But maybe Catherine will tell him that stripping is also a career where a person can do the same.

And he wouldn’t mind going into the past and saving her from that exploitation, that career she probably considered and still considers just as grotesque, only to have her stand before him in her uniform and strip seductively, visible curves becoming more visible and that indifference he saw in her eyes when he first saw her defrosting in the heat of her passionate admiration to him for saving her. He imagines her naked body in all its glory and does not feel dirty or sinful. But why then, he asks himself, does he feel so disgusting and sinful when he imagines –

“Grissom, you’ve got to stop doing that. I’m all for your reflectivity, but don’t you think you’re taking a bit far?” There she is again, Catherine, her voice penetrating those thoughts, those thoughts he thinks when counting the years that he has loved his greatest love isn’t enough, when counting the hundreds dead bodies and recounting the hundreds disturbing scenes does not assuage the loneliness he feels most nights.

He holds his heart – his job, his love – to his chest where his heart should be but isn’t because he wants – no, needs – to actually hold what is dear to him. He cannot just let it lie within him until all of it comes spilling from him when the loneliness and the reality overflow the boundaries of his body, when it becomes too much to bear.

Maybe, he thinks, what lives within this building is reality, and maybe what she brings into the building on the heels of her shoes and the rest of her body is reality, too, but the other half of it. He has a harsh reality, the burning reality whose existence he would like to deny, while she brings in the soft, flowing one, like the robe from which Sara stripped, revealing –

“Damnit!” he yells, the thought severed but not completely forgotten. Catherine jumps a little at the loud outburst, her face becoming slightly more serious, somewhat more drawn like his.

“Grissom, what’s wrong?” she asks in a compassionate tone, and it angers him even more. This is completely out-of-character for him. Usually composed, calm, and thoughtful, now raging passionately. She did it to him, her face smug before she screamed joyfully and fell to the bed, pure, erotic ecstasy wrapped in skin, bones, and childlike features. That face, that scream, they are in his mind now, destroying all thoughts of Catherine and what is the only love he will outwardly acknowledge: his occupation, his life. He stands from his seat, looks to the floor, curves his thumb and pointer finger around his forehead, and speaks:

“Catherine,” he starts, and she looks at him strangely. He continues: “I’ve done something that I’m regretting.”

“Yes?” her voice is as concerned and caring as it was before, but with slightly dubious – and maybe even accusatory – undertones to it. He tells her that she might want to sit, but she stands on the right side of the desk, leaning forward, fingers grasping the edge to help her keep balance, while he does the same on the left.

And he looks upon the scene before speaking and laughs morosely to himself as he realizes the symbolism in their stances.

Holy...It...Gah! smacks computer Oh, Ow!

2006-07-11T06:07:55Z

You evil, evil, evil LJ. Evil. Vile. Which inherently means the same thing? Yes. But still, feel my wrath, because you saved the one post I didn't want you to save! *flexes chicken-wing-like arms* (Oh, and I cannot wait to start working on that picture of me defeating -- or being defeated by -- a lentil. Praise to Jade for the inspiration.)

Okay, so now to list my ailments. (A personal post? Stop the world!) The joy I feel is indescribable. *gags*

Let's see:

AILMENT ONE: A nasty, second-degree-burn on my ankle.

The Story: Guess what? Yes, our family now has a motorcycle. My dad traded his old ocean boat (pictures later) for a motorcycle. It's wonderful; it's epic; I love it; and on the first ride, I was an idiot reveling in pure ecstasy and, of course, forgot to put my right foot on the foot peg. And, yes, it resulted in a second-degree-burn which is now infected. It is disgusting. It hurts (although before, it just itched unbearably). I feel like House when I have to do my on-off limp. *cheers* Eh, anyway, it was the hottest thing I'll be touching for a long, long time, if you get my drift. (And if you don't, well, it's an obscure drift.)

AILMENT TWO: A sunburned shoulder and scalp.

The Story: ... is very boring. Went fishing. Forgot to put on sunscreen. Pure stupidity. :)

AILMENT THREE: Sporadic ~~[insert the name of a body part that would make one heck of an alliteration]~~ (I lied. The alliteration would actually be lame.)

The Story: I don't know. Maybe from eating a lot of vegetables and drinking lots of fluids. And I'm pretty sure you can guess of what I am speaking.

And that is all for now. Diagnosis? Thank God it's summer.

Oh yes, and I need to update "Seesaw". And work on the e-mail. And satisfy all these fanfiction ideas roaming around my sunburned brain. Two are HouseCuddy, and one is WilsonStacy. This should be interesting.

Well, as you see, my life is fairly boring. Lameville. Snoreopolis. Yawn City. And so forth.

For now, I bid you ado, and I have a feeling that I might just be editing this post. :)

Best Song/Album of the Week: "A Rush of Blood to the Head" by Coldplay. Do I really need to justify this recommendation? It's Coldplay. It's amazing. It's original. There you are.

EDIT: See? I Don't Lie...on Occasion. And Would You Believe I Was Blasphemous? (Music Now (something new and unexciting -- ignore at will: "Sex and Candy" by Marcy Playground [My sister went crazy on the "'90's One Hit Wonder" iTunes Essential. And yes, this is a naughty, naughty song from my childhood, which reminds me: Jade, I've had the .zip file ready for a month or so and keep forgetting to upload it. You'll get it soon.)

lemonjelly_ knows what I mean by the last part. And the picture is coming along quite well. I already have my lentil drawn. It looks like it has a hangover, which is just all the more reason for it to be enraged, right? Thought so. And this is going to be one messed up picture. I've searched "Midol" and "Sara Sidle" -- the other (closet) One True Pairing of Mine (snark below and fanfiction coming soon involving aforementioned lentil and possibly the bear with major kudos to Jade) -- for pictures and have found some, with the picture being of "Extra Strength" Midol and the picture of Sara being one where she is really, really pissy-looking. No, really. She looks like she'd eat the hung-over lentil with a beer and a whisky shooter and then shoot the bartender. It's very funny. And I have found the shirt and hat. It is coming together like I have planned! *evil laugh* See what happens to me when I have art in me? It's as pretty as this picture is going to be -- and just as messed up.

Ew! My la blistera* is leaking puss! And I almost wrote "piss" instead of "puss"! Gr-oss. (Oh, nasty! I just sounded like a teenager there! *scrapes tongue with pumice stone*

Too much information? You know it!

(Pardon my sarcastic fangirl, white (as in flat) behind, because these are my thoughts on the Sara Sidle/Midol Pairing: "OMG!1!!!!!11 that iz sooo hott cuz there naymes rye-um w/ eech ohter!11! u r a luzer iff u dont shipp saruh & mydoll!111!")

I'm obsessed with parenthesis, ellipses ("..." <-- that thing *screams at parenthesis*), and double dashes ("--"). It's terrible. I need PA: Punctuators' Anonymous. Anyone have a phonebook? Or a website address? Maybe just a pamphlet will do. It'll look like an IM conversation with a five-year-old -- *smacks double-dash* or a fourteen-year-old putz -- without any punctuation. Except it would have capitals, giving it a one-up. Here's an example:

Non-Punctuated:

Here at PA we strongly believe in helping our punctuation obsessed friends because we ourselves at one time were destined to live the same fate Our program consists of eleven steps Spinal Tap Reference But it goes up to eleven and many of our members are cure in five fast easy weeks with the member attending three evening sessions a week Blah blah blah monkey turd blah blah blah very cheap want to go out sometime baby

Punctuated:

Here at PA, we strongly believe in helping our punctuation-obsessed friends because we ourselves at one time were destined to live the same fate. Our program consists of eleven steps -- Spinal Tap Reference!: But it goes up to eleven! -- and many of our members are cure in five fast, easy weeks, with the member attending three evening sessions a week. Blah blah blah... monkey turd... blah blah blah...very cheap... want to go out sometime, baby?

This is why my journal is here: To entertain and/or irritate the masses. Am I fulfilling my duty? If I am, leave un commento* and let me know how I'm doing. And dear God, do I feel like one of those trucks with the "How Am I Doin'?" stickers on the back. Of course!

* Waffus' Copyrighted *falls on the floor, dying of laughter* "American Spanish"; Pretty Spiffy, Eh? Like My Dead-Sexy Pocket Protector Which Does Not Exist.

And could this be considered a blooper?

Taken from IMDB.com

Actor: Currie Graham (you know, Mark, Stacy's husband, and the nut who shot Brass)

"CSI: Crime Scene Investigation"
... aka C.S.I. (USA: short title)
... aka CSI: Las Vegas (USA: syndication title)
... aka CSI: Weekends (USA: promotional title)
... aka Experts, Les (Canada: French title)
- Way to Go (2006) TV Episode .... Willie Cutler
- Bang-Bang (2006) TV Episode .... Willy Cutler
- Caged (2001) TV Episode .... Stanley Hunter

Could it be considered a blooper if the same actor is asked to play two different characters on the same TV show? I mean, it's not like he doesn't look exactly the same in "Caged", "Bang-Bang", and "Way to Go". I wonder. I assume not, but it is a possibility, isn't it?

This entry reminds me of an episode of PeeWee's Playhouse: Pointless, random, and very strange, even without PeeWee the Masterba -- Master of All Things Playhouse-y. (Dang VH1 "Forty Best Celebrity Mug Shots"!)

Oh yeah, speaking of PeeWee's Triple-X-Rated Adventure, guess what song I bought? It's very ironic, think about it...

...

"I Touch Myself" by Divinyls.

No. Comment. It's a sick song, but also a very wonderful one. Hey, it's not your ninety-nine cents, is it?

Okay, I'm done. Over with. Stick a fork in me. But what kind? Salad, regular, or whatever other kinds there are? Maybe a spoon. But an ice cream, soup, or regular one? Okay, forget it. Just sick the bear on me now. Or stick me in the faulty washing machine. Take your pick. ;)

Oh, You Might...

2006-07-04T01:01:23Z

...get a kick out of this. Or not. If you don't, well, I don't really know what's wrong with you. (And I would usually say something like, "Obviously, though, there is something wrong with you because you friended me", but no, I won't, because I love my friends -- mis amigas!(I just realized I have no guy friends on this website. Wow.) -- because they are made of amazing-oscity. And yes, yes that is a lame word that a Mary Sue/Gary Stu would use. And what is my obsession with putting things in parentheses? And putting parentheses in parentheses? And why do I keep asking questions to which I -- and you guys -- don't know the answers? Strange. Eh, I'm not going to try and make myself be quiet, because I just don't care.)

Jeez, where is "Shut Up 101"? Anyway, here you are. Oh, right. There's this, too.

WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS -- THOSE SPOILERS -- FOR "WAY TO GO" (6X24), SO IF YOU WANT TO REMAIN SPOILER-FREE, DO NOT CLICK ON THE CUT, ALTHOUGH I'M FAIRLY SURE EVERYONE HAS ENOUGH COMMON SENSE TO KNOW THAT BY NOW.

This is in lieu of posting the still-unfinished recommendations, which I was supposed to finish on the thirtieth. *shrugs* It'll be up eventually.

Oh yes, and Jade: Because we both suck equally, this is dedicated to you. I'm fairly sure that sentence made no sense whatsoever, but most of my journal doesn't anyway. Actually, scratch that. This is dedicated to you because you're epic, truly epic (and yes, even though you do like Sara, you'll probably appreciate this). And also it is dedicated to anyone else, such as blushingsigh, who is disgusted by G-SR, regardless of whether or not they have even seen my journal. :) And no, this is not a fanfiction. This is something I posted at a CSI forum to which I belong.

The Tale of Grissom's Garments

*Grissom and Sara are sitting in the room together as seen before the show ended, smiling at one another; Sara is the first to speak*

Sara: So how about we get down to business? *stands up and puts fingers on robe's tie* I'll just loosen this tie on the waist of my robe and you --

Grissom: Uh, Sara, I....I can't take off the shirt.

Sara: *looks curiously at Grissom* And why not?

Grissom: I promised Catherine I'd leave the shirt on for the night because she spent hours on end in Wal-Mart trying to find it.

Sara: What? *throws her hands up in the air* You went shopping with Catherine?

Grissom: Yeah, sure, we go together all the time. Who else to you think would have such impeccable taste in fashion? Jeez, she even bought me my sexy straw hat...at sixty percent off! The woman is a genius. She always tells me that I look like a hot ticket in whatever she chooses for me, especially the orange suspenders. She has to fan herself when I wear the orange suspenders with rainbow stripes.

Sara: She...wha?...huh? Grissom, as attractive as I always find you -- and who wouldn't? -- you do actually look kind of...sort of...like a --

Grissom: Like what, Sara? Be honest. Honesty is the key to a stable relationship, you know.

Sara: To be perfectly honest, you look like a middle-aged tourist who should be wearing brown flip-flops with white, knee-high socks and a camera around your neck.

Grissom: Well...at least you were honest. But what will I tell Catherine when she and I go to the zoo next Saturday? She'll be crushed...absolutely devastated!

Sara: You'll just have to tell her that choosing the man's clothing is the job of a loyal girlfriend. And you what? You go to the zoo together?

Grissom: Yes, yes we do. Every other weekend. I like the bugs, she likes the invertebrates. Says they remind her of the ex-boyfriends and husband. And Ecklie. She says the octopus reminds her of Conrad because it has no spine and is always spitting junk into --

Sara: Okay, okay. But what about us Grissom? I mean, we're going to be spending time together.

Grissom: Yeah, sure we will! All three of us will do things together. Breakfast, shopping, the zoo, the park...

Sara: Grissom! We're going to need alone time! We can't always have Catherine with us! I'm your girlfriend, and I'll decide when and where she comes with us. She has a daughter who needs her attention, too, you know.

Grissom: No, Sara, you won't. And Lindsay comes with us sometimes. But usually she stays alone in her room while her grandmother watches her. She's really become quite like a hermit these past few years...

Sara: Gri -- Gil, I should say. You have to make sacrifices in a relationship, and this is the time for you to make one. Now, let's do what we came here to do. *turns over on bed and places fingers on robe's tie*

Grissom: Then I guess we can't be together, because I'm not willing to relinquish that. * insert melodramatic music here*

Sara: *takes fingers off tie, stands from bed, and walks to bathroom's doorframe* Fine then! We won't be together! And you know what? Talking about dying from cancer isn't really romantic, for your information! And, oh yeah: Fake flowers on your shirt equals fake love.^ It was never meant to be! *walks in and slams door*

Grissom: *has been laying that way the whole time because he has a walkie-talkie on the back edge of his pants; he takes it off, brings it to his mouth, and presses the "talk" button* This is Hawaiian Shirt Hottie to Bubbly Blonde, Hawaiian Shirt Hottie to Bubbly Blonde, over. Operation "Drop Miss Midol in Hawaiian Hell" is complete. Repeat, Operation --

Catherine (over walkie-talkie): Yeah, yeah, Gil, okay. Just get out of there before she force-feeds you some Midol or something.

Grissom: Rodger that. And Cath?

Catherine (still over walkie-talkie): Yeah?

Grissom: Do you really think this shirt is sexy on me?

Catherine (walkie-talkie): Oh yes. So sexy, in fact, that if you wear it to the zoo this weekend, the octopus Conrad might get jealous and spray some ink on you.

Grissom: Fine then. I'll just wear the hat.

Catherine ("..."): Rodger that, Hottie. This is Bubbly, over and out.

Grissom: *smiling* Over and out. *stands from bed, walks to the door, opens it, and leaves*

^ Reference to "Rashomama" (6x21)

Just my little way of "venting", I suppose. That's how it should've ended. But maybe, if Carol suddenly springs from the Dark Side, she'll put this in the opener for the Season Seven Premiere. :) *snickers*

WIP -- "Seesaw"

2006-06-24T17:43:27Z

LJ didn't save my post! *sighs* Eh, whatever. I would've irritated the crap out of all of you anyway with my notes. Anyway, to the story. All the important (and not important) information is under the cut.

Title: Seesaw
Author: Waffle
Word Count: That's a bit of a stupid thing to have for a WIP, isn't it?
Genre(s): Drama/Romance
Rating: PG-13, T, CSI-2, or Naughty Waffle, whatever is your preference.
Disclaimer: It's just tainted love now, baby, so who would really want it anyhow? It's not groovy. (Dear God, why I am I thinking of -- and speaking like -- Austin Powers?)
Pairing(s): It has a G-SR beginning with CGR lying beneath the whole time, and does anyone else find it funny that that mimicks the emotional depths of the relationships?
Spoilers: There's a major and nasty one from "Way to Go" (6x24), which, if said sarcastically, reflects my feelings towards the writers of CSI.
Author’s Note(s): Seeing how I wanted to put the heads of the CSI writers in my front yard just weeks ago, I decided to channel most (but not all) of my rage into a fanfiction. So I did, and I'm still doing so. And I am not converting to 'shipping G-SR! God no. I'd rather marry AOL than do that. The chapters in this are going to be longer than those in my other works, so brace yourself, enjoy, and read and review as you wish. And if no one at fanfiction.net offers to be my CSI beta, I'll ask here, but until now, it is going naked and free. (I did not ask friends because dealing with me is enough as it is.)
Summary: "Was it the sight of her appearing to be innocent, her robe closed, her eyes looking upward to him like he was a god, or was it before, with the child-like tones gracing her voice and the tiny skip in her step that made him shift uncomfortably?"

---

Seesaw

Chapter One: Of Souls and Sins and Saints

He lies upon the duvet, stroking it curiously, and wears a blue, flower-patterned shirt, which irritates his nipples and looks awkward on his body. But he still smiles and still sinks lower into the duvet and mattress beneath, feeling his mind unhinge from him, his conscience drifting with it, which leaves a nagging pain in his stomach and an emptiness that has never been in that part of him.

Of course, he thinks, maybe he shouldn’t ignore the pain or the emptiness that is infecting the rest of his being now. Maybe he should go immediately and forget about ever coming here, forget about freeing the rules and regulations that have been tethered to him for years upon years and even longer. He thinks this because he knows the pain could be something serious, because maybe the ache is from his soul trying to escape from inside his being and fly free to –

Ridiculous, the cynic within him interrupts, are the souls and spirits and saints. They are all lies to entrance the public, all creations for those seeking fabricated enlightenment and liberation. But his release is right here, his nirvana sitting within the walls of a simple bedroom. More specifically, a single bed belonging to a heartbreakingly single woman with only a heart to offer to a man of a similar position, whose singular goal for tonight has the imminent chance of being accomplished. Single, singular, and single again. The way his life has been for too long a time. It has always been one man eating one cold meal in one plain apartment, with nothing more and nothing less until now. He has always been and is still living a life tending to the death of others, and he knows that it is a disgusting yet enticing paradox just like him, just like religion and everything pertaining to it, just like what is happening here and now.

But should this even be happening? Is she the one he really loves? Or is it—?

“Grissom?” Her curious voice comes to him in uneven waves of sound that gradually become smooth like the smile brightening her features. “Ready?”

He stares at her, her brown eyes, her pale complexion, all of the physical attributes that have always called and that have never received an answer before tonight. “You’re wearing that?” he asks, pointing to her thin, white shirt and lounge pants several sizes to large for her narrow figure. “Yes. Why, Mr. Grissom?” she inquires with a child-like-yet-somewhat-sardonic tone lacing her words. He shifts uncomfortably at the way her voice sounds, even with the sarcasm.

“So much for dressing for the mood, Miss Sidle,” he says and smiles lightly, eyes lit with a dim glow. She doesn’t notice how faint it is. She’s just grateful it’s there after so long. Too long.

“Oh fine. I’ll ‘dress for the mood’,” she tells him and walks into the bathroom with a minute skip in her step, which causes another uncomfortable shift from him that she doesn’t notice. It’s not like she is planning on wearing anything for an extended period of time, anyway, and at least with the shirt and pants there is more fabric to rip from her body as his hands….

Maybe a shower wouldn’t hurt – something cold to heal the ache of relationships past, something to refresh her and let her start anew – and maybe it wouldn’t hurt to invite him to join her, either. But no, she reasons, as she pulls the over-sized clothing from her body. She wants to fantasize one last time before reality floods the scene like the wide, forceful streams of water hitting her everywhere now.

Oh, the irony, she thinks as the water streams push into her skin, that this could very easily be foreshadowing for later. And she laughs as the liquid falls away from her and weakly to the floor.
---

She leaves the bathroom, her hair dry but her lips wet. The only thing separating his eyes from her naked body is a thin silk robe falling over her miniscule curves. “Hello again, Mr. Grissom,” she huskily whispers as she kneels at the side of the bed and leans forward, her arms resting upon the duvet, hands clasped together. The only thought that comes to his mind is a child praying before falling into an innocent sleep. But the situation here is far from innocent. He manages to raise his eyebrows and open his mouth, but the words just will not come.

Sara stands, loosens the tie from her narrow waist, and lets the silky band fall to her sides. He sees just enough for the situation to be risqué and not enough for it to satisfy her. She climbs onto the bed and wraps around him in a somewhat compromising position, still wearing the robe but revealing what she wants to reveal, needs to reveal. She begins to graze at his neck with her lips, and he lolls his head back and….

“Sara, wait, please, stop,” he asks in a moan. Ignoring his pleas, she raises her lips to his beard, the whiskers tickling the delicate pink flesh on them. “Sara, stop.” Aggravation laces his words, and he is practically begging, the moaning now completely absent in his voice.

Sara decides instead to slip her hands to his trousers, where she fondles the edge of them and moves her fingers closer to the zipper and button.

“Sara!” he scolds as he removes her from him, moves from the bed, and stands, wiping his neck and beard roughly with his right hand. He can’t do this. He knew from the suggestion of it that he couldn’t, but he still came. Why not now, though? Was it the sight of her appearing to be innocent, her robe closed, her eyes looking upward to him like he was a god, or was it before, with the child-like tones gracing her voice and the tiny skip in her step that made him shift uncomfortably? He knows that this is wrong, that everything is wrong. He has to leave. He throws his glance to the door, the sight of the knob more alluring than the very young woman in front of him is. “Grissom, what’s wrong?” There it is again, the innocent tone, that inquisitive voice that reminds him, plagues him for reasons still unknown.

“Sara, nothing’s wrong. It’s just…” he begins, and stops, looking toward her. What really is so awful about the situation at hand? He doesn’t even know, and that is what horrifies him. There must be something wrong here. His thoughts are fretful; his heart thuds in his chest; his mouth fills with saliva, and his head is heavy with emptiness and pain. Everything about his appearance is crazed, wild. It feels different, and he’s not sure if he likes it or not.

“Yes, Grissom?” she asks, the same hint of aggravation lacing her voice like it did his just minutes ago. She is sitting cross-legged on the bed, arms across her chest, a pout making her face appear even more youthful. “Sara, it’s just that you and I both know this is wrong. Supervisor and subordinate – it goes against regulations. It’s not meant to be, Sara. It’s –”

“And you coming here doesn’t go against that, go against you saying that ‘it’s not meant to be’? Gri – Gil, you came here, and that says enough, because it says you don’t think what we are doing is wrong. I’ve been waiting too long for this, and I know you have as well. But now you’re…willing to just pass up this opportunity we have to finally do what we’ve been waiting for? I can’t believe you,” she says harshly, glaring at him, tears in the corner of her eyes.

“Sara,” he starts, and then looks at her. She has turned onto her stomach, face lying down on a pillow, her legs crossed daintily but protectively at the calves. He walks over to the edge of the bed and places a hand upon the small of her back, and he feels a shiver run through her under his fingertips. Whether it is repulsion or arousal, he’s not quite sure. He moves his hand as she turns to face him. “What do you want to do now? Come on, Gil, we’ve been waiting years for this moment – years!” She gently places a hand on his cheek despite the chaotic excitement she feels coursing through her. It’s all too thrilling to feel like this, to be in this frenzied and stimulated state.

He sighs with indecision – or was it pleasure? – and looks into her eyes. “Okay, Sara.” He feels the words roll from his mouth into the open air, and the thought frightens him; now is not the time to rethink what he has already reconsidered, because her lips have repositioned themselves and are now grazing hungrily once more.

And later, as he lies there after what he came here to do has been done without a word spoken, he thinks only of prayers and souls and God and everything that might take away what could be his worse sin performed. “May God have mercy on my soul,” he whispers into the night before turning to the woman beside him and swearing he sees the spirit of another crying in the corner.

Comments (and concrit) are much appreciated, while flames will be used to burn the "Way to Go" script. :)

WANTED: A Decent Title

2006-06-18T23:34:49Z

<--- See the icon. Love (or not) the icon. Fear the icon if you so wish to do so. And hear it speak! *is slightly nutty because of heat*

WANTED

NAME: AOHELLIAN "MONEYSTEALER" MADMAN
CRIME: STEALING MONEY (NO DUH, SHERLOCK); CRAPPY INTERNET CONNECTIONS
IF FOUND, CONTACT: THE MSN BUTTERFLY
REWARD: A BETTER INTERNET SERVICE

Because doesn't everyone need an anti-AOL icon? *loathes AOL*

A Note to Jade:

I will review the last chapter of "Missing" sometime before the end of June. I swear. I can't keep promises usually -- for I am bum -- but it's the least I can do for you while I'm waiting anxiously for your epic of CGR goodness. My impatience can not be described with words -- except maybe by you, for you are The Master of All Language -- so I won't try. :)

And I'll be doing a CSI fanfiction recomendation post soon, with a continuation of House fanfictions I idiotically forgot the first time around. *headdesk* Who knows? You -- friend, random viewer of my journal, etc. -- might be recommended. Huzzah! *cracks open root beer*

All right, so it's very hot, and I wish not to bore anyone more than I already have/do anyway. So, I shall leave you now before you all fall asleep in front of your computers.

Come, little heat-induced hallucinations, come now with me. We're going to drink our weight in Diet Coke.

EDIT: But, but....Jeez, So Much For Trying to Help

Have you ever had your constructive criticism that backfired? Well, I have an example now, too. Let's make a club! *snickers*

Story: outside change-- that's how the title is written on the page, so that's how I'm going to post it -- by A-L-L-I-S-O-N-2-2

Review from "Phrenology of a Waffle" (signed, because she didn't accept anonymous):

How to begin...

First off, script format is a no-no. I'm fairly sure someone has already reported you for your other story because it was in script format. Now, if you were to rewrite this like so:

"Chase is in the locker room. He is just staring in his locker, just concentrating on nothing. Suddenly, he hears a voice from behind him. 'Chase,' he hears as he turns to see Cameron."

You just cannot have it written the way you do have it written.

Secondly, your grammar and punctuation are terrible. I'm sorry, but I had to be blunt there. It is. You don't capitalize. You have grammatical and punctuation errors everywhere (no periods, switching verb tenses, misspellings, missing apostrophes, etc., etc.). It's all very...poorly done. The premise would actually hold some weight if this story was written neatly. Do you have a word-processing program on your computer with spell check -- and maybe even something that checks grammar and punctuation? If you do, you need to use it. One of the rules of this site is to spell check every story. If you don't have a program that will spell check, go to Google or another search engine and search "spell check". There will be items that pop up, and some of them, I'm sure, are free. And if you can't find one and are truly desperate, ask a friend who has spell check if you can send it to them for a beta, because, like the spell check, you need a beta too. Your work, as I mentioned, is riddled with grammatical errors. For example:

ac "what"

rc "i would rather have house here it to"

CAMERON HAS A WEIRD FACE AND SHE SHRUGS IT OFF

THEY ARE WALING TO HOUSES OFFICE AND FORMAN AND CAMERON GOES IN FIRST

It should be something like:

"What?" Allison questions, curiosity lacing her words and dancing across her eyes. Chase ignores her questioning gaze. "I would rather have House hear it, too," he says.

Cameron is confused, her face still puzzled, wondering what Chase has to say, so that when he walks out of the locker room, she follows, eager to hear and know. They walk towards House's office, and as they draw nearer, Cameron sees Foreman. He enters the office hurriedly, followed by her, but Chase stays out in the hallway and begins looking around.

I'm not saying write it exactly like that, but write it so it has proper punctuation, -- commas where commas should be, capitalized names and other proper nouns, verbs that fit the subject (it should be, "Cameron and Foreman go in first" not "Cameron and Foreman goes in first" because the subject is plural), etc. -- grammar, and spelling.

You said you are in eighth grade, but your work is not that of an eighth grader. If you want people to think highly of what you do, you need to make sure it looks professional, because if you don't take pride in your work, who will? For school, if you handed a teacher something like this, most likely they would say some rather harsh things about it. Think of it this way when you write: If I gave this to my English teacher, would s/he scream and melt like The Wicked Witch of the West or would s/he tell me that this is excellent?

These are just suggestions. I'm not trying to be mean and tell you to stop writing forever because your work makes my eyes bleed. No. I'm just giving you tips on how to improve your work. If you wish to take them, by all means, go ahead. If you wish to ignore them, again, that's fine, although I would recommend that former and not the latter.

Thank you for listening. Everyone here at this website is an aspiring writer, and everyone needs a nudge here and there to become a better writer. This website is a wonderful tool because you are given unbiased opinions, unlike if you let a close friend or relative read it, and you are able to feed off of peoples' praise and constructive criticism. All writers need to start somewhere, right? And all writers need to weed through the early and difficult days of writing to reach the future days where you will probably look back upon your early works and cringe. (Trust me, we all do it.) Writing is fun, but it's also a very serious world. You may not think so, but it is to some people, whether it is original fanfiction or fanfiction. So, please, abide to the rules and keep writing, because you, too, will become better with practice and from listening to peoples' praise and concrit.

Thank you once again, and good night.

Reply from A-L-L-I-S-O-N-2-2 (this was how it was written folks, I swear to the Gods):

sorry if my kind of way of writing displeased you please make fun of me some more and imbaress and newbie so i can fit your standerd please continue to put me down :( i mean it is ok to make fun of a firt timer at this website i mean i wouldn't care im just writing a fan fic for the fun of it and i really do not care what you say but please im begging you please humiliate me some more because i love it oh so much :( who care if i just writing for the fun of it and not to show anybody off plus im only a kid i wont take it to the heart

I didn't reply, because it would be sarcastic, as many of my replies are anyway.

*sighs* Charlie Brown, do you mind if I shove that football up Lucy's butt? It would make you and me feel like we're not pieces of slime.

One must love the need for a decoder ring.

EDIT: Le Sequel -- To Feed Your Ironic Appetite

Taken from friendsholic's journal.

Your Slanguage Profile

Aussie Slang: 50%

Canadian Slang: 25%

Prison Slang: 25%

Southern Slang: 25%

British Slang: 0%

New England Slang: 0%

Victorian Slang: 0%

What Slanguage Do You Speak?

*dies of laughter* Jeez, I'm from New England. I've never even heard someone use the word "timbit". *smacks head*

simmers

2006-06-13T02:11:06Z

It's humid.

I have to finish a project for which I did most -- if not all -- of the actual work.

My language arts teacher needs to jump off that cliff with Carol "G-SRizsoohott!" Mendehlson.

Apparently talking about bowel movements at the dinner table is disgusting, but talking about death is okay.

Math is terrible.

I should never eat twenty-four ounces of peas over the time of three days ever again, because now I want to write a House fanfiction called "The Adverse Effects of Peas" of which I have had to experience.

Right, I don't want to write -- for school -- but actually write, God, for fun. This is a grave misunderstanding.

Oh, crap, I have a math test tomorrow. And I wonder how mathematicians don't commit suicide.

"The Land of Qualms" was updated. I'm fairly sure a lot of people are shocked -- some probably disappointed -- that it awoke from what seemed like its death.

I feel like a walking piece of poo.

And that it is all.

EDIT: After Six Hours of Sleep and Some Human Contact...

...I feel much better, thank you. Although last night it took me close to two hours to actually fall asleep. The hobo under my eyes has finally moved all the stuff from his old place in Peter Griffin's fat folds to the huge bags under my eyes. I think my nose is scared crapless because it thinks it's going to be devoured by them and the hobo, who is probably tired and hungry from the trip from moving out of the second dimension and into the third. I would be too.

Another note: The band "Collective Soul" is made of many kinds of musical greatness, and they're going to be half of my recommendation this week (because I was an idiot and didn't do a recommendation last week). And I'm thinking of changing my journal's appearance (again). I'll make sure the colors don't blind you. Honest. (Although I've heard lime green is very sexy...)

*sighs* My languages arts teacher isn't so terrible now. I take back the cliff thing. Regardless of how much I complained about the class while I was there (you guys didn't even see a fraction of it), I'll really miss it. And her. She's not the best teacher ever, but we did learn, which means she must have done something right.

Oh, before I forget once more, a happy (and belated) birthday to Bono, who turned forty-six on the tenth of May. And wench_for_hire. And an early birthday to karineinthepool, because I probably won't update before her birthday.

And I'll add in my recommendations later, in yet another edit. :)

EDIT -- THE SEQUEL: Computers...Are God's Way of Raising Blood Pressure

I'll save you the details.

Oh, right. I also forgot -- because I am an idiot (really) -- to wish a happy belated birthday appelezmoi_coco, so happy birthday to you, too.

(And I lied. I cannot even begin to modify my journal because LJ change the whole process (jeez, I can't even change the title). Man, evil technology. I'm starting to think that you and I should paint that computer soon, Jade.)

Best Songs/Albums of the Weeks: "Collective Soul" by (gasp of all gasps!) Collective Soul. It is probably their best album ever, and I highly recommend it. I'm sucker for 90's rock, I really am. It's amazing. And then there's "Third Eye Blind" by (gasps again) Third Eye Blind. (Does anyone else see a correlation?) The song "Semi-Charmed Life" is probably their best, but the whole album is, like the aforementioned one by Collective Soul, amazing.

~~And that is all/There is no more/Don't forget to comment/On your way out the door.~~

EDIT: Stupid Reviewers on Computers...Are God's Way of Making Me Grind My Teeth to Dust

*sighs* Like last time, only dumber. I'm going to say it's the same person, because it's still stupid, mainly because it proceeds to call my work "bull" and "bad" -- and not even the decency to make an alliteration of them! *tisks* -- and then goes on to say that I live a "sad lonely life", and that it is not my typo. And I love the name: "Destructor". Of intelligence, why that would be a yes. Oh, and Destructor only read the first chapter. Jeez, I would love to see if his/her head would explode by the second. It's so short, I'll skip the commentary this time, unlike the last one with "charaters". *snick*

Phrenology of a Waffle,

The following review has been submitted to: The Land of Qualms Chapter: 1

From: Destructor ()
-------------------

This is such bull. You obviously make up your sad lonely life with bad stories
using someone elses characters!

And...no...e-mail address...again? Apparently writing bull is downright wrong when cowardly bull-filled people are okay. *sighs again* The world is a pathetic place sometimes.

Remember When...?

2006-05-31T22:35:15Z

Okay, so this is going to be for CSI and probably up through Seasons One to Five (and possibly some Six in there). This is going to be my personal, weekly post because, well, nothing major is going on right now in my life and because I don't want to post an entry that's about two lines long. So here we go...

Okay, so do you remember when CSI started out, and there was no Sara? And, yeah, even though Catherine and Grissom didn't really interact in the first episode people starting 'shipping CGR right off the bat (even though in the original script it was supposed to be Catherine and Nick making out in the car wash, which, looking back on it, would've been really, truly wrong)? And remember when Holly walked in and met Grissom and how he lied to her to get a pint of her blood -- he said it was regulation, but we all found out it was to use to do blood-splatter analysis for a case about a pregnant wife hitting her husband over the head with a golf club -- and then remember how she was light-headed after and how she and Grissom chowed down on chocolate-covered grasshoppers? Oh, yeah, and do you recall the really old coroner that wasn't too far away from being on that cold, metal table himself -- "Let's see what God has to say about this..." -- and then how Holly had to puke and instead of going to the bathroom locked herself in the body cooler and screamed for Grissom? And then remember how he said to all the bodies, "You jackasses!" and then actually gave Holly a hug? Oh, and I'm sure you remember the whole toenail case with Catherine and Warrick and the crazy cash register lady that was at the crime scene Grissom dropped Holly off at -- God, that's awful grammar (stupid prepositions) -- and then the awesome pep-talk Catherine gave Holly, right? Oh, and remember when Holly was shot because Warrick went to put a bet down for the stupid judge who was arrested in episode four entitled "Pledging Mr. Johnson" and how everyone was heartbroken at the end? Truly depressing, right?

Then in the next episode we found out that Holly died and how Sara "I'mhotforyouGrissom" Sidle came in from SanFran and was only supposed to be there temporarily -- like Grissom was supposed to temporarily be supervisor (and we all know six season isn't exactly "temporary") -- and how Catherine was angry at Grissom in the beginning and lied to Sara when she met her? And remember seasons later -- I'm jumping into the future here for a minute -- when we saw that awful, awful scene we all wished Sara would've never come to Vegas (although I know some of us wanted her gone beforehand, especially in the seasons when she practically stalked poor Grissom)? And then remember the episode with the trailer trash when Eddie -- a piece of trash himself -- took out a second mortgage on the house and how when he confronted and was physically with Catherine later Grissom came to the rescue? Because Grissom is made of supervisor-ly awesomeness. Oh, and of course episodes of CGR-goodness later came the finale where Grissom was almost killed/injured by the psycho Sid Goggle and how Catherine rescued him and how there was that heart-stopping -- and in a good way! -- scene at the end with the "Never doubt, never look back. That's how I live my life" and the secret exchanged smiles and the "Who ordered the shredded wheat?" and the grabbing Grissom? (And did I forgot to mention Paul Milander the Serial Killer? Yes, I did. It's a shame he killed himself, isn't it? He was the only person who Grissom couldn't truly analyze.)

Okay, so then we had to wait a whole summer and then it came back! So Season Two was just as gory and as CGR-filled -- although they really started developing the G-SR plot, which really took away some of the pleasure we found in the episode -- and as great as Season One, with just a bit of difference, right? There was that scene in "Cats in the Cradle" where Grissom was totally checking out Catherine's butt -- and Season Five where he says he missed her tush! *dies* -- and other tension and eye!sex filled moments that made our hearts leap ten-thousand miles in the air with happiness, and there was also that scene where Sara became all *searches for word* "over-emotional" and threatened to resign and join the FBI -- oh, I forgot Agent Caulpepper (however you spell it), too; that guy was full of himself, and on a side note, wasn't it irritating when Catherine was screaming "Politic!" in Grissom's ears? (Oh, but that scene where we saw for the first time that she was in his apartment *dies* and the scenes in "Gentle, Gentle" were priceless -- and some of us were all "Yippee!" and then all "Aw!" when he sent her that stupid, stupid plant because Catherine told him to do so while she was drinking a corkscrew in his apartment (but it was totally worth it because Catherine plus alcohol plus Grissom cooking for both of them equals *dies once more*). (Man, what a long sentence!) Oh yeah, it was epic!

So summer again, in all its heat and repeating CSI-ness, and then, Season Three! Yeah, so Season Three was just as great, with intriguing cases and more CGR and Sara dating Hank the Wank and the whole hour-and-a-half episode with Lady Heather -- right, Sara started dating in the middle of Season Two and the amazing Heather came in during that CGR-filled episode "Slaves of Las Vegas" -- and Grissom and hands and possibly "physical relations" between Heather and Grissom -- my second favorite 'ship involving Grissom! -- that could have or could have not been. Oh, and remember when Eddie the Bum died and when Grissom confronted her and when we all ripped our hair out at his inability to console her, and then remember at the end when Catherine was crying and when Lindsay hugged her? Brilliant! Right, and then there was the part where Sara couldn't solve the case and where Catherine was "This will be a great story to tell to my daughter" and where Sara was defending not solving the case (which was a dumb thing to do, anyway). So the season went on and more and more great episode were show and then....The finale came! It was the end of one of the best seasons ever, but man oh man, it was amazing. Catherine finding out Sam is her father and Grissom going in for surgery and the mind-blowing case and...*gasps* the hug that caused thousands of hoots and hollers and cheers. Remember that hug? It was incredible. Just Catherine hugging him and wishing him good luck and Grissom smiling and walking away and Catherine smiling at the view she had of her boss -- a view she may or may not have seen before. (And I'm sure Grissom didn't mind showing her that view or feeling that bit of wind on his buns, either.)

So summer again and groaning and moaning and anxiety as we waited for the new season. And it came and began with an okay opener. But, hey, remember in the beginning when Catherine welcomed him back after he heard her cell phone go off? Gah! I love her! *hugs invisible Catherine* The case was pretty interesting, but not as great as it had been, which is like what I thought of most of Season Four. Yeah, there were some great episodes -- "Early Rollout", "Fur and Loathing", and "Jackpot", to name the ones that I liked for the CGR -- case-wise (because the case comes before anything) and CGR-wise, but it was as stunning as the first three seasons. So we moved forward, and then we found out Sara was an alcoholic when she was pulled over and taken to the station where Grissom picked her up. Remember that? I'm sure there are still nicknames for her floating around the Net and discussions of CSI.

All right, so another summer and hopes of some kick-butt CSI! Yay! Then Season Five came and....Well, it flat-out stunk. They brought in too many new characters; they stupidly broke what did not need to be fixed; they totally killed most of the cases, and there was a lack of interaction between the characters who worked so well together in the past. There were some highlights, though, like the "tush" line and almost any interaction the sickly sadistic and stupid writers were willing to give to us. And then the finale, which was really, really bloody and strange, but also really wonderful. Poor Nick. First the dead stripper, then the stalker, and then being locked in a coffin and almost dying. *tear* That helped the season, in my opinion.

Yet another summer and more praying to the Gods of TV that the writers would shape up what they screwed up. And then Season Six came! Yay! It started out slowly, and it seemed like the end of CSI was imminent, but then things looked up. There was some much-needed interaction between some great pairings that had been lost in the pointless split -- speaking of Season Five, I forgot the bowtie scene *dies again* -- and the cases were better. And Lady Heather came back and all was pretty well in the world of CSI. And then, towards the end (part of which I missed because travel and whatnot) it started going down again. The cases became weak like they were in Season Five, and cries of depression came from the fans of CSI. And then....*gulps* CSI hit rock bottom. Below the belt. It was a slap in the face, a disgusting reality. It killed, slaughtered, murderer, violated. It was terrible, truly terrible. It left a scar on the already-somewhat-mangled face of our once-truly-beloved CSI.

And we are still weeping today. :(

But we must not forget the good times, like the Seasons One, Two, Three, Four, and the few episodes of Five and Six that brought us joy and made us feel the opposite of how we feel now.

The writers all need to wish or pray or whatever to the TV Gods and beg for their forgiveness. They violated a show that was once pure in all its bloody scenes and disturbing cases and witty and original characters and great one-liners. We need to get back the CSI we have lost, because anything else would be a sin.

So, remember when CSI was pulled from the murky depths of Relationship Hell and screamed in joy as it gasped for the air of the World of TV Greatness? No? Well, you will; we just have to make it happen.

Thank you, and please, remember.

(And don't forget to sign this petition, and if you want to take it a step further, check out this campaign. Also, if you want some great reading, see this essay entitled "The Yin/Yang Phenomena", which is all about CGR and its moments. And many thanks to blushingsigh for the link.)

That's all for now. How about a marquee with a CSI quote this week?

Catherine: "Never doubt, never look back. That's how I live my life." Grissom: "I admire that."

For the Love of the TV Gods...

2006-05-27T17:00:24Z

Please, please, please, please sign this. (I know! Three updates again! I'm insane, am I not? And if you're good, I'll compose a list of CSI fanfiction later. Maybe.)

http://www.petitiononline.com/eloide/petition.html

(The paragraph below contains spoilers from the finale, but please, if you don't want to die of a heart attack, I suggest you read it.)

You saw the CSI finale, with the horrible, horrible scene, the weak case, everything. We all know that this upcoming season is supposedly CSI's last (the actors are signed on for seven years), and if it's going to go, we don't want it to go with a nasty, horny, stupid Grissom and a sexed-up Sara. No! We want CSI to go with some dignity people. It's been going downhill. The cases have grown pathetically weak, and there's no more intrigue, no more actual "whodunit?", because about ten minutes in, we've solved the case, eaten half a pint of Ben & Jerry's, and insulted every horrible fanfiction writer there is at fanfiction.net. (Okay, so maybe that would take a bit longer, but I digress.) Help CSI regain some of the qualities it's lost and lose some of the ones it should have never gained. You know you want to do so, even if you're not planning on watching next season. Do it for poor Billy, who has been suffering through relationships and weak plots and personal tragedies. Do it for Marg, who's too talented to be put through this crap.

When and if you do sign, you can comment, but it's not necessary.

Thank you.

("Singin' on the Grillows 'ship/With Lady H and her whip/Grissom and his many a quip/Hey, why don't we all skinny dip?)

EDIT: Why Doesn't...?

Why doesn't Carol Mendelsohn go jump off a cliff somewhere?

And I quote: "'It was a very private, intimate moment and I think it suggested a level of comfortability that comes from a relationship that is not so new.'" -- And that's implying that Grissom and Sara have been boink buddies since Sara was legal? Telling someone how you want to die of a malignant cancer.... Oh, goodness, the romance is killing me, Carol. Please, ma'am, spare my stomach and esophagus the pain, the excruciating pain, and just end it. And I love how "comfortability" is marked as misspelled on LJ and Microsoft Word. That's hilarious.

"And Thy TV Gods Looked Down Upon Thy Set of the Tainted CSI and said unto Thy Stupid Writers, 'Hell Has Already Frozen Over from the Red Sox Winning the World Series, and We Cannot Do It Again. So How About Some Tongues of Fire?' And Thy Writers Screamed Loudly -- Even Louder Than Sara Did During Pooky-Pooky with Grissom -- as Their Backsides Were Hit with Thy Flames of Tainted TV. 'Now That Is Some Tainted Love,' Thy Humble Gods Said as the Soft Cells Began to Sing Their Heavenly Tune."

EDIT -- Thy Sequel:

Oh, wait, that's only part of a full-fledge interview. (Okay, so if you're like me and are easily enraged when you realize someone who has been dragging us along like a dead dog behind a car (think "Vacation" with Chevy Chase, people) *tear* for several years is fully for something you are against, I don't recommend this. Oh, and the comments at the end... *dies*

The front head in the front yard, Carol, the front head!

Oh, Why Not?

2006-05-26T17:53:22Z

Okay, so I have a lot of time on my hands (which means I'll be able to work on the e-mail, Jade, huzzah!), so why not search LJ and the Internet for random things you should read? (It started out as "read/see/etc.", but this post is already three-thousand miles long.)

Fanfiction Recommendations (House for this post, mostly relationship with some non-relationship tossed in the mix):

LJ: House-o-licious Lovin' People

"We Have Dreamed Too Little" and "Your Hand Would Be With Me" both by the ingenious he_dreams_awake (Both House/Cuddy and both rated T/M)

I described this as "Holy Hell in Huddy Heaven". It's....I died when I read them, several times, actually. It's practically indescribable euphoria.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: Light to moderate spoilers for "Who's Your Daddy?", dialog-wise, but not too heavy as a whole. One line of House/Chase slash -- one line, people! -- and some Stacy/House.

"Six Random Thoughts in the Course of an Injection" by cincoflex (House/Cuddy and no rating given)

It's short, but for the love God, it's brilliant, like all of her House work. If you ever have the chance, check out the Tempered series (NC-18)and her other work over at www.cincoflex.net. Drop her a line at her guestbook.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: Light spoilers for "Who's Your Daddy?"

"Confidentiality" by rwyrter (House/Cuddy and NC-17)

So good, like all of her work. She writes regularly -- daily almost -- and friend-ing her writing journal is welcome. If you like great House fanfiction (she does House/Wilson slash, too, along with CSI slash), please, I really do recommend friend-ing her writing journal. If I had to recommend her all of her great fanfictions, I'd have an even more gigantic post. But go see for yourself.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: The aforementioned "Confidentiality" contains spoilers for "Who's Your Daddy?" (it was a Huddy-filled episode, people!) and her other works contain spoilers as well (not all, though). (But it's so good!)

"One Fine Mystifying Dance" by angelfirenze (House/Cuddy and no rating given)

Right. If House and Cuddy had a kid, by the love of God, I'd leave it up to angelfirenze to create him. This story is...wow. I highly recommend it.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: No spoilers, although the inspiration was probably taken from *drum roll please* (you guessed it!)"Who's Your Daddy?" (More Huddy airtime = more fic'age people! We rule!)

"Wants" by insanityonline1 (House/Cuddy and K+)

This is the seventh part of the fanfiction, but she has the links for the earlier parts posted in the post, though. Read those first. [insert "d'uh!" here] It's brilliant, the dialog especially. It's a load of Huddy Lovin' Snark and Goodness.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: No spoilers, I believe, and if there are, they're from earlier episodes.

"Udderly Disturbing" by cryptictac (House/Cuddy and T)

Oh, so random, so Huddy, and so funny. One-shots rule.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: Spoilers from "Sex Kills". (Pretty light, because it just references a Clinic patient and his "ailment".)

"So This Is Your Holy Sacrifice" by hihoplastic (House/Cuddy, Wilson/Cuddy, and Vogler/Cuddy (the mechanics involved in a night spent with those two together would be mind-boggling) and T)

She apologized for writing this, which was insane. Really. It's fantastic. I mean, really great.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: One-line spoiler from "Role Model" in Season One.

Anything in rest_your_bones, the creative journal of wench_for_hire. The brilliance goes from fanfiction to icons, with a smudge of original fiction. Please, take a look. She does House/Cuddy for House, and she has a few CSI-CGR stories in there.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: Her work contains spoilers from Season Two House.

And much, much more here at LJ. Take a look for yourselves. Search around for fanfictions and make your own list. :)

Off-LJ: House Love Floating Round the Net

"Three's a Crowd" by shadowfood -- Oh yes, it's finally time I recommend this fanfiction. I'm several chapters behind and have been skipping around the story (I just read chapter twenty), but that's okay. I'll catch up. It's like my story with the same basic plot (which translates to "Cuddy becomes pregnant by House"), but there's a world of difference. It's hugely popular among the people in house_cuddy, and that's not the least bit surprising. Witty dialog, in-character-ness, and much more.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: T, not a lot of spoilers, first (posted) fanfiction for the author, work-in-progress, romance/drama, House/Cuddy, is updated fairly regularly.

"Grief" by earthdrago -- It's short, but by God, man, it's bloody freaking excellent. And check out earthdargo's other works, too. So wonderful.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: K+, drabble (complete), real tragedy, no pairings, no spoilers.

"Sins of Indifference" by whoswho718 -- Holy Man of Mighty Indifference, this is a must-read. It's factual, intelligent writing jam-packed with in-characterness and cunning thoughts from the mind of Rowan Chase, who is, you guessed it, Chase's Father. And, if you click into the reviews, you'll notice that I didn't leave one under my cool pseudonym "Review1234" or even my real pen-name "Phrenology of a Waffle". Well, that's because anonymous reviews are not accepted, and also because the site was being a huge bum. So I sent one through a PM that was five-hundred plus words. :) (You still have my longest for praise, Jade.)

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: T, one-shot (complete), general, no pairings, no spoilers -- unless they're almost transparent they're so light.

"A Taste of Salt" by PWCorgigirl -- Holy. Crap. Such a fantastic House/Cuddy fanfiction, one of the first I ever read, and the first one I did read from her. She can also be found here at LJ under the name pwcorgigirl, and some more of her fanfictions can be found here. It's short, but so amazingly incredible. Anything by her is. I recommend everything she has written.

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: K, drabble-ish (complete), general, light House/Cuddy, mild spoilers for "Three Stories".

"The Snark of St Gregarious" by bardvahalla -- READTH IT. LOVETH IT. COVETH IT. OR THY POWERTH OF SAINT GREGARIOUS WILLTH SMITETH THY PERSONTH! (By the way, a new "Profit" is needed to continue the story, so pimpth yourselves in the review section. I shallth be leaving her a reviewth soonth enoughth.)

IMPORTANT INFORMATION: K+, multi-chaptered (complete...for nowth *sobth*), humor, mentions of pairings that happened on the show, spoilers for several episodes.

And anything by Gomes, also known as wench_for_hire at fanfiction.net.

I know, I know: Some of my other amazing author friends were not recommended, but when I come around to doing CSI, they will be. But, for now, savor the snark of House. And...

NOTE: REVIEW WHEN YOU CAN, PEOPLE. I NEED TO GET UP ON MY REVIEWING, TOO, SO WE'LL DO IT TOGETHER. RESPONSIBLE READERS REVIEW ANYWAY POSSIBLE. THANK YOU.

There you have it. Two hours of code-crunching -- I have a little website I use for my HTML codes, and here is the link -- for your enjoyment. So, please, try to enjoy. Thank you, again. *eyes fall out of head*

There's a Hobo...

2006-05-22T23:59:44Z

...sleeping in the bags under my eyes, which just goes to prove that I might just be a little tired or that I might just be a little sick. Or, better yet, a bit of both, one being caused by the other.

Yes, I am sick. My immune system is taking a break. I sound like a little old lady with emphysema when I yell or even speak. It's nasty. *croaks*

But I have still managed to write the meek beginning of a CGR fanfiction. It has a [don't shoot!] G-SR beginning based off spoilers from the finale (lemonjelly_, I am happy to be the one who saved you from that heart attack) and I just went with what I had. It needs improvement, and I'm just not saying that for the beginning; so, uh, no post for you! (Oh, I'm so sorry Jerry, Elaine, George, Cosmo, and the Soup Nazi.)

Instead, why not give you a synopsis of CSI's finale? If you don't want to be spoiled or if you don't want a wave of ranting coming at you, avoid the cut entitled ~~CSI: Like a Freaking Bat out of Hell~~ (oops! terribly sorry!) CSI: Way to Go.

Okay, I'm going to go backwards and finish the long part first.

The last scene: Like a freaking bat out of hell. I'm still in shock and trying to figure out where that came from. Okay, there was the brassiere scene, which lasted a minute, and then there was the camera scene where they were acting all goofy. Then there was *gulps* that scene, during which I screamed. Honestly, where the heck did that come from? That's why it was like a bat out of hell: It was totally random, scared the crap out of a lot of people, – not everyone, but certainly many – and just came out of from what seemed like nowhere. And Grissom was completely out-of-character. Jeez, I mean, yeah, it could just be because his best friend was in a coma and because he was very distraught, but the only justifiable reason for him to be sitting on Ms. Sidle's bed in a Hawaiian shirt is....

Right, so, uh, well, he wasn’t quite...in a perfectly right state-of-mind. His best friend almost died – the plot which they far from developed! – and I’m going to say, in my opinion, he did what Warrick did last year: made a hasty decision that could and most likely will ruin everything. We have seen Warrick’s Boat of Huggin-Lovin’ Quickie Monogamy hit the rocks, and it’s been rather ugly and depressing. Now the chance of Grissom’s life-before-“relationship” being destroyed is imminent, and it is just too saddening for words. I’m sure many Grissom/Sara ‘shippers out there are happy, and yippee for them. They can enjoy themselves while it lasts, while the rest of us can sit in shock or just completely ignore everything pertaining to CSI. I will watch the show next year, and if all I see is weak cases with weak ends and weak acting except for the fiery romance scenes between Grissom and she who I will not name, then, well, I’ll save a few hundred brain cells from dying of shock and/or disgust. Take your pick on the C.O.D.

Next: the cases were too weak for words, especially the one with Catherine and Warrick. (Oh, I could add in a comment about how it mimics the romantic relationship between them, but that would be mean.) I was lost completely on that one. Here's my inner monolog.

"Okay, so the guy's dead. Yeah, dead guy! That's always a nice beginning. *continues watching* Right, so not a lot on that whole case for Catherine and Warrick -- thank you Sister "And" for keeping those two names separate -- but things could improve. Ugh, what the hell were they thinking? Brassieres and Grissom and Sara = a whole lot of wrong. *keeps watching; crestfallen face begins* Erm, what happen to everything? I'm confused. These cases are melding together! There like if you held figures of Gumby and his horse over a lit stovetop and just let them turn into some monstrosity. Not like I've ever done that; they were my sister's toys, and I'm not that mean. *stops inner-monolog about oneself (shuts up, basically) and keeps watching* Yeah, so not quite getting this. What's happening? *obscene mental gesture to TPTB* Yeah, that's right. Ooh, scary. That's for the camera scene. Stupid. Should've been Catherine and Grissom, who've had no interaction this epi --

Wait! We're coming upon a scene. There not talking, but that's okay; the Grillows 'ship crew is more productive in silence. (Think wrongly and you'll get it.) Wait, they're not even looking at each other. Uh, dude, what the --

Brass! (What the Brass? What the, oh, forget it.) NO! Don't die on us! We love you! *screams* Oh, there's his bimbo-y, jerk-y, spoiled, nasty, stinky, disgusting, drug-and-sex crazy, not biological daughter, and *gasps* why is she crying on Grissom's shoulder!? Catherine, Catherine, you have tears in your eyes, right? Get on that shoulder and touch that piece of slime -- also known as Ellie -- with your Hand of Morals; she back away little snake to fire. Oh, wait, Brass is fine! Yeah for being alive! Go Brass, go Brass! *dances* Okay, now for the CGR-Filled Hug of Relief that is coming...not...now? *wants to kill TPTB* They just...ARGH! They just, not even, *is not coherent*. Catherine looked over at Grissom -- there was a millisecond of relief; if you blinked you missed it! -- and [insert colorful adjectives here; that's for the camera and brassiere scene, Grisso!] Grissom turned his air-filled head away; then he looked over at Catherine and she does the same thing she did when she looked over at him! I mean, yeah, their actions are similar, but that doesn't mean they're on the same wavelength. Hold me back! Hold me back! *growls*

Right-o. So, good scene now, with the whole Brass FanClub. Aw, Catherine hugging Doc -- they do have some chemistry, I suppose; it would be weird but doable if Doc divorced his wife, which he wouldn't anyway -- and then Greg. (New OTP3 for CSI: Catherine/Doc/Greg. The mantra: "We're wrong, but just too sick for you to look away.") Aw. *loves* And yet she didn't hug Grissom, so *continues sharpening sword to duel TPTB* Great scene, but still, for now, crap-filled episode. Maybe the ending will --

*screams* (I actually did scream several times into a pillow until after the episode ending, and then, like my parents expected, I let it all out, pillow-free.) KILL. RED RUM. DIE TPTB. EVIL. EVIL. AGH! WHAT. THE. [OBSCENITY]! *screams again*

(Two minutes before in mental monolog...)

Right, he's talking about cancer and sitting in a bedroom. Oh, God, spoilers I ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, don't be true. Please. He looks so disgusting in that shirt, but leave it on Grissom, for now, until we see to who you're talking. (Lady H, Catherine, for the love of Jesus and God, please.) So the camera's going around -- 'Dizzy/I'm so dizzy/My head is spinnin'/Like a whirlpool -- and he's talking about cancer. So romantic. Have to love those wacky and evil writers, right? And Grissom, you slob, cancer is not a quick, easy, or painless way to go, you idiot. Putz. What happen to you? You've been acting like a total idiot this episode, especially around....

Sara? No, no, say it ain't so! I'm dyin' Momma, I'm dyin'. It ain't real, it can't be. Grissom ain't that dumb. No! She's wearing a bathrobe! *is thinking of how to position TPTB heads in the front yard on bamboo sticks*

[insert "Red Rum" scene here]"

There's my inner monolog, violence-d up a bit for your enjoyment. I now return you to the actual synopsis:

So yes, the cases were weak. I mean, there was no intrigue, no "whodunit?". It was obvious from when they first showed the suspect. It was boring. And disturbing. *yawns* Good-bye, CSI. You'll be hearing that if you keep this crap up.

Here's my rating for the episode: 3.5/10.0. Horrible. The worse episode ever. It made no sense, at least from my point of view. (For the cases, I mean, because my opinion is truly biased on the relationships, and I'll save you and me those brain cells.) Very weak, poorly written, and no notable interactions non-relationship wise. Ellie came in and did nothing of importance. Some of the characters were out of character, even when it didn't come to their "relationship" together, and it just plain sucked donkey balls. I'm going to watch for (hopefully, at this point) final season, and, like I said, if I see weak cases with weak acting with the exception of "fiery" romance scenes between Sara and Grissom, I'm saving myself those brain cells to write fanfiction, where the canon is nothing but what it is: the canon. It doesn't have to be used, and sometimes it's a good thing when it's not.

Awful. They better shape things up, or at least I think so.

*cracks ranting knuckles* Even in my minor illness, I still have it. I might have even been competing with Cameron there for a while when it came to complaining.

All right, so that's it for this week. *coughs* And my germs to TPTB. (*with French accent* "I fart in your general direction!")

Best Song/Album of the Week: "Pocket Full of Kryptonite" (album) by the Spin Doctors. I have rediscovered them. I'm so happy. Great album. Rock with a country-twist. Highly recommend it. :)

EDIT: No crawling through pet doors this week, people. Sorry again. *snickers*

One-shot: "Like Reality Melting"

2006-05-15T05:41:11Z

I'll give you the key information: House/Cuddy. Fluffy ending. Random because written on impulse. Light spoilers. Unbeta'd. More information behind the cut.

Title: Like Reality Melting
Author: Waffle
Word Count: 1,566
Genre(s): Humor/Romance
Rating: (Jeez, I must have been tired this morning. I knew I forgot something at 2:30 a.m.) PG or K+
Disclaimer: It will be mine! ...when Vogler has a sex change and when House is in love with him.
Pairing(s): House/Cuddy
Spoilers: Eh, extremely mild ones from “Forever” and “Who’s Your Daddy?”, with more from the latter one.
Author’s Note(s): This was written on impulse and in one day and was not beta’d. It’s a one-shot, and if slightly-fluffy and fairly random House/Cuddy romance with a freakish dream isn’t your thing, I don’t recommend this. It’s not deep – except for maybe one part – although there are possibly some symbols. The original intention for this story was to be serious, but it started drifting the opposite way. So I let it go, thus letting it become something completely different from my usual writing style.
Summary: Cuddy goes to court on a charge against her, and some very bizarre things happen in the vicinity of the trial. Would probably be considered Alternate Universe.

---

Like Reality Melting

“Define ‘physical relationship’ in your own words, Ms. Cuddy,” the judge says in a booming bellow that fills the entire courtroom.

“Well,” you say, a bit of a tremble in your voice, which disappears gradually as you speak more, “I see a physical relationship as something…not quite superficial, but not exactly filled with an abundance of emotional attachments, either. It’s a complicated situation, your honor. Our relationship together is…” you search for the word, thoughtfully – albeit somewhat sassily – placing a finger on your chin, “like a stroke.”

“As in a blood clot becoming trapped in a blood vessel within the brain and destroying most mental functions? Because if that is the case I don’t see why you had the urge to….”

“No, no, as in a stroke, your honor, such as a caress,” you state plainly, no gestures accompanying your words. You already feel like you’re in dangerous hands with this man. Hands. House’s hands in places that would make your mother scream. Oh God, it’s all coming back to you. Not here, not now. You feel your body becoming just slightly hot and just slightly tense, and unfortunately, you’re enjoying it. You continue, swallowing to clear your throat and for other reasons you would rather not state now: “Your honor, as inappropriate as it may sound, that is how I view it. If you would like my reasoning, I would be more than happy to give it to you.”

Judge Farber’s face is somewhat befuddled – although you noticed that expression on his face even before the trial started – but he gestures, allowing you to explain. “Well, you see, your honor, I view our ‘association’ together as a stroke because, well, because it tends to rub people the wrong way, the right way, or not at all. Those who are rubbed – rather, stroked – the right way delve into the relationship because of the positive effect it has on them, while others who are caressed the wrong way dive deeper into the components because they wish to find a way to make it end. And then there are those who –”

Farber raises his hands. “I’ve heard enough, Ms. Cuddy. You, the jury, and I all know perfectly well that it goes against the regulations of the hospital –” he pauses, raises a sheet of paper to his face, and reads aloud, “‘to be intimate with (a) person/people of (a) lower position(s), regardless of a prior relationship outside of one’s tenure at the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital.’” Judge Farber places the paper in-front of him on the surface of his stand, smiles smugly at you, and then begins to read once more: “‘Any information made by an anonymous employee regarding a relationship between two or more employees of varied statures will be thoroughly investigated and brought to a trial for review by a judge and jury.’ And furthermore, I feel....”

“Your honor,” you interrupt, “if you could just let me explain the situation to you and tell you why I made the comparison, then you might understand.”

Farber had finished talking just seconds ago, and now he is looking at you with brown, flaming eyes. You see a vein pulse on his forehead, and his whole body seems to be shaking – rather, is shaking, and quite furiously at that. His fuse, apparently, is about as long as your attention span today, if not just a tad bit shorter. “Ms. Cuddy! Do not interrupt me when I am speaking! If you are to do so again, I will personally –”

You stand and the judge stops. “Your honor, I see our relationship as a stroke because, as I tried to state before I was interrupted, it is likely to rub people different ways. You, your honor, obviously, were stroked the wrong way when it came to this relationship, while others were more understanding, or rubbed the right way. Yet these people are not much better than you, your honor, because all of you have something in common, and that is delving where they shouldn’t: My and Greg House’s relationship. Personally, I prefer those who don’t give a hoot, who aren’t stroked; their actions are just dandy. They realize that sneaking and spying and sharing secrets will get them absolutely nowhere. They’re smart to avoid the stroke, which is in a way, to some people, like an ailment, I suppose, with no cure. A disease that has infected both sides. So explain to me, Judge Farber, why I am here. Why? I didn’t infect any of you; you infected yourselves. ”

Judge Farber, who has risen from his seat, is holding the gavel in his right hand and looking murderous. He speaks through his teeth: “You are here, Ms. Cuddy, because you had – and are most likely still having! – an inter-office relationship with Gregory House. And furthermore, you are pregnant with his child!”

You look the judge square in the eye and glare, and through your teeth comes a fairly decent lie: “Sir, women become pregnant everyday the way I did. They are inseminated, just as I was, with a donor’s sperm, and they hope that it works. Luckily, it did for me on the first try. And does it matter if it’s his sperm? Honestly, judge, all the paperwork was done, all the rules and regulations followed. And does it really matter if Greg House and I have grown closer because of this? No, sir, I am not guilty of anything except for letting the father of my child defrost from his icy misery.”

Judge Farber grunts loudly, angrily, stands on top of his podium, and ragingly rips the skin from his body like wrapping paper. Now the real party has begun. Your eyes widen, and you see all too clearly the figure of Edward Vogler positioned atop the mahogany stand. “What the –”

“Doctor Cuddy, I know that you were and are intimate with Doctor House. Do not lie to me. You are as see-through as the lingerie you probably wore when the child was conceived.” His manner of speaking, even though it was rather mechanical and cold when you met him, has become completely monotonous, not a shred of emotion in any syllable, word, or phrase. But, unbeknownst to him, it’s a particularly comical, and you hold a bout of laughter in your swollen stomach as you approach him. He could act well when you met him, and now it’s time for his comeuppance. You try to look taken aback, offended even, succeed, and walk to the podium. “I didn’t know you were so magical, Mr. Ed,” you say sarcastically.

“Silence!” he yells. Even though he is trying to be more intimidating than he was when he worked at the hospital, he is failing spectacularly, and the jury begins to laugh unstoppably. Perfect. You begin to chuckle, and soon enough the entire room is filled with frighteningly loud chortles, snorts, and thuds from people falling from their chairs.

“What? No!” he begins, but then starts to melt, his liquefied body dripping down the stand and falling before your feet. You grimace in disgust, all while still managing a laugh, and try to walk back to your seat, but where his weak, runny self has fallen – just how you probably felt about him at the end of your “association”, except maybe not as literal – a wormhole has formed. You fall through it, and….

---

You wake with a jerk, felling as though you have just fallen through the ceiling and landed roughly on your – well, his – bed. Your breathing is erratic, the beating of your heart rapid, and yet you find enough air to giggle. But you stop when you hear a muffled groan next to you.

“Lisa, what the hell are you laughing about? It’s,” House pauses and looks at the clock, “four in the friggin’ morning.” He turns towards you, his eyes slightly weary and annoyed, but laughing lightly all the same, as they have been for seven months. “I just had an interesting dream,” you say and smile.

House raises himself on his elbow and smiles tiredly. “Have another one where Wilson is wearing a brassiere and a Speedo with one of his disgusting ties while singing “Home on the Range”?”

“No, it was less…erotic. It had Vogler in it, though.”

“And you’re laughing? Thank God humor hasn’t been proven to be hereditary.”

“Oh, right, like I want our kid to inherit some of your traits. We only need one pervert in the family.”

“Hey, you came on to me. Right there in the Clinic.”

“No wonder you don’t complain about going down there anymore.”

“So when is our next ‘appointment’?” he says, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Try four months, Doctor Horny.”

“Four months? I might die, unless, of course, I can invite over Tammy from –”

“You’re pathetic. No. You’ll live and live without, for the sake of the baby’s mental health.”

“Now why would I want to do that?” he questions sardonically and leans over to kiss your cheek, placing a hand on your swollen abdomen and stroking it soothingly as he does.

“Trust me,” you pause, his lips still on your face, with you only thinking of Edward Vogler’s body melting then falling at your feet and the abundant laughter and everything melting away as you zoomed, for a second, down the wormhole. “When you get it again, it’s gonna be like reality melting.”

Comments are appreciated. Say what you wish. Thank you for reading (or at least looking into the entry). :)

Why Is It...

2006-05-12T21:08:59Z

...that whenever I think of a good title for one of my journal entries that I lose it?

All right, so an update on the entalmay ealthhay situation: I am feeling better. Yeah, not quite like skipping around in a field of daisy and screaming to the world that I love everyone and everything in life -- that'll be the day the core of the Earth is filled with extreme-heat-resistance bunnies who have actually been gnawing at the interior of the Earth -- which, we shall find out, is truly carrots with hot sauce -- and, in the end, cause it to implode. As cool as that would be, I'm going to say that it won't happen. And if it does, well, look for me falling through the dirt in a field of daisy. I'll still be screaming my praise for the world; you just might hear me. ;)

Okay, so some (possibly) interesting journal entry-ness for your enjoyment. There's a ninety percent chance of spoiler posting -- behind a cut; I'm not cruel like that -- with a ten percent chance of me saying the word "brilliant" and/or cyber sobbing. But first... Tales from My Life! Huzzah!

Tales from My Life! Huzzah!

So where do I begin? Hm… I’ll go backwards, seeing as the first tale is relatively short, most likely not that interesting, and just about me doing something slightly nutty.

Today: Well, today, I was walking home, and I was about one-hundred-feet from the school when I thought, My shoes are very confining. I think I’ll take them off. So I did. I just stopped right there on the side of the road near some random house I walk by almost every weekday and took my shoes off. Then I proceeded to walk a mile on wet asphalt, wet dirt, and quite a few rocks. Yet, my feet feel much better, and I realized I walk faster without shoes. So yay! Boring tale, now to the better one.

Wednesday: Oh, yes, something interesting did happen on good ol’ “Hump Day”. Let’s see…. How do I begin this tale?

It was a semi-dark -- more like overcast -- and slightly chilly afternoon…. (Sorry Snoopy.)

I was walking home, listening to my iPod -- which I decided to use that day because it hadn’t been used in a while -- and just sauntering along at a leisurely pace. Maybe I was whistling, maybe I was thinking thoughts that I’d rather not share here -- who knows? (Not me.) Anyway, it went like that, just walking, until I approached my house, where, as custom, I dropped my bag on the ground before the door and searched for my key. Well, I’m standing there for about five minutes, just digging around for that key, when all of a sudden, I remember: I gave the key to my dad right before we went on the cruise, and because the weekend we came back I was preoccupied with finishing my stupid math homework -- that’s what the title was: “They Don’t Call Them Math Problems for Nothing” -- and packing for D.C., I forgot to ask for it back, and, of course, the Monday before D.C. I used the hidden spare key and never put it back. Genius. It’s like this was destine to happen. Two days this week my mom was home sick and let us -- my sister and I -- in when we came home, but Wednesday, we were motherless, keyless, and hopeless.

This was a situation that would make any parent proud, right? You know, it wasn't so much the being locked-out part that worried me; it was going to be my mom. Yeah, you see, every afternoon we're supposed to call our parents at work -- *cough*worrymuchyeah?*cough* -- to let them know we're home and alive. Usually, I would call my dad, but he was -- and still is -- away on a fishing trip, so he wasn't a concern. But my mom, on the other hand, was going to wait for us to call, and when we didn't, she was going to call the house. Well, we couldn't exactly pick up the phone when she did, so I'm thinking, Aw crap. We're screwed. as I'm walking over to grab something to try and pick the locks with out of the ground (it didn't work, by the way, on any of the doors. I'll just say it now to make the story a tad bit shorter). Now, you may be thinking, Why didn't you just go over to one of your neighbors' houses? Good question. The answer: I was going to go over and ask to use their phone to call my mom and then just hang in our screen-porch, but then the savior UPS man came. (Thank God for human error!)

He was supposed to drop off some packages at our next door neighbors house but came to our house fist, and after he went over to our neighbors to drop off the packages, I asked him if he "possibly had a cell phone and if I could possibly use his cell phone?". He did, and he let me use it. I call my mom, told her the situation, and was so thankful for being able to contact her that.... I was a complete idiot and forgot to tell her that I call from the UPS man's cell phone -- which was a very horrible thing to do because, if she wanted to call us back -- and I'm sure she did -- she had nowhere to call. Bummer. Anyway, I thanked the best UPS in the world, walked over to my sister, who had also tried to pick locks and pry open doors with me but was then sitting around thinking We're screwed as well. Fun, fun!

So, I tell her, "C'mon. Let's go to the screen-porch and sit in there until mom comes home. It's not as wet in there." (It did rain the entire day before.) We walk in, and I set myself up a nice little area. Then, I notice the pet door and try to pry it open. Nothing. I tell Jen to try opening it. Well, because my sister is a genius, she kicked it and then punched it, and, hooray! it opens a crack. So she hits it some more, and the whole thing is kicked off! Yay! Now to go in, but how? The door's locked, and I certainly can't fit through the pet door, nor can my sister. I see a flagpole just lying around, and a brilliant idea comes. I strip down to my undies, -- yes, I did, and it was freaking freezing -- grab the flagpole, and managed to put the flagpole through before fitting my body up to my waist in the door. You see, the lock on the door is one of the ones you turn with your hand, so after a couple of tries, I managed to turn the lock! Yahoo! Except. Crap. I remember that the is a lock on the doorknob -- an itsy, bitsy teeny, weeny lock that you turn with two fingers -- that needs to be turned to actually actually open the door. So I stand, put on the sweatshirt I wore to school that day, and look around for something else to use. Then I look outside: there's a mop handle (we really need to clean out our backyard) -- cleanin'? Ain't that for them so-phis-te-kat-ud folks in them purty houses? I walk out, grab it, -- in case you were wondering what my sister was doing, she was pushing on the door as to be ready for me to unlock it -- and go back to my position. Okay, so after about five minutes of trying to unlock the tiny lock, I'm becoming slightly agitated. Stupid thing. I amazing push myself further in the pet door and think, Aw, screw it, I'm gonna try and through it. So I did. I pushed myself though it and screamed, "Hey, Jen, I did it!" I open the door for her, and she's flabbergasted that I fit through the door, with good reason. I'll give you some measurement I took.

Pet-door sizes: Height (without cover and plastic door): 15 inches, width ("..."): 9 inches, and diagonal measurement: 16 inches
My sizes (the important ones, anyway): Height: 5'5", hips: 32 1/2", waist: 27 1/2", shoulders: 16", and bust: 33". (I'll do metrics later for my non-American friends/readers.)

So I'm not "petite", because my genes won't permit it. But, hey, healthy is better than twiggy, right?

It was a seriously triumphant day, for that and the fact I received no injuries from doing it, so yippee! My mom couldn't believe it, and I wanted to show her. Unfortunately, she thinks that it's too dangerous and won't let me show her. ~~(Although it's probably a good thing she's not feeding my invincible state of mind, the usual case with teenage thinking.)~~

So that is my tale. I'm sorry if your eyes hurt now. I like details, even if they're pointless. *sheepish*

There you are. I might have more of those in the future. Hopefully I won't have to strip down to my panties and go to a pet-door again -- regardless of how cool it was!

You know what? I'll spare you the spoilers for now. But don't think I won't edit later!

And Jade: In the edit, I'll comment to your inspiring comments. :)

Best Song/Album of the Week: (I'm going to change it; I'm just going to recommend music) "1979" by the Smashing Pumpkins

I'll be back.... eventually.

EDIT: After the Loss of Broadband but Before the Building of the Arc

Break out the buckets and start building an arc, people who know what I'm talking about. We're gonna be a-sinkin' soon.

Jeez, whatever happened to, "April showers bring May flowers." It's more like, "May torrential downpours bring June floating doors." (Hey, I'm tired. My A-material is catching up on its "z's". We're seriously being flooded. Where's Noah when you need him?

Okay, so enough about the awful weather -- which I did, willingly, walk in yesterday; I had to get out, so I asked my mom if I could go for a walk, put on a coat and some sandals, and just went for a quickie walk. Let's see...what else to do? Oh right, spoilers and whatnot. Eh, I'll just skip it because they're floating around everywhere. So I shall allow you all to fend for yourselves when it comes to spoilers. (You're welcome, Jade.) ;)

And, of course, my thank you to Jade: Thank you. And you should try out comedian as another occupation. You'd do well. :)

Well, okay, I'm not promising another edit of this because I'm just that lazy, so see everyone next week. ;)

waffus's Exile

2006-04-22T04:25:08Z

I know. It's amazing. Three updates in one week. What a crazy lady I am.

Okay, so I'm not going to be able to update until next Saturday after this update because I'm going on a bit of an exile with the happy-yet-slightly-dysfunctional family. So yo, ho, ho and a bottle of fun (and chances are my parents will need the rum). We're flowing across the sea on a boat that just happens to be called a ship and weighs a ridiculous amount.

And, because you are all such great people, I decided that, because while you are all good people I am a bum and haven't updated "The Land of Qualms" in almost two months, so why not post a sneak, un-beta'd preview? Sounds just as great as U2. :)

“You know, I should start putting this in my schedule. ‘Wednesday – Meet with emotionally- and physically- crippled best friend – although that title could easily change soon if he doesn’t start working at his other relationships – and give him advice on how to actually make people want to hug him and not hang him or hit him with his cane while hanging out on his horribly hard floor.”

“Ah, Witty Wilson with his wacky way with words.”

“My alliteration was better. H’s out-rule w’s and you know it. ”

“Whatever you say, my loony linguist.”

“Do you ever think that, if we have enough time to sit here and shoot the breeze like the two old coots we are, that we really need lives?”

“Oh, but we do have lives. I have irritating Cuddy and you have your ties.”

Ignoring the sarcasm that padded House’s comment, he said, “First off, you do realize that within a month-or-so’s time you’ll be – God-willing – fathering a child, or, if not that, be a father at the least. And secondly,” he gestured with his hands to indicate that he was moving on, “there is nothing wrong with my ties. Just because you and everyone else in the hospital are having a “Wilson’s Ties” joke book published, doesn’t mean my ties are unfashionable. I happen to think my ties are extremely chic.”

“You and Jon Arbuckle.”

“God, House, I know I made a funny – and congratulations for recognizing something other than misery, sex, alcohol, drugs, or Gameboy for once – but this is serious. You’re going to be a dad, and Cuddy is pissed at you. It doesn’t exactly make for years of merriment with your kid.”

--- <--- (And skip some more dialog and descriptions to come upon...)

House continued to twirl his cane and stare out of the window, the sun a kiss of orange on the horizon. He may have been stubborn, may have been sardonic and sadistic at times, but he had to admit, at least to himself, that Wilson was right. He couldn’t commit, because committing to him meant pain. He wasn’t ready to willingly become high on happiness again like he had with Stacy – the ecstasy he possessed as they made love, as they laughed and were actually merry – and fall down once more only to be subjected to emotional pain so powerful and almost indescribable that physical aching was only a nick in his smile. With Stacy, he had hurt physically; after her, he was emotionally pained. And the only description fit for emotional pain, he thought, was the equivalent to a deep slice through the heartstrings.

So there is your preview. I had to do it. I know people have been waiting patiently for an update, and I thank them. They're all very wonderful people.

Well, that's about it. Bye for now.

(Oh, my good-bye kicks Porky Pig's in the butt!)

House Het Ficathon -- "Fingering the Keys"

2006-04-20T19:49:16Z

Okay, so here's my submission for the House Het Ficathon in palmaceae's ElJay. :)

Summary: "Instantly, you remember: You left the door unlocked, which is unusual for you. You’re a person who likes to protect your possessions and like your possessions – some of them, anyway – to protect you. Now if only you could protect you from yourself, from your emotions and dirty habits."
Pairing: Wilson/Stacy
Rating: PG-13 for reference to cigarettes, alcohol, sex (more like infedelity), and mild swearing in the dialogue.
Word Count: 2,654 words.
Spoilers: Probably. Maybe 1.1 - "The Pilot" and 1.21 - "Three Stories". Very light, anyway.
Disclaimer: *laughs* Oh, that's a good one!
Other Important Information: The godly beta of this story is bemorechill, who deserves all the "thank you's" and cookies in the world, and it was written for animagiblender. My requirements:

- Pairing: Wilson/Stacy
-Three things included in the fanfiction: Must be Post-Infarction but Pre-Breakup, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort.
- Three things that cannot be included in the fanfiction: "PWP (porn with plot is acceptable though), a complete lack of House, um....rape? I dunno, I'm running out of limitations, so I might as well throw in 'midget porn'." <--- Oh, I had such a hard time getting around that last one. ;)

I hope I wrote to please. :)

"Fingering the Keys"

You approach the door and knock three times – just to let her know you’re there, just to let her know that it’s you – but you don’t hear anything to indicate that anyone is home or still breathing. Luckily, you know not to worry – although you continue to do so because it is in your nature as a caring person – because you do the same thing. With your job, where you save the diseased, dying, and distressed from what ails them, your house is the only place where you are able to control your pace, and you embrace that pleasure. Still, no one has answered. You place your hand on the knob and turn it, feeling the controlled and slow twist of the brass in your hand. It’s unlocked, and so you step inside. Funny. Why hadn’t you tried that in the first place?

Because you know Stacy cares for what she owns. Especially her Houses. Both of them.

You close the door behind you, hearing it click when it does. You begin moving towards the center of the house, putting your hand in your pocket as you go. You notice that the floor is immaculate in some places, unseen in others. Somehow, it reminds you of the anatomy of the Earth, its continents and oceans. The Asia of paper sits near the northeastern corner and flanking it on three sides, an oaken sea. You think it may be somewhat symbolic of the owners’ relationship with each other. And, sadistically, but somewhat sadly, you hope it is.

Suddenly, you hear a noise from in-front of you. You stopped walking, and all of this time you have been staring at the floor, trying to decipher any abstract meaning from what you have seen. But now you look up. She is standing directly ahead of you, leaning on the green-tinted wall, looking lethargic and slightly worn. You notice that her fingers have strands of tobacco embedded in the fingers while she notices yours shifting slightly in your pocket.

And all you can do is stare and softly stroke.

---

You watch the smoke rise up from the cigarette you have clasped between the two fingers on your right hand, the cool blue color of it consoling your frantic thoughts. Cure the mind and kill the rest. It sounds fair to you.

Right now you’re sitting in a cubbyhole next to your – no, our bedroom, you think, mine and his – and smoking away all chance of revelation on how to repair the relationship.

God, you hate that word. Relationship. You cringe, put out your cigarette, and search for the bottle of gin you have hidden in the back corner of the tiny room. And, as you reach for it, you notice the beam of light stretching across the dusty floor and stopping at the end wall. How ironic, you think, that that beam of light is like you. You went for five years with little to no trouble – sure, here and there you may have hit an extremely dirty spot, but doesn’t everyone? – and now here you are, your light, your happiness, your relationship – another cringe, and you pick up the bottle, untwisted the cap, and take a swill – stopped by a wall. Maybe the wall just hasn’t stopped your – you search for the word – “association” with him, but maybe it has caused your to crash and allow you to die a slow, painful death.

At this point, you sardonically reason, even Chinese Water Torture seems more appealing. You’ll take insanity over whatever this is any day.

Suddenly, you hear footsteps from out in the living room. You are going insane, and now you just have to wait for the voices in your head to come. Or maybe….

Instantly, you remember: You left the door unlocked, which is unusual for you. You’re a person who likes to protect your possessions and like your possessions – some of them, anyway – to protect you.

Now if only you could protect you from yourself, from your emotions and dirty habits.

Slowly, you push open the door, crawl out on your hands and knees, and think about how symbolism is rampant in your thoughts and actions today, about how your life is being reflected in the actions of other things as well, taking place before you like a traumatizing play. And, oh, how it pains you so.

You stand and allow your feet to gingerly carry you to the doorway. You can hear your light, quick breath, although inside you can hear the low, deep moans of the excitement flaring in your abdomen. Fear has always aroused you, yet you prefer to avoid living on the edge. But, still, you walk further, knowing your sense of better judgment just lingers back near the bedroom and the cubbyhole. You are now approaching the doorway, and when you reach it, you peer cautiously.

And there stands Wilson, staring at the ground, obviously entranced by something that you cannot see. You stand there for another moment, and decide that it is in your best interest to capture his attention. So, moving gracefully, you slid around the doorway and lean seductively against the green-tinted wall. You shift your weight, your elbow tapping the wall and producing a noise.

Quickly, his eyes move upward, taking in your appearance, but then they look down to your hand. You know you look slightly haggard, but you realize instantly that your sexual appeal is still shining through to him. His fingers are shifting in his pocket, and you feel yourself swallow. Thank God he thinks your hands are the choicest part of your body right now. But, even though the sight of him arouses you, – and it shouldn’t, because the fear has passed, and you’re still involved with someone – it also comforts you.

“Hi,” he simply says, though his voice is higher than usual.

“Hi.”

It’s an awkward moment. After being in that long silence, it feels strange to speak, like your throat is closed and the words are being torn and mangled on their way up to your lips.

“I…I just came to see how you were doing. I know things have been rough ever since – since after the…”

“I know, and I thank you. And it has been hard, too hard, actually. I mean, I just – he still doesn’t get it. I was his subpoena, damnit! I saved his life, and what do I get? Guilt. God, when life bites you in the ass, it bites hard.”

You chuckle a little, despite the tears in your eyes, and so does he. Both of your expressions are morose, along with your laughs. You let a deep groan escape you as you feel the tears vacate your eyes and dampen your cheeks. Your body has become limp and meek, flattening under the weight of depression. Wilson walks over to you, and you feel his arms grab hold to your petite figure; your hands have been lying at your side the whole time, and now you slid one onto his chest, letting it rest between your bodies. You feel him breathe inward – from shock or stimulation, you're not quite sure – as your other hand wraps around his back.

“Stacy, what are you…?” he manages to say before you quiet him. You begin to touch his ribs, letting your narrow fingers slide over them like they are piano keys. You don’t know why you are doing what you’re doing. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe the cigarettes, or possibly repressed attraction. Whatever it may be, you like it and refuse to stop. “Just accepting the comfort of a…a friend.”

“Yes, well, this friend is married,” he states, but, even so, you can feel the erection forming through his trousers.

“But you don’t have to be for long,” you whisper in a husky voice. Your fingers slip downward to fondle with the edge of his trousers.

“True. But you have someone – someone who needs you. He may not realize it yet, but he…”

He stops, feeling your lips against his shaven cheek. You deeply inhale his scent and wonder why you never noticed any of these admiral qualities of his before now. “If someone needs me, I want that person to show it. And you are.”

He sighs, but it’s not an exasperated sigh. It’s more of a small but pleasurable moan, yet he persists in his argument, “Stacy, please…”

For a moment, you feel guilty again, guilty for what you doing to him, guilty for what you could do, guilty for what you’ve done. But you won’t stop. Not because you’re obstinate, not because you’re dominating.

You won’t stop because you can’t. You need to be consoled, and you fear he’s the only one who can do it right.

“Wilson, just once. Please. It doesn’t need to be long. I just want to forget everything, if only for any hour.”

He puts his head on your shoulder, almost bowing in submission. “Okay,” he says, and you can feel the streams of remorse shoot from him to you.

And you pass your better judgment on the way to the bedroom and watch it look away as you close the door.

---

You’re both lying naked next to each other. You know perfectly well how you came to be in your – still our, you think again although the chance of that changing is imminent – but, to add a comedic twirl to the situation, you’ll say it was because of hypnosis brought on by the entrancing pattern on Wilson’s red silk tie, which now lays at the end of your bed like a crimson, wilted rose.

And that’s what the relationship – you lean towards the draw on the table next your bed and open it, searching for the cigarettes you have hidden there; you’ve never smoked after sex, but that awful word just causes you to do awful things – you have, or had at this point, is like now. It has died, yet, even though you know that it’s over, you still don’t want to admit it. Why, though? Is denial really that wonderful, or is it because heartbreak is just so much more damaging? You know this is serious. You’ve just jeopardized almost five years of bliss for sixty minutes of sex.

Sixty divided by five is twelve, and that’s how many inches tall you feel right now. You won’t deny that you enjoyed every minute of what you and Wilson did, but you will deny that the composition of a relationship is ending while the symphony of an affair begins.

But your fingers are tired. Tired of playing the piano and thinking about which key to strike next in order to create a harmonious melody and to keep the melodious harmony synchronized with it. To keep that relationship moving smoothly, flawlessly.

And then you are obligated to keep your others affairs – personal and public, intimate and formal – in order, creating a base for everything, and your end result is a composition fit for anyone in your present state-of-mind. Melancholy with a twist, depression with a twirl, misery with a spin. “The Symphony of Sadness” you will call it, and you can almost hear the crowds jeering now. Is there even such a thing as pain in art form anymore?

Suddenly, you feel the tension of the mattress next to you lessen, and in another moment, you see Wilson, clad in a bathrobe, strolling out of the room, the robe moving about his ankles in such a way that with a second glance he looks almost godly.

You decide to follow him out of the room, donning a robe as well, feeling the cool air upon your legs. It’s funny, though, because you are walking numbly and yet you can feel every detail of your surroundings. And every imperfection on your body.

He has just walked through the doorway, the low sun falling upon his already-godly-looking body, creating even more of an illusion of divinity. It is strange, though, how a man who was just adulterous can look as pure and innocent and holy as he does. You, on the other hand, continue to look as you did earlier, but you feel all the better. Maybe Wilson’s “consolation” is taking effect. Sex, alcohol, and cigarettes, you think, the perfect cure for the perfect ruin. The perfect cocktail for the cunning adulterer.

You are now standing in the doorway, watching Wilson sit before the piano. He strokes the keys adoringly, just like someone else you know, someone you knew, someone you don’t want to know anymore. From your present knowledge, he doesn’t play the piano, but that doesn’t matter; you feel inclined to sit next to him on the bench all the same, so you do. He does not seem to mind, but rather, he seems to enjoy your presence, just as you enjoyed his earlier.

Both of you now look at the black and white keys, but you find deeper meaning in them. You connect them to your relationship – and the components of the relationship in general. You know relationships are like compositions of music, especially musical compositions played upon a piano. You know that each one is unique, whether or not it is harmonious as well. You know that what you have here with this man sitting next to you could possibly put an end to the ongoing composition you’ve played for five years and help you create a new piece to perform, a new piece to grace the ears of those who know you and those who love you – and even those who soon will have, at one time, loved you. You know that the black and white keys contrast each other, just as you and your soon-to-be-former lover do – or, rather, did. You had a balanced relationship, like the scales. You rarely hit a wrong key or accidentally accelerated the tempo, but now you have just let you hands run wildly over the keys – just as your hands ran wildly over Wilson’s back as you kissed.

All of a sudden, you feel Wilson leave your side again and hear him waltz into the bedroom and undress out his robe. But you continue to sit there. You refuse to move, move to something new waiting for you in the near distance. It’s not that you don’t want to do so, not at all; you’d be happy to end what you have now and move to something new and possibly better. It’s just that you’re not ready. You need to at least try and mend the broken composition, to tighten and loosen the wires to keep the piano in-tune, to sit upon the bench and rewrite the ending of your old song.

Unfortunately, though, you’re not patient enough to do so. You know it would just be easier to just close the lid on the piano and walk away, and you almost do. Just as you begin to stand, you see Wilson come through the doorway. He walks to where you have just sat again, bends, and kisses you lightly on the cheek. “Good luck,” he whispers into your auburn hair before walking to the door and shutting it behind him, keeping all of the secrets of your afternoon together locked inside. You turn to the piano and lay your fingers upon the keys.

You know that you’re just fingering the keys but not allowing them to produce a sound. You don’t want anymore commotion, any more noise. At this moment, all you want to hear and not hear is the sound of slender hands jingling keys in the lock. You want that composition of your former life to dance out the door to its own tune, yet you’re not ready to release everything just yet.

Then you remember the door is open and that everything from the afternoon is still inside. And you know that your former life is almost gone.

But not quite.

Thinking Deep This Week

2006-04-17T21:36:24Z

I know, I know. It should be "deeply", but I wanted the words to sound alike, okay? So, this week, in my ~~overly-interesting~~ eh, very average journal, I have decided to post...what? Three, maybe four pictures? Some are arty, others are random. Oh boy, 'tis going to be so much fun for all. So, why don't I stick them all behind le cut and tell you all about my deep thinking?

-- Yes, that is my hand. I decided one day to draw on it and take a picture. If you find any abstract meaning in this, please, do share. I just posted it because it's ultra-random. And random is good...except when you're trying to learn what you need to know in science class.

-- Yeah, sorry, I forgot to turn it, so, if you want a decent view, you might have to turn your head. Okay, so this is a painting I did in seventh grade -- now you can all see the breadth of my artistic ability. At the time, I had The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams -- I read the book before I even heard about the movie! -- in my bag, and I had just bought and finished The Book of Bunny Suicides by Andy Riley -- yes, I am a vegetarian and animal-lover, but if someone ever tells you to read this book (not including me, because I do highly recommend it for those with sick senses of humor), read it; it's short but so very hilarious -- so that's why I painted what I did. And the mushrooms are just one of the few things I can draw very well. :)

-- THE CAR FOR SCIENCE! I AM ABLE TO KEEP A PROMISE! YAHOO! *dances madly and composes self* Ehem, like a said (screamed, rather), this is the car I worked on with my sister for the science experiment. We did very well, and now all I have to do is fine-tune the wheels -- as you can tell, they're a bit crappy -- and just slightly adjust the crumple zone a bit before we stick an egg in there and chuck it out the window of our house. Sweet, huh? We were going to do it at school, but this is our science teacher's "tenure" year; so she said it wouldn't be the greatest thing to chuck a car out of a second-story window because it's a bit of a safety hazard. Well, yeah. No, really now, everyone needs to be hit in the head once by a car with a generic-brand-tissue box as its body, right? Chances are it would be slightly more painful than being hit in the head with a kickball. Come on, people, it's happened to most of us at one point or another, right? *raises hand*

-- I'd like to introduce you all to...The Melty Family. Melty Family, LJ friends -- maybe some foes -- and random people, and the aforementioned group, Melty Family. I don't have individual names for them. There aren't enough to name them after the Brady Bunch, and also not enough to name them after The CSI's. Okay, so maybe....Because the green one is touching the pink one intimately, I'll call the pink one Catherine and the green one Grissom, and then because the yellow is touching the purple one intimately as well, I'll call the purple one Sara and the yellow one Warrick. Yes, I am giving the girly colors the girls. Don't shoot.

EDIT:: Oh, I lied. Sorry. There is one more "picture" that I would like to show you. It's actually fanart, but I'm just going to stick it in here anyway.

-- This is a bit of House/Stacy fanart, as you could probably tell. Just a simple texture, some lyrics, a screencap from a little digital camera, and a color change, and look what you can make -- although some of you are way ahead of me in making fanart. Really. ;)And the lyrics are -- if you can't read them -- "How ironic is it, baby/That it's rainin' outside/And we're standing here cryin' inside/And how ironic is it, honey/That we're cryin'like/The child of the relationship/We never quite cared for, anyway".

And that's all for pictures. I'll probably post some more elsewhere this week. :)

Next: Ah, should I tell you all now that I was grounded again? Yes. That's why I delayed in updating. *sheepish* What? All I did this time was nick my sister "accidentally" with a pen, and I wasn't allowed to use the Internet until Sunday. And yesterday was Easter, and I had homework and relatives and all that, so hence, me not updating until today.

All right, because you're all such awesome people, I decided that I'd like to share with you, two reviews I received during my grounding. I wouldn't exactly call them "constructive criticism", because to be constructive means that your work has substance to it, right? So now, I present to you: One reviewer -- you can totally tell, or it could be a tag-team --, two names, some spelling mistakes, and a lot of idiocy coming your way. I'll spare those who don't want to see it by sticking it behind a cut.

Phrenology of a Waffle,

The following review has been submitted to: Loosening the Screws Chapter: 1

From: Filicity ()
-------------------

Yo, dude, lighten up. Ever heard of being an egotist with little friends who spends his/her time writing stories with other people's charaters? You have! What a surprise! Cause you seem to be obsessed with death and that is not a redeaming quality. I see you as growing up and blamming everyone else instead of you.

Wow, I applaud this person for physco-analyzing me completely through my work! Jeez, what a talent. Someone get this man/woman an award. Okay, first off, because both of these reviews bash about writing about death, I'd like to list some literature that either has death in it or has death as a basis:

Romeo and Juliet - William Shakespeare
The Book of Bunny Suicides - Andy Riley
The Return of Bunny Suicides - Andy Riley
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
The Story of Oedipus(you know, killed his father, married his mother, really wrong but very entertaining) - Greek Myths
The Harry Potter Series - J.K. Rowling
The Shining - Stephen King
Dolores Claiborne - Stephen King
The Green Mile - Stephen King
Many other Stephen King books

And that's not even scratching the surface, man! There are songs, other books, films, shows... all about death! And do you want hear some good irony? The stories this person reviewed are both written for House M.D.. For goodness sake, it's a flipping medical drama! Medical! People treat other people, and sometimes they die! Gah! Go find yourself a brain, moron!

And now to quote: "Ever heard of being an egotist with little friends who spends his/her time writing stories with other people's charaters?"

Wait, wait...go back to that last part. "[...]who spends his/her time writing stories with other people's charaters?" First off, what are charaters? I know what "characters" are, but not "charaters". Secondly, isn't that what fanfiction is? Writing a story, poem, song, etc. while using and disclaiming characters created by someone else more famous than you are?

("Dr. House, we have a patient here with serious problem. The person has been diagnosed with stupidity, but we're pretty sure that this is much more serious. It's more like...pure idiocy. We're going to have to up the dose of Brain Food. It must be malnourishment.")

Yeah, I am an egoist. You have a problem with that? Huh? Huh? Well, do you? Apparently you do, man or woman person with little to no actual intelligence.

Being obsessed with death. I am not! Well, I'll admit, I do find it fascinating, but I don't think everyday, 'Death's gonna come a-knocking at me door sooner or later.... Now, where did I leave that stash of cadavers that I stole from the morgue? I wanna see the one that was mauled by an angry and stupid reviewer.' Why doesn't this person talk to the coroners and the embalmers of the world. They may not be obsessed with death, but it's a major part of their jobs. So get over it. Death is a part of life -- oh, oxymoron! -- and it's inevitable. Anyone who thinks otherwise is in just a bit of denial.

How does being obsessed with death -- which I am not -- automatically make me blame everyone else instead of myself? I'm having trouble seeing even the vague connection. I mean, I'm not going to go walking around saying, "Dude, you see that dead guy right there with his foot in the gutter and the giant "Kick Me!" sign on his back. Yeah, you killed him. And you, yeah, you walkin' by. You spilled my soda back in the seventh grade."

All right, I'm done with the slaughter of this person's review. Now to the next one. And this one has a swear! :)

Phrenology of a Waffle,

The following review has been submitted to: The Final Impulse Sacrificed Chapter: 1

From: Spartagus ()
-------------------

What! Get a life! You should stop writing about useless things and start spending time helping the elderly or bettering mankind, not writing about death and what not. How old are you! Do you think that writing about death somewho makes you special and wise? Cause it makes you sound liek an asshole.

Okay, first off, if I'm writing about useless things that you apparently don't like, then why are you reading the story? Kindergarten. "Actions speak louder than words!" This could apply to both reviews. And also, notice the empty space in-between the parentheses where an e-mail address should be? Yeah, that just proves that these ultra-shmucks are also cowards. Filthy, rotten cowards.

Yeah, okay, I know I need a life. I mean, come on, after a while, it just becomes background noise. Really. I know.

Helping the elderly and helping mankind. Yes, I would love to do that. I donate clothing to the Salvation Army. I volunteered to go to the nursing home in my town at Summer Camp. I give money to charities. I want to be a missionary. I want to help others anyway I can. I try to put others before myself whenever I can and usually do a heck of a job. So don't you dare tell me that I should be helping others. I do, as much as I can for my age. And if you really wanted to know, you slimy coward, why didn't you leave your e-mail? I'd be happy to tell you. Then maybe you'd shut your cocky trap.

Writing about death. Yeah, I do. If you have a problem with it, don't read it, genius. When you read a story, you leave either praise or concrit. You did neither. So, really, who really sounds like a blowhole? (I'm sorry, liek a blowhole?)

So, there ends my rant. Whoever you are: Go away. Go back to kindergarten. Whatever.

Now to give the title some meaning: This week -- although I know it's only Monday -- I've done some deep thinking. I mean it. I could post it all here and let you all feast on it, but, instead, I'll ask you to post some of your deep -- but not super-private -- thoughts, if you'd like to do so. Anything you think is deep, go ahead and post. I'd be happy to reply with some of my thoughts. :)

That about wraps it up for this week. Oh yes, and did you see my new icon? If you like Cameron, well, sorry. She's just... not my cup of tea, I suppose.

Oh, marquee this week! And my song/album title!

Best Song/Album Title of the Week: "Californication" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. (Great song. If you ever have a chance to listen, please do. Some of their songs are...somewhat-explicit, but the clean version of this song...love it.) And for those of you have heard the the song listed in "music", you may laugh you butts off now.

House: Ah, but that was before I tasted the pancakes. It's a compliment, you should be flattered.

Bono Is Sexy!

2006-03-26T05:07:47Z

Oh yes indeedy. Very. And so is the Edge. Guitars are also very sexy. Maybe as sexy as Bono and the Edge.

Okay, who am I kidding? Together they're the best! Guitars, the Edge, and Bono. *blushes* Why do you think I loved going that U2 concert?

No, actually, I don't have a fatal attraction to Bono. And that is not a lie. He's a great musician, and I love the man to pieces. Same thing with the Edge. The day I play guitar as fabulously as that man is the day I stop procrastinating.

Guitars, on the other hand, are inanimate until I walk away to go to the bathroom or something and that's when then they put on their dancing shoes and start singing "Feliz Navidad", so, as much as I love guitars, a fatal attraction with them just seems wrong.

But onwards I shall go.

Firstly, I'd like to congratulate lemonjelly_ for her magnificent drawing which can be found if you ~~run out naked in the street and scream, "Giant metal peas! Get your giant metal peas!"~~ click here. Really, check it out. The artsy Jade will amaze you with her talent. Bravo Jade. And, oh yes, I am a bum and didn't reply to your reply of my reply. [/too many "replies"] I will get back to you! I'm determined! And I'm also determined to get "The Epic" out to you as soon as possible 'cos if I don't, it proves that I am an awful person ~~but maybe not as awful as I like to think~~. No, an awful person. Really.

All right, well, I've decided to play a game where I put a bunch of song titles I know -- minimum of ten -- in this journal entry. Song titles will be italicized and underlined. Any other text formatting will be purely for effect and probably to somewhat annoy. So, I shall start.

Okay, so you all know about that dialog I had in my last journal entry? Well, the story that is supposed to go with that dialog is still unwritten. I think that I've just lost my muse. I mean, I could run outside stark naked with a jar of jam atop my head and wings on my back and go dancing in the streets, and chances are my muse would still be as gone as it is now. Sure, I'd like look an angel in desperate need of some good ol' quality time in the asylum, but that's all.

Actually, I think it's that and the fact I'm working on something for a House Het Ficathon, which is turning out to be quite fun. It's a new pairing for me, and I'm trying hard to work with it. And things aren't going too awfully. Better than I thought they would, to be honest.

Sigh, so maybe I should just sit around and wait for the beautiful day when my muse will come back. *more theatrical sighs*

But, as you might have noticed, just because my muse is gone doesn't mean that I'm unhappy. I'm very elated. I'm high on happiness! (I'm quite aware of the corniness in that statement, I really am...)

Oh wait. I just remembered that I have a six-to-eight page report on Chile due on the fourth and I only just have the first few paragraphs done. Wonderful. Oh, don't cry for me Argentina, or, better yet, Chile. Eh, same country.

Just take me on the Magic Bus now and let me run into the great wide open. Better yet, just take me to the Love Shack, baby!

Okay, the last two complete statements were somewhat random and not the least bit humorous. Some days I think that I'll get a sense of humor by the time I'm devils and dust. Eh, maybe I just feel under pressure to be funny. Hmm....

Nah, for now, I'm funny. And irritating. I'd like to be able to write too, but you can't always get what you want, can you?

All right, all right. I'm done. I have eleven.

If you want to try this, go ahead. I'm not going force it on anyone because, well, I'm just not into tagging people.

So, I'll do my "Best Song/Album Title of the Week" and be off. And I'll give you a House-quote-marquee this week.

Oh, wait! Did you see the icon! Ha ha! I re-sized it! *does happy dance*

Happy evening, folks! [ensue "walking into sunset" music"]

Best Song/Album Title of the Week: "Mushaboom" by Feist

Dr. Wilson: "You know, in some cultures, it's considered almost rude for one friend to spy on another. Of course, in Swedish, 'friend' also translates into 'limping twerp'."

Such a Maverick...

2006-03-17T22:55:23Z

Yeah, I know, I'm that crazy. I changed my journal settings, and, I will say, it does look nicer. (Or I think it does.) And have you all noticed my new icon? Hee, if my cat knew that her picture was being "exploited" as shown, chances are she would be pissed. Really pissed. Actually, she's always sort of, for lack of better word, "pissy". Does anyone know if a fixed cat can PMS? Because some days, I think she does. Oh, she really does. I mean, she doesn't lash out and tear your flesh off with her killer -- yet still oh-so-adorable -- claws, but she'll glare at you in such a nasty way and growl. And she'll sink her claws right into your eighteen-dollar T-shirt from toothpastefordinner.com just to spite you. (Yes, she did, but thank goodness she didn't rip it right off me.)

Oh yes, speaking of pissed, around five o'clock yesterday, I let out somewhat of a blood-curdling scream when I couldn't upload my U2 icon. Now I have to resize everything and hope that the file will be less than 40 KBs. (It was 45.5 KBs... *grumbles*) Here it is:

Jade, I will admit, for being technologically-inept, I can piece together an icon -- crappy or not, I don't know -- fairly well. Except the picture where Bono is dancing -- the one after "*shake" -- didn't come out that well. Screencaps, although I can do them, aren't my strong point.

You know, I was thinking of making an insightful entry this week on how I like written language better than spoken language, but I'll hold back on the ~~insight~~ rambling.

Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention this: I'm sure you all noticed the lovely title that I have? Now, instead of, "This Is A Witty Title (And I Stole It From Someone's Pen-name) (And It Is Super Witty, In Case There Were Any Doubts)", it is, "There Were Sounds of Silence (Until They Started Dancing In The Streets)". Yes, I am finally and truly showing my love for music. ("Sounds of Silence" (Sounds of Silence) was done by Simon & Garfunkel -- *snick* I've always loved that name -- and "Dancing in the Streets" was originally done by The Mamas and the Papas (album: The Mamas and The Papas Greatest Hits), but was redone by David Bowie with Mick Jagger -- from that ol' band who, when on Johnny Carson, had to change the title of their song, "Let's Spend the Night Together" to "Let's Spend Some Time Together", The Rolling Stones! -- (album: The Best of Bowie))

EDIT: Ha! I was totally wrong. Okay, "Dancing in the Streets" was originally written by William Stevenson, Ivy Jo Hunter, and Marvin Gaye -- thank you little informational booklet in front of the CD case that I didn't read until after I posted this -- and has been redone by many, many artist, including Van Halen and The Grateful Dead.

Okay, well, now you can impress your friends with some new music trivia. Oh yes, and also, I will be doing, "Best Song/Album Title of the Week" at the end of my posts.

Alright, there's one more thing before I go -- 'cos ideas are slipping my grasp like greased pigs: I have this dialog here that I want to use in a story -- House/Cuddy because I don't think it would much fit anywhere else -- and I just need to get it out and ask that, if you have any ideas with what do with it, they'd be loved and hugged and taken into a home with health care and a nice computer -- plus that pissy cat I was talking about earlier. Or if you have the urge to use it in your own fic, just say that some fourteen-year-old, obscure, female fanfiction author gave it to you. Here goes:

"I'm not about to bite the hand that feeds me."

"But you're willing to ignore the penis that pleasures you?"

"Do you mean the thing in your pants or what's standing in front of me? Because, from what I know, it could mean either one."

"Has anyone told you that you're mean?"

"Ha! The irony in that statement could write a thousand books."

"I'm going to start calling you Lisa Cuddly just because you're so warm and friendly."

"Fine. I get to call you Peg-Leg Greg then."

"It's a deal, mister."

---

Speaking of House/Cuddy, hugs and kisses go out to Gomey (wench_for_hire) in her sick state. For the love of all things Huddy and Grillows, please get better soon. :)

And so now I close with my "Best Song/Album Title of the Week" ...

Best Song/Album Title of the Week: "Alex Descends to Hell For a Bottle of Milk/Korova I" by U2 (The Complete U2 - The Fly)

And to all a good night! *laugh ~~merrily~~ crazily and fall off of invisible roof*

I Bring Cuteness!

2006-03-09T21:38:23Z

Okay, I'll try this one more time using rich text mode, God-willing I won't need to edit this entry. So, as the title states clearly, I do have cuteness. There names are Kuma and Peek-a-Boo. Kuma is the black-and-white one in the sink who just happens to be on the hefty side -- which is why we (okay, I) call her "The Gentle Giant" -- and Peek-a-Boo is the slightly scrawny one who blends right in with my almost as equally - beautiful guitar case. And lemonjelly_ , you've heard about the "boneless" cat. She's the first one. ;)

If that's not cute, then I have no idea what is. And hey, it took me about twenty minutes to get Kuma to sit her fuzzy butt in that sink. So, obviously, after that ordeal, I think it's cute. _{(Of course, it's the same logic I have with my icons.)}Okay, so, to be perfectly honest, nothing stellar has happening this week except for me starting a new Huddy fan fiction, which is, as any Huddy shipper would guess, always fun when the idea just comes to you as you're laying your head against the desk just waiting for an idea to come. Yes, it helps. I might have been playing U2, too. They inspire. They're cool. I love them. ~~I am Bono's love-slave.~~ (Yeah, just forget that just one. *sweatdrop*)

Anyway, here's a sample of the fan fiction I started....

House. Gracious, what torture would he have waiting for her today, aside from the usual sweater-meat comments and suggestive winks in very public – almost too public – places? Maybe a lovely musing spoken aloud about the wild brawls in the bedroom – rumored, of course, by him and everyone else who felt the need to act like a gossiping ninny – from their past or a statement regarding how her overly-lascivious mind would concoct images fit for the backroom in a video store. Or maybe…

She broke the thought, not wanting to know what else he would most likely do to embarrass her in front of what seemed like rows upon rows upon rows of irritatingly attentive people – attentive at least when it came to her relationship with House.

And I am finally getting back to drinking my usual amount of Green Tea. I quit for a while and started up coffee during vacation, which was actually pretty nice 'cos I pulled off two all-nighters -- that could've been three had it not been for my loud sister-- and throughly enjoyed myself while watching "Nocturnal State" on VH1. I believe it's the one show on at three in the morning that is usually worth watching. I saw Chris Martin and the rest of Coldplay be eaten by a giant robot like a cookie about ten times. That's always great to see.

Sigh, man, it really has been boring. And it still is. *twidles thumbs*

Okay, I don't want you to become caught in my boredom, so I'll leave you for this week. And sorry, no marquee quote from House at the bottom.

[/technologically-inept]