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applecameronYou know that bored but don't feel like doing anything feeling? I've got that.
Let's see. I painted my nails pink. I have no email to answer. I'm still listening obsessively to Poe's "Haunted", though I did listen to some Gregorian Chant yesterday, and then some Rammstein. *looks around* Why, yes, I have eclectic musical tastes, why do you ask?
I have a half-dozen things that need doing, but not right away, not even today or this week, and a couple dozen more that I could be doing, at any time*.
*drums fingers*
Maybe I should read a book. Preferably one I've read a dozen times before.
And, being incapable of whining in public without offering something actually *useful* (or at least fun[ny]) in return:
"And That Music They Listen To!", by Apple Cameron
There was a knock on the doorframe. "Hey!"
The dancer was completely oblivious, USAF-issue boots slamming to the floor, arms all over the place. Body loose, eyes shut, lip-syncing something. For the first time in ages, fully absorbed in one thing and only one thing, and thank Deity of your choice, a good thing.
Sam ducked a flailing limb. "HEY!"
Dancing stopped, blue eyes flashed open and a look of excruciating embarassment flashed across Daniel Jackon's face. This was swallowed quickly by something else that might have been resolve and than a blinding smile of by-God-if-I'm-a-fool-let's-go-whole-hog, a look that on him was sometimes (who's kidding who? always) frightening.
Daniel pulled his headphones down to around his neck so they could both hear, pushed the volume up as high as it would go, which was pretty goddamn high, and hit a button. Then he grabbed Sam's hands and danced, looking her right in the eye and singing along.
It took about 5 seconds once she twigged to the words, then Sam began to bob her head and started grinning. This resulted quickly in a complex, exclusively female, wiggle that started with her shoulders, and didn't terminate until it hit her own USAF-issue-boot-clad feet.
They danced, celebrating nothing at all, Sam clumsier then Daniel until she picked up the groove fully and forget where they were. Jackson yelled, "this song is so YOU!" at the top of his lungs. "I love it!"
As soon as it ended, Daniel hit a button and the song started all over again. Two fools, grinning like it, dancing like maniacs, eyes sometimes shut, sometimes open, singing along at the top of their lungs with suprisingly passable voices, though anyone who'd heard Jackson singing along in Italian to one of Jack's Puccini CD's shouldn't have been too shocked, or Sam locked in her lab in the middle of the night crooning with Roy Orbison when the place was as empty as the SGC ever got.
They jammed. Tension and worry and Ph.D's and rank and all the stuff of life were suspended in favor of a great beat, rocking lyrics, and simple joy at moving.
There was a knock on the doorframe. "Hey!"
"HEY!"
The figure of the Colonel was leaning in the open doorway. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?" His dark eyes glittered dangerously.
Sam and Daniel, confident in their superior numbers, skipped 'excruiciatingly embarrassed' and went straight for the blinding smile. Daniel pointed a loaded finger at Jack and yelled, "Hold that thought!"
He unplugged the headphones, slapped the tiny MP3 player into the USB port on his computer, and hit a key.
"Walk to The Beat (of My Own Drum)", by Poe, filled the office, the hallway, wandered down to the infirmary in a recklessly cheerful conga line and made Janet tap her toes without realizing it, dragged Teal'c from kel-no-reem to join in, got Siler grinning, and all of SG-1 showed up for their morning briefing slightly sweaty and in a damn good mood, for once in far too long.
[*] It's obvious I need a self-imposed deadline of some sort. Maybe I should reconsider Nanowrimo after all.
Let's see. I painted my nails pink. I have no email to answer. I'm still listening obsessively to Poe's "Haunted", though I did listen to some Gregorian Chant yesterday, and then some Rammstein. *looks around* Why, yes, I have eclectic musical tastes, why do you ask?
I have a half-dozen things that need doing, but not right away, not even today or this week, and a couple dozen more that I could be doing, at any time*.
*drums fingers*
Maybe I should read a book. Preferably one I've read a dozen times before.
And, being incapable of whining in public without offering something actually *useful* (or at least fun[ny]) in return:
"And That Music They Listen To!", by Apple Cameron
There was a knock on the doorframe. "Hey!"
The dancer was completely oblivious, USAF-issue boots slamming to the floor, arms all over the place. Body loose, eyes shut, lip-syncing something. For the first time in ages, fully absorbed in one thing and only one thing, and thank Deity of your choice, a good thing.
Sam ducked a flailing limb. "HEY!"
Dancing stopped, blue eyes flashed open and a look of excruciating embarassment flashed across Daniel Jackon's face. This was swallowed quickly by something else that might have been resolve and than a blinding smile of by-God-if-I'm-a-fool-let's-go-whole-hog, a look that on him was sometimes (who's kidding who? always) frightening.
Daniel pulled his headphones down to around his neck so they could both hear, pushed the volume up as high as it would go, which was pretty goddamn high, and hit a button. Then he grabbed Sam's hands and danced, looking her right in the eye and singing along.
It took about 5 seconds once she twigged to the words, then Sam began to bob her head and started grinning. This resulted quickly in a complex, exclusively female, wiggle that started with her shoulders, and didn't terminate until it hit her own USAF-issue-boot-clad feet.
They danced, celebrating nothing at all, Sam clumsier then Daniel until she picked up the groove fully and forget where they were. Jackson yelled, "this song is so YOU!" at the top of his lungs. "I love it!"
As soon as it ended, Daniel hit a button and the song started all over again. Two fools, grinning like it, dancing like maniacs, eyes sometimes shut, sometimes open, singing along at the top of their lungs with suprisingly passable voices, though anyone who'd heard Jackson singing along in Italian to one of Jack's Puccini CD's shouldn't have been too shocked, or Sam locked in her lab in the middle of the night crooning with Roy Orbison when the place was as empty as the SGC ever got.
They jammed. Tension and worry and Ph.D's and rank and all the stuff of life were suspended in favor of a great beat, rocking lyrics, and simple joy at moving.
There was a knock on the doorframe. "Hey!"
"HEY!"
The figure of the Colonel was leaning in the open doorway. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join?" His dark eyes glittered dangerously.
Sam and Daniel, confident in their superior numbers, skipped 'excruiciatingly embarrassed' and went straight for the blinding smile. Daniel pointed a loaded finger at Jack and yelled, "Hold that thought!"
He unplugged the headphones, slapped the tiny MP3 player into the USB port on his computer, and hit a key.
"Walk to The Beat (of My Own Drum)", by Poe, filled the office, the hallway, wandered down to the infirmary in a recklessly cheerful conga line and made Janet tap her toes without realizing it, dragged Teal'c from kel-no-reem to join in, got Siler grinning, and all of SG-1 showed up for their morning briefing slightly sweaty and in a damn good mood, for once in far too long.
[*] It's obvious I need a self-imposed deadline of some sort. Maybe I should reconsider Nanowrimo after all.