languages, timbertrick, procrastination and the state of cim's brain in the early morning

cool with the japanese, not so happy about the greek which is glowering balefully at me from under the edge of my big heap o' papers on the floor. yes, i know i have not done it yet. no, you needn't remind me, thank you. motherfucker. it might be a bad sign, i realized, when you read the instructions on your japanese drill page (repeat until you can say them smoothly) as repeat until you're blue in the face. no, blue in the face is the result of trying as hard as so many people unfortunately must to become cute: to others, natch, it comes... er... (damn, have written self into linguistic cul-de-sac again) naturally. (*grmph*)

i'm hearing murmurs about more of the yumminess that is timbertrick from silviakundera. please? *soulful hobbit eyes* (she said, mixing her genres without a twinge of hesitation or a shred of guilt). again, why with the timbertrick? it doesn't make sense. i need a timbertrick shirt, though. hm. did dishes but not laundry. was clearly trying to make more work for tuesday, my mini-weekend.

procrastination, thy name is cim.

right. greek. *grits teeth*

story to read:

violent love for this story, which i read some time ago, just crept up on me from behind and attacked. american girl, a donna-story about josh/sam. west wing slash. not a traditional donna, but i like this one. a whole whole lot. made an icon for it today but too lazy to upload yet... no... watch me upload it. eh, in a minute. go read it. no. really do.

Sometimes, she thought that Josh thought she was in love with him. Which she wasn't. Which didn't mean she didn't consider the possibility sometimes. Sometimes, she let the idea of being in love with Josh float by her like a breeze of some expensive perfume she'd spray on her wrists at the Georgetown Sephora before a date. For when she wanted to smell like someone who didn't spend too many hours a day wrestling with another man's issues. </i

morning and night

wow. am beginning to think six hours of sleep may be inadequate. bleh, just look at that weather! it's back down in the forties today and it's not raining, but the air's damp and i didn't sleep well.

i dreamed, of all things, that i was reading the new part of k'sal's story (which she hasn't written yet), and stopped yet again without finishing, reaching any crucial point, or cluing me in as to what was going to happen with it in the long run. the most maddening thing of all is that it was mostly dialogue--of which i can't remember anything. except another hand-on-the-shoulder bit. maybe i'll make tea and get dressed, yes, and reread my greek over breakfast.

(no subject)

am in desperate need of corduroy pants. keep me away from j crew.com.

maybe i should make a set of custom mood icons instead of doing work!

"I should go beat some poor people to give them character."
-Professor Rosbottom, discussing French poet Charles Baudelaire

things to do.

§ send comments re: story to naina. i know i missed you about a million times yesterday. this is what i get for studying on the other side of the room.
§ start more detailed comments for k'sal.
§ start beta-based revision of "delirium" and send back questions and answers.
§ two weeks' worth of greek (forget everything before that).
§ chapter 9 written exercises with that oh-so-sexy casual japanese.
§ custom mood icon

a coldness in the blood

a new saberhagen dracula novel is due out soon. SQUEEEE!

personal-taste imperialism

repeat as often as necessary:

people who disagree with my taste are not necessarily stupid.

they don't even necessarily have bad taste. at least, not utterly bad. not totally, empirically bad.

maybe they're just misguided.

this exercise may have failed.

*watches it go down in flames*

things that are always in good taste can be found under interests in my profile, but highlights...

-science fiction. which is called sf. not sci fi (*full-body shudder*)
-female jazz vocalists, soft instrumentals, foreign pop, queen
-writers: samuel delany, roger zelazny, fred saberhagen, cj cherryh, lois mcmaster bujold, diana wynne jones, connie willis, elizabeth moon
-the sound and smell of rain
-raspberry hot cocoa

viggorli snippet

worn with waiting until my lips don't know what to do with themselves, i kiss my fingertips warm against the chill of night and close my eyes to dream. my breath puffs, warms my cheek, my eyelashes freeze on my cheekbones, and i don't spare you another tear. my cigarette is listless, little curls of smoke hardly visible on the yawning white of snowy mountainscape. you scuff to a stop in the door and lean on the frame and i can feel you looking at me. "orlando," you say. there's just a hint of a question, enough so i don't have to shake my head, and i bite my lip and promise myself.

one day you will love me so hard your throat hurts with it, and i will stand in a doorway so carelessly as you, viggo, and i won't care at all, will care so little i don't even know you hurt. it will be too hard for you, too solemn, for tears. you will never cry for me at all, because deep grief doesn't touch you in that way. you will try desperately to remain as alone in love as you are now, and i will be over this, because there's only so long i can survive it. and i know i will survive.