amended and restated declaration of trust
*whimpers*
My boss was just like, "You can leave now if you like," and I'm like, "Wah! I have to go to the Apple store at 6:45, so I might as well stay here where it's warm and I have an internet connection."
I am so bored and yet when I opened my yuletide story, I ended up choosing to pay bills instead. Let me say that again. I CHOSE TO PAY BILLS instead of write my yuletide story. I think it might be time for an intervention. Sigh. There's still time, and I know I can do it. I just... get in my own way. And am also completely fixated on this Tyra story, which I think I know how to finish now. And hey, maybe I will write some more since I am stuck here anyway.
I was going to share a snippet, but that feels like giving something away. Instead, have a snip of something else, a post-Bad Day at Black Rock thing that has been amusing me:
Sam glares at his shoulder and puts a hand over the bandage as if he can will the wound to stop hurting. He ignores Dean's sleepy, "Don't pick at it," and Jesus, sometimes it's like Dean is the psychic one, and Sam's never figured out how he does it.
"'m not," he answers, because pressing isn't the same as picking, and God, he really does sound like a five-year-old.
"Go to sleep, Sam."
"Hmph." He wants to roll away so his back is to Dean, but he can't, so he's back where he started, glaring at the bandage and pressing his hand against it, and fuck, he probably shouldn't have done that.
Dean stumbles out of bed, muttering curses under his breath, and trudges to the bathroom. Sam hears the water running, and the snap of a pill bottle being opened, and then Dean is back with a Vicodin and a glass of water, both of which he shoves at Sam with a wordless grunt that means, Shut the fuck up and go to sleep. It's kind of amazing what Dean can convey in a grunt, and Sam grunts back, fine, and even without saying the word he sounds petulant, so he just lies there and waits for the drug to do its work.
***
Well, I think it's cute, anyway.
***
My boss was just like, "You can leave now if you like," and I'm like, "Wah! I have to go to the Apple store at 6:45, so I might as well stay here where it's warm and I have an internet connection."
I am so bored and yet when I opened my yuletide story, I ended up choosing to pay bills instead. Let me say that again. I CHOSE TO PAY BILLS instead of write my yuletide story. I think it might be time for an intervention. Sigh. There's still time, and I know I can do it. I just... get in my own way. And am also completely fixated on this Tyra story, which I think I know how to finish now. And hey, maybe I will write some more since I am stuck here anyway.
I was going to share a snippet, but that feels like giving something away. Instead, have a snip of something else, a post-Bad Day at Black Rock thing that has been amusing me:
Sam glares at his shoulder and puts a hand over the bandage as if he can will the wound to stop hurting. He ignores Dean's sleepy, "Don't pick at it," and Jesus, sometimes it's like Dean is the psychic one, and Sam's never figured out how he does it.
"'m not," he answers, because pressing isn't the same as picking, and God, he really does sound like a five-year-old.
"Go to sleep, Sam."
"Hmph." He wants to roll away so his back is to Dean, but he can't, so he's back where he started, glaring at the bandage and pressing his hand against it, and fuck, he probably shouldn't have done that.
Dean stumbles out of bed, muttering curses under his breath, and trudges to the bathroom. Sam hears the water running, and the snap of a pill bottle being opened, and then Dean is back with a Vicodin and a glass of water, both of which he shoves at Sam with a wordless grunt that means, Shut the fuck up and go to sleep. It's kind of amazing what Dean can convey in a grunt, and Sam grunts back, fine, and even without saying the word he sounds petulant, so he just lies there and waits for the drug to do its work.
***
Well, I think it's cute, anyway.
***