(no subject)
((I'm not sure exactly when this is going to happen, but I'm putting it down, and we'll figure out what is exactly going on later, when everything resettles. I assume it will be after Mark and Roger come home, which would be after the party, in which case, I'll probaly time-stamp it differently in the future.))
Roger never realized how much he missed the loft. Never, ever, even when he went to Santa Fe, he didn't realize how much the loft is his home even though they have no heat and no bedframes. He missed his crappy mattress and his big room and thank god his loft has life. Tom's was so empty.
He drops his shit and rubs the back of his neck and runs his fingers through his new short hair. He was kind of getting used of it long. Well, whatever. The fact of the matter is, for Christmas and New Years, Roger got Mark a fever and a smack into the wall. That would not do. He sits down, taking his old Fender out of the corner of his room and tuning it. He doubts they'll let him keep the two and a half grand brand new dream they gave him after he nearly killed Tom. Ah, well. Can't have everything. He even missed his old Fender a little.
Either way, he sits down on his mattress and finishes tuning, then grabs a notebook and pen and writes lyrics for himself. Not for the band. For himself. No yuppie punk rock for Roger Davis anymore.
Roger never realized how much he missed the loft. Never, ever, even when he went to Santa Fe, he didn't realize how much the loft is his home even though they have no heat and no bedframes. He missed his crappy mattress and his big room and thank god his loft has life. Tom's was so empty.
He drops his shit and rubs the back of his neck and runs his fingers through his new short hair. He was kind of getting used of it long. Well, whatever. The fact of the matter is, for Christmas and New Years, Roger got Mark a fever and a smack into the wall. That would not do. He sits down, taking his old Fender out of the corner of his room and tuning it. He doubts they'll let him keep the two and a half grand brand new dream they gave him after he nearly killed Tom. Ah, well. Can't have everything. He even missed his old Fender a little.
Either way, he sits down on his mattress and finishes tuning, then grabs a notebook and pen and writes lyrics for himself. Not for the band. For himself. No yuppie punk rock for Roger Davis anymore.