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(Or, How My Roommate Tortures Me)
Lori and I don't always agree on good fanfic. We don't share all the same fandoms, so styles and authors will differ, as will favored pairings. We'll rec, and agree and agree to disagree. It's an easy harmony
Bad fanfic, though. Oh my.
Our approaches differ. I'll stop reading mid-paragraph, hurl myself away from badfic and fight down the instinct to, well, hurl. She will wile away the little stretches of free time at work (somewhat diminished of late in the torent that is mortgage financing these days) by searching out authors she knows are crap, and reading or re-reading their epic monstrosities to confirm that yes, they are crap... and then.
Oh horrors, gentle reader! Oh, if I could but spare you the details. (However, I had them inflicted on me, I'm sharing the wealth. Shut up.)
She tells me about them. In detail. About how poor, fragile, helpless, delicate, petite Harper/Blair/RayK is gathered in the manly, broad, tender, muscled arms of Tyr/Dylan/Jim/Fraser and fucked helpless over a table, impregnated, sold as a slave, captured by wild, animalistic, heathen pirates/rival tribesmen/freakish criminals and tortured, folded, spindled and mutilated before being restored to his one Twue Wuv. Or some such another tale.
Meanwhile, I am twitching helplessly with every blatant mutilation of character and bewailing sheer scientific incompetence and ignorance of simple fact. My only mercy, the only glimmer of light in this dark cavern of horrid prose, is that I am spared the trial, hanging and decompostion of the English language.
Oh, the trials of roommates.
Lori and I don't always agree on good fanfic. We don't share all the same fandoms, so styles and authors will differ, as will favored pairings. We'll rec, and agree and agree to disagree. It's an easy harmony
Bad fanfic, though. Oh my.
Our approaches differ. I'll stop reading mid-paragraph, hurl myself away from badfic and fight down the instinct to, well, hurl. She will wile away the little stretches of free time at work (somewhat diminished of late in the torent that is mortgage financing these days) by searching out authors she knows are crap, and reading or re-reading their epic monstrosities to confirm that yes, they are crap... and then.
Oh horrors, gentle reader! Oh, if I could but spare you the details. (However, I had them inflicted on me, I'm sharing the wealth. Shut up.)
She tells me about them. In detail. About how poor, fragile, helpless, delicate, petite Harper/Blair/RayK is gathered in the manly, broad, tender, muscled arms of Tyr/Dylan/Jim/Fraser and fucked helpless over a table, impregnated, sold as a slave, captured by wild, animalistic, heathen pirates/rival tribesmen/freakish criminals and tortured, folded, spindled and mutilated before being restored to his one Twue Wuv. Or some such another tale.
Meanwhile, I am twitching helplessly with every blatant mutilation of character and bewailing sheer scientific incompetence and ignorance of simple fact. My only mercy, the only glimmer of light in this dark cavern of horrid prose, is that I am spared the trial, hanging and decompostion of the English language.
Oh, the trials of roommates.
