it's 4:47 a.m., on 2001-06-07 - lovin'.
~
My crush on pilar continues to grow steadily.
"Yeah. I wish I could pay me."
She wrote a story titled 'near. and not close' too, which means that now I'm picturing someone, probably, uh, Devon.
"So, who's this Daniel I keep hearing about, Devon? Is he a nice boy?"
Dev would snort, and inside his gut would twist a bit. "Yeah, Oz is really nice. He takes care of people good."
"Well, dear."
"What, mom?"
"You say well. 'Good' isn't grammatically right."
For a minute he's sorely tempted to yell at her, 'druggie rock stars don't fucking care about fucking grammar, so fuck off!' but then training sets in. Oz-training. "Yeah, like, sorry."
"So," his mom would say and not really care, "What's Oz like?"
"He's just a guy I know, okay? In the band." And Devon would taste that lie.
"Does he live nearby?"
'Temples in tibet and monastaries of Buddha, fucking hell', he thinks to himself, 'and he never calls or writes'. Says, "His parents' house is on Oak street."
"That's nice. I suppose," and here's the bomb, "that you two are close, him being in the band."
She always thinks it's 'his band', even though he's just the screamer. A screamer. Bile rises. Oz could live inside him and still be less than close.
"Yeah."
~*~
"OK, so I joined 2 of those diaryring thingies, so clearly I want people to watch me masturbate."
Goddamned, I love people.
I mean, that sounds like a church-sex moment if ever I heard one.
"You had sex with Jesus?"
"Well, he wasn't called Jesus, now was he."
There's a grin on Methos' face and no one, not in five thousand years, has ever known whether to believe him when he gets like this or not. Sociopathic liar? yeah. He saw the ships sail out for Troy, after all.
"You didn't have sex with Jesus. Jesus is just a mythological figure, man. Like Elvis, or the conspiracy to kill JFK and shit. He wasn't really real."
"The horsemen."
There's a pause.
Neither of them missed the fact that both of those examples came from less than a hundred years ago, and that Methos is very much real himself. Last time he looked.
~*~
"I am a whore. Clearly. Because not only do I want people to watch me masturbate, I *also* for some ungodly reason, want to look good while doing it."
I'm so in love.
No, really.
--"Keller, what are you *doing*?"
"I'd think even you could figure that out, Father."
Grin, smirk, godawfully delicious tongue poking out. Bet Keller likes rimming. "I think that you're jerking off in the confessional."
Smiles and a huff. An unngh, but quiet. "Both my hands are clean, Father."
"I highly doubt that."
"Are you going to absolve me yet?"
Puff. Huffing and puffing. Keller imagines the Big Bad Wolf over his shoulder, and his gut twists. Mukada stands up, and sees quite clearly the evidence of hardness in Keller's pants.
Of course.
"You get off on it, Keller."
Doesn't mean he shouldn't get absolution, but Father Mukada doesn't get it yet.
~*~
Trying to decide whether I want to read dawson's creek fic, done by pilar, or sit here and write/read wmf (which I guess I've never given a link to, have I? Though why someone would want to read my masturbatory gay-male character sketches, even if they're cleverly disguised as Sassy's charming x-men movie story...)
Anyway.
I'm feeling all about OZ, here. Wishing I could get -- whoa, pilar did another OZ story and she used the phrase 'balls slapping'. Goddamned.
I just realized something.
For Chris to love Toby, he has to hate himself.
~*~
Much later in the night, now, and I'm hot and hungry, and my toes won't cool down. Why is it that my feet always get hot?
Anyway.
Not much else I have to say. I re-read 'swallow', that n-sync horridness that I wrote to coerce a lot of stories out of someone else--
No, hang on.
Let's step up to the confessional, now.
I've written a bunch of stuff, all shite, about characters named JC and Lance. Of course, I don't know whether they're accurate or not, since I've never read the fic.
I have been forced to watch concert footage, and I have resented the fact that I can see the interest building in themselves. It's like 'Whose Line' slash. You don't want to write it or read it-- you just want to watch it take shape on the TV.
Which, of course, makes me the biggest kind of hypocrite, because I'll whore my skill and my words out for hardly *anything*, but I won't read the fucking stuff, even when River recommends it.
Whoring.
Yeah.
--I'm still sitting, literally speaking on my bed, and metaphorically speaking in the land of online journals, waiting for something to happen. I want River to come online, as I always do, and I want Rossi to finish her collective mutants story badly, because I want to read it badly.
I'd love to see someone in person that I could gather the balls to discuss dawn and spike on the road. KM and Robin, fucking and not caring that dawn was in the next room.
What toby hates. Bobby's hair. Tara's skirts, and how I bet, if you pushed her, she'd love screaming in bed. The difference between Stuart and Brian.
That's why I'm waiting up on aim, I guess. That should mean something but it means less than it should; and it could be deep but it's not because the birds are already chirping outside the window. It's too late for anything to be decided. Late night epiphanies often double as rash decisions.
Late night driving's best. And yeah, I'm still craving that gypsy life.
~
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what would sith be nostalgic about anyway - November 24, 2015
moving truck dilemma - October 28, 2015
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bruise - June 29, 2015
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