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Worthwhile
Aug. 30th, 2010 09:20 amAw, Erinna says nice things and Leo makes me giggle. Aw! You guys! You make almost a year's worth of intense self-loathing (I got diagnosed as a high suicide risk by my doctor at one point in there! woo! But don't be worried, it's okay, I'm back down to regular old crazy now) feel like it was worth it in the end. Because I came out of it with something that means something to someone.
I genuinely keep thinking about that Malibu Stacey episode of the Simpsons, where Lisa's like "if we get through to just that one little girl, it'll all have been worth it" and Stacey LaVelle is like "especially if the kid happens to pay forty-seven thousand dollars for that doll". I feel like both Lisa and Stacey right now! Half of me feels like "you made something that people care about -- people you knew before you made this, and people you met through this, and people you'll never know at all -- and that is all that matters, that this made them feel things".
And then the Stacey part of me is like "especially if those feelings were in some way a quantifiable thing which you could then show to all the people who think you're a pathetic failure". I don't even mean haters! I mean people who like or love me, but consider me a useless flake. Which is a fairly accurate description, but you know.
Tagging and hashtagging with variations on 'blood latte' is one of the most weirdly adorable things I've seen in relation to the books. Another is this piece of character-casting.
I want to say thank-you again to everyone who hasn't defriended me over these books, too. I'm sorry I've written about them so much. I promise I'll shut up soon and just let it fucking go.
--
In other news I am about two-thirds of the way through Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins (SPOIL ME AND DIE) and oh fuck, these fucking books, you guys, these fucking books.
If you haven't heard of the Hunger Games series before, put it this way: they are to Nineteen Eighty-four as Rent is to La bohème. And if Mimi Márquez doesn't make it out of Room 101 I am going to basically never recover ever.
I genuinely keep thinking about that Malibu Stacey episode of the Simpsons, where Lisa's like "if we get through to just that one little girl, it'll all have been worth it" and Stacey LaVelle is like "especially if the kid happens to pay forty-seven thousand dollars for that doll". I feel like both Lisa and Stacey right now! Half of me feels like "you made something that people care about -- people you knew before you made this, and people you met through this, and people you'll never know at all -- and that is all that matters, that this made them feel things".
And then the Stacey part of me is like "especially if those feelings were in some way a quantifiable thing which you could then show to all the people who think you're a pathetic failure". I don't even mean haters! I mean people who like or love me, but consider me a useless flake. Which is a fairly accurate description, but you know.
Tagging and hashtagging with variations on 'blood latte' is one of the most weirdly adorable things I've seen in relation to the books. Another is this piece of character-casting.
I want to say thank-you again to everyone who hasn't defriended me over these books, too. I'm sorry I've written about them so much. I promise I'll shut up soon and just let it fucking go.
--
In other news I am about two-thirds of the way through Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins (SPOIL ME AND DIE) and oh fuck, these fucking books, you guys, these fucking books.
If you haven't heard of the Hunger Games series before, put it this way: they are to Nineteen Eighty-four as Rent is to La bohème. And if Mimi Márquez doesn't make it out of Room 101 I am going to basically never recover ever.