(no subject)

[liptonrm_backup]

Spent the morning looking at wedding reception venues in Ann Arbor. The Philosopher and Wrestler chose a place and a date is set and forward ho. Actually, the Mum took over control of the whole thing yesterday and today it's all set. When she decides to get something done she gets it done, which can be a very good thing, especially in this case.

Did not get a lot of sleep last night. Hmmm, I wonder why that might be? *raises eyebrow in Show's direction* Woke up thinking that, obviously, the way to solve the Apocalypse is to have a big, Dr. Phil type family intervention on live TV. It'll give all of the angels and demons and everyone a chance to have their say and cry some crocodile tears and hug it all out. Possibly even with the real Dr. Phil. \m/

I love how they're fanficcing it up this season. I can just hear them in the writer's room suddenly going "OMG you know what would be awesome?! If the Trickster were actually an angel." And then they'd do what we all do when we have a crazy great idea, run around flailing their arms in the air laughing at their own adorableness. And then they sit down and write the episode.

Though this totally does lead me to believe that this really is their last season because they're getting all of their big crack out while they can. And while I hate the thought of the day where there will no longer be new Show to look forward to, I also wouldn't hate seeing it go out at its prime. TV has just burned me too many times.

HERPEXIA! TANDEM BIKE! SAMPALA! DR. SEXY! OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG

I think I need to go lie down again.

Actually, what I, and all of you, need to do is read bellatemple's awesome new story about family dinner with the angels. It is a beauty to behold. Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree.

Which reminds me! I've been writing more things! For the sake of mini-nano, here is a snippet:

Course, the whole thing might stem from the sophisticated-seeming woman sitting at a table in a private corner. It didn’t matter what Bela Talbot’s intentions were, her presence in Ellen’s bar only ever meant trouble of one kind or another. The last time she’d blown into town on a wave of her own hoity-toityness had almost lost Ellen her liquor license, and the time before that had seen the explosion of the Roadhouse’s only toilet by a herd of ticked-off imps.

Nothing that girl could do would ever bring Ellen Harvelle anything but consternation, of that she was certain.