Other: A self-inclusion fic to re-enforce rules of writing fan fiction that doesn't suck? Yeah, this should work...

Once again, I was sitting at my computer. Naturally, instead of doing anything remotely constructive, I was alternating searching for any form of SuperS slash--deciding that I would even freaking take Helios/Human Artemis at this point--and mocking people.

Then, inspiration struck me. I would write a beautiful, moving angsty tale about the Amazon Trio. There would be lots of weeping, death, pain, and possibly some rape. But that special kind of rape where afterwards everyone talks about their feelings, shares a big group hug, and then decides to shag again.

No, wait, that doesn't really sound like me...

Perhaps I was going to write a delightful story about Fish-Eye and his undying love for Sailor Venus. Because, much like Hawk's-Eye and Sailor Jupiter, those two were obviously meant to be together.

That really doesn't sound like me. Especially since Sailor Uranus is so much more Fishie-chan's type.

Maybe I was working on a sad, first person, self-insert about how to write decent Amazon Trio fan fics in which terms such as "Fishie-chan" seemed like a good idea.

Ugh. I hate writing in first person.

I guess I was probably writing a fic with no plot as yet just because I wanted to reference The Simpsons Halloween episode in which Homer dances naked in the church while singing "War, What is it Good For?" If I ever got past this basic scrap of an idea, I would probably move on to characters screwing around for no reason.

Yeah, I'd say that's me on the nose.

So, I'm sitting with my laptop on my lap, trying to figure out how to go from one stolen gag to people screwing around for no reason, when suddenly--BORT! I'm in some kind of bar.

That's right. It was "BORT." Not "BAM", "POW", "ZOWIE" or any other such 60's Batman sound effects.

My first thought was that I really hoped this magical transportation had provided me with some money, as a lack of funds had kept me from having a drink in over a week. I also hoped that this was one of those swell bars you could smoke in, not one of those crappy ass, "herd the bastards outside", farce of a healthy state bars.

I also hoped that there'd be lots of semi-hot men to bum cigarettes off of and start conversations with for the purpose of bumming more cigarettes off of and getting free drinks. See, if you start conversations, you show that you're not just interested in mooching off them, which allows for more mooching. That's a tip, kids.

Fortunately, the gods of self-insertation were smiling on me. I found that my wallet was stuffed with self-inserted money and new pack of cigarettes had been self-inserted into my purse.

As I congratulated myself on remembering to self-insert decent cigarettes and not the $1.99 crap I'd been living off of/slowly dying from for the past week, I realized that I'd forgotten to give myself a lighter.

Part of me wished my friends were with me. They'd probably have a lighter and at least some matches. Another part of me learned that it was probably best if they never knew anything about this little sorry ass ego trip.

I continued fumbling for some sort of lighting instrument, vaguely wondering as I did so if I'd been keeping the same tense throughout this particular exercise in vanity/stupidity.

I'm hoping to hell that it's at least past tense, because I really freaking hate writing in the present tense. Almost as much as I hate writing in first person.

I wondered if a self-insertation fic to reinforce the rules of writing decent fan fic would be somehow diminished if I decided to switch from first person to third person.

I then decided that thoughts like that meant that nicotine withdrawal was starting to have a negative effect on my reasoning skills.

Fortunately, I noticed three shiny haired drunks at the bar. They were poorly dressed and completely threw my gaydar out of whack.

Still, I sauntered over, hoping to get a clearer read on them. "I'm sorry to interrupt," I said in my closest approximation to a demure, feminine voice, "but do you have a light?"

The two guys turned to me. These were some hella kawaii bishounen, mes amies. The blue haired, flat chested chick ignored me, and I ignored the frigid bitch. But the guys, oh, God-sama, if alcohol was involved, I'd probably end up making a baka out of myself by the end of the evening.

Some might have found the earrings and the high heels to be a deterrent, but I didn't care.

Neither one of them was tweaking my gaydar up close, but I knew that no straight men combine hair that glossy with pumps.

Clearly the only thing to do was to smoke some cigarettes, get plastered, and awkwardly hit on them.

I was really glad that I'd remembered to give myself super reflexes when the pink haired man spit fire at me.

SHAZAM! I suddenly realized that this was the Amazon Trio. Because I was apparently so brain dead that night that I couldn't recognize the three worst dressed humanoids in the history of civilization.

That would explain the decision to write a first person self-insertation though.

I took a drag of my cigarette and tried to think. Most importantly, I was going to be bitch lighting off myself for the rest of the evening, because there was no way in hell I was going to ask the carnies for another light.

I also paused to contemplate the question of whether or not I was a role model, and, if so, what responsibilities did I have to my readers? Was it wrong of me to constantly promote a lifestyle of drinking away one's sorrows and smoking away one's stress, boredom, and frustration?

I concluded that anyone who thought I was a positive role model was up shit's creek anyway.

"Is this one of those fics where all the crappy ass fan fic writers get killed?" I asked. I was not reassured by the silence.

I'd been expecting them to ass it up, actually. They may have been your classic, Tennessee Williams alcoholics, but that didn't mean they could make a decent margarita.

I was delighted to have been proved wrong. Apparently the Amazon Trio was going to send me to heaven, before they sent me to hell.