this is the apocalypse

While monitoring the ziploc bag situation in the area of the garage which hosts the storage shelving unit, I noted we are officially at a point where we can call that area inventory and by my count, we're about two toilet paper rolls, one deep freeze filled with deer meat, and a small arsenal away from being listed on a survivalist watch list and people saying that we were quiet and kept to ourselves.

This is not, I repeat, not a dream of mine, but at this point, it may be a future reality I have to deal with. Also noted:

1.) Ungodly number of zip ties.
2.) More hand and power tools than I think anyone not building their own secret bunker could possibly need.
3.) Two shovels, which only tells me that the future bunker digging is gonna be a bitch.
4.) Extra wood furniture in the attic, I suppose for the coming of nuclear winter?
5.) A disturbing number of AA and AAA batteries.
6.) A lifetime supply of scissors in more sizes than I thought existed.
7.) A toolbox that cannot be opened by any conventional means.
8.) A stunning variety of Cup O'Noodles (delicious) in both chicken (awesome), beef (not bad), and shrimp (an abomination unto God).
9.) Uncountable Ramen secreted in various places throughout the house (I don't know why an unopened package of Ramen was under my bed, and dude, I am not stupid enough to ask.)
10.) A giant stuffed animal who may or may not have shown up on Sesame Street.
11.) Box of unused yarn, horrific colors.

Put together....well, I don't know what this means. I just feel that under the circumstances, it should make me nervous because I'm going to be honest, not really a survivor myself. I'm of the weak who will perish during the survival of the fittest when I lose access to Amazon.com and DW and have a psychotic fit when AO3 breathes its last. I'm saying this won't end well for me.

Not only that--I can shoot. I'm from Texas, and what wasn't passed in my bloodstream was taught early on. I can shoot, but not well. I can hit something, but I can't guarantee what it will be or where, and the answer is as likely to be 'my own foot or some appendage' as anything. I can fish, but that assumes the fish are proactive about biting and the bait very, very still. And someone else is holding the fishing pole. I am strangely--almost surreally, to be honest--better with an actual longbow, which literally makes no sense to anyone living, except for the fact that the first time I tried it was with a hot guy watching and weirdly enough, I am that shallow. And I paid for that shit for days, since I didn't have my arm guard on right and oh my God, gritting my teeth through the pain in a fit of vanity was such a mistake.

Yet, I do not see a post-nuclear-fallout world that is going to need a lot of bowwomen, especially since my requirements will be "and send a hot male along with me for eyecandy purposes". I mean, by then, humanity will be so mutated, if I don't have a taste for face-tentacles and superfluous arms, well--I don't, and I don't see that changing anytime soon. I suppose if we can find a costume store that's survived, I could request he wear some kind of mask a la Phantom of the Opera, but if they don't have any in black, well, there goes that idea.

In other news, Dean the phone has been replaced and is being cared for and coddled beside me while I tell him he's a very, very good boy. Our love is pure.

it's mostly just weird

Okay, so I finally found a use for Tumblr--tracking the Mikey Way/nineteen year old model thing.

This is one of the side effects of fangirl osmosis; I never got any closer to bandom* than AIRPS, which is like, maybe a second cousin at best. However, in SGA fandom someone released a John Shepherd vid to Welcome to the Black Parade and end result--I ended up buying their albums and eventually ended up reading unholy amounts of MCR, Fallout Boy, and Panic! At the Disco (with and without !), sometimes combined with Cobra Starship, fic due to certain friends who shall remain nameless and filled my inbox with links for no particular reason, and to this day my playlists are suffering from the aftermath (Fallout Boy is the one that I cannot entirely explain though I've used the lyrics for subject lines at work before during fits of rebellion. They're the weirdest earworm music ever).

However, my total attention was engaged when svmadelyn told me in passing that Mikey Way had done something, which is how I not only embraced tumblr, I went to goddamn ONTD, which after the entire Britney drama days I swore to myself I would never return. Perez might have also been visited, though it causes me physical pain to admit that. I can't even explain the fascination, though part of it is assumed suffering of friends, but most of it is just this weird feeling I read this story in fanfic but I don't remember how it ends.

(* There is an unspoken time where I wrote N'Sync that was never posted anywhere. Ever. Like, three people know it exists and only shinetheway ever saw it, and I deliberately renamed the files so I can't even find it. I blame post-Smallville pre-QaF transition trauma or something)

dear twitter, my stress level is increasing toward non-optimum

Dear Twitter,

After multiple emails, I get it. Hacked. Compromised. Salted password (seriously? Salted? All the slang in the universe and salted made the cut? Like steak?). I have changed it. I even closed my eyes so I couldn't see it myself. That should work, right?

Maybe-Paranoid,
Seperis

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