All Amped Up and Nowhere to Go

I watched episodes 9-12 of X-Files S2 today. "Firewalker" and "Excelsis Dei" were excellent and "Aubrey" was good, but "Red Museum" was dumb. You would think that after her extraterrestrial experience, Scully would be more amenable to the supernatural and unexplained, but not so. She's as hard-headed as ever, and I wanted to slap her repeatedly in "Excelsis Dei".

I'm banging merrily away on Through a Glass Darkly, Come Ye Home Again. Danny Messer has proven quite voluble and startlingly observant, if foul-mouthed. Young!Flack is still reticent, but I have resolved to use the gonadal clamps if need be and get him to tell me what he so desperately wants to say.

Damn, I wish I had more to say, but I am in a paradoxical quandary. I want to chat with people, to interact with my shiny new fandom and my nostalgic one, but for all my fic ideas, which come in an unmanageable deluge, I can find no conversational gambits or thoughtful ruminations to record. I am not one to wear my disability like a fashionable coat and have no interest in subjecting my flist to countless sorrowful screeds about the isolation and abject otherness of living with congenital defects. My fiction speaks for me, and they may say that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but it is also true that the wheel that squeaks the loudest for the longest gets replaced.

So I want to talk, but my words are all empty.