Apphendhix

I violently failed National Novel Writing Month 2009. Surprise, surprise. There were dreams, but not progress. Dreams, but no results. Dreeeaams. How many thousand words is a dream worth? I only got so far as recording the first five minutes. How many hours and days and years can a dream be worth? How many moments and years contained in a dream. I am sorry, NaNoWriMo, I let you down, but I was lost in yer dream.

( Here are the remnants. )

Dear Journal,

I never write in you. Why is that? Because I live locked up in a solid brick house, with TEN LITTLE PIGGIES. Am I afraid of the big bad wolf shimmying down the chimney? Nay, for that wolf be roasting over the flame and the smoke of his soul is twirling up and out that chimney, for one good lass and TEN FAT HOGS can take on one puny wolf, easy. A stringy beast for supper, but a mighty symbol to dine upon.

I'm still not writing in you.

Sucks to be you, Journal, because I'm up to all kinds of crazytimes. You won't be hearin' 'bout 'em. PTTTHH.

Love and kisses,

Your ma,

J.&c.

A bit of a short story I had intended to finish last week for nafiwriwee, but unfortunately I only typed a little over 3,000 words instead of the aim of 7,000. Here be part the first. I'll finish it... whenever the heck I feel like it. Perhaps I shall polish it up one day, perhaps not. Do you care? Didn't think so.

( A ROMP IN THE BRAMBLE PATCH )

I essentially am Hugh Hefner. I wear a powder blue robe and furry white monster slippers. I chew at the end of a quill pen and dip my fingertips in ink. I am surrounded by pussy. In fact, every day is a pussy party. Cat pussy, anyway. I eat blackeyed peas and tuna salad. I drink Orange flavored breakfast beverage. I have a magical green amulet for magic. All this adds up to being, essentially, Hugh Hefner.

I need to make some Potter Turds. So I'm doing 100 Sit-chee-a-shuns.

( p-p-p-plastic t-t-t-table )

Now, it's been quite a few years since I've seen the film Legend. Even still, I can't for the life of me remember the part where Bryan Ferry makes his entrance. Why, I don't remember him being present in the film at all, much less as such a major character. At least he appears to be working in cahoots with the Lord of Darkness, what with spending all that time hanging about the evil lair, scrying and sleazy dancing and whatnot.

( The Forgotten Bits of Legend )

Tarot cards are fun. Indulgent fiction writing is fun, too. So I signed up for 78_tarot  to engage in fun involving each. Since I am a glut and a snot, I'll be playing with original fiction which only makes sense to me. It's the long and confusing fantastic story which I started for NaNoWriMo '07 but hardly dipped into. It can be described as: "The rich and varied peregrinations of a girl -- through time, through space, through reality, through unreality, through her own mind -- who is to say." It basically boils down to my living vicariously through scenarios of a female hopping around having romantic encounters with a variety of nonexistent men. It's fluff. It's MY fluff. Want to fight about it?

( But here's my table, y'all: )

Question: What becomes of a boy like this?:






( Answer: )

The thighs of the Rev. Charles Dodgson.

I undress more men with my eyes than men undress me with theirs. As a matter of fact, I doubt I've been undressed by very many eyes at all. But it's not about me. Hoho, no.

The period is early and strong, foreign matter being dumped out heavily and rapidly with discomfort, with spurts of amused lust in between the spells of mild aching. Thanks, hormones. You're entertaining buggers.

I'm ripe for a couple hours of Dark Shadows. Sweet Barnabas, drink of me.

Auto response from S------: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7sK3AqFYAWQ

A-------: Ungh, Rick Astley.......
A-------: I want to bang the living SNOT out of that piece.
A-------: No lie.
A-------: God, I bet he has a fine ass body.
A-------: All white
A-------: And firm
A-------: And that face
A-------: What a structure
A-------: Those angles
A-------: That hair
A-------: That smile
A-------: Yes, the living snot, to be banged out of.
A-------: Jesus Christ, I can see his nipples.
A-------: His tight little behind.
A-------: Little pink nipples.
A-------: Sweet English lips soft upon my rolling belly.
A-------: UNGH
A-------: Limber young legs scrambling along the length of the bed and my body
A-------: Oh, what a boy.
A-------: What a manchild.
A-------: Mmm.
A-------: So young.
A-------: His smooth, angelic face, transfixed by the sway of my pendulous breasts
A-------: He'll never give me up.
A-------: He has no choice.
A-------: Oh god.
A-------: His darling, simple promises.
A-------: He doesn't have to say those things to me.
A-------: He doesn't have to promise to never tell me lies or desert me, not this old hag.
A-------: Oh, but how it makes this old hag's vile, stingray labial lips flap to hear it, for she knows he is sincere.
A-------: Oh, what earnestness.
A-------: What innocence.
A-------: How delicious.
A-------: Oh yes, my little one, seduce me, tell me you're here for me, profess your love and devotion. I believe it. Oh god do I believe it, My Rick.
A-------: You're in control here, oh yes.
A-------: Take me in and hold me close, oh yes.
A-------: And now just put those two young, tender hands upon my soft, ample behind, and rub and squeeze lovingly.
A-------: No, you're never gonna let me down.
A-------: :-*

You might say I've had worse dreams than fooling around with Malcolm McDowell circa 1975. Yes, you might easily say that.

He was fresh from his role in Royal Flash, which I have not seen, but last night, before bed, got a hankering for.

( I'm sure this image helped it along. )

For whatever reason, we were detained in a garden, and were discussing his acting career. He expressed some unhappiness over a negative review, or was it some form of censorship? of Royal Flash. I quickly took to doting on him, singing the praises of the film (vaguely, since I ain't seen the thing), and shouting with indignation at its treatment. He took it in swing, and before long I was throwing myself (more like insinuating myself, slow and steady wins the race) on him, and we engaged in Making Out and Heavy Petting in various areas of the greenery.

His whiskers, disappointingly, were thinned compared to Flashman's, which were not thick enough to begin with, in my opinion. But it was still a decent enough affair. Felt very much like I was genuinely there, specifically having a time with M. McD and no other, and no confusion or grogginess sometimes present in dreams. I could vividly feel his firm, narrow hips in my grasp, and the alluring erection collecting in his fine tight trousers felt like the genuine article. He acted accordingly in all things, very much as I would envision the particular man would. He was pleasantly insistent, and gave a bit of a shove to the top of my head in the right direction when he began to tire of kisses. I took the hint, but was rude and tarried, kissing about his chest and arms and stomach, which annoyed him slightly in such a way as many girls would find not at all charming or endearing, but that impatience and insolence did not serve to insult or irk me, suffice it to say.

Unfortunately the dream faded into other things as I was in the general area of his groin. I believe I got around to whipping the dear cock out and ministering to it for a time before things were elsewhere, but it's misty. No complaints, though. I got more than I deserved.

Well, I got it back. Hot diggity. I'd resigned myself to never having my little LJ back again.

It seems Draco Malfoy has finally taken the natural route for a young pure-blooded racist reactionary wizard....

( Oi! )

I. MUST. SEE. THIS. FILM.

Crispin Glover as a gravedigger. Brad Dourif as a mortician. Crispin in... briefs. Crispin in... love with a corpse.

My hard-on is unfathomable.

I had a dream that Alice Cooper was in a reality show where he worked in a convenience store. Hilarity ensued.

I KNOW TOO MANY MEN WHO WEAR MEMBERS ONLY JACKETS.

A few months ago I was at a library selecting books to check out. I was hanging about in a limbo section of non-fiction where unrelated books share the same shelves and have no connection to each other in topic, but are joined together by call number. In front of me, a book on Lewis Carroll's sexuality; to my right, a book on Rennes-le-Chateau; to my left, books on aliens and bigfeet. Here was a treasure trove of random interest, and I picked up a book with a title that caught my eye-- The Great Pretenders: The True Stories Behind Famous Historical Mysteries. I flipped through it, deemed it suitable, and added it to the already too-large stack of books in my arm. I had an orgy of checking out that day, and combined with having several books at home I was in the process of reading, and NaNoWriMo in the upcoming November to keep my dance card full, I never got around to reading the book before it was due back. That Saturday, for it is nearly always a Saturday that we visit this particular library, I gathered the books I would be returning. I looked mournfully at 'The Great Pretenders' and apologized to it for not reading it before we had to part. I flipped through its pages sadly, bidding it a bittersweet farewell, when I came upon the back flap of the cover. I hadn't seen it before when browsing the book at the library, when I instead studied the table of contents. My eyebrows raised in an instant, and my lips pouted with a barely audible "Ooo..."  On this back flap was a photograph of the author, whose name I hadn't recognized or noticed, and still didn't, being much too captivated in the moment with his visage. Before me was the delicious, unexpected sight of a perfect dork, begging for my animal growls. I was reminded instantly of a geeky Errol Flynn, which, my lovelies, is a most delicious combination by my tastes.

( The man in question. )