The new email address: email@example.com. It's likely to change after I experience Fight Club, mind you, but for now - there it is.
Just did the oral part of the Spanish final. Aced it. *takes a bow* Thank you, thank you. Now it's just the written half to go, and that's the easy one. I think.
The authorities screwed me over regarding next year's courses. I'm not in band. I'm not in AP Eng/Lit. I am, however, in Family Management, which I had never heard of, and now that I have heard of it I don't want it; I don't want a family, I don't want to plan it, and I don't want to manage anything. Thanks anyway. (It's like middle school CAPP with Northey, from what I hear: sex ed and all that. Why would anyone sign up for this course willingly? It is beyond me.)
Oh - for anyone interested, it has been confirmed that Mom did in fact get her condemning evidence from Brennan's LJ. She occasionally reads it. (She occasionally reads all of them. Including mine. I won't even begin to explain how extremely pissed off I am about that.) By this time next week, this journal will most likely be Friends-Only. Desperate times = desperate measures and such.
After much deliberation and fluctuating stress, I have arrived at the conclusion that I really don't want to bother about getting a job this summer. Really don't. Will have to, or I'll continue to be broke, and while broken is good (in terms of movie effects etc.) broke is definitely not. Broke means less broken. Or something. Or maybe my mind is just malfunctioning still and I ought to shut up and abandon the train of thought before it hits the dead end, thank you and goodbye.
*jumps ... watches explosion*
Plumetted back into despair yesterday after school. Looks like I can make it through the school day lately, but the second I get home it's straight to the room and there follows loud music, inner and outer turmoil, and alarmingly often the repressing of tears. If someone would like to tell me exactly why, in the name of all that is holy or otherwise, this is happening, by all means do so - but don't for the gods' sakes attempt to bring out too much shrinkwrap, because I might react violently. (Or maybe not. Hard to know, these days.)
So. Mysterious depression aside.
I need either really, really good slash, or really, really hideous Mary Sues. If anyone has a rec (or two, or three, or four ... dozen) offer it up and I will hug you and squeeze you and call you George. Except, you know, without the hugging and squeezing bit. 'Cause I don't do that. You understand.
As far as ficwriting goes, I've got. Um. What have I got? (Aside from multiple disorders.)
- the POTC project that I can't say too much about 'cause it's sort of a surprise - to some of you
- the second POTC project that I can't elaborate much on either
- secret POTC project #3, the initial plotbunny representing which snuck up behind me in socials yesterday, bit me, then ran off and hid
- a Sparrow drabbly thing, which I think is ready for beta-testing!!! YES! OH, my mood just went up. Whee.
Anyone interested in beta-reading a potentially sad and not at all talented bit of Sparrow drabble? Anyone at all?
today's soundtrack is: Tool: Ticks and Leeches