snow, dawgs!

[phosfate]

The state flag, located directly outside our office window, is displaying horizontal tendencies not seen since the last set of astronauts left a stars and bars on the Moon. The sky - and, indeed, everything else - is the same shade of grey as our computers and furniture. And the snow has started, cold and vicious-looking. The effect of the whole business is, to quote that famous passage by the Bard of Avon, "Reallye fucking depressinge. We shalle freeze our asses offe."

I sit at my desk snarfing Jolly Rancher Cherry suckers and trying not to whine out loud. *whine.* Oh sorry.

Comments

[annlarimer.livejournal.com]

In all honesty, I could give a shit about the fic. The DAGS' stuff was truly heinous, but if producing skanky, soul-destroying fiction were a crime, they'd set up a guillotine over the entrance to the Lansing Holiday Inn. (And Invisigoth's reasoning isn't always up to snuff, but that's another issue.) These guys were scary in that many of them believed that what they wrote was true and, if their own accounts are to be believed, acted on it.

Did you ever see, or did Susan tell you about, PsychoTrekkie? They had that kind of vibe.