Miracles Happened in the Last Bunny-Ages

Oh yeah, I'm aware that it has been bunny-ages since I've written last, which is so totally unusual from me. Me, the grand, adorable, sweet ol' me, who write more than any other human in the history of... history. Well, maybe I would be surpassed in each count by the delicious, magnificent, one of the kind, Light of Mankind, Karl Marx, but lets leave my crazy fangirling for the greatest minds of the World for some other day. Now, should I summarize my Miracles of the Last Days or something? Not much to tell, save a lot of things that might not be a good idea to dribble on the net, or which I may do... in my Hungarian Blog. Yeah, sorry fellas, I'm just that much of a bitch. But hey! A woman like me, lively and adorable, can't take many risks, right? Besides you know me well, you drop me a line and I'll sit down with you and tell you all the goodies, up close and personal. It's just like I said to a friend of mine the other day: "Honey, I need to do with you something long, hard, deeply penetrating and it's not sex". Yeah, I think my friend wasn't very appreciative, but the long, hard, deep talk we had was so satisfying it made me hate the fact that I've asthma for I longed and craved and yearned for a cig so freaking much I could have killed.

Kill for a cig. Hn. Would you kill for a cig? I think I would, specially if that cig comes with newly fixed, perfect lungs, I can fuck up again.Cigarettes, along with booze are some of those few things that justify the existence of mankind for me. Yeah, I know, spoke like a true addict. Sue me.

A friend of mine, whom I love dearly and deeply, and to whom my heart goes everytime, told me in the past days that things with his current chick are going less than fine. I had never been very convinced about this lady, mainly because I've always sensed her, as little as I've treated her, as supremely artificial. Her gestures and poses have always been more theatrical than real, and that I've always found deeply annoying. It is my personal opinion that people who make a theatre out of their own lives and rehearse every one of their words and mannerisms, those who take poses they've copied from somewhere else, lean upon what they practice and not upon what comes natural to them are people who simply doesn't worth one's time. Those are insipid, empty people, people so unvaluable they themselves realize it so and therefore try to create or borrow value from other sources.

This particular madam put up a show for my friend since day one. The title, from what I gather was "The Pure and Suffering Maiden of The Poor". Red Shoes like, she danced her way across her rehearsed script, tale-telling her ending, anouncing it in the best or worst García Márquez style, in a sad, key missing bolero, which has been slowly reaching its devastating end. Moody turns, poses to pull herself up to the Sacred, Poor Victim of yet another failed relationship that dances over her bleeding broken heart.

My friend, God bless his darling soul, was stricken confused. What had he done? How did they got there? Wait, how come the end is coming... and allegedly he is the one pulling the plug? I sort of can't find the right words to tell him that sadly, he has been taken to a "real life theatre" and was made observe the play, where he is nothing but another piece to establish the heroine's hoped worth. He has been played. He was entirely unimportant, he was merely convenient for the play to unfold for yet another agonizing season, for yet another excuse, for yet another fridge nuking, so that the heroine could feel herself still desired, still beautiful, even if part of her play is to be left to continually establish her victim position, her damsel in distress, her struggling little lady role that survives the break ups, that keeps going. Can only hope my friend can emerge from this unwilling enterprise stronger and as unharmed as possible. Godspeed, Tiger!

On other news regarding the Miracles of the Last Days, I finished reading Tin Star by J.L. Langley, and I'm so glad I haven't bought it like you can't possible phantom. Dear Hyne, what a horrendous novelette! Unstructured, unbelievable (and it's not even Sci-Fi), de-plotted (because if there ever was a plot lurking around in the mind of the author, it was forcefully removed mid way, so it doesn't even qualify as a PWP), hushed, rushed and scrambled. Now, of course when you pick up a J.L. Langley novel you don't expect to find Dostoevsky, but for crying out loud, I have read better slashfic than that! Oh, and I don't mean here some take me off my feet Morning_Hell work (her Fair Games fic have made her win my heart for ever and ever. It's the best Krummgory ever written), I mean plain and simple, no brainer whatever fic I have read that I don't even care remembering. The story is basically something like a cowboy, gay, these days Cinderella-meets-David Copperfield attempt. That gets no one nowhere, with senseless kiddy-like vendettas and threatenings that start out of the blue with the most pathetic of excuses and then get miraculously solved, also out of the complete blue. Oh, and sex ain't nether that good or that detailed, so you better go grab some other book.

Now I'm getting head first in Broken H, which is not a sequal (Thanks Hyne), but part of the same "collection". I'm not feeling the wish to read it, but it has been lent to me, and I kind of feel like I should give it a shot. At least a shot, though the kind of shot I would like to give it it's not the kind I can give it. Pity. In my opinion, Langley should stick to her werewolves, where a lot of her mistakes can be better explained, and leave cowboys to anyone who can better get to them. No one I know, btw.

Better books have lined up on my nightstand, and one particular one is traveling with me these days. I know farily well that, due to my upcomming (sometime) trip back home, I shouldn't be buying stuff, because I'll have to carry it, and I already have way too many things to pack and send overseas, and I haven't nearly finished, however, I'm a self-declared book-junkie (aside from all my other delightful addictions), and the other day I just couldn't help myself as I slid my card for two books: The Picture of Dorian Grey, by Oscar Wilde, and Slostorm (Sun Storm), by Åsa Larsson. Both of them in Spanish, mind you, since I couldn't get them in English. Always prefer to read in English or French, if the original language of the book is one I don't speak, such as, in this case Swedish, except with Russian, which I prefer to read in Hungarian, but that's the way it is. Still a complete stuck up about reading in original language.

The passion, or more like the unquenched curiosity about this book, of which I've heard before but has so far failed to catch my attention, comes after the recent film of the same name. Aside from the fact that Ben Barnes looks positively fuckable in very kama-sutraistic and ilegal sense of the verb, the movie itself rose a couple of questions in me, questions about what was really written into the novel and what was the actual sense behind the words. I don't know if others do this, but this is, for me, a typical case of "literature investigation". Oscar Wilde ain't much of my kind of writer, but this one I gara check out.

The book of Ms. Larsson comes to my attention after it was recommended by a bookstore to me. Dark sinister murder is something that never fails to catch my attention. That's my "sweet prize", and about it I intend to later write long and hard and deeply penetrating...if it fulfills my expectations.

Amazing things lay before me.