Tuesday at a Space Port Bar

Okay, so three people walk into a bar and recognize the bartender. “Here, I know you!”, says one of them. “You’re this joke! I’m your biggest fan!” This Joke is humbled and mumbles something about how nice it is to meet fans and then regales the three people with stories from when This Joke waited tables at the Last Supper because that’s how old it is.

So I’m filling in the blank… but in a different way.

Tuesday night, according to the chronometer; no point in trying to determine night or day in the endless dark of space through which the Kennedy Space Port twirled around New California in geostationary orbit.

Kennedy Verhoeven, who had heard absolutely every joke concerning both her first name and her work place, was tending the bar, wearing a pair of hologram glasses that made her look like Harra Lawrence in Gone Days because when she had woken up for work that day she had found herself disenchanted with both her wardrobe and her face. Not that anyone would have thought she actually was Harra Lawrence, because acclaimed 4D movie stars wouldn’t be caught dead mixing drinks in a third rate space port bar. Kennedy was also not exactly ecstatic about the prospect of sharing the shift with Jessa, who was a nice enough girl and an okay waitress but who had the annoying habit of relating boring pieces of celebrity gossip every time she returned to the bar for orders, as if she had to bargain for her customer’s drinks offering Cynthia Zottegem’s pregnancy rumours in exchange.

The crowd was normal sized for a weekday, two or three early drunks, a couple Earth soldiers breaking curfew (which meant that at any minute now a higher-up from the army might come barging in to verbally cut them back down to size, and Kennedy had already readied her microcam to record it for her blog), a few business people, haggard-looking, waiting for their next flight to be ready for boarding, the rest station workers come in for after work drinks that somehow always got prolonged. There were a couple shady figures floating around or seated in the corners, but that was to be expected.

Three newcomers approached the bar, two guys and a girl, none of them could be even in their mid-twenties yet. So much for tips, she thought as she sauntered over.

“Well, that didn’t work,” she overheard one of the guys say. Then the other one piped up.

“Hey, Harra Lawrence! What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?”

“Say please, for once,” Kennedy shot back.

“Shut up, Drew, Christ, can’t take you anywhere,” the other guy said, evidently the older one of the two. “What’ll twenty credits buy us?”

“Andalusian beer,” Kennedy said and meant it.

“Andalusia on Earth or Andalusia the moon?”


“Damn. Guess it’ll have to do. Two Andalusian beers, please.”

The young man named Drew meanwhile was busy harassing the girl they had come in with, who was busy checking something on her computer screen. “C’mon, Marnie, you can’t let us drink alone. What’ll you have? D’you have any money left?”, he added hopefully.

“Go away, Drew, busy,” the young woman said, typing something.

“This guy bothering you?”, Kennedy asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, since birth. His birth that is.” She slipped her computer inside her coat pocket and tapped the bar twice for the drinks menu to light up. “Art, Drew, you guys get a table or something, I’ll be a while.”

Kennedy brought their beers, received no tip, and watched them disappear to a table near the stairs. “What’ll it be?”, she asked the girl, idly giving the bar a quick sweep and wondering why the young brunette was hanging out with two idiots like that.

The girl, Marnie, looked around quickly, then back to the menu as if indecisive. “I got a hundred.” She slipped a credit chip out of her pocket.

“Coma’s not on the menu.”

“Is enlightenment?”

Kennedy started polishing a glass as if she wasn’t even talking to the other woman. “Maybe. What d’you want?”

“Know anyone in here interested in some merchandise? Tax-free, y’know.”

Kennedy glanced to the side. “Leather jacket at the other end of the bar.”

“What’s their drink? Can you send them one from me?”

Under the dish towel Kennedy rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in the international sign for ‘motivate me’.

“Christ. Twenty.”



“Done,” Kennedy said, pocketing the credit chips.

Kennedy knew the drinker with the leather jacket, came in here most nights, nursed her gin for an hour at least, tipped regularly if not exactly generously, but you didn’t work in a bar like this without picking up on some things. She put a fresh glass of gin in front of leather jacketed arms. “Greetings from the brunette,” she said briefly, cocking her head in Marnie’s direction.

Leather Jacket looked at the bartender, then at the girl at at far side of the bar, with a face so nondescript and common it might have been the result of hologram glasses because this level of average could just not be real. “I’m a married woman,” she said, sounding just the slightest bit sarcastic.

“Not that kinda drink,” Kennedy whispered before walking away to the shelves and pretending to be busy with the order screen. She could hear Marnie move over to Leather Jacket and some snippets of quiet conversation between the two business women. She decided that this had probably been the highlight of her shift and it wasn’t even halfway through.

Business was picking up at the bar. A shuttle arrived outside, bringing in a dozen or so passengers waiting for their connection flight, followed by a throng of late-shifters from the docks. Jessa barely managed to get a sentence in about Ron Fischer’s new hair cut which even holo glasses couldn’t fix.

Kennedy spent a good ten minutes trying to divine the order of an attaché to the Andalusian ambassador, but they managed, communicating mainly through the use of gesture, two arms on one side of the bar and five on the other. Jessa chimed in with news about Esla Chang and her plans to adopt all the poodles on Mars according to The Star, a newspaper which wasn’t what anyone with a functioning brain would call a reliable source and which Jessa read religiously.

The crowd thinned again with the next ship announcement. It left in its wake a the regular scattering of people. A small man in a suit was leaning against the bar on one elbow and started to snore; the army boys were still at their table and disappointingly no one came to rouse them and drag them back to their barracks ship; a woman with a briefcase and black tie was drinking like the world was going to end without showing any sign of the effects of alcohol.

“You sure you want another?”, Kennedy asked cautiously.

“Yeah, one for every idiot I had to meet today,” Black Tie said, sounding so sober it was scary.

“Riiight.” Kennedy delivered the drink and fled to the other end of the bar where Jessa nattered on about the many love affairs of New Punk idol Jimmy Phan. Kennedy nodded absently; that just wasn’t right, being sober after six whiskeys. Did this woman have the implant or something?

At this point, Marnie’s brothers came trudging back to the bar and joined the girl; Leather Jacket had apparently left. “… that’s how you do it, you idiots. I swear, if we didn’t share genetics…” Kennedy heard her say, with the tone of someone who knew all too well that they were the one who inherited the family’s supply of brains.

The chronometer chimed to let Kennedy and Jessa know to get their tails out of the place and clock out because the boss would rather get bitten by an Andalusian than pay overtime. Parvati, Jo, and Luke arrived on time to take over and after some polite small talk Kennedy was out on the halls, pursued by Jessa.

“What says we drive into town tomorrow?”, she twittered cheerfully. “Do a real girls’ day! Brunch and all.”

“Sure,” Kennedy said, knowing she would regret it, while planning out her next Confessions from the Space Port blog entry in her head. “Your sister coming, too?”

“I’ll message her. Y’know, you should really upload Yvette Coa on your glasses, she’d suit you.”

“Uh-huh.” Maybe a good way to spend some of her new hundred-and-fifty.


Manic Monday, Freewrite Monday

So it’s Monday and it’s also a public holiday which means I’m here, stuck at home, feeling bludgeoned by all the things that need doing. When I grew up free days where for doing all the things that you didn’t get around to during the week. I’m still in this habit, and then I’m surprised when I don’t feel relaxed and rested even after a long weekend because I feel like I did nothing in particular anyway; I was just at home, staying in, working on half a million projects. But it’s not like I have a choice, I mean, I still have two presentations to prepare, and each has me less than enthusiastic, but I complained about that on Friday already.

This morning I sent out my application for a postgraduate programme for library science, which is a relatively new thing in my country which is why they only take like 40 people each year. Yes, 40 people. Apparently no one needs librarians. And this programme targets people who already are librarians. Wish I had known what I wanted to be at 14, then I could have just taken on an apprenticeship, but who the hell knows what they want to do for the rest of their life at 14? Our job system is so old it’s not even funny. Like, it’s from a time when people died at 50 and just did the same job their parents or other relatives did.

I think this whole idea of having one job your entire life is just not feasible anymore. People of my generation have a life expectancy of 85 and a shaky prospect of receiving any sort of pension. Most companies don’t even last 85 years long anymore.

I sent the application with my eyes closed. I always do that with important mail, close my eyes and hit sent, like I’m hitting the big red button on a cartoon bomb, only it feels like dropping an h-bomb on my life.

My mind is so frazzled this week I wrote down my to-do lists on three different mediums because I’m scared of forgetting absolutely everything. It’s probably to do with the migraine. Really scared of early onset alzheimer’s though. Being forgetful and disorganised just shouldn’t happen at my age. Not without the help of alcohol, at least.

Maybe it’s because it’s a public holiday and Boyfriend has been home all weekend. And today. And will be tomorrow. Which means I don’t get to be alone as much as I’d like. Which is bad, because too much social interaction does horrible things to my easily overwhelmed brain. My brain is like a toddler, it needs quiet time or it goes crazy.

Also, social interaction. I should be more social, so I don’t go another kind of crazy, but no one wants to be social with me. At the moment, it’s easier to get a doctor’s appointment settled than a meet-up with any of my friends. One just up and left the country for a few weeks. Another is always busy, then when we finally schedule something cancels at the last minute. None of them use any form of social media (and yes, they’re my age), so staying in touch is actually only possible via text. Why do I always have to text y’all bitches anyway if you won’t text back, anyway?

Blergh. Mondays are hard and depressing. Who invented those things anyway?

Also, there’s construction work going on at my building and I have to navigate in a sort of zig-zag pattern just to get to my front door. This is annoying.

Okay, twenty minutes are up and back to work I go.

My right mouse button seems to be broken. This is also annoying.

Brevity Is the Soul Of Wit, or Keep It Simple, Stupid

And now over to the Grad Student with the writing101 news.

Thank you, Jim. Today’s assignment has to be brief, which will prove a real struggle for Ol’ Bigmouth here. Can she do it in a hundred words or less? Let’s find out.


I had a feeling I should have left it there, tucked between an old volume of the Brockhaus Encyclopaedia and a worn copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey, a gleaming white rectangle between the battered brown paper of the used book shop. I pulled it out anyway, thinking maybe someone had lost it, I should know better by now. There was a bright yellow post-it attached to the envelope: “If you’re reading this, it means you have to do it all over again. xoxo, you.” I felt the future cave in around myself as I turned and caught sight of the sky outside through the dusty window. Suddenly I knew what I had meant.


Okay, I tried aiming at exactly a hundred words, it turned into a bit more. Points for trying, though?

A Room With A View – The Ducks Are Back

If I was born a thousand years later I could be anywhere right now. Drawing my initials in the red sands of Mars. Navigating through the stratosphere of a planet caped in swirling white mist. Visiting a replica of an old Earth city on a distant moon in another solar system.

As it is I’m stuck on Earth but at least the ducks are back.

All my windows face towards the backyard. The backyard is long but narrow, about ten metres broad and stretching the entire length of the old apartment building. Green grass sprouting every which way dotted with yellow flowers, mowed every two months after the winter period at exactly six in the morning, framed by tall bushes, branch tips crowned with early spring green, edging along the chain link fence. There are exactly twelve trees, four of them conifers of some sort in a row, aligned between shrubs and fence. There used to be another one, small and spindly, standing on the left side of the four conifers, it was cut down last November. Two wooden benches dark as tree bark stand opposite each other on the mud spot in the middle of the yard, a spot were grass just doesn’t seem to grow. There is a bright orange waste bin next to one, and a trail leading up to the mud spot, there used to be another entrance. No one ever comes into the backyard, not for twenty years, the only entrance left, a big dark green gate just around the corner, is now kept locked.

On the other side of the fence another backyard, another house. A new house, squat, modern, expensive. White, very white, the balcony railings are sheets of grey metal. A community room on the ground level with access to the community garden. This backyard is well-kept, the grass literally greener, turf laid not two years ago, there are more benches, tables, everything new and unweathered. On fine days there are always people down there. The buildings are so close it creates an echo effect; whatever is happening in the other yard, ruckus of children, intoxicated young people, old men having a laugh, the entire house can hear it, both houses in fact.

There are always birds in the old yard, blackbirds and thrushes flitting about, pigeons trying to build their nests on semi-abandoned balconies; few people use the balconies for anything else but storage, never just for sitting, especially not since the new house was built. Mine houses the bicycles, still hibernating underneath military green tarpaulins. In January, the ducks came for the first time. Always two ducks, a male and a female, always sitting the the same spot before the shrubs shielding the conifers, I wonder if they are going to breed here. The female is very large, her plumage ten shades of brown, making her stand out among the green. She picks herself a spot close to the bush, almost underneath it. The male, slightly smaller, his dark green head glistening in the sun, sits three metres away, as if the two of them had had words, then gradually inches closer. They’re only there in the morning, they leave around noon, probably migrating over to the river, a duck’s version of a lunch date.

It is a small comfort to know that wherever I could be in the future, right now this is the only planet in the known galaxy that has ducks.

When Aurra Met Molly

I can’t believe that today’s daily prompt is basically asking me to write crossover fanfiction. But, well, I’m not complaining. So… whoooo shall it be? Beorn from the Hobbit and Tom Bombadil from Lord of the Rings out for tea? The Phantom of the Opera getting a good verbal smacking by Mary Poppins? Groot and Chewbacca waiting for Han and Rocket to get back from the donut shop? Dr. Susan Calvin trying to get through to Marvin the Paranoid Android? Arthur Dent getting stuck on the Tardis with the Tenth Doctor and Donna Noble? No, wait, that’s TV, not a movie…

Oh, I think I got it… Aurra Sing from Star Wars (or her comic book series, whichever), meet Molly from Neuromancer!


The Mos Eisley cantina was probably the worst in the entire galaxy, and the band was playing “The Sands of Tatooine” for the third time in a row. Slouching on a barstool Aurra Sing peered into her empty glass and for the first time experienced a definite downside of her half-alien metabolism: She was by far not drunk enough for any of this.

It had been a miserable week, job-wise.

“Just say when”, the barkeeper said as he refilled her glass.

Why did she always end up working with idiots? Wouldn’t have happened if Zam hadn’t decided to ditch her for that weird Mandalorian. The last Aurra had heard of her was a month ago; Zam had sent her a holopic of the guy’s ass. Not that it wasn’t a nice ass or something, and he sure was a good hunter, but are you sure about this, Zam, don’t you wanna maybe take it slow with this one, why do you wanna move in with him anyway, like I mean, you barely know him?

And then that Cad Bane character, saying he’d call her and then never did, what was up with that?

The glass was on the brink of overflowing. “Um… ain’t you gonna say when?”

Maybe the entire universe was populated by idiots, maybe that was the problem.

“Just leave the bottle here, will ya?”

The barkeeper met her eye, surrendered the Corellian whiskey and retreated down the bar to a safe distance.

And returned almost instantly to put a cometduster in front of the newcomer next to her, before he hurried away again.

Aurra eyed the newcomer for a second. Slightly built human female, wrapped from the neck down in black leather, dark hair cut in a rough shaggy fashion, wearing something that to an unsuspecting eye looked like mirrored sunglasses. Probably a freelancer like herself.

The bounter hunter’s attention returned to her drink, her unusually long fingers curled around the entire breadth of bottle. By now it was half empty and she didn’t even feel half drunk yet. It was going to be a long, miserable evening.

She felt the other woman looking at her for a moment, but when she turned her head she was staring fixedly into her cometduster.

Aurra thought of ordering another bottle, just in case, when she heard the stranger say, “Nice biocomputer.”

She looked over. “Nice vision enhancers.”


Nar Shaddaa?”

Black market, Chiba City.”

Wherever the hell that is.”

Both women returned to their drinks for a moment.

Got anything else?”, the bounty hunter asked because she was getting bored with her lack of drunkenness.

Wanna see a magic trick?”

If you try to pull a credit chip out of my ear I’ll fucking kill you,” Aurra said matter-of-factly.

Nah.” The black haired woman held out one pale hand, palm up. With a slight clicking sound five double-edged razorblades slid from beneath her very red nails. “And there’s always this.” Her black leather jacket fluttered for an instant to reveal a kind of handgun that the bounty hunter’s trained eye recognised as something that could do a lot of damage.



Well… I got these”, indicating dual-triggered blaster pistols, best model on the market. “And then there’s this thing”, she said pointing to the Czerka slugthrower rifle that was leaning innocently against the bar. Aurra seemed to remember the lightsaber dangling on her hip. “Oh, yeah, and that. But this one’s for special occasions.”

The other woman nodded approvingly.

Got a name?”

Molly Millions.”

Aurra Sing. Looking for work, Molly Millions?”

Got any, Aurra Sing?”

Nope. Know where to look, though.” She drained the Corellian whiskey and threw the empty bottle into the general crowd. Somewhere someone gave a growl of pain. “Wanna get out of here?”


Aurra wasn’t absolutely convinced just yet, but this already felt like the beginning of a beautiful friendship.



I think I’m just going to let this lie around for two weeks and then turn it into a big epic fanfic. Did you know I once started a series of sketches that had Aurra Sing, Zam Wesell and Asajj Ventress being room-mates? Maybe I should continue with that.

On Spoilers (contains spoilers for EVERYTHING)

And if I say everything, I mean everything, so if you are a sissy-panty sensitive soul and want to read or watch anything again ever, do not read this post.

Actually, make that a general rule about my posts, because I’m sick of being considerate of sissy-panty sensitive souls.

I’m probably painting a great big target on my chest with this post, but whatever. Go be sensitive somewhere else.

So I live with a man who’s allergic to spoilers. Like, having half a meltdown if he accidentally stumbles across something. Like, doing the Luke No when he saw the other players’ companions in SWTOR and he did not know that was going to happen and how was he going to play his class now that he knew what was going to happen, no, it’s not true, that’s impossible, nooooo! (Spoiler: Luke No is superior to Vader No. Oh yes, I went there, eat that, prequel lovers.)

So the moment he likes something, be it book, movie, or show, I immediately google EVERYTHING about it for future blackmailing reference while twirling my moustache like the evil supervillain that I am (spoiler: Bilbo survives. OMG, I know, right? (Head Dwarf In Charge does not, by the way. Nor do his nephews, and it was done in the most stupid and unnecessary way possible, I mean the book was just much better.)). It actually works. All I have to do to get my way is saying “Do [insert]/don’t do [insert], or I’ll tell you the end of [thing]”. I mean, it results in a wailing cry of “How can you do that, you’re so mean”, but it gets the job done.

Boyfriend is getting on my nerves something fierce about the whole Hobbit situation. He still hasn’t read the book and every little mention of it triggers an outcry of absolute whiny agony. I mean, it’s a 300 page children’s book from 1937 and I’ve read it a good five times since I was a kid. Like, what innovative never-before-seen thing do you think is going to happen in a 300 page children’s book? Spoiler: The Elven Mary Sue is not actually in it. Neither is the stupid albino orc who is not actually an orc. Bolg is in it, and he’s a goblin. And originally he does not get beaten by Head Dwarf but by Beorn who by the way does not get dropped by eagles like an aircraft bomb, and also he carries Thorin’s half-dead body and Fili and Kili’s full dead bodies from the battlefield. Also, they fucked up the message that the greed for riches will destroy you in the end. But no one here cares about the book but me, right? Typical.

Also also, if something has existed for longer than you have, spoilers do not apply. That’s like your parents making a “No, I am your father” joke and you’re all like “Oh my god, dad, spoilers!” Lame, dude. That joke was funnier before you existed anyway.

You could say, in the undying words of Spider Jerusalem, that I don’t give two tugs of a dead dog’s cock about “spoilers”. If I somehow stumble across a Random Plot Point before I know it there will be a one second of “OMG, really, that happens?” before a fifty second onslaught of “How? Why? By whom? With whom? What’s the reaction? What happens next? Must read! Must see! Must. Google!”

Because in my opinion, if you can no longer like a piece of media because you know Insert Random Plot Point, if you only enjoy X thing for that microscopically short burst of adrenaline which by this point is probably the only thing in your miserable existence that actually makes you feel alive… you don’t deserve it. You do not deserve it. Tell me, can you even watch a movie twice, read a book for the second time? There is more to stories than just the ending! There is so much more to every single item of media. There is so much to enjoy and you are missing all of it because you focus on irrelevant things.

It doesn’t even deserve the name. Something is not spoiled just because you know something about it.

Okay, maybe it’s because I’m poor and I research the entire plot of everything before I can decide if it is worth spending money on, but knowing the outline does not prevent me from enjoying the Random Media Thing. If I know the story that doesn’t mean I know all the details. I know the What, I don’t know the How, and let’s face it, the How is way more interesting. If I do know the details, I focus on something else, something I didn’t pay attention to the first time around, for example (with a movie) cinematography, directing, sets, horrible acting, play a round of can-I-make-out-the-green-screen. For books, I love to read through them again and again to see if the author was dropping hints that eventually led to Random Plot Point that I overlooked. To see if things happening in the beginning or the middle make more sense now that I know what’s happening. And I can do all that if I know from the very beginning what is going to happen!

And, okay, maybe it’s also because I’ve read too much in my life and watched way too much TV, or maybe everything today is so damned formulaic it makes me want to scream, or maybe I’m some kind of fucking wizard, but most of the time… I already know what’s happening. Sometimes I can tell you what’s going to happen in a film just by looking at the poster, or what a book is about by looking at the cover image (the old saying of not judging a book by its cover does not apply in the age of focus groups and market research). Few things surprise me. And if they do surprise me, that lasts for all of two seconds before I want details.

Maybe it’s because I busted my ass getting an English degree (and I’m still busting) and nobody,  absolutely no one was interested whether you finished your reading list or not; books were discussed in class whether you had read them or not. If you’d walked up to any prof with a complaint about “SPOILERS!!!” you’d be laughed out of the room. Or encouraged to change your major to something more appropriate for your sensitive needs, like, dunno, accounting. Business or economics, maybe (“X stock is on the rise!” – “OMG, boss, spoilers!” – “…the fuck?”)

And maaaaybeeee because of my degree I pay more attention to the HOW and WHY of a media than the WHAT. Because the WHAT is limited. Everything has been done to death already and twists can be seen coming a mile away. So you can only look at HOW and WHY things are done, how those tired old stories are told, how they are renewed and used in a different way, how tropes are used, how well-known points are twisted etc., etc. Fun enough for me!

Basically, I think people are being much too sensitive on the topic of spoilers. So you know who dies, who gives a fuck? So you know who is the bad guy, or makes out with whom, or who is related to whom. You don’t know how that happened, or what consequences there will be as result of that particular thing happening. You don’t know how other characters will react once they know what you know. You don’t know how, if at all, this will affect the plot. You know practically nothing, what are you so upset about?

I know it’s kind of a starving-children-in-Africa argument, but please, for the love of any deity you care for, get a real problem. And if one of you decides to get cute and try to spoiler stuff I like, well, to that I say, bring it on! Come at me, sibling thing!

And the spoilers-for-everything in the title? Yeah, spoiler: I lied. That’s the great thing about spoilers. You never know whether or not I’m telling you the truth until you read it the fuck yourself anyway. It’s like Russian roulette with facts. Doesn’t that tickle your sense of adventure?

No? Well, you’re one boring-ass hobbit!

All My Friends Are Dead and It’s Only Wednesday

Daily Prompt Time!

Many of us had imaginary friends as young children. If your imaginary friend grew up alongside you, what would his/her/its life be like today? (Didn’t have one? write about a non-imaginary friend you haven’t seen since childhood.)

Still dead.

Because my childhood imaginary friend – the one I remember, at least – was a ghost boy.

I have no idea why.

Maybe my mother let me watch too much Casper the Friendly Ghost when I was young. Maybe I was just a seriously weird kid because according to Mom I had a whole entourage of imaginary friends. I just remember Ghost Boy, though.

I don’t remember much because I was like three or four years old. He was called Casimir. Now that I think of it, I guess he did look a lot like Casper. Small wonder I’m so much into fanfiction, I was basically a self-insert OC before I even learned to write. Apparently he was my scapegoat for everything. Whatever mischief I got into, it was aaalways somehow Casimir’s fault. Like, either it was “It was him what did it!” or he had somehow encouraged me to do something I wasn’t supposed to do. It was ingenious, really, because of course Mom couldn’t go punish a ghost, that would be plain ridiculous. Four-year-olds can be strangely logical sometimes.

And also of course, that didn’t help a bit and we both got a good telling-off because Mom adhered to the principle of “Two can play that game, motherfucker”. If you have an overly imaginary kid on your hands, you have to be overly imaginary yourself. Whatever, totally worth it.

I have this theory that imaginary friends are just aspects of our too rapidly growing identity when we’re children. We change so fast, we can’t understand it, so we give it a tangible form, something familiar, something to talk to and understand. That’s just what humans do, as soon as our survival is taken care of, we try to understand everything. Ourselves. Life. The universe. What the fuck is wrong with the toaster. Humans are all about understanding shit. So in a way imaginary friends never really leave. They just go back where they came from, into your head, probably improved. Random personality aspect 2.0.

Or maybe kids really can see ghosts, ghouls, time travellers and aliens, and we’re all screwed.

So if Casimir had grown up with me I guess he would either be an annoying presence telling me to stop procrastinating and get the fuck to work, or he’d be the reason I procrastinate so much. Could go both ways, really. Can ghosts even grow up? Either way… it was him, not me! I didn’t do a thing! I wasn’t even in the country! (Thanks, bro, you’re cool.)


Truth serum comes in a little glass vial. – A little glass vial? – A little glass vial!

I had an eventful day yesterday.

I barely managed to complete the Blogging101 assignment of adding a simple widget, that was the kind of day I had.

Not a bad day, just so exhausting I fell asleep on the subway while standing. It was a day where I had so much to do and so many places to be. Everything suddenly has to be done TODAY, so much new stuff comes around that needs doing, and then there’s the stuff you’re supposed to do anyway. I call those days rush days. (You’ll notice that I have a name for any kind of day.)

Also, I’m a lazy sack o’ something.

Anyway, I don’t follow many blogs yet, mostly because I every time I go online I go into full on autopilot and bookmark everything but prove too stupid to press a simple ‘Follow’ button. I’m a dingus. And now I have to go through my bookmarks and catch up on pressing correct buttons.

I also have to answer to a very simple question from the daily prompt: You’ve come into possession of one vial of truth serum. Who would you give it to (with the person’s consent, of course) — and what questions would you ask?

Aaaand just like that, we’ve created ourselves a world of problems, because immediately I have like 652 questions

So prompts aren’t necessarily to be taken as serious questions but I waaaant to take it seriously because it’s really interesting because actually you can’t learn anything from this supposed truth serum.

Okay, first of, how do I even know this shit works? Was it tested? How? On whom? By whom? How big were the test and control groups? Where can I find the published and peer-reviewed results? For how long does it work? Will there be some sort of drug interaction with other meds? Does it cause allergic reactions? Is it vegan, because I know people who would make more of a stink about that than potential anaphylactic shock. What if it doesn’t even work and I don’t know about it? What if the person doesn’t give me their consent and I still want them to spill some delicious wordy tea? What if they don’t know the answer, will their head explode? I can’t even get around to answer the original question if I don’t know the specifics!

And as always, when I have so many questions, I like to imagine little scenarios.

Version 1: This serum actually works. I give it to someone, after asking them, of course.

What’s going to happen: Nothing, because if they wanted to keep anything secret from me they would have refused the serum outright. So this was a nice little exercise in complete futility.

Version 2: The serum doesn’t work.

What’s going to happen: I’ll never know and now I’m just left to believe every single word ever coming out of this person’s mouth.

Version 3: This serum actually works. I give it to someone without asking them.

What’s going to happen: Okay, I’m not actually supposed to do that, but I’m just going to mix it into someone’s vodka. Their drink being vodka, though, they’re probably already telling me more than I ever wanted to know (ever. Ever!), and I’ll never know if the truth serum had any effect.

Version 4: The serum doesn’t work. I give it to someone without asking them.

What’s going to happen: And since I don’t know whether or not the stuff works, I’m just left to believe every single word ever coming out of this person’s mouth. Even if they’re shady as fuck.

Version 5: I want to give someone the serum, but they refuse.

What’s going to happen: I will be suspicious as all hell and think they’ll have something to hide. Chances are they have, and what kind of idiot would take a truth serum if they have something to hide?

Version 5.1.: They take the serum anyway, I’ll never know if it works or not, so this was pretty useless.

So the hell with truth serums. Whatever happened to just buying people a couple rounds of drinks and pretending to be an empathetic and understanding person who they can tell everything? And if we want to get all secret agent-y about it, what happened to faking sexual interest, then slipping the guy a tranq and rifling through all his papers and computers while he’s unconscious?

If you really want to get all philosophical and metaphorical and bullshit, ask yourself what it says about YOU that you want to give someone a motherfucking truth serum. What are you, a control freak or something? Get help.

Bottom line, fuck truth serums. If you want to know something, just stalk people on facebook like a normal person.

Unless you’re a secret agent. I mean, what with today’s job market and all, I’m not judging….

P.S.: Bet you can’t guess what the post title is a reference to, ha ha!