just found out there's no such thing as the real world
[accidental video]
[The entry opens on Dan jolting awake from where he's laying slumped on a bench, snoring softly. The right side of his face is bright red from being smushed against hard plastic. He may be drooling a little.]
I'm up, I'm up! Crap, I'm going to-- Okay. Okay, this is weird.
[He trails off, rubbing a hand over his face, and grimacing as he hits a drool-y part. Just great. At least no one's around to see it, right?]
This isn't the L. Or Brooklyn.
...I could be wrong, but I don't even think this is New York.
[He stands, stretching, then runs a hand through his hair.]
Coma. Could be a coma. Maybe the L crashed and burned in a singularly hideous fashion, and I'm just... in a coma in some triage unit. Maybe it's on the Upper East Side and Blair is throwing a 'Dan Humphrey Might Die' party. It'll be tasteful and impeccably decorated. Every guest gets to write obscene messages on my face in their own custom Sharpie color. [He runs a hand curiously over his chest.] This coma feels... weirdly just like not being in a coma. Then again, I've never been in a coma before. Maybe all comas are like this.
And I have officially rendered the word coma meaningless through overuse. And, I'm talking to myself. Still. My bright future as the crazy guy on the corner of Eighth is off to a running start. I should stop showering. Maybe grow a beard, start that tin can collection. Jen can make me the right outfit, and Blair Waldorf can spit on me a few times a day just to make sure I know my place.
[he sighs, stretches a little, staring around him and taking in the view.]
...So, to recap: I don't know where I am other than 'not Brooklyn', I'm talking to myself, and all I can think is 'and I never got to see the sun rise over Vienna'. I don't even want to go to Vienna. I'm pretty sure this is the worst coma ever. It follows, right? Be Dan Humphrey, have the worst coma.
I guess it could be worse. I could be in a coma starring the amazing manipulation talents of the one and my own personal Mephistopheles in Prada, with added scenes from Chuck Bass. Serena having sex with Nate over in a flowerbed in the corner, Jen showing up naked. Like French film, only without any of the redeeming qualities. Maybe a better production value.
Then again, if hell is person specific, that's hell. Not a coma. So on the upside, I'm not in hell.
[ooc: SOB bedtime, dropped tags picked up tomorrow, and so on.]
[The entry opens on Dan jolting awake from where he's laying slumped on a bench, snoring softly. The right side of his face is bright red from being smushed against hard plastic. He may be drooling a little.]
I'm up, I'm up! Crap, I'm going to-- Okay. Okay, this is weird.
[He trails off, rubbing a hand over his face, and grimacing as he hits a drool-y part. Just great. At least no one's around to see it, right?]
This isn't the L. Or Brooklyn.
...I could be wrong, but I don't even think this is New York.
[He stands, stretching, then runs a hand through his hair.]
Coma. Could be a coma. Maybe the L crashed and burned in a singularly hideous fashion, and I'm just... in a coma in some triage unit. Maybe it's on the Upper East Side and Blair is throwing a 'Dan Humphrey Might Die' party. It'll be tasteful and impeccably decorated. Every guest gets to write obscene messages on my face in their own custom Sharpie color. [He runs a hand curiously over his chest.] This coma feels... weirdly just like not being in a coma. Then again, I've never been in a coma before. Maybe all comas are like this.
And I have officially rendered the word coma meaningless through overuse. And, I'm talking to myself. Still. My bright future as the crazy guy on the corner of Eighth is off to a running start. I should stop showering. Maybe grow a beard, start that tin can collection. Jen can make me the right outfit, and Blair Waldorf can spit on me a few times a day just to make sure I know my place.
[he sighs, stretches a little, staring around him and taking in the view.]
...So, to recap: I don't know where I am other than 'not Brooklyn', I'm talking to myself, and all I can think is 'and I never got to see the sun rise over Vienna'. I don't even want to go to Vienna. I'm pretty sure this is the worst coma ever. It follows, right? Be Dan Humphrey, have the worst coma.
I guess it could be worse. I could be in a coma starring the amazing manipulation talents of the one and my own personal Mephistopheles in Prada, with added scenes from Chuck Bass. Serena having sex with Nate over in a flowerbed in the corner, Jen showing up naked. Like French film, only without any of the redeeming qualities. Maybe a better production value.
Then again, if hell is person specific, that's hell. Not a coma. So on the upside, I'm not in hell.
[ooc: SOB bedtime, dropped tags picked up tomorrow, and so on.]