I am looking forward to kicking her ass...she could use an ass-kicking.And she does come off like one of those women who spends way too much on shampoo because somebody told her she had pretty hair once.(I talk about hair a lot don't I? Not as much as Hec, but I do. Well, it was kind of the family business at one time...I guess I come by it honestly.)

Oh, Coulter is totally plastic. She has Barbie hair.

Yeah...Reactionary Barbie. Even conservatives I know, and believe it or not I know a few I speak to, back away slowly on that whole McCarthy worship thing.

If I was truly sick, I'd do a fic with her and Roy Cohn.

Or not.

EWWWWWW.

Forget I said that.

Don't gross me out.(Hey, I didn't think it was possible, but it still is.) "Perversion has existed since the dawn of time, but that doesn't mean I have to accept it."

I can't help it; I have this vision of her, looking exactly the same but with a slightly different hairdo and clothes, sucking the life out of the young boys Cohn would bring home to play with.

Now I see it too. The thought still disturbs me, but it would actually explain a lot. And the problem with Tim's quote always is that Nobody asked him. The perverts of the world(besides me and a few other Bitches) don't care if he accepts them or not.

My new official name for Anne Coulter? "New from Mattel(tm)! Succubus Barbie!"

Theme for the drabble is, new.

So.

Chrysallid (for the new Sunday 100)

She remembered nothing.

This was the thing about dying, about being reborn: she always seemed to forget, for those first few minutes after waking, everything that had brought her to this metamorphosis. It had happened the first time, hundreds of years back, when the Master had taken her down and brought her back. Now, it seemed, it had happened the second time.

Disoriented, frightened, Darla lay in the box of earth, open to the night sky, seeing Angel, seeing Dru, panicking, jumping, going to ground.

When she did remember what had led to this new undeath, she tried to forget.

Nice Darla POV, Deb.

Here are mine:

Blossoming (Willow/Tara, S4)
If it wasn’t spring, you would find a spell to make it so, the weather and your mood match so well. You kiss under a tree one day, and tiny white flowers cover it overnight. Your lover blossoms with the heat, shedding scarves, jackets, sweaters, until you’ve coaxed her into a camisole. Her nipples peek through shyly, like early crocuses.

You lie on the green-again grass, your head in her lap. She strokes your hair with one hand, flips through a mythology textbook with the other. You smile at her.

“Everyone should fall in love in the spring,” she says.

Superhero (Violet, post-Chosen)
You can’t get used to new superpowers in the middle of a battle. They’re just there, like arms or legs: you breathe them in, grateful, and keep fighting.

It was a bit more real on the bus. Some of the younger Slayers showed off to each other, giggly and astonished as they squished and restored jewelry. Violet, preoccupied with other worries, shot them a stern look.

But that night, listening to Rona’s raspy breathing from the other bed in a Motel 6 outside Las Vegas, Violet finally understood who she was. What she was. She smiled into the darkness.

Cool.

[A/N: The thing that worried me most was the voice in "Blossoming" -- you *can* tell it's Willow, right?]