Dear Midway,

Please make Jax this awesome every single game. ^_^

Your endings are still shit on a stick, but I'm getting used to it. Feh.

Re: Baraka:

You have achieved character rape the like of which I have never attempted. You do not get a cookie. You get a giant honkin' FAILBISCUIT.

No love whatsoever.

In case you missed it: FAILBISCUIT.

NO LOVE. FAILBISCUIT.

I, I, I. There are not words.

And after you went to all that trouble to unfuck his head, too.

Still slashing him with Batman. So hard. So there.

Nnnnnffffffftssssss. <3

Okay.

I knew I shouldn't have clicked that article. I knew it was one of those irritating pieces that only sell because for reasons beyond me, most women appear to legitimately enjoy being talked down to.

But, um, wait, ano, demo...

Doing the laundry is not difficult. I'm sorry. It's not.

Grab a big lump of dirty clothes. Make sure there's no red items in it.
Cover everything in Shout spray.
Turn on the washer, pitch soap in, spray some more Shout for kicks.
Maybe--MAYBE--add borax powder. If you're feeling fancy.
Stuff the pile in and close the lid.
Wait an hour.
Switch machines.
Repeat.

DUDE. NOT HARD.

Notable exceptions include trying to do twelve loads or more in a six-hour stretch, trying to do loads after any workday lasting longer than sixteen hours, and/or trips to the laundromat. Bonus pity points if it's a ghetto laundromat and you have to take the bus there. Daily Double if you have some kinda plumbing problem/Massive Water Event in the course of normal washings. Sheets Day also kinda sucks, because it has to go exactly in order.

I mean, these women with the BRAND NEW machines that hold like seventy GALLONS and have AUTOMATIC EVERYTHING?

No right to complain. None. Officially.

Get your ass in that kitchen and make me a sandwich, sweetcakes. Where's my beer? XD

Once again, taraljc.

Ah-hah. That's better.

(It's amusing that the EVIL LESBIAN keeps cropping up in the comments. Where are these women? How do I find one? XD)

I'm serious, in fifteen years, my assets have been treated like other people's property more than I care to admit.

Never once. Were my attackers female. Ever. Thx. I would just like that on the books.

I just...I don't think any women are actually gonna do this, because it flies in the face of our entire society, but the sentiment's at least there now, so, pink collar justice GO.

On an issue that is not related but is as important: I am voting.

I would vote for Satan himself if I had to.

Do you know why?

I have that right.

Rights that are not exercised tend to be phased out. We see this already with the Patriot Act and that imminent domain adjustment back around the time that Rhenquist bit it.

This is one right I will not be foxed out of, especially not by any creature on Capitol Hill, regardless of gender: don't matter how broad your shoulders are or how high your little pencil skirt can slide. You're not taking this from me. EVER.

(I am voting. I am voting for Obama. I am Republican. This is not a moral crisis for me; I believe Lincoln, whom I admire, would be rather proud.)

Also, I was ambushed by a pair of sweet, funny, fun Third Wavers yesterday and have considerably thinner eyebrows now. XD

From taraljc.

HAHAHAHAHA.

My favorite part is the way the post is (retroactively!) covered in "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry WILL YOU WOMEN SHUT THE FUCK UP ALREADY I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'M BEING PERSECUTED FOR MY PENIS OHGOD...Get your sweet ass in the kitchen and make my fucking dinner, bitch. Don't make me get the hose."

His deeply wounded tone and hints that "Hey, some of the women liked this! But they're SCARED TO TELL YOU BECAUSE YOU'RE MEAN" like that makes his post OKAY somehow in some magical world that I clearly don't understand because I'm overreacting, because I'm female?

Was there not one. single. dude. in the universe. who was at all bothered by this post?

(Seriously, I haven't checked the comments, so I have no idea.)

Oh, and chicks who ask? You're mouthbreathing scum. Because you have boobs and yet aren't wearing a green button. The affrontery; the nerve. You don't have any rights anyway! SUBMIT ALREADY.

I just don't even have to do anything with it; it's perfect as it is.

*As Inspector Gadget* Go, go Ferret shitstorm!

My sides. They hurt.

...I'm going back to sleep, now.

Okay, first, and maybe again, I was gonna whine about mainstream published smutty books.

But! This needs attention. I can't presently quantify the tone of this post in title form, so I nudged my boyfriend with a vaguely clinical word for women's bits (and I was right; the root means "shame"), and got some pretty choice "Related Ads".

My favorites included "Pictures of Dinosaurs" and "Diagram the Pancreas".

(Anyway, I thought it was funny. XD)

Seriously, there's ohnoes nasty words back here, don't click or don't complain, or both.

( My point was: )

Okay, I'm done.

No, wait, I'm not.

The whole idea of the imprint meaning to reflect a woman's special sekrit cave bothers me. "I can read anything I want to, because I'm liberated! As long as I do it in dark, dank isolation in a barren wilderness where no one can see."

Uh-huh. Okay. Now it's over.

It's great that Wash and Zoe are a stable canon couple of happiness. Really. I love them, not least because the idea of them being naked together is pretty awesome.

However.

Why is it that this is the only time I see good icons of Zoe? Or an at-all in character Zoe?

She did kick ass both before AND after her all-fulfilling magical husband arrived on the scene.

(Okay, he's a hell of a pilot and he's funny. He's also mostly famous for being unfairly dead. That's all. Let's please be real. If you're going to shove traitor!Jayne down my face, you'd better be prepared to deal with the fact that Wash, despite being awesome, does not do the traditional hero stuff--his WIFE does. Don't play Missing the Point just because strong women are so icky and need a good husband. You make my skin itch.)

Kthxbai.

I can't stop laughing. For oh so very many reasons.

HOW, paleface?

Or maybe that should be, "Why?"

God, having to sift through other peoples' one-paragraph "papers"--which they don't even spellcheck with the built-in spellchecker, the one built right into the post interface itself--is bad enough.

I should not get, under any circumstances, a letter at 4pm telling me "Whoa, hey, a bunch of you guys are totally doing it wrong and you need a higher postcount" when the fucking work is due MIDNIGHT OF THAT DAY.

I think--and I'm still not positive, but I THINK--what he originally wanted was this:

Two ideas. One idea = one post. Then one comment. That makes three posts PER CHAPTER.

The way he wrote the instructions? I'm not the only person who swore, pulled their hair, and rewrote three times and still got it wrong.

So, instead of having it all finished and just praising what passes for strung together sentences?

Even more work. Because he wasn't clear in the first place.

I think I'd be less pissed if I hadn't already had to cut my work in half and glue it back together and then double it, just to churn out the first two posts. It's not that it's hard; all his instructions contradict each other and I have no way of knowing if any of it will stick, and I cannot and will not relax until grades are returned, because how the hell else am I going to know if I did it right?

Work's done. Still deeply disgusted. My mother's about to get upset with me, I can tell.

I wish I were more outwardly violent. I'd like to break something right now.

Fuck you, MSN. I was just trying to read something about the new movies that are out.

Not relationships.

Not wedding plans.

Not recipes.

Not Dear motherfucking Prudie.

I therefore DID NOT NEED TO SEE your fucking makeup banner ad.

I did, however, enjoy dissecting it.

( Behold. )

I don't have a bigger 'cap; the ad is full-size.

Just once, I'd like to see an unretouched picture of an actual human adult woman, who is between the ages of 21 and 30, not 14-16 as most skin care models are, using some makeup.

If they'd do that, I'd buy some, just out of respect for their ballsy courage of ballsiness.

I'm just saying.

This fic seems, oh, let's be charitable and call it 'inspired' by some of my writing in general.

It's tiny little things, itty-bitty irritating surface details like the length and composition of Baraka's teeth, and not quite word-for-word enough that I feel I should say anything.

This is deeply uncomfortable.

We'll just see what happens.

If the Mortal Kombat franchise were my boyfriend, I could describe him thusly, gargling through my mangled face around the respirator tubes the medics almost didn't insert in time:

"He hits me because he loves me. And I love him. Forever and ever. I mentioned he loves me?"

COME the fuck ON.

Fuck you, Midway. "MK8", or whatever you finally call the shitty spinoff game with probably no Tarkatans in it because you are dicks like that...is not an acceptable excuse.

Even if Kitana/Mileena/Baraka prison rape sex were suddenly gloriously, magically out and out canon, no, it would not make up for this.

It would help. I mean, it...It would be a fun start. But I still don't forgive you.

Just...fuck you.

For the first time in literally MORE THAN HALF MY LIFE, I am contemplating not buying into your shit, not looking forward to your product, and, yes, not following it.

(On the level, I haven't always OWNED some of the drek you shoveled out, because I do not like, um, well, certain characters, or care whether they, er, get an ancillary sidescrolling game. And having Jax but not Sonya was just too stupid to even justify a rental. They are fuckbuddies A TEAM. Seriously.)

You...you people are...I just.

I need a shower.

Linky! I haven't poked Fandom Wank with my poking stick in a long time. dreamburnt gave me some other cool thing about RP stuff, and then I somehow stumbled into this one further along the main page.

Sci-Fi fans rawk hardxcore but FANTASY FEN ARE LOSERS HAH.

Specifically:

"[...]particularly as, for many fantasy readers, the plot is little more than a delivery system through which to get at the characters and the setting."

*Frothy flail of frothy flailiness.*

I. But. Well.

( Much flailing. Capslock. Wordiness-vomit. Bashing? Possibly. )

No, okay, now I'm done, and also going to sleep.

I have a headache.

(I may come back later with a follow-up point, which is, simply, that the notion of no effort = heaps of reward just plain old makes sense, but I'm fundamentally Newtonian and macrocosmic in my understanding of anything scientific, and so it would be laughably common-sensical, and common sense causes most "hard" or "pure" sci-fi scenarios to IMPLODE UTTERLY.)

O vitriol, thou art ruinous upon my retinae but so pretty to goggle at.

And there was much *eyestrain-induced wincing.*

I HAS A FACEBOOK.

Don't look at me in that tone of voice. I'm as disgusted as you are. I need it for school.

Random bullshit left on my Wall would help me look like I really belong?

I'm not Pride, but I won't beg.

( In which I'm rude to US university students. Dun liek dun read. )

Fuck it. I'm tired now.

Oh, wait. In this class, I take notes as fast as possible and my words melt into Engrish when I do. Not because she uses it, but, apparently, rather, because I think in it at some deep transitional level. When you punch the "foreign relations" button in my head, you get Engrish thought structure.

Ex DEE.

On the job-meme kerfuffle in general:

Um, I don't care what I do for a job? As long as it's not whoring or taking my top off for money?

All jobs are approximately equal in terms of how much they suck. If you loved your job so much that they didn't have to pay you, you would not be at work. Any job you don't get paid for...is a hobby. XD

My verbal skills are useless in this data-happy world, and they always have been and they always will be, and I'm probably going to end up writing textbooks for a living, and that should depress me, but I'm excited instead.

Have I said too much? There's nothing more I can think of to say to you. *Snort.*

Via foxbaby.

Published incontrivertible proof that Touched By an Uncle MAKES YOU GAY HAHAHA.

My brain. It is broken.

I just, I just I my comprehension it fails me. I lose. I cannot grok.

Is it a book on why bad touchings are bad? Or why gays are bad? OR. Is it only GAY bad touching that's bad?

And it was Daddy's touching that finally made him feel better? What?

I have not yet Met Anyone, which is odd, because I'm ordinarily a sort of magnet for gay males.

I'm currently playing Yes, I Don't Want Your Pamphlet with the Library info desk, because EVERYONE CAN SEE YOU PICKING UP THE GIANT DAYGLO LGBT BROCHURE, and that sort of defeats the purpose of stealth. I'm also considering free therapy. The two are unrelated; I don't think I can stand nine more weeks of omg!Tenchi!HALP! gasp-attacks.

The latest 'normative wtfery from MSN?

If you go to ANY MAN except your HUSBAND for any kind of emotional connection WHATSOEVER, then you are a filthy, filthy whore of Babylon. Slut.

I. Just. *Boggle.*

Screw it, I'm going to work now. With a side-order of facedesk.

HAHAHAHAHAAHA.

I shall now point enthusiastically to go with my mocking laughter of scornful scorn. Yes.

I. POINT. AND LAUGH.

Quick, everybody, go change your userinfo.

It's not my thing, but just wow. O_o;

ETA: If you're unsettled and you know it, clap your hands! Get LJArchive.

It's free and it's pretty and. <3

There ain't nobody better!
Am I making myself clear?
There ain't nobody better
There ain't nobody better than the girl who's standing here.

This kind of thing is exactly why I never reach too far anymore. Somebody else done climbed up thurrr already, and with more class than me. I don't need to kill myself imitating them.

I wonder if she means CREDITS or just credit HOURS. Not that it brooks a difference.

Isn't she CUTE?

*Eyeroll golfclap?*

Hah.