In general, I'm a pretty fluffy person. I write fluffy fic (even fluffy deathfic). I have fluffy icons. I like fluffy shows. I have a fluffy dragon on my desk, and a fluffy cardigan on my chair. I have fluffy hair (in Vala-esque pigtails today). I'm not big into teh hate and anger stuff. 

I thought I knew where I was going with this, for a while there, and then I realised... I didn't. Apparently my brain is fluffy, too. Yeesh.

Contrary to the fluffiness, I'm going through my periodic phase of 'I want a motorcycle'. I want a 1960's Triumph - a Bonneville, or a T-bird. Or a Norton. Or something of that ilk (as if I could afford it). Much empathy for Sam's bike fetish. I totally fall for the completely bogus glamour thing, despite the fact that a) it's impractical, and b) it will vastly improve my chances of dying horribly in a mass of twisted metal. Me [heart] bikes. 

Me [heart] guys who bike, too - witness my crushes on Spike, Wolverine, etc. Even Sir Richard of Anderson has got hisself a new charger. But even if I could afford one - and I'd be much better off putting any such imaginary funds towards learning to drive and getting a car - the mother would freak. She's entitled to this one - her sister's boyfriend died in a motorbike crash, and she's otherwise laid-back about whatever I do. 

There are so many reasons not to get one. But oh, how I want one.