there's never gonna be a moment of truth for you
So I did that I Write Like... thing with pretty much everything I've written in the last two years. Which... isn't a lot, and that bothers me, because I remember back in the day when I was a productive member of fandom. I don't know what happened to that. I have all these ideas, and then I try to write them and... yeah, doesn't work out. I am a fail writer, and it makes me sort of sad.
For the record, I got, J. K. Rowling once (Never Slapped Five With God), Ian Flemming and Chuck Palahniuk three times each, Stephen King twice, and Kurt Vonnegut, Bram Stoker, and Margaret Atwood each once. I have no idea what this says about my writing at all. Ideas?
Um. I decided to do something else with my Glee character "drabbles", so, have this! (Which is what landed me my Margaret Atwood result. I'm going to continue to stand over here and be baffled.) I got like, three of these done, with the theme of acceptance, before I decided that I hated every single idea I had for the rest of them.
Learn to Live With What You Are - Kurt - 300 words
Kurt had always been different. He was different before he knew what different was. When he was in kindergarten, sitting with the girls and fingering the lace of Rachel Berry's plum and pink stripped dress; when he was twelve, trying on obnoxious sunglasses with Mercedes in Claire's; when he was fourteen, and watching baseball with his dad, shifting in his seat at the way the uniform pants fit the players-he'd always been different, and he'd always known.
So maybe he didn't escape every cliché, and maybe he spent an embarrassing summer listening to Pink at an obnoxious volume. Applying eyeliner in the bathroom mirror, and scrubbing it off thirty seconds later, shame and something else-something exciting-warring in his belly. He'd hum about being someone else, sometimes, his mouth twisted down in a way that was sure to give him wrinkles, as his dad awkwardly tried to ask about his day.
Nothing changed-except for him. Somewhere in there-between learning to walk in Mercedes' high-heeled Chuck Taylors and an ill-advised grapefruit and Diet Coke diet, between his first Alexander McQueen and the fifth time he was tossed in a dumpster, the song always buzzing under his skin became something different, too.
Kurt held his head high as he walked down the halls, skin faintly pink from another cherry Slushie and his math homework slightly damp. It was like waking up brand new one day, out of nowhere. Karofsky bumped his shoulder, and Kurt rolled his eyes. In Spanish, he wrote through accepting limits on the inside of his wrist in purple eyeliner, just under the soft white leather of his fingerless glove, and smiled as Mr. Schue droned on, because nothing-not even this, not all the differences in the world-was ever gonna bring him down.
---
...Possibly I should go to bed now. Probably I should've done it hours ago. Oops.
For the record, I got, J. K. Rowling once (Never Slapped Five With God), Ian Flemming and Chuck Palahniuk three times each, Stephen King twice, and Kurt Vonnegut, Bram Stoker, and Margaret Atwood each once. I have no idea what this says about my writing at all. Ideas?
Um. I decided to do something else with my Glee character "drabbles", so, have this! (Which is what landed me my Margaret Atwood result. I'm going to continue to stand over here and be baffled.) I got like, three of these done, with the theme of acceptance, before I decided that I hated every single idea I had for the rest of them.
Learn to Live With What You Are - Kurt - 300 words
Kurt had always been different. He was different before he knew what different was. When he was in kindergarten, sitting with the girls and fingering the lace of Rachel Berry's plum and pink stripped dress; when he was twelve, trying on obnoxious sunglasses with Mercedes in Claire's; when he was fourteen, and watching baseball with his dad, shifting in his seat at the way the uniform pants fit the players-he'd always been different, and he'd always known.
So maybe he didn't escape every cliché, and maybe he spent an embarrassing summer listening to Pink at an obnoxious volume. Applying eyeliner in the bathroom mirror, and scrubbing it off thirty seconds later, shame and something else-something exciting-warring in his belly. He'd hum about being someone else, sometimes, his mouth twisted down in a way that was sure to give him wrinkles, as his dad awkwardly tried to ask about his day.
Nothing changed-except for him. Somewhere in there-between learning to walk in Mercedes' high-heeled Chuck Taylors and an ill-advised grapefruit and Diet Coke diet, between his first Alexander McQueen and the fifth time he was tossed in a dumpster, the song always buzzing under his skin became something different, too.
Kurt held his head high as he walked down the halls, skin faintly pink from another cherry Slushie and his math homework slightly damp. It was like waking up brand new one day, out of nowhere. Karofsky bumped his shoulder, and Kurt rolled his eyes. In Spanish, he wrote through accepting limits on the inside of his wrist in purple eyeliner, just under the soft white leather of his fingerless glove, and smiled as Mr. Schue droned on, because nothing-not even this, not all the differences in the world-was ever gonna bring him down.
---
...Possibly I should go to bed now. Probably I should've done it hours ago. Oops.