sundries

Tomorrow for Govenor's Island: cream-colored slacks, light blue dress shirt (over a white t-shirt of course), light grey vest. Pocketwatch. Today I must find a hat (both because it will be 91 tomorrow and to hide my stupid hair). And get the slacks tailored (thank you zarq for the tailor rec). It will be funny and I won't even be wearing any wool -- thank god for small favors -- let's repeat -- 91! Ugh.

And, er I still totally need to buy a fencing bag today. Because just walking onto the train with a saber ranks high on the list of stupid I've committed (and am, in fact, about to commit).

Finally figured out how to put pictures on the iPod, so I've got Patty in my pocket now (unfortunately, we're in Mercury Retrograde hell with snail mail and it's really frustrating).

More fencing today, although I suppose that was clear from the above.

Too many deadlines at work.

Had a bad moment in Macy's yesterday when something random reminded me of that fic I wrote the other day and I almost cried (I didn't cry writing it, surprisingly, but I did, however, listen to Kitty the Rose of Kilrea on repeat to do it).

progress

I suppose I can't be bitter that the tailoring on the slacks is costing $40 when they only cost me $8 in the first place (ah, Burlington Coat Factory).

Found a hat that's passable (much like this entire kludge of an outfit). Yay Reminiscence.

Work crises being mitigated at least.

Still need to deal with fencing bag.

And wow, Marc Almond Death's Diary was like my favorite song for a while ages ago and I just dug it up again and dumped it onto my Torchwood playlist, but now it's disturbing me. I can decide if I was weirder as a kid who loved this song or as an adult who feels more than a bit squeamish about it. It's still kinda awesome though.

TW fic rec

Really really good Jack/Ianto immediately post-Cyberwoman.

http://paperclipbitch.livejournal.com/96047.html

on the fictional life

"Only fictional lives or lives made into fiction have a shape. Outside of fiction one can find routine, which is negative in design, and random events, beyond foresight and control. We might be dust blown in the wind. We are. The refuge, then, was another life; and if there was empathy, it was with what is otherwise impossible to have."

- E.D. Blodgett

via newwaytowrite

Apt, particularly it seems in the wake of the most recent bit of writing I did. I'm been in a damn mood ever since.