I assembled it as a word doc and sent it to Askye...she said she would help post it. (Like sands through the hourglass...yada yada...) It came out 43 pages in this version. I cut Munch off a lot, I'm thinking...man's got a lot to say. And any trip through Tim's head? Not going to be short on words. But this time I thought ahead so there wasn't much to it. It was the whole "not worthy"+freaky pairing thing that kept me from saving stuff before. So, Askye, insent to the fic address, babe.(And I really have to stop doing that as Not!Munch. It could be a tic so easily. And I really don't need that, not with this personality.)

I really should be writing something else, but the devil on my shoulder isn't through yet.(This is Munch's POV, what he is thinking after he, well, pees in everybody's Kool-Aid at the restaurant in "A Many Splendored Thing.)
PROPHECY
He never claimed to be a freaking oracle. Leave that to Dionne and her Psychic Friends. But he couldn't stand the delusion any more. Stan canoodling with a nymphette violinist pretending to be worried about his...bow. Kay carrying on with Ed Danvers, Establishment man...probably drove a Volvo, for Chrissake. He was so not good enough for her it was nauseating. And before they noticed him, Munch could see Ed's eye scoping the waitress' cleavage, looking past Kay. Who knew that look better than John Munch? Sometimes, he thinks he wears the dark glasses so he won't have to see so clearly.

erika, you're scaring me.

You grok John Munch far too well.

Of course, I do too, so we can scare the world together. I just can't write him nearly as well.

Erika, never ever ever stop. It's so. Damned. Good. Like Munch crack, I tell you.

That scares*you*? Try living in here. I used to think I could be...average. Now? I'm amazed I'm not overcome with the urge to play with my own breasts on a daily basis...I'm not, FYI.I shouldn't feel this beat-up at this age, either. Need to save something for the midlife crisis. I just read this book by this Jungian? And it had a part about the "animus"...the male energy in every woman? I think I have an ani-Munch. One little part is me...you really have to watch out for Volvo guys. My dad used to hang with and hero-worship a bunch of them during his Real Estate High Roller phase. My mom was always like "Dude, my face is up here," with them. A world of yuck. Karl, funky synchronicity! Did you get my e-mail? And, babe, you know I can do...that voice all day.(My mom's friend? Total female version. Seriously. I spent maybe 1000 weekends with her. I guess it rubbed off. Which sounds hot, but it wasn't.)

And it had a part about the "animus"...the male energy in every woman?

Early years of marriage, I used to yell at Nic: "I am NOT YOUR ANIMA!"

And he must have known what you meant because he's a. still alive. b. still with you. if I got a blank look after that, I'd be gone.(But I'm not obsessed with a fishtank.)

Heh. Yup, he knew.

I have no objection to being an anima figure, but there's a time and place (the conjugal bed, so to speak, and occasional public events).

Not 24/7. I am so not a blank slate to project pretty pictures on.

On topic, I'm trying to remember how many "Things that should have happened in Sunnydale" stories I've written. I think three, but it's tricky, because my third thing (Xander on his wedding day with vengeance demon who isn't Anya) was apparently not saved to my own hard drive.

If it was three stories, then I need a fourth, because I already know what the fifth one needs to be.

But if I've written four, I can just go for it.

And yes, I know, now shrift can point and laugh at me....

And yes, I know, now shrift can point and laugh at me...

Point and laugh? Oh no. I'm just glad I'm not the only one who can't remember this stuff.

I've been writing stories since I was seven. I remember the first one, and I remember the latest ones, but all those ones in between? Er...

Also: oh dear. I seem to have given myself a very compelling mental image of Jack Bristow/Arvin Sloane bad-and-wrongness. And I didn't think I'd ever go there -- not because they're older and slashers tend to eschew the older guys -- but because it would have to be so frelling creepy.

And now. Well. Damn it. I may have to Go There.

Okay. Now it's no longer a May Have to Go There, it's a Definitely Going There, and Cackling All the Way.

Oh boy. Jack and Arvin's loveissocreepy.