Delta

Pedar's back.
Dragged myself out of bed at eight in the morning, and my mother and I traipsed to the airport. Well, we didn't. We drove there. Same difference. Upon reaching there, discovered the flight was delayed. God bless you, Delta, motherfuckers who lost my bag last year, 'cause no-one else will.

He said the flight was awful. Turbulence, lack of food, lack of reading material, though he had bought Roger Ebert's wonderful book I Hated, Hated, Hated This Movie. For those who don't know, Roger Ebert is an American film critic, and for this book, he compiled together all of his most sarcastic critiques in one. There are gems like "This movie is so terrible in so many ways, but I only have the space to go into a few" - Ace Ventura - and "This is the kind of film about which actors have long, sad talks with their agents," - Lake Placid - and my favourite, the utterly inspirational "I hated, hated, hated this movie. Hated it. Hated it, hated it," - North.

But yes. I wasn't talking about Roger Ebert. Pedar's flight was apparently dire, and also delayed, but he seems to have enjoyed himself. His sister, my bua, has sent me three pairs of socks (with toes! Whoo!) a scented candle, a couple of bracelets, a pair of earrings, and Nupur's other grandmother (the one we don't share) has sent me a knitted bag, which is without a doubt the ugliest thing I ever saw, but naturally I haven't said a word.

Nupur herself has sent her love. Pedar says she's much taller now, which is good - she's three years younger than me but I could see over her head. Shivani has expressed her wish to become President - go, girl! - and has thanked me for the postcards.

Pedar was rather startled at the people of Savannah. Bible belt, he said, and apparently the Atlanta Journal has a Faith section. Ye holy gods. He didn't even bring one to show me. However, he did thoroughly approve of the St Patrick's Day celebrations. Just like the Irish attempt to dye the Liffey green... well, they did something similar. Fun.

Bit of peace and quiet for me now. Pedar's asleep, my mother's food shopping, and I feel suddenly and randomly awful. Therefore... I don't know, maybe will go back to bed. Should do maths, but I don't want to, and writing anything about the bakeries and fullonicas of ancient Pompeii is not high on my list of priorities right at this moment. I think I may go read some fic. Whatever.

Yes! It's the girls who whump!

If anyone has a Stargate plot bunny they can't handle, lemme have it. I'm serious. Have spent the afternoon reading Stargate fic - *stares pointedly at minkboylove* - and am really in the mood to try writing for an old(er) fandom. Although not, obviously, post season five stuff. I'm in post-Meridian Denial where Stargate is concerned, and I always will be.

While reading, was turning stuff over and over in my head, and eventually came back to one of my favourite topics, the one I may eventually write a thesis about. That is.... why do we whump? Why? Why do we feel some insane need to put our characters through such terrible, sometimes positively sadistic, ordeals, and why do we enjoy it? And, most mysterious of all, why do we only hurt the ones we love? Why do we love them and then have to hurt them? And everyone does it. Absolutely everyone. And I would like to know why.

Various theories that have been put to me over the years.... we like to see them vulnerable. We like to have some kind of control over them. We want to see them deal with pain. It all comes back to the fact we love them.

Anyway. In the pursuit of academic curiosity (of course) I have been making a comparison. It was going to be tabulated, but I'm not in the mood for coding. Anyway... I picked the two most whumped fictional characters I could think of, namely Daniel Jackson and Hawkeye Pierce.
( I'm gonna cut it for extreme obsession/geekitude )