(no subject)

I've been having these dreams, that don't make much sense. (Not that dreams do on a regular basis)

But they are long, winding dreams. Last night it involved a theater, buildings from the university campus, a plot to murder or dethrone a king, and strange rooms with giant persian carpets. This night it involved flight, hotels, balconies, dancing. The very peculiar aspect must be in the faces, the people. And well, the sex. I don't dream about sex very often at all.

I feel mostly rested, but with that feeling in the back of my head I can't quite put my finger on. Like it was something I should have recognized.

insect chase

Well, there are less bees. By less, I mean a couple dozen still hanging out by whatever hive they've built into the wall. That's a good sign I suppose.

But there are more fruit flies! We have tons of them, and no fruit. Oddly enough we took out the trash the other day, so I can't figure out what they are breeding on. Argh. I stood in the kitchen with the vacuum hose for ten minutes vindictively sucking a few dozen off the cabinets. Not that it did much good. I guess it's time to scour everything and hope they all die off quickly.

I hope they were not attracted by my coconut bath bomb.

frock coats and trousers

How many times do I have to lament that men's fashion does not involve frock coats? I've sat through so many movies just to see these costumes. One can never have too much of Jason Isaacs in a British officer's gear. (Yes, I am watching The Patriot again. I know, I know.)

Tavington is so evil. I wish I could find some actual fic that does not revolve around widows, daughters disguised as spies, or old flames from Britain. Guess I'll have to write it. That's the problem these days. All the things I want to read have yet to be written.

I need a nice Tavington icon, or just more icons of attractive 18th century men.