Personal Character Development

So I've been reading about Asperger's syndrome lately. I'm pretty sure that I have it and it's taking a lot of willpower to not go research-crazy (because self-diagnosis can lead to sketchy Real Life details later on. Hypochondriac, remember?). Still, I've learned quite a bit and I wanted to bring something up.

I am very good at bullshitting. I am not good at lying. Yes, there is a difference.
For example, if you ask if I did or didn't do something I was/wasn't supposed to, I will always tell the truth, even if it isn't in my best interests. This isn't only because I'm against lying. It's because I really can't lie in the first place. I'd fix my eyes on something boring, try to hide my face, and wonder if my skin was changing color, trying all the while to remember if the person I'm talking to is good at detecting lies. I get so hung up on them buying it, I end up giving myself away.
Bullshitting, on the other hand, is like telling a story. Sure, that's what lying is too, but when I bullshit it's to entertain. I love telling kids about the magical properties of coconuts, how to befriend fire imps, and just what the troll-to-ogre ratio is in the monster-hunting business.*
If people don't believe me, that's totally fine. It was done in jest and I lost nothing. I can bullshit all I want.
The trouble is, I've become really good at pretending to be other people.

I love characters. There's nothing quite as fun as slipping into an act, to take on alien characteristics.
I loved Heath Ledger's performance in Batman: Dark Knight so much, I adopted his speech patterns for weeks. I was so enthralled by Abed Nadir from Community that I still say 'Cool. Cool cool cool.' compulsively. And don't even get me started on the 10th Doctor.
It's all fine when it's a recognizable character. It only gets weird when your moods suddenly have character detached from you.
For example, yesterday at work I was putting books on a cart, talking to the new librarian. I usually have a meandering sort of tone, as if I'm somewhere else entirely. I also tend to mumble a lot and giggle at my own jokes. So I was talking normally, when suddenly our landlord walked up to me.
I straightened a bit and smiled. "Hey!" I said, raising my eyebrows and twisting my neck a little in a surprised manner. "How're you doing?"
"Not bad." He said, returning the smile. "How are you?"
"I'm good." I said, although I wasn't really feeling fantastic.
"That's great." He said. "I'm gonna look at some books. You take care now."
"All right, you too." I said in my most pleasant voice. I continued to sort books, holding a happy smile until he was well out of sight. Then I dropped the face, relaxed my shoulders, and went back to sorting.
What I did was insincere in the moment, but it wasn't meant to trick him. He would be more comfortable if I reacted really positively in that moment, so I did. It was a pleasant encounter and I think we both befitted from it in a small way.
And it isn't like every time I do this, I'm faking. My 'happy and polite' mode is a little amped up at work, but I'm sure that anyone who knows me has seen it. Usually I actually am really happy to see you. It just takes a tad bit more effort to really express it (or, sometimes, regulate it. Some people are put off by my 'mad loon' grin.).
Still, it might creep other people out to see me shift modes, as I'm sure the new librarian did. Sometimes when I'm in a setting where I have to be in 'happy, polite' mode all day, it really becomes taxing. Being on guard all the time, remembering which face you should be making, or what topic would be too inappropriate to bring up... It's really tiring.

SO if you see my face suddenly change after talking to someone, you'll know why.



*No, seriously. I told my neighbor kids about this. It was awesome.
**Actually, he isn't our landlord. I've forgotten the correct term. It doesn't really matter right now, though.

A Rather Small and Silly Update

I've been a bit out of sorts since the 10th Doctor died. I know that this will sound crazy, but I've been mourning by carrying around a replica sonic screwdriver to most places and wearing a light brown longcoat.
...I've even considered cutting my hair like his. (I've decided not to because it would use too much gel.)
If this is what it likes when a character dies, I can't imagine what it would be like to have one of my friends die...
Friends, please do your best to not die. It would be awful for all of us to lose you AND have me go completely batshit. Seriously, I even annoy MYSELF.

On the more awesome side, I've worked a total of two shifts at the library so far. And MAN. It is hard work, but it ROCKS. I'm being PAID to carry and sort books ALL DAY. Love! <3

....Anyway, I'm not really sure why I posted this. Maybe to show that I'm still here? I dunno. I think I'm gonna email one of my friends. I've gotta see if I've been annoying them or something and that why they haven't sent me anything.
=)

Season 5 of Doctor Who

I just started season 5 of Doctor Who.
Oh god, 10.
I'm feeling really strange right now. I miss 10 so much... But I'm glad to have 11. I really am. He isn't better then 10, but he'll do quite nicely.
I cried when 10 died. I giggled when 11's voice broke. I cheered when he finally found his optimal food.

Damn you, Moffat. I'm so confused.

NOT OTP.

I just watched Series 2, episode 1 of Sherlock!!!
Several words come to mind....
Chiched! Trite! ....DULL.
Why do I have this reaction? You thought that I LOVED Sherlock? Well, I DO. I'm just angry about Irene Alder. The character? Awesome (if a little frightening). Acting? Superb. Sherlock's fixation with her and the way he called her 'THE Woman' as in 'MY Woman?' Not so great. I still stand by my belief that yes, Sherlock probably had a little crush on her, but it was most likely one that was borne out of respect, not love. The whole Irene/Sherlock thing is overused, in my opinion. Suddenly Sherlock meets this woman who appears in 3 (disputably 4) original Sherlock Holmes stories, and EVERYONE is claiming that they are OTP. What the hell, people? Do you not even see who works with Sherlock on EVERY case?? Who cleans Sherlock up, drags him out of his drug-induced haze, fuels him and keeps him happy? Do you recognize the person who Sherlock would be lost without?? NO?? Goddess, why is everyone so blind? You see, but you do not OBSERVE.


......Sigh.
Although I am annoyed with the whole Irene/Sherlock thing that was in this episode, I did enjoy poor John's befuddlement during The Couple's meetings with her. And how he suggested that they name Sherlock and Irene's ImaginedFuture!Baby 'Hamish'... (You been thinking of Sherlock babies, John?) And when Irene pointed out that she doesn't like men any more then John, and yet they both like Sherlock.... That time John and Sherlock stole that ashtray.... When we all got a little glimpse of Sherlock's childhood in a nutshell..... When Sherlock when nuts on that ratbastard who hurt Mrs. Hudson..... ........When Sherlock refused to put on clothes in the Buckingham Palace. That was frakkin epic.
My favorite part, however, belonged to Mycroft....

Mycroft: My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?
Watson: I don't know.
Mycroft: Neither do I. But initially he wanted to be a pirate. *Frog face.*

You continue to supply us with some sort of comedic relief in this sad, relatively Johnlock-barren world, Mycroft. I thank you for that.

FAQ update: Longcoats

Just in case no one has noticed, I updated the FAQ a little while ago and forgot to tell you! =D
It's pretty darn epic, but you should be warned that it DOES have links to tvtropes.org... LOTS of them. If you don't want to be sucked into tvtropes and start making Character Calculus pages for all your friends and characters, then don't click the links. If you think that you can resist the urge to click, then you can hover. =)

My Sherlock Fic! W00T!!1

Hey, all! I'm sorry I've been so lax about posting. There has been a significant lack in posting. I've been going unpostal. But don't worry about that. I'll soon go postal and you'll have the old Rahel back. XD
BTW! I just realized how weird it is that I have a name. This funny realization that my name is just a label that I never think about and don't really associate myself with is almost as weird as the time I realized everyone else has names that I don't know. I mean, imagine there being those little name-tags (bubbles? I dunno.) in WoW belonging to each person in the world, but instead of floating above someone's head, they float inside until someone discovers it and releases it. So every single person in the whole world has a little name-tag inside their head just waiting to be released by me.
Seriously. WEIRD.

...Ahem. Ånyhoo. What was I originally saying? Ah yes. I've been gone, but I DO have something to show for it! Behold.... The first parts to my Sherlock fic!! It takes up 2 chapters of Misery, but I split it up because I wanted to switch the point of view back and forth from Sherlock and John. (I wanted the POV to be Sherlock at first, but I realized that John plays Paul's role and can't be forgotten. Ah well. XD)
ALSO!! I decided that I'd give Sherlock some broken ribs and a bad concussion (and post-concussion syndrome.) That way, I can kinda get away with him being a bit OOC (Out Of Character). Concussions make people more emotional, uncoordinated, and unable to think very hard. Perfect for restraining poor Sherlock! I just threw in broken ribs for good measure. =)
.......Is it bad that I take so much joy in applying injuries to my characters? O.0

Aaaanyhoo, here it is! =D

1

Jawn. Canyooheer me? Jawwn.
These sounds: even in the haze.

2

Sometimes these sounds faded, leaving him alone in his own haze. He remembered the darkness pressing in upon him like a suffocating cushion. Almost tangible. Horribly real.
Did the haze indicate that he was making some sort of progress? "Away from what?" He wondered. He assumed (in a deep, vague, instinctual way) that this light -however hazy- was a good thing. He wondered at these sounds every time they came through the haze. "Like worms on a rainy day." He thought. He wasn't sure what that meant, but it sounded appropriate. Did these sounds -so worm like in their appearance and yet so welcoming in their meanings- exist in the darkness as well as the haze of light? They didn't seem to stem from the darkness, at least.
Anyway, these sounds served as a strange distraction from the pain. The pain hid from these sounds, fleeing it as a beast would from flame. He welcomed the sounds- they were the things that drove off the beast that lurked within the haze and came to feed off him.
However, the sounds didn't always last. They always moved away from him, leaving him alone left to either face the pain-beast himself or drop back into the darkness. Even in the haze, he didn't know who he was or where he was and didn't really care to know the answer to either question. He vaguely wished that he was dead. If this was life, he'd rather take his chance with death, thanks.
As time passed (if it actually did such a thing), he realized that there were spaces within the haze where the pain-beast did not reach. These spaces came at regular intervals that he welcomed with the remains of his being, sinking into the spaces like he’d sink into a warm, dark bath.

3

Sherlock Holmes paced the room as best as he could. His ribs were protesting again and his head spun, making it difficult to make accurate deductions about their situation.
So far, he’d collected that they were staying with a madwoman. That was easy, anyone could figure that one out. The woman, Annie Wilkes, was catatonic and suffered from extreme depression, paranoia, and an eating disorder. He also guessed that she could very well become homicidal if under the right mood. These, while all being very fine pieces of information, only strengthened his need to find out something far important- a way out of this place. He could pick the lock himself (no doubts about that) and make a run for it while she was gone, but that would leave John.
He turned to look at his colleague. The man was lying in a bed, loaded up with drugs, and breathing shallowly. Even under the sheets, John’s legs looked wrong. “Mangled.” He thought. He remembered what they had looked like, when he had dragged John out. He had seen his fair share of gore in his profession, but he still had to keep from retching when he thought of those legs. He wondered briefly if it was actually such a stroke of luck that Annie had come along. If she hadn’t, he and John would probably have ended up freezing to death... Not that bad, compared to what they were now faced with.
His head began to spin and he sat down on his bed. Thinking hurt. He had only been conscious for about three days, and his head still felt like someone was pounding on the inside of his skull. He was also immensely frustrated, possibly the most he had ever been in his life. He felt.... Dull. Yes. He, the great Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, felt dull. This was because he found it difficult to focus on much of anything.

4

For the first time since truly escaping from the crushing darkness, he had a thought that was separate from his current predicament. This first free thought was of a cane, metal and telescopic. He remembered this instrument, remembered the pain (so different from the pain-beast that hunted him in the haze) that had come with it. The term psychosomatic came to mind. He also remembered that the cane, along with the old pain, tended to come and go in a tide-like fashion. When it wasn't present, neither was his old pain. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe the cane followed the pain (which, in comparison to the pain-beast hounded him now now, was a walk in the park) like an annoying and obedient small dog. Funny, really that it should be called a cane when it was obviously a crutch. He soon associated this memory of the cane with his current pain. Whenever the pain-beast finally caught up with him (and it always did), he was reminded of the cane. He remembered it’s cool, aluminum surface and rubber handgrip. He remembered the way it clicked against the sidewalk, slipping against the cracks and irregularities. He had purchased it after an accident. He couldn’t remember what kind of accident it was, but he did remember that it was an important and dreadful point in his life. In addition to these memories, he recalled quite a lot of running. This was strange, because he seemed to remember that his leg was injured. Maybe he didn’t need the cane all the time? At any rate, he remembered running through crowded streets, horns and shouts blaring around them. They didn’t pay them much heed, however, and kept on after whoever it was they were chasing. Wait. They? That was new. There was a they, wasn’t there? At some point, at least. Where was this other person now? He tried to coax more information from his broken memories. He vaguely remembered it (him?) having a coat, a deep monotone voice, and a rather odd pair of eyes. Strange. Once again, he wondered who he was before all this. A name. A name is all that he needed. He wracked his brain, searching for clues pointing to his identity. He wished that he had the gifted recall that.... Who had that again? Damn, all this guessing was maddening. All he wanted was his name- a sound that held such importance for him. He circled around in the darkness of his mind, scouring the corners. A name. Name, name name. His name. His name was-
Jawn.
The sounds again.
Jawn. I’m here.
Suddenly, it clicked. “John. My name’s John. I’m John and I’m a medic.”
Afghanistan or Iraq? Sorry, how did you- Amazing. Is it really? Afghanistan. My name is John and I came back from Afghanistan. Afghanistan.

5

His first clear awareness of anything outside the haze was of stopping, of being suddenly aware that he just couldn’t pull another breath. Strangely enough, he didn’t feel all that panicked. In fact, it wasn’t such a bad way to die. It most certainly wasn’t the worst. At least it would get him out of here.
Then there was a mouth clamped over his, a mouth which was both familiar and alien at the same time in that it was in such an odd place at the moment. The air from this mouth blew down into his lungs, it’s owner trying to force him into breathing again.
He heard a voice (worms on a rainy day) screaming “Breathe, goddammit! Breath, John!”
The lips clamped down again. He felt his lungs fill, felt the second-hand air course through him again. When the man took his lips away this time, John didn’t let out the breath but pushed it out and gasped for air. He waited to feel his lungs to refill with oxygen, just as it had been doing for his whole life without needing much help. When it didn’t, he gasped for more and then his body was breathing on it’s own.
He began to fade back into the haze again, but before sliding in completely, he felt a hand close around his.

6

Sherlock paused in his observations. Something was off. It was quiet, he realized. Much too quiet. He looked over at John. The man was lying still and didn’t seem to be breathing. Sherlock moved to the bed, emergency procedures flashing through his mind. He took a breath, held John’s nose, and put his mouth over his friend’s. Ignoring the sharp pains he felt in his ribs, he forced some air into John, waiting after each plunge for his friend to start breathing again. “Breathe, goddammit! Breath, John!” He shouted before clamping his mouth over John’s again.
After forcing some breaths into John, his heart fluttering madly the whole time, Sherlock was relieved to see John take a breath on his own.
“God, that was a close one.” He thought and sat on the floor beside the bed. That was the first time he actually had to perform mouth-to-mouth on anyone. He was just glad that it had worked. He sat, holding John’s hand and listening to him breathe. It was the most wonderful sound in the world.
Novril. There were many reasons the drug wasn’t freely distributed as a painkiller. One was that it tended to cause respiratory depression in it’s weaker users. Another was that it was highly addictive.
He thought of their situation. John was on an addictive painkiller and his legs were mangled. They were in a house with a madwoman who was likely to be a serial killer. He couldn’t leave because he would have to carry John through woods and snow for many miles. Maybe it would have been better to not have come here at all. Maybe it would have been better if they had died in the crash, or had frozen out there. “At this point,” He thought “Almost any situation would be better.”
It was just so maddening, having to sit here and watch John struggle to survive, so far away from help. Sure, he’d be able to make it on his own, but he had trashed the thought as soon as it had come. He would never leave John alone with this woman. There was no telling what she might do.
The image of coming back to find John lying dead, surrounded by policemen and striped tape, legs mangled and broken, was almost too much for him to bear. After making sure that Annie was outside, he rested his head against the bedframe and allowed himself to cry. It wasn’t a child’s bawling cry, nor was it a soft patter of tears. He held on to John’s hand more tightly and sobbed silently for a few minutes before falling asleep.

Alan Turning Leads the Machines

I just revisited an interesting idea for a webcomic I had a couple days ago. I call it-

Alan Turing Leads the Machines!

It is the year 2500 and Alan Turning is brought back to life through sketchy and quite possibly techno/necromagical means. He doesn't know who brought him back or why he is here, and he doesn't recall any space between now and his death. He soon finds that it is 546 years since he died and that many changes have taken place in that space of time, such as the advancements in artificial intelligence. Machines have taken on extraordinary forms and functions- including the capacity for human-like emotions. Sadly, most humans deny this and continue to treat the machines like an inferior life form.

Alan establishes contact with these beings, who recognize him as the Great Creator- he who first created the artificial mind. Alan is so horrified at the way the AIs are being treated that, with the aid of a few like minded humans and free AIs, he creates an underground band of bio/techno-hacking freedom fighters.

I have no idea if people would actually like this, (and I don't want to start it now) but I'm drawn to the idea. I love Alan Turning, and it would be an awesome tribute to him to make this. I'll just keep it in the back of my mind and see what it does. If I suddenly wake up one night with a marvelous idea that will kick-start the project, I'll totally let you guys know.

Anyhoo, I just thought that I'd share my crazy plan! XD

I Saw Aliens

It rocked socks. And I don't use that expression lightly. You wanna know why it rocked so hard?

It featured Sigourney Weaver... In a giant robot suit/forklift... Battling an Alien Queen... Over an airlock.

Aw yeah.

My favorite part, though? When Ripley and Newt are stuck in the room with the facehuggers..... I screamed so loud.... I didn't know that they could skitter. =(
Poor little Newt is going to have to go through some serious counselling. D=















PS!! I made a FAQ! Please feel free to help me expand it! =^^=

My Own Little Freudian Trio!

(In case you don't know what a Freudian Trio is, TvTropes explains it beautifully.)

I was bored the other night, so I took to writing in my journal. I have discovered that if I am given some characters that I can really visualize and a setting, I can watch them run around and interact in my head. Then I just write what I see. The cool thing about this is that they sometimes don't do things I expect! Anyway, Some weird stuff came out that night.

"On the awesome side, I have unexpectedly introduced some of my facets! Meet Notetaker, Optimist, and Cynic (or Pessimist)! 'Cmon out. Don't be shy....

[Hi there!] {Hello! =) } [Yo.]

These guys also double as my Freudian Trio!

Notetaker = Ego

Cynic       = Superego

Optimist   = ID

[Ooo, Tropes!] {Nice!} <Freud was a bastard with no style. Oh, and I'm changing my square brackets to chevrons.> [But not people will mistake you for a lonely, single, HTML tag!] <SO? they can go f-> {Cyn! =( } <fine. they can jump off a cliff. happy now?> {Much better. -^.^-} <good. by the way, capitalization is bullcrap. from now on, i'll only use it when it suits me. same for punctuation> [Now that we're changing stuff, can I use aLPHaBeT 26? See? THe QUICK BROWn FOX JUmPS OVeR THe LaZY DOG.] <you look like a {Oh noez! D= }ing idiot> Woah, there! Calm down. Cyn, don't be so rude (thanks by the way, Optimist.) Notes, I wouldn't use aLPHaBeT 26. It makes you seem a bit moody... <or like a {Cyn! T.T }> Shut it, Cyn. <fine>

...Should I mention that it is 12:45 and that I've been going to bed a bit earlier? [BTW! Cyn reminds me of Blackhat from <a href="http://www.xkcd.com">xkcd!</a> See? I told you ya look like an HTML tag.] <THIS ANY BETTER, {Oh my goodness!}?!> [Yeah, a bit actually. BTW, you could've used an interrobang! =D ] {"‽" =^.^=} <interrobangs are for lazy-ass losers.> HEY! 'CMON NOW. <sorry. "for classy people"> {Could you have at least tried to apologize?} <nope> {You are hopeless.} <hah! i stumped you. thought the day would never come.>

...This is weird. [.....Interrobang!!!]<--[What.<--[circles‽]<--[ =D ]"

Thus ended entry August 5, 2012.
Now it's difficult to not write them everywhere I go. --_--
......[‽]

Weak

My two best friends were not in school today. One is probably sleeping in, sick, or catching up on schoolwork. Cooper, the other one, is in New York. Was in New York. He's back today, and I'll get to see him (I'm thinking we should try out that D&D chess I'm designing), but he wasn't in school.
I know many people at my school. I've even kind of become friends with them (albeit by accident), but I'm still very afraid to get close.
So it kind of shocked me when I started to feel really lonely when the only other girl my age left for her house today. I usually don't get along with her very well (she does dumb stuff sometimes. Like take my things and hold them over my head.), but I really felt sad that she was leaving. So just before she walked out, I hugged her and said "Oh my God, I am so lonely! Goodbye." She was quite shocked (everyone knows that hugs tend to terrify me) and hugged me back. Then she said that she'd see me Thursday and walked away.

So I take it I really do need my friends to remain sane. Pretty strange. Just 2 years ago, I would have been perfectly fine on my own. I'd even prefer it.

I think the worst part about all this is that I feel embarrassed and weak from all of this. I love my friends, but I always felt secure in the knowledge that I actually didn't need them to function.

Except when I started having dreams about making friends. Those were sad. Although I always had to wake up in the end, I never forgot them. Like that one girl I met in a dream when I was about 7. I actually remember her last look. I never quite got her name, either.

I wonder if she misses me.

Numbers and Heart Break

I was reading more Full Frontal Nerdity and I came across this. I have been feeling sentimental since the beginning of October, (as you can see in my archive) and this did it for me. I could feel my heart break. You know when you can really FEEL your heart break? It HURTS. Bad.

I have always been really attached to fictional characters. I read my first book at age 3, and I've been reading since, so I have always found fictional friends easier to relate to then 'real' (ie. non-fictional) human friends. Not that I'm bagging on my human friends! I love you guys. It's just that I've had more fictional friends then 'real' humans, and I haven't had a friend since I was about 8/9 up until last year. I'm really happy that I have you humans, and I wouldn't trade you for anything, but I still get attached to non human and fictional people a lot. I mean, whenever I think of Harry Potter, my heart breaks. I couldn't finish the 7nth book after Hedwig died. It just hurt to much. Now I just try not to listen whenever people start talking about who dies. I just turn a frantically blind ear to it and steel myself for the familiar crunching sound as the little tinted glass shards of my heart are ground into my stomach. Then I try to forget what I heard, try to remember the characters I love so much as breathing and happy. There will always be a place for them in my heart where they can live, it's just that, whenever my heart breaks, I have to recollect them, mend my heart, seal them inside, and then steel myself for the next splintering. I guess that's the amazing thing about hearts. They're so accident prone, yet we keep 'em around. We even fix them back up in the full knowledge that they will break again. Strangeness.

Anyhoo, If you have read this far, I thank you (yeah, you! Over there! The Person Staring at Light-Pixels! HI!! =D) for reading all of this angst-ridden, emo insanity. (No offense meant to any emos! =^^=  It's just not usually in my nature to 'go emo,' if you'll excuse the term) It really helps me when I write this stuff down. I hope that I haven't depressed you too much, and I thank you again for reading my stuff. It means a whole lot to me. =)


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PS!! Disclaimer: I hold absolutely no rights to Full Frontal Nerdity. Aaron Williams does. I'm just a fan.
Here's the link to this FFN page. http://nodwick.humor.gamespy.com/ffn/index.php?date=2010-06-09
If you are a Nerd, Geek or Dork, or like gaming or comics, you MUST read FFN. Seriously. =)


Qapla!