Romany (romanyg) wrote,
Romany
romanyg

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nothin' just plain nothin'

I just got back from dropping the girls off at preschool. Probably had errands to run, but I had to get back to the house to play with my wanky new toy. Fun, but it'll probably be full of sound and fury signifying nothing. I'll probably end up ranting about my life. Because, hey. It's. All. About. Me. World events? Community of friends? Contributing to the greater understanding? Pfffft. I'd like that since I'm not a complete sociopath. But I'm not so good with people. Don't play well with others. Heck, I still bite. Yes, I'm two. Or as the person in this house who really is two likes to say...I'm two and a HALF! :::holds up three fingers:::

I've been lurking on LJ for awhile. I'm the kid in the playground who unobtrusively hangs out by the fence trying to figure out the whole social dynamic. Sees the others jostling for the slide or the swings, who takes turns, who pushes to the front of the line, who has the best jump-rope rhymes. After I vent here, I'll probably go approach a few. Hands behind my back, one toe sliding through the tanbark. "Can I be your friend?" "Can I play with you?" Pathetic. But gotta try.

Delurked and signed up, because something about eliade 's post last night ticked me off. I read her LJ every day. Look forward to it. Find it enticing, thought provoking. Geez, she can write the pants off anybody in the room! Memoir, fiction, random thoughts...doesn't matter. Almost hurts me to read her. Makes me feel small, insignificant. I imagine her as this big power source, compelling, gorgeous, enthralling...And then she writes about going to IHOP, running into an old coworker, feeling embarrassed by the way she looks, going to seed...Just. No. Stop. It. Shut. Up. She doesn't go on and on about it, but still. Grrrr! Can't stand it when powerful women shoot themselves. :::wrestles her to the ground. shock on her face. "Who the eff are you?" Jostles gun of self-denigration out of her hands. I stand triumphant, gun in my hand, "Mine. Go." Aim straight at right big toe, safety back, shoots self::: Don't worry. It'll grow back. Always does.

Oookayy...onto random thoughts. I'm a poster child for OCD. Right now, it's all about BTVS and AtS. And, of course, how It Applies To Me (it's still about me, in case you forgot).

I keep thinking how Angel got off easy with Connor. Ludicrous, how in TVLand the hard part of parenting is by-passed with boarding school or alternate dimensions. Happens in soaps all the time. Go from infancy to adolescence in one brief shining moment. Maybe it has something to do with child labor laws. But kids grow up on sit-coms all the time. They're funny, cute, say the darnedest things, smile for the camera. Awwww... But what, there's no dramatic tension in childhood or parenthood? Gotta be. Analyst couches are full of childhood trauma. So where is it on my TV?

I would have loved to have seen Angel, game-faced, on his hands and knees, scrubbing crayon murals off the Hyperion walls. Muttering between his fangs, "I'm gonna kill the little bastard..." He'd pause for a minute, awe-struck by the random genius in a crayon stroke. Huh. Mutter again and keep on scrubbing. Cordelia would walk by, "Just paint over it, doofus. Oh, unless this is penance or something?"

Or perhaps a five-year old Connor would crawl into bed with Angel at 4 a.m. Angel, surly from keeping human hours, doesn't sleep well. "What! Don't you have your own bed?" Connor's face would crumple and whimper, "Daddy..." Angel would melt, relent, vampire arm extended, "Okay...just this once." Later, a sleeping Connor would be spread-eagle on the bed, possessing at least three-quarters of it. The huge form of Angel curled to one side, wide awake, would stare at his boy. He would have to concentrate on the discomfort, bite his lip, dig his nails into himself, something. He would have to. Because shock and love and fear would be wrestling with the demon bubbling to the surface. Because if he relaxed, gave in to the moment, it would be perfect, wouldn't it? Ssshhhh. Mustn't wake the boy, mustn't wake him. God, he's beautiful...

And now Angel's at W&H...What more perfect hold could they have on him than Connor? Without all the trans-dimensional plot warping, Connor would be two or three by now. Angel would be in the executive office, engaging the Beast from Within, all the while knowing that Connor's down in Demonic Day Care. Singing his ABC's. In Fyarl.

Oh well...not on my TV. Connor is conviently Gone. Someone posted (don't know who and I'm lazy so I'm not going to look it up. Sue me.) that Spike may be Angel's second chance at fatherhood. But in my universe they're groiny (hey, vampires, kinky), at least they were, may be again (I wish. In my dreams. It's the WB not HBO. Face it, girl, ain't gonna happen). They do have a skewed power dynamic and the boy on boy thing, not a problem for me, heck, kinda like it. But father/son and groiny? A la langue de Sunnydale: Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwww! Not my thing. Maybe someone would be kind enough to point my way to some good Angel/Connor fan-fic? You know, what might have been?

That's all for now. Settling in, unpacking. Maybe I'll go explore here and see if someone wants to play.
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