DQ
So I'm posting this today because it's what I wrote, but it comes with a disclaimer: I don't like it and it's not finished. But I told myself that I'd write everyday and I did, so this is really for no one's benefit but my own.
Instead of focusing on writing, I was doing this and this.
What? My work space needed to be cleaned up!
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Men's Swimming, PG. Unbeta'ed.
08.18.2008 (7:46 AM)
"What Happens In Athens Stays in Athens"
This should be easy.
Are there any last words more famous? Maybe so. This won't hurt a bit probably tops the charts if we're being practical, and that can be applied here, too.
Imagine this:
Two young men.
The inside of a hotel room belonging to one Ryan Steven Lochte. It contains the following:
Three (3) green Samsonite suitcases, two opened in apparently hurricane-esque weather conditions to have ejected their contents so impartially throughout the room.
Four (4) swimsuits of varying conditions, including the one with the hole under the right buttcheek where he hung himself up jumping over the fence at the Gainesville Municipal Swim Club. He'd put the lifeguard stand in the ladies locker room.
One (1) Ipod including but not limited to: L'il Wayne, Rhianna, N.E.R.D, and the Little Mermaid soundtrack.
One (1) copy of The Idiot's Guide to Self-Hypnotism. Just in case.
Two (2) bottles of chlorine treating shampoo, as well as one (1) conditioner.
Though most importantly, and central to this story's slight pre-Olympic Athens-
One (1) self-waxing kit.
This should be easy.
And that is exactly what Ryan is telling his friend Michael Phelps. This should be easy-even though he gets his own waxing done professionally. Here are a few more appropriate cliches for the moment in which Michael is spread on the bed, on a towel, wearing only boxer-briefs and a frown.
No pain no gain.
Suck it up.
Perhaps,
Grow a pair.
And of course,
This won't hurt a bit. (It's contrary to another piece of advice on the list but think of it as a contingency plan. It won't hurt, of course not, but if it does at least you've gotten something out of it. But it won't.)
Warming wax is stirred with a tongue depressor-such handy, multi-purpose items they are-and gets a doubtful eye from Michael. Two doubtful eyes. Our boy only trusts his friend when he's not personally on the receiving end of one of Ryan's "good ideas."
It'll be fine. There's another one.
It'll be fine, Ryan says as he tests a bit of the wax with a fingertip and then rubs it off on a corner of the towel that Michael is positive is only beneath him so that the bed won't get stained by his blood.
I've seen them do this, like, a million times.
That's it, doc, Mike's fucking outta here. He sits up with a loud YOU'VE SEEN?! before getting shoved back onto the bed and handed the saying that holds a magical sway over all males from 1 to 92-
Don't be a pussy.
Michael glares at the underhanded means of keeping him pliable. I hate you, he tells Ryan.
You love me, Ryan insists as he moves one of Mihcael's hands to the bed and gathers a dollop of wax. I know you do. You're crazy about me.
I'm just crazy, Michael has time to mutter to his audience of one, before the really too-close-to-hot wax is being spread down, between his pecs, over the small regrowth of chest hair. It's not like he has much natural talent in the area; his attempts to grow facial hair are weeks in the making.
A long strip of cloth is pressed down over the wax and then smoothed out by a-and he's only admitting this grudgingly-steady hand.
Ryan grips the end of the fabric and looks up at Michael. On three, he is assured. One, two-
Riiiiip.
SON OF A BITCH-!
Ryan's calmly sitting next to him, one leg (baby-smooth, the bastard) tucked up on the bed as he leans over the current and fashionable mode of torture to examine his catch.
GOD DAMN SON OF A BITCH, he's bleeding!
Two blue eyes look up at him and if Ryan isn't smiling then Michael's a monkey's uncle, and despite what the kids liked to call him in middle school he's NOT and NEVER HAS BEEN related to a monkey.
Grow up, Ryan grins. (The number of cliches is outstanding, now, collosal.)
Instead of focusing on writing, I was doing this and this.
What? My work space needed to be cleaned up!
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Men's Swimming, PG. Unbeta'ed.
08.18.2008 (7:46 AM)
"What Happens In Athens Stays in Athens"
This should be easy.
Are there any last words more famous? Maybe so. This won't hurt a bit probably tops the charts if we're being practical, and that can be applied here, too.
Imagine this:
Two young men.
The inside of a hotel room belonging to one Ryan Steven Lochte. It contains the following:
Three (3) green Samsonite suitcases, two opened in apparently hurricane-esque weather conditions to have ejected their contents so impartially throughout the room.
Four (4) swimsuits of varying conditions, including the one with the hole under the right buttcheek where he hung himself up jumping over the fence at the Gainesville Municipal Swim Club. He'd put the lifeguard stand in the ladies locker room.
One (1) Ipod including but not limited to: L'il Wayne, Rhianna, N.E.R.D, and the Little Mermaid soundtrack.
One (1) copy of The Idiot's Guide to Self-Hypnotism. Just in case.
Two (2) bottles of chlorine treating shampoo, as well as one (1) conditioner.
Though most importantly, and central to this story's slight pre-Olympic Athens-
One (1) self-waxing kit.
This should be easy.
And that is exactly what Ryan is telling his friend Michael Phelps. This should be easy-even though he gets his own waxing done professionally. Here are a few more appropriate cliches for the moment in which Michael is spread on the bed, on a towel, wearing only boxer-briefs and a frown.
No pain no gain.
Suck it up.
Perhaps,
Grow a pair.
And of course,
This won't hurt a bit. (It's contrary to another piece of advice on the list but think of it as a contingency plan. It won't hurt, of course not, but if it does at least you've gotten something out of it. But it won't.)
Warming wax is stirred with a tongue depressor-such handy, multi-purpose items they are-and gets a doubtful eye from Michael. Two doubtful eyes. Our boy only trusts his friend when he's not personally on the receiving end of one of Ryan's "good ideas."
It'll be fine. There's another one.
It'll be fine, Ryan says as he tests a bit of the wax with a fingertip and then rubs it off on a corner of the towel that Michael is positive is only beneath him so that the bed won't get stained by his blood.
I've seen them do this, like, a million times.
That's it, doc, Mike's fucking outta here. He sits up with a loud YOU'VE SEEN?! before getting shoved back onto the bed and handed the saying that holds a magical sway over all males from 1 to 92-
Don't be a pussy.
Michael glares at the underhanded means of keeping him pliable. I hate you, he tells Ryan.
You love me, Ryan insists as he moves one of Mihcael's hands to the bed and gathers a dollop of wax. I know you do. You're crazy about me.
I'm just crazy, Michael has time to mutter to his audience of one, before the really too-close-to-hot wax is being spread down, between his pecs, over the small regrowth of chest hair. It's not like he has much natural talent in the area; his attempts to grow facial hair are weeks in the making.
A long strip of cloth is pressed down over the wax and then smoothed out by a-and he's only admitting this grudgingly-steady hand.
Ryan grips the end of the fabric and looks up at Michael. On three, he is assured. One, two-
Riiiiip.
SON OF A BITCH-!
Ryan's calmly sitting next to him, one leg (baby-smooth, the bastard) tucked up on the bed as he leans over the current and fashionable mode of torture to examine his catch.
GOD DAMN SON OF A BITCH, he's bleeding!
Two blue eyes look up at him and if Ryan isn't smiling then Michael's a monkey's uncle, and despite what the kids liked to call him in middle school he's NOT and NEVER HAS BEEN related to a monkey.
Grow up, Ryan grins. (The number of cliches is outstanding, now, collosal.)