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So I watched "Reset" last night, which means it's time for ( Sam's Three Things About Torchwood! Spoilers for 2.06, Reset )

3a. Nobody can out-cool Jack Harkness. They should just stop trying.

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Quote of the day, from the Bunny Comic: "I can't give up Bunny. Can you imagine how sane I'd be?"

This is exactly how I feel about fanfic. Which is funny because I am even as we speak tweaking a slightly negative post about fandom that I can't seem to get right, but will probably post later.

Also, I keep forgetting to share this, but I think in the interest of public disclosure you should know that while the iPhone's autocorrect function (which drives me SCREAMING up the wall sometimes) does not know the word "Mulder" (insists on Milder, sometimes Mildew) it does know, and capitalises, "Gor". Apparently Mac is taller, younger, and way kinkier than PC.

I am v. tired, and should have just skipped lunch instead of undergoing the utter frustration of the diner nearby which managed to fuck up my order twice and then tried to charge me for all three orders. ALL I WANTED WAS A THREE CHEESE PANINI, not three cheese paninis. First they made it with tomatoes, then before I could stop them and say I'd pick the tomatoes off they TOOK it from me and threw it out. Then they brought out a grilled cheese sandwich, which I would happily have eaten except they never even let the plate touch the table once the waiter realised the error. And finally they brought me my panini and a $28 food bill. If I am paying $28 for a panini it had better have cocaine in it.

They did comp my hot cocoa, though.

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I have bitched about my arm plenty, but I haven't talked much, I don't think, about the emotional impact of losing contact with one's body. It's better now that the full-arm cast is off, but the short-arm cast is still problematic.

I don't want to paint myself as some kind of wilting flower, but it is hard, not being able to access my own arm. At night especially, I'll start to panic because the cast won't come off, I can't bend my wrist, I can't touch my palm. I have to keep my mind on other things during the day because if I think too much about it I'll try to claw the damn thing off with my fingers. I can't imagine losing the use of one of my arms permanently; I think I'd cope better losing the use of my legs, but the idea still terrifies me.

I'm not claustrophobic; I've done fine in MRI machines and narrow bunks before and I've spent a lot of time under a stage, but I have nightmares about being stuck in a tiny tunnel or between two large blocks of stone, unable to move. It's like that with the cast, and sometimes it makes me insane. If they'd put me in a cast for six months, I would have needed Valium. As it is, this last week seems incredibly, painfully long. If they tell me I still need another cast on the twenty-first, I might scream.

Part of even talking about it is that I'm exhausted and restless tonight, and should probably just go to bed. R, bless him, tried to make dinner and failed miserably, but I'm almost secretly glad because I haven't any appetite, either.

Right then. Napping on the couch till my stomach wakes me up; no work tomorrow, and nothing to do but buy groceries and do the laundry.