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Okay, seriously. Now I'm done.

Iii have black nails today. This amuses me way more than it probably should. I've also discovered that I'm more likely to let my nails get long if I paint them, which kind of figures, but it also makes typing annoying. Kableh.

Went out Friday night and got jeans. Lots of jeans. Which is actually a good thing because I think out of the many pairs of jeans I have only two didn't have holes in inconvenient places. We're not talking about knee, shin, or upper thigh holes either. I'm talking ass pocket holes, inner thigh holes, places it would be just a little embarrassing. So I went out and got four pairs of jeans, which might be a little excessive, but right now I can afford it. Also picked up some long-sleeve shirts to wear under my t-shirts because damn, it's getting cold.

I'm taking my mystery novel plotting guidebook in to work, along with a legal pad, so I should be set to work up my half-dragon novel. We'll see how that goes. I also have a couple of fics to finish/write, one original one that I really do want to finish today and another Supernatural one, and then I need to knock some more things off my Wizarding Royalty AU to-do list. Yes. Except today's Monday so we'll see how much of that I actually get done. I are productive. Yes.

Of course, after Nano comes either revising or writing query letters. Um. Yeah. We see how far I've gotten with that.

[Fic] Cheer Up, Emo Detective

[Not happy with this first draft, but that's why it's a draft. Inspired by this. And sleep deprivation.]

"We got another one."

Every detective lives in fear of those words, especially when blood's on the ground. Four words can make you put that lovely fiesta wrap you were eating aside and reach for the pink bottle as you feel bile touch the back of your teeth.

"I hope you know that was a very good lunch you just interrupted."

"It's dinnertime."

"Whatever."

All of this coming between my resigning myself to getting up and grabbing my gear, actually doing so, and treading the tricky path between outstretched legs and wheeling chairs. We tossed the details of the case back and forth on our way out to the scene, mostly the same old ground in the same old shoes, even if we had a new body to talk about. A new body of evidence to put with the old and hopefully come up with a few more answers. Ideally, a suspect. Even better, the right suspect. No more dicking around with the wrong people.

Sick as it sounded, there was always that hope every time we found a new body. The hope that some new evidence would come to light that wasn't chock full of crazy. We had a lot of physical evidence, two fileboxes of it. And none of it made any sense.

It was the same every time, and it was the same this time too when we got to the scene. Some fucked-up person with a grudge against suits and a fascination with everything stereotypically girl was running around stabbing people with the jagged ends of those stupid plastic glitter batons. Little sparkles mixed in with the blood. Shocked expressions on the victim's faces like they couldn't believe they'd been stabbed by Party Princess Barbie. Worse still, someone had given Barbie markers. Pink ones. And smiley face stamps.

Cheer up emo detective? What the fuck did I have to be cheerful about. Homicidal maniacs were one thing, but this was psychosis on the better drugs. These are your serial killers. These are your serial killers on Xanax.

Any questions?

"That's new."

"It's standard." I stood and pretended my knees hadn't just popped. "Escalating to taunting the police, oh, look at me, look at me." I did the valley girl Julia Stiles thing. People stared. "What?"

"You're a freak, you know that?"

"No, I'm a normal kind of weird. This person's a freak."

He couldn't really argue with that. More's the pity, he didn't try. "At least the press doesn't know about the details. I'm almost waiting for someone to leak the glitter thing to them. Can't wait to see what happy little nickname they'd give him then."

"What makes you so sure it's a him?"

"Statistics. What do you think, the Glitter Gobin? The Barbie Bandit? Or did the bank robbers already take that one... Oh, I know, how about..."

"How about Carrie," I muttered. "How about a nice hot cup of shut the fuck up and let's figure out who's Mommy didn't love them enough or who's Daddy loved them a little too much as a kid, before someone else gets shivved by a glitter baton?"

"Touchy. All right, I'll canvas the area, see if anyone saw him dumped here, there's no way he was stabbed here. Not enough blood, and there's not enough water in this river to wash it away... are you listening to me?" I was listening. I just wasn't looking at him. There was sick, and there was twisted... and then there was this. "You bag and tag, check the area, take the pictures, see if Carrie left any souveneirs from her junior prom."

"Yeah." I shook it off. "Sure."

"Hey."

"Yeah?"

"Why so..."

"Buddy, if the next word out of your mouth even sounds like 'serious,' I'm gonna find the other half of that baton and nail you to a wall with it."

He was still laughing when I got to the truck.