kb reincarnate

gahhhhhh

2002-07-04T21:19:28Z

I am having difficulties. Finding actor pics for characters is always hard; the task is complicated if, when given a description, all you can think of is River Phoenix.

River Phoenix is not HO's Blaise Zabini; unfortunately, River Phoenix looks much like the following description:

brown hair w/red-gold highlights, blue eyes, olive skin, medium build, tall. (and possibly skinnier than he should be, at the moment, due to Mexico perhaps?)

Anyone have any other ideas? I am going for a kind of understated elegance, but since I didn't decide on the physical specifics, I can't get an image in my mind.

(btw, Kym, this is not the Blaise you RP with, who is XX and quite different and, as you have said, looks exactly like me and is therefore automatically sexy.)

wtf?

2002-07-04T06:33:47Z

It is illegal to possess a dildo except as an 'educational model'? Is this true? Gee whiz. Note that I live in Texas USA.

...am surrounded by criminals!

Happy birthday to deepsix

2002-06-27T03:56:31Z

I made V a silly little birthday present.

But none of you are allowed to see it unless you've read "Trash" at her site.

Go read it now.

NOW.

Okay, you're back? Wasn't that hilarious. Yes it was. Now go back and read any of the other stuff that catches your fancy, because V is something of an undiscovered gem, and she's marvelous. (Undiscovered mostly because she hates the fandom, and I for one do not blame her.)

Happy birthday!

katiebec @ 2002-06-25T17:01:00

2002-06-25T22:07:54Z

WANT MY FUCKING JOB BACK NOW.

um. sorry. Sometimes that feeling just overwhelms me and I can't hold it back.

You know what? Now I'm glad that I 'borrowed' that cool clown shirt for my Halloween costume last fall. (The cat is my sister. Gorgeous, no?) I don't think I'll give it back to the studio, either. Take that!

katiebec @ 2002-06-25T16:50:00

2002-06-25T21:56:22Z

"the delaying death"

Okay. I know that's a quote from something. But I don't know what. However, I am sure one of you out there knows. Please tell me!

I'm thinking Shakespeare, but isn't that always the answer?

un poquito mas duro
un poquito mas duro!
sigue sigue
...
una princesa pasó por mi lado
La miré con ganas

Wow, that even makes sense. In my head, anyway. I hope that's what they're singing. Tiburon=shark!

thunderstorm

2002-06-25T21:39:49Z

Fifteen minutes ago

the rain poured down, with an immense sudden violence. I love when it does that, surprises you with its very occurence first, and then with its intensity. Love it especially when I'm safe inside, with a choice: I can go get wet if I want. This is a nice thought, because I know there's someone out there who got caught in the rain.

I choose to go get wet and walk barefoot around my soaking backyard, my heels skidding on the slickness of the worn wooden patio boards. When the rain hits the cement portion, it turns warm immediately, and my skin's confused with tropical at my feet and chill at my shoulders.

The lightning gives me some warning for the thunder, but it's a flash of light against white clouds and not very imposing. The strength of the rain is variable, and I can hear the change in the rhythm and weight up on the roof seconds before I feel it on my body.

I'm soaking and shivering by now, and I know that if I hadn't chosen this for myself I would be miserable. There are certainly people in the neighborhood who are miserable, their necks bent and teeth clenched as they hurry home against the slanting wind. But not me. I like that I'm in control and that they are not. I can go inside any time and strip off my clothes and wrap up in my ivy-print bathrobe and rainbow toesocks.

I think these smug thoughts, grinning, and then there's simultaneous crackle of light almost directly above my head and the loudest sound I've ever heard in my life.

It's like being inside the thunderclap.

I shriek, nothing I'd use on stage for dramatic, empathetic purposes: it's a shrill wimpy thing and while it's real shock-fear, it sounds fake even to my own ears. Perhaps I'm spoiled by Shakespearean wails.

By the time I get inside I'm shaking, almost fainting, and feeling ridiculous. I have to go back outside, of course. Something about getting back on the horse.

katiebec @ 2002-06-24T22:27:00

2002-06-25T03:33:39Z

Oh, btw:

Colin's beloved camera in story below.

Precision Control

2002-06-25T03:32:01Z

Just in time to wish

A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO andrush,

I've completed that Goyle/Colin Creevey.

I'd love constructive crit, actually. Almost more than praise. Since it's more believable in this case. And I'd like to have something to work with before I post this other places. So:

Precision Control

Precision Control
by Bec
dedicated to Kym

Gregory Goyle, whatever his faults, is fond of small children, and that is the only moral of this story.

Colin Creevey regrets:

not getting a shot of Ron Weasley with fat slugs sliming out of his mouth down his chin and chest
not being nicer to his younger brother when he had the chance, so that Dennis would not insist upon taking every opportunity to embarrass him here at Hogwarts
never ever telling Harry Potter what an inflated ego he's got
possibly, unintentionally being a contributor to that inflated ego
not turning in one piece of Arithmancy homework ever
laughing at Ginny when she said she was going to wait until marriage though really he thinks that idea is sweet
not being legally able to wait until marriage himself
his skinny arms
liking ABBA
wanting Harry.

Harry Harry Harry with a scar like every sensitive area on a body times a million, his strong brown hands wrapped around his broom like it'll save him in the end, Harry kicking his shoes off in the common room and lying back, rubbing his socked feet together but he just can't get the spot, Harry's white grin and tar-colored hair and Harry never wants to talk to him and never bothers hiding the irritation in his voice, but he never stops trying, please Harry high in the air, soaring and diving heart stopping a feather's width from the ground, his wiry thighs gripping and steering, Harry Harry and Colin jerks off until he's pulled sore and dry and he'll never forgive himself for this ever, his bed curtains close and suffocating and trapping his harsh pants in with him like echoes, Harry nasty in his dreams and fucking Colin beneath the bleachers, Harry.

The House Elves go on strike the spring of Colin's fifth year, and everything changes.

Meals are buffet-style, and potluck--the Houses all have a roster now and it rotates, so one evening a few fourth-year Ravenclaws will be in charge of the main course, some Slytherin firsties for table settings, a couple Hufflepuffs manage the desserts, and the Gryffindors have got to figure out soup and bread.

"Out of the way," Goyle says, and Crabbe makes his signature gesture, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand. Colin moves and lets Malfoy and his giants cut in front of him and snatch the best slices of pineapple. Some things are just not worth fighting over.

Then they are all down on their knees in the filthy lavatories, and polishing the trophies which seem to accumulate dust like it's a hobby, and washing the windows (Hogwarts has 958 windows, and that's not counting the ones that only appear at the new moon or to fifteenth-generation purebloods or...), and learning spells to launder their own clothes in the lake.

"Cinderelly Cinderelly night and day it's Cinderelly make the fire fix the breakfast wash the dishes do the mopping," Colin sings with his shirtsleeves rolled up and damp around his elbows and his hair plastered moistly to his forehead. He feels like a washerwoman, er, a washerman, like in those old Dutch portraits, singing and scrubbing on the bank. He'd bet anything that his cheeks are a bright healthy pink. Ginny says he looks like a doll. She doesn't understand how emasculating that idea is.

Goyle tromps over and drops his basket. The clothes spill out and he kicks them into the shallows.

Colin thinks, 'am small and unobtrusive like mouse.' He holds his breath anyway. Goyle gives him a grumpy glare, then squirts soap into the water from the bottle in his hand, drops it into the reeds, and pulls his shirt off.

Colin gasps and starts breathing again, but funny.

Hogwarts robes hide a lot. Curves, for instance. Suddenly, around third year, the girls are just bursting with those, but you don't know it till they take off at least one layer. Bulk's the same. You see it swathed in stuffy blackness and think fat, but--

Goyle's got, well he looks like an Olympic butterflyer or something, all that upper body strength. Honest-to-god rippling muscles, oh gosh, Colin hadn't thought you ever saw those outside of sports magazines. The Quidditch boys aren't bad, in the showers, but their shoulderblades stick out as awkwardly as elbows and not one of them has got a stomach formed like that.

Colin is staring and Goyle can tell.

"I need your help," someone says to Colin, which just about guarantees he's dreamed the entire day up to and including this moment. It's Goyle.

Colin lays his quill between the pages of the library book and shuts it before thinking about inkstains. "Go back and tell whoever sent you that it's not funny," he tells Goyle. Sometimes when you talk slowly and confidently Crabbe-and-or-Goyle will obey you as though your head looks like an albino seal's.

"Professor Flitwick wasn't laughing."

"But gosh, you're a year above me and I'm not that especially good at Charms anyway, so why would he send you to me? I think Hermione's in the library somewhere, do you want me to go find her? She's got an independent study project to work on but I bet she wouldn't mind helping you out."

"No. It's photography."

Goyle wants to learn how to use a camera well. It's for the fourth birthday party of his twin nieces, he says. He shows Colin a couple of poor snapshots, off-center and only showing their ribbons and brown pigtails as they rush about a garden, batting what looks like a gigantic bubble back and forth.

In return, Colin shows him his cameras. He's got three of them. One is awkward and bulky, with a large flash. It only uses black-and-white film and that film can only be ordered from specialty dealers, but the very antiquity of the thing lends a certain dignity to the pictures. The second was a gift from Dennis two Christmases ago, an ordinary point-and-shoot. He uses that one mostly at Quidditch games because he wouldn't be too awfully upset if it got damaged.

The last is the newest, the best, and every time he lifts it out of its case he feels like an acolyte handling a sacred object. Like he should light incense and murmur something devout before lifting it to his eye. It's from Olympus, which adds to his reverence. OM-4Ti, it's called. Made of titanium, has multi-spot metering and highlight and shadow control. Colin saved for ages to get it.

"Hands off," he snaps when Goyle reaches big clumsy fingers towards it, and Goyle glares at him.

"You were looking at me. Last week? By the lake. You were."

Colin clutches his OM-4Ti to his chest.

Goyle shrugs and picks up the little 35mm. "I just push the little clicky thing here?"

"Yeah," Colin says. His mouth tastes like wood shavings.

For practice, Goyle takes Colin down to the Slytherin dorms the night of the spring equinox. Party night. The common room is so ornate, you'd never know you were in the dungeons except for the echo. Goyle claims their walls can speak, but they've silenced them for this occasion.

Colin kneels by the fireplace and demonstrates focus and flash and angle, while the snake students push the couches and armchairs to the walls for a dance floor, and take long swigs from unlabelled bottles, and twine their arms around each other like they're testing for weaknesses.

He gets a shot of Malfoy getting his hand caught up Pansy Parkinson's skirt, his fingers tangled in the elastic of her knickers. Click: Malcolm doing what might be called 'dancing' by a very kind, blind observer, his mouth wide open and his legs bent at the knee. Click: Bulstrode reaching across the table to grab a cupcake and Crabbe staring down her shirt, the top buttons undone and a black necklace deepening her cleavage. Click: Zabini slow-dancing with Morag, his hands perched resolutely on her shoulders and his eyes locked on the movement of Malfoy's mouth on Parkinson's neck, further back in the shot. Click: close-up of the smear of rose lipstick across Montague's mouth, gained from a kiss Colin missed.

This is a golden opportunity.

The students start disappearing, one by one and in clumps, until only a pack of second-years are left, cleaning up under the supervision of a Prefect, Warrington or someone.

"Clear off," Goyle says eventually, and when they left, he hands Colin the 35mm. "Thanks."

Colin's mouth is full of fermented punch and his arms of cameras; he nods.

"They were calling you a Gryffindor spy."

"Mmmf."

"Are you?"

"Nn mmm."

"Good." Goyle pushes Colin onto a couch and touches the inside of his knee through his trousers, moves over him and loosens his tie with a careful touch.

The OM-4Ti hits the floor with a dull thunk. Colin squirms after it and Goyle holds onto him tightly, pressing him down and introducing heat and wet to the base of his throat.

Later his sweat sticks him to the leather of the black couch, bare skin all over. When he moves there's a ripping noise. Colin doesn't believe in it even when Goyle's grinding against his hips with dull, rhythmic force, and Colin comes, quite suddenly and surprisingly, his breath and body seizing up. Goyle covers Colin's mouth with his own. The sounds seem to echo between their brains.

What is special about wizarding photographs is that they move, but sometimes, when you're talking art, Muggles know what they're on about. (Colin still feels, will always feel, faintly guilty about the word 'Muggle': it's not an insult, exactly, but those are his people, or were for eleven years, and it's such an ugly sound.) If the image keeps changing, with the seasons or the moods of the people in it, it'll only be art on occasion, by chance. You've got very little control and it will never show exactly what you mean. It's like training a video camera on a park bench, leaving it alone for a week, and hoping you end up with a story.

William Talbot Ansel Adams Scott Mutter Milton Greene Roy deCarava Bill Brandt André Kertész etcetera: these are Colin's heroes, his pin-ups. On the wall next to his bed, where his roommates have pasted gauzy-robed posters of Celestina Warbeck and the Weird Sisters, he displays black-and-white prints, each one stark and haunting.

Or they were once stark and haunting, before Billy poked them full of thumb-tack holes.

In the tiny red-lit room McGonagall's allotted him for a developing room, two paces across both ways, he's got two kinds of liquids: wizard potion and Muggle fluid. Colin never knows which way he's going to develop the photo until he enters that room. Tweezers and shallow photo-baths and rolls of film stretching out, frame by frame. He loves it there; he can see his veins, feel drenched in red which is passion heat love aorta.

Goyle leaves his fingerprints on the pictures whenever he develops. "My name is Greg," he says.

"Watch what you're doing with those tweezers," Colin says, and grins.

Then they're both naked. Greg's hands can almost touch around Colin's waist. "You've turned pink."

"Good call."

"Do you see the world through rose-tinted glasses then?"

Colin laughs and Greg lets him touch all over, mold the solid muscle under his palms and trace the shadowed lines with his tongue. Greg photographs well.

He photographs well, and Colin has the camera almost perfectly focused, that high strong curve of arse in the lower-corner and the two slashed indentations in his lower back filling the view frame.

"What the hell are you doing, Mudblood?"

It's almost affectionate.

"Don't move."

Colin leaves fingerprints on those pictures.

It must hurt, Colin thinks, to touch someone as ordinary as he is.

Because whatever else he may be, Greg is not ordinary. In everything he goes to extremes; he is extraordinarily slow (Colin is not so addled he cannot see that) but at the same time immensely patient and careful, his political affiliations are as immoderate as they come, he is very tall and broad, and he is quite sure he will die young and, in his own narrow, measured opinion, gloriously. What's more, he accepts that.

If Greg himself is not extra wicked brilliant special, his connections are. Not that Colin wants them -- oh no, never ever that -- but Greg is to Draco Malfoy what Colin wishes he could be to Harry Potter. (Goyle : Malfoy :: Creevey : Potter). Of course Greg's skills lie more in the kinetic: he strong-arms, he imposes, he reaches the tallest library shelves and opens the stickingest jars in Potions. Colin, in those most ill-advised first year fantasies, had been thinking of himself as more a special-event photographer and confidante.

Describe yourself in one word, the Witch Weekly quizzes sometimes say. Colin reads that magazine for the pictures, of course. The lighting, the composition. And sometimes his eyes stray. What can he say? He first thinks of his camera, but that's an object, a possession, not an personality trait. Groupie? Oh thanks a lot. Spy? Fan? And what it comes down to is, he's on the sidelines always, racing after the stories and the scenes, watching and snapping and wanting to be. He suspects this is commoner than movies would have you believe. He is ordinary.

Greg has something important to say; he traps Colin's perpetually energetic, squirming hips in his hands and sits back on his heels. "Sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"I feel unappreciated," he says deliberately.

Two months ago Colin would have been surprised Goyle knew that word. Two months ago Colin most certainly would not have muttered happily, "you too, huh?" and scooted closer, scraping his arse over the dungeon-rough flagstone in order to wrap a leg about Gregory Goyle's waist. He doubts he's at all seductive, but Greg leans over kisses him gives him tongue anyway.

They corner him in the lavatory, all three of them in a row, Malfoy looking like a slim volume held upright by two powerful bookends. Colin knows what's going to happen, and that's there's no good explanation for it. I fell down the stairs, he'll tell Madame Pomfrey. The entire sequence--first punch and first blood and being held upside down and finally being left alone, hoping a Prefect's the next through the door--is there in his head, vivid as a snapshot, before they even touch him, and Colin wishes nothing more than to be allowed to visually document this scene while some other kid gets his head pounded.

Goyle's hand wrapped all the way around both his wrists: familiar. Crabbe's knuckles in his teeth: unfortunately just as familiar. Colin searches his mouth for blood with his tongue and aches and pleads, "not this time, get away."

He swings upside down, sees six pairs of well-polished shoes and the sludgy floor. His ankles hurt and all the blood rushes to his head.

"Greg, don't, I know you're fond of small children, you can't," he squeaks inanely, and they stick his head in the toilet and flush.

Colin wonders what an artist is.

He sees the world framed in rectangles and every blink is the click of the shutter.

the end.

pure poetry

2002-06-25T02:24:23Z

AFPN318: you are a darling rabbit
katiebec57: /me hops
AFPN318: HOP HOP HOP BOOM
katiebec57: NOOOO
AFPN318: Little rabbit pieces everywhere
AFPN318: Little rabbit pieces in my hair
AFPN318: Little rabbit pieces red pink white
katiebec57: hahahahaha!
AFPN318: Little rabbit pieces left and right
katiebec57: dear god
AFPN318: Little rabbit pieces yes yes yes

Little rabbit pieces mess mess mess
AFPN318: Little rabbit pieces, fetch the mop
AFPN318: Little rabbit pieces, they can't hop
katiebec57: /me gasps
AFPN318: ...I'm done now

katiebec @ 2002-06-24T01:14:00

2002-06-24T06:20:39Z

At times like these (pointless frantic panic attacks that send me careening around my house, pacing and running and leaping and slamming into the walls), listening to angsty musicals is the way to go.

So EARNEST and PASSIONATE and EMOTIONAL. The VOCAL RANGE! The CHORD CHANGES! The way those well-trained and -amplified voices reach and reach and REACH for those high notes, and then soar and you get that somewhat embarrassing tight swelling inside your ribcage.

Jekyll & Hyde, Les Mis, Cabaret, RENT, Ragtime, Camelot...

"the greatest moment of them ALLLLLLLLL!"

hee.

katiebec @ 2002-06-23T23:24:00

2002-06-24T04:31:01Z

Am back from Houston. I forgot to tell most everybody that I was even going, so my return shouldn't cause too much of a wave. Still, I know you missed me. Except of course lcsbanana, because I was sleeping on her floor this weekend.

Houston is:
hot
Hazard Street
"Wig Mart" next door to the barber's college
a hedge in front of the Coca-Cola building that's trimmed to look like a coke bottle but really resembles a child's coffin.
reading "The Witches" out loud

Saw movies (The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys, The Usual Suspects, Twelfth Night, a Kilimanjaro IMAX), went to museums (Menil collection, Modern, and Natural History), and visited ailei, w00t w00t w00t! She is phenomenally cool, as are her nutty smart children (though I injured Nessa twice and then made her cry. She beat me in a chess game in eight moves, and then I beat her next game after a long tough battle. I have my pride.)

People should come to Austin and visit me. You all will have a roof and a futon! yeah.

ugh. you lj fuckers write too much. Also, the HO mailing list is causing me to tear my hair out. So much of it! Do I even need to read? Does my character do anything important in that game? No, no, not at all.

perhaps Blaise should kill someone, accidentally
or, like, have been part of the organ black market over in Mexico
okay shutting up now

katiebec @ 2002-06-19T15:30:00

2002-06-19T20:37:05Z

This is my contribution to the recent fury of LJ snippets:

Harry stared at Voldemort. He had no wand.

"This sucks," he said.

But wait. Before he even had the wand, Harry had been able to do magic.

Harry stared very hard at Voldemort. "Avada Kedavra."

Voldemort died.

"We're all a bunch of idiots," said Harry.

THE END.

gratuitous lyrics post

2002-06-17T19:42:37Z

Remind you of anybody? ::amused, puzzled::

"Pacing the Cage", Bruce Cockburn

Sunset is an angel weeping
Holding out a bloody sword
No matter how I squint I cannot
Make out what it's pointing toward
Sometimes you feel like you live too long
Days drip slowly on the page
You catch yourself
Pacing the cage

I've proven who I am so many times
The magnetic strip's worn thin
And each time I was someone else
And every one was taken in
Powers chatter in high places
Stir up eddies in the dust of rage
Set me to pacing the cage

I never knew what you all wanted
So I gave you everything
All that I could pillage
All the spells that I could sing
It's as if the thing were written
In the constitution of the age
Sooner or later you'll wind up
Pacing the cage

Sometimes the best map will not guide you
You can't see what's round the bend
Sometimes the road leads through dark places
Sometimes the darkness is your friend
Today these eyes scan bleached-out land
For the coming of the outbound stage
Pacing the cage
Pacing the cage

katiebec @ 2002-06-17T02:35:00

2002-06-17T07:41:22Z

The furor over chanslash (ooh, look at the clever mixed Eastern/Western fandom word) has made me think this:

Now Ginny doesn't know whether she still wants Harry because of Tom, or she once wanted Tom because of Harry.

and I don't know what to do with it. It's just sitting there, in my head, making very little sense.

And ooh, andrush, coolest of the cool dedicated a picture to me. Go check it out. It is very pretty. But why does Terence look so sad? *snogs him*

I miss...Ely Jenks and Benedict St. Clair. They were mad sexy. want 'em back. should sleep now.

Made new icons! Will use them at some point, when I can be bothered.

Have sent emails all over the place inquiring after internships. cross fingers.

missing cuckolded rogue mutant amnesiac werewolf rapist

2002-06-16T18:28:45Z

Last night, to attend a theatre/1940's radio performance entitled Intergalactic Space Nemesis Redux (or something like that), I wore three enormous silver hoops in my ears. Have never done this before. They're my sister's, and it was her idea: smallest and largest hoops in right hear, medium hoop in left. Looked great, and when the metal brushes against your neck it feels really sexy.

Unfortunately, now that they're out, the pierced parts of my ears have swollen up. I can feel a little ball of incredibly painful infected matter surrounding each. And when I push on them, pus oozes out. eeeewwwwww.

Also, the fact that six (count 'em, six!) characters over on HO have already noticed mine is oddly thrilling. Did you know, his father's a missing cuckolded rogue mutant amnesiac werewolf rapist.

katiebec @ 2002-06-14T21:59:00

2002-06-15T04:06:07Z

NO! NO! I DON'T WANT TO SEXUALLY HARASS ANYONE!

Especially not a former teacher.

God I hate RPGs.

katiebec @ 2002-06-14T01:52:00

2002-06-14T06:57:39Z

1128 words so far on the insane Colin/Goyle for andrush and I'm going to bed, ta very much.

The file is titled 'pushing the depravity envelope'. But I think I'm pulling it off. I'm just THAT TALENTED.

katiebec @ 2002-06-13T17:10:00

2002-06-13T23:16:48Z

Hey.

Someone's writing Blaise Zabini into HO.

Now who could be foolish enough to do that?

(grumble grumble Bec-shaped hole INDEED)

katiebec @ 2002-06-10T21:03:00

2002-06-11T02:07:50Z

Chess: One Night in Bangkok.

What the hell? This musical has me totally confounded. I found this mp3 in a folder. No idea why I have it. But...is this a musical about chess? All about chess? And who wrote it, ABBA? (If that's true I will swoon.) Why would chess champions sing songs in this style?

am so intrigued. need the CD.

[edited to add:]

And the fabulous lyrics!

a show with everything but Yul Brynner

I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine.

Siam's gonna be the witness
To the ultimate test of cerebral fitness
This grips me more than would a
Muddy old river or reclining Buddha.
I don't see you guys rating
The kind of mate I'm contemplating
I'd let you watch, I would invite you
But the queens we use would not excite you.

nipples

2002-06-11T02:00:53Z

Back from sunny (ha bloody ha) Southern California, where it does rain, thank you very much. Amazingly, my boss has not yet called me back. She said she would on Wednesday. It is now Monday. I am washing my hands of the whole thing.

Thanks, everyone, for saying such sweet things when I was upset. (I am still upset, but I no longer desperately need sweet things said to me.)

I've got to figure out what I'm going to do this summer. I could, of course, apply myself ever more vigorously to my studies, but that sounds suspiciously similar to what I'm supposed to be doing during the rest of the year. The problem is that now it may be too late; all summer jobs taken. The way I had a summer job. Already. Except NOT. ahem.

But, well, maybe I can get an internship with the Rude Mechs or at Zach. There are always jobs in the service industry. I could work at Tapestry Dance Co. in exchange for free classes.

The world is full of possibilities, tra la la and all that!

All right, now I'm going to talk about nipples.

My long-time friend Robert just rang the doorbell in order to exchange Harry Potter #2 for Harry Potter #4. God, I miss trading baseball cards. (See, I've only read CoS once, and I own it in neither English nor Spanish, and since everyone's gone mad for Mr. Riddle, I wanted to brush up on my murdered-rooster lore.) I stepped outside to chat and we discussed his government/economics classes and my INSANE BOSS. I was wearing (still am, as a matter of fact) a loose white tank-top. The correct term is wifebeater. Hate that term. Anyway. In this shirt my breasts look small, soft, triangular (all of which they are), and my nipples are rather visible.

My mother has always warned me about this visible-nipple thing. Apparently visible nipples make men froth at the mouth. So to protect myself and them from their bizarre proclivities, I should always wear a bra in public.

Now most of you have never seen my breasts (yeah I know, it's a tough life), so I will take a moment to impress upon you how very unimposing they are. Though rather nicely shaped, they are not even A cups. If I want a bra to fit correctly, I need to buy special brands. The Victoria's Secret ladies have always been very accomodating, but they charge too much.

So it does not seem fair. Always? For nipples? Seeing, oh, I don't know, people's mouths or eyes might turn me on, but I don't insist everyone go about with full masks covering their faces in my presence.

Anyway I was worried maybe Robert was uncomfortable, but then I decided it would be more feminist to not care, especially since I sincerely hope I hold the same attraction for him that he holds for me: namely that of a drainpipe.

And that's it, the end of another scintillatingly intelligent post from Katie the Bec!

katiebec @ 2002-06-05T18:41:00

2002-06-05T23:45:31Z

In happier news, I created a Sims family of Justin Finch-Fletchley and Blaise Zabini and calibrated their personalities as accurately as possible. They immediately fell in love and started groping. HAHAHAHAHA I love being vindicated.

Kinky greenhouse sex coming soon to an LJ near you.

fish in peril!

2002-06-05T23:12:31Z

My astronomy prof sent me an email with the following subject heading:

Imperiled Sea Bass

At least the fish have problems too, eh?

katiebec @ 2002-06-05T18:06:00

2002-06-05T23:10:18Z

oh damn if I keep thinking about this I will cry

but but but I promised! The little kids! I promised I'd be there to teach them and swing them around and dress them up in costumes.

Also I need the money. All the other summer jobs are taken. Of course I didn't go job-hunting; I HAD A JOB. fuck.

feel unappreciated and disrespected and mistreated. would like to go back to first grade now, please.

sorry, whine.

2002-06-05T23:07:45Z

I may have lost my job.

I know nothing yet, so I won't go into a long diatribe, but suffice to say I'm very upset. Is not in any way my fault. Have insane, disorganized boss. The only blame that could possibly be placed on me is that I don't have a car, and you know what? Sometimes people don't.

Looks like people who have only worked there for about three months have my beautiful beloved job, while I, having worked for money for an entire year and as a volunteer for years before that, am stuck working out in sticks on days I'm out of town, places to which I have no transportation. I have sent two emails to her, talked to her on the phone and in person about these conflicts. In plenty of time, too. She is bonkers.

Can't do anything but mope and listen to stupid songs like Vertical Horizon's "Best I Ever Had" on repeat.

Also the library fined me for books that were overdue years ago, back when it wasn't really a library and you couldn't tell their books from books you owned. Back when I spent hours and hours of volunteer work organizing the children's section. The book is turned and they even had a duplicate copy. $19.25. That would pay for four copies of the book. And of course I'll pay it, but I don't have the money right now, and they didn't let me check out books today and AAARrrrghhhh walked there in the heat

have to leave the house tomorrow at 5 am for another stupid plane ride

have to pay $19.25 for an Animorphs book

whine whine whine

love my job want it

Uh, look! over there! sex and literature!

go away.

katiebec @ 2002-06-04T21:45:00

2002-06-05T02:49:36Z

Lots of birthdays. A very happy birthday to puffyamiyumi and phatgirlfics and also to Nice Girl who, praise be, does not read this journal.

I was supposed to call her so she could invite me to her party; I conveniently 'forgot'. Guilt, hurrah! She probably still wants to date/have sex with me. Ohhhh no, she told me to stop leading because she was wearing the suit and I was wearing the dress. I do not cotton to that sort of stereotyping; besides, wasn't leading. nyah nyah nyah. she just don't know how to dance. N.G. gets no more Katiesex/dates! This is my decision.

It is strange that the stories I read and write deal with topics which, in real life, annoy me to hell and back.