“What’s a LiveJournal?”

It’s been a very long time since my last post in LiveJournal. Almost 5 years. Almost 6, really. 

Looking back on my life through LJ, one would note that it’s: 

— All about boys I want to love / am in the process of loving 

— All about boys loving boys 

— All about me figuring myself out through boys 

Let’s pick up where we left off. 


— I left the company I started working at from 2010-2014. That was hard, but it was mostly ego-driven. I left because I thought I had been passed over for a promotion. 

— In mid-2014, I broke up with A.B., the journalisto. This was hard. This was hard because my family wouldn’t have accepted him. Partly a race thing, partly a culture thing, partly a — we just weren’t a good match thing. 

— A fuckin’ tough year. 


— In early 2015, I dated another guy with the same initials, A.B., a hedge fund guy whom I called “the bear.” He was tall, friendly, and goofy. And rich!  

— In mid-2015, I left the next job because I had been passed over for a promotion. 

— In late 2015, I got into meditation. Thanks to meditation, I got clarity that I had to break up with the bear. He was stuck in himself, closed off. I wasn’t the right one for him and he not for me. Some months passed. On a work trip to SF, I met B.H. 

— We fell in love right away.   


— In mid-2016, I left my job (finally not because I had been passed over for a promotion, for once) and moved to London (for a little bit) to be with B.H., who had just moved there too. 

— I went to a lot of museums because I didn’t have a job for a while. With meditation, I came to understand the Rothko series at the Tate Modern. 

— In late 2016, I couldn’t stay in London on just a tourist visa, and it was hard to find work as an American citizen in a post-Brexit chaos. I moved back to California when my mom had a stroke — a wake-up call to be at home, where my family needed me. Time to stop floating around the world. 

— I started working at a great startup in SF.


— Flash forward, 2017. While B.H. and I were long distance, I had plenty of time on my hands to get involved with a new fandom and write again. I got into Season 2 of Produce 101, a Korean reality show about 101 trainees who are trying out for a shot at debuting in a temporary boy group. 

— I started a series, Scientific Methods, about what happened behind the scenes of said reality show, following the stories of three pairs of boys. 


— Big changes for professional radishface: I learned to trust people. Mostly my manager. After three weeks of panic attacks in the grass lot next to the office I decided to tell him. Was terrified. Cried big, fat, Chihiro tears in the parking lot during our 1:1 in March. Told him that I couldn’t do the project I was on, that it was too much, that I always pushed myself too hard, that I needed to trust him if I was going to get over it and get through it. That this, snot and tears and breakdown, was me trusting him. He told me he was honored. That was groundbreaking.

— Our team almost all got let go because the direction of the business changed. The CEO pulled our funding and told us to work as a lean team. Well, we pulled through. We hit all of our goals and then some, and became the fastest growing part of the company. 

— I finished Scientific Methods. It clocked in at 80k words total, the most I’ve ever written — the novel-length fic I’ve always dreamed of writing since I was twelve. And it was everything I really had ever wanted to write, and every part of it came from the heart. 

— Finally, I finished a opus-level fic! 


— In early 2019, I completed a huge and groundbreaking project at work. I also suffered from constant back pain as a result of overwork, and was close to burning out. After a two-week holiday in Japan, I came back with a sense that I needed to sort my shit out, and couldn’t just throw myself into work to escape the personal philosophical work that needed to be done.  I started The Artist’s Way and gained the courage to call myself a writer, and also enrolled in Japanese and pottery classes for the first time, something I’ve always wanted to do. 

— At work — I got some career success under my belt, and snagged two raises, one promotion, and got my company’s trust to manage a team. For the first time at a company, I learned to trust other people — my colleagues, and more stunningly, my manager. Lesson: Work smart and work hard, but work in a fair place that rewards that work. And keep trusting people, damn it. None of it works if you don’t trust them.

— Summer 2019. I reconciled with my dad after decades of hurt. His presence had always terrorized me and plagued me until I realized that the only monster I was making was the one in my head.  

— I got married to B.H. in late 2016 at an art museum, surrounded by pottery. It was beautiful and awesome and the culmination of so many threads that had been unresolved in my life. Also, The pots I made in class were the pots at the head table. I learned the choreography to a K-pop song called “Feel Special” as a surprise for B.H. and got to dance to it. He was happy, I was happy. We felt very special. 

— A week after the wedding. I got bullied online by a college student who called me a “pedophile” for writing about Korean idols in love with each other. I’d never been bullied online before, and looking back on the fandoms I had been a part of —  Gundam Wing, Cowboy Bebop, Utena, Watchmen, and Inception, everybody had been kind and supportive. @ook, @mustinvestigate, @brancher, @tuff... all of you were so supportive when I first moved to Hong Kong. Today, I read through my old posts about clubbing, dating, and being freaked out by uncircumcised penises. I am astonished that a community of strangers —  relative strangers, we were, having dedicated stories to one another and kept each other inspired (and sometimes envious!) with our output — could be so nice online. Being bullied, being trolled, was cold water in the face —  and a wake up call of some kind. I’m still mulling over it, trying to interpret it not as a senseless act but as a gift of some kind. (These days, I’m of the ilk that all suffering means something, leads somewhere). 

— I got consoled by a compassionate, whip-smart, and open-minded teen who told me that there are certain creatives whose inner child is strong, who teases me about our age gap, and makes me feel okay, actually okay, about being an older fan. 

— I started this blog in 2001, when I was around her age. Thank you, iri. This post is for you. 

Adrian ☞ Out my GQMF window

A return to fanfiction

Fanfiction. Fanart. I miss you.

I somehow became a part of the "real world." I thought it would be a quick flirtation, something to make me attractive to real guys, and I'd be back with the next big movie release, piece of fiction, or TV show. But Sherlock, House, Thor, and the Avengers later, and nothing has caught my eye. I wonder what happened.

I mean, a boyfriend probably had something to do with it. He's a very realistic sort of guy. And I'm the type that doesn't believe that there's a need to force my will onto other people. And so, inevitably, over the last three years, I have bended to accommodate him.

And it's not to say that he doesn't give me my free space, or allow me my pursuits. But his realistic, practical view of the world has informed mine. The energy that I used to spend on struggling to reconcile two characters with one another was now spent on reconciling myself with him.

This is the first time in a year that he's gone on a business trip and I haven't tagged along. After my events tonight, I bought groceries, went home, turned on my favorite podcast, and began writing.

I was about 300 words into a new story about a frog that drives a rickshaw around San Francisco when I puttered out. My usual stamina for these things. Even when I was writing fanfiction, the most I could manage was 800 words before I puttered out, and that was if I was lucky. But it was interesting that *this* was the activity that I turned to the moment he was gone. Did I do it to assuage my loneliness—to immerse myself in the routine and memories that used to form some of my most treasured social interactions, or did I do it because I was finally "free" of my "normal life?"

Now, don't get me wrong. My boyfriend knows full well about my "sordid" past, as do all my ex-boyfriends. Writing fanfiction is never something I've hid from people—nor is it something I'm ashamed of. In fact, I wish I kept writing it if only to be able to proudly announce to people that I'm a part of some kind of alternative culture.

But I wonder where it went. I guess we only have so much energy in our lives to devote to these kinds of passions, and it's so hard for me to muster up the energy to create things when I'm busy—well, trying to make my relationship work. Just run it, come up with new ideas to stimulate it, turn my imagination in the direction of what neat and creative sexy things to do and what I need to wear to the next social event in order to make the best impression and help both our causes as people whose jobs depends on our reputation and network. And the rest of my energy goes toward work.

It's been such a long time since I updated. My life has gotten better, I think. I'm healthier: I pay attention to what I'm eating, and I walk everywhere. I call my parents more. I pay my bills on time and am a (mostly) responsible citizen. I'm a dutiful and loving and creative girlfriend, and a team player and gung-ho contributor at work. I pay for my mother's vacations and try to get my kid sister internship opportunities and help friends with side projects and side businesses. I wrote a short story for a friend's zine, and I was proud of it. But it was nowhere near the length of anything I used to write, or the depth.

My drawing skills have suffered without the nightly guidance of dr_oil and the watchmenpchat. My fanfiction portfolio has mostly suffered without daily readings of etherati and thyme and everyone else. I don't feel like I have a special, secret life anymore; my life these days is all in the public view, in what I do at work, where I go for dinner, which friends I hang out with. All recorded on Facebook for advertisers to track. Even Livejournal wants me to link my Twitter—no thanks. I miss my private life, but an investment in private life feels like cheating my real life and the people who need me or want me or are used to having me around.

I used to love these secret, make-believe men, and pour such energy into them. I made them come to life in strange poses and bad anatomy and florid prose. They were of my own making and they were bent to our will.

And then I found a real, unpredictable man, and he is lovely in all the ways that a real character is—at times hilariously obtuse, at other times disarmingly perceptive. Sometimes completely receptive to love, his mood as pliant as sheepskin. Sometimes acerbic, cutting me to the quick.

I have a real man now, and he doesn't read like any of these men from the past do. And maybe there's no difference, because I still impose my will on him, but sometimes he doesn't confirm, he still wants to do his own thing. I tried so hard to reconcile Cobb and Arthur, but they had their own minds, and never actually got together, convincingly, in my universes.

So I guess the difference here is that — my real man is the only one who can break my heart. And that's a risk that I live with every day. What surprises me is that I'm willing to live with it. There was such comfort in these make-believe men and my love for them and my control over them.

I guess that it's only when my boyfriend is traveling that this feeling comes out—that I miss them dearly, good old Rorschach and Dan and Cobb and Arthur, and what they meant for my creative capabilities. How they helped me become a confident writer and storyteller and erstwhile storyboarder, and how they reassured me that I was a capable, creative being who delivered product after product that people loved and enjoyed. I still go back to my reviews now and then, smiling loads. A colleague's accolade doesn't ring as true to me as a review on a fic I wrote.

Fanfiction, I miss you. But I think you'll always be here for me. Because, and here's the clincher—you *are* a part of me. That immutable part of my nerdy, silly, creative, imaginative self that loves the idea of two ideas reconciling despite the odds. And I haven't read you for so long, or written you for so long, but I think about you every day. And there might come a time where I'll need you, and I'll come back (probably in tears), and you won't judge me, and you won't hate me, and you'll let me love you in a way that other people won't, or can't.

Fanfiction, I am so glad you exist. I can't wait for the moment when my kids discover you.
sally jupiter ☞ glee!

Hello Hollywood (Road) and London!

Dearest Internet friends! It's been the longest time since I updated this journal, blehhh. However, I am doing well and will be coming to London again in June. My work schedule is still getting settled, but I hope to meet up with you guys if you're available for some nerding and food/drinks on me, anactorialiodainscarlet_carsonskhilari  tuff_ghost and anybody else in the Londonish area! 

Also, I have a photoblog on tumblr, .  If you have a tumblr, follow me and I'll follow you.  

dan ☞ noooooaaaahhh



Two weeks in and countless attempts at reading House/Wilson fanfiction later, I'm dying to know—where is the good stuff?

How do I sort my way through the mountain of crap and get to the GOOD stuff? I'm talking about the cream of the crop, can't miss it, and life would not be complete without it sort of fanfiction. Am I missing something or just typing in the wrong Google search terms? How can such an awesome show have such an arsenal of mediocre fic? Every night I finish watching another three to six episodes, I'm invigorated again on my quest for House/Wilson, only to be disappointed 15 minutes later when I realize that I'm once again swimming through a cesspool uninventive plot devices and static characterization. House was one of the most popular shows in the last few years—don't tell me that there wasn't any good output during its heydey...! 

Someone please prescribe me some awesome House/Wilson because I have had it up to <i>here</i> with differential disappointment and am going to go into anaphylactic shock if I have to skim through one more adverb-ridden fic. X(

adrian ☞ is a turkey


ITTO: Teenagers Revive Dead Languages Through Texting
A funny thing happened to several languages on their way to extinction -- they were saved, pulled back from the brink by teenagers and the Internet, of all things.
Do languages really die... or do they just get absorbed into more current ones? Let's not forget that English is the original hodgepodge, melting-pot, alt-language.

The importance of text brevity vs. techtalk coolness in determining the real reasons behind "brb" and "lol" adoption goes back to function vs. form argument—chatspeak owes its adoption to both. But is the dead languages ressurection/maintenance an indication of a deeper nationalistic leaning or just another cliquish youth thing?

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I'm just not sure how "cool" this text would be: 

u missed eric's hancock last nite! it was totes WCTD, BVH osm.


You missed Eric's (big signature move) last night! It was totally Washington-Crossing-the-Delaware, Burr-vs-Hamilton awesome.

I mean, I'd totally be down for "WCTD" to mean "EPIC."