The Aether

All right. This will also get long, so be warned.

( Cut for discussion of murder, torture, rape and other wonderful things. )

I am home, and it was fun, and... yeah. Weird. I kinda wish I was back there. It was simpler. And I felt less like crying. Though more like hitting things and committing sororicide.

Anyway, Fifty Shades Fucked Up On A Stick will return soon.

In recent news:

1. My sister and I are having an almost-relationship again.
2. University's been pretty good (apart from the timetable, which is a bitch).
3. I haven't yet had any screaming matches in ethics, but we're doing abortion at some point, so I'll wait.
4. I've recently got into the That Guy With The Glasses fandom (by which I mean I'm actually writing fic instead of just prompting it on the kink meme) and I joined the Treehouse. This is going to be fun.
5. I am kitten, hear me roar.
6. There is no number six.
7. Harry Harrison died. May he forever rest in peace, and may he pull off continual unhindered capers of such magnitude that we can only dream of.

Don Ritchie is dead. Sydney's guardian angel, the man who, along with his wife Moya, prevented hundreds of people from committing suicide, has finally died. Rest in peace, Don. You were a miracle in human form.

I just realised something. I want to be special.

Despite everything I've read, everything that points out the perils of being special, like crazed fans, no privacy, people wanting to kill you and steal your MacGuffin, I still want to be special.

Maybe it's because I'm such a recluse. Maybe it's because I've been constantly outshone since I was a kid. Maybe it's because I'm not especially wacky. Maybe it's because I've never been that popular.

I want to be special. And more than that, I want to be loved. Despite my fear of intimacy, I want someone who'll tell me how much I mean to them and how much they love me.

God, this is depressing.

Plus, I think I have anemia.

Oh, and Shiv-R's new album is fucking amazing.

Every goddamn time he mentions her, it hurts. I know what she told me, I know she's probably right, but still. It hurts. Which is why I'm sitting her trying to analyse poetry and listen to Imogen Heap at the same time.

I have come to the conclusion that my parents would have been much better parents if they'd actually explained things to me. I would have been a lot less fucked up.



*sigh* I love them more than anything, but they're not the best parents.

 The situation: there's a guy I know online. I like him. A lot. He's just so... cute, and funny, and nice. And there's a girl he's madly in love with. She's his best friend.

God fucking damn it. Why is it that the first guy I actually have romantic inclinations toward is someone who lives on another continent and who I've never met?

 I got into a fight with my sister last night over ice cubes. No, it wasn't a 'I want them, give them back!' kind of argument. It was a 'You're a stupid bitch and if you try to order me around again, I'll break your fucking nose' argument. It didn't end well. But that's because she's a fuckwit.

I think I'll go watch Flying High.