(no subject)

So, the DSL is down at home. Tragic! Except I did get a whole lot more sleep - more evidence that being cut off from the internet is good for me, much in the fashion of spinach and castor oil. Blecch.

I know it was only about 14 hours, but I missed you guys. Now. Must do work.

hoppy legs and twitchy little noses.

I think there's a reason we call them bunnies. I think it's because of their kinship to the Velveteen Rabbit.

They first show up, eyes dewy and bright, fur soft and addictively pettable, with button noses and cottony tails, and of course we want to play with them. And they want us to play with them, because that's the only way they'll ever become Real. We have to believe in them hard enough and long enough, and in the process rub off half their fur and lose one eye and unravel half their stitching... After a while they're looking pretty mangy, but, if we're lucky, by then we're so attached to our darling bunnies that we keep on anyway, playing and playing with them, sharing them out with a trusted friend or two, crying over them and flinging them at the wall but always gathering them up and apologizing and jamming the bits of stuffing back inside the rents, until - poof - one day we open our hands and they spring away from us, whole and alive and Real.

Unless, of course, just when the bunny's gone a bit funny looking and developed an odd smell, when the ribbon's gotten tatty and one eye is loose and the stitching fragile, so you're a bit afraid to play with it as vigorously as you once did, you're distracted by other toys, other concerns, and then one day you come home and there, sitting on top of the toy chest, is a brand new rabbit, with a shiny ribbon tied round its neck and dewy eyes and a button nose and its fur is soooo soft and clean and you just can't stop playing with it. Maybe you feel a twinge of guilt - maybe more than a twinge - when you look at the poor manky old bunny sitting next to the toy chest, and several more when you think of all the other bunnies in various states of disrepair, jammed into the trunk and under the bed and on the shelf at the top of the closet. But there's a new bunny, now, and you're a shallow bastard when you come down to it.

Or maybe that's just me.

Which is to say, Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ, I needed another post-CotW angst-epic like I needed a hole in my head. And I'm sorry.