pointless

I WILL NEVER WRITE AGAIN.

Haven't you always wanted to say that? Like, in the midst of a really bad day, when you're certain all of fandom is plotting against you? People do it a lot, though sadly, no one I know well enough to mock later. That makes me sad. I really need to expand my circle of friends.

This is what I told myself, because I've learned that dramatic temper tantrums that require audiences are best performed on myself. I really *am* my best audience, I think.

Also, I like attention. What a surprise.

I miss being six and getting on the floor, kicking my legs and holding my breath and variating that with piercing wails more suited to bamboo under the fingernails. Recently, Child tried this on me. Oddly, he seemed unamused when I critiqued his technique. I mean, how can you take any temper tantrum seriously if someone doesn't hold their breath for at least a full minute and turn an interesting shade of tomato?

Anyway, this particular tantrum was one of my better ones, and I really, really regret that I don't advertise on LJ, since I ran the gamut of threats to *make something work* already. I threatened the story, cajoled the story, promised it money and sexual favors, but it seemed to understand that its incorporeal presence pretty much meant all that was shit, and so continues to defy me.

Don't even ask what story. Because it was all of them. Malicious little rows of simple letters organized into words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages, mocking me with their oh-so-black and white crispness.

I could blame so many things, but I think I'll blame the trauma of the badfic I read the other night.

I *like* badfic. I like it best when its clear the author really went *all out* in making it the worst it could possibly be. When you see *effort* and *attention* dealt to every last, miniscule, terrifying bit of character assassination. Where you can actually really *comprehend* why people say they would rather stick a spork in their own eyeball than ever, ever read it again.

*That* moment. You know. When you have the spork in your hand and are seconds away from doing just that.

I like to call it the elite of badfic. What most badfic can only dream of being. Where you look upon it and take in the shape of your fate, realize that the day you die, you will weep bitter, bitter tears about the minutes of your life stolen by those mocking little words that took part of your soul and not a little of your sanity.

They're overachievers. You almost think they sat down before their innocent little wordprocessing program and thought, how can I traumatize the masses the most? What place in their psyches should I stick this germ-encrusted knife of endless bad characterization? What kind of stew can I make of this bubonic-plague, three eyed plotbunny on my lap, eating the bones of the dead while I type? Then they laugh, and it's an evil laugh, a laugh that echoes through the minds fo all, and every time you feel a cold shiver for no reason? That's not a goose walking over your grave. That's a elite badfic writer Getting an Idea.

Now you know.

Anyway.

I also talk to myself. No, that has nothing to do with the conversation, but I thought I'd just throw that out there.

Someone *really* should entertain me now. Like the beloved, beautiful, bounteous, breathtaking, beguiling mintwitch (in retrospect, using m words there might have been more clever, don't you think?) writing more Word of the Day. Or you know, anyone. Anyone at all. Who doesn't suck.

*waits*

Annny minute now.

*waits longer*

I could be reading badfic *as we speak*. Do *you* want to be responsible for the unfortunate spork accident?