i miss the part, when we were moving forward now
I went shopping today for paper towels and some sort of antihistamine that isn't Benedryl, and got into one of those moods. Y'know? The kind of mood where you wander, zombie-like, through the isles, fluorescent lights making you dizzy and disoriented until you end up with two packs of bubble gum, a copy of Fargo (on sale), and a nutcracker painted like a Mountie. Wait, what? Yeah. A nutcracker Mountie. I fail at shopping.
I should be writing. I have ideas and I have a lot of half finished crap , like this:
It starts with a pounding heart, speeding pulse, maybe a skipped beat: the little thrill of arrhythmia. Then come the sweaty palms, the matted hair and the itching ankles.
Pete tries to breathe--slow and deep from his center. Yoga breaths. He feels like he might hyperventilate. Too much oxygen. Too little?
“I wanna write a rock opera,” he tells Patrick, scratching at his elbow. “Like Tommy. Or Dream Theater. Or, shit, no. Jesus Christ Superstar. You’ll be Christ.”
“That goes without saying,” Patrick says, looking up from where he’s sprawled on the lounge floor with a notebook. “I guess that would make you--”
“Mary Magdalene.”
“Of course,” Patrick nods and then sings, “And I’ve had so many men before--”
Pete hums along, nodding.
“We should perform it naked,” he says, a second later, tugging at his shirt. Liking the idea on a personal level right now; now when the world seems to be squeezing in on him, all bright and jagged.
Where the HELL am I going with that? And why can't I write NBA porn? I'm getting behind the story in my head and eventually I'm just going to get lost.
Whatever.
It's a little bit late, but how fucking cool was Supernatural last week? I mean, LINDA FUCKING BLAIR, right? Her voice alone is worth the lack of the Impala.
Three random things:
1) My favorite smell is a mandarin orange scented candle right now.
2) My brother's crush on Davey Havok is becoming embarrassing.
3) VEGAS AND PANIC! AND grammar_glamour IN LESS THAN A MONTH! So, for those two of you on my flist who are in the bandom with me and know anyone who's going to Vegas too and might want to hang out and get fucked up and be inappropriate, let me know.
I should be writing. I have ideas and I have a lot of half finished crap , like this:
It starts with a pounding heart, speeding pulse, maybe a skipped beat: the little thrill of arrhythmia. Then come the sweaty palms, the matted hair and the itching ankles.
Pete tries to breathe--slow and deep from his center. Yoga breaths. He feels like he might hyperventilate. Too much oxygen. Too little?
“I wanna write a rock opera,” he tells Patrick, scratching at his elbow. “Like Tommy. Or Dream Theater. Or, shit, no. Jesus Christ Superstar. You’ll be Christ.”
“That goes without saying,” Patrick says, looking up from where he’s sprawled on the lounge floor with a notebook. “I guess that would make you--”
“Mary Magdalene.”
“Of course,” Patrick nods and then sings, “And I’ve had so many men before--”
Pete hums along, nodding.
“We should perform it naked,” he says, a second later, tugging at his shirt. Liking the idea on a personal level right now; now when the world seems to be squeezing in on him, all bright and jagged.
Where the HELL am I going with that? And why can't I write NBA porn? I'm getting behind the story in my head and eventually I'm just going to get lost.
Whatever.
It's a little bit late, but how fucking cool was Supernatural last week? I mean, LINDA FUCKING BLAIR, right? Her voice alone is worth the lack of the Impala.
Three random things:
1) My favorite smell is a mandarin orange scented candle right now.
2) My brother's crush on Davey Havok is becoming embarrassing.
3) VEGAS AND PANIC! AND grammar_glamour IN LESS THAN A MONTH! So, for those two of you on my flist who are in the bandom with me and know anyone who's going to Vegas too and might want to hang out and get fucked up and be inappropriate, let me know.