danceswchopstck replied to your post:Fuck, now

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danceswchopstck replied to your post:Fuck, now you’ve done it. I have Full of Grace…

Speaking only for myself, I would rather NOT read anyone being super-mean to anyone else. Write what works for you, though. I’m able to look away. :-S

It’s not, like. Social situation mean. It’s more that Natasha is in a situation where she just doesn’t have anything left over to do more than survive, and so she does something that, long-distance, is pretty devastating. She’s not present, though, so she doesn’t see what happens when Bucky finds out; Clint watches the situation unfold in real-time and is horrified. 

I dunno, it’s maybe too much emotional devastation even for me. I carefully was setting up this sequel all along but now that it comes down to it I just don’t know if I can do it. 

writersblockstanfever: This is so Winter Soldier-y. I think...

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writersblockstanfever:

This is so Winter Soldier-y. I think I’ll use it as a pic for my next Bucky fic. He’s so gorgeous!!!

oh good lord not to hijack a post but this is absolutely what Bucky looks like in Full of Grace.

The Chronicles of My Family’s Smartphone-Based

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The Chronicles of My Family’s Smartphone-Based Group Text Correspondence is probably not a subject of general interest, and yet i cannot help but occasionally consolidate some of its gems to preserve here for posterity. (Relatedly: I got a FB message out of the blue from the dude I hooked up with in college who introduced me to Livejournal. He was moving house and found letters I’d sent him when he joined the Air Force in indignation over having the World Trade Center thrown at him. [he lived in manhattan. that tells you what year it was.] LETTERS. Paper letters. Still has them. IMs, chats, texts, emails, those are all gone now, but paper letters… Depending on how the future goes, our descendants will either have an incredible richness of material to study our private correspondences, or an astonishing and total dearth.)

Anyway. My older sister, the Lt. Col., ran a 10k race and finished second in her age group; my mother congratulated her for not falling down during the race. She’s very athletic but clumsiness is her nemesis; many a high school cross country meet’s result was ruined by her accidentally falling completely off the path, and our dear sweet mother has never let her forget this. (Probably because it still happens.)

And then the farm sister went out to dinner, bought her daughter a cake pop, and took this astonishingly colorful photograph. Aren’t the colors great? 

And in further adventures of what a total goldfish I am in the attention department, I present to you the following conversation I had with the farm sister, in the context of offering her either a plain or decorated butter dish I had going spare: 

in my defense it took her like five or six minutes to text back after I wrote “plain old one” and in the interim I had gone on to reading some pretty explicit shit on my phone. 

She did, however, find this hilarious. 

sathinfection: the-garbage-chute: sathinfection: rex-luscus replied to your post:oh godddd will...

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sathinfection:

the-garbage-chute:

sathinfection:

rex-luscus replied to your post:oh godddd will i write the word youngling will i…

confession: i feel the same way about “kriff”

oh shit OK my thoughts on kriff:

perfect and appropriate and hilarious for comedy fic

if i see it in serious contexts in serious fic my boner wilts into faded flower 

like, kriff is a minced oath and it goes where minced oaths go

WE ALL KNOW THEY REALLY JUST WANT TO SAY FUCK

this is probably the closest confirmation we’re going to get that the word ‘fuck’ does exist in star wars canon (from bloodline)

OH SHIT WE HAVE FUCK CONFIRMATION

ughhhh“Self,” I says to

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ughhhh

“Self,” I says to myself, “you gotta get off your computer,” and I wasn’t wrong, I got a lot to do, I gotta clean my whole house, I live in a sty like a crazy hoarder and it’s just a shitshow. And i hits on this great idea, I’m gonna make myself feel better about everything, see, I’m going to declutter some of the living room by taking all the clothing alteration projects I got sitting in a giant pile, and doing some of them.

This would have several benefits, among which would be a sense of accomplishment and also taking some of the clutter and tidying it up by changing it from the to-do pile and putting it into the general disasterfest that is my clothing. Cool.

So I get a bunch of t-shirts I was going to make dresses out of, because see, I’m real fat, and none of my clothes fit, and my solution is that all the shirts that are now too short could be cut up and made into dresses that are long enough, and then as a bonus I don’t have to wear pants. Side issue: since I have too much shit I’m not allowed to buy any more shit, so. No fabric, no new clothes; no, I’m going to cut up the old ones and make new ones out of them, or throw them away. (I already set aside the ones that were nice enough to donate. Oh, none really were, because most everything, I tried to keep wearing even though I was fat now, so it’s all stretched-out or oddly-worn or just worn out anyway, also I don’t generally own nice things so why start now.) 

So I got a good start; I made a list, wrote down plans, and cut up the things that needed to be cut up. So far so good. 

Now to sew back together these pieces so I have a finished thing. 

HAHA HA HA HA that involves using machinery. (Mostly swearing under the cut, but I don’t actually injure myself so I’ll take it as a net positive.)

OK, I own a really nice Singer sewing machine, about 5 years old. My sisters pooled together and bought it for me for my birthday one year, and it wasn’t one of the crazy-expensive ones, but it was not cheap. (Like $400?) It broke immediately, I brought it back, they fixed it. Rinse and repeat; it broke three times in a year, and they fixed it three times, and I can’t complain, they treated me well, but it’s only got a one-year warranty on it, and that’s kind of fucked-up, because the other sewing machine I’d been using at the time was my grandmother’s and it was 50 years old and worked great. But. That’s just how things are now; literally nothing is built to last. If I want cool stuff like computerized stitch patterns and auto needle-up and lightning stitch and 1-step buttonholes, I have to deal with the fact that the thing is going to break. (If I don’t, I would still have to deal with the same thing; non-computerized modern machines are also either For Shit or A Million Dollars, so. Yes, I could’ve bought a Pfaff or Bernina or something but I was trying to spend less than The Moon, and that, it turns out, was a misguided idea.)

It’s broken, currently. And I brought it in, and they were sort of snippy to me, and corrected the Very Obviously Wrong threading (that was wrong because I’d just had to lug the thing across town, and I said, it wasn’t like that at home, I guarantee that’s not the issue), and then sewed with it for a moment and said… oh. hm. yes. It’s missing the left stitches when it zig-zags. It ah. It’ll work, still, but you’re going to have to send it out and it’s not under warranty.

So I’m going to do that at some point but it’s just never at a good time, you know? And i know it’ll be at least $150, and i have to steel myself for it. That’s how repairs work. I’ll be lucky if it’s less than the purchase price of a new machine. That’s how our economy works; things are built by cheap foreign labor, but must be repaired by expensive domestic labor. That’s just reality. 

Anyway. The sewing machine was fucking up so much (not only missing every left zig, but also randomly breaking the thread every three or four inches of linear progress, which Gets Old, but hey it has an auto needle threader how did i live without that?) that I just gave up and switched over to the serger, which worked for long enough for me to accidentally sew something inside-out to itself. (Why did I think this would work? Oh because I’m learning disabled. Duh. To be fair, though, plenty of non-disabled sewists do dumb shit like that all the time, I’m not that broken-up about my own Problems.) 

And then the serger somehow… dethreaded something, and now it’s not sewing loops, it’s just giving me four unconnected threads. Threading a serger is The Worst Thing, and so I’m going to just… shove all the stuff I’ve cut apart into carefully-labeled plastic bags, pack it all away, and forget about sewing for another little while.

(It’s funny, the sewing machine and the serger cost about the same. The sewing machine has all these convenience features, like a little lever you pull that threads the needle for you, and built-in threadcutters, and the like, and the serger has, like, aggressively unusable features. You need three hands, a magnifying glass, and two pairs of tweezers to thread one of the needles. Changing a broken needle is, like– you need an act of God. I had to go out and buy little allen wrenches so I could change the needle; the sewing machine has a thumbscrew built in that you can tighten with your hand so it’s zero trouble to change a broken needle. They just have totally opposing philosophies. Even the most user-friendly serger has as the first page of its manual the slogan “abandon hope all ye who enter here” because they’re fucking impossible to use.)

This is why I hand-sew so much. Sure I stab myself and it takes forever, but I’m not dependent on these incredibly frustrating machines. 

Jersey (K story)

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bomberqueen17:

I mentioned my long-held theorem that you cannot make fun of New Jersey if you’ve never lived there. 

“Oh,” K said, “I’ve lived there.” (We were on the phone. I’d just figured out how to use the Bluetooth thing in the new car.) 

“You have to live there a little while to understand the aesthetic,” I said. 

“I was there ten months,” he said. “Granted, I was only six at the time. Hackensack. But I remember it really well.”

“Do you,” I said. “Really? Six?”

“It’s pretty goddamn vivid,” he said. “My dad shot an intruder in our house. Twice, in the face. Bam-bam. Killed him instantly.”

“Oh,” I said. A lot of K stories leave you not quite knowing what to say.

“They arrested my dad,” he said. “Because of a lot of things, some of which I only found out a lot later. But partly because most scared homeowners don’t shoot people like that. A neat double-tap, precision-aimed? The cops figured he hadda be Somebody. And then, we were straight from Georgia, and the intruder was black. A Southern guy shoots a black dude? Like that?”

“Hm,” I said, still trying to figure out what one says.

“What it really came down to, though, I only found out way later, was that the guy downstairs was a soldier for the Gotti family, and they figured my dad was probably involved too. They had to let him go, as of course there wasn’t any proof of anything. But I only found out really recently… he was.”

K laughs. “So yeah, I remember Jersey really well.”

K is a Pennsic/elsewhere friend who tells a lot of stories. Talking to him a lot has been getting me through this exhausting autumn. I’m kind of doing a series.

Forgot Pride was today but we’re rainbow anyway.

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Forgot Pride was today but we’re rainbow anyway. Well, except dude’s shirt is monochrome but it’s at least a buffalo. (at Wasabi Japanese Restaurant Corp)

not-even-even replied to your photo “Forgot

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replied to your photo “Forgot Pride was today but we’re rainbow anyway. Well, except dude’s…”
your dude thing is hope-giving, the relationship i mean.

Ha ha, this sentence is marvellous. 

I have a pretty sweet gig, dude-wise. I worry I don’t do him justice on here. He’s pretty rad. He cordially dislikes, but tolerates, being Internet-discussed. 

He texts me Bitmojis of himself daily. Here’s one of the recent ones. 

Ha ha ha I just found the next section I already had

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Ha ha ha I just found the next section I already had written of Full of Grace and it’s 18k long and just needs one section of dialogue rewritten and about 1k wrap-up of a sex scene. 

It’s a self-contained subplot, though. I don’t remember if I was doing to get into it next or if I’d meant to do another different chapter first? 

I think I should mark FoG complete and do this next bit semi-standalone before getting back into the main plot, though. I think, however, that a bunch of the plot threads lead into the over-ambitious sequel. D-8 

But this next bit. I can’t believe it. 18,000 words. The fuck, dude.