fierynotes: Picture of Destruction, from the Sandman series, reading a book and slinging a guitar. (Default)
This is my front page. If you want me to add you, drop me a line here. Or, add me. Either way, I'll check you out. You can also drop me a line here if, for instance, you don't have my email address. All comments here are screened.

This post also includes every tag I have -- this is because my current LJ style doesn't include a tag index. (At least half of my participation on LJ is on my phone. I chose this style because, as bare-bones as it is, it loads quickly and it's still readable on a small screen.)

I'd tell you more about myself, but that's what my profile -- and the rest of my LJ -- is for.
fierynotes: Picture of Discord. (discord)
See this article?

More to the point, see the picture at the top of it?

I made that! It shows signs of my lack of proper tools and everything: notice that the original background is very light grey and textured, but there are rectangular blocks of pure white after the words "tiny" and "penis." You'll find those on my original, too. Those of you sitting at notebooks, if you don't see what I'm talking about, either stand up or tilt the screen toward your lap -- you'll see it much more easily that way. This failure of craft on my part is partly because I don't have Photoshop, and I did the whole thing in ten minutes with the free paint program that comes with Windows.

Now granted, I probably should be irked that it was cropped and used without attribution, but I'm really not. I made that image hoping it would spread -- I can't really be all that annoyed that it has. Besides, if I ever achieve any measure of fame, I hope I achieve it for much better work than this.

(I'll skip the actual content of the article for now. Right now, I'm just gloating.)
fierynotes: Picture of Daimon, from Marvel comics, without a shirt.  'Look at me, I have muscles!' (flirty)
"Do you, Joseph Scott, take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

"I do."

"And do you, Andrea Miller, take this man to be your lawful weeded husband, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death do you part?"

"I do," said my soon-to-be wife.

The preacher beamed at us both. "If there is anyone who believes there is a reason why these two should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold your peace."

After a moment of silence, the church door opened with a bang, and a shirtless man in tight black pants and suspenders stood in the doorway with a saxophone. And then he started to play.

It took the minister and the best man together to keep me from killing him on the spot.



"Dearly beloved, we are here to honor the memory of Lucas Twain, who died peacefully in his sleep on June tenth of this year. He was a great man, who shed light on the lives of all who had the privilege of knowing him."

My heart was a stone, but only because I dared not speak for fear of bawling. I wasn't one of his family, but this was the guy who'd helped my claw my way out of heroin addiction. There was a lot of screaming and vomiting involved, but he stuck with me, and made me stick with it. We'd been close ever since.

How many other people at this memorial had he helped like that? Most of them, I'm willing to bet.

Wait, am I hearing sax music? I'm not having a flashback, am I?

I looked around. The good news was that it wasn't a flashback. Everyone else was seeing the same thing I was: a beanpole with a saxophone barging in on our funeral. The bad news is they were starting to riot. The priest was at least calling the police, which may have been the thing that saved that jerk's life.



Jake and I have been cellmates for three months. Three months is a long time to have to go without getting laid, and while we're both straight, we're both horny, too. Two weeks ago, we finally decided we had to do something before we started going crazy. We've been taking turns on the top and bottom ever since. Tonight, it's Jake's turn on top.

"Okay, here's one finger," Jake said, teasing me.

"Are you going to do something back there, or just think it to death?" I growled.

"Come on, haven't you heard of foreplay?"

"Dude, just stick it in before I break it off."

"Okay, okay," he groaned, pulling down his pants. Before he had a chance to do anything beyond that, we heard a sax line from the cell next to ours.

Jake exploded. "If you don't stop playing that fucking thing, I'm gonna shove it so far up your ass you'll be shitting brass for a year!"
fierynotes: Picture of Destruction, from the Sandman series, reading a book and slinging a guitar. (Default)
Apparently, a lot of people. I fed a bunch of my posts' text into this website, and got a lot of different results. So, I'm posting results, and links.


I write like
Various Writers

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!


  • Dan Brown. This annoys me. I hated The Da Vinci Code, and cheered when, in an episode of QI, Stephen Fry described it as "loose stool water... arse-gravy of the worst kind." The idea that I write like him, even for one post, is worrisome.

  • Chuck Palahniuk. The first rule of getting into shape is: we do not talk about getting into shape. The second rule of getting into shape is... we do NOT talk about getting into shape.

  • Vladimir Nabokov. I can't see this one. What little Nabokov I've read, his prose has been beautiful, almost enough to be distracting from his content. That's not me.

  • Stephen King. Wow. I guess feminist theory is scary. To be fair, though, I was kinda pissed when I wrote that. My cat took one look at me and decided to be way the fuck over there for a while, until I'd calmed down.

  • J K Rowling. Cuuuute. I type up a post in which I crow about getting all kinds of laid, miss out on con drama, use the phrase "FUCK SHIT FUCKING SHIT FUCKITY MCSHITTINGFUCK"... and it gets likened to an author of children's books.

  • Mark Twain. I'm sure he'd have made fun of Lady Gaga if he were living today.

  • James Joyce. I don't think I've read any of his work, but if he can summon compassion for rentboys and appreciates death metal, perhaps I should give him a try.

  • Margaret Atwood. Feeling that The Handmaid's Tale was too subtle in making its points, she decided to write another story, about a guy named [livejournal.com profile] leviath.

  • Edgar Allen Poe. Hmm. Lemme give this a shot.

    My persona, as a furry, gives me major cause for worry,
    for its whimsical proportions shook me at my very core.
    And at just a glance I noted, condom large and fat and bloated,
    while safe sex it has promoted, I but shuddered more and more.
    "What the fuck is this," I wondered, running scared out my front door?
    ...quoth the artist, "Cock galore!"

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