posting this as a reminder to myself (with a public declaration of love)

[harborshore]

When getting comments on your work from someone whose intellectual abilities you don't respect, but who nonetheless has power over how you'll be graded when you turn in the final draft, public politeness and private amusement is always the best response. Also, it helps to figure out where they're actually right but saying it in a wrong, wrong, wrong way, as opposed to where they're just wrong.

Or as Jack Sparrow puts it: "Take what you can, give nothing back."



PS. Thank you all for the varied advice on hair yesterday! I feel educated and much more ready to talk to a stylist now that I sort of know what I want :D

I love you all and I'm leaving for crazyland again. homeless[dot]sky[at]gmail[dot]com or comment here if you need me, and if you feel like leaving me a hug or a silly picture or a happy thought or something, that'd be most appreciated. Whether you do or don't, though, know that I appreciate every single one of you so much. Thanks for hanging out here with me. ♥

ETA: People who send me fics and ficlets, whether in response to celebrating finished paper drafts or posts of needing love, are, man, if you could see my smile right now. *beams epically* thesamefire, enhendi and nokomis305, you are all so fucking awesome, I can't even. ETA 2: AND wasoncedelight. I LOVE YOU GUYS.

ETA 3: And now I'm getting out of bed, about to start on the Day of Edits, and, you know, in these comments there are cat macros, pictures of MCR and MSI, a picture of the Jonas Brothers, hugs, a snippet of cuddly Mike Carden/William Becket (♥ unlurkster), and, you know, I just. Thank you. ♥

Comments

[extemporally.livejournal.com]

*HUGS*

I don't think you're fannishly interested in them, but I've been writing commentficcing writing William Beckett/Mike Carden, and, um, cuddles! Those are always good, I hear.

William gets off late at the Gap every single night because he claims to love the job and every single night there's always a crisis that needs fixing, more shirts that need to be refolded due to toddlers upending them or a problem in the stockroom.

William hasn't graduated to being a cashier yet, of course, but the last time Mike'd visited the supervisor, a nice kindly woman in her forties, had patted William on the arm and said that it could probably be managed in no time at all. William had given her his nicest library kid smile.

("Watch out," Mike'd said, unkindly. "If you continue like this you'll end up being employee of the month."

Employee of the month is their shorthand for settling down into the job proper, which is shorthand for getting a promotion which is short for never getting the band off the ground and also marrying and having one point five kids. It's short for a lot of things.

William had smiled, slightly purpled under the eyes - Mike'd thought it was unfair that he had to keep rockstar hours if he hadn't actually been spending them partying - and it was a tired one. William looked sharp around the eyes and jagged, at the edges of his smile. His skin looked papery, under the Gap's fluorescent lights. "Don't worry," he'd said.

Mike never worried. William always did more than enough worrying for the entire band combined anyway.)

Today though, today is even later than usual. Mike has no idea how employees get to stay back so late if the mall closes at the normal hours every single day, so. He's sitting up in William's apartment even though it's a school night - it's a school night for William, too, and he thinks it would maybe be more fair if the both of them stayed up too.

There's footsteps, and the sound of the key fidgeting wearily in the lock, and then William stumbles in and Mike's first thought is that William's drunk, maybe he was drunk at work or had chosen to get drunk after work, but then he sees William swaying on his feet, as though unused to the new height gotten from his recently-completed growth spurt, and rushes to catch William under his arms and drags him to the crappy, saggy couch that dominates the empty apartment.

"God, you are heavy," Mike grunts.

William cracks an eye open. "M'fine," he whispers. "Just. Tired."

And also this:



I hope your final draft goes well! ♥

[harborshore.livejournal.com]

*hugs you back*

Dude, cuddles are ALWAYS welcome. And I'm kind of fond of that Becket fellow, I'm not going to lie. (Also, Butcher's tattoos, NNNF.) So that snippet is so sweet. Carden and his utter failure to be the asshole he aspires to be, ♥.

STEVEN SMITH. AS GERARD. WITH GERARD. Oh, that's PERFECT. *beams*