"The function of the artist is to provide what life does not"

I finally put up that piece of passive-aggressive slashfic. It's not technically slash, it's just a list of things it's helpful to know when you're making out/ having sex for the first time. It's kind of "I wish (or I'm glad) I had known my first time." It's also kind of, "I find it it makes me cringe when your 1930's-educated protagonists, who didn't even know that gay sex was a thing fifteen minutes ago, know by sheer instinct how to prep for anal almost word-for-word according to the second-from-the-top Google hit article, and nobody ever pauses to think, 'Huh, that feels weird.'"

It's, um, kind of blowing up, relative to my previous eensy-beensy success on AO3. Looking like it might get more hits than it has words shortly. (I write super-short stuff. I told you my success was eensy-beensy.) I know part of that is the fandom (my favorite to read, but the first time I actually wrote in that fandom) and the "explicit" tag, but...

But. The ratio of kudos to hits, far from being the ~1:10 I've come to expect from things I've written that I like and have a fandom prone to leaving kudos (:cough: Narnians don't like satire :cough:), is more like 4%. It doesn't really have... moments. Most of my work has at least a few points that I really, really like. And sure, those moments are rarely (so very rarely) what others like about whatever work we're talking about, but I think that having great moments is a sign that things are working well. (For the record, my favorite sentence in that one is, "Sex does not have to be flawless to be perfect." There ya go, my ultimate. Gotta go, the Ed-in-my-Head is chittering about how I was really, really terrible at sex and that attitude is probably why, and I need to do push-ups until that shit stops.) So, it's not really that I'm getting eyeballs and not getting props that huffs me, it's that I don't deserve props, and that the subject deserves both eyeballs AND props.

I... phew. I used to be funny. What happened?

Spitball with me, baby

I'm making a mix jump drive to send to the D.J. of the Archon dance. Love con dancing, it's a major reason to go, but dang, it was pretty much "Billboard's Top Twenty," from the last four years, "songs appreciating large-rumped women," and "Numa Numa." Over and over. Can I just re-emphasize that? The Numa Numa song. Over and over. Bruno Mars and Megan Trainor have their place, but. Um. I do NOT want to have to cut a bitch this year, my Frigga costume is not body-disposal friendly.

Off the top of my head, some of my favorite dance songs, necessarily retro, I'm grandma-aged:

1. "Living Dead Girl," Rob Zombie;
2. "Thermostat," They Might Be Giants;
3. "Birdhouse in Your Soul," They Might Be Giants;
4. "Discoteka," Starkillers (the DJ Steveboy mix from Podrunner is my favorite, don't judge);
5. Every goddamn things Shakira has ever hummed because that woman is a fucking goddess and can make me compulsively shake your my ass to "Happy Birthday to You" sung in a baby duck's voice;
6. "Dancing With Myself," Billy Idol;
7. "Now You Will Pay," Laibach;
8. "Dancing in the Dark," Bruce Springsteen;
9. "Breakfast in Vegas," Praga Khan;
10. "Woodchopper's Ball," Woody Herman;
11. "Raise Your Glass," P!nk;
12. "WTF," Missy Elliot;
13. "Milkshake," Kelis;
14. "Kambakkht Ishq," Anu Malik;
15. "Shake It Off," Taylor Swift;
16. "Diplo Rhythm," Diplo;
17. "Come, Baby, Come," K-7;
18. [redacted because Dr. Luke is an asshole. Free Ke$ha!];
19. "Caramelldansen," by the, uh, Carameldansen peoplel;
20. "Can't Touch This," M.C. Hammer;
21. "'Pon de Replay," Rihanna;
22. "Are You Gonna Be My Girl?" Jet;
23. "Funkytown," Lipps, Inc.
24. "Girls in Dirty Magazines," Candy Shop
25. "Less Talk, More Rock," Freezepop.

(Don't judge, this is just the stuff that is ingrained in my musical DNA and floating on the top. But DANG I need more women's voices here!)
Help me, young people of Internet-land. You're my only hope.

Menagerie de six

So, in addition to my cat, extra cat (whom I believe to be preggers), Hal the hobo bobcat-hybrid, Ringo the opossum, and tiny skonk, I now have the being I think of as "eye contact raccoon" coming to the apartment-door buffet, so named because it peers through the crack in the door and makes intense eye contact with me when it shows up for snacks. Shall attempt to get a picture.

Meanwhile, down at the salt mines, I am in trouble because I have been scheduled to work the same shift twice three days this week and only showed up once, because I adhere to Niven's Law, and do not do much non-standard time-traveling. (That is, I was scheduled as two separate entities and only showed up as one, and got pointed for it. Mitosis is NOT listed on my CV: you have to pay extra for the funny stuff.) Manager has not yet written me back about this, but I have surprised myself by standing up and yelling "hey!" about it.

It occurs to me from a reply I never posted to a comment the gorgeous-gammed abnormal_apathy left on my journal that I make the CLASSIC co-dependent move in work: I tend to work for places that are super-dysfunctional, because, while in many ways, I really rock, in some ways, I really suck, and I feel like normal workplaces wouldn't have me. (E.g. I can do great work or I can show up with my hair brushed and and legs shaved, but not both. I can fix the ever-living FUCK out of your spreadsheets, but I'll need to wear a jacket indoors if it's the 65 or lower most males seem to prefer. I can't feign interest in sports, and I have a bladder the size of a walnut.) Not sure what to do with that.

Also noticed that my sales ("conversion") soars when I'm happy and plummets when I'm ill or exhausted. Not sure what to do about that. For one thing, hey, you know me, former child molester and current toxic mess of a human being. I don't DESERVE to be happy, and I never will, no matter what I do or become. For another thing, how insanely unprofessional is it to let my work suffer because my pwecious fee-fees are not super-duper-squeaky happy? Answer: very, very unprofessional. This shit is why they don't want women or millennials in the workplace. (I am way, way too old to be a millennial, but that sort of entitled, toxic bullshit is exactly the worst part of working with the millennial-generation according to this 24-hour news cycle's 937 hand-wringing articles about What Is Wrong With the Young Folks.) And yet... if I am being paid to be good at my job, and feeling happy makes me good at my job, do I have the right not to try to be happy? Ugh. People like me are why there is no justice in the world.

Really, really like my dollar store's current brand of veggie burger. I think veggie burgers are great, if you think of them as themselves and not as a substitute for cow burgers. For that matter, I think beef burgers are great--- if you don't think of them as a substitute for veggie burgers. (Or consider the environmental cost, ugh.)

The bright side of blech

Okay, here's an up side to feeling so physically crummy: I thought I was the literal worst as agents go, can't sell steak to a Labrador retriever and the only people who booked on my calls were the ones who were going to book even if the hotel was on fire and I muttered a lot about taxidermy and my mum, but my conversion really took a hit when I have been concentrating on not making terrible noises and on keeping my skull together instead of making the dang sale. So, there's that.

"...where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?"

I was reading time travel romance and I thought how I'd react, if someone came from twenty years in my future, and told me I'd be celebrating an anniversary with the crush that seemed impossible... and I knew in my heart that twenty years would go by, and there would be no-one. Which is fine.

I suppose.

Still, good to know that, whatever my predictive abilities are, according to my subconscious, I shall be, as Christ asked, and as I was not within that marriage, faithful to the man I married when I was eighteen. And good to know Zombie Bloke and I never hook up again. (I mean, yeah, obviously, "Bloke" being an operative word here, as well as "we were never not total scumbags to each other and the man just could not appreciate Pink Floyd or any other prog rock") And good to know that I don't fall into the second-date U-Haul trap or sigh, "fine, whatever, I'll sleep with your wife even though you two have clearly indicated you think my boundaries are only there for other people."

Huh. Just realized I only cheated with John for about a year--- got married, fell off the horse into multiple pigsties, got back on again, got pregnant, stayed faithful in body if not in spirit until the marriage was absolutely and irrevocably over. Not that it makes me any less of an cheating asswipe. And yeah, according to the laws in y'all's Bible, the divorce wasn't really and I am obliged to stay faithful. (I believe the adultery exception Jesus mentioned was a verbal evasion of the fact that "put aside for adultery" was in that culture and at that time "euthanized with the marriage contract and roughly two tonnes of shale.")

It's so fucking awful of me, but I think I finally get why people drink to lower their inhibitions until they get laid. I mean, it always seemed so pointless before. If you want to fuck someone, don't lie to yourself about it and do stuff that makes it much less enjoyable, and if you don't want to fuck someone, then wait until you find someone worth the trouble vs. a vibrator, right? Sex is sacred. People are sacred. Why go out of your way to fuck things up? But... all the stuff I'd have to go through, to become, the baggage to lose, the depth to gain to be a good, worthy partner, even one for just a night... twenty years is super-generous. Some days, I do long for the touch, the squeeze, the flutter of the fine hairs on the back of my neck from another's breath. Someday I might drink to lower, not my standards for a partner, but my standards for myself.
  • Current Music: "Forever Autumn," Jeff Wayne

Wait, what?

It has been revealed to me (by my manager) that it's considered normal in my department not to read or respond to work e-mail, even among remote agents, and that I am an exception in this. What the hell?