vixenmage: Vimes, lighting a cigar with a dragon; from Wikipedia (Vimes)
There are days when I am fair proud of my status as No One In Particular. I don't know anyone who's anyone. I don't wear nice clothes (though I did finally use the gift card my dad gave me, and now have un-ripped shoes), I don't go to meetings or meet with clients or take conference calls, I don't know what's important (arguably) and who's up and who's down, I don't network or meet people for coffee and shop talk. I drive a car with the trunk full of rope, tools, water bottles, and paperbacks. I am, in the worldly sphere, absolutely nobody.

Most days, I like that.

Some days, though, I wish I wasn't. I wish I had contacts, or knew somebody who knew somebody, or something, because the Job Seekers Open Threads come around, and I scroll through wishing... I don't know what I'm wishing for. Maybe someone will say "Specializing in education, experience with autistic children, in the CT area," and I can plug it to my dad and stepmom*. And I know it's irrational to feel guilty that I can't do anything about most people's situations, but it just... grates. I feel like I should be able to.

Anyway. Even if you dislike Slacktivist, if you're not a fan of liberal blogs or Fred Clark or a commentariat full of diversity, if you know of a job opening, or someone who's looking for good help, you should check out the above link. It really is a worthy cause.

*If you do know someone who's looking for a job and fits this description...
vixenmage: St. Francis wiv a bird on 'is haid! (Francis)
Most likely my last update for a while! Not like I've been updating regularly, but here's what's up:

- I now have a fish named Kato.

- In about an hour, I am going to drive to the airport to pick up Dann.

- Tomorrow, we are going to drive up to Mount Desert Island for the length of a week-ish.

- I may or may not be bouncing around like a rubber ball.

I am probably not bringing the laptop.

Take care, all! See you in a week!
vixenmage: St. Francis wiv a bird on 'is haid! (Francis)
And this is one of those things where I realize that my sister and I are very different people, even if we are getting along these days.

You Might Be an Evangelical if...

The comment thread, of course, proceeded to be vastly amused and began coming up with their own-- it's quite fun. There's also a handful of You Might Be a Catholic If, You Might Be a Unitarian Universalist If, You Might Be a Methodist If, wossnames. Even if y'all are not a fan of the Slacktivist site all the time, this is still very worth checking out. (The atheists with no family experience in Evangelical churches are sort of watching the thread with a bemused expression. It's funny.)

A Handful: If you’ve ever forgotten to set your clock back at the end of Daylight Savings Time and your first thought at seeing the empty church parking lot was, “Oh no, I’ve missed the Rapture,” then you might be an Evangelical.

“I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart.” If you just shouted, “Where?” then...

If you’ve ever played the tambourine while wearing a tie, then …

If the last rock concert you went to included an altar call, then …

And this is the one that had me laughing so hard I couldn't talk.

If a sentence beginning “Lord, we just, Lord, want to thank you Lord, for just, Lord, just …” doesn’t strike you as either atrocious grammar or a speech impediment, then …

My own contribution was "If you've ever had an intense debate over whether it's pronounced 'ah-men' or 'ay-men,' you might be a Baptist."

"If you've ever followed that debate with a car ride in which case it was hotly proclaimed "AH-men? Ah-Men? Next thing you know, we'll be praying in Latin!" you might be a Southern Baptist.

There was this: "If you don't really know what transubstantiation really means, but you totally believe it, you might be a Catholic."

And my response: "If you don't really know what transubstantiation really means, but you know it's heresy, you might be an Evangelical."

See, I remember all the things Ruth doesn't. I remember those car rides, I remember the barbecues in John's backyard after he finished the sermon, I remember all the little tiny quirks of our church that I never realized were, yes, very weird, until after entering the rest of the world. And you know what? Despite my oft-expressed cynicism with much of the Church, these days I don't think I'd mind finding a Baptist church to fellowship with on Sunday mornings.

(If you know the difference between 'fellowship with' and 'worship with,' then I don't know what you are, but we're likely on the same level of theological tongue-in-cheekery, and yes, these Slacktivite comment threads totally count as fellowship.)
vixenmage: (existentialist)
Well, ten-till I have to leave for work. So I don't have time.

But I have this long post I've been meaning to write, about the private "Christian" school I went to (Yes, I will continue to put that word in quotes whenever I refer to that school), an experience I had there, and the book The Hiding Place, by Corrie ten Boom. I'll try and get it down when I come home from work, but in the meantime, it's summed up by one verse of the song "I Will Follow You Into The Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie.

Catholic school, vicious as Roman rule
I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black
And I held my tongue as she told me, Son,
Fear is the heart of love-- so I never went back
vixenmage: (icarus)
Slacktivist always makes me smile-- sometimes, looking back, I realize that parts of my childhood weren't weird at all. (And then there are the parts that really, really were.) Like apparently, not celebrating Christmas is a Done Thing. When I was... very young, maybe three or four, I remember going caroling with our pastor's family. And spending Christmas Eve or Day at our grandparents', seeing all the aunts and uncles and cousins and dogs. So many dogs-- my grandpa's big lab, my aunt's Labrador, my aunt's Newfoundland, my uncle's German Shepherd, and our own mutt, Jumper. Doesn't seem like so many in retrospect, but Nicky the Newfie was big enough for three dogs, and between them all, they filled my grandparents' little house up to bursting.

Anyway, about the time my youngest brother was born, maybe a little earlier, we stopped doing that. My mother became obsessed with the idea that Paganism was infiltrating all of America, and would talk about how the triangle of the Christmas tree was a symbol of the universe from Ancient Germany, which was the same symbol on the dollar bill-- also, see the star at the top. Heresy, I tells ya. And she disapproved of angels, mostly the way they were portrayed. They have no wings, she would say-- they were shining men, not chubby baby girls. Lights were gaudy, Santa was a devil, and the idea of giving gifts to each other to celebrate a Pagan holiday, even one that stood for Jesus' birth, was outrageous. After all, why give gifts to each other to celebrate holiness?

I always liked Easter better, anyway. Even as a kid, and more as an adult. (Holy crap, I'm an adult. Or will be before the month is out. That's weird.)

My father theorized that it had to do with Christmas being such a symbol of unhappiness in her childhood-- her parents were very rich, and her father was the type who really thought money could buy anything, a very selfish man. After it came out, years after my dad had won custody, that our mother's father could not be trusted around young girls, other things began to make sense. But my father told us, at some point, that he remembered her talking about how her father would spend all this money at Christmas, lavishing her with gifts and treats-- almost as if to make up for the fact that her life was hellish. It didn't surprise us, in retrospect, that she would hate to be reminded of that.

Anyway, working in retail will give you an enormous callous where all your seasonal goodwill used to be. My younger coworker was shocked at how cynical I seemed at the start of the season this year, but by the time January was getting started, he admitted he could see my reasons. So Christmas is sort of a bust for me. There are points of beauty-- I will never be unable to delight in winter, even under the most miserable weather, and being with family is almost always a joy-- but overall, it continues to feel like an excuse to Buy Things. And eat.

My friend Serra always said she'd rather receive random gifts at meaningless times of year, and I am inclined to agree-- they're more fun to give, too. There's nothing quite like sneaking up to your friend's house in the middle of the night to drop off the little thing you saw that reminded you of them.

At any rate, I have to get some stuff done today-- and there's something of a rant building up about this summer, and plans, and work, and how is it possible that I went from having seven days with Dann, two of which would be driving, to having five days, only three of which involve being in Acadia. And the worst part, of course, is that there's no one I can really be angry with, excepting possibly myself, because I really should have seen this coming.

...That wasn't the conclusion I intended. It doesn't seem to fit with the whole theme, y' know? Anyway. Christmas is nice, don't hate it for being Pagan. Pagans are nice, too. And I kinda doubt Jesus would care much that we got the date wrong, and giving gifts to each other quite frankly seems like the best way to honor His birth, really.

Oh God.

Jul. 26th, 2011 05:29 pm
vixenmage: (coexist)
Glen Beck is a monster.

I'm not apologizing for that, ever, and I'm not taking it back. I'm ashamed that he's an American.

Here's why.

For the record? A camp to get youth involved in politics and democracy is an awesome thing. I have a friend who went there. This... he's crossed a line. Yes, he crosses lines on a regular basis, but there is no coming back from this.

The man's a monster. Young kids were shot, kids have been killed, a government was bombed, and his reaction is to compare the camp to Naziism. Not the shooter, who was affiliated with NeoNazis, but the victims. And then to warn about the perils of tolerance. Just like the shooter did.

There are truly no words to express my disgust and contempt. Norway, forgive my homeland her snakes and monsters. The rest of our people mourn with you.


Jul. 24th, 2011 03:55 pm
vixenmage: Beautiful bird which people dislike because it is a crow-related animal (grackle)
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vixenmage: A disgruntled rhino; I promise you sir, your slight does NOT go unnoticed." (Rhino)
kyks, bsicy, my ckyb is bken. i cn ey nyhin b i he mmen, es n ni i cnim he ny. s im s sin n nsceen keyb hich is, he ec, incey sin. my yin hs ne n b... h, i n kn, en s e mine i h

...Yeah. Translated:

Basically, my keyboard is broken. I can't do anything to fix it at the moment, at least not until I find the warranty. So for now, I'm using an onscreen keyboard which is, (?). My typing [speed] has gone (?)...

...I have no idea what the rest of that was saying. This kinda sucks.

I'll be getting a USB keyboard soon, I think.
vixenmage: (coexist)
Firstly, CS Lewis and Pacifism: A Failure of the Imagination? And I'll add that question mark, because if it is not in the title, it is certainly in my own head and reading of that article. But I do admit to laughing at the opening paragraph:

Whenever one disagrees with C.S. Lewis, there is sure to be much fear and trembling. I am a Christian today in large part due to Lewis’ writing, and, if he had the opportunity to respond to me on the subject of pacifism, I suspect I would meet the long shadow of the Great Knock! A fearsome idea if there ever was one.

Anyone who's hung around Slacktivist/Slacktiverse for any amount of time probably remembers from recent or distant history some time when someone argued against Kit with "But according to C. S. Lewis--!" and was met with a steely glare, followed by a lengthy, well thought-out, considerate, and devastating explanation of why, Precisely, that does not matter to the argument at hand. They may even, like myself, remember it with a smile! What they probably don't remember with a smile is the ensuing slugfests during which people would tell Kit that she was being overly emotional, that she Just Didn't Get It, that she was wrong because THEY understood Lewis, that she was simply misconstruing his position on this/everything, and in which Kit and those agreeing with her got increasingly frustrated and tempers frayed on all sides.

The other night, I was going through a bookshelf, trying to put off sleep a little longer, and found The Great Divorce. When I was younger, maybe... oh, I don't know. Was it two years back I found that, or only one? Either way, it seems like longer. Time is slipping through my fingers, these days-- and yet, the days drag, and the tally lingers. Anyway. I remember taking great comfort from that book. Thinking on the idea that one had to choose Hell. That forgiveness was, truly, always available to those who could forsake that part of their spirit which had led them wrong, or at least be humble to their own flaws. I loved the metaphors, and always took the lizard which was slain to be an analogy to mental illness - the voice whispering in your ear, telling you any number of horrible things. Unique in a way, and certainly interesting, but overall rather harmful, in this present world we lived in - but transformed, in Heaven, to something beautiful and glorious. That passage filled me with hope, and I seem to remember tearing up, reading it.

Then there's things like his passing slight of 'liberal theology.' And any number of other things that I now cannot recall, and my wondering, foolishly, on the morn, how Lewis might describe me. And then instinctively flinching from that answer, because I am a bisexual monogamous female who wears terribly androgynous clothing/hair, doesn't wear makeup or jewelry, is argumentative and headstrong towards authority figures more often than I care to admit and a vegetarian (I seem to remember him taking a rather derisive tone of vegetarians) and a pacifist (of sorts) and overall, the sort of person who I cannot help but think his initial reaction to would be pretty much "...gah. No." I'd like to think that on further conversation, I might at least persuade him of my humanity, but then my flight of fancy comes crashing to the ground and I realize hey it doesn't matter. He's someone who has no bearing on my life right now, and even if he was still alive this would be the case, and really? I stop trying to please my dad, grow to the point where I am not trying to please my friends... so the psyche shifts to an admired author. Brain you need to stop this.

Anyway. I have come to the conclusion that Paul's advice is the best, still. Echoed by Fred Clark and many others, it boils down to this:

Test everything; hold onto the good."

When this body breathes its last, it is not Clive Staples Lewis I will need to answer to. I doubt that Christ will ask me "Ah, but did you consider before joining the rally that Lewis would not have approved?" He may very well ask "When you joined the rally, how conscious of an effort did you make to ignore your conscience?" or "When you turned away from the rally for idle entertainment elsewhere, how were you showing Love, to your neighbor or to God?" I pray, on that day, that I will have the answers to more of my life than I do now. But in the meantime, priorities are priorities, and I will continue to seek answers wherever they lie, the writings of Lewis included. Test everything; hold onto the good.

I have other insecurities and issues and flailings to do, but none of them really belong here, so I shall leave it and attempt to get some sleep.
vixenmage: Tea: truly, the solution to all life's ills. (tea)
I wrote an Iroh ficlet! Uncut, it's fairly short. Also findable here.


The air hung heavy, and the sky was an unearthly tone. Though to be fair, Iroh reflected, it was only natural that the sky be the opposite of the earth - unless you were contrasting Earth with the Spirit World, 'unearthly' as a tone for the sky was right and proper. Nodding sagely, he revised his thought.

The air hung heavy, and the sky was an unnatural tone.

No, that didn't quite fit either. Unreal? Ah, he'd leave that to the poets. Right now, he just wanted to get through the gardens unseen, and find the shelter he'd built as a boy, down where the beautiful garden sloped into the forest. He'd hidden some things there, against just such a time-- important things, very important. The sort of things you'd want to retrieve on a day like today, when the end of balance and the world itself seemed to be at stake. It was ironic, he thought, that this fateful day brought so much wild energy to his spirit - but that was the problem, wasn't it? This energy which he felt coursing through his veins was the same spiritual boost that his brother was, at this very moment, harnessing in a last-ditch attempt to destroy the remnants of the Earth Kingdom, and with them, truly, the world.

The blossoms draped over the paths, thicker and wilder in these far paths, their fragrance permeating the air all around him. Nearby, on the other side of the hedge, a trickle of water added a musical touch, soft and fragile against the omnipresent thunderous backdrop of fire blasting in the distance. Iroh shook his head, remembering the beautiful lotus blossoms that had floated there in his youth, the quiet, hidden pond beneath the small waterfall. He remembered the stone pai sho board that had been overgrown with vines, until he'd carefully cleared it off one day, curious at the tiles. The feeling of peace that he'd felt once, meditating by that oasis. He remembered, with a thickness in his throat that seemed closer than usual today, the first time he had sat there with Lu Ten, showing his only son the game that he'd come to love so.

He shook his head once again to clear it, hurrying through the little trellis, nearly overgrown with climbing roses by now; the gardeners probably focused on the inner courtyards, these days, if they were still about at all. Under an elder tree that had, by now, become fully grown, he saw the shack, still standing, small and humble and, if he did say so himself, remarkably well-built for a teenager. He quickened his steps; with no knowledge of anything else going on in the Fire Nation capital, there was no way he'd enter the fray without first stopping here. The door creaked as he opened it; the light was slightly musty, as though it had aged with the shack, and his own mind. Smiling, Iroh stepped at long last into his first shelter.

The tea pot was exactly as he'd left it, though rather dustier. The lotus design on the side was bright beneath the dust, though, and as he brushed it away, he cast about for the pump handle - there, in the corner. He was glad, now, that he had slipped through the kitchens on his way through. For a moment, he fiddled with the fireplace, making sure there was a tinder there, and then he carefully cupped his hands and sparked the flame. It lit and held immediately - how could it not, on the return of Sozin's Comet? As it caught, he went to fill the pot with spring water - the same spring that bubbled into the pond, he knew; this caught in his mind, for a moment, and it took him longer than usual to realize there was someone standing behind him. This may also have been accounted for by the lack of footstep on the grassy path, or the silence of tread on the creaking stile. Iroh started for a moment, caught unawares by the stark - could you call it a face?

"Oh-- it's you," he said, after a moment. There was a brief pause. "Would you share a cup with me?"


The Dragon of the West smiled, pulling the little bundle from where he'd stowed it, beneath his robe. "You can never be too prepared, where tea is concerned," he explained.
vixenmage: (existentialist)
So for the past few days, I've been hearing strange noises. It seems like whichever side of the house I am on, bumping noises come from the other side. I'd chock it all up to hallucinations, which wouldn't be unlikely, but Carly and Tina clearly hear them too, and either perk up their ears or meow annoyedly, respectively. I've mostly shrugged it off.

Today, I was sitting at my laptop, reading about how the Hartford Courant is slashing its opinion columnists, and heard another one of those strange bumping noises. This time, it was clearly coming from my sister's room. Determined to get to the bottom of this, I picked up my keys and opened her bedroom door... to find this:

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I was a little shocked, and spent the next ten minutes alternating between calling my sister a brat (and other names) and squeeing helplessly at the cute.

(My own kitty looks like this: Image and video hosting by TinyPic)

I, for one, am not looking forward to my father's reaction, when the secret eventually outs, as it obviously will. (She's already quite vocal, especially if you leave off snuggling her. I suspect she was taken from her mother too early, and shall be bringing home formulated kitten food today, because among other things, I'm quite annoyed at my sister for feeding such a wee one full-sized cat food.)

In other news, running a store (even for a few days) is hard. Who knew? (Given, Bossman is doing the real legwork. Still, it's really not easy having m'friend-and-manager gone, aside from the fact that I rather miss him, he's so competent it's scary, and I'm just now realizing that just because he makes it look easy doesn't mean it is.)
vixenmage: St. Francis wiv a bird on 'is haid! (Francis)
Have just put the first chapter review of Atlas Shrugged up, last night/this morning. The journal, which I am in too much of a hurry to link, is Earthling_Rants at Dreamwidth. It occurred to me too late that I should provide more of a synopsis, so the next review will be better on that front.

As per the next chapter: Hank Rearden is like what would happen if an xkcd character got possessed by Ayn Rand's author wraith. He's your classic nerd from various comics, loves his work and doesn't understand why it doesn't matter to anyone else, but then he's got the Ayn Rand issues that don't correspond to ANY OF THAT. Seriously, those two halves of his character just don't match. And his brother is an utter caricature.

ANYWAY. I have more to say, but it is high time to go to work!
vixenmage: Beautiful bird which people dislike because it is a crow-related animal (grackle)
1) I've made up my mind, I'm blogging Atlas Shrugged. I'm apprehensive and excited.

2) Diamond Age, by Neal Stephenson.

3) Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Bronte.

All things I can't do until the semester is over and/or my workload is done.



...Back to work.

ETA: The paper on the ethics of journalism, by the way, is on this film, Journeys With George. Whether you like/agree with/respect George Bush or not is quite honestly irrelevant. As our prof pointed out, you'll come out of the video thinking "Wow, he's not such a bad guy," but the important thing is to keep an eye on the reporters here-- and how they are utterly failing to do their job. If you're a Slacktivite, you may remember the recent (ish? the days are all sort of running together for me now, I can't judge any span of time at all) post about Buck Williams and his time with President Fitz-whatever, and the amusing point that it's safe to say anything to Call-Me-Buck, because he never actually reports anything.

You may also remember Fred's Seriously Raised Eyebrow (...or general reaction of WHAT) to Buck's utter lack of ethics in accepting all sorts of free stuff/food/transport from Carpathia.

...Yeah. Definitely watch the film.


Apr. 24th, 2011 10:10 am
vixenmage: (it's a heron, most likely a great blue, from the shape.) (statue)
He is Risen!

There's a post about self, and religious epiphanies that bloody hurt, but today is not the day.

Here is a comic. A good comic.

And now, family.
vixenmage: St. Francis wiv a bird on 'is haid! (Default)
Today marks the start of the Civil War, 150 years ago.

I don't know what else to say about that.

There's an anger inside of me, at people like my father, like Rand Paul, like plenty of others who believe that the United States government should have turned a blind eye to the atrocities of slavery, that the South had their states' rights to exist without anything approaching human rights, that they had a right to secede, demoting a huge portion of their population from 3/5 to 0.

"But Lincoln was wrong! The Emancipation Proclamation was illegal!"

"Slavery is wrong."

"Yeah, and it would've ended naturally, it was an unsustainable way of life."

What can you say to that? What can you say to someone who believes that such an atrocity should be allowed to exist until the excesses of the oppressors overtax themselves?

The Civil War marks one of the bloodiest times of our nation's history. It marks a war fought over the merit of a human life, the very essence of personhood. Would that today's people, today's presidents, this generation of mine - might have the same courage, faced with those choices. To rebel against Man's laws in favor of God's; to obey conscience, instead of tradition.
vixenmage: Vimes, lighting a cigar with a dragon; from Wikipedia (Vimes)
The internet is becoming more and more of a tool - well, it's more accurate to say it's becoming more and more widely used. I never saw the potential, as a self-absorbed young teenager, and it is awe-inspiring today to see that force of connection and human potential used in the pursuit of human and civil rights, used by peoples yearning to be free - with or without foreign aid. And I say, power to them. They deserve to be recognized and held aloft, they are taking what the West by and large uses as a toy, or a marketing billboard, and they are lighting it up for freedom.

(Note: I like the Western internetters. I am one. Just sayin'. I'm not sure "1,000,000 strong for the Doctor to carry the Olympic Torch" is as worthy a cause as "Protest against Ghaddafi tomorrow in X location," or the like.)

Anyway, after years of complaining about Livejournal and their marketing, I suddenly find myself cheering for them rather loudly. Because like it or not, they are a voice of free speech, and no one has the right to take that away.
vixenmage: (existentialist)
This is a bit of the Minecraft mythos I've begun. In the vein of my usual tricks and gambols, I decided to plant a garden underwater. Why? Why not? I died three times, but only once did I lose everything. This is often an issue with me - early in Dann's map, I put up a lava stream on a chunk of ice-field. Then there's the hole in the ocean (to be fair, that was accidental - I was only trying to plant a few trees underwater), and the cloud-forest (which still needs to be expanded), and the fact that my home base is almost always a schizoid sort of tower, and the part where I -was- successful building a tree underwater... at any rate.

This is the story of the birth of Fli, who guards the madmen and artists of the Minecraft world. Every lunatic twisty tower, or sculpture of ice and fire, or ridiculous project of tomfoolery is protected by him, and his symbol is the mushroom. He is the son of Nua and Ark, the god of clouds and goddess of trees, respectively. It's not done, but it will be! Only a bit to go. Read more... )

* * *
vixenmage: (icarus)
We're standing in the dark, you and I. There's a howling wind, so quiet it fills the background, you have to strain to hear the silence on the surface between us, that still tension of things not said. We're standing in the dark, and I'm still not sure which of us has the light. It's supposed to be you, I want to say. You're supposed to be the light, you're supposed to be all. I'm not responsible for undoing my own shadows...

I'm standing in the dark. I love you won't come to the speaking, won't say itself in my heart. I'm here in the dark, and my arm's too heavy to reach for you, and if I fall, I'll fall away. I'm standing in the dark, and I don't have the light, and I don't have the torch, and I'm full of angry darkness, and I don't know why. You're here in the dark with me, I'm told. You're here, not in the rushing or the howling or the fire but the still, small voice.

You're the one who put these voices into me? I hope not. These are not your voices, they are mine, they are selfishly, angrily, hurtfully mine. You're holding the torch, I'm holding the match, we're at an impasse and no matter how many times I say it's my decision...

Other people go through life pretty happily, or peacefully - at least with you. They have things, and they don't feel guilt weighing them down at every step, and they don't resent the guilt, and they don't resent the quiet understanding that they could be better. I'm straining at the bit again, I'm breaking through the traces, I'm seizing the reins and throwing them to the ground, tangling and tripping and falling to the dust off the side of the track, and not looking up to see if you're amused or disappointed.

We're standing in the dark, and I can't see the stars, the clouds, the ground all shod in broken glass, and mosaics of paving-stones. I told you I'd grope in the mud and crawl in the smoke and seek you in the smog and clouds and darkened alleys of this world, and now the lighter the tower grows around me, the harder it is to see. I'm going blind, I'm losing you in all the space, I'm all alone in the twisting places of the narrowest road, and there is no hope.
vixenmage: Beautiful bird which people dislike because it is a crow-related animal (grackle)
Continued from this post, the beginning of a slice of origin story for Shihab, one of my SDA characters. Cut mainly for length )

Also, I agree with Penny Arcade on this movie. First, are you serious? He's scarred and tattooed and pierced WOOEE IS ME SO HORRIBLE. Secondly, I really hope they were trying for an over-the-top very clearly not realistic at all high school. I think so - fairy tales did that with kingdoms, so it kind of works. Thirdly, the only way this plot would work for me is if he stays that tattooed, scarred, pierced person. Flashing back to the curly blond prettyboy would just be a cop-out, especially if she decides to stay with him. Ugh.


Mar. 1st, 2011 11:54 am
vixenmage: St. Francis wiv a bird on 'is haid! (Default)
I think I'm officially a Fred Clark fangirl.

Team Hell Gets Loud.

I keep trying to find a selection from the post that will do to explain it, but I'd rather just paste the whole thing here. >_> Ah, this will do.

The evangelical blog world seems all atwitter over a forthcoming book by Rob Bell, pastor of Mars Hill Bible Church in Grand Rapids, Mich. The book's title, "Love Wins," is apparently regarded by many American evangelicals as an astonishingly heretical and controversial claim. Love wins? How dare anyone suggest such a thing?

Even more controversial is the book's subtitle: "Heaven, Hell and the Fate of Every Person Who Has Ever Lived." Bear in mind that the book hasn't hit shelves yet, so nobody's actually read it yet, but that subtitle and this promotional video from Bell were more than enough to prompt Team Hell to spring into action.

I'll say this for Team Hell, they're not afraid of repeating themselves.

Also, I meant to tell Sixwing how awesome her shut-down of Honestwoman was, but forgot. So: Sixwing, you rock!


vixenmage: St. Francis wiv a bird on 'is haid! (Default)

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