The 35th Precinct

Day 21 of the government shutdown.

Paramount has shelved, probably permanently, all plans for a fourth Star Trek movie with the AOS cast. On the one hand, I'm bummed because I love the AOS cast, and because this means I will never again see Bones in that skintight wetsuit, dripping wet and chest heaving manfully. On the other, it also means I won't have to suffer through a time-travel storyline in which we are treated to two hours of Jim Kirk's tiresome Daddy issues and/or an encounter with Bones' ex-wife in which they snipe at each other in what is supposed to be biting, comical riposte, nor will I have to endure the horror of that arrogant, skeezy manchild, Quentin Tarantino, turning him into a profanity-spewing space racist just for the giddy shock value. If it has to go out, I'm glad it went out on the grace note and love letter to the original series that was Beyond.

Apparently, being a gimp still sucks ass in 2254. Seriously, all that awesome medical tech, and that's what they come up with? The design is utterly impractical. The armrests are flared out so far that it would be hard for him to push himself. The edges would chafe and cut into his arms. The wheel placement is too close to the chassis for that configuration. The footplate appears fixed, which means he'd have to step over it to get in or out. It's a fall hazard. And the push bar looks too low. There's no cushioning and no brakes. Hit a steep descent, and the oh-so-dignified admiral be fucked. Like a goddamn bottle rocket. Who designed this bucket, and was it done by subpar welders? It looks like something from Saw: Steampunk Edition.

Shame on you, lazy Star Trek prop designers.

Hi, Bones. God, he's so handsome. How is he not swimming in ladies or men? The best doctor in the galaxy, sweet nature, and smoking hot? I'd go medieval for a chance with that. Just slather me in blood and Crisco and call me Cripella, Warrior Limper. Nggggh.

One thousand four hundred and forty-seven words today.

98

One thousand two hundred and sixty-eight words today.



I'll gladly study your ass, Doctor. Just as soon as I finish with Kennex.

One thousand three hundred and twenty words today. Six thousand five hundred and eighty-seven words this week.

Roomie says my plotbunny hutch looks like this:



I cannot disagree.

If you're looking for a plotty, good fic, might I suggest Ghosts by Jaye-Voy? It's McCoy/Spock and heartbreakingly gorgeous.

One thousand and twenty-six words today, and here they are:


( Bones and Blighted Roses, Part IV )

I'm sure this will come in handy.

I need to get on the ficcing stick. I had the best of intentions yesterday but was sidetracked by a shiny Star Trek rec by whitemunin. I've never read Star Trek fic in my life, but the writing was so fabulous that I didn't care. Holography by Pat Foley is long and multi-volumed but worth the read for its detail, world-building, layered characterizations, and exploration of Vulcan culture. I'm thrilled to have followed the link from the fangirl_tour. However, after four hours of breathless reading, my eyeballs were throbbing like thwarted boners inside my skull, and my head was pounding. Damn myopia. So, I never wrote a word.

I'm waiting for the cable man to come collect my late payment. Actually, I've been waiting for a week. I'm $140 in arrears, and they usually bust a nut for any collection over $100, so I'm mystified by his tardiness. I bet he turns up on Monday, half an hour after Roomie has left to pay it in person at the billing office. I'll be alone--and most likely naked because I forego clothes unless I have guests--hunkered in the bathroom and waiting for him to leave, a fugitive in my own house.

Yes, I know it's my own fault for not paying on time. My payment history has been abysmal since they closed the payment center in the mall and left the only face-to-face payment center in the boonies on the outskirts of town. Prior to the closure, I was a golden customer with a perfect rating. Now I'm the schlep they'd cancel if they didn't want my money. I feel awful about it because I know it reflects poorly on me, and I've always been a people pleaser. but frankly, I don't feel safe making the trip to the payment office.

The bus has a good chance of being a rolling rattle-trap manned by a Gulag 19 trainee with hemorrhoids, and the lift has a good chance of malfunctioning and leaving eighty of us stranded around a blind curve. Even if the bus is styling and the driver is courteous, the stop is a clump of bushes through which Roomie must push me while I clutch the armrests in a white-knuckled grip, clench my ass cheeks, and pray that I don't hit a rut and catapult through the air and over skin-shredding gravel.

Still, if he doesn't turn up today, I'll have to bite the bullet and go on Monday morning.

~sigh~