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)
This filk is dedicated to a certain group of sad, bitter, hateful, misogynist assholes who think that they're owed pussy, and they're angry that the world doesn't just hand it to them, and they rail and gnash about how they're doomed -- DOOMED! -- to eternal involuntary celibacy (because all women are superficial cunts who can't see what great guys they are). Oddly, many such neckbeards are apparently Rush fans... so filking a Rush song seems especially appropriate.

(I should add that I have sixteen of Rush's CDs on my computer myself. Not all of us are neckbeards, I promise!)


Loveshy

On certain sites
if your log-in is right
You will find the creepy and desperate.

They're so dismayed
that they'll never get laid.
Must be 'cos all women are against them.

Loveshy -- they sleep alone tonight.
Women just ignore the loveshy.
Loveshy -- all females out of reach.
Scaring them away, it's loveshy.

You could sympathize
With all these poor guys.
They are sad and badly damaged.

But save your tears,
When a lady appears,
They say "bitch, make me a sammich."

Loveshy -- they sleep alone tonight.
Women just ignore the loveshy.
Loveshy -- their dicks are in their hands.
Wanking's all they get, it's loveshy.

They're so afraid,
They will never get laid
Without some form of payment.

They're bitter jerks,
Typing bitter words
From their parents' basements.

Loveshy -- their dicks are in their hands.
Wanking's all they get, it's loveshy.
Loveshy -- all females out of reach.
Women just avoid the loveshy.
Women just avoid the loveshy.
fierynotes: Picture of a black sockpuppet. (footsie)
Following are four short snippets detailing the secret lives of clothes: some sexy underwear belonging to a really tough female lawyer, a very nice business suit, a skater punk's jeans, and the same skater punk's underwear.



I have the best job in the world: making this beautiful lawyer feel sexy. She puts me on, she admires how I hug her curves... and then, she puts on a business suit. No one has ever seen her wear me, except for her. I kinda like that, actually. I get to be her dirty little secret.

In the legal world, she takes no prisoners. She's surrounded by men in suits, most of whom are tempted to take her less seriously because she's a beautiful woman, and she has to remind them, regularly, that she's just as tough as they are if not more so.

She has a soft side, though. She wishes she didn't have to do that. She wishes that she could afford to be human in the courtroom and not have it be seen as a show of weakness. But for now, she has me.

Well, there is that one guy who wears custom-made suits. He's always been kind and respectful to her, and holy crap, look at his shoulders! I wonder if my owner will ever show him my lacy bits? Or even her racy bits? Probably not. I've seen him sneak glances at other suits.

I wonder if she'll ever show my lacy bits to anyone. I know she's lonely, but her job eats up nearly every bit of time she has, and who's she gonna date, one of those assholes at work? Let's be serious.

She makes do, though. I'd tell you about her toy collection, but like me, it's her little secret.



I lead a very pampered life. But then again, when you consider that my owner paid several thousand dollars to have me constructed just for him, you might expect that. Every few days, I'm awakened from my nap on a nice padded hanger, and given a mission: to help him face the world. And I do it well. I help him impress people. I give him a flattering silhouette. (He's actually in good shape, but he's just a bit soft around the belly. I draw people's attention away from that, and up to his shoulders. You mustn't tell anyone!) And at the end of the day, he'll take me off meticulously and put me back on my nice padded hanger. Tomorrow, one of my three brothers-in-armoire will serve him as faithfully as I do today.

Wait, what's this? He's looking at some skater punk while he's at the gym? Jeez, look at the state of those jeans. Torn to shreds in places, faded, and way too tight. No freedom of movement at all. And are those stains I see? Yuk!

...Still, that guy does look comfortable. I'm sure that denim is really soft from having been distressed so much. And it leaves no doubt as to what kind of rear end he has; he's clearly no stranger to the squat rack. And holy crap, it outlines his penis! How shameless -- where I come from, clothes are not supposed to show their owner's genitals so clearly! You can practically tell that this punk is Jewish!

What is this, Lady and the Tramp? I'm not supposed to want this... but I wonder what it would be like to be hastily thrown on the floor, with those scruffy jeans thrown just as hastily on top of me. I bet they're really soft. I bet all those loose threads tickle. I bet their weight is just perfect...



I'm not the happiest pair of jeans around.

Once upon a time, I was in the Women's section of a department store, minding my own business, waiting for some slinky college girl to pick me up... but in case you hadn't heard, there's this trend in certain circles for skinny guys to buy their jeans in Ladies. So, here I am, on a skater dude's ass. And have I mentioned that his hygiene is not the best?

I'm not happy about this. I have several good friends who are happy that it was a guy who picked them out of Ladies, but I was meant to be a woman's pair of skinny jeans.

Still, this isn't all bad. Every Sunday, all my friends and I have this magical experience together. For about fifteen minutes, we are all thrown against each other in hot water... and if you've never felt anything like it, I can't really do it justice. If I had to try, though... try to imagine something that has all the best features of a jacuzzi, an orgy, and a mosh-pit all at once. As long as my owner doesn't throw his spiked belt in by mistake. That spiked belt's an asshole.



Dammit! This is so degrading!

Is it really that damn hard for humans to wipe their asses properly when they pinch off a loaf?

Because lemme tell you, my owner still hasn't mastered this. And I bear the stripes of shame to prove it.

Fuck my life.
fierynotes: Picture of Jerry Springer surrounded by the flames of Hell, with the caption 'What the fucking fucking fuck?' (wft)
Once upon a time, there were these two Sodium atoms, and they were totally bros. They had these two hot babes named Chlorine and Fluorine, and they'd occasionally swap charges with them, but their relationships had gotten boring, so they decided to see what else was out there.

One day, out in public, they happened upon the sluttiest phosphorus atom they'd ever seen. Normally, Phosphorus is pretty eager, and seeing Phosphorus hook up with three other atoms at once is pretty common, but this one was hooking up with three Oxygen atoms and...

"Dude! That's your girlfriend," said one Sodium atom to the other.

Sodium looked on in shock, to see his girlfriend Fluorine up to her elbow in Phosphorus' M-shell. At the opposite end of Phosphorus, one of the Oxygen atoms had both hands in, up to both elbows.

"Five covalent bonds?" Sodium said to Sodium. "I didn't know that was even possible. I'm disgusted, repulsed, and yet I can't look away."

"Neither can I."

"You see those other two Oxygen atoms?"

"You mean the ones that aren't double-fisting Phosphorus?"

"Yeah. See their charges? That Phosphorus isn't enough for them. I think they both have openings we can fill."

"The both of us? At once?"

"Hey, stop worrying, we'll be at opposite ends. It's not gay if our electrons don't touch."

And before long, Sodium and Sodium were vibrating up a storm in that electron-sharing orgy, and Oxygen and Oxygen were begging to be filled in the L-shells with Sodium's hot charges. Before long, Sodium and Sodium fired off their negative charges into that ion, and they were all satisfied and exhausted.


Stories just like this one happen untold billions of times -- in your mouth! -- every time you brush your teeth. I just thought you should know. Those of you who remember more of your college chemistry than I do, please forgive any errors.
fierynotes: Picture of Destruction, from the Sandman series, reading a book and slinging a guitar. (creative)


This is the result of about $200 worth of split rings from Michael's, and several hours of work. (I'm sure there are SCAdians and Rennies on my list, who will (hopefully) forgive me for cheating by using split rings.) I just found it again today.

The good news is that it's in as good condition now as it was nearly ten years ago, when I stopped working on it. At the time, I considered it nearly complete. I just needed to buy another batch of rings. But that would take a while, since when I first assembled this, I had to place an order for a shitload of rings (paying way too much for them), and well, I had other forms of recreation that also cost money (snort). But once I got those rings, all I had to do was extend the bottom on both front and back, attach them under the arms, and voilà! Chain mail vest!

The bad news is that at the time, I was considerably skinnier. I'm not as close to finishing it now as I was back then. On the other hand, money isn't disappearing up my nose, so I should have an easier time affording the rings to finish it.
fierynotes: Picture of a B diminished 7th chord (B, D, F, A flat) followed by an inversion, in flames. (Bdim7)
Last year, I got very little writing done. This year, I've managed fifteen pages so far, and it's not even a month into the year yet. Most of it, written on the train to and from work, which means that my handwriting is sloppy as hell, but hey, I'm still pleased to have made this much progress!

Image behind this cut. )

When played, this will amount to about three minutes of music, since some of the bars will get repeated a few times -- multiple verses, choruses, that kind of thing. It looks like a lot, but I'm writing for metal band plus orchestra, which often uses ten or more staves at once, so one page could easily be as little as five seconds.

(Since this is a public post, I deliberately shrunk the picture enough to make the music unreadable. It's not ready to share yet. Don't mind me. As I said, I was bragging that I've gotten this much done!)
fierynotes: Picture of Destruction, from the Sandman series, reading a book and slinging a guitar. (Default)
I love you, darling lady, you're as dear as Stephen Fry,
who asks for love songs featuring tiny pebbles in the sky.
For everyone has written sonnets featuring the moon,
but minutiae from astronomy is rarely named in tune.

You brighten my existence and I want to say it loud:
My love for you is vaster than the whole of Oort's big cloud.
I have no gifts or flowers, but I want to get up in ya,
And fly you past the moon, on a rocketship to Cruithne.

(The following video will explain why I'm writing bad love songs that you'd normally expect from astronomy students in love. It also serves as one more thing to add to the mountain of evidence that Stephen Fry is bloody awesome.)

fierynotes: Picture of Destruction, from the Sandman series, reading a book and slinging a guitar. (Default)
A while back, I did some naughty things with really old Russian letters. This is the new version, and I've done a much better job overall -- not only is the story much better, but it now includes dialog (of a sort), a much better supporting cast, much better representation of other cultures, a corporate logo that cost over £14,000 to develop, and at least one lolcat.

As with Alphabet Porn v.1, this one has links to all the letters I've defiled. Thanks to this little thing in HTML called the MAP tag, these are still clickable! (If you copy the images, the links won't work unless you also copy the HTML... but you were going to ask first anyway, right?)

The images under this cut were constructed with nothing but a character map, a word processor, and MS Paint. They're still probably not really worksafe. )

fierynotes: Picture of Jerry Springer surrounded by the flames of Hell, with the caption 'What the fucking fucking fuck?' (wft)
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Kevin McCallister, a gifted boy who at a young age had a talent for booby traps. Sadly, his was frequently neglected by his parents, and after the second time his family abandoned him, he was removed from his home by Child Protective Services.

He was a troubled child, and at one point stole some art from a museum. After that, however, he changed his name to John Kramer, and turned his amazing mechanical skills into a rewarding career making toys. Then, he was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, and after a failed suicide attempt, his life took a new, darker direction...

Fast-forward to the present, where we find two aging small-time crooks locked in a dingy basement, both shackled at the ankles to a drain-pipe. One of them wakes up, and finds a tape recorder in his pocket, with a tape labeled "play me."

He plays the tape, and a deep sinister voice comes from the recorder. "Hello, Harry. Once upon a time, you broke into a house being guarded, and booby-trapped, by a little boy. Now, the little boy has grown up, and has a booby-trapped house of his own.

"In two hours, one of the machines here will mix a gallon of ammonia and a gallon of bleach into the sink on the other side of this basement. To survive, you and your stupid accomplice Marvin must get around all the booby traps and escape before the chlorine gas kills you. You'll find a rusty hacksaw just barely in your reach, to get you started.



"Live or die. Make your choice."

Don't mind me. I'm just on crack.


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