(no subject)

So. There are black widows- three that we found (and killed)- in the hay.

Guess what very-very-slightly-less-arachnaphobic-than-her-father girl found them- and then got to help pull off the tarps and feed the horses? *strained smile*

Mom: *watching me pull my sleeves down before taking the flake from her* *exasperated* I inspected it. It's fine.
Me: ...right. *gingerly takes hay and runs as fast as possible to the pen*


Ohgodsquickickyuck. I loathe spiders. Especially poisonous ones. If it's something I know for a fact won't harm me- wolf spiders, say- I'm okay...creeped out, but I'll make an effort to get it outside instead of simply shrieking and squishing it.

But. I need a shower. And to brush my hair. Again. I hate spiders. So, so much.

*shudders* Black widows in the hay I've sat on, fed to the horses, leaned against, etc...

I'm going to die from fear. *curls up*


I hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate hate spiders.



P.S. This was going to be a lengthy introspective post about careers, school, money, and pirates. But then- spiders. Oy.

(no subject)

So.

Can anybody rec me some good POTC fic? Or any of these pairings? - Elizabeth/Barbossa, Elizabeth/Jack, Pintel/Ragetti, Jack/Pearl, Liz/Pearl, Barbossa/Pearl.

I will love you forever and ever and ever and ever and EVER. Really. And I'll give you cookies. Or cake. Or candy-canes. Whatever you want, you've got it.


<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

(no subject)

Don't ask, 'cause I have no idea. *sighs*

Firecracker

She broke into people's homes not for their money, or jewelry, but for their showers.

She remembered, somewhere in the slip-slide curves of her mind, that her mother used to take showers with her, when she was young. She'd been scared to do it alone.

She thinks she remembers singing.

And then it all falls into fire and heat and burning, burning.

Once a week, she unlocks a door- easy- and puts herself beneath the needle-sharp sprays.

Once she opened a house with no shower. The police never found who burned the place. The parents of the boy left home that night went mad.

Always she turns the heat up a little higher, every time. The warm feels good, and turns her colors. She loves the soft pink of her chest when she turns the water off.

Always, more heat. Always, burning.

Burning.