Author has written 27 stories for Final Fantasy IX, Sonic the Hedgehog, Final Fantasy VII, Misc. Plays/Musicals, Kingdom Hearts, Final Fantasy X-2, Tomb Raider, Final Fantasy XII, and Shadow Hearts.
Vixen like the reindeer. Not the prostitute.
"Vixen, where are you?"
Alright. Since my health is about as fleeting as Kerry's stand on Iraq, I present you with my Live Journal. It's my personal website, and here is where you can find out what exactly is going on in this psychotic reality I refer to as my life. It's on Friend Lockdown, meaning all you have to do is add a pretty little comment, let me know who you are, and you shall be added with great zest and gusto. Amid the tales of medicinal woe, I also try to incorporate some highly infatuating fandom and sneak peeks at whatever else I happen to be working on. So go ahead, click on the link, and let's become bosom buddies!
(Never mind the fact that I lack the prerequisite bosom to become said bosom buddies ... we can pretend, isn't that right?)
Let it be known, I update almost every day XD
EDIT: Let it be known the above statement was made ages ago - like, around the same time the earth began to cool.
EDITING THE PREVIOUS EDIT: Let it be know the above statement situated below the other above statement was made when my doctors still thought I could operate under the coma inducing amount of sedatives they prescribed to shrink my ever swollen brain. Since then, they decided to introduce The Vix to Ritalin. Insanity has ensued. And after a twelve month hiatus? Guess who's ready to render 'missing in action' an obsolete term when it comes to describing their emotional status?
(Pay no heed to the fact that my MARITAL status is the same as it ever was. And by that I mean: perpetually single. I should look into joining a convent or becoming a nun. I hear the hours are good. My screen name may prove to be a problem, though. Unless I could somehow convince them the etymology of said screen name is derived from that of a female fox ... or in my case, a neglected reindeer ... I don't foresee that career choice ending all too well.)
O_O Don't like long profiles? O_O
Have no fear! Simply scroll down to the bottom of the screen, and skip it!
I won't even know you did it!
They Labeled Me A Drama Whore And I Obliged
There was once a girl who was on her way to college - a smile too big for her face that she had fabricated through a steady diet of caffeine, and a head too full of ideas she had managed to cultivate in order to mollify the constant reminder that she really wasn't the girl she always wanted to be. Attribute her downfall to whatever you deem plausible, for in the end it matters little, and nothing you could say now will be able to change the fact that four days after her high school graduation, that same girl's smile cracked her face and she was driven to the Emergency Room, compliments of a very sterile ambulance and a paramedic more hopped up on energy drinks than I.
Ahem. I mean: she.
Third Person. I forgot.
Anyway - this stupid smiling girl would spend the next couple of years ruminating over what could have been if only she had faced down her demons before they began to manifest into a tangible form - and by that I do not mean something you can necessarily see on an MRI - and would then waste the next four years of her life (which were, ironically enough, set aside for a college education and a degree in nursing - for she did not expect to become the patient) hospital hopping and checking in and out of various Infusion Centers like she owned a Disney Park Hopper Pass - and she wonders if she is eligible for her own personalized parking space yet. No matter. She can't drive anyhow. (Oxy-Coffin was never supposed to be on the menu).
She now adamantly refuses to step foot into a hospital ever again - save for every Tuesday when she must, because Head Shrink No. 123 and Neurologist No. 38576 says she has to (and if she wants to keep her medication in supply, which she needs in order to function, and sometimes simply to sit upright, she must acquiesce to - for she does not favor random field trips to the ER in the middle of the night, a time she thought would be allotted to cramming for exams and attending social parties - not getting poked with enough needles to constitute the nick name of The Human Pin Cushion).
... ah, the things they come up with in group therapy ...
So - the problem?
Her brain was swollen.
Whatever the hell the denizens of civilization hospital deem the flavor of the week to be - if it's FDA approved, AETA covers it. And if it's not? They label it 'experimental' - and AETNA still covers it.
At least they did until we lost AETNA.
Ahem. They. Not we. Because this is totally a third person narrative and is in no way meant to represent my own life in any way, shape, or form.
(It is here I will advocate that I am a rabid supporter of situational irony. Feel free to draw your own conclusions. I don't like getting sued for slander and defamation of character. There is a reason the Live Journal is locked, after all.)
And here we will fade to a dramatic black out - for the girl has conveniently managed to forget the past three years due to time constraints and legal purposes.
(However, she recorded these years very meticulously through out her writings - so technically these memories still exist, just not in her head - but rather in binary. And she's alright with that.)
All the more real estate to fill up with obscure vernacular and character fodder. Who needs an IQ, anyway? Yeah, the pills help - but my acuity is the trade off. At least it makes guest appearances every so often, and I - um, we mean she - is able to update a story or two or send out an email or throw together a barely cohesive music video. In retrospect, the girl is very glad she was never tested for MENSA like her sibling - although she'd love to see how the organization would deal with someone such as herself, who happens to be the owner of a fluctuating intelligence - compliments of cocktail narcotic and the like. Have they every kicked someone OUT of MENSA before? She contemplates forgoing the painkillers for a day just so she can take the test and see what happens.
But no matter. She resides in the realm of the hypothetical - and that is usually where she stays.
Reality is a foreign concept to her. She does not speak their language.
She does not want to.
Twenty One. Potential Digital Arts Major. Previously A Potential Nursing Major. (Alas - my epic health decline has pretty much bitch slapped that ambition. It's a long lost cause more so than a career option at this point. I was going to be a nurse before I became the patient. I'd laugh at the irony, but it stopped being funny.) Aspiring Authoress. (Which is the nice way of saying I'm currently unemployed - but can still afford Starbucks.) Incapacitated for three years and running. Is a fan of caffeinated painkillers. Is a fan of painkillers in general. Writes obsessively. Thinks Balthier is a demi-god, and should be revered as such. Does not particularly care for vegetables. Axel belongs with me, not Roxas. Thinks we should tell AETNA to shove it and hire Larsa as our own personal medical insurance. Has a little brother who compulsively nags her to update Repercussions. (It was his initial idea, which I, in turn, initially mocked.) Has a thing for blondes. Male blondes. Has an affinity with sunglasses. Thinks Zidane does not get the attention he deserves. Also thinks Fran must have one hell of a wedgie.
Loves too fiercely and too much. Loyal if beaten within an inch of her life. Noted for being overtly emotional. Writes until her fingers bleed. Reads until her eyes follow suit and do the same. Her brother has a penchant for referencing his bowel movements at the dinner table. Is single. Does not particularly want to be. Has a weakness for little children and fairies. Is also a camera whore. And would make love to the new Nikon DSLR 40X given the right body parts.
Would like to meet people who are still trying to understand the question as opposed to claiming they already know the answer.
I began mocking the medical industry some time around my seventh hospitalization. I grew tired of angsting and fond of satire - thus I birthed my aforementioned journal to chronicle the escapades of my illness and my numerous attempts to try and defeat it. I try my best to turn every hospital failure into a novella of dark comedy. I figure I will never run out of material this way.
Of course, this epiphany took me two years to stumble upon - and I spent a good twenty four months in the throes of self pity. I blame no one for indulging in such - drastic, life altering outlooks can take years to come by. I consider myself fortunate that I stumbled upon mine when I did. As opposed to, like, never.
Because that would just suck.
I fic and foto. (Intentional spelling errors, by the way. I read the dictionary for fun - chances are if I spell something phonetically - or should I say, fonetikally? - I did so with intent and purpose, usually in an attempt to take a stab at the comedic - I never claimed to be successful.) I also make a hobby out of embarking on various drug addled diatribes and ritalin rants via the wonders of live journal. I feign coherency and like to pretend I know what's going on. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't. It usually depends on what pill is taking up temporary residency in my stomach at that particular moment. You'll know when the words need to stop. Trust me.
I am not one for brevity. You have been warned.
But if you don't like to read then ... um, why are you here?
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Hilarious insight, I know. I'll be here all night.
And that would bring us to right about now - or somewhere within the general vicinity of the present. I am not clairvoyant, and I am not having a flashback - I don't know how my story will end. I don't think any of us do. Save for this one church that writes to me on occasions with eccentric phrases much akin to: 'we eagerly await your inspirational sermon once The Almighty has healed you.'
I don't know if they're fully aware of what they're asking for - sticking me on a pulpit? That could be dangerous. I lose all inhibition while under the influence of Percocet. And I am a constant victim to word vomit. In fact, the entire fiasco may result in blood shed. Perhaps it is best if I refrain from frequenting any motivational speakers until I have something more enlightening to say than: "Sometimes there is no answer to the why - sometimes things suck simply because they were meant to suck. Consider yourself fortunate if you figure this out before you are of geriatric age and laying on your death bed. That way you can still do something about it."
... Probably not what they were looking for.
Let's pretend it started without us - like, we were all visiting the bathroom or something - and they locked the theater doors and now we're shit out of luck and have nothing to show for the obscene amount of money we coughed up to see our epic Broadway show stopper.
They were nice enough to let us in for the finale, though.
So - I'm hoping this is far off? I would like to, um, pro-create and fornicate and stuff.
Or I could just get hit by a truck tomorrow while crossing the street.
You never know.
You mean, what will Vixen do once she kicks this thing in it's nontangible ass?
Multiple ones, preferably.
I don't think that's too much to ask.
May be difficult finding a willing sperm donor, though.
Hm. Should I open the casting call to all who are willing, or should I go out and attempt the feat of seduction - which is always awkward while in a wheelchair, because your direct line of vision is ...
On second thought, never mind.
I think I'll just adopt.
... What I really wanted to write was STANDING OVULATION and see if anybody picked up on my intentional spelling error once again, but I figured that was pushing it - as I have done nothing worthy of a standing ovation. Yet.
That doesn't mean I won't bitch slap this thing and grab the world by the balls, though.
Of course - I don't know what it is, exactly, I plan to do once I am done ... groping ... the world, but I think we've pretty much clarified my world sans the sickness I fight to not identify myself by will consist of more than a cubicle, rose garden, husband, dog, and white picket fence.
... Actually, that sounds pretty nice right about now - minus the cubicle part.
But hell, I'll take what I can get.
And right now?
If indulging in the video gaming fandom is all I have to offer - so be it. I think I'll put in a request for just a little bit more out of life, but I should consider myself fortunate I was not plagued with this monotony before the dawning of cyberspace. Because - holy hell - I would totally be certifiable other wise. Like, think of the worst crack pairing you have ever seen in The Pit, and multiply that emotional trauma by ten. To the twentieth power. Then maybe you'll have some idea what it would feel like to be isolated from the world without the company of a computer.
I changed my mind.
Multiply by fifty. That will give you a much more accurate result.
Doctors suck and that over glorified excuse to lodge wires inside my head (cleverly disguised as 'experimental neurosurgery') proved to be a very futile endeavor.
I'd sue, but I lack the monetary funds to hire a decent lawyer.
Also, I signed a crap load of paper work saying I wouldn't.
BUT COME ON NOW - WHAT JURY WOULD CONVICT ME? I MEAN, REALLY!
... can I get an AMEN on that ... ?
... no ... ?
... anybody ... ?
... okay then; the crickets chirping in the stead of a rebellious drunken mob tells me all I need to know ...
I FINALLY GOT MY NEUROSURGERY!
Good: Maybe I can finally start updating with some sort of regularity.
Bad: I seem to be currently stoned.
(And by stoned I mean by prescribed pain killers. No, Vixen does not endorse the use of recreational drugs. Stay in school, kids.)
Please forgive my random, inexplicable disappearances and spontaneous updates. I've been Hospital Hopping quite frequently as of late, and that goes to explain why I do not, tragically, review reply, email, respond, comment, or IM as much as I want to. Rest assured, if I had it my way, you'd all be getting so many reviews and replies and emails and updates your inboxes would flood to and beyond the breaking point. That being said, perhaps it's a good thing I'm not allowed the resources to fangirl as much as I would like. Your hard drives would suffer immensely. Of this I am certain. As would your corresponding sanity. In addition: my skull surgery is supposedly taking place sometime this coming January. Right. We'll see how that goes.
My brain, in the swollen state that it is, still refuses to shrink back to it's normal size, even after three years of hospitalizations and chronic disability. Ergo, now my doctors are inclined to travel down the experimental route and perform a neurological surgery in which they plan to implant a stimulator into the occipital region of my skull. This should be taking place as soon as I am rendered stable enough to go under the knife, which, unfortunately, is not my decision to make. Until then, we wait in this hellish form of limbo, wondering when they will approve me for my operation, and pray fervently nothing goes wrong in the mean time.
AETNA has finally approved my case and I am being transported to Michigan's Neurological Institute (insert the name of some highly impressive, albeit dead, person and/or saint here) in Ann Arbor, MI. I am to stay there for at least four weeks, possibly longer. (Wow, this will be the longest hospital stay yet.) Hence, if I go missing for a vast amount of time within the month of February, please know I have not carked it or am laying six feet under. I am just rendered temporarily incapacitated, and while I may forced to take a month hiatus due to The Sickness, I promise I will come back with a vengeance equal to that of...um...insert some witty simile here. I'm not running on all four cylinders today.
His name is Bubbles and he is bright pink. Yes, for those of you who don't know, I am referring to my new laptop. (Excuse me while I appreciate this fact: appreciating, appreciating, appreciating...okay, appreciating stops now.) Consider it my early Christmas late Graduation-Oops-You-Never-Got-To-College-Anyway present. My parentals gave it to me after finding out that Michigan has wireless internet access. Meaning: I can potentially connect to cyber space from the hospital bed. And if I'm going to be there for a month, I figure Bubbles will come in handy. That is, if I am not frothing merrily at the mouth or in wrist restraints due to some drug induced rampage I went on to eliminate all men in white coats who like to ram pills in any open orifice they can find. Assuming all goes well, I may possibly be reachable while in Michigan. Then again, I could go comatose and not. Oh well. We'll see what happens.
In other words, feel free to email me, PM, review, IM, whatever. I'm here and writing is my conduit. So don't be shy.
Hope (Angels In Flight) :
Reading Chick:, ,
Vixen2004 (Yeah, That Would Be Me):,
Here you will find some photomanipulated doujinshi scans (gathered from various sources) I altered to fit my stories. If you like what you see, want to leave a comment, wish to see a specific scene paid homage to, make a request, or suggest an idea, feel free to PM me. I love photomanipulating things. It's as necessary to my survival as, like, air.
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