Come join teacup_society for our grand opening! We're hosting our first virtual tea cup party on Saturday, January 30th. Come at any time, Saturday or Sunday, to share in a love of tea cups.
Virtual biscuits will be provided. (Though we do not recommend eating your computer screen to enjoy them.)
I went to “Hamilton” last night, and I know lots of people asked me to share what I thought afterward, and at the time I was like, “Sure!” but I ended up having a very different “Hamilton” experience than I had thought I would, so this turned into a story not really about “Hamilton” in which I am annoying and self-pitying and you should just skip to the bullet points.( It"s so blargh, just skip it, reallyCollapse )
First let me start by saying that the most important thing about my writing year is that my AO3 account got fixed. It had been getting progressively slower and slower, until by the end it was completely unuseable. AO3 worked fine for me if I wasn’t logged in, but if I was logged in, it refused to load. It didn’t matter which browser I used, which computer I used, which network I was on. The problem, it was clear, was with my account. And the lovely tech wizards figured it out for me. It turns out that you can’t have 60,000 messages in your AO3 inbox. Who knew??? I never use my AO3 inbox, so I literally had never looked at the thing, and apparently it can slow down your entire AO3 experience. So here’s my PSA: If you, like me, don’t use your AO3 inbox, if you having a sub-optimal AO3 experience, go in and delete your messages. It’s worked like a charm since they did that. THANKS, AO3 TECH SUPPORT!
And, because my AO3 got fixed, now I can give you my stats as found on my AO3 dashboard (I never realized that was there! I clearly fail at optimal use of AO3).
According to AO3 I wrote, um, 707,778 words this year. YOU GUYS. That’s actually not entirely accurate, because I probably posted things I wrote last year, just like I have things written now that I haven’t posted yet, but I feel like most of those words, as we know, belonged to NBT.( Month by Month Reliving the Year!Collapse )
“You’re in charge of finger-painting with her from now on,” said Arthur, studying his efforts critically.
“Oh, are we adding clauses to our official co-parenting contract?” asked Eames. “Because I have a few.”
“It’s just that you’re clearly the artist in the family,” sighed Arthur.
“Darling, it’s finger-painting,” Eames told him, amused. “Your paintings are fine.”
“Pathetic. Lucky’s are way better.”
“Yeah, but Lucky’s a prodigy.”
“Speaking of the official co-parenting contract, can I invoke the sex clause?”
“You know we don’t have an official co-parenting contract, right?”
“But we can have sex anyway.”
“I’ll allow it,” said Arthur.
“They turn into butterflies,” John told Oliver.
Oliver frowned at the caterpillar. “‘Turn into’?”
“Well, you make it sound like it’s magic. It’s not magic. How does it happen?” demanded Oliver, confident in the steadiness of science.
“They make a cocoon and then they turn into a butterfly,” said John.
Oliver, perplexed, insisted on keeping the caterpillar. Oliver took copious notes on his butterfly experiment. And on the morning when John found him staring at a butterfly fluttering around the container, John said, “What is your scientific conclusion?”
Oliver watched the butterfly intently, then admitted, “It was magic.”
“It isn’t that I’m nervous,” Eames said.
“Yes, you are,” said Arthur, fixing Eames’s tie.
“She’s not making a mistake. He’s nice, right?”
“He’s nice, Eames. He’s lovely. He loves her. He’ll be good to her.”
“It’s just that it’s kind of my job, right? To look out for her? I mean, when your sister asks you to give her away at her wedding, you should…be sure she’s going to be happy.”
“You’re a good brother. And you love her a lot. You’ve already done a good job. She’ll be happy.”
Eames tugged Arthur into a hug. “I just want her to find an Arthur. I want her to be that kind of happy.”
“You need an Eames for that,” said Arthur.
“Do you know how to build a fire?” Matt asked, once they got to the campground.
“Of course!” Brem and Athena chorused, because how hard could starting a fire be?
An hour later, Matt was enjoying a beer and giving lots of advice that mainly constituted mockery.
“You know,” Brem huffed, “not all of us were Boy Scouts!”
“Actually, I was in the Girl Scouts, remember?” said Athena.
“That’s right. So why don’t you know how to build a fire?”
“Because Dad and I were too busy killing a man-eating slug.”
“You guys have the best stories,” said Matt fondly.