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.

God, I take my eyes off of you for a few days, and you're slashing Creepy Uncle Arvin?

Of course, a blind dead duck could have seen the slash last night...

Is there good Jack/Vaughn out there?

God, I take my eyes off of you for a few days, and you're slashing Creepy Uncle Arvin?

Anna started it, and then everyone kept encouraging me!

I think they're gonna need an extra-special hell for me.