I Has a Sweet Potato

You know, a lot of times I write up random posts and then don't post them. But Best Beloved just called me, and I could not really explain why I was inarticulate about sweet potatoes, so I said I'd go ahead and post this. That way, she can read it at work and know just what kind of day it has been. (Short version, for those who do not feel like reading the whole post: ARRRRRRG. Fucking sweet potatoes.)

The longer version, summarized in conversation form:

Dog: I am starving.
Me: Actually, no. You aren't starving. You get two very good meals a day. And treats. And Best Beloved fed you extra food while I was gone.
Me: I saw you get fed not four hours ago! You are not starving.
Dog: Pity me, a sad and tragic creature, for I can barely walk, I am so starving. WOE.
Me: I am now ignoring you.
Dog: Did you hear me? I am starving.
Dog: Are you seriously ignoring me? Fine.

[There is a pause, during which the dog exits the room in a pointed manner.]

[From the kitchen, there comes a noise like someone is eating a baseball bat.]

Me, yelling: What the hell are you doing?
Me: *makes haste for the kitchen and finds dog there*
Dog: *picks up entire raw sweet potato, which is what was causing the baseball bat noise, and flees for the bedroom*
Me: *chases dog, retrieves most of sweet potato, less the portion which has disappeared into dog's gullet*
Me: ...That can't be good for you. It's a RAW SWEET POTATO.
Dog: I had to do it. I haven't been fed. Ever.
Me: You realize you aren't normal. Normal dogs don't steal raw sweet potatoes.
Dog, sadly: I was badly brought up.
Me: Yes. Yes, you were.
Dog: By people who starved me.
Me: Oh, no. I am not doing this again.
Me: *exits the room, bearing sweet potato*

[There is a pause.]

[There is a noise like someone is trying to eat a baseball bat very very quietly.]

Me: Oh, for the love of GOD.
Me: *heads off to the kitchen*
Dog: I am not eating a raw sweet potato.
Me: You have sweet potato parts all over your snout.
Dog: But you don't actually SEE a raw sweet potato, do you? So maybe that's just - um. A birthmark.
Me: Did you seriously eat a whole sweet potato?
Dog: You don't listen. I told you, I wasn't eating a sweet potato.
Me, searching around fruitlessly: Look. NO MORE SWEET POTATOES.
Me: Oh, what am I saying? This is you we're talking about, here. *goes to hide all the sweet potatoes that are left - which isn't many - in the fridge, because some people cannot be trusted*
Dog: *attempts to look thwarted*
Dog: *does not succeed, because her tail is wagging so hard small cyclones are forming in the kitchen*
Me: *has a very bad feeling about this*

[There is a pause, during which I do not even bother trying to return to what I was doing. I just stand in the computer room, waiting.]

[There is, as I wholly expected, a baseball-bat-eating noise.]

Me, stomping back to the kitchen: OKAY. GIVE ME THE DAMNED SWEET POTATO.
Dog, looking up guiltily: What sweet potato?
Dog: Oh, did you want this? I just, um. Found it. Lying here.
Me: *confiscates the sweet potato and deposits it in the locking trashcan*
Me: Let us say no more about this.
Dog: ...Nooooo! They be stealin' my sweet potato!

[I attempt to remember what I was doing before the sweet potato episode.]

[Some ten minutes later, I succeed, and return to it.]

[NOT ONE MINUTE LATER, I hear a noise with which I have become all too familiar.]

Me, bonking head on desk: Arg.
Me, arriving in kitchen: How did you even get another sweet potato?
Dog, smugly: I have my ways.
Me: Are you punishing me for being away for several days? I was at a FUNERAL, you know. It wasn't FUN.
Dog: How would I know? You didn't take me. You left me here with only one human to look after my needs. One human is NOT ENOUGH.
Me: *shuts dog in bedroom, conducts a sweep of the kitchen to track down all remaining sweet potatoes, wipes up random sweet potato particles from floor, eradicates all traces of sweet potato from house*
Me: *lets dog out*
Dog, sulkily: Oh, so you think you've won.

[I watch her go about her business with the same sense of overwhelming doom that heroines of Victorian novels get when they meet Count Sinistrus Grimblack for the first time.]

[Half an hour later, there is a wetter, juicier eating noise, as though someone was eating a very moist baseball bat.]

Me, wearily: What NOW?
Dog, hunched over the remains of a butternut squash: *says something garbled because her mouth is full*
Me: Okay. Fine.
Me: *stomps over, empties entire vegetable bowl into trash*
Dog: I'm not even remotely sorry. I told you I was hungry. And you went to a funeral without me.

[A half-hour later, there is another baseball-bat-eating noise from the kitchen. The dog, who apparently does not know how to win gracefully, has found another sweet potato, or possibly caused one to materialize from the Rift.]

Me, hauling chewed sweet potato parts from the mouth of a dog very reluctant to part with them: Oh my god how is this my life?
Dog: Don't you think it would just be easier to feed me?
Dog: Actually, I feel...um...not so good.
Dog: *throws up* *vomit is very bright orange*

[Unfortunate details ensue.]

Some time later:
Me, attempting to rescue something from the wreckage: So. What have we learned from this?
Dog: Sweet potatoes are yummy!
Other Dog, looking thoughtful: I should pay more attention to crunching noises. Sweet potatoes are probably yummy.
Me: I need a lobotomy.

And that, Best Beloved - and anyone else who made it through that - is What Kind of Day It Has Been.


[ETA 6/22/2007: Hi! I can't reply to comments on this entry any more; I'm reading them all, and loving them, but responding is beyond me. So:

If you'd like to link people here, feel free.

If you'd like to leave a comment, please do. They make me happy.

If you'd like to repost or use this elsewhere, please don't; I'd prefer you to link. And no commercial use of my work without my permission, please.

If you see this reposted or used elsewhere, I'd very much appreciate a comment or email - thefourthvine at livejournal dot com - to let me know where.

Thank you for reading!

...And, yes, she has had more sweet potato; I gave it to her when the comments on this hit the tenth page. I figured she'd earned it.]

First Line List

Greetings, first line challenge person! Please note that any first line you fancy is fair game, but I don't have an easy or convenient listing of all my fan fiction, so I've put together this list. But if you happen upon another first line you'd rather use, feel free.

Here you'll find the first lines of all my dS stories (I think) and the first lines of every story I could find that wasn't wholly fandom-specific. I've provided links to the stories, for whatever good that will do you. I've also included slightly more than just the first line in a few cases; for some stories, the first line was just a single word, which isn't all that evocative. But do as thou wilt, of course; you can chop off the rest of the line if you like.

due South StoriesOther Fandom Stories

Story: A Friendly Warning for Those Considering Playing Shadow Hearts: Bangkok Nights [Penny Arcade]

Title:A Friendly Warning for Those Considering Playing Shadow Hearts: Bangkok Nights
Author: littera_abactor
Fandom: Penny Arcade
Rating: As far as I'm concerned, if you're old enough to read Penny Arcade, you're old enough to read this.
Notes: This will only make the slightest lick of sense to those who know Penny Arcade. Knowledge of the Shadow Hearts video game series will also help. For your convenience, and as a sneak preview of Shadow Hearts, here is the strip in which Gabe and Tycho play Shadow Hearts: Covenant. If you're at all fond of gay porn, you probably want to check out that strip; everything it says is quite, quite true. And if you like that, brown_betty has quite the compendium of further PA strips for you to enjoy. Join the party! The Gay Penny Arcade Party!
Thanks: manasseh and lucia_tanaka beta-read this and encouraged me. (Came up tails, Lucia!) But none of it was their fault; please hold them harmless for all that follows.

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Not-Fandoms and Me: A Sad Tale of Slash Corneas

So, cereta asked people to tell her what obscure books or movies or comics or whatever we've come across lately and thought, "Yuletide fandom!" And the thing is - well. I can't really do that. I'm handicapped by a litle thing I've heard called slash corneas (although really it ought to be slash occipital lobe, because it goes deeper than just my eyes).

See, once upon a time, I had never heard of slash. But I was still a slasher, and the proof is in everything I read obsessively and repetitively between the ages of 10 and 14 (Georgette Heyer, Wodehouse, Asimov's I, Robot, Moby Dick, John D. MacDonald, and on and on and on, believe you me). It's not just that I see now that it's all wonderfully subtextual and slashy, it's that I saw it then. I just didn't know the name for the dynamic that fascinated me so.

But now that I do know what slash is, and why it fascinates me, and I have Best Beloved as my partner in crime for the slash hunt (kind of like a treasure hunt, but at the end there's glorious, glorious porn), I see slash everywhere - so much so that I really couldn't answer cereta's question without copying down most of the contents of my library and DVD collection.

As an example, and to answer said question, I dug up the rest of this post, which I wrote three weeks ago but decided wasn't worth posting. (Yeah, that happens. A lot. You all should be very grateful that you're spared 80% of my rambling; I expect, at minimum, an e-card in thanks. Maybe something with a tasteful puppy motif.) But, hey, if Lucy needs distraction, I want to give it to her, so - here's my Not-Fandom I Saw Slash in Recently.


I'm watching a documentary - Best Beloved gets anime from Netflix and I get documentaries; it's just our thing - called The Cutting Edge. It's about film editing, and it's fascinating in its own right. I totally recommend it to anyone who likes either slash or vids, and if you like both, get it right now.

Because it's not just educational; it's also the slashiest thing I have ever seen. Film editing, it turns out, is slashier than due South and The Sentinel combined. No. It's more slashy than that.

We are, as I write this, thirteen minutes in. And we've already had to pause to sketch out the obvious RPS begging to be written between D.W. Griffith and his editor, James Smith. I can't quite capture the insanely slashy descriptions of their relationship - you'll just have to watch the documentary for yourself - but the salient facts are these:
  1. They were together basically around the clock in the studio, "working" late into the night on the film shot during the day.

  2. They were joined at the hip.

  3. And when Smith got married to another editor during the shooting of Intolerance, Griffith gave the two of them the weekend off.
I'm sorry. There's a whole story in there - the desperate 2 a.m. blowjobs, Griffith's abrasive personality, Smith's yearning for conventionality and his feelings of suffocation under Griffith's rising fame and creative obsessions, the introduction of Rose, Smith's relationship with Rose, Griffith's rising jealousy desperately suppressed, the weekend off that Griffith spends drinking in the studio - I mean, it writes itself. Right? Right? (God, I hope I'm not alone in this. Slashland is a better place to live when you have neighbors.)

And then Ridley Scott says that picking an editor is like getting married, and of course my brain goes immediately to "a partnership is like a marriage, son."

And then Quentin Tarantino talks about how he wanted a female editor on his first movie, Reservoir Dogs, because he thought she'd be more nurturing and less aggressive, and -

Okay. First, Best Beloved says, "Mommy issues! Quentin, your mommy issues are showing."

And then I say, "Is it just me, or does he talk exactly like Rodney McKay?"

And he does. He so totally does. The first time he shows up in the documentary, when he's trying to dumb down editing so that the (idiot - this is never stated but clearly implied) audience can understand it, he's got the Rodney-explaining-things-to-Elizabeth tone. Later, he's got the hand gestures, the inflections - it's just, it's fucking terrifying how much he sounds and moves like Rodney McKay.

So BB and I discuss this for a bit, and then I say: "OH MY GOD. AU. Rodney's a director, John is the editor!"

And then we get to Tarantino's description of the editing of the date scene in Pulp Fiction, where he loses it and starts flailing his hands around (I was afraid someone would get hurt, seriously) and says stuff like, "And sometimes I get annoyed with her for not reading my mind 100%, all right. It's not good enough that she reads it 80% of the time, all right." (One thing he does that Rodney McKay does not do, thank god, is say "all right" at the end of every fucking sentence until you want to beat him to death.)

Sally Menke, the editor from Pulp Fiction (and Reservoir Dogs) says, "We work very intensely together and it's kind of amazing that we still like each other. If I was with my husband that long, I don't think I'd like him that much."

And then comes another director/editor pair, Alexander Payne/Kevin Tent, and Payne is saying that making a movie is exhausting. After he's written the script, gotten the financing, cast the movie, directed it, etc., he's so happy to get to the cutting room because he can finally start making the movie. "It's like I've washed up on shore."

Tent, his editor, says: "It's so hard to be a director. It's hard on the set, by the time they come into the cutting room the first week, they're usually half the people they were when they started out, you know, they're shells of the people they were. And, at least in my cutting room, I try to make it very easygoing and try to heal them back into shape so that they can get to work on the movie." I just - am I the only one who hears the plaintive voices crying out for slash there?

(By the way, Payne and Tent told a story - in different interviews, but they cut back and forth between them telling it precisely the same way, and, hello, MORE SLASHINESS - about editing Election; for a pivotal scene, Payne wanted to cut it one way - like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, with swelling music and very long close-ups on each face - and Tent wanted to use dozens of very fast cuts, and Tent ended up getting his way via bribery.

I'm sorry, is it just me or can you hear Rodney saying, "No. NO. John, I'm the director, and we're going to - it's going to be just like -"

"Rodney, if you say The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly again, I'm going to -"

"It's perfect! Come on - the drama, the swelling music, the long, long shots -"

John lowered his head and let it rest on the edge of his table. "Rodney. No."

Rodney folded his arms across his chest, raised his chin, and pouted. John had always found the expression ridiculously endearing, but since Rodney usually pulled it when John pretty much wanted to strangle him, it tended not to be really obvious. And Rodney - well. He was Rodney.

John closed his eyes. Right now, he didn't need to find Rodney endearing. He needed to find Rodney a new job. Or maybe he just needed to find himself a gun.

"'Genius.' 'Stunning vision.' 'One of the most compelling, fresh, and creative directors of our time,'" Rodney said, using his interview voice. "'His movies define a generation.'"

"And who cut those films?" John went right ahead and answered himself, since Rodney wasn't going to. "I did. And who argued with you about the flying motorcycle scene? I did. And the sex scene in the shower? I did. And the alien hives coming alive? I did. And I was right. And I'm right about this, and it's 2 a.m., and I know you've been through three vats of espresso but some of us need sleep, so - look. You know I'm right. Stop fighting it."

Rodney sighed heavily, the classic put-upon genius, and said, "John. You're not seeing my vision here."

"I'm seeing your vision fine. The problem is that you aren't hearing me tell you it sucks."

John didn't need to be able to see Rodney to know that he was leaning forward now, his arms open, his hands framing a widescreen. "John, just picture it. Okay, so he comes in, and his -"

"Rodney. Please. I will pay you money to just let me cut it my way."

There was a pause, and John cracked one eye open. Rodney was wearing his thinky face.

"How much?"

"Fifty dollars."

"Not worth it." Rodney sounded smug.



"Rodney, I'll blow you. Just let me fucking cut it my way."

Another pause, and then Rodney said, "You'll - seriously?" His voice cracked on the last syllable.

John lifted his head up all the way; suddenly he was a lot less tired. He looked Rodney up and down, head tilted, inspecting the goods, until Rodney's face started to fall, and then he said, "Yup. After you let me make the cut."

"God, just - do it, okay? Do it already." Rodney obviously couldn't figure out what expression he was supposed to be wearing or how he was supposed to be acting, and he'd settled on a fascinating combination of truculence, anger, amusement, disbelief, and hope. But his face was flushing and he didn't know what to do with his hands, and even someone who wasn't an expert speaker of non-verbal Rodney would know what that meant.

John reached out to his board, tapped two keys, and saved his work. Then he turned to Rodney, licked his lips, and smiled.

I mean, it's not just me, right? You can see it now, right? Oh, god, please tell me you can see it; I don't want to be all alone in the land of Slash Everywhere.)

And Payne says, "I think editors are like sly politicians." I mean - hello! JOHN! He sucks at working with the natives, but with one individual person? If that person is Rodney? YES.

And then, as if this documentary wasn't wonderful enough, they throw in a little bonus cookie of film wank, with Rob Cohen all, "Fast cutting is like OMG SO COOL and all you people with your forty-second shots are SO LAME and OLD and stuff."

And Martin Scorsese is all, "Listen, noob, you're RUINING THE CULTURE with your fast cuts. You're destroying society!"

And I say to Best Beloved: "Hey, I think I saw this argument on metafandom like, last week."

Seriously, this is the best documentary ever. You need to watch it. And film is so my new fandom. Well, this week, anyway.


So there you have it: a look at a post I didn't post, and a discussion of the latest not-fandom I briefly became obsessed with. Plus, hey, it's a handy exemplar for the Slash Brain Diagnostic Test. (This would be the example for the "very severe" diagnosis, for the record.)

Okay. Time to send me the e-cards saying, "Thank you for usually sparing us the unfiltered contents of your brain. Please return to this policy ASAP." (Remember: puppy motif! Or, or, maybe wombats, if you can find them! Or red pandas!)

Are You Ready for the Zombie Hordes?

Following in the wise footsteps of 30toseoul, I have done a thorough investigation into:

The State of Readiness of My Home for Zombie Attack

Structurally: Our house is earthquake retrofitted so it could probably withstand a substantial amount of zombie battering, but it also has large front windows much less likely to survive the initial assault. (Upside: they'll come in through the windows and immediately get tangled up in the shoe rack and the mystery box we keep just under those windows. This will give us valuable moments to escape. Disorganization is a survival trait, y'all.)

Weapons: Horrible, unless you count the dogs, in which case poor. (One dog would be terrified. The other dog would almost certainly view the zombies as convenient snacks and chewtoys, which would mean we'd need to keep her away from them. Even Labs can be made sick by the rotting flesh of zombies, although you could never convince them of it.) Otherwise, we have no weapons.

We do have several large, sharp kitchen knives, though. And we have a large number of indestructible dog toys, including numerous Galileo bones. You mock, but our dog chews these until they closely resemble Levallois flint axe heads, only with a much lower fracture potential. They are entirely capable of drawing blood - I have several scars from them, in fact - and they are also bulky and heavy. Tied to a haft, they could make serviceable, albeit stone-age, weapons. We also have glass bottles that could be broken in emergency. (The good news: if it turns out to be vampires instead, this house is very well equipped with garlic.)

Zombie influx: Would not be high initially. We are not near any cemeteries. However, once the brain-eating started - this is Los Angeles County. Nine million people live here. Many of them are already lacking significant brain sectors and would thus make easy zombie prey. The zombie expansion factor would certainly be exponential, so early escape would be a must. (This means we will likely die, because we have never been able to do anything in a hurry.)

Initial position: Moderate. We would probably be alerted before the zombie hordes began their local rampage.

Street position: Average. We are located on the middle of the block; I have to assume that zombies would begin at the ends. And, frankly, we would not be at all sorry if they started with the people on the corner, who have the annoying teenage son and who put up the anti-gay marriage signs during the election. Although those people may already be zombies; it would explain a lot. I would feel a little bit bad if the zombies began at the other end of the block; the teenage boy down there may have a garage band, but surely death at the hands of a zombie is a high price to pay for mangling Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit at high volume every Saturday for your entire high school career.

Human traffic: Very low. Nobody walks in LA, after all. Upside: we have high street traffic, and local drivers are very accustomed to using their vehicles aggressively. (Downside: with the beach cities so nearby, many of these people will be deeply concerned about their finish - "I just had it hand-detailed!" - and thus reluctant to ram zombies. They can most effectively be deployed using the famous "baby to the wolves" maneuver.)

Other exits: Good. We have three doors. The zombies are unlikely to discover the back one. And even if they do, they're going to have problems with the door handle. Everyone has problems with that door handle.

Retreat position: Poor. We have to run out the side door to get to the garage. This means exposure to zombies. And this is LA, so retreating without a car is basically impossible.

Escape route: Poor. The freeways would be jammed, and the zombies would be roaming along yanking humans from their aluminum casings and snacking on their brains like it was a cement-based smorgasbord. (Many of them will disappoint the zombies. It is a proven fact that most people remove their brains for safekeeping before using an onramp.)

Defensive base: Unlikely. Our best option might be to flee to Compton or South-Central, where people will be better armed. Another option would be to flee to the nearby mall. Everyone gets lost in there; zombies would be doomed to spend their entire unlives endlessly circling the fountain and trying to go up the down escalator.

Acquiring more weapons: Depends. If we retreat to Compton or South-Central, it's a possibility. Also, because we live in an unincorporated area, there's a gun shop right nearby. (And that creepy surveillance equipment store. That might make a good defensive base, come to think of it; I bet the owners have a really solid zombie preparedness plan.)

Collecting the troops: Poor. This is LA. Nobody lives near anybody.

Riding it out: Depends. If we retreat in the right direction, there are some hotels with kick-ass security and a lot of amenities.

Special weaknesses: One person in this household - and I am naming no names, although I will note that I'll have to go take a shower and a sedative after I finish typing this up - has a zombie phobia. She may prove to be a liability during zombie attack, unless she goes all berserker, in which case she will be useful for covering the retreat of the saner residents. She'd want it that way, really.



  • Commence training dogs in zombie attack. (Suggested command word: "BRRRRAIIIIIINS.")
  • Purchase ranged weapons in bulk.
  • Line lawn with pointy sticks; zombies are stupid and will step right on them. (Downside: mailman is also stupid.)
  • Ally with the neighborhood seniors; they are, if my experience at my voting station is anything to go by, very likely to survive through sheer orneriness. (Downside: sheer orneriness is not just deployed against zombies.)
  • Investigate entrances to nearby elementary school, with special focus on defensible areas; try to think up something harmless to tell the police if caught so doing.
  • Attend neighborhood council meeting and distribute zombie readiness brochures. (Downside: attending neighborhood council meeting likely to be unbearably painful. May be able to mitigate this through effective pharmaceutical deployment.)
  • Obtain maps of local cemeteries.
  • Purchase frozen brains to use as decoy. (Downside: no good can come of asking a butcher if the brains are "zombie-fresh.")

Are you ready for the inevitable zombie invasion? Evaluate your preparedness today!


The Once and Future Warning

[They say context is for the weak. So I'm weak, so what? This is a comment I made in someone else's friendslocked post. liviapenn, this repost is for you.]


This story has words made of letters, and sentences made of words and punctuation and spaces. It has paragraphs and dialog and characters and a plot.

The following items may or may not be included in this plot: Sex. Sex involving men and/or women in numbers totalling no more than 17. Masturbation. Mutual masturbation. Gratuitous display of manly flesh. Gratuitous display of womanly flesh. Gratuitous display of flesh that does not acknowledge divisions of sex or gender. Tattoos. Weapons porn. Violence. Thoughts of sex and violence without any kind of cathartic follow-through. First contact. Alien lifeforms. Aliens with needs. Kink. Cliches. Decadence. The decimalization of currency. Current events. Electricity. Ancient cultures. Major scientific advances. Male pregnancy. Female pregnancy. Dog pregnancy. Dogs and cats, living together. Cats and cats, living together. Religion. Bad religions. A lot of references to Night of the Hunter. Telepathy. Dragons. Vampires. Zombies. Evil children. Big guns. Psychics. Clones. Holograms. Slime. Jelly. Peanut butter. Sandwiches of evil. Tossed green salad with caramelized walnuts and pears. Feasts. Famine. Fruit sex. Bee swarms. Facts of dubious scientific accuracy. Facts of dubious mythological accuracy. Wings on things that you wouldn't expect to have wings. Hands in new places. Time travel. Time bombs. Blonde bombshells from 1940s movies. Recapitulation of the plot of Spartacus. Slavery. Torture. Prison. Oysters. Bathtubs. Bath salts. Unhealthy dietary preferences. Unhealthy life choices. Unhealthy minds. Unhealthy bodies. Spontaneous healing, followed by a terrifying regimen of complete and total health. Fast cars. Loose women. Looser men. Intoxicants. Sharp suits. Sharp blades. Blunt weapons. Blunt speech. Low jokes. Sunken ships. The lost continent. Marine mammals. And everything else that has ever or will be ever in my head.

Now. Don't say I didn't warn you, okay?

Rant: Me and My Tampons

Note: This post contains discussion of feminine unmentionables. Those who have issues with this - or who are deeply disturbed by the normal cycles of the female human body - should skip right over this one. (And probably start some therapy, but that's just my guess.)

Recently, the manufacturer of the tampons I buy changed the packaging. For the record, these would be Kotex Security Tampons (note the clever use of "security" right there in the title - I mean, to me that suggests that they shoot mace from time to time, but the important thing is that we girls know we can count on Kotex), brought to us by the fine people at Kimberly-Clark. The package used to have kind of a purple theme going on - you know, the kind that says, "BOYS: DANGER. THIS PRODUCT IS FOR GIRLS. If you purchase it, you will immediately be emasculated by a team of top drugstore surgeons." Kind of unnecessary, because I promise you no male has ever accidentally purchased tampons, just on impulse or whatever, but I was used to it, anyway.

Now the packaging is white, accented with a single red tulip. The message is, "Ladies! This product is to staunch the flow of blood before it reaches your girlish white underthings, or, god forbid, pants." Apparently the manufacturers don't know that the last time any of us wore white during our periods was when we were 13, because frankly their products are not quite that reliable. ("Why is she getting married in red?" "Why do you think?") But, again, whatever. I kind of resented the packaging change, yes. I tried not to look directly at the box, yes. That tulip pissed me off at a time when I was, frankly, already really prone to being kind of bitchy, yes.

But eventually we all get over our resentments. So today, I read the box.

Let's just say the healing didn't begin, okay?

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WiP Amnesty Fic: Mating Rituals in the Pegasus Galaxy (SGA, McKay/Sheppard, PG-13)

It's wip_amnesty day, and in celebration, I am dragging out some of my never-to-be-finished stories. This one was one of those stories. You know, the ones that are great fun to write, but then prove to be somewhat less of a story than you'd hoped. It's actually basically finished; I got as far as looking for beta-readers before things happened, and then other things happened, and then I just...I lost my enthusiasm, basically.

*pokes story sadly*

So here it is: my attempt to cram every single cliche in the aliens-make-them playbook into fifteen pages of story.

Title: Mating Rituals in the Pegasus Galaxy
Author: Littera Abactor
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Pairing: John Sheppard/Rodney McKay
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5,150

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