Manna is a hell of a drug.

[momebie]

The Remix has gone live! The person who remixed me chose to work from Pete and the Wandicorn, which amuses me greatly, because that was a tiny bit of crack that I thought only Em and I would appreciate. You can read the new story at Archive of Our Own: Patrick's Excellent Adventure (The Vegas Calling Remix). Once again. Glee.

Also, the person who I remixed for left a lovely comment and seemed to really like the story, so I'm happy. Certainly makes all the stressing about it worth it. I can't wait till they do the reveal and I can link you guys.

In other happiness news, I bought two pretty, pretty dresses today at Target. I've recently decided that I sometimes want to actually dress like a girl. The dresses will certainly be more flattering. I hope. I can only work with what I've got, people. AND my crap Torchwood novel finally came in! I have two weeks to read it! Aaaah!

I'm reading Quarantine by Jim Crace, and last night this paragraph hopped out and jabbed me in the ribs. I'm kind of spending a lot of mental energy these days pushing away this darkness I can feel dogging me and dealing with my own sort of Never Start or Never End. These words made me feel better, somehow. The power of fiction.

Once or twice, immersed in the reveries of light and work and wood, he had neared and glimpsed the large and inexplicable itself. To be alive amongst the sawdust and the stars was beyond understanding; to be this person, in this place, and now. Even to contemplate that puzzle was to stray too far from safer paths, to sweat and shiver in that hollow room which has no doors or walls, where Never End and Never Start hold their invisible debate. There’d be no echo there to comfort him, or anyone. No dark or light. Not even any time. And only god—if only god would show himself—to make much sense of it. Faith or dismay, that was the choice. Choose Never End or Never Start. Choose god or pandemonium. When Jesus chose and put his faith in god, he blinked away the hollow room. He brought the wood, the tools, the workshop into focus once more. His spirit softened and solidified again, as it had done when he was in his teens, except more bleakly. It formed a question to be put to god. A question taken from the hollow room. A question that a child would ask. This was his question for the wilderness. The question of a simple-hearted, fragile man—guileless in his love of god, spontaneous and vulnerable in his beliefs. You see these motes, this dust, this bread, these soundless corners hung with webs, these fingertips, engraved with tiny lines? What for, and why?