+  I don’t need more fandoms.  Right?  Right.  Which means I should not be reading Shelter fic.

+  Curry for dinner, and mangoes with sticky rice.  Really, I just like the mango and ignore the sticky rice.  Somehow, when I buy mango and slice it, it ends up mangled and mushed, unlike the beautifully peeled, sliced and presented dish you get at restaurants.  (Supremed oranges and grapefruit are the same way — I end up with a mass of pulp and pith and very little sliced fruit.)

+  The new Sookie Stackhouse book is a complete mess.  I skimmed it at the library, since I refuse to buy the series any longer.  Sookie continues to be the biggest Mary Sue in fiction. (I say that because Anita Blake, possibly a bigger Mary Sue, isn’t fiction but the alter-ego-wish-fulfillment of Laurell K. Hamilton.)  Everyone wants to fuck her or kill her.  She still doesn’t grasp that vampires are no longer human and don’t have the same moral scale.  She’s a giant hypocrite who plans murder then whines about the bloodiness of the execution of said plan, who gets what she thought she wanted and then wibbles about the choice and blames others for it.  And after refusing to take her coerced "marriage" to Eric seriously, she’s upset that it might have to end.  Eh, whatever.  The plot included everything but the kitchen sink.  It feels like Harris is trying to shoe horn the resolution to all the messed up, tangled plot threads she’s left hanging, now that she’s announced that the end of the series is nigh. 


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