I don't have any pretty pictures for it, but here goes anyway.

This journal is friends-locked. Anything that's interesting here is over on my IJ. There will be no updates. Go away.

Look, I may be an English major, not a business major, but I'm pretty damn sure that hiding a major site change in the FAQ and then getting snippy when people call you on it is NOT good business sense and is even worse customer relations.

I've been less and less satisfied with the way the rapidly changing ownership of LiveJournal has been handling itself- after the last major fracas, I let the payments lapse and established an IJ. This time… I'm not deleting this one- at least not yet- but I won't be posting to it anymore.

The Game Notes of Doom will always be posted at Rebkell's, and I'm working on cross-posting them to a new site at Blogspot. Fiction will go to the IJ, same username, which I just made perm there- sales were previously suspended, but the admin is raising funds for a pet shelter that had a fire, so it seemed like a good time to do it. Also, I'm going to be updating the Realm a little more often than I have been (including very soon- hint, after class of '08's eligibility officially runs out), considering that the last time I posted to the site was over a year ago (my timing mechanism has turned out to suck ass). Anything else… well, that's what AIM's for, isn't it? Telling people stuff about yourself? Like conversation?

Don't get me wrong, I love my LiveJournal. I've had it for more than five years now and I like the clean, simple format. I've met some great people through it. But I don't trust the people running it anymore, and that's at the heart of the matter. Because you know what? IJ's not as pretty and like Elle-Jay, you gotta ante up not to see ads, so that's not what my departure is about at all. It's a matter of comfort, and I finally noticed the pea under the mattress.

And… well, don't get me wrong; as I've mentioned, I've met some great people through LiveJournal I never would have known otherwise. But the people who originally brought me here have fallen out of cyberspace. Emi, Rob, Bianca, Meg-the-writer… things aren't quite the same. I haven't felt like I'm providing anything people want to read, so maybe it doesn't matter if I don't post. (Hey, if you want to prove me wrong, I've got the IJ. ;))

It's been real, LiveJournal, and you were awesome for a while. Peace.

Everyone has things they blog about. Everyone has things they don't blog about. Challenge me out of my comfort zone by telling me something I don't blog about, but you'd like to hear about, and I'll write a post about it. Ask for anything: latest movie watched, last book read, political leanings, thoughts on yaoi, favorite type of underwear, graphic techniques, etc. Repost in your own journal so that we can all learn more about each other.

I'm posting this public, but I reserve the right to f-lock it if questioning veers into territory I don't want to be seen.

If bored at the laundromat and getting ready to use the Notes feature on your iPod to re-read fic, especially fic that can be described as "um, big oafy accidental lesbian necrophilia", try not to do so at the exact moment your parents walk by. (I didn't get caught, but it was a close thing. At least I was only into the second paragraph, and not into my poor not-yet-undead POV character's realization.) I swear, the universe wants my parents to know what I write, a feeling that is obviously not shared by either me or my parents.

Huh. Reminds me I gotta get to sorting my filing system. I've gotten sloppy, and now I can't always find fics when I want them.

{edited: I didn't catch the typo until after the metaquoting. Shame, shame. Bad English major. No cookie.}

Okay, so I was on my way home from class today, headphones on- and I mean headPHONES, not little tiny earbuds you can't see, big honking black headphones that make me look like a DJ- and at the railroad overpass, some lady comes up to me jabbering in a foreign language. I assume Russian, because she looked Eastern European and the language didn't sound very familiar. Older woman, fake red hair, generally unremarkable features. I figure she's looking for the Social Security office on the next block, or she's trying to get me to believe in God and/or a psychic, whatever. Off come the headphones and I ask her to repeat herself.

Next thing I know, she's smiling at me and talking and her hand is on my right breast. OMGWTF HELL NO. I ran like hell, brandishing my Village Voice and screaming "NO TOUCHING!"

So apparently I now not only have to worry about the Latino guys at the supermarket who ogle me when I pass, and the Indian guy at my local altar of St. Deborah the Diminutive Patron of Snack Foods, and the general worry about pervy old men, but also pervy old women. Look, just because I was previously curled up with the sex columns of the Village Voice does not mean I am a freak who is just longing for random old women to grope me, on so many levels.