31 August 2002: The Female Hannibal Lecter

Moly’s got his website up: poems, dreams, pictures, quotes, and... a brand new online journal! O happiness! The link to his homepage is already up on my Pack page. Don’t miss this chance to glimpse the workings of one of greatest and most colorful minds of the 21st Century! Moly’s journal might be a bit distressing to the math-phobic... but then, so might God, so you might as well get used to it.

Looks like my updates to this journal will be weekly at best for a while. I’m in for a busy Fall Semester. This semester, it’s all computer graphics, nothing else, so every moment of class time is spent in front of a monitor, working. Three hours Thursday night, then seven hours on Friday, then four hours Saturday morning. Plus homework. But that’s about to change, because I’m adding another class. On Fridays. Meaning ten hours of computer graphics work every Friday: 11 in the morning till 10 at night with two half-hour meal breaks. Why? Because I’m willing to work hard to get what I want. Because if I can’t handle that sort of pace, then I shouldn’t be considering a career in multimedia anyway. Because I can handle that sort of pace. Because I’m out of my mind. Because it will give me something to complain about, if I happen to feel like complaining (though that’s a habit I’m trying to give up... shows ingratitude toward God).

Nickykaa’s Law of Whiny Liars: Anyone who begins a statement with the words, "I hate to complain..." loves to complain, and is about to.

A dream:
I’m in the office of one of the characters from my novel-in-progress. I’m sitting at the desk. Spike, from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, is sitting on top of a black metal filing cabinet. "I don’t feel like I’m ever going to finish this book," I say, "so why should I bother writing at all?" "Because," Spike says, "it makes you other-than-dead." (N.B.: there was an episode of Buffy in which Spike said this about blood.)

Another dream:
I’ve been recruited into a new, very liberal and progressive Department of Justice program. Inspired by the system of placing troubled juveniles into stable foster homes, some branch of the Department of Justice is selecting a number of convicts to be released into the custody of private citizens whom they feel would be "good influences." The citizens in question are not given a choice on the matter. The government has an extensive database with information on every citizen, and participants in the program are selected at random from those who fit a certain profile of "good citizenship." Because I work with children, the system identifies me as a good citizen and potential good influence. So with no warning at all, a couple of federal agents show up at my door and release a supervillain into my custody. The supervillain is a slim, pixyish woman in her early twenties, extremely cute. She gives me a series of adorable flirtatious smiles as the federal agents brief me on her, using phrases like "criminally insane," "hideously mutilated bodies of her victims," "most dangerous woman alive," and "the female Hannibal Lecter." They then explain that I am now entirely responsible for her, and that I am required to keep her in my house, feed her, spend as much time as possible with her in the hopes that I will be a good influence, conduct regular full-body searches to ensure that she is not concealing any homemade weapons, and handcuff her to my bed at night. While I’m taking this all in, the supervillain (whose name I still don’t know) cheerfully asks me if she can go inside now. One of the agents tells her to go ahead, and she dashes past me excitedly, with the air of a child let loose in a new playground. I try to explain to the agents that having this girl handcuffed to my bed every night could make things awkward for me and my girlfriend. "Girlfriend?" one of the agents says, "Out of the question. The prisoner has obviously already formed a strong attachment to you. If you speak to other women, she’ll be devastated; it’s likely to spark one of her violent episodes. It was her obsessive jealousy that turned her to crime in the first place. Show a little compassion, for God’s sake." The agents turn and walk away. I go into the house, in a bit of a daze. The supervillian leans out of the bathroom. She’s now wearing only a towel, and using my toothbrush. "I’ll join you in bed in a moment, honey," she says. She seems to be very happy.