I Am Completely Serious

I guess I’d probably miss dinner if I passed out right now, wouldn’t I.

I must admit that one of the stranger statements I’ve ever made in my life was complaining to Rich that:

My life is stranger than I could possibly imagine.

-the Jeffrey Rowland, here

Holy mother of awesome, these guys are translating Rose of Versailles! And I only found out because of the mainstream media. How weird is that?

I’m not telling.

My family is watching A Clockwork Orange over there and trying very hard, or not, to figure out what those guys are saying.

I created a tag called “hate” for that last post, as I consider it likely that I will eventually make *others* properly described by the word.

Man, I ain’t *never* gonna break the chains of samsara and attain Buddha-hood at *this* rate.

The reason that I am incompetent is that I said “seme” in the last post, but it should have been “uke.” If I don’t do something to stop this slide, man, soon I just know I’m gonna fuck up something important - I mean, I feel like if I’m not careful I’m gonna be talking about Angel Sanctuary but actually mean X or something, and someone’s just gonna end up *dead*, you know? I still have these bad flashbacks to the time that girl confused A. J. Hall and Cassie Claire, and that kid ended up with burns all over his face, you know? That could’ve been me. I don’t know if I have the nerve for fandom anymore, I mean, I just *don’t know*.

Someone write me a paper about Strange Tales from Make-Do Studio and the Chinese fantastic tradition real quick.

I really have trouble taking you seriously when you wear that scarf.

At least don’t flop it around so goddamn much while you’re talking, we are *indoors*, there is *no wind to mess it up* here. You are not a fucking pallid seme lingering on a seaside cliff.

There is a square house arranged in three rings - the rooms along the outside walls, a red-carpeted hallway, and the inner rooms. There are small alcoves set into the inner walls in the hallway. One has a clock in it. The others are empty, and every time the clock strikes, something will come out of one of them somehow, and move in circles around the hallway for an hour until its shift is over and something else comes out. There aren’t twelve alcoves, there are maybe five or something, and anyway the clock strikes thirteen once a day. Usually that happens after midnight, not after noon.

The monster that comes out at eleven at night is the patchwork girl. She’s shaped like a human, not like a rag doll, though she’s underweight and you can see the wire ribs that keep her shape pressing out against her worn cloth skin. If you punched them she would dent.

Her patches look from a distance like they might once have been all different colors, like you’d expect with a patchwork girl, but actually they’re all pretty much the same shade of dull yellow; some of the fabrics have patterns in them, little flowers or ducks in darker or lighter yellow and brown, but in general she’s just yellow. All the patches are different shapes - some are round and some square and some star-shaped or triangles - and a lot are velvet. She has a coat or robe down to her knees on, the belt untied and bouncing along after her, and it’s made of the same stuff as she is.

She always skips instead of walking, and when she skips you can hear her squeaking. She’s probably filled with that styrofoam stuff like they use in crane machine dolls. That would explain why she holds her shape so well, too.

Her hair is just a yellow patchwork veil, attached at a single point at the center of her scalp. It’s not sewn on very well and sometimes gets twisted around in front of her face. She does notice when this happens, and tries to push it back, but when she moves it’s just a gesture - when she pushes her hair back it’s more to be pushing her hair back than because it bothers her that her hair’s in her face. So sometimes the veil stays in her face for a while before she gets it fixed. She giggles more than usual when she’s pushing her hair back.

She’s always giggling. It seems like she does talk a little sometimes, but she never stops skipping or giggling for anything. She’ll seem to raise her head a little to you when you talk to her, though it’s hard to tell because she’s still skipping, and she’ll gasp something out, like, “- yeah, I *know*, well -” And then she’ll collapse into giggles again and wave at you because she can’t help it, something about it’s funny. If you ask her something, she will seem to be amused that you don’t know already, or that you even care. If you’re scared because you can’t find the door or because of the tree or something, you’ll get the idea she thinks it’s absolutely ridiculous to be scared. If you are, it won’t reassure you. She probably wouldn’t really notice if you followed her around for her whole hour - she might look back over her should and wave sometimes, making you think she wants you to come up to her, but she won’t have anything to say if you do. She might wave at you again when it strikes midnight, and she goes back into an alcove and is gone.

You know that she’s never, ever going to do anything other than skip in circles and giggle, until she finally gets torn apart by someone who’s angry she doesn’t answer questions. She can’t do anything else. But still, she somehow seems very dangerous.

Her boyfriend had schizophrenia and had some sort of evil, twisted personality that would come out often — she could tell when this happened because he changed his font color.

-someone on GAFF

-

“And so,” said the Magician, “Begins the requiem for Prime Minister Haz. Such an *inspiring* sound.”

She paused, and added gently, “You’re supposed to say, “I don’t hear nothin’.”"

The Goon said, “Don’t start with me today.” She looked carefully in both mirrors and over her shoulder as she switched lanes - hoping to provide a salutary example for her colleague, maybe, Jessica thought. The cars moving past seemed unusually loud and fast, and Jessica’s head hurt.

The Magician, stretching out in the back seat, looked smug and comfortable - she had probably had a bad day once or twice in her life, but preferred not to let it get around. “Oh, come now, humor me. Do you not know what a requiem is, is that it? Do you think it has to do with goths?”

“I said don’t.”