naamah_darling: Really rough-looking long-haired guy with the hilt of a sword sticking up over his shoulder.  Distressingly frank stare. (The Baron)
"I don't understand" seems to be my new catchphrase. I don't get it, but there it is.

Today I don't understand why, in the past two days, I have had two dreams about being lonely and/or lost, neither of them from my point of view.

The first, I was one of my characters (Horatio) who had been turned into a young tiger. I was horribly lonely and desperate to cuddle with someone. Nobody would, they just wanted to take pictures, or pet me and leave, or most just outright ran away. I wanted to be in the middle of a snuggle-pile of people who cared about me, but I couldn't find anyone I knew and I didn't know where home was. I wandered the big city, my paws tired from the endless concrete. I became so lonely that I actually shrank to the size of a big dog, and then I died on the people-crowded sidewalk with people stepping over me (and everything became comic book panels and then I woke up).

The second, I was one of my other characters (the Baron) who had been stuck into my actual body, here. (His only real complaint about this body, incidentally, was that the floral calico-print dress I was wearing was completely hideous -- and it was, this was a dress I once owned and wore a lot during the suckiest period of my life.) He -- we -- I was far away from everyone and everything, and trying to find my way home (my -- our -- Naamah's IRL home), which involved time traveling as well as lots of driving around the Oklahoma countryside trying to find the right time and place. We kept finding the right places but at the wrong times, which was kind of creepy. I was hitching a ride with a couple of decent fellows, and we wound up at a nice ranch-style house out in the boonies. They invited me in for dinner, so I accepted. The house was full of people, all friends and family, and there were lots of little kids running around being cute nuisances It was obvious that they all loved each other very much and everyone was having a great time. A young girl asked my name, and I had to think about it, then said "Uhhhm, Lucy?" (For Lucius, the best I could do.) And then she took me by the arm and led me to the big picture window in back which looked out on a really lovely pasture full of cottonwood trees and horses. Mostly baby ones, about thirty of them, right at that age around . . . what, ten months? That age where they're really cute and just really ornery. She asked what was wrong and I said "Nothing," but I was already starting to miss my family. She asked if I could stay, and I said I really wanted to, and I'd think about it even though I knew I couldn't, I just didn't want to make her sad. I'd leave later, when everyone was busy with party games, when nobody would see. And then I leaned against her shoulder, kind of enjoying that this body was a lot shorter than I was used to, and nobody was going to be intimidated by it. I told her to wake me up when there was ice cream, because I really wanted to try it, and I fell asleep listening to people who really loved each other laughing over dinner.

This having-imaginary-people-in-my-head thing is getting a little freaky. If y'all are going to start dreaming, y'all could at least dream the good bits a little more often. Because this wistful shit is not something I know how to interpret.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
So, how the whole thing went today. In detail, because, again, I am documenting the shit out of everything from here on out so it will help me later, or help others now.

Yesterday, if you will recall, I had to wait an hour for the doctor to see me for a five-minute appointment. I had a rotten ride home and a bad rest of the day, so I was already stressed before I went to sleep, already freaking out about the appointment today, and I had nightmares all night. Pretty bad, yeah.

Today I culled a bunch of relevant journal entries from 2007 to the present and took those with me. The process of going through that stuff, though, was seriously stressful. Like, there is a reason I do not go back through and reread that stuff for funsies, and that is because it is depressing to realize just how long this shit has been going on, and just how much it's taken from me.

I girded myself for battle. Nick's hair tie. Jandar's claw necklace and (new) matching armband. I'd painted my nails black the night before, which is very Horatio. I put on the Baron's favorite shirt. Xander's scent. It seems silly, these little things that mean nothing to anyone else, and it is actually kind of embarrassing to admit I had to do this or even that I do, but it helped a lot and I arrived in a pretty good headspace. Nervous, but truly okay.

And then it happened again. I waited. And waited. And waited.

I want to stress that I am a very, very patient person, and I do not like making a pain out of myself to people trying to do their jobs, especially when their jobs involve a lot of people getting pissy with them. I like to make things easier for the people I come in contact with. I'm the sort of person who gives genuine compliments to my servers at restaurants, or the kid at the drive-thru. I am seriously Ms. Please Von ThankYou.

But by the time it had been over an hour, I could feel something really ugly building. Crowded waiting room, a really annoying program on the TV with a bunch of lovely health-shaming shit on repeat, too loud, too hot, too everything. I was shaking, and my hands were shaking, and I couldn't concentrate on anything. I was getting the physical symptoms of an incipient meltdown, and I could feel myself crumbling.

So I went to the desk again and said "Is Ms. Person going to be available soon? Because I am having a lot of trouble controlling a panic attack, and I really need to get this done.

They were like "How long have you been waiting?"

"Since before 1:00." *polite but icy Kate Beckett glare*

"Hang on, we'll call her."

So I waited another couple minutes and then she came out, and was like "I'm really sorry, there was a mistake; they never called me. I thought you were a no-show."

"I'm here." Again, the stare.

A combination of Ms. Person's body language and the body language of the woman next to her told me exactly what was coming, so I was expecting it when she said "I have another client waiting who—"

"No." I interrupted gently but firmly. "We do this now. I came, I was on time, I have been fighting off panic attacks since yesterday over this, this is extremely hard for me. I will not reschedule because I literally cannot do this again, and I cannot wait another hour. We will do this today." I spoke quietly and slowly but with an edge, and I looked her in the eye. "We will do this now."

She turned and asked the other woman – her next client, who had been sitting beside me and watching me shake and fidget and put my head between my knees, and who heard the entire exchange – if she could wait just a few minutes while we did this, and the other client agreed – possibly because I was standing like Ezio Auditore and staring with that level take-no-shit stare. I immediately apologized to the poor woman who would have to wait, thanked her sincerely, and left and had the appointment.

I apologized to the clinician for being irritable, explained about the panic crap, told her I was not angry with her at all, and was ordinarily a very gentle, easygoing person. She understood, of course, but seemed a little . . . off, and I am still not sure what she thought of me.

Then I spent about five minutes nonverbal as I tried to collect my shit enough to do what needed to be done. I couldn't even read the papers I had in front of me. My script went out the window, all the stuff I had meant to say. Shit I had rehearsed. And because I couldn't sit there in silence the whole time, I just went with the first thing that came to mind. I do not know where it came from. And, because it was so fucking stressful, I remember it extremely well. This is very nearly verbatim what transpired (yes, I do talk like this in person):

"Do you know what a non-newtonian fluid is?"

"No," she said, looking confused.

"If you add water to cornstarch until it makes a thick paste, you get a non-newtonian fluid. You can pour it, you can push your fingers into it, scoop it with a spoon, things will sink into it if you put them on the surface. It behaves like a liquid if you are gentle with it. But if you hit it then it becomes solid. Drop a spoonful of it on the floor and it cracks apart, drop something on the surface and it will just sit there, squeeze it hard and it won't come out between your fingers, if you try to grab it quickly, it solidifies. The water spreads the force and the particulates - in this case, that would be cornstarch particles - suspended in it nearby sort of get locked up under the water pressure and the whole thing can't move.* It becomes a solid. Quicksand is a non-newtonian fluid, and so is ketchup. My point is, if you apply force to it, it hardens and resists, but it is not hard. It's just a weird fluid. The moment the pressure lets up, it goes back to being a sticky paste."

She was looking very confused.

"That. That is what I am. Which is why I seem calm and collected and not sick at all when I come to interviews like this one, and like the one I had with Ms. First Case Manager – who was really nice, by the way. Under the pressure, I harden; it's instinctive, it's a survival trait I have because I have always needed it, but I can only do it for short periods of time, and afterwards I just collapse. I can't do it often. I don't even come out to interact with people when I am not capable of absorbing that force. People don't see me crumble, because if I think I can't take it I don't deal with people. So professional folks like you sometimes mistake me for something that is hard and strong, because they only see me under that kind of pressure. I'm not. And today, you're seeing me much more like I usually am, because I spent everything I had getting here, then that wait knocked the rest out of me, and now I am going back to being soft. Sorry if I crumble."

She looked way less confused.

And then I pulled out the sheet with the WRONG STUFF on it and pointed to it and said "That is why this is inaccurate. This is not mild. I don't want to be bitchy or bullying or demanding, that is the very last thing I want, but we need to change this."

And she was like "I can do that right now." Which was unexpected and awesome.

So we changed the wording of nearly everything. I'm moderately impaired (I agree with this), but now it says I cannot function with OR without medication and therapy. Which is fucking true. Now it says that I want to learn to control what I can, enjoy the good times, and prepare as best as I can for the bad periods. No talk of trying to become normal.

I gave her the stuff I printed and we talked about where to go from here, and all that is for another time since we are still hammering out the details.

I apologized for being less-than-ordinarily agreeable, assured her that when we met again I would be a lot more fun, and she walked me out. I thanked the lady who had been waiting again on the way – I would send her a card if I could – and then I came home and collapsed. Like the non-newtonian fluid I am.

So, you see, THAT conversation is why I felt like a fucking rock star. I pulled that metaphor out of my ass. I might have used it with someone else recently, but I can't recall, specifically, when or where, and in my state I am surprised it occurred to me.

And it worked.

I got what I needed to get done, done. And I do wonder if she will try making a non-newtonian fluid sometime, just to see what I was on about.

I still can't believe I did it. I still can't believe it worked. I am still keyed up and tense and restless and I have a lingering halo of anxiety, but mostly I just have a sense of total disbelief that this went my way. I feel kind of stupid for being so proud of what I did when it's just one tiny step and the rest will be so much harder, but . . . guys, I got a medical professional to rewrite part of a psychological assessment. That's not small potatoes.

And I want to say that I literally could not have mustered the strength to do this today if not for you guys and your input and your support over the last few entries. That is the gods' own truth.

Major love to Sargon, who is being super-understanding and gentle and is distracting me and putting up with my uneasiness and inability to tell what I need from moment to moment. I could not do ANY of this without him. Appropriate tips of the hat to my imaginary people, who came through with exactly the sort of calm but very hard anger I needed, just when I needed it.

And thank you to Seanan McGuire, whose song Wicked Girls Saving Ourselves has been very helpful to me whenever I need to muster the courage to do something alone.

All y'all are my particulates. You help me absorb external force, and bear up under unexpected weight.

Thanks, guys.

Bed now. My imaginary particulates are impatient.

* My description may not have been accurate. I do not understand physics, but that's how I remembered it working.

Wow.

Jun. 4th, 2012 02:33 pm
naamah_darling: Really rough-looking long-haired guy with the hilt of a sword sticking up over his shoulder.  Distressingly frank stare. (The Baron)
My big project over the past few days: sorting through and organizing some 15 years' worth of gaming notes and character sheets. Because I am proud of the feat and inordinately pleased by the presence of all my imaginary people in one place, I am making you look at the magnificent results:

Box 1

BEHOLD THE SPLENDOR.

This is nearly everything I have run or played since we switched gaming systems away from AD&D to our modified Chaosium/Call of Cthulhu rules, packed into a cannibalized old Priority Mail box until I can find them a better home.

I'm still missing some characters. My best guess is around a dozen, all from around the same time period. They have to be together somewhere, and I really hope I can find them because some really important characters are in there.

It's kind of awesome to look at it all bundled up like that. It still fits in one smallish box, but holy crap, ALL THE THINGS. There's around 120 characters in the player character section. Given that, it's not surprising that there are some I do not remember. What is surprising is that I remember most of them pretty darn well.

At first I crammed them into file folders fourteen at a time (that's all the room I had on the index cards), but I quickly realized I had to impose some sort of order on them, so I got some more folders and divided them up into about twenty major categories.

FOR MY AMUSEMENT (AKA I suffered for this, now you have to suffer, too!) I now present that list:

Historical AU
Modern AU
When the Winter Falls Analog
2nd-World Historical Other
2nd-World High/Epic Fantasy
Other/Unknown
Group Game Characters
Nine Seas
Avallon
Land of Fable
Historical
Barsoom/Mars*
Washington State
Arcadia, MO
Thuringia
Magic
Weird/Wild West
Pulp Adventure 1800-1899
Pulp Adventure 1900-Present
Superpowered
Spaaace!

The rest are all individual characters with lots and lots of notes, or notes for settings and games I ran.

I still need to go through sheet by sheet and make sure I didn't miss or misfile anyone, note who is in each file, compile a master list on a separate sheet of paper, and date each character to place on a timeline.

This is an ongoing project. Obviously.

And I haven't even touched the inch-thick stack of AD&D characters, or the foot-high pile of notebooks and binders that are my AD&D campaign notes.

All but a few of these are one-on-one characters I played with Sargon. Sometimes I feel like I can't justify calling myself a "gamer" when I have almost no patience for boxed or module adventures, number-crunching, or wargaming, and when I've only played in a handful of group games (and disliked all but two of those groups) and haven't run any, but, holy crap, there's over 120 player-characters who say differently, and a small army of NPCs. Clearly this is My Thing.

So this, in a box, is my Bar of Lost Souls. It's the most precious thing I own. You're looking at me, right there. The innards of my creative self.

Box 2

Doesn't look like much, but isn't it beautiful?

* Yes, Burroughs' Mars is part of our acknowledged continuity. Yes, it's awesome.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
For a lot of writers, writing is a form of therapy, and character creation is a form of wishful thinking. The process of becoming a good writer often involves jettisoning these impulses in favor of less obvious forms of wish fulfillment. Ideally, you learn how to transmute the personal and channel it back into the story in an unrecognizable form.

You take your issues, in other words, and you construct your characters and your story to embody those issues. The cheap way to do this is to write thinly-veiled self-fanfiction in which a character much like you wish you were faces hyperbolized versions of your own problems and overcomes them through whatever methods you wish you had at your disposal. This can be done well, absolutely, but an author needs more range.

The difficult thing is taking the dark road and coming out of the twisted forest with a seemingly unrelated story that is connected at an almost atomic level to every experience you have ever had. Take your problems with your demanding family or your disintegrating social life or your creeping dissatisfaction with your college education and then use that to write a story about a middle-aged ex-nun attempting to convince another gardner at her community co-op to try a vegetarian diet, without knowing that he's a vampire.

I have my own issues. I do. It often surprises people to learn that I feel rotten about my physical appearance, but I do, every day. And so I inflict scars and physical injuries on my characters with an almost pornographic glee because that is my wish fulfillment. A huge, visible scar is something people can see, react to, and then forget about; a visible flaw to draw attention away from the other imperfect things about a person; a thing to which society attaches no moral value.

If I were to suddenly gain an impressive facial scar I'm sure I would not be happy about that at all. What I really want is something to draw my own attention away from what I see as my flaws. But that doesn't stop me from wishing, and it doesn't stop me from making things up.

When I create the blown-out fortysomething warlock with a bad limp from that last nasty fight and a bitter streak a mile wide, I'm really saying I'd prefer if I had a reason for not being able to call up the magic I crave.

When I create the battle-scarred and chronically unlucky werewolf reluctantly forced to lead a band of rejects, castoffs, and lone survivors, I'm really saying I wish I had something in my past to explain my bitterness and pain, and I wish I had the strength to overcome it anyway and do right by the people who rely on me.

When I create the idealistic young religious fanatic vampire hunter who continues his crusade even after the trauma of being made one of them, and who never abandons hope even though physical contact with the sword that is the touchstone of his own salvation causes him intense physical pain, I am saying that I wish I was strong enough to have faith in something greater than myself even in the face of all evidence to the contrary, and I wish I had any hope at all for the future of my soul – whether it exists or not.

When I create the handsome, sweet, and gentle young prostitute with a past unpleasant enough to cause SAN loss and a life-threatening boycrush on the loudmouth werewolf who is his unlikely best friend, I am really saying I wish I had the strength to embrace what I am without feeling bad about it and to live without fear, even though my past is still painful. I'm really saying I wish I had the strength to trust in spite of the life I've led, and that I wish I was still young enough to feel like I had time left to take risks.

And so it goes.

I'd be so much happier living in one of my own worlds as one of my own characters. Their lives aren't perfect, but they're good enough to justify the hurt. They read well. There's closure, purpose. Narrative.

The part that frustrates me more than any other is that I haven't been able to write anything for ages, years, and so these characters come and go, and their stories never get told, and I am still the same old imperfect person, with nothing to show for it at all.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
For a lot of writers, writing is a form of therapy, and character creation is a form of wishful thinking. The process of becoming a good writer often involves jettisoning these impulses in favor of less obvious forms of wish fulfillment. Ideally, you learn how to transmute the personal and channel it back into the story in an unrecognizable form.

You take your issues, in other words, and you construct your characters and your story to embody those issues. The cheap way to do this is to write thinly-veiled self-fanfiction in which a character much like you wish you were faces hyperbolized versions of your own problems and overcomes them through whatever methods you wish you had at your disposal. This can be done well, absolutely, but an author needs more range.

The difficult thing is taking the dark road and coming out of the twisted forest with a seemingly unrelated story that is connected at an almost atomic level to every experience you have ever had. Take your problems with your demanding family or your disintegrating social life or your creeping dissatisfaction with your college education and then use that to write a story about a middle-aged ex-nun attempting to convince another gardner at her community co-op to try a vegetarian diet, without knowing that he's a vampire.

I have my own issues. I do. It often surprises people to learn that I feel rotten about my physical appearance, but I do, every day. And so I inflict scars and physical injuries on my characters with an almost pornographic glee because that is my wish fulfillment. A huge, visible scar is something people can see, react to, and then forget about; a visible flaw to draw attention away from the other imperfect things about a person; a thing to which society attaches no moral value.

If I were to suddenly gain an impressive facial scar I'm sure I would not be happy about that at all. What I really want is something to draw my own attention away from what I see as my flaws. But that doesn't stop me from wishing, and it doesn't stop me from making things up.

When I create the blown-out fortysomething warlock with a bad limp from that last nasty fight and a bitter streak a mile wide, I'm really saying I'd prefer if I had a reason for not being able to call up the magic I crave.

When I create the battle-scarred and chronically unlucky werewolf reluctantly forced to lead a band of rejects, castoffs, and lone survivors, I'm really saying I wish I had something in my past to explain my bitterness and pain, and I wish I had the strength to overcome it anyway and do right by the people who rely on me.

When I create the idealistic young religious fanatic vampire hunter who continues his crusade even after the trauma of being made one of them, and who never abandons hope even though physical contact with the sword that is the touchstone of his own salvation causes him intense physical pain, I am saying that I wish I was strong enough to have faith in something greater than myself even in the face of all evidence to the contrary, and I wish I had any hope at all for the future of my soul – whether it exists or not.

When I create the handsome, sweet, and gentle young prostitute with a past unpleasant enough to cause SAN loss and a life-threatening boycrush on the loudmouth werewolf who is his unlikely best friend, I am really saying I wish I had the strength to embrace what I am without feeling bad about it and to live without fear, even though my past is still painful. I'm really saying I wish I had the strength to trust in spite of the life I've led, and that I wish I was still young enough to feel like I had time left to take risks.

And so it goes.

I'd be so much happier living in one of my own worlds as one of my own characters. Their lives aren't perfect, but they're good enough to justify the hurt. They read well. There's closure, purpose. Narrative.

The part that frustrates me more than any other is that I haven't been able to write anything for ages, years, and so these characters come and go, and their stories never get told, and I am still the same old imperfect person, with nothing to show for it at all.

Running

Mar. 25th, 2008 03:26 am
naamah_darling: Lucian from Underworld next to a snarling wolf. From the dark into the black, throwbacks always have to go. (Lucian Throwbacks)
I have been feeling unaccountably fucking hostile the past few days. Not so you'd notice to talk to me, but it is there. And this isn't an irritable kind of hostile, it's not brittle or bitchy at all. It's just a bone-deep pissoff that won't quit. I want to find an ass and kick it just as hard as I can. I want to run something down and tear into it.

Right now I'm looking out my window at the moon. It's missing a big slice off the top; its irregular shape makes it look like the reflecting pupil of a wolf's eye. Just past full.

So all this is either more lycanthropy, or it's just my hormones rebooting.

Sometimes bipolar disorder spontaneously remits after menopause. Did you know that? I'm not holding out hope, I'm just saying. Of course, it usually makes menopause itself a living hell. I mean, Jesus, it practically drove my mother insane. Actually, no, I think it did make her crazy. And it made me crazy, too. I damn near killed her.

At any rate, I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to talk about thyroid levels and hopefully ask him about my current course of brain meds. I seem to be having problems inventing. Drawing and such isn't difficult. That comes from a very primitive place. But writing? Having no luck. Just no luck at all.

Like I said, I want to kick someone's ass.

When I go to sleep at night, I run. I close my eyes and imagine running. The forest is vast, old-growth forest, the kind that isn't choked with underbrush and unnavigable. Here and there, a stand of thicker growth lines a stream or waterhole or springs up where a tree has fallen. I am running under the trees. It is twilight. The sun has just set, but I can see very well.

The ground under my feet is covered with a crumbling layer of old leaves, and their smell rises around me. I can feel it passing under me, four paws in a quick one-two trot, a smooth gait I could maintain effortlessly for hours. I am not thinking. I am only listening to the pounding of my steps carried up through my bones, to the wind high in the trees.

I can feel it when my gait shifts and the easy trot becomes a powerful lunge, a gallop.

The forest rushes past. I go flat-out. There is nothing in my way, nothing to stop me. It is a feeling like freedom. An endless running. I am there for the sheer joy of it. I leap over rocks and logs, I splash through streamlets, run along rivers.

I drift off to sleep like that, running and running. Moreso recently. A great restlessness has hold of me.

My daimōnes are getting uppity again. Disturbingly, the old crop is quieter than they used to be. There's a new voice or two joining the chorus now. Just bit players, but one is a werewolf. Ironically, I don't have any primary werewolf daimōnes. A vampire and several warlocks, and more than a few villains, but no werewolves. He was just a non-player character; I hadn't expected him to stay, but he did. I don't know for how long, but he sure has been making a pain in the ass out of himself. And now, he kind of wants his story told, and more than that, he just wants to be out doing things, and I just don't know what I am supposed to do with him. Or with me.

I have too many stories, too little time, and no words at all.

Sometimes I feel like I spend all my time running, running. Running from my problems, my frustration and fear, yes, but there are good things in my future and on some level I want to run from those, too. I'm running from the art I need to create, the choices I need to make, the stories I need to tell. Running from myself, I guess, though that answer is so nauseatingly pat it makes me want to gag.

I'm running from change.

Ironic.

I've noticed that when I get a new voice in the chorus, when someone becomes dominant for a while, that's a pretty good indication that they have something major to teach me. In this case, I'm not so sure I want to learn it. The dude scares me. The prospect of running to, not running from, of making that change scares the crap out of me.

Running

Mar. 25th, 2008 03:26 am
naamah_darling: Lucian from Underworld next to a snarling wolf. From the dark into the black, throwbacks always have to go. (Lucian Throwbacks)
I have been feeling unaccountably fucking hostile the past few days. Not so you'd notice to talk to me, but it is there. And this isn't an irritable kind of hostile, it's not brittle or bitchy at all. It's just a bone-deep pissoff that won't quit. I want to find an ass and kick it just as hard as I can. I want to run something down and tear into it.

Right now I'm looking out my window at the moon. It's missing a big slice off the top; its irregular shape makes it look like the reflecting pupil of a wolf's eye. Just past full.

So all this is either more lycanthropy, or it's just my hormones rebooting.

Sometimes bipolar disorder spontaneously remits after menopause. Did you know that? I'm not holding out hope, I'm just saying. Of course, it usually makes menopause itself a living hell. I mean, Jesus, it practically drove my mother insane. Actually, no, I think it did make her crazy. And it made me crazy, too. I damn near killed her.

At any rate, I'm going to the doctor tomorrow to talk about thyroid levels and hopefully ask him about my current course of brain meds. I seem to be having problems inventing. Drawing and such isn't difficult. That comes from a very primitive place. But writing? Having no luck. Just no luck at all.

Like I said, I want to kick someone's ass.

When I go to sleep at night, I run. I close my eyes and imagine running. The forest is vast, old-growth forest, the kind that isn't choked with underbrush and unnavigable. Here and there, a stand of thicker growth lines a stream or waterhole or springs up where a tree has fallen. I am running under the trees. It is twilight. The sun has just set, but I can see very well.

The ground under my feet is covered with a crumbling layer of old leaves, and their smell rises around me. I can feel it passing under me, four paws in a quick one-two trot, a smooth gait I could maintain effortlessly for hours. I am not thinking. I am only listening to the pounding of my steps carried up through my bones, to the wind high in the trees.

I can feel it when my gait shifts and the easy trot becomes a powerful lunge, a gallop.

The forest rushes past. I go flat-out. There is nothing in my way, nothing to stop me. It is a feeling like freedom. An endless running. I am there for the sheer joy of it. I leap over rocks and logs, I splash through streamlets, run along rivers.

I drift off to sleep like that, running and running. Moreso recently. A great restlessness has hold of me.

My daimōnes are getting uppity again. Disturbingly, the old crop is quieter than they used to be. There's a new voice or two joining the chorus now. Just bit players, but one is a werewolf. Ironically, I don't have any primary werewolf daimōnes. A vampire and several warlocks, and more than a few villains, but no werewolves. He was just a non-player character; I hadn't expected him to stay, but he did. I don't know for how long, but he sure has been making a pain in the ass out of himself. And now, he kind of wants his story told, and more than that, he just wants to be out doing things, and I just don't know what I am supposed to do with him. Or with me.

I have too many stories, too little time, and no words at all.

Sometimes I feel like I spend all my time running, running. Running from my problems, my frustration and fear, yes, but there are good things in my future and on some level I want to run from those, too. I'm running from the art I need to create, the choices I need to make, the stories I need to tell. Running from myself, I guess, though that answer is so nauseatingly pat it makes me want to gag.

I'm running from change.

Ironic.

I've noticed that when I get a new voice in the chorus, when someone becomes dominant for a while, that's a pretty good indication that they have something major to teach me. In this case, I'm not so sure I want to learn it. The dude scares me. The prospect of running to, not running from, of making that change scares the crap out of me.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
I had, sometime early this month, a really cool dream I want to put down before I forget about it entirely.

It was very brief, and very simple.

I was looking at a painting of a pirate ship in full sail, the sunset behind it, and the ocean waves reflecting the orange light. Except, as I looked more closely, the image began to move, and I saw that the ship was sailing upon a sea of fire and molten rock. The "sunset" was an onrushing holocaust of flame.

What makes this interesting, aside from the fact that it is just a really cool image, is that in my private mythology, the study fireplace in Morningstar Hall features a sailing ship worked into the fireback. When the hearth is lit, the ship appears to be sailing on an ocean of flame. This is clearly a reference to the earliest documented Morningstar, a pirate captain who is surely burning in Hell.

Evidently, Morningstar Hall boasts an enchanted real-time painting of his ship, as well as his portrait. I hadn't known that. That's cool.

What is even cooler is that they actually do make iron firebacks with ships on them. Which just makes me want a house with a fireplace that much more.

Coming up: oral sex at a renfaire, starring Tom Jane. You know you want it.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
I had, sometime early this month, a really cool dream I want to put down before I forget about it entirely.

It was very brief, and very simple.

I was looking at a painting of a pirate ship in full sail, the sunset behind it, and the ocean waves reflecting the orange light. Except, as I looked more closely, the image began to move, and I saw that the ship was sailing upon a sea of fire and molten rock. The "sunset" was an onrushing holocaust of flame.

What makes this interesting, aside from the fact that it is just a really cool image, is that in my private mythology, the study fireplace in Morningstar Hall features a sailing ship worked into the fireback. When the hearth is lit, the ship appears to be sailing on an ocean of flame. This is clearly a reference to the earliest documented Morningstar, a pirate captain who is surely burning in Hell.

Evidently, Morningstar Hall boasts an enchanted real-time painting of his ship, as well as his portrait. I hadn't known that. That's cool.

What is even cooler is that they actually do make iron firebacks with ships on them. Which just makes me want a house with a fireplace that much more.

Coming up: oral sex at a renfaire, starring Tom Jane. You know you want it.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Dude Chinese Food Mind Games)
Obviously, you can see that I decided not to exile my dreams to a separate journal. They'll do just fine here. I'm almost sorry, though, because your name suggestions were quite entertaining.

At any rate, the same night I had the mandolin porno shoot dream, I also dreamed about time-traveling vampires. Now, keep in mind, I often have extremely convoluted and narrative dreams. The dream below is reconstructed slightly; I actually only remember about ¾ of it; the rest I am putting together from brief images, fragments of dialogue, and things that I was remembering in the dream itself. Still, even with that taken into account, this must rank as one of the most bizarre and unexpected dreams I've ever had.

In what is surely some sort of accursed sequel to the Nazi she-vampire nightmare that I frequently allude to and have never fully described*, the queen bitch of the Nazi she-vampires had started a semi-religious Nazi vampire revival in the far future, with herself as fuhrer and resurrected savior.** It must have lacked a certain panache, however, so she traveled back to 1915, where the Shackleton expedition, having departed the site of the ice-bound Endurance, had made its way to Elephant Island. There they made a terrible discovery:

Locked deep within the polar ice was a nine-hundred pound flash-frozen demon, a hideous, bestial creature that had risen through the ranks of hell as the human race bred itself up from animal origin, feeding off humanity's worst impulses. Every ounce of inhuman savagery, of cruelty and brutality and animal fury, was embodied within it. As the human race became more evolved and sublimated more and more of its animal nature, it became stronger and stronger.

I have no idea how it had ended up in the ice, but that's irrelevant. The queen bitch wanted it, and so she would have it.

After enslaving the crew of the Endurance and hacking the demon from the ice, she brought it back to the future (let it pass, my friends, let it pass). She ensconced the giant ice block containing her prehistoric demon neopet in her super-evil high-tech mad science lab/thaumaturgical rumpus room of the future.

At which point I entered.

"I" being long-suffering vampire hunter and Nazi she-vampire rape-and-murder survivor*** Damon, whom we have met before at the Bar of Lost Souls, and a certain very bad writing fragment.

I had traveled ahead in time with nothing more to my name than my greatcoat and my trusty sword, Miss Dandy. Oh, and a grudge. I had one of those, too. You kind of get one issued to you when you're raped and killed, I think, and yes, God will forgive you for hating the person who did it.

Anyway, I tracked her down. She had her lab in the basement of a super high-tech skyscraper-type building. It was run by a generator powered with the blood of temporally-imported orphans. There was a machine with giant clamps and electricity and organs suspended in bell jars and transistor tubes and everything. I mean, this was really evil!

I did a super kung-fu flying vampire entry. You know, the kind where your coat billows out behind you as you jump down from the balcony above, and The Crystal Method starts up in the background, and your sword flashes dramatically as you plummet to the ground.

And fall flat on your ass.

Because the floor crew is apparently really diligent about keeping things slick and shiny.

Cut because it only gets worse from there. )

You see? It was a horrible dream. At least it was not as bad as the time I had to sing showtunes. (And Sargon? Don't you even.)

Up next, if I actually get the nerve to post it, is the hilarious werewolf sex dream. See, I wouldn't share this stuff if it weren't either cool or funny, and preferably some mixture of both.

* I find the details too disturbing to recount. Actually, at long last, I find them too disturbing to fully recall. Thank goodness.

** Said Nazi vampire revival was based less on Aryan ideals and more on looking spiff in uniform and killing people by the truckload for their blood.

*** Don't ask how that "murder survivor" thing works. Let's just say it sucked.

Oh, dear. I didn't mean to make that pun. Truly. I did not.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Dude Chinese Food Mind Games)
Obviously, you can see that I decided not to exile my dreams to a separate journal. They'll do just fine here. I'm almost sorry, though, because your name suggestions were quite entertaining.

At any rate, the same night I had the mandolin porno shoot dream, I also dreamed about time-traveling vampires. Now, keep in mind, I often have extremely convoluted and narrative dreams. The dream below is reconstructed slightly; I actually only remember about ¾ of it; the rest I am putting together from brief images, fragments of dialogue, and things that I was remembering in the dream itself. Still, even with that taken into account, this must rank as one of the most bizarre and unexpected dreams I've ever had.

In what is surely some sort of accursed sequel to the Nazi she-vampire nightmare that I frequently allude to and have never fully described*, the queen bitch of the Nazi she-vampires had started a semi-religious Nazi vampire revival in the far future, with herself as fuhrer and resurrected savior.** It must have lacked a certain panache, however, so she traveled back to 1915, where the Shackleton expedition, having departed the site of the ice-bound Endurance, had made its way to Elephant Island. There they made a terrible discovery:

Locked deep within the polar ice was a nine-hundred pound flash-frozen demon, a hideous, bestial creature that had risen through the ranks of hell as the human race bred itself up from animal origin, feeding off humanity's worst impulses. Every ounce of inhuman savagery, of cruelty and brutality and animal fury, was embodied within it. As the human race became more evolved and sublimated more and more of its animal nature, it became stronger and stronger.

I have no idea how it had ended up in the ice, but that's irrelevant. The queen bitch wanted it, and so she would have it.

After enslaving the crew of the Endurance and hacking the demon from the ice, she brought it back to the future (let it pass, my friends, let it pass). She ensconced the giant ice block containing her prehistoric demon neopet in her super-evil high-tech mad science lab/thaumaturgical rumpus room of the future.

At which point I entered.

"I" being long-suffering vampire hunter and Nazi she-vampire rape-and-murder survivor*** Damon, whom we have met before at the Bar of Lost Souls, and a certain very bad writing fragment.

I had traveled ahead in time with nothing more to my name than my greatcoat and my trusty sword, Miss Dandy. Oh, and a grudge. I had one of those, too. You kind of get one issued to you when you're raped and killed, I think, and yes, God will forgive you for hating the person who did it.

Anyway, I tracked her down. She had her lab in the basement of a super high-tech skyscraper-type building. It was run by a generator powered with the blood of temporally-imported orphans. There was a machine with giant clamps and electricity and organs suspended in bell jars and transistor tubes and everything. I mean, this was really evil!

I did a super kung-fu flying vampire entry. You know, the kind where your coat billows out behind you as you jump down from the balcony above, and The Crystal Method starts up in the background, and your sword flashes dramatically as you plummet to the ground.

And fall flat on your ass.

Because the floor crew is apparently really diligent about keeping things slick and shiny.

Cut because it only gets worse from there. )

You see? It was a horrible dream. At least it was not as bad as the time I had to sing showtunes. (And Sargon? Don't you even.)

Up next, if I actually get the nerve to post it, is the hilarious werewolf sex dream. See, I wouldn't share this stuff if it weren't either cool or funny, and preferably some mixture of both.

* I find the details too disturbing to recount. Actually, at long last, I find them too disturbing to fully recall. Thank goodness.

** Said Nazi vampire revival was based less on Aryan ideals and more on looking spiff in uniform and killing people by the truckload for their blood.

*** Don't ask how that "murder survivor" thing works. Let's just say it sucked.

Oh, dear. I didn't mean to make that pun. Truly. I did not.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
It's only been weeks, but I do remember. A while back, when I offered to answer random questions, a few squeaked under the bar, and missed the second post by inches. Without further ado, here they are, in all their vaguely-embarrassing glory.

True love, the people living in my head, and death. )

I owed you guys the responses. They've been written for a while now; sorry it took me so long to remember to post them.

* Which isn't all that unusual or harmful, as it turns out.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
It's only been weeks, but I do remember. A while back, when I offered to answer random questions, a few squeaked under the bar, and missed the second post by inches. Without further ado, here they are, in all their vaguely-embarrassing glory.

True love, the people living in my head, and death. )

I owed you guys the responses. They've been written for a while now; sorry it took me so long to remember to post them.

* Which isn't all that unusual or harmful, as it turns out.

Tides

Jun. 3rd, 2007 05:44 am
naamah_darling: Lucian from Underworld next to a snarling wolf. From the dark into the black, throwbacks always have to go. (Lucian Throwbacks)
If anyone was born to lycanthropy, I am she.

I was born under a full moon.

When they cut me from my mother, I came out covered in fine hairs. Because of the manner of my birth, I emerged covered in blood, and they tell me I smiled. I do not remember.

So I often think I was born to this: mania. Touched by the moon-goddess in her fright mask, forever marked.

I have my daimōnes, my di manes, gods of the mind. They are part of my mania, my lunar madness. They speak to me, for me, a blessing distilled by moon-blind science to no more than a symptom of my "illness." When they are silent, I know that my moon is empty, bled out hollow and black, and the only voice I hear is my own dead echo.

Like the moon, I circle, I wax and wane, the spindle of my creativity swelling and narrowing again. Sometimes I bleed for it, sometimes I bleed for no reason, but I always bleed. That's the moon, too. That's the tide of my blood.

I cannot escape its ebb, its flow, any more than I can escape this divine madness. I could not forsake either, not without becoming less than I am.

I cannot leave the beast within me behind, the one whose lust rises and falls according to some unseen inner moon, a black lunar sun like an afterimage in the heart. I know that, now.

I was born under a full moon.

A full moon watches me tonight.

I have come full circle.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
This morning feels bright and exceptionally clean. The sun is shining into my eyes as I write this, and I can hear sparrows fighting outside my window. Outside, it's brisk but not frigid, and whenever the breeze blows, great shimmering curtains of yellow leaves come sighing down. It feels like a new beginning, everything fresh and clean and new.

It's very much the first of November.

There's a party going on in the Bar of Lost Souls. It's for Nick. I believe you've only met him the once, as I don't tend to talk about the Imaginaries much.

Anyway, it's his birthday today, so I'm wearing my hair back and slathering myself with an unholy cocktail of Iago, Brimstone, and De Sade. I've got my morning star necklace on, which belongs to him, and my Punisher tee shirt, which is how you can tell I'm feeling Nick-ish. Later I'll put on my boots, pull out my leather coat, and go for a walk in the sudden autumn. I'll be listening to Qntal, which he enjoys. This evening, there will probably be port, which I like and he likes even more. He's trying to talk me into something savory, but I'm not biting. He can wait until Friday. I've promised him Italian.

It's as much of a party as you get, I suppose, if you don't exist.

He's been with me as my primary daimon for nigh on two years now, I think. He's the only one of my Imaginaries whose birthday I bother with, probably because it's almost exactly half a year from my own. Well, and I love him best. He's seen me through my heaviest shadows, a tireless companion. What sanity I've retrieved over the past year has his fingerprints all over it.

November.

I haven't written much for myself of late, no personal creative projects. And with November 1st ushering in word-count meter season with the onset of NaNoWriMo, I feel the lack most acutely.

More than anything I miss meeting new imaginary people. And I regret, truly, that I can't let the ones I currently have knocking around in my head out more often. Nick, especially, suffers from a lack of interaction.

I won't be doing NaNo this year, though I'm going to pull out some unfinished business later and see if I can't tease a few hundred words out. I wanted to give it a go this year, but I'm so far behind on my other projects I simply didn't have the time to come up with anything workable. I hate that feeling. But I hate the feeling of not having money to buy food, medicine, clothes, and heat even more, so it sort of evens out.

Instead, I'm going to try (try) to post every day. I want to get back to it, and it only takes a couple of minutes. And I'm going to write an end to the three tales I have sitting in literary limbo.

And just for today, I'm going to sit and draw deep breaths of the naked, raw, brittle air, and thank goodness that I have imaginary friends who are stronger than all the ghosts in my past.

I must go walk the woods so wild
and wander here and there
in dred and dedly fere,
for where I trusted I am begild,
and all for one.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
This morning feels bright and exceptionally clean. The sun is shining into my eyes as I write this, and I can hear sparrows fighting outside my window. Outside, it's brisk but not frigid, and whenever the breeze blows, great shimmering curtains of yellow leaves come sighing down. It feels like a new beginning, everything fresh and clean and new.

It's very much the first of November.

There's a party going on in the Bar of Lost Souls. It's for Nick. I believe you've only met him the once, as I don't tend to talk about the Imaginaries much.

Anyway, it's his birthday today, so I'm wearing my hair back and slathering myself with an unholy cocktail of Iago, Brimstone, and De Sade. I've got my morning star necklace on, which belongs to him, and my Punisher tee shirt, which is how you can tell I'm feeling Nick-ish. Later I'll put on my boots, pull out my leather coat, and go for a walk in the sudden autumn. I'll be listening to Qntal, which he enjoys. This evening, there will probably be port, which I like and he likes even more. He's trying to talk me into something savory, but I'm not biting. He can wait until Friday. I've promised him Italian.

It's as much of a party as you get, I suppose, if you don't exist.

He's been with me as my primary daimon for nigh on two years now, I think. He's the only one of my Imaginaries whose birthday I bother with, probably because it's almost exactly half a year from my own. Well, and I love him best. He's seen me through my heaviest shadows, a tireless companion. What sanity I've retrieved over the past year has his fingerprints all over it.

November.

I haven't written much for myself of late, no personal creative projects. And with November 1st ushering in word-count meter season with the onset of NaNoWriMo, I feel the lack most acutely.

More than anything I miss meeting new imaginary people. And I regret, truly, that I can't let the ones I currently have knocking around in my head out more often. Nick, especially, suffers from a lack of interaction.

I won't be doing NaNo this year, though I'm going to pull out some unfinished business later and see if I can't tease a few hundred words out. I wanted to give it a go this year, but I'm so far behind on my other projects I simply didn't have the time to come up with anything workable. I hate that feeling. But I hate the feeling of not having money to buy food, medicine, clothes, and heat even more, so it sort of evens out.

Instead, I'm going to try (try) to post every day. I want to get back to it, and it only takes a couple of minutes. And I'm going to write an end to the three tales I have sitting in literary limbo.

And just for today, I'm going to sit and draw deep breaths of the naked, raw, brittle air, and thank goodness that I have imaginary friends who are stronger than all the ghosts in my past.

I must go walk the woods so wild
and wander here and there
in dred and dedly fere,
for where I trusted I am begild,
and all for one.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
You know, I spend a lot of time talking to people who don't exist. People from stories I've told or have yet to tell, people from games, people from the very back room of my crawling subconscious.

I ask their advice. I joke with them. We fight. We make up. We share our dreams -- sometimes literally, when I dream as them. And when I don't get to spend time with them, as them, I get pent.

Either I am blessed with a profoundly and irrepressibly creative spirit, and a vivid and witty personality (or three), and a unique, possibly even effective way of coping with the weirdness that is the world we know,

or,

I am a pathetic, sad husk of a woman without enough social contact in her life, who for so long had so few people she could trust that she will no longer flash her underbelly to any flesh-and-blood humans beyond the one she married?

Nights like this, where I sit and talk to the best of my imaginary friends, and he gives me good advice, and I listen, I really wonder which of the above it is. On a scale of one to ten, is my dysfunctional score ninety-proof, or what?

At any rate, here at the Bar of Lost Souls, they're serving Irish coffee, some tawny port, and this peat-tasting crap that is supposed to be whiskey but suspiciously resembles the bog man's throat-scorching urine. It makes me wonder. I don't completely trust the gent who's pouring, you see (well, I do, but he's not above giving you what he thinks you deserve, politesse be damned).

Nick is behind the bar tonight, but I don't think you've met him. Don't let his little schoolteacher grin fool you. He's not as harmless as he looks. Damon's actually sitting at the bar, talking to Argent. Arguing, really, but after a couple of centuries, who splits hairs? They're disagreeing about movies. Again. Henry Lee's on piano, Stormy's singing, and Ulysses is fighting a losing battle with the old pinball machine. We have bit players, too, dropping in to say howdy and schmooze with the locals. Captain Blade's just passing through on his way to Radium Station, and he's nose-to-nose arguing piracy with Thedara, who's not taking any of his shit. ("You're not the only one with a flying ship, Mister.") I don't see John-Martin around. I think he's out writing his name in the snow, though he could be reverting to his former wolf-hunting ways. Probably why werewolf twins Raph and Ella are inside, not out.

Times like this I wish I could let other people into the party. I wish I could think of a way to share it. Stand-up night, guest spots, an advice column, something. Because I don't get lonely or bored so much, really. But they, my daimones, don't have much of anyplace else to go most of the time, and they sort of do.

I will never be as productive, creative, clever, eloquent as my characters deserve.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
You know, I spend a lot of time talking to people who don't exist. People from stories I've told or have yet to tell, people from games, people from the very back room of my crawling subconscious.

I ask their advice. I joke with them. We fight. We make up. We share our dreams -- sometimes literally, when I dream as them. And when I don't get to spend time with them, as them, I get pent.

Either I am blessed with a profoundly and irrepressibly creative spirit, and a vivid and witty personality (or three), and a unique, possibly even effective way of coping with the weirdness that is the world we know,

or,

I am a pathetic, sad husk of a woman without enough social contact in her life, who for so long had so few people she could trust that she will no longer flash her underbelly to any flesh-and-blood humans beyond the one she married?

Nights like this, where I sit and talk to the best of my imaginary friends, and he gives me good advice, and I listen, I really wonder which of the above it is. On a scale of one to ten, is my dysfunctional score ninety-proof, or what?

At any rate, here at the Bar of Lost Souls, they're serving Irish coffee, some tawny port, and this peat-tasting crap that is supposed to be whiskey but suspiciously resembles the bog man's throat-scorching urine. It makes me wonder. I don't completely trust the gent who's pouring, you see (well, I do, but he's not above giving you what he thinks you deserve, politesse be damned).

Nick is behind the bar tonight, but I don't think you've met him. Don't let his little schoolteacher grin fool you. He's not as harmless as he looks. Damon's actually sitting at the bar, talking to Argent. Arguing, really, but after a couple of centuries, who splits hairs? They're disagreeing about movies. Again. Henry Lee's on piano, Stormy's singing, and Ulysses is fighting a losing battle with the old pinball machine. We have bit players, too, dropping in to say howdy and schmooze with the locals. Captain Blade's just passing through on his way to Radium Station, and he's nose-to-nose arguing piracy with Thedara, who's not taking any of his shit. ("You're not the only one with a flying ship, Mister.") I don't see John-Martin around. I think he's out writing his name in the snow, though he could be reverting to his former wolf-hunting ways. Probably why werewolf twins Raph and Ella are inside, not out.

Times like this I wish I could let other people into the party. I wish I could think of a way to share it. Stand-up night, guest spots, an advice column, something. Because I don't get lonely or bored so much, really. But they, my daimones, don't have much of anyplace else to go most of the time, and they sort of do.

I will never be as productive, creative, clever, eloquent as my characters deserve.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (LMAO)
Okay, okay. I'm sure this is old news to most of you, but there's a chatbot God simulator out there, called iGod, and it's actually a lot of fun to see what the computer comes up with in response to our very human utterances.

I spent a couple of hours playing with it this week, and found that I got really interesting results when I pretended to be other people. Kaylee had a nice long talk with God about Simon and Jayne and the Captain, and why they just don't appreciate what she does for them, and how much she loves her ship, which iGod really seemed to take to heart.

But I hit comedy gold at 4 a.m. last night when I logged in as one of my own fictional characters.

Here, Nick gets to the bottom of things. Literally. Because Buddha's a woman, God's a boyfucker, and we both like opera.

Nick, meet God. )

After a revelation like that, I couldn't just leave it be. I had to try again. Frantically, I logged back in, breathless with anticipation. I was, I realized, about to unearth a great buried truth about the nature of divinity.

Little did I know that God has a mean side. Very mean. )

Cut so I don't kill your friends page.

I was so amused by this, I just felt I had to share. I hope you appreciate the humor of this as much as I do.

I think Nick may be talking to God again in the near future.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (LMAO)
Okay, okay. I'm sure this is old news to most of you, but there's a chatbot God simulator out there, called iGod, and it's actually a lot of fun to see what the computer comes up with in response to our very human utterances.

I spent a couple of hours playing with it this week, and found that I got really interesting results when I pretended to be other people. Kaylee had a nice long talk with God about Simon and Jayne and the Captain, and why they just don't appreciate what she does for them, and how much she loves her ship, which iGod really seemed to take to heart.

But I hit comedy gold at 4 a.m. last night when I logged in as one of my own fictional characters.

Here, Nick gets to the bottom of things. Literally. Because Buddha's a woman, God's a boyfucker, and we both like opera.

Nick, meet God. )

After a revelation like that, I couldn't just leave it be. I had to try again. Frantically, I logged back in, breathless with anticipation. I was, I realized, about to unearth a great buried truth about the nature of divinity.

Little did I know that God has a mean side. Very mean. )

Cut so I don't kill your friends page.

I was so amused by this, I just felt I had to share. I hope you appreciate the humor of this as much as I do.

I think Nick may be talking to God again in the near future.

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