Irish cream, beef sticks, and snow...

[lyssie]

Y'know, it's like pulling teeth to get my mother to send me recipes. It can't be that hard, can it? She simply has to open the recipe book, type in the ingredients list (and quantities) and send it. I know all of the rest. Generally.

I want to make quiche, god-damnit.

Shoveled snow. Needed some sort of physical excercise, so did the street, too.

Until Cally and I started arguing out loud about the beginning of the story I'm writing. Actually, we were arguing until I snapped, "I could have you fucking Vila, so shut up already."

She didn't of course, but Chiana looked intrigued.

Sigh.

Chiana, btw, is the universe's slutpuppy. Worse than Gambit, I swear. (that was sarcasm, folks. I've always been vocal that Remy is not a slutpuppy. ;)

In action figure news, I picked up another John Crichton figure. This one came in the black pants and t-shirt, with the horrible wedding robe he wore in Look at the Princess. So now I have a MoyaJohn (in the black, damnit, 'cause he's more insane) and a TalynJohn (in beige. Whishywashy man)...

Can anyone tell I prefer MoyaJohn? ;)

My brain is slowly melting under a steady diet of Farscape, Blake's 7, Doctor Who, conversations with my roommates, and the amounts of coffee we drink.

Hrm. Speaking of. I'm out.

Comments

[comradecally.livejournal.com]

Until Cally and I started arguing out loud about the beginning of the story I'm writing. Actually, we were arguing until I snapped, "I could have you fucking Vila, so shut up already."

I've learned the hard way that you really can't make her shut up or change her mind or anything.

Er. Dare I ask what the argument was about?

Plus. Crossover bad, and I hate you. And no doubt so does she.