"I Have a Whole Armada of Ships That No One Approves Of"

After a recent discussion with a friend of mine (or series of discussion; she and I butt heads often) I have come to realize that many of my "ships" (relationships, for those of you not in the know. A fandom term. A better definition here) are not universally accepted. In fact, only a few of them are actually liked. Perhaps if I give you a list and a description of each, you'll understand.

First fandom: Sherlock
I ship the requisite Johnlock, I mean, how can you not? The ship fuels itself, but I also ship Sherlock/Moriarty, which is one that not many people ship. I find this a bit sad, because they are clearly made for each other. But perhaps the reason I ship it is because I enjoy mutually-destructive relationships. I mean, what good can really come from have a high-functioning sociopath and high-functioning psychopath in a relationship together? Probably nothing, but some really good fights.

"Nemesis" by Montya on DeviantArt

Fandom: Marvel/Avengers
This is the one my friend and I fight about often. She ships Steve/Tony big time, and I just can't get it. I feel like Steve is just too All-American boy scout to be gay, even for Tony. However, I personally ship Tony/Loki. I mean seriously, think about it. Tony is a manipulative, charming playboy who feels that no one is really worth his time, and Loki is a hot-headed god who also feels that no one is worth his time. When they meet each other, they've both just found the one person who doesn't kowtow to them based on reputation alone. Neither one really respects the other, and so their competitive nature comes out. When Loki finds someone who doesn't grovel he feels the need to break them, but Tony won't be broken, and vice versa. I feel that this relationship is actually a good one, because they come in as equals who don't respect each other, and over time they do. So basically Tony/Loki for the win.

FrostIron - Morning Sunshine by AlexZoe on DeviantArt

"Tony x Loki" by Cheezah on DeviantArt

Fandom: Supernatural
Here's the big one. I ship Wincest really hard. And I know that after the frist season came out, it was the biggest ship in the fandom, but seriously, who actually ships two brothers together (other than those weirdos who ship Thor/Loki. I just can't)? But I do, and it's the one ship that I pour the most time into. As one Tumblrer put it, "you start to ship Wincest, but you don't really think about it, and then Wincest comes in and takes over your life." And it really does. I used to be the world's biggest Johnlock shipper, until I got into Supernatural, and now all of my other ships are on the back burner because of Wincest. I write, I draw, I read... all Wincest. I haven't actually read a different slash pairing fanfic in months. Mmm, Wincest. Or as I like to put it:
Friend: "Remember, gay porn over incest!"
Me: "Or both, since I ship Wincest!"
Friend: "..."

"SPN+ Chaste kiss" by Leyla-Lovely on DeviantArt

At any rate, there are planty of ships I sail that others approve of, and so I won't be stopped by just a few "haters." So ship who you want and ship who you like, because... it makes you feel good (I just wanted to use those Nicki Minaj lines.)

Don't ever stop shipping!

Tanner Foust and my inability to flirt

As a follow up to my earlier post about Tanner Foust, here are some shots of the lovely man himself, looking pensive and serious, shot in very deep black and white. Because that's the one adjective you can clearly apply to him. Deep. Or at least you can apply it to me. 

And an adorable Instagram picture he tweeted. Why is he so cute?

I won't apologize for my complete lack of shame. I'm not sorry. But look at me. Look at my life, look at my choices. Maybe he'll stop by Firebird Raceway sometime soon and I can abduct him meet him. That would be nice. He'll be charmed by me and my coquettish ways. I'll bat my eyelashes and twirl my fan around and maybe let him get a peek at my ankles. Because I can't flirt. If I lived in a Jane Austen novel or it was the early 1900's, I might be able to snag a man. Unfortunately I am not, and a woman's ability to catch a husband no longer rests with her ability to dance, smile and, in my opinion most importantly, have a good grasp of society, art, music, and the running of a large estate. 

Now, and even then, it's based on whether or not her boobs look good shoved nearly up her nostrils. But unlike then, a woman is found attractive if she isn't as smart. No longer is emphasis placed on knowledge. Glittering generalities, or do those awful blonde jokes have a grain of truth to them?

My argument is bolstered by the my father. Every once in a while when I'm creeping on the popular chicks in my school on Facebook (never in person), he'll pop up behind me and make awkward comments like "oh, she's cute." When I lament the fact that God is unfair and despite her having a small waist and a pair of 36Ds, she's as dumb as a post, Dad goes, "no, no, that's all right. Dumb is good." I give him my best "shocked and appalled" face, but he won't be chastised by me. 

My observations are also helped along by the amount of teen relationships in my school. Dare we notice who they are all between? The cliche jock and cheerleader/dancer? No! Say it isn't so! The hot guy, who himself is low on the brain wattage, picks the dyed blonde who wear his two favorite colors, short and tight? She laughs at all of his horrendously awful jokes and constantly tells him "I love you, baby, you're my everything." Oh horror! It's true!

Ergo, the best way for me to pick up dudes is to do a complete 180 on my personality and appearance. 

Thankfully for me and the rest of the downtrodden female population, deliverance is upon us. We just need more mature men! So far my mother's wise words have been repeated by such reputable sources as Jim Belushi and my best friend's parents. Men don't mentally mature past 8 years of age until they hit about 35-45 years old. Sad, but true. 

However my baby Tanner Foust is 38 years old (June 13, 1973, if anybody cares), so I think that he and I will get along perfectly. I'd better work on my giggle though. 

My Reality Check on Men

Nobody gives me more flak over the men I choose to like than my little brother.
Case in point: Having recently begun watching the US version of Top Gear, I have been reminded of how much I like Tanner Foust. I kept it on the DL before this, but as of late I've been pretty out and proud with my various celebrity crushes.
Today my touching but sad crush on Mr. Foust was called into question by my younger brother, who at the ripe age of 11 has seemingly deemed himself the ultimate expert on men in general, specifically on how terrible the men I choose to like are. The only time he can put together a good joke is when he's making fun of me (and understand that my brother is one of those people who try very hard to be funny but just aren't, and come off as irritating and slightly pathetic). I was verbally patting myself on the back, loudly, about how good my boards are on Pinterest, and the family stopped by to investigate. One of my boards centers around guys who I find physically appealing, and so, naturally, there are several pins of Tanner on there. My brother noticed this (how could he not?) and began his usual commentary.
"Ew, you like him? He's how old?" (38 years of age, thank you very much. I'm still down) "He's going to be so old by the time you marry him. Like, fifty. He'll have wrinkles. You'll kiss him and his jaw will fall off." Here he continues in a wizened voice (and began to mime a man with a walker) "Honey, will you help me into bed?" Then continued his diatribe in a normal tone, "Hahaha, you won't have kids together. All your money will be spent on one of those chairs that moves him up the stairs," and on and on ad nauseam, until I started hollering at my mother to make him stop.
It was continued throughout the day, being brought up when Mom voiced concerns about Tanner's height (the internet says he's 5'10" which Mom countered with, "that means in real life he's about 5' 6", honey") and later on as I questioned my own ability to park (quickly answered with a snarky "will Tanner have to teach you how to drive?").
I was not unaware of my brother's negativity up to this point, far from it. These not-so-subtle put-downs about the men I like have been happening to me for quite some time. And no celebrity of mine is immune to my brother's disdain towards them, for no apparent reason. It's happened to Tom Hiddleston, Chris Evans, Robert Downey Jr. and best of all, my one and only Benedict Cumberbatch. No one is safe.

Fangirling or How I Pretend to Be Sane

My friends who know me have grown accustomed to my unbelievable fangirling over minuscule things that pertain to the actors whose lives I follow with fervor. However, the one reason I’ve never pimped myself out as a hard-core fan is because I don’t want said individual celebrity, should they ever discover me and my depth of love for them, to think that I’m an absolute nutjob.

Because really, if I were a seriously famous actor (which I’m not nor will I ever be) and I found out that people followed my life and work with an attention to detail that would put a high-class forger to shame, I’d be creeped out. Flattered, but still. I mean, there’s a line, and I think that today’s fans, myself included, cross that boundary with alarming regularity. We, as a society, have so devoted ourselves to knowing things about people we’ve never met simply because they are in the public eye, which is odd. Besides appear in films, what have they ever actually done? But I digress.

Back to my original point, which was brought on by a blogger whose name need not be shared because it is irrelevant, is simply this: I think that being a rabid fan is ok, but stop forcing the entire world, those actors as well, to know about it. No matter how much the actors themselves insist that they are flattered by us, there are a few out there who need to show a little propriety.

Scale back on your attempts to contact them. Stop showing up everywhere they go. Quit taking creepy pictures of them when they’re just trying to get a cup of coffee. For God’s sake, leave their families alone if they don’t want to be in the limelight. Stop making the rest of fans, who don’t make it our life’s work to discover everything about this person, look like kooks.

Just a personal opinion. I’m not saying everyone is doing this, and I’m certainly not telling anyone to change their habits. Just… think about them.

Goodwill Has the World's Creepiest Clientele

Today was Goodwill's 50% Off Saturday, which happens every other week. Mom and I go every sale day, and we are so hardcore that we are part of the crowd that you see lined up outside the store before it opens. No shame.
What does worry me though is that we seem to be the most normal people there. Here's who we had at Goodwill today.

We saw Casanova again. No, not really, not even close. This guy is short, Mexican, and kind of weird. We first met this guy two weeks ago while standing in line to get in. Mom made a passing comment and he started a conversation. Well, I say conversation, but it was more like he kept talking to Mom while she was trying to brush him off and talk to me. During that day he managed to find each of us about two more times and try to start up a conversation. Both Mom and I handled the situation. We thought we had successfully avoided him, because how many times do you run into the same person at the same Goodwill?
I saw him first today. I happened to look up and there he was, and he starts talking to me.
He goes, "Hey, how are you?"
"Yeah, fine," I mumbled, hoping he would go away (I'm not completely antisocial, but seriously, dude, leave me alone).
"Oh yeah? How's your mom? Is she here today?" He continues, raising his eyebrows.
Being thoroughly skeezed out, I say, "Um, fine, I guess. She's around here... somewhere," waving my hand around my head indeterminately, "but anyway, I gotta go. Bye."
I thought I had lost him, right? Like maybe he could take a hint and leave me alone? Bro, we happened to swap two sentences weeks ago, it's not like we became bosom buddies. But no. While I was helping Mom weed through what she had found, I had taken off my shirt and was now lounging in a large armchair with just my cami on (look, I had been trying other shirts on over it so I didn't need to be in the dressing rooms as long. I'm not a skank) and suddenly she chirps, "I have to go to the bathroom. Stay here," and she disappears. Who should skulk around the corner at that moment? Casanova. I looked in the opposite direction, literally hurting my neck as I tried to make it clear that I didn't want to talk. So close, but no banana.
"Tired?" he asks.
"Uh, yeah. You know, long day shopping, and all," I said vaguely, even though it was only about 11 AM.
"I know what you mean. I found lots of clothes too," he said.
"Mm, that's awesome," I said. I mean, do you want a cookie?
He smiled, and left. Thank Jesus, I was safe.
I related my tale of woe to Mom later in the car, and she goes, "Oh my God! He found you too? I thought it was just me!"
"Oh, no such luck, Mom. And he asked about you," I said, and smiled suggestively at her.
She looks at me with mild revulsion, and proceeds, "Yeah, I saw him and he goes 'Hola' and I was like, look here, pal, I am in the men's section. Not because I need a man. So I say 'Hi!' really loudly. He sort of took a step back and said, 'Oh, yes, hello. How are you? I don't know why I thought you spoke Spanish,' and I said, 'Yeah, I don't either.' It was so weird."
He made another comment to her, and then she made excuses and left, rather hurriedly.
So that's Casanova, the creepy stalker Mexican.

While I was lounging in the aforementioned chair I happened to look up and see this tall, overweight man testing a pair of binoculars. In my direction.
I thought, "No, Isabela, he's not looking at you. Stop being so paranoid and narcissistic all the time. You're not that good-looking. Nobody likes you. He's probably looking at the wall on the other side of the store. Which makes sense, because I'm too close for the binoculars to really work. Right?"
He lowers the binoculars, and makes eye contact with me. ARRGH! No, he was looking at me... with fucking binoculars. Who even does that? And the best part? As he put them down, his wife appeared and tried to pull him down the next aisle.
I slithered lower in my armchair and cried internally.

Then while Mom and I were standing in line, this guy carrying a huge-ass pile of blue shirts bustles passed us. Now, while this may not sound interesting, it was. I couldn't believe how huge this pile was. 20 shirts, at least? And all light blue. He was coughing on them, with that gross, rattly, gurgle-y cough sick people have, and was trying to push through the throng of people in line without so much as an "excuse me." Because politeness is for pussies, I guess. Mom looks at him, then leans in and says to me, "God, what an absolute jerk. No, really buddy, we love it when you hack all over the merchandise. Oh, and he was a complete douche to the lady behind the specialty counter. An absolute douche canoe. I don't even..."
About a minute later Mom taps me and punts down the men's short sleeves aisle. It's Douche-Canoe, open mouthed hawking all over the clothes, even though he had a free hand to cover his mouth. But he was too busy pawing through the shirts, amassing another pile in his arms, this one of orange and white shirts. Weirdo.

Anyway, those were the most interesting people today, barring Tourette's Man, since I do not need to be told I am a horrible person for making fun of people with legit problems. Which I don't, but there are some seriously uptight people out there.

And if anybody cares, I got some awesome stuff at Goodwill.

Is it wrong that I want this to happen?

This is probably my favorite Sherlock drawing from Sash-Kash (their kiss is my icon on Tumblr), but she never ceases to amaze with each new post.