Pebblin: I disabled the way the smilies turn into doodles.

Pebblin: So, try me. Lemme see if it works-- or doesn't.

Alestar213: Say something to make me smile. Or wink atcha.

Pebblin: Pff.

Pebblin: Talk about pressure. That's like saying, "Whatever you do, don't look down!"

Pebblin: Like saying, "Duck!" and expecting me not to look around like an idiot, anyway.

Alestar213: *drums fingers impatiently*

Pebblin: You're gonna be waiting a while.

Alestar213: :)

Pebblin: Damn. Didn't work.

Pebblin: You sent me a doodle. Damn you.

Alestar213: Damn.

Pebblin: I'm kidding.

Pebblin: It worked.

Alestar213: Your pants are on fire.

Alestar213: Duck!

Pebblin: So now I'm gonna get these strange little face-things when other AIM users use the doodles.

Pebblin: Oh, great. My pants on fire and I should duck. Not 'stop, drop and roll', but duck. Great.

Alestar213: So it's safe? I can make regular faces again?

Pebblin: Yeah. Safe. unless I'm lying, but that's your job, remember?

Pebblin: Okay, answer me something.

Alestar213: *nods*

Pebblin: Why pink sweat pants on your head? S'up with that?

Alestar213: . . .

Alestar213: Well, I figure, if that doesn't humble you-- nothing will, right?

Pebblin: But, if you do it purposely... I mean, you could yank them off at any time and everyone knows it. So. *shrug*

Pebblin: It'd be different if you got into trouble and your mother's, like, "You know what to do," and you had no choice. But. I can see your point. And why you crave this self-punishment, I have very little idea.

Alestar213: Humility is only effective when you choose it. Otherwise-- it's just rage.

Pebblin: Says who?

Pebblin: You could just choose to ignore it.

Pebblin: You could find it funny, instead. I'd go for funny.

Alestar213: I guess it would depend on how well the person trying to humble me knew me.

Pebblin: *scratches head*

Pebblin: I didn't really mean it like that... But, okay.

Alestar213: Well, I mean-- if the person knows you, you're not going to fool them. You're gonna just stand there, all taken down.

Alestar213: Egh.

Pebblin: But, that's not-- hold on.

Pebblin: I was more into a general thing about humility, not someone actively doing the humiliating anyone else.

Pebblin: But, even then, you can play it off, maybe. Then, again, maybe you're right. Depends on how good they are it.

Alestar213: Well, that's what I'm saying. If someone forces humility on you-- that's humiliation. If you choose to be humble, that's something else.

Pebblin: But, even still. Does it work? The pink pants? And do you wear them everywhere or just around the house?

Alestar213: *laughs* I wore them, like, once. That one time when I made the entry.

Alestar213: And-- you tell me if it works. Am I humble? ;)

Pebblin: 'cause, I mean, that wouldn't bother me at home. And even in public... It's just embarassing. I'm not sure that what I feel would be humility. And dammit, am I arguing?

Pebblin: Ahh...

Pebblin: Would it matter what I thought? ;)

Pebblin: I mean, I could say yeah, but that might not be 'cause of the pants.

Pebblin: And... I guess so. But, anyone who's humble has to choose to be, right?

Alestar213: That's what all the mystery plays tell us.

Pebblin: And in the end, does it do you any good? Just choosing to be humble?

Alestar213: I would think that that's the only way it does any good.

Alestar213: Or do you mean-- does humility ever do anyone good?

Pebblin: *flails*

Pebblin: Man, I can't really explain what I mean.

Alestar213:

Alestar213: I understand, man.

Alestar213: I haven't yet reached a conclusion as to whether or not humility is a good thing. I used to not think so. And some long while after that, I thought, hey, pink sweatpants!

Pebblin: I know humility does good, I'm just saying when you just decide to do something that humiliates you and be humble about it, where's the good in that?

Pebblin: Something that occured to me... you have pink sweat pants?

Pebblin: WHY do YOU have pink sweat pants? Is this related to the capri pants issue? *folds hands*

Alestar213: I guess it depends on your own attitude toward dignity. Is dignity something that you give yourself-- or something that others have to find in you?

Pebblin: I think it's more the first one.

Alestar213: They're my little sister's. :)

Pebblin: *laughs*

Alestar213: See, I'm iffy on that. I think dignity is something . . I don't know, I'm not sure you can go around falling down and bellowing and still call yourself dignified, no matter how you feel about yourself.

Pebblin18: Who says you hafta bellow?

Alestar213: You don't. Thass just an example.

Pebblin: What do you think of when you see this: :)~

Alestar213: I think of a silly little mischevious person.

Pebblin: Someone told me that face was a frog. But, in this text, it looks like a goatee-- which brings me to my point: you discriminate against goateed people.

Alestar213: *laughs* Many people do, yes. But, actually, I like them.

Alestar213: That is so not a frog.

Pebblin: Yeah, right. Backpedal.

Pebblin: That's just what I heard, is what I'm telling you. Don't argue with me.

Pebblin: *g*

Alestar213: --How do I discriminate against goateed people? I gave Bobby a goatee. And what higher honor is there than that?

Pebblin: I was kidding, dork. And, maybe a connecting beard that lined the jaw... I was thinking of doing something like that for Ororo in my Flip Side series-- provided I got back into that again.

Alestar213: Ooh. You should. Is fun.

Pebblin: Is it?

Alestar213: You think 'Ro would be into decorative facial hair?

Alestar213: It is. :)

Pebblin: I'm not sure.

~*~

These tangelos that I'm eating are only half ripe, so one side is tough and meaty, while the other is sweet and juicy.

I was talking to Ely last night, and I said, it turns out my Greek paper isn't due until Friday. What am I going to do with all these hours of freedom tonight? And she said, you could write. Or maybe I said I could write. And then I asked, what can I write? And she said, write some vengeful woman fic. And I said, I can't write vengeful woman-- I'm not vengeful, and I don't write the kind of woman that makes you think, hey, vengeful woman.

All my women are Blue. They're all crazy and bleeding.

And so I said, I know, I'll write some pointless smut. And she said, yes, write some smut. So I asked her, but smut of whom? And she said, Mulder and Krycek. Actually, she said Krychek, but I knew who she meant.

And that's really sweet of her, too, because I used to talk about Mulder and Krycek all the time, and she remembered.

So I said, ai. And then I said, well, yeah, okay.

~*~

"This isn't a story. It's a wet dream. And it's an alien wet dream, because they're all fucking alien dreams, aren't they."

"We were back in Tunguska, in the tight wet cell, except when the guards came they were babbling mismatched English words instead of speaking Russian, and the long dark hallway led to the den of my Aunt Sophie's summer house. And they marched me in there and made me sit on the sofa, and one of them took a crocheted pillow and put it under one of my knees."

"And then one of the guards said something like 'chow croon olive marker' and took one corner of the room and ripped it, straight down, like paper. And then all the guards each took pieces of the room and ripped them away until it was a completely different room, made of metal. It was-- I guess, it was a spaceship."

"And then the extra-terrestrials, they came forward and one of them pointed at me, and then down at the empty candy dish on Aunt Sophie's coffee table. The ranks parted and Krycek was shoved over to the sofa, and he said 'shy glean oatmeal!' to the guard, angrily, and he dropped a piece of candy into the candy dish."

"One of those little caramel squares, or something. I don't really remember."

~*~

That's my smut, I guess. --This is why I'm Toby.

This is Te:

I'd been reading fanfic (all slash) for about two and a half months when the X-Files episode The Red and the Black was aired. It was like God had come down from on high and said, "yes, Te, they *are* all gay."

I was actually wrong before, when I said that all my women are Blue. I told you once about the character I created that ended up growning into this psuedo-deity in my conciousness, didn't I? The woman whose name isn't Miriam. --Or maybe that was another one of those entries that I write and then delete.

She was the mother of Logan that I mentioned offhand in a story I accidentally wrote about Victor Creed making brownies. Vic called her Miriam, but that's not her name. I thought about Ayla. Or Aya. What do you think of that?

Orange seeds taste really nasty when you bite into them and eat the green part.

I spent last night in the arms of a girl in Louisiana.

I figure, it's the morning after a big battle, and Logan's been badly hurt. He's in a tent, a little thatched house, because this isn't Earth or North America or something. And Ororo's outside and a short, blond woman comes up to her and says, the man who was wounded last night. He's here? And Ororo frowns and nods. And the woman moves to go past her, into the tent, and Ororo grabs her arm-- and the woman looks at her, and Ororo frowns again and lets go.

And the woman goes in, and Jeans in there, and she and Logan look up. And Logan says, "Hey." And the woman says, "Hey."

Because that's how I always want to start stories, always. It's how all stories should start.

Logan sits up, and he nods at her, and he saids, "What's with the getup?" And she says, "Didn't think you'd want a scene." And he says, "Take it off." And she pulls this thing off her belt-- she's wearing furs and stuff, in an oddly Klingon sort of way, to go with the thatched cottage-- and she tosses it to him, and he crushes it. And then the image of her kind of flickers, and then she's this short, solid woman with long black hair and intense motherfucker eyes. And Logan says: "Jean, 'Ro. This is Aya."

*shrugs*

The story doesn't matter.

It's just this ancient grinning woman standing in front of Wolverine and saying, all proud, "Look at you. A man in time you'll be."

Doesn't crank anybody else's tracker? I guess I've just been overdo for a goddess figure. Of course, this means I have to celebrate unconventional sex and violence, and not care so much about death-- which pisses my politically correct friends off.

-- White talked to me a few days ago about an old friend, a man with coattails of rainy days. He's hurting again, she said, and I said, yep. And she worried for him, and I shrugged and said, they're coattails. And she said, he could die. And I said, yeah, he could.

Then she talked about how I was all hard, now. I mentioned this to you before, you remember, about me being cold.

~*~

Eventually, Aya and Logan come into conflict-- because that's how things work for Logan. Aya works for Landau, Luckman, & Lake, because they are the great higher power fuckers-over, and who else would Aya work for?

And, I don't know, the X-Men need this little kid. That little Gibson Pryce kid from X-Files. And LL&L have him and they're not giving him up, so there Aya is. She's saying, "Come on."

And Logan is being the sphere that Logan is, and he's grimacing, and he's saying, no.

And she's saying, "You don't get to do that. They," and she gestures at the others, scattered around, "get to do that. Not you."

~*~

This is what I'm saying. The fun never stops. I keep listening to "The Only Gay Eskimo" by Corky and the Juice Pigs and "Galileo" by the Indigo Girls.

Yeah. Definitely a Toby.

Love, babe.

-- Alestar

This is the eternal problem, he finds. He has all these confessions to make, and no one unconnected to hear it.