cimorene

"The front of their pants gained beautiful friction." <--the best of last night's crop of badfic

People ask the most completely dumbass questions in History & Classics of Sociology, but I lack the quick-draw Swedish skillz to concisely and elegantly smack them down. Every time I talk in class discussions I have to angst and hmm and umm and end up all tangled up in the wrong sentence hoping desperately I've said what I wanted to say. So this must be what all talking all the time is like for badfic writers! And, you know, the people in all my school classes ever on whom I honed my smackdown skills! The linguistic equivalent of stumbling around with your eyes 80% closed. It actually feels somewhat like a nightmare. Scientifically fascinating, I guess.

My mother-outlaw is thinking of buying a summer cottage in the immediate vicinity. That would be pretty sweet, dudes. Brother Windows and I (both at loose ends since his wife is in the hospital for the next four months on total bedrest pregnant with triplets because her cervix started to open, and his kid has chicken pox, and wax is at work) schlepped out to an open "house" in Pargas that was like, on the top of a hill leading right down to the actual fucking ocean. There were mossy boulders, rolling pine-covered hills, thick golden fields, and tiny blue and purple star-shaped flowers on the ground. The "house" itself is about the size of an RV and has an outhouse, but it's kinda way overpriced so I think the mother-outlaw will not be buying it. Brother Windows is trying to talk her into buying an island property instead and building herself. Man... wouldn't it be great if she bought it? And we could go there and chill and. Well, not swim, because the ocean never gets that warm in Finland, and neither does the air. But wade, anyway.