Mirror Mel

A/N: Companion piece to Mel, Too! Reviews are delicious.
Warnings: This needs beta love.
Disclaimer: Own everything, especially the arrangement of the words in this post. I do not, however, profit from any of this, which makes me sadder than you can possibly imagine. Oops, pix not mine (here be the link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/envina/2994513811/)



And so the baker dreamed, while another reality staked colonies in her subconscious. This reality supported a persona, a writer who knew how to bake but lacked the necessary follow-through. As a result, the cookies she baked were disgustingly mediocre, which she rationalized as insignificant, considering her focus should be on stories and not pastries.

But baking skills weren’t the only thing she lacked. It bled into other things. The absence of a tattoo on her left hip, the missing dog, the non-existent duplex, and the never-to-be-husband called Zach. These things filled her with an unexplainable longing that fueled her contempt for the world she lived in. It made her more susceptible to a blinding need to be liked. It made her mean her apologies. And it made her seek people who would always value her sense and conscience.

For reasons unknown to her, listening to a lot of Anti-Folk and Dream Pop always calmed her down. And it was through listening to The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane that she found herself creating a character, whose personality would be the polar opposite of her own. This character, she decided, would be a baker with a fondness for Martha Stewart. She briefly thought of replacing Martha Stewart with Julia Child, but immediately dismissed that idea as absurd.

She needed another character to flesh out the baker’s personality. She needed Zach. Zach, who was charming, good in bed and had a funny nickname like Captain Awesome or Commander Sexypants. Sexy Zach would provide levity to the baker’s take-no-shit attitude. And Zach would be the guy the baker’s dog hated.

With a few more details—naming the dog Spock and having the major characters plan a wedding—she finished her draft. Perhaps, she would add a baby to the mix, maybe a new house like a duplex with four bedrooms. Money issues, she mused, would be an element that needs to be injected to the story. For now though, she needed to rest. And as her eyes closed, her last thought would be of babies and bakeries.

Pickup Artist

Lesbian Angels stock 42 by *Tigg-stock on deviantART

You said the best part was when I told you your hotness was unbelievable. I remembered emphasizing that lie by telling you that I felt like an ice cube melting in the desert. You giggled even though you knew I was on my second drink. I realized now how you never stopped me while I was laying on the metaphors by comparing you to a bolt of lightning. I was slurring my words, stringing descriptions like illuminating, flashy, destructive, and dangerous. And yet you felt like I captured your essence; that I was different from the people you associated with. I just nodded my assent, because telling you that it was the fourth drink talking would alert you to the fact that I wasn’t even trying to warm up to a more original territory.

I thought about how you wanted to take me home that night. The desperation was evident enough in the plasticine quality of your skin. I remembered how fascinated I was by the way alcohol made your makeup even more grotesque under the lights. And I could almost recall you mentioning a boyfriend, if I wasn’t so distracted by the ample cleavage that stared at my face. I ordered another drink before I took you to my place, where we danced the mattress jig—might I add—none too gracefully.

Doing it with a girl was a first for you, you said. It wasn’t for me, but I would never tell you that, not sober, at least. I was thinking how to shut you up, but then you decided that moment to give me a kiss. I gave in – another lie that won over the decision to be kind. And as you drifted off to sleep, sighing, I thought about another guy, whose name would be the last thing on my lips.

Background Noise

Mapping the alien brain, or maybe just permanent residents in my head…

1. You call it a kiss. I call it osculation.
2. Did Schrödinger hate cats or was he really just a dog person?
3. Never underestimate the importance of a Zombie Apocalypse Contingency Plan.
4. Yes, phasers can be set to sexy.
5. Invasion of the Body Snatchers is autobiographical.
6. Everybody needs a brain wipe (n. a moist towelette for certain memory biases).
7. Chewbacca: tapped that.
8. DEFCON 1 = my baseline.
9. Anatomically correct has absolutely no meaning for me.
10. UNF is true for all dimensions.

Pix credit: http://xolagrafik.com/mira/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/spock.jpg

Mel Too!

A/N: written for an AU prompt.
Warnings: language, if you have a thing against F-bombs; general crackiness, obviously.
Disclaimer: own everything, except the pix. (http://www.flickr.com/photos/14735632@N07/2531618778/)

She is unburdened by an intense need to be liked and with enough provocation, makes every sorry sound like fuck off and die. A baker with a tattoo of a dragonfly on her left hip, she’s friends with people, who never resent her for lacking sense and in some cases, a conscience.

She listens to a lot of Anti-Folk and Dream-Pop. She’s convinced her cupcakes would taste like moldy toenails if she didn’t have The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane playing in the background while she bakes. She tells everyone her cookies aren’t exceptional, but her L'Opera gateaus are from Satan’s pâtisserie. Secretly, she loves Martha Stewart. Julia Child, not so much.

Of the people in her life, she’s closest to Zach, a reformed bad boy, who oozes charm like a maple tree bleeds sap. Tall, articulate and a bit of a sex fiend, the guy is not called Commander Sexypants for nothing. They’re planning to get married soon, but with a bun already in the oven, maybe it would be sooner.

Today, she’s thinking how her dog, an Irish Wolfhound/Airedale Terrier named Spock, would take to the baby. As it is, Spock doesn’t even like the Commander that much. She wonders if she would be happy in her new home, a duplex with four bedrooms. She knows that with the money she and Zach spent on the house, it would be sometime before she can open her own bakery. In a few hours, she would force herself to stop worrying about these things. But she still goes to bed dreaming of mansions and muffins.

Brain Vomit

glitter-graphics.com

Subconscious Debris

For the most part, love IS ironic. In the name of love, doing the things you detest seems acceptable. After all, these acts still operate within the framework of happiness, or rather the pursuit thereof. It’s called sacrifice, they say. But that’s entirely dependent on your role in this otherwise symbiotic relationship. If you’re a taker, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. If you’re a giver, well now, you’re in big trouble. (Or whipped like the family pig, whichever you prefer.) Either way, you’re still screwed. Now let’s see if you can still appreciate the irony after this.

Pity

Nothing intensifies the feeling of pain more than other people’s pity. Soothing words, consoling hugs—these may as well be radioactive. Because if we are to be honest about it, concealing the gulf between your countenance and the damages your heart has sustained is sheer hell. Nobody likes doing that, unless you’re a glutton for punishment. And if that’s not enough, you’re obligated to feel better because it’s just rude to shun the efforts of the people who—true or not—care about your wellbeing. And if that’s not a testament to the ridiculousness of the situation, more’s the pity.

Fractures

glitter-graphics.com

Thus, it stops—the need to verbalize everything, as I find consolation in words not spoken. Here, ideas are abandoned somewhere between the definite and the perhaps, while promises of a smile die before reaching my lips.

~o~

And miracles in their fragile containers shatter as they reach my corner of earth. I’m wondering if prayers divorced from faith can find their way home.

~o~

Whereas, the little disappointments accumulate and start to decompose behind my eyes, I am sincerely questioning my right to be tired.

Lip Service

glitter-graphics.com

Because at some point, words should mean more than the breath it takes to utter them. That disregarding the forced value of action over speech, the meaning is allowed to be.

Slow Week

You Can Definitely Spot a Liar

Maybe you have good instincts. Or maybe you just have a lot of experience with liars. Either way, it's pretty hard for someone to pull a fast one on you. You're like a human lie detector.

Can You Spot a Liar?

Sensei Smexy

How can I not be pregnant after this song? Damn you, Josh Kelley for this smexy smexy song!!!

The Yarn Spinner

Writing by ~dianora on deviantART

Stuck in a chasm of infinite eloquence, the words make their escape, bearing ideas I’ll weave into a tale.

Just around the corner, an amorphous story shimmers into existence for a plot that needs no thickening.

Somewhere, hidden in a box, is a flash of brilliance that will illuminate the undiscovered narratives in my head.

But committing pen to paper will have to wait.

My anecdotes, chronicles, and legends will be written, just not today.