It's all in the font?

To protect my happy little car and ensure the big bad police don't take Lil Neon away, I have car insurance. Yup, that thing we pay for monthly which we pray we'll never need and (on short pay weeks) can't figure out the real purpose of?

I received an e-mail from Esurance (the carrier who insists that high premiums and the biggest deductibles on planet earth are beneficial to my personal growth) which details the exciting new change... Are you ready? Sitting down? Defibrillator on hand? Good.

They've changed their logo from this...

To this...
Why? Well, thank goodness I have an e-mail to explain it! I'd have gotten my statements and though them to be fraudulent - and possibly filled with anthrax - had I not known of this change.

They believe - and this is quoting from the source material - that the new logo "is modern and approachable." So what I've gleaned from this is that the new black, lower case font is modern (in that way that means a child who hasn't learned about capitals wrote it) and approachable (in that way of nice old ladies who never shun you). So I can now walk up to the new logo and shake its E?

If they waste actual paper - thus killing trees - to inform others who lack e-mail, I'm switching companies, approachable, modern logo or not!

Confessions of an Addict...

Hello, my name is Zaedah (sorta) and I write fan fiction. I have been an addict for years and I am confessing for the good of my soul. And also to gripe.

For those out of the loop on this worldwide phenomenon, fan fiction is the blatant stealing of someone else's characters for the purpose of bending them to your will. Let's face it, how many times has your favorite show either jumped the shark or created unbearably slow or unfulfilling storylines. Fan fiction is our way of setting right these wrongs. I write original works too, but fanfic is a great venue for stretching one's craft with unusual premises, unique genres and receiving simultaneous feedback.

Of course, it's also (in my selfish opinion) the highest form of flattery to the TV gods. We like the characters so much that we pilfer them and make them live in new and exciting ways. For no money and less prestige. I enjoy this so much that for the last few years, I've also served as a beta for other writers. A beta is what we spiffy internet folks call editors who, like fanfic writers, make zero bucks for the effort.

My gripe?

I take the art seriously, spending time that I should use to work on my tan to instead plop in front of my computer (which I don't do enough in my ten-hour work day). Lately, I've helped a few new writers who are, to be excruciatingly polite, novices and, to be utterly rude, deficient. I used to blame texting, which teaches us to squeeze whole ideas into as few letters as possible. Now, I'm shifting the guilt to the Word Verification box. You know the one. Many bloggers require readers to suffer these boxes when leaving a comment. Many websites use them to verify payments. And the words used are in no way actual words, unless you're a new fanfic writer, in which case you're sending me whole paragraphs filled with the following (taken from actual word verification boxes)...

ancedn, suptill, tratoxi, sesse, volodebu, matouff, mighhobi, crocizat, busaggr, diosogy, oushili, kyrreo, lasich. Do you want more? I've got more!

How are the impressionable youths of our society supposed to develop brains sophisticated enough to produce works of literary art when they spend their days typing the above nonsense? It makes one's eyes cross just looking at them. I tried to ponder possible definitions for this sampling of words but my brain melted and I had pour it back in.

Still gelatinous I'm afraid, but it won't stop me from writing my fanfic!

Oh happy day... I get to be counted.

Like most Americans who check their mailbox once a decade, I eventually noticed the little form in my cluttered box. It's time to join the masses and get census-ed!

Yipp-freakin'-ee.

It was, as the sole resident in my apparently too-fascinating-to-be-missed house, a fairly short form to complete. I had only to answer about myself, a relatively simple request. But I fear my place in the universe still eludes me.

Is it bad that I lied on question # 4?

They want my phone number in case 'we don't understand an answer.' Considering they're multiple choice, what's not to understand? Plus, I'm thinking... telelmarketers are bad enough, so why give the US Government permission to text me at all hours? Don't get me wrong, I like Obama, but I don't need him to call me at 3 am for my opinion on foreign policy. My views on Israel/Palastine relations get fuzzy without enough beauty sleep.

Having debated whether to use a write-in option for gender and listing my age as negative two, I finally mailed the little beast, which will ensure local funding and appropriate seats in Congress. Thus my life is made infinitely better in ten short questions because they now know that I rent...

In which dating turns (really) ugly...

VH1 should be renamed. Remember when it showed (oh, what do you call those brightly colored, three minute thingies?) videos? Unfortunately, the channel has cordoned off a scant one hour of programing specifically related to those thingies and the rest has become a haven for those who just can't get enough CELEBRITY DATING SHOWS!!!!

Are you one of them? They have help for such folly... I think it's called A LIFE!

Seriously, thirty beautiful women - lacking actual careers and, dare I surmise, marketable job skills - strap on their hair extensions and fight over the species to your left. Seriously, would you date him? And when I say fight, I mean erupt in b***h slapping, hair-pulling, 'your momma' insults and the ever popular backstabbing. Really, how do these chicks manage to walk upright in stilettos with a machete so deeply lodged in their spines? Many of these long-legged samples spackle on enough make up to lend a conservative visage to drag queens and we're supposed to root for them based on the displayed talent of cattiness. (anyone remember New York?)

After one season of clawing past whiners to win the gold-toothed heart of Flav, a new batch was summoned from a porn casting couch to battle for the prize to your right. Apparently, Bret's time with Poison didn't introduce him to his eternal angel among the groupies. Have you noticed that despite multiple seasons of both Emmy-worthy shows, neither fella has found true love? Why? Because everlasting devotion isn't grown under the unflattering lights of reality TV. You've got a better chance of finding your soulmate stocking the nut aisle at the local Whole Foods. Naked.

I remember dating (through the haze of a decade's sabbatical) but I don't recall ever having to lower my shame tolerance and compete for men who are clearly in it to rekindle their dwindling celebrity. The women must pole dance, take lie detector tests to prove their love (having been nurtured for two days) is true. Let's face it, the guys aren't looking for forever... they, like their suitors, are on a quest for fifteen minutes and since the viewing public digs a catfight, they'll get it.

Stop watching, people! It only perpetuates the mind-numbing cycle. After all, the aforementioned New York got her own show and now we've got season one of Ray J, who must be a celebrity of impressive caliber since I've never heard of him (though at least he doesn't hurt my retinas). You have to wonder what sort of person needs to go to such lengths to find a date? Surely even Match.com would accept an account from B-listers.

And I have to wonder why I, who protest the existence of such fare, know so much about them?