Love, Luck, and Lollipops

There are things in the universe I do not understand. Not that they are beyond understanding, I simply do not have said understanding. Romance is one of these things. As such, I can't write it. It's difficult for me to picture. I mean, I can write about single characters, no problem. And I can write about characters who're involved. Madly in love, or married for years, sure, no problem. Those are the easy clear areas. It's the grey areas, the borders, that trip me up. Oh, sure, it's in movies and TV and books, but most of that's bullshit. Very few people go along for years, then realize they're in love with somebody, express it, and have it returned in time for them to jump into bed together five minutes before the end. And even fewer have their love foiled by a series of amusing mishaps and a easily-hatable rival for slightly less than 90 minutes.

Maybe I'm thinking about it too hard. Maybe the point is there is no clear way to do it and everybody just stumbles through not knowing what they're doing. Perhaps the hinterlands of love are one of those lands whose contours defy all mapping, wilderness for all but the most experienced travelers, and even they are forced to improvise. You have your famous epic explorers such as Don Juan, who know most of the paths of love, or at least some resemblance thereof, but the vast majority of us venture in to tangled wilds armed only with the vaguest of third-hand maps, often drawn by drunken companions of unreliable narration.

Maybe that's all there is to love. Confused groping in the dark, in at least two senses, to try and find the way to the rumored promised lands of love. I don't, after all, believe in One Twu Wuv, or Wuv at First Sight, but both the poet and the scientist in me both swear there must be some key. Which leaves only the lock to quest for, should either of them find it.

But until then, when I'm writing, whenever romance comes up, I'm just going to have to fake it and hope nobody notices I'm making stuff up as I go along.

Surely You Have Heard the Tale

There are many who would claim the title of Evil Overlord. And the greatest of these have always sought one thing to make their dominance complete. The fabled White Cat.

According to legend, it was once the familiar of an ancient liche. Stories claim gained a touch of its master's undeath. For when the liche's broken body was cast down upon the shattered vessel of his soul, of the White Cat there was no sign.

It has passed through many owners since. Vlad the Unspeakable. Morrigan the Unlikable. Sktkzqp the Unpronounceable. And others who shared the Middle Name of Power.

A Public Service Announcement

Sweet monkeys. People, if you have problems with people you care about, and who care about you, you bloody well tell them! You don't hope they'll read your mind, or just bottle it up forever!

(This post inspired by far too many examples)

Jon Stewart Versus Bill O'Reilley

http://onegoodmove.org/1gm/1gmarchive/002490.html#002490

See what I mean about France? "France is our enemy!" Um. WTF? Seriously, dude. Get a grip.

"Remember, if it weren't for the French helping us out during the Revolutionary War, we'd all be speaking English right now." - "Adj", over on the comments thread

Sometimes it's the Ordinary Drugs

Harold blamed the sugar rush. It wasn't just the dozen cookies, or the six donuts, or the maple syrup milkshakes, or the bag of pixie sticks, or the three frappucinos, or the... Well, he could go on. And he did, for the police. He was explicit in his list, as he blamed the sugar for each and every thing he'd done that night. Even the good ones.

They just nodded and smiled, and left him in the holding cell. It'd taken eight officers to get him off the flagpole, and he'd left dents in the little ball on the top.