Hiding.

[icarus]

I have cocoa, cookies, and some leftover cookie batter.

I have an overdue paper I'm picking away at by proposing my zaniest theory (the theory is called "pure dumb luck" or "delimited options" -- historians, how mad am I?). It's guaranteed to get completely shot apart by my professor, but after the shitty week I've had, I don't care.

I have the next chapter of Out Of Bounds rewritten and (probably) ready for reposting. I have WG here reading the Watchman. (I figured he'd better read the novel first or he'd be bewildered and frustrated by the movie.) I'm making minor edits to the epilogue. The music for the short program is queued up.

I have two movies on hand. I am fully equipped to ignore all RL disasters for the weekend. If all this doesn't work, there is also popcorn.

And oh, look, this quiz result surprised me with a writer that I...

a) know, and
b) respect.

How unexpected.

I am: Ursula K. LeGuin Perhaps the most admired writing talent in the science fiction field.

Which science fiction writer are you?

And now... dive! *The yellow Icarus submarine burbles beneath the surface of reality*

Comments

[icarusancalion.livejournal.com]

Ah, I'm sorry. When things are rough I get oversensitive and prickly. I obviously took it the wrong way.

If people cut me slack, I tend to take shameless advantage, even if I hate myself for it the whole time.

Oh. I'm very different. I'm the sort of person who'll starve while keeping my pride a good face on things because I feel I'm responsible for whatever mess I'm in. It takes some effort to admit things aren't going well. Almost impossible for me to ask for or accept help.

Mostly, asskicking is the only thing that works on me.

*nods* Ass-kicking brings out the worst in me, while a kind word can completely dissolve my worst moods, like a sugar cube in water. I can be in an utter rage with broken Christmas ornaments all around me, and WG can say, "What's wrong, honey?" and I'll dissolve into tears, all the anger gone.

I had a boyfriend once, who put his fist through a window in frustration. He needed seventeen stitches. I never could understand that impulse...

The moment of destruction is a release, a relief to do something, even something destructive. It often shocks one out of the temper. I discovered when I was nine that I needed noise to get me through it when I was furious. I got a wooden box, put broken glass in it, sealed it shut, and then would kick it around making a huge racket.

When I was older I collected glass jars and methodically smashed them against a wall. Then just as methodically swept up the glass.