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[sticky post] Feb. 29th, 2020

So, I've decided to save links to all my stories on pinboard.  Everything is there now.

It's here, if you want to check it out.

I give blanket permission for podficcing and other things -- but let me know what's being done with my fics, and if you want to do anything with any of my original stuff, you have to ask me first. DO NOT repost any of my works anywhere, though links are fine.
If Hamilton can somehow endorse
Thomas Jefferson, his enemy,
a man he despised since the beginning,
you can goddamned vote for Hillary.



Are there actually people who don't live in constant pain? What's that like? I can't remember.



So, because last time I posted a wordcount I didn't exclude my collection of various story commentaries, I’ve actually posted a total of 1,293,364 words on A03. There’s an uncounted amount on my laptop I’ve never posted, and thousands of lyrics/poems/stories I’ve never typed up that exist only hardcopy. And it doesn’t include any of the papers I’ve written for school (which are A LOT, as I’ve a BA in English and an MA in Education).

I don’t know why, I’m just so excited at that wordcount.
So, here are some pictures from the flood. One of them is of the streets my parents live off of, except the other end. Scrolling through this, actually recognizing so many of the places because I've been there--I almost started sobbing at work.


So, I've apparently written quite a few poems about my family members - far more than I actually remember writing. But here is one of the best, about/for my little sister. I can't believe I wrote it 7 years ago, wow.
So, I'm skimming through my 'good poems' folder and apparently, my criteria has changed in the ten or so years since I first started saving poems to it. *facepalm*


Sep. 4th, 2016

Is there anyone who has the time or desire to read 57000 words of a One Direction RPF WIP and then talk it over with me so I can try to finish it?


So, we never had that party to celebrate me graduating on time because that Friday was the start of the flood. We were gonna have crawfish ettouffee made by my mom and cookie cake from the cookie store. I totally understand because half the people who would’ve come no longer have livable houses, but I also feel like that party would’ve made how much mental suffering I went through this summer worth it, almost.

So tonight, to celebrate that my GA stipend came through so I don’t have to use up the last of my loan for my tuition this semester, we’re going to Olive Garden, and I’m going to get a daiquiri and I’m going to dip the breadsticks in it because that tastes like king cake.

June, July, and August have completely sucked and I really hope the rest of 2016 doesn’t try to live up to their example.


So, this evening, I was given the chance to explain to a group of Ph.D. candidates and Master's candidates what fanfiction is. None of them had any idea what it is. Then, one of them asked if the stories were usually short.

God, I wanted to laugh so long, so hard.


My cousin's apartment: complete loss, almost nothing salvageable (living with her sister)

My uncle's house: waist-high water, not much salvageable (living with his stepdaughter)

My aunt's house: knee-high water, not much salvageable (living with my parents)

My sister's house: knee-high water, not much salvageable (living with her stepdaughter)

My uncle has lost two cars, my aunt has lost two cars, my sister has lost her car. My cousin who got no water in his house but was trapped by water on the roads has lost one car. Because my little sister and her husband moved their cars onto the median at their apartment complex, their vehicles were fine, though others in the complex weren't so lucky. Some schools didn't reopen 'til this week, some won't 'til next or the week after. Some kids are being bused in from over an hour away because their entire neighborhood or city or parish went underwater. Some people in my class are living in hotels because their house is being gutted and nothing could be saved.

I just scrolled through my flood tag on tumblr, which was a mistake.

My mom asked me to go through the box my aunt had of her kids' school things from kindergarten and first grade, and I almost broke down twice doing it. (Hence that poem from very early this morning.) I think of everything I've saved since I began writing, how scattered around it is - my parents are both packrats, so there are lots of things. My big sister lost most of her pictures from when she was little, stuff that has survived hurricanes (because she's had to evacuate twice before).

And now there's storms that everyone is watching, and it keeps raining every day.

Aug. 30th, 2016

If you were ever wondering about my handwriting, here it is. Also, I am actually incapable of writing a complete sentence entirely in cursive or entirely in print. I learned that when I went in to take the GRE and we had to (for some reason) copy down a paragraph in cursive.

when their hands were small

Title: when their hands were small
Written: August 30, 2016

This is how memory works:

You save the things they make when their hands are small,
their first shaky handwriting, their handprints,
fill in the blank, connect the dots, color in the lines (or not).
You put it all in a filebox and you save it as they grow and grow,
until they’re taller than you,
until they look like men even though they’re still boys.
You save it as they grow past you,
as they take their first steps out in the world without you.
You save the things their hands made when they were little
and still looked up to you.
You save it
and you save it
and you save it.
Maybe you pull it out now and again
and you look at what they once were,
so young, so small.
You save it in a filebox.

And then the water comes.
It leaks in, it drowns the things they made.
You still have them and a filebox full of dirty river water.

I went through it for you.
I saved what I could.
So much of it was ruined.
I couldn’t even tell what it had been.
It bled and it tore, and I peeled it apart,
and I looked at the things their hands made when they were young.
And I’m sorry.

You saved it.
They’re so big now.
They don’t even remember making it.
But you remember when they brought it home
and you saved it and you put it in a filebox,
and the water rushed in.
I’m sorry.

But here’s what I could salvage.
And even though so much of it is gone,
you still have them, and you have the memories
of the things they made when their hands were small.


I don’t remember where I stole this from but I’m ready to start writing again, so please play? Pick one of these and a fandom, and I’ll write a drabble or something.

things you said at 1 am
things you said through your teeth
things you said too quietly
things you said over the phone
things you didn’t say at all
things you said under the stars and in the grass
things you said while we were driving
things you said when you were crying
things you said when i was crying
things you said that made me feel like shit
things you said when you were drunk
things you said when you thought i was asleep
things you said at the kitchen table
things you said after you kissed me
things you said with too many miles between us
things you said with no space between us
things you said that i wish you hadnt
things you said when you were scared
things you said when we were the happiest we ever were
things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear
things you said when we were on top of the world
things you said after it was over


Aug. 22nd, 2016

I'm watching The Walking Dead for the first time as research for a thing I need to write, and oh my god, Daryl Dixon is AWESOME. He's my favorite, and then Glenne, and wow, Bella from Supernatural is cool in this, and I keep researching to find out what happens to characters (HOLY SHIT), and this IS NOT a show I should be watching by myself.


I’ve driven all over Denham Springs and Baton Rouge this week, running errands for my family members who are salvaging what they can and clearing out their houses. The water literally came within a foot of my parents’ house. Half a dozen cars in my family are trash now. Grocery stores keep selling out as quickly as stuff gets put on shelves.

And my family is still so fucking lucky compared to others down here.
Every time I think about the fact that Louisiana created a pet evacuation plan because so many people refused to leave without their animals during Katrina, I tear up.


Why Do People Live in Louisiana?

So, I finally broke down and sobbed while driving down the highway, bringing lunch and ice to the crew cleaning out my aunt's house: aunt, 2 cousins, lilsis, brother-in-law, and assorted friends of my cousins. I pulled off the highway, cried until the tears stopped, and got back on the road.

Then, tears still in my throat, I ranted into my phone's memo app because I am so fucking tired of and angry about the comments I've seen on articles about this, the tweets, the tumblr posts.

I can't figure out how to upload that audio file, and I wanted to. If you want that file, give me your email because I really love it.

But here's the poem it became:

Why Do People Live in Louisiana?
Written: August 17, 2016

I keep seeing all these comments about people asking:
“Why does anyone live in Louisiana,
and Mississippi, and Alabama, and Florida,
where there’s hurricanes and there’s floods?
Why does anyone stay,
why do they keep coming back?”

Why do people live in the blast range of a volcano?

Why do people live where the earth will
literally fucking shake beneath their feet and
open up and swallow them?

California’s on fucking fire
why does anybody live anywhere that can catch on fire?

Why do people live in fucking Tornado Alley?

Why do people live anywhere?

Weather happens, you shitheads.
Weather happens.
Usually there’s warning and this time there fucking wasn’t.

Why do people live here?
Because it’s home, you dickheads.

Aug. 17th, 2016

My aunt has cellphone video almost exactly like this. She played it for me and it was horrifying.


king of the jungle
questioning in order to create

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