If I could choose, I wouldn't be in this mess

So I guess I should reintroduce myself...

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 17:07:24 GMT

Does anyone remember when I used to be around? Yeah, maybe, maybe not.

In any case, I just wanted to say Hello, World! I'm alive. I've...relocated to a different country since the last time I blogged. Done a lot of shit since the last time I blogged, obviously, but that's the biggy. Moved. Possibly for good. Trying to find a job, trying to find a new school and trying to remember how to do a bunch of things that I've forgotten. Like blogging. We'll see where it all lands...

Answers

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 02:32:39 GMT

I told lime_and_salt I'd do this meme almost a week ago. Well, finally here are my answers.

Comment on this post. I will choose seven interests from your profile and you will explain what they mean and why you are interested in them. Post this along with your answers in your own journal so that others can play along.

Interests picked : Ballet, Impressionism, Kandisnky, Teaching, Watches, Writing.

Ballet: I started doing Ballet when I was five (my mum made me), and I've been involved with it since then, one way or another. It has affected how I look at the world, how I see myself and, it's just something deeply ingrained somewhere withing, my love of ballet. I can watch it, listen to it, practice it and not get bored or tired. It's a big part of who I am, I guess.

Impressionism: Oh, boy. Probably my favorite artistic movement as such. Color, light, reflection, all things I find aesthetically pleasing and fascinating are contained in impressionist paintings. I love it. I've loved it since I was five years old. It probably doesn't help that one prominent impressionist spent most his time drawing/painting/sculpting ballet dancers.

Kandinsky: The man believed you could basically purify your soul through color harmonies. He literally wrote the book on color. How can I not love that guy? Seriously.

Shoes: I blame sex and the city. LOL. No. I honestly don't know where my obsession with shoes comes from. I will say that I do love fashion -not to the point of being an all-out fashionista but I enjoy it- and sometimes shoes kind of make the outfit, no?

Teaching: I come from a family of teachers (on the mother side). It's a wonderful activity, and I have the utmost respect for good, dedicated teachers. My second major was originally a teaching degree. I stopped that for time constraints, but I would love to teach someday. There's something really interesting and cool in the dialogue you can establish with other people as a teacher. I like it.

Watches: My dad has always had a nice collection of wristwatches and as I was growing up, my brother started one as well. In a way, I wanted to be part of the cool kid's club and I started to get really interested. I have 5 wristwatches right now. And one day, I would love LOVE to get my hands on a pocket watch. You know, with the chain and all? Oh yes, precious.

Writing: Oh this one. I don't know if I can explain this one. I need to write. It sounds a bit final, but it's true. I don't know how to live without writing. Even if it's just thoughts, even if it's lyrics to a song. It's what I do. It's a compulsion, it's a way exorcise, a way to exercise, a way to make sense of the world. It's too many things. And also, I love words. I love how they sound, I love how musical written words can be, I love good prose and good poetry. So basically I need to write and vastly enjoy other people's writing (well, when it's good I do).

TV meme

Wed, 26 Sep 2007 01:55:03 GMT

Snagged from starhawk2005

The one who seduced you and fucked you over and broke your heart in a million pieces and laughed about it: L&O: SVU

The old flame you don't see very often any more but whom you still really enjoy getting together with for a few drinks and maybe a pleasant nostalgic romp in the sheets: The West Wing

The mysterious dark gothy one whom you used to sit up with talking until 3 a.m. at weird coffeehouses and with whom you were quite smitten until you realized he really was fucking crazy: Dark Angel.

The one you spent a whole weekend in bed with and who drank up all your liquor, and whom you'd still really like to fuck again although you're relieved he doesn't actually live in town: The L word

The steady: BSG, PB

The alluring stranger whom you've flirted with at parties but have never gotten really serious with: NCIS

The one you hang out with and have vague fantasies about maybe having a thing with but ultimately you're just good buddies 'cause the friendship is there but the chemistry ain't: Heroes

The one your friends keep introducing you to and who seems like a hell of a cool guy except it's never really gone anywhere: John from Cincinatti

The one who's slept with all your friends, and you keep looking at him and thinking, "Him? How the hell did he land all these cool babes?" : Grey's Anatomy, Desperate Housewives

The one your friend has fallen for like a ton of bricks and whom she keeps babbling to you about on the phone for hours, and you'd be happy for her except you just know it's going to end badly: Lost.

The ones you repeatedly cheat on your steady with: Doctor Who, Bones, House.

Through your crystal ball I see (a fate not like this one)

Sat, 08 Sep 2007 01:20:06 GMT

This is my first entry in response to the mind-reading "challenge" posted by anti_social_ite

And so I'm pitching in with the promised writing.

Title: Truth is the strangest form of fiction

Summary: Herein lie the lives of five people who may have existed

Author's notes: This is my first of several entries for this whole mind-reading thing. I hope I got the idea right because other entries are set to follow. There's also a good measure of swearing, especially in the third piece, I hope that's okay too. Most of all I hope you enjoy reading it; I certainly did writing it.

For anti_social_ite

Truth is the strangest form of fiction.

Monday

She has let her body crumple against the windowsill, leaving her head and her arms to hang outside the open second-story window.

‘I wanna go out’.

A deep breath and a long sigh. She looks up at the smoky black sky and down at the deserted street. The neighbourhood kids are getting together around the pool area to play grownups and gossip; she can hear them from her open window. But that’s now where she wants to be. She toys with the idea of going downstairs anyway –she’s got her hair all done- but then she remembers why she’s crumpled against the window and not talking on the phone. She can’t go, won’t go anywhere until she knows for sure.

‘This is so retarded’.

It’s a brand new experience for her. She’s never been in this position, mostly because she only hooks up with the guys from school, the boys she usually sees everyday. But he’s different. He’s in different school, a different grade, a different world than anyone else she knows and not just because he’s older. He’s different. He’s…. different. But she’s never waited for the phone to ring.

As she wonders whether he will call her before the time-frame closes (her dad doesn’t like it when she gets on the phone after 10) she catches a girl staring at her from the car. She can’t help herself, she stares back, until the car is gone out of sight and she’s left staring at the street below and at the smoky black sky.

‘Odd’, she thinks. And then: ‘I hate Mondays’.

Monsoon.

Nothing like a cigarette first thing on a rainy gray-sky morning. I’m going down to the little shop on the corner and I’m buying something for breakfast. Fuck it. It’s barely a block away; I don’t need shoes for that.

A girl walks by him wearing jeans and a white shirt, holding a book in front of her chest. The rain is soaking her down. She looks at him for some reason and he looks back.

Stupid girl should be wearing a jacket. Some people. So something fried to go with the coffee. Something hot. I’ll get it, come back, have my coffee and read the damn paper. Now that’s a plan.

So F*cking Special.

Languid face upon lanky arm; deep brown eyes, short brown hair and ghostly pale complexion. The boy sits facing away from her, his mother, body half-stretched, half-curled against the backrest of the impractical wooden chair. She sits directly across from him, impassible, staring with eyes wide open. Staring beyond him -Always beyond him.

I’m bored.

His sight is fixed on some invisible thing that hangs in the space between his face and the floor. He doesn’t want to be here, any half-blind moron could see that; it’s one of the things he hates about her: she sits and chews and stares and waits and never really gets it. She’s not stupid, he doesn’t think so, but she’s always trying to be regular. Regular sucks.

I’m bored.

It’s almost five. The food hasn’t arrived yet and the Andean-Ambient fusion streaming out at unbearable volume through the PA system, is not doing much to improve his disposition. A little part of him wants to drop dead. A little part of him is hungry. A little part of him wants to go home and sprawl out in his bed. A part of him is angry and the better part of him just wants to have sex. With someone. With anyone. With Alice who’s so fucking pretty --and if he could laugh he’d be laughing ‘cause that’s hilarious. Fucking hilarious, man. Like she would even know what he looks like.

I’m bored

He’s tired enough not to laugh. The hellish music still pouring out of the speakers around and above him is mushing-up his brain, melting it down like they teach you at school will happen if you do drugs. Whatever. If he wants to smoke a joint or pop a pill he’s gonna do it. He’s not fucking anyone, he might as well fuck with his brain chemistry. Besides who cares? It’s not like he’s gonna turn into a psychofreak junkie. And still the music: annoyed he wonders if he’s the only one who can hear it.

I’m bored

He wants to hide his head beneath his arms. He wants to plug his ears with his fingers. The marginal part of him that’s still sitting at the table is sinking further into the uncomfortable chair, weighed down by the music from the Andean quartet from hell. He’s not even hungry anymore (he wasn’t hungry to begin with), which is funny because people think that that’s the norm with him. But he eats, he eats a lot, all the time, it’s just his genes hate him for some mysterious reason and he looks like a dead guy or a doodle: whiter than white and so damn skinny. She keeps saying that it’s a good thing, being “lithe”, that he’ll catch up when he’s older; he wants to slap her every time she says that.

I’m bored

When he gets home he’s going to lock himself up in his room and play in the computer until he beats the damn game. He would chat, except it’s Saturday night and he’s the only looser with nothing to do. His looser best friend is going to be playing in his own computer. Maybe after playing for a while, after the others crash for the night he’ll get to jerk off – he hasn’t today and the urge is getting to him. When he catches sight of his mother sitting across from him, still staring with vacant eyes, the urge turns into a sort-of nausea spreading from his crotch to his throat.

Finally the waiter shows up with the order.

Baby Blue-Greens

‘Who’s the most beautiful princess in the world? Who’s the most beautiful princess in the world? You are! You my baby. yes yes yes yes yes. Look at those eyes, look those pretty blue eyes. Loooooooook! There you go. You’ve got mommy’s eyes. So pretty. You’re going to be a princess when you grow up, and grandpa is going to be old and grumpy. Yes my baby. yes yes yes yes yes. You’re going to be so beautiful. Now we go back inside and find mommy. Yesyesyesyesyes.’

Girltalking.

When he agreed to meet with her at the cafeteria, he figured that her friends would take off after hitting the bathroom. He even took some extra time to get there, went to say hi to some of the guys before entering the building. And still there they were, all three women waiting for him.

It isn’t that he minds hanging out with girls or being outnumbered, sitting alone at a table with the three of them. His mom and his aunts like to get together sometimes, so he’s been there and done that and he gets it, it doesn’t make him uncomfortable. It’s simply that he’s trying really hard to process the mathematical equations scribbled down on his friend’s notebook, and the incessant yapping doesn’t let him focus.

Differential equations are those that contain a differential and/or the derivative of a function.

His brain is giving up on him: he’s starting to get a headache.

The thing about these three is: he knows and likes D, she’s cool. The other one, Cara, he knows but never hangs out with. Still from what little he’s been around her, he can tell she’s the kind of person you can get too much of, always attentive and, well, loud. She bugs. She bugs even though she’s nice. [Or maybe she’s nice to the point where it bugs. Or maybe she bugs because she’s not that nice]. And then there’s the new one, the one sitting right next to him looking…different. She’s not like the others: she’s older and a little scary -the way older women are scary when you know they’re smarter than you. She’s alright, though, has a tattoo on her ankle which is cool by definition.

His brain is presently trying to kill him.

Cara makes him swallow a pill for the headache, actually brings him water in a plastic cup to pass it down. Whatever. He doesn’t need a mommy but he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, especially in case the other two decide to agree with her and team up on him. He doesn’t need that right now. He swallows the pill and D gets herself some breakfast and the three women settle around the table once again. His head falls upon his arms, and he allows the conversation to lull him away from any and all mathematical notions.

And that’s how he misses it: the moment they manage to take a detour from parents and food to arrive at bras and underwear, and who likes (doesn’t like) to wear them. His head lifts a little above his arms and he stares ahead, intent on not paying attention. They don’t seem to care that he’s there, don’t even seem to notice. He continues to stare, sitting very still and hoping for the best until D turns to look at him. They laugh, of course, all three of them, and tease him (D and Cara mostly), prodding him to say something. But what could he say? What could he possibly come up with that wouldn’t sound at least partly self-incriminating? He doesn’t know, so he keeps a blank face and says nothing; a few seconds later they’re back to their conversation and he’s back to being ignored. All’s good with the world.

That’s the trick with women, he’s learned: When in doubt, say nothing. Always works.

Strange things happen when you're not looking

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 02:53:10 GMT

What type of Fae are you?

...

Like I would know how to answer that.

Sun, 05 Aug 2007 21:53:53 GMT

Meme

1. List seven habits/quirks/facts about yourself.
2. Tag seven people to do the same.
3. Do not tag the person who tagged you or say that you tag whoever wants to do it.

I've been tagged by the lovely anti_social_ite so here are my answers:

1. I like sleep with the tv on (or something on the computer). Always.

2. I’m a planner. I plan. And then I do something different.

3. I am logical to the point of fault.

4. I must always know why.

5. I can't function without music.

6. When I'm writing, I say the dialogs out loud before I put then down on paper so it sometimes seems like I'm talking to myself.

7. I hate hate HATE tropical weather; tropical weather hates me right back.

I tag... well, whoever wants to do it. Sorry =P

She made me do it.

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 03:37:46 GMT

maramyanet that is. And she didn't really make me, but here it is.

Meme for whoever is out there that wants to play...

1. Name:
2. Birthday:
3. Place of residence:
4. What makes you happy:
5. What are you listening to now/have listened to last:
6. Do you read my lj:
7. If you do, what is particularly good/bad about it:
8. An interesting fact about you:
9. Are you in love/have a crush at the moment:
10. Favourite place to be:
11. Favourite lyric:
12. Best time of the year:
13. Weirdest food you like:
14. Do farts make you laugh:

Recommend
1. A film:
2. A book:
3. A band, a song and an album:

Plus
1. One thing you like about me:
2. Two things you like about yourself:
3. Put this in your lj so I can tell you what I think of you.
4. Post a picture of yourself. (optional!

Breaking the hiatus

Mon, 23 Jul 2007 18:29:26 GMT

Have you ever notice how when writing something, the beginning is the hardest part? Or maybe it isn't. Maybe it's just for me and the people who, like me, tend to start thinking up their stories right in the middle.

Anyway, not very profound, but these are the things that come to my mind after I've used up every excuse known and available to man, to avoid writing a project that should, by all means be already finished. I suppose there is no stalling anymore. The sound that Douglas Adams mentioned when talking about deadlines is ringing in my ears, giving me a headache. Life passes, time keeps running.

But maybe that isn't such a bad thing after all.

Went to see Wicked. Loved it. I wasn't sure I would but I truly did. The woman playing Elphaba was tremendous.

In other news, I finished HP:DH this morning. Enjoyed it, maybe because I'm not an avid fan and I didn't expect it to be anything in particular. It was too long, longer than it should have been -not that this was surprising- and pretentious at times, but all in all, I'm glad I read it. At least that's done.

Now I'm going back on hiatus. A few of the flisters know I'm on a trip, and week from now I'll be going back to university, so it might be a while 'till I post again. I suppose I just wanted to make a statement of survival: Yes, I'm still here. We'll see where that takes me.

Fri, 01 Jun 2007 14:24:12 GMT

I've decided to start recording the weirdness of my dreams. So, to the mystery women murdered and thrown on the hood of my car, and my encounter with the devil (boy that was a fun one. Not), I'll add the freaky shit from two nights ago, and last night's nearly-disco experience.

Two nights ago:

So I was apparently watching a missing episode of The pretender, where Mr. Lyle finally loses it and goes after his sister. Except he really, really lost it and started acting like a fucking kool-aid drinking creep. Poor Ms. Parker was actually terrified and was trying to talk him down/ get her mum to talk him down. Because her mum was apparently alive. Also, for some reason I was involved in the whole face-off thing standing somewhere behind Lyle as he was trying to kill his sister/me. It was damn scary, actually. I woke up before harm was inflicted. Probably a good thing.

Last night:

At one point I was kidnapped. At one point I worked at a record store. At one point I was with my parents at our old summer house and there was purple snake -yes purple- with a pink, round head. At one point I was working on my visual arts final project and it was, get this, a garden. A garden. With handmade, funky bricks (my actual RL project). In fact, that's when I saw the snake for the first time. Oh, and at some point there were strange sunflowers growing along a fence-type-thing. Also, I think I knew my kidnappers. And the IRS people were after my family.

I don't know. I didn't even have coffee before going to bed.

It's been a while since last I did this.

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 14:14:00 GMT

Title: One day long ago
Author: Heirofloki
Summary: The memory attacks when you’re asleep.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: House isn’t mine. Shocking, I know.
Feedback: Appreciated

Notes: I started writing this on the 29^th of October, 2005 (yes I have the date), but I chickened out and never posted it. Recent events changed my mind. Also, there’s a kid involved but this isn’t babyfic. Or fluff. Be aware. The title comes from the poem “The Night You Slept” by Cesare Pavese.

“Poor startled heart
One day long ago you were the dawn”

One Day Long Ago

Dr. House

I ask you to accept my irrevocable resignation, effective immediately.

Dr. Allison Cameron, MD.

You used to have a dream that went like that. The letter would come two weeks after Chase’s; they were going to Australia together. Nobody told you that in your dream, but you knew. Even in a dream, it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.

“You coming?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Jesus!”
“Water’s getting cold.”

But no. Your tiff with Chase lasted all two weeks and went away after a yelling match that was a long time coming: his issues were with you not work-related, and his letter landed in the trash right after hitting your desk. As for Cameron, he was never in love with her. Not the way you are; not the way she is -with you.

“Maybe I should move here.”
“Say what?”
“Nothing. It’s just…I have to go back to my apartment tomorrow. To clean.”
“So?”

Your bathroom was bigger, reformatted to accommodate a man of your longitude -a cripple of your longitude. Bigger shower, bigger tub. Even now, standing in the empty corridor, you can hear water splashing onto the white-tiled floor.

“We could get married…”
“You don’t want me to move here, but you want to get married.”
“Get a bigger place. So we can fit the piano along with all your girly crap.”
“We could do that and not get married.”
“You don’t wanna get married?”
“No.”

It was a good idea. It was a bad idea. It was a bad idea that seemed good because it was hers; it was her job to have good ideas. And she was so happy, trying so hard not to burst under the pale-yellow light of your bathroom, leaning against the sink with the stick in her hand.

A baby

It was a bad idea but you knew it was coming all along.

“Are you sure?”

She wasn’t but you were. She was a big, cuddly mommy waiting to happen -you figured that out the moment you first saw her with a patient. So why not? You knew her kids would worship her and think their father was a moron. It wouldn’t matter who their father was. It wouldn’t matter if it was you.

It was a bad idea but you thought 'why not?'

“You’re coming, right?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. God don’t worry so much!”

You said that because she was anxious and anxiety was impractical. Anxiety made adrenaline course through the body, disturbed the patient’s heartbeat and blood pressure. Unfortunately for you, anxiety was a default setting in pregnant women who started bleeding five weeks before due time.

“She’s going to feel better in a couple of days.”

Wilson’s tone of voices is reassuring, tries to tell you that you’re brooding. You shrug it off, keep studying the floor. The metallic scent of blood somehow got stuck to the back of your throat; you can taste it and it’s making you nauseous. You try to clean your throat with the tip of your tongue. It doesn’t work.

“You know, she’s going to need that surgery."

That's when you turn to look at him and he flinches back, raises his right hand for some reason. ”Eventually", he says. You don't think you've ever seen Wilson back down so fast from anything. Maybe it's the look in your eyes; maybe it's the blood still caking your shirt. Who knew that she could bleed like that? You didn't, not until you found her. You're about to tell Wilson that you need a new shirt when your brain snaps.

The dream breaks.

Through the thick fog of sleep wrapped around your consciousness, you’re distinctly aware of the small finger tapping your shoulder. Raise your head and turn to the side and there she is, sitting on the piano bench beside you, staring at you like you’ve done something. She’s always managed to make you nervous.

“You fell asleep”.

‘No shit, Sherlock’, but it never leaves your mouth. Partly because she doesn’t need to hear it, partly because she has that look on her face: the mommy look. She looks exactly like you thought she would, exactly like her mother, with her long brown hair and her deep doe eyes. Hers are blue -like yours- but you chose to ignore that fact.

“Is mommy sick?”
“No.”

The response is automated, something rehearsed beforehand; something you’ve told yourself every morning for the past six years: she’s fine, she’s fine, she’s fine. And if it was someone else, you’d call it preemptive denial. But it’s you and it’s her and it has to be true because otherwise, you’re stuck with a kid you don’t know how to love, that looks at you like she’s your boss.

And god, but she looks like her mother.

“Is she mad at you?”
“No.”

Probably. She could be –you made a scene at the hospital. ‘I’m having surgery in a week’. Like that, like nothing. She’s a doctor, she should know better. Of course you’re a doctor too, but that never means anything: you have no manners, she knows that. So yeah. So what if she’s mad? You didn’t really ask and you don’t really care -you’ve got other things to worry about. You need to track down her surgeon and have a little chat with the woman. A nice chat. ‘Screw up and they won’t find the pieces.’ A friendly chat.

Your fingers are playing some tv-ad song. You notice this because the tiny Cameron-clone sitting beside you is swinging her legs to the tune. If you had any parenting skills whatsoever you’d find a way to make her go to bed: it’s way past her bedtime already. IF. However you have none.

“Aren’t you tired?”
“Nooo. Are you tired?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Like she’s the boss of you. Of course she isn’t. Of course she is. She looks too much like her mother.

The kid wriggles herself closer and sinks into your side. It’s not so bad. It could be worse. It could be apocalyptically bad, but there’s a six-year-old girl trying to find a soft spot in your torso where she can fall asleep, so you’ll try not to go there for the time being. You know everything that’s going to happen, because you’ve already seen it happen a thousand times in your head. Allison is having surgery in a week -you’ve spent the past six years waiting for it to come to this.

The little thing beside you is dozing off.

You don’t know how to wake her -it happens sometimes: you’re too big and too awkward and she’s got the bone structure of a porcelain doll. With your fingertips you grab her gown, pull her body off yours. That gets the job done.

“Bedtime.”

She seems to think about that: sighs and rubs her eyes, then turns to you as if she’s waiting for something. Waiting for what, you don’t know. A kiss goodnight, maybe? You did that already. You’re pretty sure you did. Cameron would have reminded you if you hadn’t.

“I wanna go sleep with mommy.”

Take a number, kid. “Ok.”

“Are you going to sleep with mommy too?”

No. Yes. No. “Sure.” She looks at you the same way her mother does, but she doesn’t call you on your bullshit. Not yet. Give it time, though.

Give it time.

Note:Cameron's condition is linked to the story of this woman who had a great deal of problems with her reproductive organs, and years after the complicated birth of her daughter decided to finally risk a hysterectomy; problem was no doctor wanted to perform it because there was a huge risk that massive bleeding would occur. She had the surgery and lived, of course, since she's the one who told the story.

I didn't need to know that.

Mon, 05 Mar 2007 05:18:20 GMT

Did that episode of Battlestar Galactica just ended? Like that?

Because frankly, I don't think I needed to explore the depths of my emotional attachment to this show (and its characters) again. Some more.

Frak!

Ronald D Moore, I hope you're having trouble sleeping right now. You magnificent bastard, you.

Wed, 28 Feb 2007 05:08:26 GMT

I never post, and I know I am overdue...In fact, must post a thing or two in a couple of days. This however, I was given by anamin. If anyone feels so inclined, just drop a line.

***********

Post a comment and I will:

1) Tell you why I friended you
2) Associate you with a song/movie
3) Tell a random fact about you
4) Tell a first memory about you
5) Associate you with an animal/fruit
6) Ask something I've always wanted to know about you
7) You must spread this disease in your LJ

Hey, Happy Thanksgiving - late.

Sat, 25 Nov 2006 01:51:19 GMT

To everyone in the F-list that celebrates it. And anyone else who might want to. =)

I'm...sick. How novel, right? I'm also writing fic. E/O fic for L&O:SVU. I'll post it when (if) I'm done.

The day has come...

Sat, 16 Sep 2006 18:10:26 GMT

To send a Big, Honking

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

To my girl Carmen of marlou_carmen. She rocks this funky little planet and deserves to have a fantastic day-year-life.

*Dear, if you're around this weekend, much love. Your present should be on the mail shortly...

Or talk to the journal...

Fri, 15 Sep 2006 23:40:06 GMT

28 things meme taken from anamin

1.Your Middle Name:
2. Age:
3. Single or Taken:
4. Favorite Movie:
5. Favorite Song:
6. Favorite Band/Artist:
7. Dirty or Clean:
8. Tattoos and/or Piercings:

HERE COMES THE FUN ... ... ...

1. Do we know each other outside of LJ?
2. Whats your philosophy on life?
3. Would you have my back in a fight?
4. Would you keep a secret from me if you thought it was in my best interest?
5. What is your favorite memory of us?
6. Would you give me a kidney?
7. Tell me one odd/interesting fact about you:
8. Would you take care of me when I'm sick?
9. Can we get together and make a cake?
10. Have you heard any rumors of me lately?
11. Do you/have you talk(ed) crap about me?
12. Do you think I'm a good person?
13. Would you drive across country with me?
14. Do you think I'm attractive?
15. If you could change anything about me, would you?
16. What do you wear to sleep?
17. Would you come over for no reason just to hang out?
18. Would you go on a date with me if i asked you?
19. If I only had one day to live, what would we do together?
20. Will you repost this so i can fill it out for you?

"The present of the actor, the dancer...pure evil "moment""

Fri, 15 Sep 2006 05:57:12 GMT

Seven months gone and it doesn't matter because I'm here, now, trying to put the pieces back together. It's bad living inside your head, my mum would probably say. And she's right: dust piles, and all the scattered books and cds become a sordid new landscape that threatens to steal the oxygen out of every room. So instead of my head I'm here, at my computer. Catching up with myself. The landscape will still be here in the morning in any case...

Seven months. God, but that's a long time. And it's nothing. I've been recently told that time is inmaterial -which, well, is true- but I'm not. Inmaterial, that is. Time, chronology, days and nights do pass, and it's not so much that I'm getting older...I just wonder sometimes. But that's a different ramble. Right now, this moment, I will say I've fallen of the nicotine-rehab wagon, I've become a certified coffee fiend (as my birthright dictates I should. I'm fucking Colombian), and I've been kicked out of ballet - by my own right hip, no less. Although, my physical therapist did say I should be ok boxing, so there's a light in that.

So this is my now, my moment. I'm listening to John Mayer sing about a train and I'm not sure what it's all about but I like it (his latest album, Continuum, is fantastic, by the way). Maybe later there'll be another moment and I'll send all my dust flying away. Seven months gone and it doesn't matter. I'm here now. We'll see what happens next.

Almost sounds like life.

Sat, 18 Feb 2006 05:40:52 GMT

Watched Pride and Prejudice for the second time last Thursday, and since then I've had a relentless craving for anything Austen. I have Sense and Sensibility stored somewhere in a txt format so I might just end up taking it up as this week's reading material. It should be quite the conocoction: Austen in the handheld with the Stones rattling in the background.

Add a new bottle of wine and that's something to look forward to.

Back from the dead again.

Fri, 10 Feb 2006 13:54:51 GMT

God, my first entry in about four months and I have no idea of what to say - which is why stopped writing in the first place, really.

I will say, I've forsaken quite a few things in the past months...Just as I've forgotten many others. I'm in a sort of limbo, trying to pic the pieces apart, trying to decide which to keep and which to throw away. The problem is -as it usually seems to be with the action of throwing away stuff- that once you've dropped something, thrown it away, it's gone. For good. And there's no way to recover that, so the choices must be careful. Yet they are, almost always (whether with life or stuff), not quite right...and sometimes flat out wrong.

I guess in the end, it's an act of fait: Making choices, sticking with them and hoping to whatever deity rules the universe they won't come back to bite you in the ass. I'm just not very good at that kind of thing- faith. It's just not the way I am.

We'll see what comes out of it, though.

Oh and, by the way: Happy New Year to the flist. It's late, but it's here. ;)

All I want for christmas is you, Karl.

Fri, 28 Oct 2005 20:35:36 GMT

Riding the "indicted!" wagon, right next to your pal Libby. Oh, yeah.

Warning: This is a heavily political post, so if you're not interested, bolt. Now.

For whoever is still reading...

I know, in my heart, that Joe Wilson was right when he said (through his lawyer) that this is a sad day for America; having one top goverment official idicted for 5 (five!) criminal counts is not supposed to be a light matter. However, this knowledge is buried deep, deep down in the profound blackness of my petty heart, and since I'm no seasoned diplomat, excuse me while I do my funky chicken dance and yell a rather satisfied: "Finally!"

It may not be all it could be. It may not be who it could be. But all in all, it's a significant gesture and it was due. Something had to give.

And so, yes, I'm...not happy, but I am satisfied that this particular grand jury investigation came to something. Having followed the case since the leak was originally made, I was afraid nothing would happen. It wouldn't be the first time (and certainly not the first time during this administration), that an accusation of impropriety was taken down to the level of rumour before mysteriously vanishing into the political fog. But that was not the case this time. Now we have an indictment, a formal statement that there was some sort of wrongdoing and a great measure of irresposibility on the part of goverment officials (who I believe, really crossed the thick red line on this matter), and to be fair, it does help me breathe a little better at the moment.

That's all.

Oh, and I love The Fitz.

Now, that's really all.

Renaissance

Tue, 27 Sep 2005 14:14:34 GMT

The computer is back. For those of you who might be reading and had no idea, Mr. Squiggy Miles (my computer, that is) had a minor-major breakdown two weeks ago. Thankfully, the situation has been resolved, I think, and the apparatus is back online.

The week before sucked, though. I was and still am very depressed. I feel like crawling into bed and never coming out again.

Happy Birthday!!!

Mon, 05 Sep 2005 02:01:06 GMT

This is my birthday present for scullyseviltwin.

House/Cameron implied.

Simple things.

Rating: Pg-13? I swear a sometimes.
A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! I don’t really know you, but I know your friends and they think you’re amazing and that you deserve a fantastic birthday. I agree with them, so here’s this. It may not be great fiction, but I’ll keep you entertained (or so I hope) between eating slices of cake and unwrapping the actually cool, shiny presents.

~~~~

“Patient is responding well to the anti-biotics. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow, nine AM”.

Chase was telling him stuff he already knew (as usual) while Foreman remained silent, eyes drifting repeatedly towards the glass door that connected the conference room with the adjacent office. Time to shoo them off.

“Anything else?”

Both doctors answered to the negative, and reluctantly started to make their exits, glancing time and time again towards the their boss’s office. House stood by, pushing them out with his glare. There was nothing else to do for the night. The guy (Rick? Dick? Mick?) was gonna be fine as soon as his kidney was out of the picture.

Amazing what a strep throat could do to a person.

Once inside his office, House turned to stare at his newest office decoration:

30 year-old white female.
Diagnosis: looks like shit.
Prognosis: will continue to look like shit until she stops.

Cameron had come to the office after having a one-side conversation with his kitchen cabinets about how she would feel much better as the day wore on. He hadn’t believed one word: no amount of blush could ever cover-up the zombie-yellow tint of her face. But he’d let her talk, giving only an uninterested shrug when she was done. After all, what better place to be sick than a hospital? At least this way, he knew she was getting proper medical attention.

And so, the good doctor Cameron had spent the day being bounced between sections (the office to the clinic, to the ER, to the office, to the ER again) as the bacteria in her stomach continued to act-up in rebellion. Sometime in the past 45 minutes she’d been returned to his office (by Wilson, no doubt) and now she was here, running the view; like the big, fugly bug that took a dive into the glass of milk. She was doing this to spite him, a part of him was sure; to punish him for comparing her to a piece of furniture. She could be mean sometimes.

Walking to stand closer to the reclining chair, he stared a few more seconds before lifting his cane and softly poking her thigh with the handle.

Artwork. He’d compared her to a piece of artwork.

At the dull sensation of being touched, Cameron stirred slightly. Something was telling her that she should open her eyes, but her brain was on vacation and felt like shit. Better, but still like shit. She did open her eyes, though. Slowly, very slowly.

House made a face and rolled his eyes a little, giving her time to adjust and process. Then he heard her rough, whispered “Hey”

“You’re still sick”, he stated flatly. “Stop that”.

The demanding tone in his voice made the muscles of her face flex into a sort of smile. Leave it to house to demand she get better. “So-rry” she said, but her eyes closed on their own accord.

Not getting the answer he was looking for, he House continued to prod. “Patient’s cured. I‘m going home now”.

“Ok”.

Not the answer he was looking for. “Yeah”.

Time continued. Neither of them moved.

After a deep, hopeless breath, House started to look around, getting restless and bored as the seconds passed by. Finally, Wilson had decency to show his face through the glass of the adjacent office. About damn time.

As soon as house was through the door, the younger doctor jump-started the conversation.

“How’s it going?” It being the woman napping next door.

“I'm going home"

"Okaay"

"She refuses to move”.

“I’m sure she’s only doing that to annoy you”.

House only glared at him briefly but Wilson couldn't help his chuckle. It may not be fair to Cameron – she did, in fact, look like the living dead-, but it was nice seeing his friend so strung up. It was good for the soul. Although maybe not so much for the nurses'.

“You w-” Wilson stopped, then took a different road. “I’ll go get a chair”. At House’s blank look, he elaborated. “You’re going home. Somehow, I don’t see her walking to the car”.

Wilson gone, House went back to the office but this time, he walked straight up to the reclining chair and carefully sat down on the footrest, next to Cameron’s feet. She had small feet. He didn’t know why he was thinking about that now. He hadn’t thought about her much today, except to assess just how sick she was. But now that he was finally paying attention to her looks he had to say she seemed...worse. So he went back to not really seeing her, and kept his hands conscientiously glued to his cane. He hadn’t really touched her all day either; that was going to be a problem when they got home.

Forty-one seconds and Wilson was still not showing, and House was now restless to the point of tapping his good foot against the floor. Foreman must have made the coffee. Setting his chin upon the handle of the cane, he turned once more to the woman resting next to him, this time keeping his eyes on her face. House wasn’t good at being a martyr – that was Cameron’s job. However, the fact that they’d had the same fucking dinner and she was the one puking her guts out, gave him the urge to hit things. He might still do that in the future, but in the meantime the situation was wrong, in every imaginable way. What was he going to do with a sick Cameron? He didn’t know how to take care of sick people. He was a doctor, not a nurse. Besides, being sick and miserable was his job, not Cameron’s, and the current role-reversal was taking him places he was usually very careful in avoiding. Especially when it came to Cameron.

But that was dumb. He didn’t have to go anywhere. She was food-poisoned. She was going to be fine by morning. A slight movement behind him somehow made it possible for her foot to thump against his lower back.

Food-Poisoned. Fine. Morning. Good.

Right.

“Yeah”.

~~~
So that's it. Best wishes on your day (night, actually). And sorry for the delay in posting: I'm an eejit and can't spell properly. Hope you liked all the same.

*leaves a bottle of fine wine and some funny shaped balloons*

I'm a GIRL. You got a problem with that?

Thu, 01 Sep 2005 21:00:44 GMT

Seriously what is it with people. I'm a girl. A Big one, but a girl nonetheless. I like girly stuff. Maybe I'm not drowning in it, like I don't have t-shirts of Hello!Kitty or whatever, but still. The thing is, I'm 22; I'm nobody's mother, I'm nobody's wife. I'm young and I'm single and I want to be able to have fun. So what if I act like a girl? What do people want? seriously. I work (whenver I can - free-lance is not the road to stability), I take my studies seriously, I hardly ever drink (alcohol fucks up my resistance), I don't do drugs, I quit smoking on my own...So if I want to laugh, or bounce or act silly, what is the fucking problem? I like people who act however they feel like it. Really. When did acting like you're dead become a requisite for being relevant?

Oh, and since I'm on a ranting mood. What is it with the incesant bitching and "snarking" going on these days? Is it the summer hiatus? Like, what? I'm no happy horse, believe me. I bitch and snark at every opportunity I get. Snark is good. Snark is fun. Snark is bitter and stingy, yeah, but there's a diference between being snarky and being vicious. House? Snarky. The queen bee of your high school mean-girls clique? Vicious. Joan Rivers? ...On drugs. See? differences. They make the world richer. Something doesn't shake your bang-bang, get away from it. There's no need to rip people to shreds.

And, no, I'm not trying my hand at social relevancy. I'm not dictating some new mandate. I'm just tired of all the drama. My life has been too fucked up these past few years, all courtesy of my health. And I'm done, thank you. There's too much real shit going around in the world for me to worry about not being kick-ass enough. I'm alive and frankly, I want to feel like it.

Katrina is a bitch.

Thu, 01 Sep 2005 06:11:26 GMT

And we all know it. So if you can do something (donate, volunteer, even pray if you're religious), like, do it. That's all.

[Me: Tired. Should be asleep. Not very happy with myself right now].

It's almost halloween. You need something that'll scare the kids.

Thu, 25 Aug 2005 16:41:09 GMT

There's a random file of me singing like, 10 seconds of song, flying around in my computer. I'm just saying, if anybody want's it *squints at sister* it's a limited time offer.

Though I might just send it to my sister, anyway. I'm mean like that. XD

Me? I'm in pain, as usual. And my sugar is acting up, again, some more. Oh, But I have ballet class today! And I think I love my new teacher. He's a fucking bastard. I love that.

Isn't it strange?

Mon, 08 Aug 2005 01:03:45 GMT

Eh, I'm back. Mainly because my headache won't let me be. And the strangeness is due to the fact that I spent all day in a kind of weird funk (which was non-pain related, for a change), and the only thing to bring me out of it was the Rolling Stones' Wild Horses. Now, Bono, U2 or Springsteen I would have expected. None worked, though. The Stones did. That's funny. Or I'm weird.

Probably both.

In other wonderful news, I just drank an expired soy beverage. I should have noticed it was rotten, except it was flavored (peach, tastes sugary) and I'm fucking blind.

And so, I'm off to watch Hannibal. Because watching a snotty psycho scare the shit out of German Sheppard makes me feel good about myself. And because I love Florence. And Ridley Scott.