…(which is coming later, I promise. I have knitting to brag up), I present you this.

So, I’m about 50 pages from the end of Anne McCaffrey‘s Crystal Singer. I wonder if the Paranoid Old Bitch understands that she actually needs to write out the entirety of the conversations and stories going on in her fucking Bouncy House of a brainpan for us to really understand the story. I swear to FUCK, it’s like watching Shatner‘s Kirk performances, what with all the jumping around and shitty dialogue (and as much as I love The Shat now, I can’t watch TOS because of his performances).

And also? Why the hell do I do this to myself? Yeah, I like brain candy, for the most part, and I promised myself that one day I’d read this book, but good Christ, I know that she can’t write.

Anyone have any other suggestions of Shitty Writers To Stay Away From?

You know, I had this big long rant and explanation in regards to the puritanical, negative view of non-hetero-normative diad relationships among the gay community (“One man for me for the REST OF MY LIFE!”, as if it’s 1952 and we’re all Disney princesses. Or June Cleaver.), but really, it’s not worth it. People will be who they are and will follow along with what they want to do, regardless of how they really feel. And I have much more important directions to guide my energy than to deal with that. If someone comes into my life , if a hundred someones come into my life, who can deal with the fact that I have Leon first, well then I guess that’ll get dealt with at the time. I’m just really tired of having to explain to people who “want strings” that the possibility of strings is there.