Quizness.

What Final Fantasy summon are you?
brought to you by Quizilla And everyone says...."Carbuncle? That's the most useless summon there is!" Gosh, thanks, guys.
What's your sexual appeal?
brought to you by Quizilla That suits. Far too well.
Which Personality Disorder Do You Have?
brought to you by Quizilla As does that, if you ask anyone who's listened to me ranting about how things ought to be and aren't in this apartment. I can't wait until I can go through and organise all the DVD's, RP'ing books, and stuff - and have them stay that way. At least until the next binge of studying.
What kind of faerie are you?
brought to you by Quizilla Okay, firstly I'd like to complain that this quiz-maker needs to LEARN TO PUNCTUATE. Sample:

"Your a gothic faerie--you don't like to associate with people if you can help it, you also seem to do better with a very few number of friends and don't always need to be around people you do well by yourself in the dark, the darkness is a sense of comfort b/c you see all the monsters when your in the light. monsters being all the jackasses who give you shit for the way you choose to live your life."

The preceding does not even approach grammatic accuracy, let alone form a comprehensible sentence. A simple spelling and grammar check would have transformed it into something that was at least legible. That aside, I agree with Piccolo...the faerie seems a bit weird. As far as the Office Space quiz...I haven't seen the movie, so that's a nyet. And then...then there's the question that goes: "You witness box with six kittens and their mom inside being hit and smashed in the middle of the road one day and afterwards the road is a bloody mess. You..." I require counselling just from reading that question.
How Emotional Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla And the last one before I post something real...
Which female sex symbol are you?
brought to you by Quizilla I am a BOMBSHELL. Flavour text: "You're kitten-like and sexy. You don't need expensive rocks, you're so classy you overpower your gems. You tend to put glamour before comfort, but it doesn't take much for you to look glamourous anyhow. Men beg for a chance with you, and you can take your pick because, frankly, you're too good for almost all of them." Damn, does that just feel good or what? Too bad it's most likely not true. Glam is so not my thing. As for a real entry, tonight is story time.

Elvis.

I knew Elvis for a week. We met on the railing of the footbridge at Camp Alexander Mack, when I was crossing toward the beach and he was crossing toward the dining hall. I was watching my toes, and I suppose he was too, so when a set of steel-toed boots entered my visual field it was too late to do anything but try to fall off the railing of the footbridge on the bridge side and not the water side. We laughed. And we started talking. And after about a quarter-hour, he said "Oh, hi, by the way. I'm Elvis." "Hi. I'm Nykki," I answered. And Elvis says that that was when he knew we were going to be friends - because I didn't question whether Elvis was really his name. It never occurred to me to ask. We were not "an item", although everyone seemed to think we were. We were friends, because Elvis needed a friend. He was tall and sturdy and blond and he had the sweetest smile. He introduced me to Creedence Clearwater Revival, playing it for me on a little Walkman (after he got over having apoplexy that I didn't know who CCR was). He loaned me his oversized Army-surplus camouflage jacket when it was cold out, and despite the fact that he had short sleeves on, he didn't shiver a bit. We talked. A lot. He needed a friend. I needed a friend, someone who didn't care that I was the weird one, the flirt, the introvert. I needed a friend who would listen to me no matter what I said, who would let me vent my feelings without judging me. And someone who needed me back. We talked, Elvis and I, and it was healing. Especially at night. And we walked out to the Living Cross one night. And you have to understand that ever since seventh grade, ever since the dark morning when some lost soul thought that he'd get his kicks from hauling a hapless seventh-grade girl into an alleyway and fondling her, ever since then I have been...terrified of the night. I'm twenty-three years old now. Twenty-three. And you can ask any of my friends; they've seen me go quiet and pale and start doing everything to make sure my back is against the wall, so nothing can come up behind me. I've learned, over the years, to suppress it, to control it, particularly when I'm not suddenly startled. But then...then it was raw and fresh. And I walked out to the Living Cross with Elvis late one dark evening because I was too embarrassed, too ashamed, to tell him that I was afraid to. Even Elvis. And we were there, sitting on the ground, looking up at the cross shadowed against the moonglow of the lake. It was beautiful, it was romantic, it was sublimely pleasant to be there with Elvis, who didn't touch me, didn't flirt with me - as much as you who know me will find this to be a difficult concept to grasp, I was terrified of people flirting with me at the time; convinced that they were setting me up to take a heavy fall, that nobody I hadn't known for years could be seriously nice to me. We sat. We watched the stars and the moon and the cross. We talked about what it was like to be a ship lost in the night. And then I felt them. It's a sensation like eyes, like a silent audience in the trees and the bushes, eyes watching me, unblinking. An impression of yellow-glowing, and then of the minds behind the eyes, minds filled with menace, with hatred and condemnation. And that sensation, that condemnation, becomes a feeling of filth, a worm of doubt, a sudden conviction that the menace behind those eyes is not empty. And then they part, they clear, they make way for him. There's an impression of a man, classically black-garbed and hidden of visage, his robes flowing around him, coming through the woods. It's an impression of supreme desolation - I do not know what dark part of my mind he inhabits; he has long been condemned there, barred and locked away - but then, then I knew what that presence foretold. I have never stood long enough to face him, to find out what happens if he reaches me. This time was no different. I felt the change, and before I knew it I was running - running blindly, so hard, so fast, that Elvis was hard-pressed to catch me. He did, though. He caught up to me near where the observation deck is now. For those of you who know Camp Mack...that's a pretty good run to make in the dark, without looking. He caught up to me as the inevitable happened, and I tripped. He didn't touch me. Watson...when I panicked once, Watson tackled me. I fought him, even though he probably saved me from winding up in the river. I'm not sure I even recognised him, then. Elvis didn't touch me. He called my name, he stayed back, he waited until I knew it was him, and who he was, and then he let me talk. I'll never forget that, the way he stood back, where I could see him, patiently, over and over. "Nykki. It's Elvis. You're all right. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you." As if he knew, somehow, what was in my mind. And finally I calmed down. And he gave me his jacket again (I never had a jacket with me, even though it was regularly in the low 50's on down) and walked me back to my cabin. And he didn't touch me, and he didn't ever pin me in - he left me room to walk, room to breathe, room to feel that I had a way out. He never laughed or scoffed at what I told him - he was the first person I'd ever felt safe telling about the eyes, and the black man, and Rayla who lived in my head and had a hand all twisted and scarred from the black man's doings in that dark place in my head. He listened, and he accepted, and he knew what to do. I don't know what happened to Elvis. I never saw him after that week of camp. I wrote him one letter and never got an answer. But I'll never forget him. I never could.

Wherever you are, Elvis: I remember.