As long as it didn't hurt you should be happy.

Lit:

Jim Eaton-Terry: Adolescents respond well to glumness. It speaks to the emptiness of their souls, and the lost poetry of their hearts or something. Odious little shits.

nb - present company excepted, natch.

sarameg: I once drooled on the shoulder of a rather cute & polite marine for several hours stuck on a plane. Middle seat.

In Farscape:

Cashmere: she's sucked out their best character features!

Matt: It's like she's the personification of badfic writers everywhere!

I had reason to be trolling the WX archives today and found this:

Madrigal:

I don't usually watch "Smallville" (an hour of TV a night is about all I can take) but in just five minutes I saw a scene where Lex compares himself to Napolean, speaks of his devotion to his mother, and offers to "help" Clark while sitting close enough to smell the lipstick that Clark's face was just begging for.

(I don't think it was ever COMMed.)

RLizard in Bitches:

It's just-- duh. ita. She's like God's Mary Sue.

Oh my. Plei, Gleebo, Theodosia, Jess PMoon, Katie M. and Perkins make a Cross-Over Wish List in Angel, gone (and this is an understatement) astray... (really not spoilery in the least - we're talking Angel/The Fresh Prince of Bel Air and possibly Clueless). In the process, they break poor Deena.

Deena

Sneaking back into the well-lit threads, wiping my mouth from the so-sweet-taste of forbidden spoiler fruit, I am triumphant. I have sinned and gotten away with it. Considering my goldfish brain, that means I won't remember a word, but I can bask in my faux-knowledge and be glad.

I read the regular Angel thread, sure that I remain unrevealed in my sin, oblivious in the face of my doom. Suddenly, an image of snappy-fingered, toe-tapping, Alfonso Ribeira bores into my brain... It's not unusual to be loved by anyone.... The words flow over me like hot tar, stinging. The torment continues through the celebrity look/sound alike show and the "You Too Can Be A Breakdancer" video, back, back to the Silver Spoon years.

I break. There is no time to repent. I am ear-wormed and undone. Even the goldfishiness of my brain is no match for the horror that has been wreaked upon me.

Gleebo, in the same thread:

If tequila won't fix it, it's really really broken.

Tequila and duct tape are universal fixers of many things.

Never use them together!

Theodosia in Natter:

Good Time to you all. I have just discovered that on January 26th, the sun has moved along the horizon just far enough that I can see it come up on the slice of horizon that is visible among the haphazard arrangement of houses and hills visible from the east-facing window at my desk. This is similar to being inside some great Egyptian tomb on the equinoctial dawn, except for it being a little bit less planned, and a lot less hieroglyphed excepting the occasional bit of Somerville graffiti.

And from Deena in Bitches, a different kind of porn:

White sauce is lovingly prepared and delicate. White gravy, also called sausage gravy, is home-style, thrown-together-in-the pan: milk, stirred up with flour and drippings like a lady mixing in with slatternly company.

It's very good, and I miss it. Served over biscuits, fluffy, buttermilk, layered, biscuits (mine if I want to work too hard), or my grandmother's drop biscuits (not quite as good, but made with love), covered in white gravy with bits of sausage, served with sliced tomato on the side. Mmmmm.

Visit to my gran-gran (my mother's mom), breakfast always included biscuits and gravy, scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, ham slices if she had them, tomatoes slices, sometimes cucumber in a dill dressing, jalepeno jelly, some other fruit jelly or jam, always home-made, hashbrowned potatoes... and then anything else she found that she thought someone might like. When my youngest brother was there, it included pickled eggs. Ick.

Visits to my grandma (dad's mom), breakfast wasn't usually so big it wouldn't all fit on the table, but for lunch, there was always a pot of beans with a hamhock in it on the back of the stove, fried taters (in this case no po-included) with onion, bologna, white bread, butter (I don't get it either), a dozen assorted pickled things, fresh sliced tomatoes and cucumbers my grandpa had grown, some form of squash fried up, also with onions, and then anything else she thought someone might like.

Their tables almost always looked, for sheer foodage, like a holiday.