Blah About Moi

Tristan and Isolde

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 16:44:21 GMT

So, let's start out by me saying that I used to adore this movie. I first watched it in eighth grade and, being at that very vulnerably awkward frump-girl phase, I was swept away by it. I bought the movie not long afterwards and convinced my friends that they just HAD to see it.

Well, a couple years passed without me watching it. At all. Which, you know, happens. We all do it. I think. Anyway, so I watched it again yesterday, expecting to be swept off my feet as per usual.

Only that didn't happen.

I realized almost at once why it didn't do so fantastic at the box office; because, in all honesty, it wasn't that great. The dialogue was either much too modern sounding or, if it was period, it was stiff and awkward. I felt embarrassed for the actors, because in all truthfulness, I think a middle schooler might have written the script. And really, I'm all for trying to appeal to today's teens and all that, and it is true that the actors seemed more comfortable when modern-sounding dialogue would slip out, but it was a little disappointing.

The plot is another issue I have with the film. First of all, nowhere in the movie do we see any mention whatsoever of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table in Camelot. If this is a non-singing version of Wagner's opera, it still does not follow the plot well enough. I remember researching Tristan and Isolde after I saw the movie and being shocked to realize that Tristram and Isolde were actually involved with Arthurian legend. What was the *point*, really, of misleading the audience?

This is not to mention some wtf moments in the movie. The characters, at times, do things with absolutely no prior warning and no real reason for their actions. Sometimes you can't tell their real motives, unless they are Irish or involved with the Irish. The "good guys" tend to do utterly random things that make no real sense except to help along a muddled plot.

And now we come to the characters themselves. The only characters who carried any real constancy were the bad guys, so to speak. We know from the beginning that Wictred is not to be trusted, so it's no real surprise when he joins up with the Irish. Donnchadh's decision to help Wictred is a little surprising, considering that even the audience has a strong feeling that most of Wictred's plans are flops, but it is overall accepted. Melot's vacillation can be exasperating; he's best buds with Tristan, yet he betrays him for a title (which should admittedly be his) and to help the Irish, which is one of those wtf moments. His near-death redemption was only to be expected and not very touching.

With Marke, I was torn between amusement and annoyance. The man was so completely oblivious to everything around him. Let's face it: Cornwall should not have been left in his charge. He had no idea throughout the entire movie that his nephew, whom he had treated rather badly, was teaming up with Mr. Nasty-Pants Wictred and the Irish king to overthrow him. Also, he was "fulfilled" after marrying the near-catatonic Isolde and was oblivious that her many disappearances could be, you know, suspicious.

Tristan was such a whiny emo that I really couldn't feel sorry when he died. I just CAN'T. He was childish, and Marke hit the nail on the head (for once) when he said that Tristan felt he did not have enough. Yes, I understand, it was true love. But it was as if his alleged "loyalty" to Marke became nonexistent once a pretty blonde came into the picture. He turns away from her in her distraught state and then gets very snarly when she won't blatantly moon over him anymore. He then gets very demanding in their affair and suddenly tells her it must end. In short, he cannot make up his mind and whines whenever Isolde doesn't change moods as quickly as he does.

Isolde is obviously supposed to be a feminist, but that was a flub. Her anger at being married off made me sigh and roll my eyes. It's all well and good for Disney to use that (which they have done--repeatedly), but let's face it: That is what happened in the 6th century. Women were usually married off, and princesses almost never had a choice. Her running away is highly childish; where does she plan to go, exactly? I mean, her father, you know, only rules the whole KINGDOM. She is a bit rude, methinks, to be so unresponsinve to Marke; he IS her husband, after all, and although she no doubt discovered his ignorance early on, she should at least *try* not to fuel any suspicions he might have. Overall, she was very whiny and childish, which, I suppose, is why she and Tristan made such a good Twilight-esque couple.

The only character I can truly say I liked was Bragnae. She provided comic relief that was not anachronistic (unlike her many acquaintances) and was the only person who seemed to have a brain. Isolde was a silly little git for not listening to Bragnae. Bragnae knew precisely what would happen if her charge did this or that, and who listened? No one. The poor woman suffered the Cassandra Syndrome. So cheers to Bragnae.

All in all, it's not a terribly wonderful movie. If you're in the mood for a sappy romance, go right ahead. If you can't find anything better to watch, go for it. But if you're looking for something EPIC, I wouldn't advise it.

Fics ARE Judged by Their Covers

Mon, 01 Dec 2008 21:54:33 GMT

I rant about this often, and I finally decided to put it up on my LJ in the hopes that someone would see it and help make fanfiction.net a better place.

Despite the old saying of, "Don't judge a book by its cover," most people tend to judge appearances anyway. Which is why your title and summary are extremely important when posting a fic. Small errors can turn a lot of people off, so it's very unreasonable to whine about a lack of reviews when there's something you can do besides shouting at your readers.

Titles are not as big a problem as summaries, but they are worth mentioning anyway. In titles, the first word of the title and nouns and verbs should be capitalized while small words (i.e. as, the, a, was) should not. Remember your helping verbs. Another thing that should be addressed is the usage of numbers in titles. "Queen of My Heart: Part One" looks a lot more professional than "Queen of my heart part 1." Don't believe me? Look at any book with a title that follows the aforementioned example.

One of my biggest issues with titles is spelling and grammar. Spellcheck is there for a reason. Don't make excuses about "I didn't know how to spell it" when you know perfectly well you have a way of checking it. People will think you're stupid and careless for making such an error and will most likely not read it. Remember: The better it looks, the more readers you're likely to have.

Finally, most authors have trouble with titles; they almost always seem to sound stupid. DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT! Unless it is completely irrelevant to the fic, it's fine.

Now, onto summaries. Much of the above goes for summaries as well: Proper spelling, grammar and capitalization should be observed, numbers should be spelled out, etc. Don't apologize for the summary; everyone always hates their summaries and it's a rare talent to write a perfect summary.

Please, please don't ask for reviews in the summary. It's annoying. It implies that you only care about reviews, even if that's not the case. Those little "R&R" symbols are extremely annoying as well. That being said, please don't say "No flames" in your summary. That's what makes flamers flame. It makes me want to flame, too, when I see that someone is so insecure that they have to put that into the summary.

Basically, the summary should not be written to anyone. Few people like seeing, "Please review!" "NO FLAMES!" "The summary sucks, but it's way better, I promise!" "Summary inside." "Just read it and find out."

Thus concludes this entry.

LC's Grand Bashing of Edward Cullen

Fri, 15 Aug 2008 04:51:53 GMT

No, I am not a fan of Edward Cullen. At all. Twilight should not count as a novel. This is my view and if you don't like it, you won't like what else I have to say.

Edward Cullen, from what I understand, is a sparkly vampire who has an unhealthy obsession with a blatant Mary-Sue and, being over a hundred years old, is very possessive. He is also quite stupid. Perhaps someone can explain to me why this is "sexy?" Let's break this down, shall we?

Sparkly: That doesn't make a man attractive to me. It makes him appear homosexual, or at least metrosexual. Homosexuals obviously are not interested in women. That really makes them less attractive to me. Metrosexuals are fantastic, but I don't know of many who "sparkle." I liked sparkles when I was six, but even then I didn't like them on my men.

Vampire: Oh, yes, who wouldn't want a man who turns you into a damned, soulless creature? Vampires are seductive, yes, but they aren't mortal. I have never known a vampire who fell in love, but then again, Bella IS a Mary-Sue. That excuses everything.

Unhealthy Obsession with a Mary-Sue: Let's pretend for a moment that Bella is not a Sue. Difficult, I know, but let's try. The fact that he watches her when she sleeps is extremely unnerving. They hardly know each other and already he wants her? I don't care about her "special" blood; that doesn't give him the right to stalk her. This is generally frowned upon by bitchy girls like Bella.

Possessive: This is what I have the most issue with. Meyer is teaching young teen girls everywhere that it's "sexy" for a guy to freak out whenever you don't worship him. He orders Bella around and is generally very annoying. And Bella's such a bitch that you'd think she'd stand up for herself, but nooooo; Edward Cullen is a different matter entirely. My young cousin finds him attractive. That is just not right. This is a borderline masochistic relationship; Breaking Dawn sex scene, anyone? Bella even subjects herself to harm just to hear her loser boyfriend's voice. That's just not right. She is now a weakling, a bitch, a Mary-Sue and an even bigger idiot than before.

Quite Stupid: Well, think about it; anyone who falls for Bella is stupid. Out of all the girls in the world, he chooses HER. He tells her to avoid him and then orders her to see him soon. She's dumb and complains all the time and hates everyone, but he LOVES her?! I don't think so. Let's not forget his "vegetarianism." Um, no. That's not how vampires work. They don't choose to become vampires. Give them a break, Meyer.

Thus concludes my current rant. More will most likely be up later.

Madame Villeneuve

Sat, 24 May 2008 19:14:52 GMT


Petite Mademoiselle Young Madame Villeneuve in the blossom of her youth.	Courtship Not quite sure how their story went, but I think this happened somewhere along the lines.

Mademoiselle Mademoiselle as a dazzling young lady.	Reading Mademoiselle in a moment of peace.

Fair Ladies of France Mademoiselle and her confidante discussing the "incorrigible" Monsieur Villeneuve.	Madame Villeneuve Our girlish young mademoiselle is now the stately wife of Monsieur Villeneuve.

Violette The oldest Villeneuve daughter. Yes, the dress is Victorian, but it's not too off.	Pauline The youngest Villeneuve daughter in the latest of French fashions.

Oneshot

Sun, 11 May 2008 21:26:03 GMT

This is a Hunchback of Notre Dame oneshot I posted awhile ago. It's kinda short, but I'm rather proud of it.

“One half of me is yours, the other half yours—

Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,

And so all yours!”

-William Shakespeare

~~~

She watches him with his women. He is with them all the time. They surround him like a flock of sheep with their shepherd, and he is only too happy to oblige. He throws his head back and laughs at their smallest jests, grins when they make any movement, kisses them softly but lustily. They adore him. So does she. But he loves none of them.

He used to love them. He wrote sonnets, composed songs, even professed his undying devotion to them in the square before Notre Dame. But they never lasted long. He would grow bored with his lovers, discard them, and move on to the next one. And each time, the romances grew shorter and shorter until they only lasted as long as the wine did. It was not love; never love.

And all the while, she watches him. She is younger than him, and she has loved him all her life, it seems. He used to play with her and the other children, used to whip out his Puppet whenever she was gloomy. When she realized how to get his attention, she used to mope whenever he was around just so that he would look at her. But he grew bored with her constant depression, and so he abandoned his attempts to please her.

Instead of acting, she really did become morose, and now one likes her.

She is not pretty. She thinks herself ugly, and some agree. She is stout. Her face is dusted with blemishes. Her skin is not creamy like a gadje, but it is not rich like a pretty Romani. Her hair is flat and hangs meaninglessly around her shoulders. She is dull and plain. He does not see her.

He is handsome. Godlike. He is loved by all the women around him. Old, young, married, unmarried—all love him. He thinks their affection is sweet; naïve. He pretends to indulge them, but really he enjoys it. He languishes in their attentions, and once he has satisfied his unquenchable lust, he leaves them. Some are left in lakes of tears; others knew from the beginning that he would leave them. Those are the ones that move on, the ones that smile at him in a friendly fashion while on the arms of their beaus. It means little to them.

It means the world to her, but at the same time, it also means nothing. He will not love her while she pines for him. She knows that he will not love her; it is not knowledge, it is instinct. He may glance over at her once in awhile, but his eyes always find a pretty girl behind her, or perhaps one of his drinking friends. He knows her face, but he cannot place her, and so he ignores her.

The other girls simper in their gaggles; they know that the more of them there are, the more attention he will pay them. Even if she wanted to approach him, she could not. They shun her because of her appearance and her character. She is the ugly quiet girl. She is not worth their time.

She sees him walking down the streets of Paris, pulling a giggling fool into an alley, huskily kissing a wench at the tavern. She avoids the taverns, for he is always there with a wench upon his lap, giggling and simpering and flirting. They are all the same. Sometimes they have different hair, different eyes—always different clothes. But they are one and the same, and that is why he can never remember their names.

She wants him to remember her name. She wants him to whisper “Tsura,” into her ear, to kiss her softly and tenderly like he does his young virgins. They are never virgins at the end, and as upset as they are once he leaves, they are all grateful to have spent a night with him. She wants to be one of them. One night would cease the wrenching pain in her heart, and it would satisfy his lust.

She knows she could be a wonderful lover. She would caress him, kiss him tenderly, truly make love rather than a night of sweaty exertions by his trollops. He would beg for more, as would she. They would lay entwined in one another for a long time, and he would never go to another woman again. He would be hers, and she his, and they would belong to each other.

But in her heart of hearts, she knows it will not happen. She knows that should she be lucky enough to share one night with him, he will leave her the next morning. He will not remember her name. They will be expected to part ways. And she knows that while it will be pure agony, she will keep going.

He has a girl in each arm. His gloved hands slide easily around their thin waists, resting on their hips. When he deems it safe, his hand will slide to their bottoms and rest there. They do not complain. They do not even notice. They just keep simpering, batting their thick lashes. They do not know real love. They only know physical satisfaction, and he is just that. They are the same to him. It is not a relationship of any kind except a cycle of satisfaction that rewards them both.

And all the while, she is watching. Her passion comes in waves. Sometimes she feels ready to fling herself off a cliff, ready to wrench her agonized heart from her chest to stop the pain. Other times, she feels a dull resignation. She belongs to him, yet she is not his. She wants him to know the depth of her passion, but she is afraid. She feels unable to go on.

The years go by. More and more women come to his caravan, drunk and laughing. They leave with a satisfactory look on their face, purring as they bid him goodbye. She will not purr. She will not be drunk. She will be different from them, and he will notice. She will be a change, and he will love her for it. She wants to believe it, and it is what keeps her going.

Her father dies. It was only expected; he had had a hacking cough for years. Her mother goes to join the nomads, restless with her life in the Court of Miracles. Tsura’s sister, Vadoma, is married to a clothes-dyer. Tsura goes to live in their caravan. And she still watches him.

Her feelings do not go unnoticed. Vadoma knows. She smiles knowingly, making bawdy hints and jests that turn Tsura’s face pink. The other women tease her as well, pinching her cheeks and her rump playfully. They do not know the despair she feels, do not know that they heighten it.

And still he is unaware. He still brings women to his caravan, and if she does not hide out in her own, she will hear their moans, their animal noises of primitive satisfaction. She will not make such noises. She will not behave as loose as them. If she ever comes to his caravan, she will set herself apart.

She makes herself these promises. She vows to herself what she will and will not do to prove herself to him. She tells herself that she will own him. He will never want to be parted from her, and she will pretend to reluctantly allow him. They are petty fancies, promises she knows she is breaking the moment she makes them. But without them, she would be empty.

She walks past his caravan often. She loses weight, but it is still not enough. He still does not see her while he entertains the enthusiastic children with his colorful puppets and equally brilliant songs. She stops and watches every now and then, hoping he will look up and wink at her—but he does not.

And then she met Hanzi. He is two years older than her, younger than Clopin, but he notices her. He talked to her. Walked with her. Followed her. She found herself flirting with him, and she was overjoyed to find that he returned her feelings. She still loves Clopin, but Hanzi will have to do for now.

Hanzi is a nomad. He comes to Paris in the winter with his brother’s family, and he leaves in the spring when it is warm enough to travel. For two winters, he and Tsura are friends. They talk and laugh together. He teases her lightly, tugging at her hair. She lightly shoves him, flushing as she touches him. He is not muscular, not terribly handsome; he is not her Clopin. But he is enough.

On the third winter, they are no longer friends. They are lovers. She goes to his small tent, and she is happy. He holds her, does not push her away. The pain goes away after awhile, and she finds herself reciprocating willingly. She returns his embraces, his kisses, his emotions. For a time, she forgets about Clopin.

And then Hanzi leaves. He will be back in the winter, and he leaves her with a string of beads. They are beautiful. Not big enough to get her noticed and consequently arrested, but she knows they are there. She fingers the beads when she is thinking, runs her lips over their smooth surfaces when she feels alone. The pain from Clopin was eased by Hanzi, and the pain from leaving Hanzi slowly eases through time.

She continues wandering around Paris. She performs magic tricks, some slight of hand that puts bread on the table and clothes on her back. She is brighter. She has friends. She has found peace within herself. Clopin is no longer a priority.

And then one day, he comes to her. She is on her way back to the Court of Miracles when he approaches her. She is passing his caravan, fingering the beads again. She is lost in thought, wondering what bedtime story she will tell her niece and nephews tonight. He calls out to her, brushes a hand against her arm. She looks up, startled.

He is chattering unconcernedly, his laid-back demeanor putting her at ease. His grin makes her grin in return, and she realizes how silly she must look. But she doesn’t care. He is talking to her, willingly, and she would not change that moment for all the treasures in Christendom. And then he asks her.

“Are you going back to the Court, Tsura?”

He knows her name. Her heart flutters. She nods, mumbling a positive.

“Would you mind coming with me?”

He does not need to ask. He could bark at her to follow him, and she would still come willingly. But she is hesitant. He will leave her, of that she is certain. It is a law of nature; she will only last a night. Perhaps more, if she truly pleases him, but she does not matter. She is merely something to satisfy him. He needs a partner for the night, and she is the first girl he saw.

And yet, while this knowledge stings, it still does not seem to affect her. She always knew how it would happen, if ever it did. She has Hanzi. She will forget Clopin by the wintertime, and all will be well. She looks up at his dancing eyes.

“I will go with you.”

As she takes his arm, relaxing into his buoyant aura, she smiles. She is finally getting what she wants. Tonight, she will have her dream come true, her wish granted. And then, she will be able to live again.

They are bittersweet.

Possible Fanfic

Sun, 11 May 2008 06:10:31 GMT

Here is the prologue to a Tristan + Isolde fic I plan on doing. Some day.

She was trembling. He looked at his bride helplessly, unsure of how she was feeling. He tried to smile and found he couldn’t. She forced up a small smile, though her eyes betrayed her anxiety. The priest made the sign of the cross with his hand and declared them as man and his wife. He leaned forward and swiftly pecked her on the lips, drawing away instantly. The assembly cheered. He raised their joined hands, his smile growing. He glanced over at her.

“Are you ready?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

She genuinely smiled now. “I am, my lord.”

Marke strode forward, embracing the groom. “This is a happy day indeed, nephew!”

“Now Serafine,” Edyth began as she came to the newlyweds, “mind you take care of my Melot!”

Serafine flushed, glancing at Melot for a moment. “I will, my lady.”

~~~

“It is said that if the tribes unite, Marke will be made king,” one man said to another. They were sitting in an empty banquet hall, sharing a meal of bread and ale. A few servants occasionally entered, but they kept silent and did not disturb their master and his guest.

“Aye. I have no doubt of that. He is the strongest man I know, and he could lead us well,” the second man replied, tearing off a chunk of bread.

The guest looked contemplative for a moment. “He has not yet taken a wife, has he?”

The host shook his head. “No. But it should not be long; he is the talk of many halls.”

The guest paused before he spoke again. “Then he is left without an heir?”

The host put down his bread and looked at his guest cautiously. “Yes.”

“So if, as I suspect, Marke becomes king and dies without a child, your son will inherit the throne?”

A flicker of a smile came across the host’s face. “Aye. A fine lad, he is.”

The guest took a gulp of ale. “He’s still very young…how old is your boy? Melot, isn’t it?”

“Aye, Melot. He’s five winters.”

The guest nodded. “I will not keep you in suspense any longer, Lord Meliodas. I came to make an agreement. A betrothal between my child and yours.”

“Oh?” Meliodas urged eagerly.

“Aye. My daughter is four harvests and as pretty as can be. She’s my pride and joy, and I’ll not hand her off to just any man. I think it would be a most advantageous match between my daughter and your son.”

Meliodas sipped from his ale, thinking. “And what, Leofric, if my son is not made king of Cornwall?”

Leofric shrugged. “He will still be governor of Cornwall after your passing, will he not? You know I am a man of little titles. The baronetcy means little when the Irish are commanding us like slaves. Melot is ensured a fine life. And you cannot tell me you want your son to marry just any maiden?”

Meliodas grinned. “You have yourself a betrothal, Lord Leofric. Let it be agreed that when your daughter is of age and the time is ripe, our children shall be joined in marriage!”

Who Are You People?

Fri, 09 May 2008 21:33:57 GMT

This is a half-rant, half-rhetorical question, and I promise to try and keep down the rantiness.

Like most of my peers (though not all), I caved in and got a Facebook. I think I mentioned that earlier. Anyway, it was all fun at first when I would find people I know or they would find me and my friend list steadily grew. Then some people I hadn't seen in awhile sent Friend Requests and I thought, "Okay, sure; why not?" Then some people I wasn't exactly friends with but had classes with sent Friend Requests. Again, I shrugged and accepted. But then some people I know only from passing them in the hallways started sending them.

I accepted them because I am a passive person. Usually. I didn't want to be mean and ignore it; that was just snotty. But I finally received a Friend Request that made me gape at the incredulity of the human race.

There is a girl whose name I only know because of the Eighth Grade Awards Ceremony. I remember because on that day while I was entering and she was leaving the bathroom, I accidentally bumped her and said, "Excuse me." She sent me a dirty glare but said nothing. The only time she has ever spoken to me was a few months prior when we were in a crowded hallway and I accidentally stepped on the heel of her Rainbow (I seem quite accident-prone, really). She whirled around, regardless of the hold-up she was causing, and snarled (yes, snarled) in my face, "Don't step on my SHOES!" Her friend looked embarrassed but said nothing as they continued.

Now, I ask you: What in Aslan's name was she thinking? Surely she wouldn't remember that incident; I know for a fact that she is snobby to just about everyone and I am unlikeyl to stand out. So it's not as if she was trying to make amends for her behavior. But seriously: She doesn't even know me. I have undergone a HUGE transformation since we last "talked;" I am finally emerging from my frump-girl stage and actually care what I look like before I let the whole world see me (I looked like a hobo in eighth grade). A lot of people don't recognize me from even last year. So it's not like she just remembers my face but can't place it.

Is it merely because we have one or two friends in common on Facebook? If so, that's pathetic. I'm blonde and blue-eyed, but that doesn't make me a Nazi. Friending people you don't know is the way to get raped. For all she knows, I could be a pedophile. I'm NOT, by all means, but how on earth is she to know that?

This isn't the only case; it's just the one that irked me the most. A girl who begged for my study guide last year and trash-talked me on the same day sent me a friend request. A girl who made it clear that I wasn't "hot" enough for her crowd did the same.

I know that I took the risk by venturing onto the internet and getting a Facebook. But honestly: What the heck are people thinking? OJ Simpson's face is familiar to me; that doesn't mean I'm going to friend him.

And if this entry goes to my Facebook as I think it will, GOOD. Because I want people to realize that they what makes the internet such an enticing place for rapists and pedophiles and general sickos. DUH. We wouldn't have these problems with internet pervs if people kept their friend lists limited to people who are their REAL friends.

Ok, so it was a little ranty. But Good Lord, this is ridiculous.

Llama

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 21:45:17 GMT

This is probably the most random thing I will ever post.

So today a llama was running around our small town, which I shall call Candy Mountain. You don't know how rare this is. I mean, we don't HAVE llamas here. We have horses, ponies, a few cows in the farmish area, but definitely no llamas. And of all the random animals to pop up in Candy Mountain, it's a freaking llama. That made my LIFE.

So I'm sitting on the bus, reading "All Quiet on the Western Front" to get ahead of my classmates and pwn them, when the sixth-graders (sadly, high school and middle school ride the same buses) start freaking out. I'm thinking someone farted. Which happens a lot. Anyway, my friend Julie said, "That was a really big deer."

For the record, I'm in the south, and deer are quite common. I look up, and running around in circles in front of the Tractor Supply & Co. is a huge thing, which I scream is a llama. Because, sadly, I'm the only one who can identify it. Our bus was in the longest red light EVER, and it ran across the street and went all the way to J.P. Looney's, where someone supposedly tied it up until the owner came.

The owner in question was driving his truck down our main highway when the trailer door opened and the llama fell out. Another friend of mine was on the bus behind him when this happened. He shut the door, thinking the llama was still in there, and everyone on the bus was reported to have shouted that his llama was loose. By the time he understood, it was at McDonald's, where it then proceeded to TSC.

I'm still having trouble getting over this. I've been laughing in the middle of all my classes in dead silence because of this llama. It was the most random thing ever to happen.

Hunter told me I failed because I didn't name the llama. He suggested I call it Leroy. Jame-O and I agreed that Tina was better, because it was kind of a fat lard. But that may have been the curly hair.

In any case, Tina the llama has officially made my life. Not my day, not my week; my LIFE.

Facebook

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 22:17:12 GMT

So, I just got a Facebook, and I've gotta tell ya; I have never repeated things so many times.

But it's not all bad; I've found people I've long lost contact with, so I guess that's cool.

But now I realize how obsessed I am with the internet. Which isn't a good thing. I have an account on fanfiction.net, fictionpress.com, LiveJournal, and Facebook. I also have two separate email addresses on yahoo.com, so I have to constantly sign in and sign out.

But I shouldn't rant.

Hello, I Guess

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 02:00:44 GMT

I've finally caved and gotten a LiveJournal. Everyone on fanfiction.net was all, "Get one, get one! It's fun!" So...I got one. Hey, my friends (the ones who don't get on ff.net) were pressuring me to get a Facebook. It was either this or Facebook. I chose LJ.

This isn't really a journal entry, per se. More of me being morbidly curious and testing this doohickey out.

Hasta la vista, I guess.