My father, since acquiring a cd burner, spends far too many hours of his life making compilation cds - all of which he adores forcing me to listen to whenever I'm trapped in a car with him for any length of time.

His recent one, however, I mentioned that I really liked. Lots of angsty male music.

Yesterday he dropped off a copy he'd made for me. He'd left off the songs he knew I didn't like and added Pearl Jam and more Alice in Chains instead. For the cover, he'd used a picture of the Eagle Nebula.

Never let it be said that my father and I can't compose our relationship entirely through a shared appreciation for music.

Ohhhh god, I love this song. It's all Linsey's fault, that I like this angsty male music.

It's either too hot or too cold. No in-between. I don't know why, but it's rather strange.

So I am rereading The Handmaid's Tale, and then I'm going to reread 1984, and then Fahrenheit 451. Strange that Bradbury seems to be the only one who believed that the apocalypse, or the equivalent, was an improvement on the mutations of his imagined society. Then again give me a world without books and I'd beg for an apocalypse too.

In other words, I'm into reading darkly imagined worlds and futures. It makes me feel better about my own.

Post-colonization X-Files fic is a good source of that stuff, too. God, I've turned into a fandom slut. I can't deal with Roswell anymore but it's fun to flirt with others. No attachments, though. My days of ridiculous delirious obsession are past.

Really.

No, really.

Okay, fine. I don't believe me, either.

More established fandoms are fun, though. Like Buffy. And, shit, The X-Files is a veritable paradise of amazing writing. Probably because its audience has a higher percentage of adults. Who, subsequently, know how to write.

And how to angst. Beautifully.

God. I don't know why the fuck I do this. Why I get off on misery sometimes. And, well, not just figuratively, either.

I think I could get into s & m. I think I could get into it very, very easily.

I don't know why everyone dismisses my theory of my split personality disorder. Or, in my case perhaps, simply a Gemini disorder. I am a study of extremes. I am gentle and I am hard. I am kind and I am hurtful. I have days of trees and wind and beauty and clouds, and I have days like this.

Sometimes I'm scared by the thoughts in my head. Not because I would act on them. But because I could. Anybody could. With only an intangible invisible conscience to allow for that distinction. And, for some people, inexistent, and I guess they are the ones that do.

I'm scared of the things I'm capable of. The things everybody's capable of. The things I sometimes almost not quite want to do.

Humanity is a very scary thing.