\`_´/

The stealth bomber lounges,
refreshingly constant,
with flanks of sleek metal
and eyes leonine.
"Await this December,"
said she to the Manza
with frankness and longing; 
"you will then be mine."

This is my life right now: impromptu love McWhirtles to my car. (Mine.) It isn't even a sonnet. Sonnets in my turn of phrase can be excused.

(The maniacal screencapping of two Star Trek: TOS videogames is also in progress before I have to buckle down and begin studying in earnest, but yeah.)

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Sexism in astrology, if you please.

A friend and I decided to amuse ourselves this afternoon by reading each other's Linda Goodman's Sun Signs chapters out loud.
Linda Goodman on how to keep a Leo man: 'submerge yourself'. Linda Goodman on how to keep a Leo woman: 'don't let her smother you'.
What. The actual. Fuck.

Look, horoscopes and other bullshit interest me not at all. Star signs, though, I will admit to there being something behind. ...Then again, certainly not in the way Ms Goodman says there is. Apply her reasoning to a Leo/Leo relationship and you have the woman submerging herself for the man who will not let her 'smother' him. If any woman tried to 'submerge herself' for my protagonist he'd probably either throw a fit and shake her up a little or simply silently freak and withdraw. (Ms Goodman also doesn't consider alternate-sexuality relationships, of course, but considering the publication dates that's pretty much a given.)
Her description of a Leo man fit me a lot better than the one of a Leo woman, incidentally, so basically this was one lady who talked through her dainty little sexist hat.

In happier news, I bought myself volumes one and two of Fundamentals of Flight: basic aerodynamics and aircraft structure. They are to be my recreational reading for the next couple of months.
When Cain is not Kirk, she's Scotty. Shut up.

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Say Cheese. ...Say Whiskey Tango Foxtrot.

I remember being told once that 'huge' was not a word but a cheap shortcut to 'humongous'. I still can't figure out why anyone would say that.
This was at a creative writing workshop at the British Council Library. I was five or six, had not yet realized that writing formally in the first person was emphatically not my forte, and I remember writing a piece in which I invented some sort of toy car that ran on sugar.
Science-fictional tendencies in Little Self, who knew.

(The participants were also made to think of as many words as possible using the letters in Arnold Schwarzenegger. Naturally I didn't find that as funny as I would have if I'd been somewhat older. The heartthrobs of the world have apparently never been the same as mine.)

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