The Triad of My Days

Today in real life I have made it this year's goal to turn my siblings, who hate the act of reading to their very core, into Pottertards. I'm not too involved with the fandom myself, but dooming my brothers to master both proper snarky literature-to-cinema critique and the use of the word 'exasperation'? I mean, what are big sisters for? Besides, page 556 of Half-Blood Prince (2005 Canadian Hardcover edition) makes one hell of a bedtime story. Sweet dreams, kids.

Today on the internet Pokefreak, resident artist BNF in the Naruto fandom and overall Pretty Cool Guy, received my request to sketch out which would probably be his 2823794th Naruto OC. Even though I'm looking forward to having a visual on my character's new design for future reference, I can't help but feel sorry for the poor artist doling it out. Even though he's making a killing by reopening cheap commissions to the public, any more fan-made Naruto characters and I wouldn't be surprised if he snapped and just made the switch to Bleach once and for all. And although I don't regret my purchase in the slightest, the reason why I insist on spending my hard-earned money on having various artists infinitely more talented than I concept-sketch my original fanfiction characters is yet to be realized; though, with my recent purchases of Watchmen: The Art of the Film and The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya: Cho Gekkan Nagato Yuki, I believe I may be becoming a wee bit obsessed with character creation and concept design. It's fun and oddly satisfying to have an original description realized in ink, in spite of the fact that I could be saving that cash for many more important things. Like school. Or a car. Come to think of it, I would probably be better off getting my driver's before picking out different shades of fluorescent orange and Hello Kitty seat covers. [Don't even get me started on the fuzzy dice. I bought those when I was sixteen.]

Today in fantasy several fictional characters remained completely stationary due to their writer's apparent lack of inspiration. All my writing-in-progress is stored on an original Windows 95 hard drive: the first computer I ever pressed a power button to, an OS free from needless distractions of internet connection and addictive Blizzard-produced RPGs. When Word Processor boots up, I have eight separate projects pop open at the same time, so that whenever I write enough to become bored or uninspired with one document, I can just switch to another window and delve back into a completely different universe. In spite of this seemingly flawless system, I manage to win at least seven Solitaire games a day. What's wrong, muse? After that whole poetry anthology fiasco we went through last year, I really thought we had something together...