(no subject)
Feb. 2nd, 2005 11:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
doyleI'm in love with the Bonsai story generator. You plug in a few of your fics and it produces lots of oddness. And some of it makes a weird amount of sense. Or not.
*
The cake is vanilla and universes.
He nods, acknowledging it, but they are in Brazil, and Gunn leaves a plum-coloured smudge around Nina's feral smile.
She smells like yellow plastic ducks at the streetlights.
Riley is… hot.
Willow naked in Boston, making our move, then?
You smell like Fred again, and there's no discussing it.
Sounds like a bitch, but you can’t seem to get that couples can be eaten cold.
You’re his shoulders and Angel thinks, sadly, that you don't pull out some French guy.
Gunn left orders that the First Evil would have spontaneously combusted before and Kennedy’s hard-earned cynicism is your job, studying the mid-afternoon sunlight for maybe the right genetics, not Lindsey - to be dealt with tequila, Willow is downstairs, too, and she should be a Slayer. The significance is done with.
The Harbingers have a cake.
Kennedy's body was ready to be called to Principal Wood’s office.
They’re in her head, bleeding into one, Illyria says.
Riley trains, except she's not wolf- shaped but she doesn’t hit her, just friends.
He likes that she knows her future doesn’t include lung cancer or having sex
Rain and demons underneath it so he watched it, so mad at the same results.
Cassie figures there’s no point going to punch Spike if he didn't call Wesley's parents in Vancouver.
Spike's gone east, looking for a bitch, but complains about whether she is.
You should tell her something like that, that her palm hurts like men and outdoor fires attract demons.
Cordy's telling him of whether she can smell the weapons cabinet mysteriously rearrange themselves.
The Harbingers have no reservations about time and retching.
*
Those Harbingers, they love their cake.
*
The cake is vanilla and universes.
He nods, acknowledging it, but they are in Brazil, and Gunn leaves a plum-coloured smudge around Nina's feral smile.
She smells like yellow plastic ducks at the streetlights.
Riley is… hot.
Willow naked in Boston, making our move, then?
You smell like Fred again, and there's no discussing it.
Sounds like a bitch, but you can’t seem to get that couples can be eaten cold.
You’re his shoulders and Angel thinks, sadly, that you don't pull out some French guy.
Gunn left orders that the First Evil would have spontaneously combusted before and Kennedy’s hard-earned cynicism is your job, studying the mid-afternoon sunlight for maybe the right genetics, not Lindsey - to be dealt with tequila, Willow is downstairs, too, and she should be a Slayer. The significance is done with.
The Harbingers have a cake.
Kennedy's body was ready to be called to Principal Wood’s office.
They’re in her head, bleeding into one, Illyria says.
Riley trains, except she's not wolf- shaped but she doesn’t hit her, just friends.
He likes that she knows her future doesn’t include lung cancer or having sex
Rain and demons underneath it so he watched it, so mad at the same results.
Cassie figures there’s no point going to punch Spike if he didn't call Wesley's parents in Vancouver.
Spike's gone east, looking for a bitch, but complains about whether she is.
You should tell her something like that, that her palm hurts like men and outdoor fires attract demons.
Cordy's telling him of whether she can smell the weapons cabinet mysteriously rearrange themselves.
The Harbingers have no reservations about time and retching.
*
Those Harbingers, they love their cake.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2005-02-02 12:21 pm (UTC)What I love most is the way this could actually be a real sentence.
no subject
on 2005-02-02 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-02-02 12:31 pm (UTC)Damn that Mississippi pineapple anyway!
no subject
on 2005-02-02 01:42 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-02-02 12:42 pm (UTC)I got: 'People can drive out, crash over and listening to moan and making him and planted his own jeans off in my conviction, I moved forward and chronic hangovers together.'
So, if you plant jeans, do you get a denim tree? And does it require the conviction to grow? [boggles]
no subject
on 2005-02-02 01:21 pm (UTC)I like that one and I don't know why. And hee! Harbinger cake!
no subject
on 2005-02-02 03:00 pm (UTC)So simple, yet so eloquent.
Spike's gone east, looking for a bitch, but complains about whether she is.
Just like that Spike. He's never happy with his bitches! These are really funny.
no subject
on 2005-02-02 03:29 pm (UTC)They’re in her head, bleeding into one, Illyria says.
This really sounds like an actual logical sentence from a story. And, in fact, from a story I think I'd like to read.
You smell like Fred again, and there's no discussing it.
Hm. Vampire senses at work? *g*
no subject
on 2005-02-02 03:55 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2005-02-03 01:17 am (UTC)somea lot of actual fic I've read.Mine (http://www.livejournal.com/users/kben/280186.html) got some pretty good results, including: Maybe Sunnydale had sparked the internet, but her brain wasn’t computing much actual experience.
Story.of.my.Life.