(no subject)

So, yesterday I cooked ten boneless chicken thighs in teriyaki marinade and put them in the fridge, because, as has been previously stated, "ew, chicken thighs". I got up this morning and there was an empty tupperware container and a plate smeared with barbecue sauce on the kitchen counter. R was, understandably, passed out on the sofa. I don't know why I bother being surprised anymore. :D

It's definitely Monday; I forgot breakfast, I've been wrangling clients all morning, GirlBoss broke her computer, and BossBoss spilled coffee all over himself.

I keep having these...things, episodes maybe? Not headaches, there's no pain, but it feels like fuzz and pressure in my head, and makes it very hard to concentrate long-term on tasks. Fortunately a gerbil with a voicebox could do this job passably well, so no long-term concentration is required. But it rules out writing, so I'm left to other more mindless operations, one of which is working on digging up some poetry for National Poetry Month in April. While rummaging, I found this and was struck again by how profoundly true it is.

ORIGINALITY
by Piet Hein

Original thought
is a straightforward process.
It's easy enough
when you know what to do.
You simply combine
in appropriate doses
the blatantly false
and the patently true.

(no subject)

Look, I know I'm being a big annoying fandork, but I'm combining all these thoughts I had into one post, and those of you who are getting tired of my Torchwood nattering can skim on by. :D

Three things about Torchwood in general. ( Spoilers through Fragments, nonspoilery spec about Exit Wounds. )

3a. I'm still getting comments on the LOLcats fic, eighteen pages and counting. And I can't help but laugh, because it's so typical of my life that of all the hundreds of thousands of words I've written in fandom, I will forever be remembered for "IN UR BASE, SITTIN ON YANTOE."

(no subject)

Dear Eric:
Why are you here? I know you're R's friend and all, and most of the time I like you, but you're here, in my living room, while R is asleep.

Dear R:
WHY ARE YOU ASLEEP, YOU HAVE GUESTS.

Dear Eric's Girlfriend:
Why are you here, and WHY ARE YOU ASLEEP? ON MY COUCH? So that I can't do the dishes without waking you up? You have twelve children! Granted I realise that means you probably don't get much sleep at home, but why are you HERE?

Dear Eric's Girlfriend's Children:
I swear if any of you little fuckers are lurking around my flat I will kill you dead.

Dear R:
NO REALLY WHY ARE YOU ASLEEP.

Dear Me:
Hiding in the bedroom is the best idea you've had all day.

Dear Monday:
Seriously. You aren't over yet?