SOME STUFF.
May. 4th, 2009 10:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tenel_ka1.) I had 4 episodes of Harper's Island backed up on the TIVO cause I was debating on whether or not I wanted to invest the time. I've watched two of them now. It's totally worth the time. Also, seeing Bobby and Ruby 1.0 (the good one :P) on here make me giddy. Only two episodes in and there's been five murders. Also, the eye candy is AMAZING. Whenever Jimmy comes on I absolutely melt.
Very happy I have been TIVOing these. Will continue. <3
2.) I haven't laughed so fucking hard in a long time:
The Starburst commercial always made me laugh my ass off, but adding Yosuke (and Kanji and Teddie) made it so much better. The facial expressions are perfect. Props to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tsugarusp! :D
3.) I haven't written in way too long. Nothing really has come to me lately. Original or fanfiction. There's always a couple sentences here and there, like the SW one from earlier today. In the past hour though I had two sorts of things. One original long-ass crazy story idea and then there's this bitch.
---
He was dancing somewhere between disgusted, angry and depressed. One of those feelings that didn't have an exact word and was hard to describe, but so very easy to feel.
He had returned from the hospital mere minutes before, half past one in the morning, to an apartment full of drunk roommates. He didn't know where the booze had come from, nor did he care. He wasn't shocked at all when none of them bothered to notice the freshly stitched up gash on his face.
"Hey Pete, sorry we drank all the beer!" One of them called out. Could've been Mark, could've been Gunther.
Peter McVries didn't give a sweet fuck which one it was. They all sounded the same when their words were slurred. He just strolled through the tiny living room area, into his even smaller bedroom and quickly shut the door behind him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do at that point, but he knew it would either be a.) pick up the lamp on his nightstand -- the one without the shade -- and chuck that motherfucker against the wall or b.) slam his back against the door and slide down it for a sob or two.
C. C won. C was Peter standing aimlessly in the middle of his room, jaw slack, eyes glazed over, fingers tracing the stitches over the gash on his face. Touching it hurt like hell, but that didn't matter. What mattered was her.
"Pris."
---
IDEAS. I HAVEN'T HAD YOU IN SO LONG. WELCOME TO MY HEAD. Time to build some stories, yo. :O
Very happy I have been TIVOing these. Will continue. <3
2.) I haven't laughed so fucking hard in a long time:
The Starburst commercial always made me laugh my ass off, but adding Yosuke (and Kanji and Teddie) made it so much better. The facial expressions are perfect. Props to
tsugarusp! :D3.) I haven't written in way too long. Nothing really has come to me lately. Original or fanfiction. There's always a couple sentences here and there, like the SW one from earlier today. In the past hour though I had two sorts of things. One original long-ass crazy story idea and then there's this bitch.
---
He was dancing somewhere between disgusted, angry and depressed. One of those feelings that didn't have an exact word and was hard to describe, but so very easy to feel.
He had returned from the hospital mere minutes before, half past one in the morning, to an apartment full of drunk roommates. He didn't know where the booze had come from, nor did he care. He wasn't shocked at all when none of them bothered to notice the freshly stitched up gash on his face.
"Hey Pete, sorry we drank all the beer!" One of them called out. Could've been Mark, could've been Gunther.
Peter McVries didn't give a sweet fuck which one it was. They all sounded the same when their words were slurred. He just strolled through the tiny living room area, into his even smaller bedroom and quickly shut the door behind him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do at that point, but he knew it would either be a.) pick up the lamp on his nightstand -- the one without the shade -- and chuck that motherfucker against the wall or b.) slam his back against the door and slide down it for a sob or two.
C. C won. C was Peter standing aimlessly in the middle of his room, jaw slack, eyes glazed over, fingers tracing the stitches over the gash on his face. Touching it hurt like hell, but that didn't matter. What mattered was her.
"Pris."
---
IDEAS. I HAVEN'T HAD YOU IN SO LONG. WELCOME TO MY HEAD. Time to build some stories, yo. :O
