It’s going to be close; I think I can swing it — but it’s very nearly too heavy and smutty a scene to put in my smutty damn novel. *facepalm*
Oh, Scumbag Writer Brain, you so crazy.
Just a comparison for myself: above is the bracelet sitting low on my wrist as of 5 minutes ago. Below is the bracelet I was just able to wear, April of 2012, according to tumblr:
It’s one thing to *know* I’ve lost weight this year… it’s another thing to *feel* and *see* it.
Scumbag Writer Brain doesn’t let me sleep until midnight, pops me awake at 6:30 AM with plot bunnies mating frenetically in my frontal lobes.
You bastard. I
Dear writer brain: I also work an 8 to 5 RealJerb(TM), and I require you to do things during the day other than writing. It would also be helpful if you decided to try to do the writing thing EARLIER in the day so that I could collapse into unconsciousness at a reasonable hour.
P.S. Love to love and hate you. Signed, Voxxy.
I couldn’t stop. It was calling my name. >_<
[Image - Anthy and Utena dancing.]
[Text - (281): Let’s go dancing. I wanna sprain an ankle. And a labia. My labia or yours. I’m not picky.]
FEELIN’ this today.
CHARACTER CANNOT WEAR SAME PANTS TWO DAYS IN A ROW.
So I made this thing the other day; it’s in my cube at RealJerb(TM). Pattern for Loki is not mine (google “perler bead loki”, it’d be one of those from about twenty thousand sources) but the words and lettering is, not that I care if anyone uses them. It’s my reminder to screw with people on a regular basis. :)
DAMN YOU SCUMBAG WRITER BRAIN.
“Truth is not beauty, nor,” she said, “reverse –
Is beauty, truth — though some would have it be.
For pretty truths are shallow, and what’s worse:
Subjective beauty, unmistakeably.
“Just look at you,” she said, “a warrior poet,
In battle forged; your flesh still wears its scars
And what they are to me (you may not know it) —
Adored. A shining nebula of stars.
“Your sky-blue eyes, your tarnished silver mane,
Your care-worn face: all these are priceless things.
To me each detail precious, both mundane
And magical — your snowy sweep of wings!
“Each flaw, a gem. I could go on at length.
My love is truth; your beauty is your strength.”
This sonnet was written to reference the novel I’m writing; it is being spoken by the female lead, to the male lead.
The speaker argues against the last few lines of “Ode To A Grecian Urn” by John Keats: http://www.bartleby.com/101/625.html being that “beauty is truth, truth beauty”.
Her problem with it in the first quatrain is that beautiful truth is shallow and easy to accept, and that there is no such thing as “true beauty” because it lies wholly within the beholder’s eye.
In the second quatrain she describes the male lead as an example of subjective beauty; he’s not a “classically beautiful” man, he has obviously been through several battles and bears the scars, but those same scars that would be ugly to most people are beautiful to her, because they are his.
(Note also that the 1st and 3rd lines of this quatrain have eleven syllables; the last syllable is called “feminine”, which is my little nod to the gender of the speaker and to Shakespeare’s 116th, my favorite of his sonnets.)
In the third quatrain she details other things about him that outside observers may or may not find beautiful: blue eyes, gray hair, a face lined with past worry and sadness, and white wings — all of which are precious to her because they are part of him.
In the couplet she gives her volta, summing up her argument and assigning truth and beauty what she feels are the appropriate places in her life: Love converts each flaw into a gem, therefore love is truth. Her man is strong and powerful, therefore she finds him beautiful.
So I made another thing today…
*coughs* Presented strictly without comment.