Need sleep. Or a coma. Or some quality stabby-death.

I'm very tired. Very. I haven't slept more than four hours in a row since Thursday. I don't know why, exactly. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that my brain is hopping around in my head and going, "I want to play! I want to play!" while my body pipes up in a whiny voice that I haven't eaten anything more substantial than iced tea and tuna fish sandwiches since Sunday.

Probably wouldn't be all that bad, in theory, but my brain's now decided to play naughty, naughty games with its Jack Sparrow, Spike, and Severus Snape dolls, and my body refuses to move even it means going down to the kitchen and skewering my eyes with barbecue forks to get the mental image out.

I swear, I didn't start out this slashy. PotC did this to me, damn it. I'd complain more, but I think it's really nice that Disney's corrupting me in the opposite direction for once, with visions of pretty pirates making out with one another dancing in my head. (Hey, and now there's waltzing. That's a neat trick. Wonder what would happen if I said, "visions of pretty pirates making out with one another shagging like bunnies in my ..." Ooo, there it is. Mmmmm ... niiiiiice.)

*happy sigh*

So maybe later I'll go outside and get a tan. Okay, fine, when I say, "tan," I meant "slightly darker shade of the pale I already am." Okay, when I say, "slightly darker shade of the pale I already am," I mean, "dark enough so that I won't look quite so much like the little clear-plastic, innards-filled people in biology class."

All right, first crack about my lack of height and/or melanin and someone gets onions in their underpants drawer. (Yeah, it's nasty. But if nothing else, think of the new pick-up line you could use! "Hey, baby, want to come home with me and cry yourself to sleep?")

Hee. I love Da Vinci's Notebook. *sigh* Sing me to sleep, fellas ...

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Damn. I so need a better picture online than a five-year-old Polaroid. Even if it is a perfect example of how blindingly pale a person can be who isn't dying of the Mary Sue virus of the week. If you're going to click the link, grab sunglasses first. Or, you know, don't stare directly at it. Me and solar eclipses ... yup. (By the way, that's me with a tan. Told you so.)

Theoretically, I'm supposed to be writing right now. But one of the disadvantages of having so many characters in my head is that at times like this, they tend to argue for screen time. And because they're my characters, original or fanficcy, their arguments get ... well, they get a little weird.

You want to know what it looks like in there right now? My punk wizard's trying to beat the undead PotC monkey to pieces with a pool cue, my Armageddon-causing time traveler is sitting in Richie Ryan's lap and won't bloody leave, my one-handed vampire is having a "Jaws"-style "Who's got the better gruesome murder story?" with Angelus, my sex-crazed human-shaped dragon is currently handing out numbered tickets to the entire female cast of X2, and John Connor keeps poking his head out of the fallout shelter and begging for Mina Harker to bring him Jell-O shots and buffalo wings. Plus, there's about twenty guys in there who look just like Methos -- picture the restaurant scene in "Being John Malkovich," but with Peter Wingfield replacing Malkovich. Hee. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, I'd just wish I'd have gotten fair warning, as my knees have now turned into vanilla cheesecake and the urge to chow down instead of waiting for them to resolidify is just. Too. Strong.

Oh, and Will Turner's making out with my Orly-lookin' immortal serial killer and Legolas, but I think that's just because they're all incredibly horny and they're all prettier than any of the female characters in my head anyway. And it's totally disregardless of the fact that I've been constantly reminding Serial Killer Boy that he is absolutely, irrevocably not gay.

He countered that one by pointing out that Rastafarian Vampire Boy isn't gay, either, but my brain's had him crawling in the sack with every Tom, Dick, and Jack Sparrow lately. So now I get to sit in the corner and sulk while the Trio of More-Orly-Knockoffs-Than-You-Can-Shake-A-Stick-At heads into the nearest broom closet and rodgers each other senseless.

This is sad. My brain's getting more action than I am. I'm going to end up having to put lit cigarettes in both ears if this keeps up.

Someone tell me I'm not seeing things.

I did NOT just read this. I didn't. Honest.

And the scary part isn't that someone out there is chomping at the bit to claim they came up with this concept. No, no ... the scary part is this:

Clover, a former adult entertainer who's now unemployed and refers to herself in the complaint as "Sensual Entertainer's Home Studio Founder," says she first suggested Stripperella to [Stan] Lee after a private encounter with the comic book legend more than a year ago at Tanga's Jazz, an adult nightclub in Tampa.

Stan Lee. In a strip club.

The only option I can come up with that doesn't make me want to scrub at my eyes with Brillo and wash them out with battery acid is that someone told him they were filming a Marvel Comics movie down there and he raced down as fast as he could to film his cameo.