I've decided to grab a few extra credits this summer by taking Psychology 101 at the community college. It's a long drive and kind of a drag, but the subject's interesting, and honestly, how can you possibly get sick of talking about nymphomaniacs?

To be perfectly frank, I expected a few dim bulbs. It's a 101 class, right? I mean, yeah, I've facepalmed like seventeen times in the first day ("Wait, who's Freud?" "As long as they don't experiment on cute animals, then I think it's ethical"), but I'm beginning to take my classmates in stride.

Well, I was, anyway.

Then came today.

(Please note, I have not embellished, created, or bullshitted any part of the following conversation. This actually happened.)

Me: *zipping my laptop into its case at the end of class*

Girl Wearing Enough Makeup For A Small Whorehouse: "Oh my gosh, your necklace is so pretty!"

Me: "Oh, thanks."

Girl Wearing Enough Makeup For A Small Whorehouse: "Can I see it?" *reaches for the necklace*

Me: "Sure, I guess."

Girl Wearing Enough Makeup For A Small Whorehouse: *turns it this way and that* "Ooo, I love it." *stops and looks up at me* "So you're Jewish, right?"

Me: "..."



I was wearing this.





The irony. It hurts.


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I baked cupcakes.

From scratch.

And I'm still in once piece.

After the Great Carbonara Debacle of '09, that's as much as I could have hoped for.

Behold!



I'm, uh, in my pajamas. Don't judge.





'Kay, so these may look like an old (bizarrely patriotic) gypsy beggar dropped them on my doorstep, but they're fabulous. They taste wicked good, and I wish I could share them all with everybody.



Once again. No excuse.


So yeah. I just made the best cupcakes ever. Happy 233rd birthday, America!


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Happy Fourth of July, everybody!





This evening I shall drive to the Indian reservation, buy fireworks, and then head out to the desert with my friends to have my own little display. That is how this holiday should be celebrated: with lawbreaking and pyrotechnics.

I'm also making cupcakes. For, uh, for America's birthday.

I fear I'm becoming That Fan.


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According to my horde of Italian aunts, I will "never find a nice boy" if I don't know how to make a solid pasta carbonara. The fact that I'm not really into eggs (or boys, for that matter) is, apparently, not a problem. So this evening, I got a chance to practice on the aforementioned dish.

With time, and perhaps some therapy, I may be able to forget all this ever happened.

First, I set a pan of bacon on fire. When I tried to move the smoldering scraps to the counter, a bold attempt to salvage both the meal and my cooking cred, our Great Dane ate them.

Strike one.

Then came the egg hunt. I dragged myself out to the yard, armed myself with a broomstick, and fought my way into my sister's chicken coop. Injuries sustained: one peck in the knee by Steve McQueen, three eggs broken over the front of my shirt, and half a shoelace swallowed by Thoreau, one of our ducks.

I now smell like a barnyard.

Strike two.

As I made my escape from that avian hell, I managed to sidestep the huge ocotillo directly outside the coop--only to stumble headfirst into a unfurled length of chicken wire. I look like I was mauled by a wolverine.

Strike three.

Also, the carbonara ended up sucking.


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Title: "Strike Midnight"
Author:pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: New Year's Eve, 1941: a confrontation that's been seven years coming, cigarettes, and a routine champagne run that manages to be anything but.


This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.


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( America pelted out the front door of their hotel...and tried to remember where to find the nearest liquor store )


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Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting.

Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.

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Michael Jackson is dead.

I was never a huge fan, but that man was a cultural icon. And I've danced to "Thriller" alone in my room more times than I care to admit. His kids are so young, too...I really hope they've got someone to look out for them during such a hard time.


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Title: "Scarecrow"
Author: wizzard890
Rating: R
Summary: September, 1941: Russia fights the Battle of Kiev somewhere out of the rain, and reflects on a knife in the back.


This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.


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( A soldier darted into the alleyway, froze for a moment. )


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Another small preamble to the picspam: I couldn't believe how damn green this place was. I mean, even if I wasn't from the desert, the English countryside still would have floored me. But as it is, fields of wildflowers are a far cry from saguaros.





( Moar picspam? )


Gorgeous, yeah?


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Note to self: do not under any circumstances, fall asleep while floating around the pool on your little raft. Seriously.

Yeah. This may be the worst sunburn I've ever had in my life. There's heat radiating off my skin, and I'm currently lying in bed with ice packs all over my stomach and chest like a freaking radiation victim. Once it heals, a bout of new freckles is sure to be forthcoming...Almost makes it all worth it, in a way.

Remember, kids, sunscreen is your friend. Especially in the southwest.

Ow.


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Okay. I'm going to try not to blather too much in this post. I've got a zillion pictures here, so let's let them speak for themselves, yeah? I spent about a month in a hostel in England, in a little town called Liss. It's about forty miles out of London, so the trip into the city was pretty easy (if a bit expensive).

Have a teaser photo of Confused!Em at a train station in the morning on her way to London. Freaking trains. I feel like I've been proven to be rather unintelligent by my inability to figure out England's transportation system.





( Some Moar? )


Stay tuned for Part 2. There will be glorious English countryside. Cross my heart.


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Title: Ash
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: August 1936: Stalin begins the Great Purge, revolutionaries are condemned, and Russia tries to cope.


This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.


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( He'd taken his seat that evening with seven cigarettes tucked securely in the breast pocket of his uniform. )


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Reviews are greatly appreciated!


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You know what sucks?

No?

Well, I'll tell you.

What sucks is spending a zillion freaking years in the Houston airport yesterday, only to get home and be informed that your uncle has been having a string of affairs over the past ten years, told his wife in a screaming argument in front of your cousins, and was summarily written out of The Will (yes, it merits the capital letters) by your grandfather.

It's all very Italian.

So, guess who has to fly her ass back out to Texas? Yup. I don't really have to, per se, but I feel I've got a responsibility to be there for my cousins. My computer and I are shacking up in some Holiday Inn until this whole thing smoothes over.

Fuck. I hate this so much.


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A cab. 

A train. (Well, a train and a half, but that's a long story.)

A ten-hour flight.

A five-hour layover in freaking Houston.

An overcrowded flight to Phoenix during which the guy next to me probably asked me to join him in a drink fifteen times. 

An overcrowded flight to Phoenix during which I repeated the phrase "I'm underage" more than a girl should ever have to.

But after all these trials and tribulations (and looking like hell)--

I'M BACK, BABY!

Internet cafe.

Tottenham Court Road, London.

I've just paid a pound for an hour and am feeling rather thrifty.

Was up until two last night writing Hetalia femmeslash. So, yeah. My time here is not being ill-spent.

Abbey Road later, and St. Paul's after that.

I fucking love this place.



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Title: The New Guard
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Characters: Russia, Lenin, Stalin.
Summary: 1924-1933. Lenin dies, and Stalin rises.

Warning: This chapter includes violence involving a real historical figure.

( Read it behind the cut. )

This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.

Title: Love Is Not All
Author: wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Russia/America
Summary: 1922: Despite the cessation of diplomatic contact, American aid pours into Russia in his time of need. America camps out at Russia's house to take care of him, and to those of you who stopped reading the instant you saw the rating: the answer to your question is yes, they do.

Hi all! wizzard890 is still on vacation, but like the Red Menace, TCE marches on! I'll be posting one of our stockpiled fics every 4-5 days while she's away. This one goes on her journal, so the distribution of joint posts remains equitable while she's away. -PyrrhicComedy

( This wasn't like the last time Russia went hungry. )

This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.

Adios, everybody! The day (or the day before, technically) has arrived, and my brother and I are off for England tomorrow morning at 6 AM. My bag weighs nearly as much as I do, so let's hope we don't have far to walk to the train station once I get there.

There will be fic updates in my absence, but that is a direct result of the benevolence of pyrrhiccomedy. She will be babysitting my journal, making sure it eats right, goes to bed on time, the whole nine yards.

I'll miss you, and I'll see you in a month (hopefully with lots of pictures)!

♥♥♥


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Title: Interregnum
Author: pyrrhiccomedy and wizzard890
Rating: PG
Summary: "These new guys--they're kinda, uh, they're kinda weird, about how much they'd like to 'spread the revolution.' That's, like…that's not the kind of thing the rest of us like to hear, you know? We don't need any revolutions, thanks." (The American embassy in Moscow closes its doors, and Russia comes to say goodbye.)



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( America pulled his things down from the shelves of the Moscow embassy and tried not to hate himself for it. )


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Reviews are greatly appreciated!


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Title: "Permission and Promises"
Author: wizzard890
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "What you think doesn't matter anymore...You’re nothing, now. Just a symbol of an oppressive, decaying empire. The people have voiced their opinion: they don't need you." (November, 1917. A battleship turns its guns on the Winter Palace, Russia calls on the Romanovs, and America sends a telegram.)


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( He'd expected surrender )


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Reviews are greatly appreciated!


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I'm not much for video games. They were utterly discouraged in my house when I was growing up, and now that I'm living on my own, I'd rather read a book. Still, I can't help but feel that if I'd played Tetris when I was Skinny, Freckled, Little!Emily, this entire day would have gone a bit more smoothly.

For today is moving day, and I've just spent the past six hours packing up all the shit in my dorm. I was making damn good time, actually...until I turned to my closet.

Now, I have the exact same amount of clothing today as I did when I came up here. The only misguided purchase I made this year was a plunging-neckline top that I'd planned to wear for my friend's bachelorette party. Unfortunately, it had been designed for a girl with a rather more, um, willowy figure than I myself possess. Long story short, I looked like a barmaid. It was bad.

Anyway, other than that, my wardrobe has remained in stasis, awaiting the day I have a steady income again. So I don't understand how it doesn't FIT. Same box, same clothes...Ugh. Putting stuff in giant things of Tupperware shouldn't be this headache-inducing.


To-Do List. Of Awesome.

Real Life

-Finish packing before 6:30 this evening.

-Try to scrub the lyrics to Tangled Up In Blue off your mirror. The college will charge you.

-Go on a Ben & Jerry's run. Oh ho ho yes.

-Sell back books, cross fingers, hope they don't shank you like last time. Because I really fucking wanted to keep the collected works of Anna Swir.

-Fangirl over LOST at 8:00 sharp.


Concerning England

-Figure out what the weather is like, and dress hotly accordingly.

-Tell the bank I'll be traveling abroad.

-Buy a large, spiral-bound notebook for the purpose of recording sudden inspiration. And, um, fic.


Fandom

-You know the Bolsheviks and shit? Yeah. That.

-William Blake + England.

-Shameless Israel/Babylon femmeslash. Aaannd, I only just noticed that they're both OCs...Goddammit. Cameos from legit characters will be forthcoming.

-Birthday present for the greatness that is pyrrhiccomedy.

-Also, try to prepare for the withdrawal symptoms that will arise upon my being deprived of the Internet for a month.


All right, no more procrastinating. *goes back to pondering the impossibility that is her dorm closet*


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