professional bimbo

Question.

2007-09-12T13:36:43Z

I'm not sure of cafepress, but I need to add some color to my new room. I generally try to support independent artists when I can. Fandom is pretty near and dear to my heart, so:

1) When buying from cafepress.com, do the artists see any (much) profit?

2) Do you know of any fandom artists that have set up shop there or any fen that have websites where I can order large prints of their artwork?

I'd appreciate any help - if you have the info, or have a friend in the know - because you can't really google this.

Fic Rec wtf? / Packing is a bitch / I eat tofu for fun

2007-09-11T17:23:22Z

SPN fen, listen up: If you've not read Seldom a Straight Line by black_regalia, you should. Anything that could make me crawl out of the bowels of fandom past is worth at the very least a look-see. That's all you'll need. There's the usual angst, but all rolled up with beautiful Deanitude (see me make up words for how great this fic is?) and it manages to do the impossible: make a happy ending for the brothers Winchester believable.

black_regalia has long been one of my favorite writers - I don't think of her as an elegant writer (see: musesfool), but there's an unpretentiousness and inventiveness that's both charming and irresistible.

Title: Seldom a Straight Line
Author: black_regalia
Series: Supernatural
Pairings/Characters: Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Warnings: Incest, references to sex
Word Count: 12,154
Spoilers: All of seasons 1 and 2.
Summary: Time passes and Sam's powers have an unexpected effect on the lives of both him and his brother.

***

I'm packing. My limit is 50 pounds. I'm currently at 70 lbs. OH GOD. Why do I own so much crap?

MY MOTHER: *eating ice cream* *amused* You're in quite the pickle, yes?

ME: LEAVE ME ALONE, CAN'T YOU SEE THAT I'M STRESSED?

MY MOTHER: *pokes through suitcase, dripping ice cream everywhere* Why do you need five red pairs of shoes?

ME: *weeps* THEY'RE DIFFERENT SHADES OF RED, DON'T JUDGE ME.

***

I've gone vegetarian. No, I don't know why, exactly. I must have caught it when I caught the gay.

The gay leaves you weak, you know. Next, I'll get a cold. You just watch.

sos

2007-08-17T00:40:13Z

My car is having trouble. I went to my parents house, now I'm stuck here. Oh GOD. I AM IN HELL. IN HELL.

headphonist @ 2007-08-13T19:18:00

2007-08-13T22:20:31Z

I am leaving for London in less than a month. Jesus.

I have long suspected I am a loose woman.

2007-08-07T02:40:37Z

When is the soonest you would sleep with someone? First date? Second? Wait until marriage?

Or are you like me, and don't like to waste time with dating - meet me in the bathroom in five.

Well now I just feel spammy.

2007-07-26T00:06:37Z

Morning #1
PG-13
Pairing: Julian/Nick
WC: 540
Disclaimer: All lies. And I don't know why I think Julian is secretly neurotic and kind of ditzy. If you like Julian to weep and cut himself, then this fic is not for you. I'm just having fun.

It should be universally acknowledged that morning afters suck.

So I never told ya'll how my fish died.

2007-07-23T21:33:26Z

This was worse than the time I had a tank of tetras commit mass suicide ala Waco, TX or the time I stoned my fish to death with a marble.

This was, ironically, the most peaceful way an animal has ever gone, which is maybe why I didn't notice it for a month.

As most old things do, Ed had slowed down with age, so much so that he liked to 'play dead'. (That's what I called it; my mom called it goddamn morbid.) I was/am/will always be a slightly spacey, neglectful sort of person and only noticed after I'd been feeding him for an ENTIRE MONTH that Ed was STILL playing dead. After he was buried by like, a pound of food and smelled funky.

I would like to say there were tears and wails of lamenting, but I could only feel a sort of relief that I wouldn't have to pretend not to be grossly neglectful as he glared angrily at me from his perch on my toilet. In retrospect, it was an unkind place to keep him. Possibly, it was like parking an old person next to a grave and cheerfully whispering 'SOON' in their ear with every meal.

hahahahahah.

2007-07-22T22:41:02Z

ho ho. I apparently write bandslash.

ALIVE! SHE'S ALIVE!

2007-07-04T23:00:55Z

But only barely.

I've been soooo sick for about three weeks and then I got myself a girlfriend, who I realized only later looked a lot like my mom when she was younger. Holy Oedipus Complex, Batman!

I cut my hair with a knife, dyed it bright blond, then red, then jet black again (that was the actual color on the box. snerk.)

Now it's longer, black and unwashed. As a matter of fact, I haven't washed it in about three days while I've been hiding out in my bedroom, very busily avoiding Life and my girlfriend's vagina.

I should start my own advice column, Y/N?

headphonist @ 2007-05-25T11:06:00

2007-05-25T14:10:24Z

If you're not watching whatiworetoday, you totally should be. 14 year olds wearing the exact same hipster clothes and tearing each other apart for not be "high fashion" enough? AWESOME.

headphonist @ 2007-04-15T18:21:00

2007-04-15T21:23:35Z

I got drunk and ended up lighting the wrong end of my cigarette and catching my hair on fire. omfg. *SOB*

Why is my life so hard.

Now I'm spending my Sunday lazing about the house and pretending to be a Super Secret Spy. I am a loser: Y/N?

headphonist @ 2007-04-08T08:13:00

2007-04-08T11:55:08Z

Happy Easter! I'm an alcoholic.

"I think you need to spend more time with your family," my therapist said.

"You realize that doesn't actually discourage me from drinking?" I said.

I plan to drag a friend to a gay AA meeting - but I'm not going to tell her first. ha. I am such a rebel.

Have some muzak.
Strict Machine by Goldfrapp
Wheels by Cake
Jerk it out the Caesars
Love Song by The Cure

headphonist @ 2007-03-19T20:58:00

2007-03-20T00:01:24Z

Christ almighty, I've been emo enough lately to make Weezer cry. I wanted to drop in, let ya'll know I'm reading about your [not so] interesting lives because I [kind of] love you/have nothing better to do.

So how's that for a 'fucking happy to see you'?

also - who has seen Hot Fuzz and wants to relate its excellence/smashing stupidity/both?

headphonist @ 2007-03-02T11:40:00

2007-03-02T15:41:54Z

Holy shit, I've sent in my application to the University of London. I'm going to throw up, I'm so nervous.

In case this doesn't pan out (I'm behind the date and don't have enough time or they just don't want my ass), WHO WANTS ME TO LIVE WITH THEM?

I'm prone to chain-smoking and drinking a lot, but I clean up after myself and I can cook if the ocassion calls for it. I do tend towards randomly making out with people, though. kenovay has seen this. I'm a bit like a cat - just leave me on my own or let me cuddle if I want to.

headphonist @ 2007-02-22T20:14:00

2007-02-23T00:16:54Z

Yesterday I met kenovay, who was demanding and tedious a lot, almost had the tattooed love child of a man named 'Psycho', nearly got into a car wreck, and got accosted by a napkin ninja.

Also, I set a restaurant table on fire and knocked over the roping at a movie theatre. Good times, my friends, good times. What have you (three) been up to?

[ETA: kenovay is actually the coolest person in the world, and I love her. And I should remember to log out of my LJ before letting other people on the computer.]

back in black (and white)!

2007-02-21T16:06:07Z

guess who, bitches?

headphonist @ 2007-02-12T22:05:00

2007-02-12T22:05:26Z

It goes like this (Barry Manilow's love song)
Dean/Sam
PG-13
WC: 969

Sam has a lot of thoughts about Dean, but only so much can be realized accompanied by Dean drunkenly singing Barry Manilow.

The first is: Dean drinks too much, and that's his only indulgence in an otherwise Spartan life, and Sam isn't enough of a dick to make a point of it. It never interferes with their work or even their relationship, since Dean usually slinks off to some or someone's bed to sleep it off and only shows up early in the mornings at their hotel room hungover, with bleary red eyes and cigarette smoke in his hair.

The second is: Sam prefers it this way.

They stop in a thrift store a mile out of the city limits, the sun in their eyes and hot on their necks. Just got back from Mexico and loaded up on silver bullets and cheap booze, both favourite forms of celebration for the brothers Winchester.

Seeing it in the back of the crappy store breaks just a little: Old record player, needle and all, dirty and mildewy and still good, but forgotten, just like the dusty road they've followed up this way.

"Get a few t-shirts," Dean grunts, "don't feel like doing laundry."

"I'm washing these before I wear 'em," Sam says, absently pawing through a bin of discarded shirts, while silently eyeing the record player tucked high on a shelf in the corner. How much would Dean kill him for buying it? Why do they still argue about laundry? His head throbs to remembered rock music somewhere in his right temple and he can't make his questions sound like much more than the refrain from an old AC/DC song.

He goes to the back of the store and swipes the player off the shelf. Up close, it looks great, better than great, fucking wonderful and he remembers having one of these in college, something Jessica bought him at a garage sale for $3 with a handful of classic records. He remembers listening to Etta James and Pink Floyd, lying stretched out on the bed next to Jess, her blonde hair fanned out like a halo that covered them both.

"Dude," Dean says, coming up behind him, and Sam braces himself for the inevitable; for Dean's comments about how they don't have the room, what a waste of money it is. Instead, Dean says only, "At least they don't have fuckin' emo rock on vinyl."

***

He picks up records wherever he can: garage sales, thrift stores, old music shops. And he takes a sort of sordid pleasure in once again cleaning up other people's messes. He's not avenging spirits or laying angry ghosts to rest, he's picking up these small, discarded pieces of their lives and giving them their worth back.

It's by complete accident that he ends up with Barry Manilow. Really.

He paid some $5 for an old Budweiser crate full of records, some great, some not so great, and one Manilow record with faded and fuzzed sleeve edges, but a record inside shiny enough to see himself in.

One night, while Dean's away letting off some steam in a bar, undoubtedly with a cheap blonde, Sam pulls the records out. Maybe, he thinks, it's sheer, dumb curiosity.

Maybe he's a secret masochist that secretly likes to be punished.
three or four tracks in - Mandy - that Sam realizes this shit isn't half bad. Not half good, but somewhere in between, somewhere he can relate to.

Without warning, the hotel door swings open and Sam thinks about how nice living was and how humiliating his funeral will be when people found out he didn't hear an intruder coming because he was busy listening to Barry Manilow.

He lets his hand relax around the handle of the knife when Dean stumbles through a few seconds later. Mandy is on repeat and Sam's so surprised at seeing Dean before morning, that he forgets to turn it off. Dear god, turn it off before he loses what little respect Dean has for him.

His hands are fumbling with the power cord - fuck - the on/off switch - when he realizes Dean's singing along, or else what passes for singing when Dean's hit the bottom of a bottle of tequila multiple times in one week.

It may be bad, but it's so shocking, something in Sam gives a little lurch.

Dean sits on his bed and tries to take off his shows with listless, clumsy fingers, all the while slurring softly to the song.

"Goddamn Barry Manilow," he hears Dean mutter, and has to silently agree.

Dean is drunk, and Sam prefers it that way, because he can look fully at Dean without worrying about making them both uncomfortable, without feeling like some kind of crazy pervert if his eyes rest too long on the soft/sharp planes of Dean's body as he jerkily undresses. He prefers it because he needs his space, his time with Dean, but without him. Alcohol smoothes his sharp edges and makes it easier for Sam to understand. Except now, when he's singing along to the best crappy song in the world and Sam feels turned on his ear yet again by someone that enjoys going 90 mph on a 55 road.

He doesn't know quite what to do with it or how to process it; he files it away for later examination when he has the time to take this moment out and twist it every which way like a Rubik's Cube, looking for clues to the right angle. For now, though, he soaks in Dean's presence like he can't ever get enough - and he can't - and that's worse than an army of Barry Manilows and Mandys all at once.

end.