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I've dyed my hair. The drowned rat look was getting old. Now it's ... well, it says on the box 'copper blonde', but I suppose if you were being unkind you might call it 'ginger cat'. Not that there's anything wrong with that; I'm very fond of ginger cats. Anyway, I quite like my new ginger cat hair.
Once again, I'm going to recommend that you read The Midnight Disease, by Alice W. Flaherty. Today I discovered, among many other fascinating things, that the female orgasm is controlled by the right temporal lobe, while the male orgasm is located mainly in the more primitive hypothalamus. "The evidence," says Flaherty, "includes women who had spontaneous orgasms for years, often many a day, which turned out to be temporal lobe epileptic auras. Most of these women did not seek medical help quickly."
A few nights ago I couldn't sleep, and decided that I'd better get up immediately and explore the differences between RPS and FPS through elaborate and increasingly ridiculous extended metaphor. The whole two in the morning element may or may not excuse what follows, but I've cut it to save potential queasiness.
Maybe FPS (well, I mean FPF really, but I'll stick with slash, seeing as it's so darn popular) is about taking something broken and mending it. Something clumsy and polishing, refining, recreating. Or taking something flat and breathing life into it. Or taking something beloved and carrying it, because you don't want to let it go. Or maybe it's taking something beautiful and turning it around, pointing out the way the light catches it from a different angle. FPS is capable of making a silk purse out of a sow's ear, or vice versa.
RPS is more like a conjuror's routine. It's smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand. A trick of the light. It can be tacky and overblown, or beautiful and fine, big and elaborate or small and simple. It's easy to get it wrong without quite knowing why. But if you can produce the rabbit from the hat, the string of silk handkerchiefs from a sleeve, the right card from the pack, well ... that's magic.
Of course, a magician should never give away her secrets. There's only one secret in RPS, and that's RPS itself. The secret is -- don't get too close. When you get too close to a mirage, it vanishes. When you try to touch the green palm trees, dive into the clear crystal water, the illusion suddenly collapses. You are left standing alone in the desert.
Once again, I'm going to recommend that you read The Midnight Disease, by Alice W. Flaherty. Today I discovered, among many other fascinating things, that the female orgasm is controlled by the right temporal lobe, while the male orgasm is located mainly in the more primitive hypothalamus. "The evidence," says Flaherty, "includes women who had spontaneous orgasms for years, often many a day, which turned out to be temporal lobe epileptic auras. Most of these women did not seek medical help quickly."
A few nights ago I couldn't sleep, and decided that I'd better get up immediately and explore the differences between RPS and FPS through elaborate and increasingly ridiculous extended metaphor. The whole two in the morning element may or may not excuse what follows, but I've cut it to save potential queasiness.
Maybe FPS (well, I mean FPF really, but I'll stick with slash, seeing as it's so darn popular) is about taking something broken and mending it. Something clumsy and polishing, refining, recreating. Or taking something flat and breathing life into it. Or taking something beloved and carrying it, because you don't want to let it go. Or maybe it's taking something beautiful and turning it around, pointing out the way the light catches it from a different angle. FPS is capable of making a silk purse out of a sow's ear, or vice versa.
RPS is more like a conjuror's routine. It's smoke and mirrors, sleight of hand. A trick of the light. It can be tacky and overblown, or beautiful and fine, big and elaborate or small and simple. It's easy to get it wrong without quite knowing why. But if you can produce the rabbit from the hat, the string of silk handkerchiefs from a sleeve, the right card from the pack, well ... that's magic.
Of course, a magician should never give away her secrets. There's only one secret in RPS, and that's RPS itself. The secret is -- don't get too close. When you get too close to a mirage, it vanishes. When you try to touch the green palm trees, dive into the clear crystal water, the illusion suddenly collapses. You are left standing alone in the desert.
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