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Below are the 9 most recent journal entries recorded in The Story Quickly's LiveJournal:

Thursday, January 12th, 2006
10:19 pm
From the mouth of God (aka Joss Whedon):

“Buffy loves Angel. He loves her. And I love Ho Hos.”

“The two things that matter the most to me: emotional resonance and rocket launchers. Party of Five, a brilliant show, and often made me cry uncontrollably, suffered ultimately from a lack of rocket launchers.”

“I love to write. I love it. I mean there's nothin in the world I like better, and that includes sex, probably because I'm so very bad at it.”

Not from Joss, though nice just the same:

“Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket--safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” CS Lewis

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it oepns up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.” Neil Gaiman

“’The stars were shining.’ Never again will this happiness return just this way.” Roland Barthes

Current Mood: contemplative
Monday, January 2nd, 2006
10:03 am
“I remain suspended on this question, whose answer I tirelessly seek in the other’s face: What am I worth?” ~Roland Barthes

"It's an awful truth that suffering can deepen us, give a greater luster to our colors, a richer resonance to our words. That is, if it doesn't destroy us, if it doesn't burn away the optimism and the spirit, the capacity for visions, and the respect for simple yet indispensable things." ~The Vampire Lestat

"It was haunted. But real hauntings have nothing to do with ghosts finally; they have to do with the menace of memory..." ~same
Sunday, January 1st, 2006
5:56 pm
And the Ass Saw the Angel
A perilous dirt road winds about the region's eastern extremity. At the turn of the century this twisted trail had earned a certain infamy, due to the unexplained disappearance of some twenty-odd travellers who had sought to cross the range in quest of the promised prosperity that lay for the taking in the East.

Investigation into the disappearance of the Black Range travellers (the 'Morton' was added to the name officially in 1902), led to the discovery and subsequent disposal of one Toad Morton, or as the press-gang tagged him, Black Morton.

A low-minded, wart-worried giant, Toad had been driven from the Morton clan by his own kin after they had found the family hog dead in its pen, covered in flies and human teeth marks -- its back leg had been bitten clean off. Finding Toad covered in pig-shit and sucking a trotter, they had chased him out of the Morton's valley to roam the gullies and gulches of the out-hills, a sore Goliath shunned by his own blood, without friend or companion save the league of demons that rubbed and itched amongst the crags and sunless cracks of his bad, mad and unholy brain.

Crouched in ambush on that tricky eastern road, Toad plucked at his pleasure lone-riders befitting his own infernal usage. Found in a small stone cave bitten from the roadside, stitchless save for his great outsized boots and a plague of flies, fat on the human scrappage of dinners long past, Toad squatted in the slitted stomach of a warm child, eating loudly the face of her hapless, headless father, who sat a good foot off the ground impaled up the ass on a pointed post.

Looking up at the search-party silhouetted in the glare at the mouth of the cave, the great lonely oversized Toad said, gesturing at the carnage, 'Brothers, ah am found! You have come to bring me home! Pull up thy stool!' Then a hot tear broke upon each cheek and he smiled warmly up at them, his green teeth filed to wicked points.

The search-party had ridden up from Salem led by Deputy Sheriff Cogburne. Deputy Sheriff Cogburne shot Toad Morton like a dog on the spot.

On the road running the eastern extremity of Black Morton Range is a large stone slab upon which is written in white paint:

O world-weery Pilgryms, unburden they lode
Nowither a Doome mor horrid I know
Than that wich awaits Thee down bluddy roade
Prey! Bewar ol Black Morton. The murdress Toad!
Saturday, December 17th, 2005
3:48 pm
tis the season for spectacle, par excellence!
"The spectacle obliterates the boundaries between self and world by
crushing the self besieged by the presence-absence of the world and it
obliterates the boundaries between true and false by driving all lived
truth below the real presence of fraud ensured by the organization of
appearance. One who passively accepts his alien daily fate is thus pushed
toward a madness that reacts in an illusory way to this fate by resorting
to magical techniques. The acceptance and consumption of commodities are
at the heart of this pseudo-response to a communication without response.
The need to imitate which is felt by the consumer is precisely the
infantile need conditioned by all the aspects of his fundamental
dispossession. In the terms applied by Gabel to a completely different
pathological level, "the abnormal need for representation here compensates
for a tortuous feeling of being on the margin of existence."

-Guy Debord

Current Mood: cheerful
Saturday, December 10th, 2005
3:00 pm
"Coward," she said again. "Little being with little dreams."
"Maybe there would be no war and no rape and no violence," I said, "if all beings were little and had little dreams, as you put it."
~ Queen of the Damned, Anne Rice

"How can that be?" she wondered. "I suppose I could understand it if men had simply forgotten unicorn or if they had changed so that they hated all unicorns now and tried to kill them when they saw them. But not to see them at all, to look at them and see something else- what do they look like to one another, then? What do trees look like to them, or houses, or real horses, or their own children?"
~The Last Unicorn, Peter Beagle
11:49 am
El Hombre Invisible
"The people in power will not disappear voluntarily, giving flowers to the cops just isn't going to work. This thinking is fostered by the establishment; they like nothing better than love and nonviolence. The only way I like to see cops given flowers is in a flower pot from a high window."--William S. Burroughs

7:45 am
16th century erotic poetry
"Whoever has a small cazzo and dares
To fottere in the potta deserves icy enemas."

Friday, December 9th, 2005
12:18 pm
12:54 am
First Entry!
"Always the innocents are the first victims." ~Harry Potter
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