as my brain dribbles out of my ears.....
Sep. 27th, 2006 06:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jadesfireOk, I was only going to use my journal for putting up stories, but inspiration has fled and if I don't put something down, I have fears for my sanity. It is hard to describe the levels of boredom that can be reached while working in a library on a quiet Wednesday evening.
I've read some excellent, entertaining discussions that took place last month about OOCness in fanfiction, which were fascinating, but took place so long ago that everyone else has moved on and I feel like the child at the back of the class with something to say but too slow to get their hand in the air. And it's not that I've run out of stories to read, it's just that even I can only read fanfic for so long.
So I have chosen instead to annoy the few remaining readers by banging on the keyboard. Trust me, when you can type at 60 words a minute and all you have to use is the keyboard that Moses brought down from Sinai, banging doesn't begin to cover it. My colleague just stuck her head round the corner to ask me where I got the machine gun, and please can she use it the next time Dr ____ comes in?
And instead of working on the four fics (yes, four *sigh*) that I have in my head or the two languishing as WIPs, I'm sitting here staring at the screen and trying not to count the seconds. And subjecting you to my ranting.
On the subject of ranting, I cycled into work yesterday. This was more exciting than it sounds because a) Oxford is a terrifying and death-defying place to ride a bicycle, what with kamikaze pedestrians, blind drivers and murderous buses; b) half the road is sinking. Actually sinking. I'm happily pedalling along, minding my own business, dreaming of an oxygen tent, and there's a drain up ahead. Only this drain is not level with the road as it should be. No, this drain seems to have dragged the tarmac down along with it, creating a dirty great crater where the road should be. I'm not sure who laid the roads in Oxford, but I don't think they put enough glue down. There's even one point on the journey where, just for the sake of variety, the road isn't sinking. It's been pushed up onto the kerb, looking rather like an asphalt tsunami, threatening to engulf the bus stop. Well, ok, it's only an inch above the kerb at the moment, but give it time. Still, it makes sure I don't doze and ride at the same time; c) (and most excitingly) my bike is pink! It weighs about half a hundredweight, good for getting up momentum, bad for breaking. If I run you over on my luminous machine, you're not likely to forget it. It also has two baskets, which is a little excessive, but makes me feel prepared. I have decided to call her The Pink Lady, and may get a licence plate reading FAB 1, just for the fun of it. I may also take a picture and use it as my icon, just because it's so pretty.
The usefulness of the bike also knows no bounds. Not only is it a handy getting-to-work device and a possible guided missile (see momentum issues above), it has also settled something that has been bugging me. In "His Coy Mistress" (a great story, incidentally), the author talks about the callous on House's palm from the cane. I'd initially been a bit "neh" about it, but after just 20 minutes of riding my bike, I had a great big blister at the bottom of one finger. 20 minutes! The callous from five years on a cane? You could use it as sandpaper.
I had hoped that the rambling would ease up the brain cogs, or at least provoke an entertaining reader complaint about the noise. Instead, I am cross-eyed from the monitor and saddened by the realisation that I need to get out more.
Normal service to be resumed shortly, we hope. Assuming I don't have to carry my brain out of here in a bucket.
So I have chosen instead to annoy the few remaining readers by banging on the keyboard. Trust me, when you can type at 60 words a minute and all you have to use is the keyboard that Moses brought down from Sinai, banging doesn't begin to cover it. My colleague just stuck her head round the corner to ask me where I got the machine gun, and please can she use it the next time Dr ____ comes in?
And instead of working on the four fics (yes, four *sigh*) that I have in my head or the two languishing as WIPs, I'm sitting here staring at the screen and trying not to count the seconds. And subjecting you to my ranting.
On the subject of ranting, I cycled into work yesterday. This was more exciting than it sounds because a) Oxford is a terrifying and death-defying place to ride a bicycle, what with kamikaze pedestrians, blind drivers and murderous buses; b) half the road is sinking. Actually sinking. I'm happily pedalling along, minding my own business, dreaming of an oxygen tent, and there's a drain up ahead. Only this drain is not level with the road as it should be. No, this drain seems to have dragged the tarmac down along with it, creating a dirty great crater where the road should be. I'm not sure who laid the roads in Oxford, but I don't think they put enough glue down. There's even one point on the journey where, just for the sake of variety, the road isn't sinking. It's been pushed up onto the kerb, looking rather like an asphalt tsunami, threatening to engulf the bus stop. Well, ok, it's only an inch above the kerb at the moment, but give it time. Still, it makes sure I don't doze and ride at the same time; c) (and most excitingly) my bike is pink! It weighs about half a hundredweight, good for getting up momentum, bad for breaking. If I run you over on my luminous machine, you're not likely to forget it. It also has two baskets, which is a little excessive, but makes me feel prepared. I have decided to call her The Pink Lady, and may get a licence plate reading FAB 1, just for the fun of it. I may also take a picture and use it as my icon, just because it's so pretty.
The usefulness of the bike also knows no bounds. Not only is it a handy getting-to-work device and a possible guided missile (see momentum issues above), it has also settled something that has been bugging me. In "His Coy Mistress" (a great story, incidentally), the author talks about the callous on House's palm from the cane. I'd initially been a bit "neh" about it, but after just 20 minutes of riding my bike, I had a great big blister at the bottom of one finger. 20 minutes! The callous from five years on a cane? You could use it as sandpaper.
I had hoped that the rambling would ease up the brain cogs, or at least provoke an entertaining reader complaint about the noise. Instead, I am cross-eyed from the monitor and saddened by the realisation that I need to get out more.
Normal service to be resumed shortly, we hope. Assuming I don't have to carry my brain out of here in a bucket.
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-28 07:47 am (UTC)I think the OOCness topic has been covered, really, and discussed to destruction. I shall have to wait for the next topic du jour to make my own sparkling contribution :)