next to the last true romantic

(I have so much work to do, and all I wanna do is write fic. So I'm going to write this instead to soothe the urge until I can actually get some more time into my schedule.)

Can I just say the response to This Story Needs More Power Ballads is ridiculous? I am floored. -shakes head- And also that title was not just nonsense (although at 6:30am it was a lot that, too)--I have decided that my personal Dean/Castiel anthem is Air Supply's "Making Love Out Of Nothing At All." Yes. I hope that this will tell you everything you need to know about my take on the Dean/Cas ship. (Shorthand: earnest and corny and hilarious and embarrassingly addictive.) I do not even care that they are canonically harsh people. I can write fluff for the first time in forever, and it's fuckin' liberating. Thank you, Show.

Speaking of Dean/Castiel. I, uh, noticed there are definitely undertones of it in my big depressing hunter!Amelia fic that I didn't intentionally put there. I can't tell if I'm picking up Show's vibe of their relationship or if my shipper self is rearing its ugly head. Either way, I'm sorry, Amelia.

Also I might find myself writing Gabriel/Sam soon. -facepalm- But I feel like I'm jumping on that ship a little late, and that Gabe might be back soon and joss everything to hell, so first I'm gonna watch at least the next couple of eps. Then I might just have to try my hand at it, because I've been reading SO MANY awesome Gabe fics lately that I'm practically buzzing with love. Plus, Sam. Now that Show's being nice to him again and allowing him to act like an adult and not making him out to be some sort of monster (I'm sorry they were mean to you, behbeh Sammeh), I've found myself seriously interested in writing him more. I used to love writing Sam, but s3 and s4 kinda crushed that. Now, with 5.18, I'm practically foaming to get my paws back on his psyche. I missed that sasquatch. I'm tired of the Dean Angst Show. I liked Dean when he was the rough-and-tumble average Joe trying to hold things together for everybody else. Lately all he's doing to sobbing about his inner demons, and it's not compelling anymore. I swear to god he used to be clever. Not smart, maybe, but clever. What happened to that?

ANYWAY. Work now. Fic later. Bemused pleasure continually.

Yet I'm still unreasonably proud of myself.

Baaaasically, I'm being a cheap bastard and having my mom help me with laundry tomorrow. She'll be in town, and she called up and said, "Bea, do you want to go with me to the laundromat?" To which my enthusiastic response was "Yes!"

(See, it's not like I can't do my laundry myself. I've been doing my laundry myself since I was twelve. And it's not like I can't exactly afford it--it's ten bucks, a little prohibitive, but I could swing it. But there's something about having Mom there that's...comforting. I think it may be because she always remembers dryer sheets and she folds the dried laundry. When I do it by myself, I never fold anything. I just wad it up in my duffel and go home. But Mom folds stuff, and it's nice.)

So she says laundry day is Thursday. Great! Perfect! Only one problem: I only have clean undergarments through Wednesday. My choices: do laundry by myself on Wednesday, wear dirty underwear Thursday, or wash a pair out in the sink.

The first option slipped by me.

The second I refuse to accept.

So I went for the third. And I spent ten minutes scrubbing and twenty-five under a dinky hand-dryer, but I have a clean, detergent-smelling pair of boyshorts for tomorrow losing their last bit of dampness over the heating vent right now. I took care of the problem!

Clutching them while sneaking back to my room and hoping no one noticed me carrying a pair of underwear through the halls at 6:15am, I felt a rush of the urban savage. I was no wilderness woman, pounding my clothes against a rock and mending them with plant fiber, but I had washed something without the use of a machine! I guess it's kinda like a man buying a pre-spouted tomato plant and giving it a spot on his patio. When it fruits, he must have the same feeling. Sure, he didn't collect that seed, germinate it, or care for the fragile sprout, but he still kept it alive to bear him at least one tomato! He too must feel the echoes of the primitive time, of being the meat-provider: that tiny heirloom tomato is, in his mind, the cooling carcass of the deer he has slung over his shoulders, and thus his role is complete. Same thing with my sink-washed underwear. I am not a slave to you, Maytag! Aha!

Oh god, it's really late. I'm sorry about this post.

Postscript - You dared tease me about my lack of posts, Victoria? Have a massive love letter about washing my underwear. Bwahahaha, and all that jazz.