moiread: (it's a funny story • camilla b.)
Chelle: Oh god I'm having sudden stabbing monster cramps.
Chelle: If I have to have the evil deathplague flu AND my jesusfuckingchrist period (AGAIN) at the same time, I may very well throw myself out my goddamn window.
Rose: You live on the ground floor.
Chelle: Hush. You weren't supposed to point that out.
Chelle: You're totally messing with my tantrum chi, here.
Rose: I'm sorry!
moiread: (bookish • liv t.)
Rose: How about you?
Chelle: Well. I can get around without falling over today.
Chelle: And I am not currently throwing up.
Chelle: So now all I have on my plate, unless either of those two come back, is my feet and the brain fog and the lady-cramps and feeling like I've been hit by a truck.
Chelle: Which is better than I've been at any other point this week.
Chelle: So.
Chelle: Pretty good, comparatively?
Rose: High five.

And that is why I hate being asked how I'm doing. I mean, yes, some people actually want to know the answer when they ask (like Rose did), and that's always fine. But most of the time it's just asked as part of the ritual of casual conversation, and oh lord, I hate it. Because I am not so socially blind that I can't tell the difference, and I know that what I'm supposed to say is, "Good!" or "Fine!" or something like that, so I do, but then people are always confused later by the idea that I have health problems. I don't "look sick", so unless I basically beat them over the head with it repeatedly over time, they think I must be histrionic. But then if I do answer honestly every time I'm asked, nobody wants to talk to me anymore because all they wanted was a casual interaction and I keep making it srs bsns and depressing. I CANNOT WIN. :|
moiread: (heh • kristen s.)
"Argh, stupid feet."
"My sentiments exactly."

Which of us said what? Does it even matter? ;)


Jul. 20th, 2010 10:02 pm
moiread: (mischief/smug • maria m.)
Rose: I love that you're so easy.
Rose: -going. I mean easy-going.
moiread: (rawk yo • kristen s.)
Me: "If I told you they were like this EVERY SINGLE TIME, would you come again?"
Rose: "Hell yes!"

moiread: (kara/lee hugs • BATTLESTAR GALACTICA.)
I pull out the hide-a-bed in Rose ([ profile] unintendedmuse)'s basement. By the time I return from the bathroom, having changed into my PJs, Celeste has already settled herself on the bed. I squeeeeeeeze myself in on my preferred side (which the dog knows; that's why she goes there, obviously) and the dog leans out of my way just enough that once I'm settled, she can immediately roll back and drape herself over my lap.

Rose laughs at this. "You're such an attention whore, Celeste."

Me: "Are you claiming your territory, little girl?"

Celeste whuffles emphatically, tucks her face against my thigh, and goes to sleep.

Later, when Rose goes to bed, Celeste will jump up and follow her, pleased that her silly monkey has seen the light of reason and decided to go get some sleep. And then I will be sad, because there won't be any more doggie cuddles while I fall asleep.

Sometimes the Want My Own Dog hurt is very big and gaping. You know? I know it will happen eventually, but it won't be for years yet. I will have to wait a long time to find my dog. Or for my dog to find me. Sigh.
moiread: (boobies! • me.)
Rose, watching me arrange three pizza boxes, two plates full of pizza, a glass of juice, a Macbook, and the Macbook's charger into balance and then blithely head downstairs with them: "You know, if it weren't for your foot problems, you would make a scary-good waitress."

Me: "It's all in the boobs, my dear."
moiread: (I got out of bed for this? • STAR TREK.)
Yesterday, my best friend Rose ([ profile] unintendedmuse) fell and wound up with a mild concussion. I found out about this while in the middle of making cake, which meant I dropped everything (egg shells, spatula, chocolate melting in an improvised boudle-boiler on the stove) and ran to the computer to be all, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?"

She was okay. Concussed, but okay. She was even cleared to go back to class, which she did. Because she's fucking badass.

I finished making the cake while texting her to keep her company. It was a chocolate orange Kahlua cake that only happened because I was bored and hadn't baked in three weeks. Or maybe the universe was telling me that my braintwin had just fallen and gotten a concussion and could use some fucking chocolate. Because, you know, of all the things I could give a girl with a concussion, I think consolation cake is pretty fucking prime. So of course I offered to come right over and bring her some. She said it was too late at night, but to definitely come by tomorrow.

It is now tomorrow. Rose wants to hang out. I am looking forward to seeing my best friend, who I haven't hung out with in two whole weeks, and also I want to give her a big hug and fuss over her. She says, "Go get ready, we're getting pizza, we'll pick you up on the way."

So I go get in the shower and promptly slip, fall, crash, bang my head and my hand, and land directly on my knee. You know, these knees that have loose patellas and arthritis and can't be walked on for a week after the slightest injury because they're too busy swelling up to the size of grapefruits? YEAH, THOSE.

This means I can't really do more than hobble around now for awhile, but I'm not mad. I mean, I could be pissed at the world, or I could laugh. Because this whole thing just feels so absurd. You really have no recourse but to crack up when you wind up ass over teakettle on the bathroom floor, limbs in a tangle, one leg somehow caught under you and the other assaulting the toilet, wet and naked with hair strung across your face, yelping and cussing and hollering, while your two male roommates come running to the other side of the door and go, "OH MY GOD ARE YOU OKAY?" and you have to say, "NO. AND DON'T COME IN." Because you really do need a hand up, ow ow motherfucking ow, but your bits are everywhere and the towel's on a hook all the way up at the top of the door, and didn't your best friend JUST DO THIS YESTERDAY?

This is apparently the Chelle version of "fall and get concussed". I totally blame Rose. Fucking braintwins.

If anybody needs me, I'll be in my room with knee braces, pain killers, reruns of Project Runway, and some Mayan Chocolate ice cream. :P


Dec. 18th, 2009 12:17 am
moiread: (scrunchyface • HOUSE MD.)
In the middle of watching TV, I get up from the couch and begin rummaging around.

Rose: "What are you looking for?"
Me: "Something sharp!"
Rose: "Why?"
Me: "I'm being neurotic!"
Rose: "Ooookay."

After the animated short is over, Rose turns to find me clearing up a small pile of plastic wrap, which I have carefully removed from my bottle of Gatorade in strips using a few teeth of the dog fur comb. (I would have just done it in one go by peeling at the edge with the glue, but this was the sport bottle kind and the plastic was fitted. It required a tool and some surgical effort.)

Rose: "...So what did the plastic do to offend you?"
Rose: "Uh... huh."
Me: "No, really!"
Rose: "I believe you."
Me: "Every time I picked it up, it crinkled in my hand! It was terrible!"
Rose, in a 'there there pat pat' tone: "I understand, dear."
moiread: (hugs! • GOSSIP GIRL.)
So today I went downtown with Rae ([ profile] soirenoir) and the whole family to see my best friend Rose ([ profile] unintendedmuse) carry the Olympic torch through Ottawa. We found Rose's parents and met up with them, and got to say hi to some of the Canines With A Cause dogs (they're the organization that hooked Rose up with her wonderful service dog, Celeste) while we waited for Rose's leg of the relay to start. There was a certain amount of epic fail with regards to dealing with her wheelchair on the part of the Olympic folks -- couldn't get the ramp down off the Olympic bus, couldn't get the torch to sit high enough in the holder they attached to her chair so as to not burn her face off*, etc -- but then they finally got going and we all got to cheer and wave little flags. And thanks to Rob's tall frame and long arms (for holding the camera above everyone's heads, mwahaha), we even got the start of it on video! If you want to download it, it's here!

(* I laughed again and again, and I knew Rose was laughing too, because everything is a huge production when other people try to deal with her chair. It's fine when it's just us -- friends and family -- but other people are always like OMG WHAT DO WE DO NOTHING IS HOW WE EXPECT IT TO BE OH JESUS HELP. She's used to it. Even I'm used to it now. So I saw her laughing and she saw me laughing across the street and it was nice.)
moiread: (weary • julie m.)
Rose: I do not know how to feel about an SPN femmeslash challenge.
Rose: On the one hand, I support femmeslash challenges of any kind.
Rose: On the other, I am kind of "Bzuh?" because SPN does not lend itself well to femmeslash.
Chelle: Yeah. Most of the characters are dudes, and the women don't seem to have met each other.
Chelle: I mean, who are you going to slash?
Chelle: Jo/Meg? The hunter girl and the female demon who assaulted her in a dude's body?
Chelle: Meg/Eva? Crazy demon villain and crazy psikid who went over to the demonside?
Chelle: Jo/Sarah, if art-collector-girl ever came back because of another problem or wanted to get involved in hunting shit?
Rose: I liked Sarah.
Rose: She was sane, did not die, and was not a demon.
Rose: All reasons why she has never been seen again, I think.
Chelle: Ellen/Missouri? The middle-aged psychic and the middle-aged bar owner, both friends of John?
Chelle: I genuinely cannot picture Ruby/Meg, despite that they're both demons and knew of each other.
Rose: Neither can I.
Rose: I can picture Meg/Bela.
Rose: As a Hell thing.
Chelle: That would be a really sad fic. :(
Chelle: It would be all abusive and stuff.
Chelle: And Bela would be all broken.
Chelle: And it would be depressing and awful.
Rose: Yes, it would.
Chelle: So yeah. Those are the only plausible connections, I think.
Rose: there's girl!Dean and girl!Sam, apparently.
Chelle: EW NO BAD
Rose: Oh my god there's even young!Mary/RUBY
Rose: and girl!Bobby/Ellen
Rose: I think my inner fangirl just died a sad, traumatized death
Chelle: Well.
Chelle: I still think that's better than anybody trying to do Jo/Ellen mother-daughter incest slash.
Rose: Damn it.
Rose: Because you said it, it will now happen.
Chelle: Jesus fucking christ on a flaming shit pogostick, I really hope not. I might really have to go hide under my desk for awhile if that happens.
Chelle: Why is SPN fandom so fucked up?
Rose: I wish I knew.
moiread: (innocent! • bonnie w.)
John ([ profile] theweaselking) invited all the gamers out for Indian food on Monday night on the idea that "Thanksgiving is a holiday fundamentally about not starving to death because Indians give you food".

Kevin: "So are you coming for Indian food on Monday?"
Me: "Probably not. I have a family that gets cranky about these things."
Kevin: "But it's the spirit of Thanksgiving to eat Indian food!"
Me: "WRONG KIND OF INDIAN. If anything, it's the spirit of Thanksgiving to eat supposedly Native American food!"
Kevin: "If you want to get really properly traditional, we could sit around having peyote and mescaline."
Me: "..........I would be so down for that."
Kevin: "WHAT."
Me: "After the month I've had? FUCK YES. SOMEBODY GET ME STONED OUT OF MY MIND."
Kevin bursts out laughing.

EDIT: After seeing this post...

Rose: I think I still have some weed from the last time I ran out of pain meds. ;)
Chelle: Heh heh heh.
Rose: I am not even kidding.
Chelle: Unfortunately, I can't smoke it. Vaporizer only. :(
Rose: God, your body SUCKS.
Rose: I mean, so does mine, but at least I can smoke pot to take the edge off.
Rose: And drink. You can't do that either.
Rose: Sucks to be you. Seriously.
moiread: (baking • stock.)
Rose ([ profile] unintendedmuse) and I have created the perfect Boom-Booms. Use Ghirardelli chocolate, extra crushed chocolate chunks, strawberry cream cheese, and a dollop of sour cream to make the chocolate really pop. Then bake and stuff your face.

(Plus they go perfectly with a bad Batman movie marathon. I'm just saying.)


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