fragments of memory

Zito creeps up from behind and pinches Tim's ass.

( For real. )

Tim couldn't have been happier about it, either.

This was an alarming moment.

( More from the game. )

---

Work has been a hot mess this week, so I'm looking forward to packing my bottle of Ketel One and spending a freezing weekend with my friends in Jerome, Arizona. We've booked a suite at the haunted Jerome Grand Hotel, which looks legitimately scary and I'm kind of nervous. I'm not sure what sort of nightlife we can expect from Jerome (hence the bottle of just-in-case vodka), but I suppose we'll find out.

There's a layer of mysterious cloudcover hanging over the city. Driving home earlier, it was one of those magical nights where you're like, "I'd really love to hear 'November Rain' on the radio right now," and then 90 seconds later "November Rain" comes on the radio. That's a very Zito/Lincecum song for me right now.

( Have a gif. )

Two nights of watching Australian Open finals has completely screwed up my sleep schedule. The ridiculous thing is that I really didn't even manage to "watch" either final—I was awake at the beginning, stretched out in bed with the TV on and the best of intentions, but inevitably by the fourth or fifth game of the first set, I'd be slipping into unconsciousness, waking periodically to check the score before drifting off again. It was kind of inefficient, and in the end I don't really know what either match was like. But the effort was made.

I watched 28 Days Later this afternoon. It wasn't as bad (meaning: emotionally traumatic for me) as I thought it would be. Then I went and had dinner with my family and I was very glad they weren't blood-vomiting zombies. It's the little things, you know.

I also watched "A Day in the Life—Tim Lincecum", parts 1–3. He's so...awkward, and his hair is getting so long. I don't know what we're going to do about any of that.

So, yeah. I'm really inexplicably charmed by what's happening over at the typewriters. Like, I live for these updates, not even gonna lie about that.

There's just one thing, though. We were informed of Tim's measurements a while back (in Chapter 11, to be precise, and "six-plus inches", if you're curious), but so far Posey's have remained a mystery. Which is just crazy to me, given that Posey's the one topping and by all accounts is spectacularly large. Well, since we've already Gone There with Tim's specifics, some of us need to know exactly what "lion-sized" means. It seems only fair.

Meanwhile, is it time for Spring Training yet? Now that the holidays are over, I'm in the mood for this, or similar:

Back in mid-September, I was watching one of Tim's starts against the Brewers. He was pitching okay, gave up two runs on a bloop single, it was the fifth inning and the Giants were down 2-0. Tim was getting ready to hit when the Giants' manager, Bruce Bochy, decided to pull him from the game in favor of a pinch hitter (because Tim is a terrible hitter and the idea was that anyone else would be better in a situation where the Giants needed to score runs, which they hadn't been doing consistently, Tim's contributions notwithstanding).

So Tim was pulled, and he was furious. I had never seen him so angry. I mean, I had never really seen him even borderline angry in general, so I was kind of uncomfortable and simultaneously fascinated by Tim fuming on the bench in the dugout.

Then Bochy game over to where he was sitting, grabbed Tim's knees and pushed them apart, and slid his body in between his legs and talked to him and I did not know what to do. First my existing discomfort ratcheted up exponentially. Then I recoiled at the reality of what I was seeing.

And then, I kind of liked it.

Bochy eventually wandered off to continue managing the game, and Tim sat in the dugout like so:


It was explained afterwards that Bochy was "calming Tim down." Mainly all it did was plant a seed of an idea that has been intermittently nurtured over the ensuing months.

So, confession time. Basically, I kind of have a thing now for Tim and older men.

I probably shouldn't. I alarm even myself with it sometimes. And yet I keep collecting photos here and there, pretending it's all innocent, and now I'm going to share them with you.

( Sorry. )

Well, that was cathartic. And embarrassing. But if I can't be honest with my flist, who can I tell such things to?

Please tell me that soupypictures and I are not the only ones reading Urgent Typewriter Correspondence for the Posey/Lincecum WIP that's being posted over there.

I'm amazed by this entire thing. Some guy is literally typing this fic on a legit typewriter and then scanning the pages and posting jpegs online. I've never heard of anything so inefficient, and yet I can't stop going back there to check for updates.

I can't really figure out what's going on with the story—we're almost 20 pages in and there's no sex aside from the surprise!het early on, and I'm terribly afraid that Tim is going to end up topping, and there was a Molina/Lincecum reference (either go balls-to-the-walls with the coercive psychological mindfuck, or don't go there at all)—but I am inexplicably enthralled by this craziness.

I miss Tim a lot, btw; spring training feels like a long time away and I don't really know what to do with myself.

I suppose I should just




ETA: My life is apparently all about gifs now.