‘Twisted As All Fuckery’ is the Way It’s Labelled In My Head

Posted on 01/12/2011 by


So I have a program on the laptop that allows me to put sticky notes all over my desktop. I use them for all kinds of things, but there’s one in the bottom left corner that is just temporary storage for notes. I type stuff in there when I’m half asleep and I can’t be bothered figuring out where it goes; when I have an idea for a story while I’m in the middle of something else; when someone says something funny that I don’t want to forget. And then, generally, I empty it out the next morning, put everything where it’s supposed to be in the book or my to do list or whatever.

The thing is, it’s just a tiny square in the corner of my screen, and sometimes a few days go past before I go to empty it. Days when I haven’t been sleeping, or the writing has been driving me crazy or I’ve been elsewhere in my head. And I go in there and it turns out there’s like 4000 words of text illustrating where my brain has been the last couple of days.

So today I thought I’d show a little snapshot of what it looks inside my head. (I chose a part that was relatively spoiler free, but that shows all three worlds that I’m in right now). The red parts are what are or might be Wizards, the blue parts are direct quotations from real people and the green is Path. The parts in black are everything else. Other stories I haven’t mentioned, snippets that I might use for something later, and things that just appeared out of the swampy recesses of my brain without notice.


Their relationship is… well, twisted as all fuckery is the way it’s labelled in my head.

I like the way they stare at us. Like we’re fascinating, but also kind of appalling. Like an earthquake or a tornado.

“I am not staying here to put up with these puns.”
“It’s not a pun! It’s a bilingual word… thing.”
“Yeah. A bilingual pun…”
“It’s a lot better than my usual puns.”
“I agree. I mean, I didn’t groan and bang my head into something.”

“What do you mean? I’m not the one who started talking about 17th century german poets and then wandered off in the middle of the conversation.”
“I think you’ll find you started ignoring me and then dropped me on the floor first.”
“Oh, well, yes, if you want to be that way away about it.”

“He was hurt… we were in trouble. I guess I just came here on instinct. Was that wrong?”
“That could never be wrong.”

“Onwards to glory. It’s my battlecry. What do you say when you charge into battle?” Off their blank look, “Sometimes I say ‘battlesquee’ but Rick says that’s less intimidating.”

 Ich werde Charles zu töten

“Kitty is a problem. I don’t know what to get her. She’s a hole in the middle of my list.”
“Magnetic accelerator cannon.”
“I don’t think she wants one of those.”

 “Sing it, sister.”
“Did you seriously just call me ‘sister’? And you were still expecting me to kiss you later on?”
“Fine. Sing it… sweetheart?”
Sweetheart?” she snickered.
“Fine! I’m not the word person, what would you have said?”
“I would have said: Show me what a talented mouth you have, hellspawn.
“Oh. Well, yes. That.”
“Okay, then.”

But that’s different because Steve is  But he doesn’t finish that thought because Alex pushed himself away from the fridge glowering and all of a sudden he’s facing down six foot of angry teenager thinking What did I do? for once, rather justifiably.

“Are you going to fire up the machine?”
“No. Not awake enough. Instant first. That will wake up enough of my brain to make the real coffee.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“That’s what you love about me.”
“Well, yes. But that’s not the point.”
“What’s the point?”
“Logic, reason, sanity.”
“You disapprove of all three of those.”

“Do we really need cheese? We already have cheese.”
“That much cheese could disappear in a single nacho-making incident!”


Every time Asmodean gets drunk he should starting using the big words again. Except the one time he doesn’t. Because it’s a little bit on purpose, and a little bit not. And when it’s important, when it’s really, really important that he gets his message across… then the simplest words are the only ones he can use.

Because he always, always find him. And A doesn’t want to think about how he does it, or why, or where he goes. He just wants to curl his hands in his collar and bury his face in that juncture between neck and shoulder and breathe in the here-ness of him.

 No. I just tell you to roll over repeatedly cause it’s funny. Which, you know, it is. But also

 I hate my insides. I hate them with passion and loathing and mild disgust.

This is all in medias res…

The trick is taking the pills at just the right point as the pain’s starting to come back so they kick in before it gets all the way back to bad, dulling all the edges off the pain and lulling the brain into a false sense of everything’s gonna be okay. Just for a little while longer. Just until there’s another way of dealing with this. Or until the pain goes away. Because it’s gong to. One day it won’t be there anymore. Or at least that’s what they tell him. And he believes them. He does, he does. Cause what else can he do?

Well I could say, I am bleeding internally because an elephant kicked me in the guts and it wouldn’t entirely be a lie…

“Sometimes I feel like the last three months were just a fever dream.”
“How do you know they weren’t?”

“The wrapping has to be just so, so it says I love you even though you scandalise me slightly, and this is just to say… where does this go?
“You can not get wrapping paper to say that.”
“I can.”

And we wined, dined and irked about 120 different people. It was awesome.

And he got as far as “James,” before he caved. Because Hank was good like that.

Wow, darling, have I never wanted to be you.


So this just to illustrate that I really am a crazy person. But I don’t think that’s taking any of us by surprise.