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NaNoWriMo: In Which I Pull No Punches [Nov. 19th, 2009|02:02 pm]
[mood | disappointed]
[music |"The Chauffeur (Martin Preston Remix)" - Sleepthief feat. Kirsty Hawkshaw]

I don't like NaNoWriMo.

I have a lot of things that make me the Crotchety Old One amongst my friends - or at least, the Opinionated Asshole - but this is one of those things that I cannot and have never been able to support.

It's never really been something that I thought about, from the time when I first heard about it. Writing a 50,000 word story in a month? Bah. Stupidly easy. I've never done it. I've written reams of paper about myriad subjects through the thirteen years I've been writing, more than enough to fill bookshelves. It's not all been worthy of showing to anyone, or even being re-read by me, yet I keep it.

Writing is more than stringing together words. It is, dependent on your genre and oeuvre, something you do for fun, something you do for profit, something you do because you can't imagine you doing anything else. It is not an arbitrary set of goals - I will write X number of words per day or I AM A FAILURE. No. It doesn't work like that.

The creative experience is so much more than simply sitting down and putting words to paper. It's a creation of worlds, of universes that no one else has ever thought of, that no one has ever conceived. You, a writer, are a creator, bringing an idea from your mind to full, rich life.

It is possible to sit and write a novel in thirty days. It's possible to write a novel in two weeks. It's possible to write a novel three days. The inherent problem, and why I cannot bring myself to compromise my standards to join, is the issue of quality.

No writer who takes writing seriously can ever seriously write something, look at it, and be completely happy with it for the rest of their life. It may be as simple as verb tense agreement, or a closing of a spare loophole, but there is always something from that first draft that isn't quite right. Maybe your lead was too intelligible. Any written work that is written and left alone after that first touch of pen to paper is unfinished. It will always remain unfinished, even if the person who wrote it funds a run of fifty copies to give to friends and family.

Books are an inherent joy in life, a bringing together of form and function that transports we, the mere reader, to an experience we would never have achieved in our day to day life. Books are also subject to editors and re-writings. I've seen what happens to manuscripts of books in bookstores right now with the words "Bestseller" emblazoned on the cover in embossed block letters.

Authors making six figures per annum get more red scrawled over their polished manuscripts than the black of their written words.

I've stood at a podium and read my written creation to a captive audience. I've been profiled in local papers. I can put "Published Author" on my resume and know that I paid zero money to get my work published. I've signed non-disclosure agreements related to my work. I've had people tell me consistently to get my work published, to which I give a small smile and discuss a different topic.

I've had to sell myself. No amount of hot water washes off that stench. My soul was scarred by seeing people hold my work in their hands and put it back down, uninterested as they spoke to me face to face. I've been attacked, in a public place, for having the temerity to write what I did, to say those words.

I'm not simply a hack who can't cut it. I write because I must write. I put my words down because they must be inscribed, not for others to read, but because they must exist.

I do not write for deadlines, I do not write for other's pleasure. I write because the story must be told.

NaNoWriMo is akin to writing workshops or conventions. Writing is an incredibly isolating act. You are interacting with your pen and paper or your keyboard - not other people - as you jot down your story. No number of seminars entitled "Get Your Work Published!" will get you published. Writers are selfish and self-centered people by definition - you spend so much time in your own head that you can't help but to forget to notice those around you.

The best writers, hands down, are avid and voracious readers.

Ultimately, all that NaNoWriMo does is encourage a lot of people to inflict upon the general public a lot of drivel that shouldn't be posted. By no means am I dismissing all works, as I haven't read them all. No, what I dismiss is the mere idea of being only able to write a novel during this month, and having that be it. Every 1500 to 1600 words should not bear the line "end of day". If you write a novel in a month, it should be because that is how that novel wanted to be written.

I have a friend who is a midwife. She has a saying regarding children arriving in this world - they decide their birthdays. His due date was yesterday? Oh, well, he didn't want that to be his birthday.

A novel is at its core, personal and precious, no matter how many you write. Having your work eviscerated will never feel good - you thought you were better than that.

Most writers deserve to starve. Especially those who populate bestseller lists.

Arbitrary rules can never denote what the right time is for writing a book. Each book has it's own time, and you writing it will take as much time as you need. Holding yourself to anyone's schedule other than your own is farcical. There is a joy in immersing yourself in your own created world and churning out thirty pages in a day, and then dwelling in that world for a week as you tinker with something else before returning to the other story and delving into another fifteen pages.

Every writer is different. They have to be. No one person can decide for everyone what they will do - just look at your average spread of responses to writing challenges to see my point.

The single thing that it takes to be a writer, more than anything else, is practice. Practice until your hand falls off, then use the bloody stump to continue writing. I did not choose to be a writer - the words have chosen me and not jotting them down makes the blood soaked wall in my basement pulse with an unholy insistence. Anything and everything else for writers is a crock. A pen and a blank journal are all you need, not a designated month to write the average 50,000 words.

Your story doesn't always meet those standards. Who is to tell you that your novel must be that length? The rules? Where did you ever get by following those rules, stifling your creativity into the same tiny little boxes that give us Meyer and Brown.

You, as a writer, have a duty to yourself to write the best thing you are capable of...and if you are not satisfied with what you've written, why are you inflicting it on the world? You do irreparable harm to yourself, to your integrity and honor by putting out subpar work. You're better than that, NaNoWriMo constituents. You can write better than that and you know it.

If you let the magic made up number determine your story length, we'd never have Lord of the Rings or anything by Proust. Remember those? Magical how it's suddenly a "trilogy" when it's actually supposed to be one book.

Ultimately, I know I am tilting at windmills. I still cannot elucidate the disappointment I see anytime I am conversing with someone and see them, proudly, bearing a badge denoting their participation.

Just because you're developmentally stunted in your writing ability, you do not have to advertise that fact to the rest of the world.

I cannot find NaNoWriMo to be anything more than masturbatory. I'm not that kind of exhibitionist. I'm this kind.

[This post was written without being re-read or edited in any way including spellcheck, in the tradition of NaNoWriMo. Apologies for expressing views are strictly forbidden, as I am not going to wake up dead tomorrow morning for speaking against the totalitarian regime. The only writer to whom I specifically refer to in this diatribe is an in-law to whom I have no internet ties and wouldn't recognize good writing if it humped her leg and told her it was a blubber reduction device.]
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Liguistics exercise [Nov. 19th, 2009|11:06 am]
[mood |introspective]
[music |"Hold On" - Melissa Ferrick]

Can anyone examine the link (if any) between the words:

Caduceus

Kedusha

I've just read a post Somewhere that has done so and makes a rather interesting argument. I'm curious as to whether I've any amateur linguists who would be interested in giving their take on it.
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Rambling and Altered Mental Status [Nov. 19th, 2009|10:24 am]
[music |"Shinkirou Romance" - GAM]

It's time to register for classes.

Nevermind that I don't yet know if I can afford to take them. Nevermind that I have no clue if I'll be able to finish them before I try to enlist.

It's time for me to step up and start my path toward becoming a white coated healer. My hands have been used to destroy, to create, to maim and injure...but they will be used to heal. To assuage pain and agony and make people better.

Navel gazing has never been a favorite pastime of mine. I'm more inclined to smirk and keep my mouth shut. I don't know, with as much as we've shared, if my boss yet knows if I'm dating - I honestly don't know that I've ever made mention of it one way or another.

North Carolina is beautiful in the Fall. Verdant and green...both Duke and UNC have stellar medical schools, the difference being that one is concentrated on patient care and the other is concentrated on research. Honestly, I am torn, deeply torn, about what to do and which way to go.

I love making people better. I love looking at someone and seeing them come in, ashen and grey, and because of what I do, they are better when they leave. That is my dream. I want to see people made better at my hands.

I want to have a transformative effect on those around me, to make people who come to me better for the experience.

I'm going to deal with death. A lot. First hand. I know that. I will have to deal with it. I can do that.

It will be a vicious thing, dealing with it, but I will.

People die on their own schedules. No one can tell me that - I know it. Whether it be their own idea or that of a Great Invisible Being, people come and go on their own time. A friend of mine says that the babies that don't want to come on their due dates - midwife, mind you, not a baby machine - that its not their birthday.

I have my plans, but its so much more than just that. Even if I can't attain that mythical MD, I still will strive because I want to help people when they can't help themselves.

I'm not a normal person - really, who can be typified in such a way - but I know that I am one to whom others come when they have problems. What do you think about this, should I talk to this person, am I right, should I be worried, do I look fat in this? The questions are at such a constant that I can't say that I really notice them much.

I noticed them a lot a few weeks ago. Right when I was getting sick.

I've been sick for about a month now. It began pretty simply, just a general malaise and feeling of being slightly off. It devolved rather badly. With most people, it's normal to get a dripping nose, sneezing, headaches, fever, tiredness and excessive discharge when they have Something Wrong in the upper respiratory tract.

I did not get those.

I got Altered Mental Status.

AMS is the sort of thing that is extremely scary, if you've never experienced it. I make my path in life by my words. I determine who I am and what I want through my words. I could not use words. There were emotions and mission critical details that needed to be said, but my thick tongue could not form the words.

It was not cotton wrapped around my skull. It was not pudding in my head.

It was being fully conscious, able to make sounds and form vague sentences. It was being completely and utterly cut off from the world in my own brain, without a way of escaping from my prison. I could not make myself understood in more than the vaguest of generalities. I was Charly.

My intellect was stolen from me. My reasoning had vanished.

But my mind had not stopped working.

My boss sent me home at midday, but I was no longer mentally capable of driving. I would have gotten a DUI while sober. My family had to drop what they were doing and come get me and the car I was driving.

When I went to the doctor, I had to have a full neurological workup. I was screened for stroke.

I'm not even thirty. The possibility of a stroke is rather alarming and frightening.

I wasn't overly concerned. Why?

I'd had this before.

It's how sinus infections present.

My sinuses decide that I will be trapped at their whim, and I will be unable to function while retaining full reflexes and physical capabilities. What makes me into me, though, is gone. All that is left is a meat husk, hollow and haunted by the ghost of who I was the day before.

It's frightening for those around me. As I experience it, it incenses me. My ire is raised alarmingly and my patience wears thin. It is not a day to ask me questions, because I cannot answer them. I am not mentally fit to give consent to anything.

After a week of antibiotics, I feel much better. I know, though, that I will experience ASM again. I will know what it is to be a prisoner in my own mind, and I will most likely do it again next year.

I have to try to remember not to become the stereotype. I know what's wrong with me because that is how this illness presents itself. The course of this illness is not one that I can typify by any experience, because it is so strange. Enflamed sinuses causing me to lose my personality? How easy it is.

I can't be the doctor who doesn't go in to the doctor because they know what's wrong with them. It's never that. It's never just sinuses, it's never just a backache. It's osteomyelitis, it's cholecystitis, it's never just a sinus infection or just a stomachache.

I have to remember that I'm too close to see it. I have to remember to trust myself to someone else.

I'm just glad I was able to go with my instinct and find a doctor quickly.
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Random Untitled Thing [Nov. 19th, 2009|09:56 am]
[Tags|, , ]
[mood | contemplative]
[music |"Biology" - Girls Aloud]

It's never just any one thing, is it?

It's never simple and easy to pin down, why you feel this way. No, that'd be too cut and dry. Too well marked, too bloody well simple. You have to do it the hard way. You have to have your emotions tied up in knots over nothing.

There's nothing, do you hear?

You've moved on! There's no point in going back! You shut it off and forced yourself to heal from it and you will not undo that work just to make yourself feel better! You know you did the right thing!

Cry it out. Let the tears flow like wine and do not, under any circumstances, pick up that phone and ask her to meet.

You know how it would end.

It'd never work.

Move the fuck on like you thought you had and get over it!

Do it for yourself, because you know that's the only person that matters, do it because you can't risk losing who you are again!

Don't talk to her! Don't pick up the phone! Don't think about her, don't look at her pictures, just don't!

Just keep looking at yourself in the mirror and hating yourself.

It's easier that way.
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A Good Servant [original, G/PG] [Nov. 13th, 2009|03:40 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[mood | contemplative]
[music |"Over the Seas" - Alestorm]

Encroaching darkness slithered through the large, well-appointed room, a half step ahead of the besuited gentleman striding on silent feet. Polished to a sheen, shoes placed deliberately upon the hand woven carpet brought him to the edge of the large chair. Medically speaking, the numerous microcracks in the aged spine kept the chair's inhabitant curled around the smooth crystal snifter. Cradled with impossible delicacy in gnarled, swollen hands, the amber liquid within gleamed in the dim light, casting scenes of despotic glee about in the enveloping shadow.

Dry, a mere croak of sound mimicking words, the question is spoken.

"Was I right?"

Immediacy, implacable, cool steel. "You did the only thing."

The final hint of light escapes elsewhere, leaving just the aged figure and the servant, held in stygian stillness...forever.
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Word Prompt: Unf [Sep. 24th, 2009|03:45 pm]
[mood |still stealthy, like ninja]
[music |"Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (A Man After Midnight)", Sinergy]

Decadent softness. That's the first thing I noticed. My entire body was encased in total and absolute decadence and softness.

Of course, the second thing I noticed was that there was a spot of excessive warmth and dampness on my leg. I really...*really* didn't want to know precisely why that was. It was so nice to just float on the bed of awesome.

Then I felt the large, floppy tongue try to insert itself into my ear and I screamed like a little girl.

Good GOD, that dog is never being allowed on the bed again.
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Baffle Them With Bullshit [Sep. 24th, 2009|03:18 pm]
[mood |stealthy, like ninja]
[music |"Head Full of Steam", The Go-Betweens]

There's a time and a place when you realize that things are ending. When you know that what you've had isn't going to remain for much longer, and all you can do is watch it die a slow death. Resurrection is useless. There is no point to trying to hold on, because it will slip away of its own accord no matter how you try to cling to it. Whether it be a friendship, a lover, a job, a mindset, a fandom...things have their time and then they die.

No matter how we try to retain ourselves as immutable beings, things change. In a way, this is a good thing. But then we look at who we are and who we've become and wonder why these things that brought such joy to our lives must drift away.

When its an essential part of how you've seen yourself for most of your life, how can you deal with it? How can you, crucially, watch yourself die piecemeal?

You look and see that you're a stranger.

There's nothing for it but to continue to forge ahead and do nothing to pause the onset of entropy for that way lies madness.

In case you're thinking this has relevance, look at the title of the post again before contacting me.
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The Monster Mash [Sep. 6th, 2009|02:22 pm]
[mood | quixotic]

I was working in my lab, late one night...

SO!

I went to Ye Grande Rugby Day yesterday - because as we all know, Saturday's a rugby day - and it was highly enjoyable, aside from the usual Drama Which Shall Not Be Named.

However, there was one incident that is staying with me today.

I was in the bar - already the start of a good story, there - and I was hanging out with the Brother Team and a teammate of mine. She was slightly unsober. Slightly.

She decided to notice just how large my chest is. Loudly.

And then decided to full on double handed grope, all the while expounding on the size.

What is disturbing me is not so much that she did this. It is the fact that her doing this, while creepy and strange, did not surprise me. I almost expected it of her.

Its things like that which make baby Jesus cry. Sob, I say, into his diaper. But only if its a clean one, because otherwise, that's just weird and creepy and awful.

I have, yet again, been groped publicly by a straight girl.

Sometimes I really wish I had a sign over my head that said "NO TOUCHIE". Or that I could at least charge per grope.
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In the Air, On Land and Sea [Original, PG-13] [Feb. 28th, 2009|03:21 am]
[mood | pensive]
[music |Delerium - Silence (Michael Woods Remix) | Powered by Last.fm]

Title: In the Air, On Land and Sea
Author: Lex 'Spork' Tenou
Rating: PG-13 (Violence)
Warnings/Disclaimers: All original ideas are distributed under the CreativeCommons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike License. For more information on the Creative Commons License, visit CreativeCommons.org.
Archiving: Ask first.
Author's Note: Partially a future memory, partially an...explanation. No, I don't want to re-write it.
Summary: Trial by fire.

---

They try to prepare for what it'll be like, the first time the "sharp crack of bullets" sounds near you.

They try to arm you with techniques to disarm whatever you find.

They try to fill your head with tactics and strategies.

Then they tell you that because you're you, you won't need it.

Before you know it, your boots are kissing dirt, your kit weighing more heavily on you than you ever thought possible - and you know as the day goes on, it'll get heavier. You usually don't have to piss. You're too amped. Not hungry, not thirsty, not sleepy, not tired. In the distance, there's that "sharp crack of gunfire" they used to describe. Sometimes it's closer than others.

You hands grip your issued weapon tightly through your gloves. Your precious few ounces of metal that can save your life - or end it, if you forget your training.

Some get shown to quarters first. Others get run around - to take charge of this post. Double time, single time, all the time...all that matters is getting the job done.

That's all that ever matters. It's drilled into you from the first moment you enlist. You aren't just you. You represent the Corps. You represent the country. You always walk proudly, with your head held high, instilled with the honor and pride of the Corps. If you cannot have honor and pride in yourself, by God, you WILL have it in your beloved Corps.

The most important thing is to remember your training. Always remember your training. There's a reason the DI's had you stripping and cleaning your weapon until your fingers bled, and this is it. The hard, baked dirt that's packed tightly beneath your feet is going to swirl in the tepid hinting of breezes that barely tease, burrowing and finding its way into everything. Before long, you'll be used to the grit of sandpapering your teeth during chow.

On the plus side, your allergies won't be tossed up at all with all the local flora you're ingesting with every breath and bite. You'll be used to the plants, if not the temperature. Even desert designed gear is hot as the seventh layer of hell. You can't remember any time that was hotter, making you glad that your hands on your steel weapon are in gloves.

When the first explosion hits, the world doesn't go upside down. It goes sideways. Your saving grace is that your weapon remains strapped to your body. You'd adopted as your own the zombie war mantra - there is no safe, there is only safer. Swinging and yanking your weapon free, you roll to your feet with a quick clenching of stomach muscles you spent the better part of a year earning, your ears still ringing from the initial blast. Eyes and ears, head on a swivel, you crouch and run through the base, low enough to make you look like a rugby player going in for a tackle, looking for a target. It's not until the dirt kicks up just in front of where your feet were going to have been, your hands swinging your weapon up as your body throws itself to the side for cover behind a spare empty oil drum, that you realize that while your brain might be slow to recover, your body isn't. Your body remembers what it's supposed to do when it's being shot at, relying on your brain to narrow down the target range. Your eyes sweep the area as you return a couple tight three-rounds before you land heavily, rolling to a sitting position behind the drum.

Learning how to take a fall had never seemed like such a boon until then.

It's then that the thought flickers across your head, as the bullets continue to rain down in tight clusters, indicating a modicum of brains in your enemies. Organized, possibly raiders, rather than merely rabble rousers who fired indiscriminately. Your hand tightens on your weapon, adjusting it to a more natural body position, your own dark humor peering out in the midst of the dust and the steel.

"Non-combat position, my ass."

- end -
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Wish You Were Here [original, G/PG] [Feb. 16th, 2009|04:04 am]
[mood | contemplative]
[music |KT Tunstall - Suddenly I See | Powered by Last.fm]

Title: Wish You Were Here
Author: Lex 'Spork' Tenou
Series: Original
Rating: G/PG
Warnings/Disclaimer: "Wish You Were Here" was written by David Gilmour and Roger Waters. All original ideas are distributed under the CreativeCommons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike License. For more information on the Creative Commons License, visit CreativeCommons.org.
Archiving: Ask first.
Author's Note: The desire existed. It shall in all likelihood rise again.
Summary:

So, so you think you can tell Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.


---

I've often wondered what it would've been like.

You were always good to me. Maybe not in the way that people would really think, but...it got through. It made me care. God, did it make me care.

Did you know that knowing you, even peripherally, is what led to me taking the route I did? Knowing your strength and courage made it just that little bit easier to get up in the morning and it allowed me to become who I am today.

I wonder, sometimes, what you've done in the years since I've seen you last. I could hire a private detective to find you, if I didn't use my own resources to do it. But then...the mystery would be gone. Your power as a force for good in my life would be changed. I don't know that I can handle that just yet.

Maybe...maybe it would have been easier if you would always remain as you were that last night I saw you, proud and strong. Hair ruffled by the breeze...

You were cute then. I remember that clearly. Just as I remember how seeing you walking through the halls would make me smile, a smile that I thought was mysterious and hidden. It was probably broadcasting everywhere what I thought. I'm sure somebody noticed.

But not you. I always tried so hard to not let you notice.

Does it matter? Not one bit. I'm who I am. You are who you've become, whomever that is.

That doesn't stop me from wishing that my hand wasn't on this marble and brass edifice, my tears washing down over my cheeks as I read the name inscribed beneath my fingers. He was my friend, and I loved him dearly.

You inspired me to go the way I did, and to meet him. You inspired me to do things I never could have otherwise done. I made the choice - and you planted the seed.

I've changed, from who I was when I knew you. You haven't. Not in my memory. You will never change in my memory, always being that same strong and proud figure.

My own Victory, gracing me.

Though you never called me friend, I never thought of you as any less than a hero. I love you.

Sometimes...dear God, sometimes...I wish we could go back. I wish we could know each other now. Sometimes, I wish you were near. Near enough to let me glimpse you every once in a while.

Most of the time...I'm glad I left you behind in high school.

Thank you.

You...are never forgotten.

- end -
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Scrubs: Like Wearing Nothing at All [Oct. 14th, 2008|10:53 pm]
[Current Location |home]
[mood | sated]

I'm on my last week, my last day of my phlebotomy course. I got an A on the final. All that's left is the final draw on a classmate. Monday starts my clinical.

When I have something massive working in my subconscious, it manifests by giving me a vicious bout of insomnia. My last bout has resulted in a rather monumentous moment of self-realization.

I want to be a doctor.

I have, at this time, no interest in the research and experimental aspect of things. I want to be a general practitioner, tending to my flock of patients and referring out when things go beyond the common cold. I want to take care of people in the simplest and most basic of ways - as their family doctor.

Because I'm not at all interested in dealing with the excessive politics and legalities involved with the full board MD path, I'm going to go to medical school and become a PA. Physician Assistants are, essentially, the clinical side of doctoring - patient care and interaction. The school is seven years, as opposed to the eight years plus three to seven of residency. I'm including undergrad in that, as I currently have no undergrad.

I went to a local community college yesterday and spoke with an advisor to see if their general studies were fully transferable to any of the Colorado colleges. They are. Classes start on January 2nd.

My medical school of choice is University of Colorado Denver, Health and Sciences. It is one of the top ten rated medical schools in the country, and the PA program is strong in pediatrics. I will have the full option of rural care. Somehow, the romance of being a small town country doctor is really appealing.

I'm going to be speaking with a few other advisors from some other colleges - including one from DU - in order to get a better idea of what sorts of students are seen as better options. Originally, I had considered schools with between 3% and 30% admittance rates. I know I'm good enough to be able to make it into any school I choose. It's blasted lucky that DU is so close. I'll have the option of getting my undergrad from any of the colleges in Colorado, including CU Boulder. However, I'm going to have to do a helluva lot of research into these schools to see what I can do.

I would presume it was unnecessary, but I've learned that these things still need to be said -

Writing is put on hold until I damn well feel like it. Who knows, maybe being busier will make it so I write more.

There are a few things to be noted as a result of this decision.

I will be busy. I have no idea what sort of job I will get as a phlebotomist. It could be at a hospital working from 3-11 or at a clinic working from 9-5. It's hard to say. I could very easily be hired on by my clinical position, something that does happen quite frequently, especially with students from my school. I'm going to be at one of the busiest clinics in all of Denver, as a greenhorn. I think my teacher has confidence in my ability.

I will be getting a laptop. A macbook, specifically. It is the tradition in the family - you go to college, you get a laptop. My mom just got hers. We'll be able to study together. It also means I can be one of those annoying people in the coffee shop, drinking coffee and tapping away at the keyboard on my trendy computer.

There are a lot of things I still need to work out - like what my bachelor's degree will be in. At this point, I'm drawn to something in the line of biochemistry or some other equally advanced science that is specifically geared toward the human body. I'm not as interested in biology or chemistry because they're not specific to the human body and that is what I'm geared toward.

My listlessness has disappeared. I have nothing holding me back from moving forward with my life. I know what I want to do.

I want to tend to people and keep them healthy - minus golf. The joke about PA school is that the extra years are to teach you how to perfect your golf swing. Screw that. I want patients.

Strange. I hate having to deal with people - ie, tech support - but this is what I want to do. Maybe it's because there's an inherent respect that goes along with someone who can listen to your symptoms and say "Yeah, you've got an infection in your lungs and I'm gonna need you to pee in the cup."

Ugh. Urine is nasty. Blood, sputum (what you spew when you hack, usually with pus in it), stool, synovial, vomit, pleural, give me any other bodily fluid. Urine makes me cringe. Especially if it's all cloudy or bloody. Ew.

Now blood on the other hand? Man, lipemic serum is freaking AWESOME. And the fibrin clot? Freaking SWEET!

My only wonder, now, is why in the bloody hell did I invert green and purple tubes on the test? GREEN has heparin, PURPLE has EDTA! Bloody ass backwards brain. I swear, if I didn't need it, I'd cut it out and feed it to a zombie.

Speaking of which, I've worked through my fear of zombies and now have the Resident Evil BluRay Trilogy on my Christmas wish list.
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Untitled Challenge Answer [Jul. 6th, 2008|03:49 am]
[Tags|, ]
[mood | hot]
[music |Nightwish - Ghost Love Score]

Title: Untitled
Author: Lex 'Spork' Tenou
Series: Kim Possible
Pairing: implied Kim/Shego
Rating: G/PG
Warnings/Disclaimer: "Kim Possible" and all derivative characters are property of Disney. All original ideas are distributed under the CreativeCommons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike License. For more information on the Creative Commons License, visit CreativeCommons.org.
Archiving: KP Slash Haven Archive. All others ask first.
Author's Note: Answer to the challenge by Rampant on KP Slash Haven, paraphrased. "Kim and Shego's kid is doing a 'what I did last summer' presentation and mentions her mommies but no one believes her and she goes into 'I'll prove it' mode." Obviously, I exercised creative license.
Summary: Just because it's the next generation doesn't mean she's not just as feisty as her mothers.

---

Slouching in a relaxed position against the teacher's desk, the eleven year old auburn haired student read from the single sheet of loose leaf paper clutched in one long fingered hand. Low and monotone, her young voice easily reached every corner of the sixth grade classroom. "What I did last summer. What I did last summer was visit Scotland, which is where my mom's family is from. We went to the clan lands where my moms renewed their vows and included me and my little sister in the ceremony. We both got matching necklaces because we're part of their marriage too. The end."

Miss Linley smiled, shifting against the desk along the windowed wall, drawing eyes toward her and away from the deceptively bored pre-teen at the front of the class. "Questions?"

"Yeah, I got a question." The teased blonde hair at the back of the class bobbed as Jennifer raised her hand. "Um, do you know who your dad is? I was adopted and didn't find out who my birth dad was until last year."

A casual shrug preceded the even toned, almost bored answer. "Don't have one. Mom gave birth. Ma was the other genetic donor."

"That's stupid." Madison Parker, every inch of the eleven year old carefully groomed to present the utmost in fashion, spoke with her customary disdain of the casual and self possessed girl at the front of the class. It was more testament to the virulent hatred her behaviour inspired than any affront at her statement that Bobby immediately interrupted before she could continue.

"It's possible. My dad's working on that genetic sequencing project in order to help infertile and gay couples." The break in his voice, unfortunately for him, happened on the word 'infertile'.

"Yeah. They call it parthenogenesis. It means two women can have a kid without needing a guy." Slight tension began to line the slender shoulders as it became obvious that this wouldn't be enough to satisfy Madison Parker. Before it became necessary to turn ugly, a cheerful voice broke in.

"Something I'm sure you all will be discussing at some point in biology. Would you pick the next reader, please?" Maybe another class, this situation would have triggered a new ulcer in Miss Linley's stomach - and not a few detentions or censures. This group, however, was a new experiment of teaching style, designed to foster creativity and growth within the student while stimulating their intelligence.

A slow smile curved her lips as she raked Madison Parker from head to foot with a calculating, heated stare. Quiet, measured, she spoke the only name possible. "Madison."

Vicious glaring was her reward, leveled on her by vibrant blue eyes. Meeting the gaze that was so distinctly Madison Parker directly, she pushed off from the wide desk and strode toward her own. It was fortunate that Madison sat in the next row over. It meant that she could stare at the displeasurable fashion plate with quiet, turbulent intensity roiling in her rich green eyes, every step bringing them closer until the stare down was conceded.

As blue eyes glanced to the carpeted floor, her foot rising to step over a backpack, Madison knew to the very core of her being that there was something lurking in those dangerous green eyes that she didn't dare examine too closely.

Neither did she wish to examine precisely why meeting that intense gaze which hid so much made her so unaccountably nervous.
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Anything Else But Yours [Jul. 1st, 2008|04:40 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[mood | content]
[music |KMFDM - Juke-Joint Jezebel]

What this is, I'm not sure, but it's here and it's made of words.

---

The love borne for you has no end
A feast of nothing more or less than you deserve
My heart cries for you
'Til naught exists within but the ache

Hot tears threaten to swath my cheeks in a reign of emotion

I told you I didn't want anything
Those few I did were itemized
It might be enough, someday

What little there was of substance is subverted
Raucous interjections of existence remind
Everything is found in your eyes

Defined by what I am and what I am not
More emerges than could be held
Do you really think I'd resist?

There's deeper meaning here
Between us and those that surround
Nothing of it bears relevance

At its core it doesn't matter
Steadfast am I, though buffeted by fate
My existence is to wait

Hope - I know it not
Aspiration to higher meanings are unknown
I'm happy

Words encompass exhaled breaths
Entropy draws us all in
And I'm happy.

Waiting.
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Ballad of the Fire Banshee: Hinterlander's Revenge [Jun. 30th, 2008|12:46 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[mood |creative]
[music |Nena & Kim Wilde - Anyplace, Anywhere, Anytime]

Title: Ballad of the Fire Banshee: Hinterlander's Revenge
Author: Lex Tenou
Series: Kim Possible
Pairing: uber Kim/uber Shego
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Disclaimer: "Kim Possible" and all derivative characters are property of Disney. All original ideas are distributed under the CreativeCommons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike License. For more information on the Creative Commons License, visit CreativeCommons.org.
Archiving: KP Slash Haven Archive. All others ask first.
Author's Note: Written for StarvingLunatic, at her request - a Kim and Shego story set in medieval times.
Summary: The King's Favourite claims an unasked for prize.

---

The heavy oaken door creaked solidly shut behind the simply tuniced soldier. )
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Dreams [SCC, G/PG, implied Sarah/Cameron] [Jun. 30th, 2008|11:14 am]
[Tags|, ]
[Current Location |A recliner in need of more butt padding]
[mood |caffinated]
[music |Christina Stümer - Ich Lebe | Scrobbled by Last.fm]

Title: Dreams
Author: Lex Tenou
Series: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles
Pairing: implied Sarah/Cameron
Rating: G/PG
Warnings/Disclaimer: "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles" and all derivative characters are property of their creators and distributors. All original ideas are distributed under the CreativeCommons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike License. For more information on the Creative Commons License, visit CreativeCommons.org.
Archiving: Ask.
Author's Note: Companion to [info]tristianmehkai's musings because there's no where else I can bloody well shove it.
Summary: The dark of night is not always a comfort.

---

The dreams come frequently.

Every night, rather. Insistent, unrelenting displays of my inability to overcome the machine of my son's destiny, persistent showings of my inadequacies...but only when I sleep.

The twilit hours of evening are not my friend. Any thermal based imagery will find me regardless of the hour - the shadows offer me no respite. Ancient writings of battle have no bearing on my workings here. The wise man knows his battles and fights them with the resources at his disposal. I picked that up one day, as I pored over the journals and texts of the great minds that had created destruction so many years before. A note, jotted in the margin of formulae and pontification.

My resting hours are not peaceful, filled with these dark phantoms, each with glowing red eyes. Sometimes, it is the face of someone I know from which those eyes glare at me, unfeeling. Incapable of the emotion that fills me every moment of my existence. I am human, defined by my experiences and my emotion, bound to live in this waking nightmare of knowing that every breath is drawn to continue the fight for my son's future.

Tonight, the inadequacies are put aside. For a few thankful hours, my consciousness exists in a blissful emptiness, held protected from those baleful figures of gleaming metal. With a sigh, relaxation steals over me and I drift into quiet, healing slumber, held safe in the circling embrace of one who is beyond human.
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Five Senses in Three Minutes [Mar. 15th, 2008|05:25 pm]
[mood |creative]

From a three minute poem prompt: describe love using all five senses.

---

I am...

...sweet enchantment of nothingness, enswirling all in a void, nothing more

...everything and nothing contained within the petit four, a bonbon

...rumbling of murmured pleasure resonating from over the walls of air that enfold, holding

...smooth varied texture of warm pliant skin giving and firm beneath fingertips that ache

...bright summer sky, swirling with emotion, shot through with everything that can't be said

...smooth and jerky, an elegant tripping of emotional tension held within the heart
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Inn Between [Avatar, Toph/Katara, PG-13] [May. 4th, 2007|11:34 pm]
[mood |accomplished]
[music |"Kodoku no Angel" - The Knight Sabers]

Title: Inn Between the Honeymoon Suite and the Hooker
Author: Lex 'Spork' Tenou
Series: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Pairing: Toph/Katara
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Disclaimer: “Avatar: The Last Airbender” and all derivative characters are property of Nickelodeon. All original ideas are distributed under the CreativeCommons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike License. For more information on the Creative Commons License, visit CreativeCommons.org.
Archiving: Ask first.
Author's Note: Written for fortheloveofpizza. See the illustration. Link also provided in text at point illustrated. Crossposted to personal journal and avatar femslash community. [EDIT] And the saffic community.
Summary: Sometimes, even the greatest will is stuck in between an Earthbender and a hard place.

---

Fake cut to Google Docs file.
Growling, the dark form of the young woman known as Toph Bei Fong rolled over, beating her head against the floor with a series of solid thunks.
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Remembrance [Apr. 20th, 2007|11:02 am]
[Current Location |Less than ten miles from where it was]
[mood |indescribable]
[music |"This Road is Going Nowhere" - The Vincent Black Shadow]

Memory holds strong
Though time has passed
Forgetting is not an option
Life always continues

Eight years ago, at this moment, I was hungry. Very hungry. Then, I wasn't.

I was irritated that someone would bring their lunch with them. I didn't care about food anymore. Frantic and rushed, that's what hung over everything.

I laughed a few minutes later when someone said "I guess this means we don't have to worry about that play anymore." I realized how truly, truly serious it was when I saw teachers and students smoking together. Not that I could have denied it.

It was...memorable.

They are never forgotten.
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Finding an Audience [Apr. 7th, 2007|05:50 pm]
[mood |creative]
[music |Morning Musume. - Rouman -MY DEAR BOY- (Let's Have a Dance Remix)]

I enjoy writing.

Putting words into a semblance of order that conveys the images and thoughts in my head brings me pleasure and satisfaction. I could little imagine, that hectic week when I was fourteen, scrambling to hammer out a tale of fiction for an English assignment, that I'd become who I am today. I have a website. I have fans. Most importantly, I have people that remember and are touched/inspired by my writing. I've apparently introduced people to new fandoms through my writing, and that, to me, is amazing.

I wonder, though, is it feasible for an author who has no audience to seek out an audience for a fandom that is dying?

Many fandoms go through cycles of feast and famine. It seems that some of mine are in extended famine stage. Audiences I used to have are now moved onto other fandoms, yet I've remained to tinker with my characters. Some fandoms I see as dying a slow death, in part due to the lack of proper creativity in the show or due to characters that were popular for slash being altered, or because the show is older.

It's entirely feasible that the fandoms I'm thinking of are in existence in some small corner of the net that I've cut myself off from. That begs the question, then, is it beneficial for me to overcome my prejudices against these formats in order to find my audience when I'm actually writing the story for myself?

Strange thoughts and stranger decisions.

At least I believe in Destroyer.
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Greater things than you dream of [Apr. 3rd, 2007|06:05 am]
[mood | thirsty]

Sometimes, the best thing you can do in life is keep your mouth shut.

I must confess, recently I've become perturbed that I only receive feedback from a select circle of people. I do recognize that feedback has declined across the board, and that I am positively horrendous at publicizing my work. Heck, my fanfic fans didn't know I write original works until one asked me to write an original work and I had to tell him that I have been continuously writing them.

Ah, life.

I do think it says a lot that the people who do contact me in regards to my work are invariably writers themselves. To a man, they adore it. Today I received comment that my mind is a place of twisted ideas with the skill to bring them to life. I can't argue that point - I do have twisted ideas.

Someday, perhaps, I shall receive a gift from an artist I adore, an illustrated scene of one of my stories. Maybe eventually, I'll reach the level that they can't get the image out of their mind until they draw it. Or maybe someone other than my fellow twisted minds will reach out and say they liked what I've written.

Does it really matter in the long run?

Not a whit. I was able to write before I discovered fans, and I'll be able to write long after they abandon me.

Maybe that's my true skill.
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