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Order's Up! [04 Jan 2036|03:40pm]

THE REGULARS (PB & Character List)


REMUS LUPIN - Harry Potter (Trio Era)
REMUS LUPIN - Harry Potter (AU)
HEERO YUY - Gundam Wing
SHILO WALLACE - Repo! The Genetic Opera

NOEL BAILEY, faux-celeb
RHYS LOWE, faux-celeb
BRAD MARCH, faux-celeb


ENJOLRAS / GRANTAIRE, Les Miserables modern AU
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Your Humble Proprietor [03 Jan 2036|01:58pm]
Good day to you, sirs and madams! I'm Courtney and I... twenty-something years of age. an actress.
...enjoy werewolves, musicals, comic books, bad sci-fi/horror movies, and Jackass
...dislike sharks, bad music, and El Mustachio.

...have 10+ years of RP experience. on the West Coast, available most afternoons and weekdays.
...(usually) write third-person storybook, in scenes.
...strongly prefer threading lines, but can possibly be persuaded to use Yahoo/AIM.

Wanna talk? Comment here or reach me at:
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The Regulars [02 Jan 2036|02:18pm]
Aaron Tveit
Clémence Poésy
Anthony Rapp
Emilie Autumn
Cillian Murphy
Emma Watson
Cole Sprouse
Jena Malone
Eli Roth
Lizzy Caplan
Ewan McGregor
Lyn-Z Way
Jackson Rathbone
Miranda Otto
James McAvoy
Natalie Portman
Jesse Spencer
Scarlett Johansson
Joe Anderson
Sarah Paulson
Logan Lerman
Zooey Deschanel
Milo Ventimiglia
Robert Sean Leonard
Ryan Cartwright
Ryan Dunn

List of favourite FANDOM CHARACTERS available HERE.
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Sample Platter - Thread Example - Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Miserables) [13 Aug 2013|05:35pm]
ME: If whispers were exchanged about why Enjolras allowed Grantaire to attend meetings, when the gatherings at the cafe turned to such, he never caught any of them. And, certainly, the time for such curiosity from their friends had long since passed. In truth, it always excited him to see Grantaire's face in the small crowd. At first, at least. There were plenty of other wine shops for the man to waste his time in, plenty of doorways to be drunkenly slumped against, plenty of tables to be unconscious and drooling over. But to see him alert - or, at least, awake - and sitting amongst the rest of their friends sent a burst of adrenaline through Enjolras. He was fooled into being pleased every single time. Grantaire almost certainly made sure that the pleasure never lasted for long.

Tonight, it began early. Which, in a way, worked just as well as, if not better than the quieter nights when the other man took longer to get wound up. At least the interruption could be dealt with swiftly and moved on from. But while the ejection helped put the meeting back on its proper course, it did nothing to quell the almost physical itch of irritation that Enjolras could feel, scraping up his spine, clawing at his neck.

No one expected him to wait around, when they had adjourned. Had he wanted to, he could have left as soon as he'd given the final word and no questions would have been asked from mouths that belonged to those who mattered. But he lingered. Even took a typically-declined offered glass of wine before departing. Did it help? He couldn't tell. Only drank it quickly and departed, when he was finished.

He didn't bother with a knock. The door to Grantaire's room was cracked, so what was the use? It wasn't as thought the man would have any other visitors. "I don't expect an apology," he announced, setting his books down on the table nearest to the door. "But if you've composed something, I'd gladly listen."

[info]sailed: Had he been closer to drunk, still, Grantaire might have been startled by Enjolras bursting through the door. As he was, it didn't, and he even took a moment to look up from the page, in the hopes of looking deliberately inattentive. Though he shouldn't have, and he knew it, just as he knew he shouldn't have behaved poorly, earlier.

But when he did look up, he flipped his book shut, and lay it aside, halfway under the bed. "Of course I haven't. You'll listen, yes, and then you'll tell me I'm not sorry for anything, except being cast out." The trouble was, it was true, and Grantaire was sure they both knew it. He always felt sorry, when Enjolras was visibly upset, but most of the time, he'd committed whatever transgression with the sole intent of arousing some kind of reaction from the other man. And he knew Enjolras would say that, if he was really sorry, he wouldn't have done it, in the first place, knowing it would bother him.

Grantaire tapped his pencil against his knee, looking up at Enjolras, but otherwise not moving. For as rotten as he'd been about everything else, he wouldn't get up, until there was some indication that he should. "I am sorry for that," he said. "I had plenty more to say."

ME:Enjolras stayed near the entryway, drummed his fingers on the cover of the book atop the stack he'd just set down. Wondered if he deposited his things too quickly, might need to collect them and turn around, after all. So, the night's disruption wasn't over. Clearly the efficiency brought back to the meeting, with Grantaire's absence, would be made up for now.

He never made any claim to accept the apology he had known, walking in, the man would not provide him with. But that wouldn't keep him from listening, in the event of a miracle. A waste of breath, though, since Grantaire seemed to have the motions of the discussion worked out, even before he walked in.

"Should I leave, then?" He tapped his lip, absently, considering doing so without much further inquiry. "If your evening would be better spent, elsewhere, expounding your genius to the city, I would hate to hold you up."

[info]sailed: "You wouldn't have found me here, if it was." Grantaire thought that should have been just as self-evident as anything else, but Enjolras hadn't been entirely serious, had he? Not about the last part, anyway. Grantaire knew he wasn't making empty threats, about leaving. Not poised as close to the door, as he was.

The pencil was pushed away, with his sketchbook, and Grantaire sat up a little straighter, against the side of the bed. Slumping for so long had put an ache between his shoulders, but he let it remain, for now, lest he look like he was getting too comfortable. "Don't leave. Please. If you do, don't let it be on my account. I can find a stopper for my vitriol."

ME: "Mm." Not serious - or, at least, sincere - in the least. What he actually hated was not knowing whether or not Grantaire would continue where he'd left off, earlier in the evening. While it would give him no pleasure to go home or unleash the other man onto the streets, Enjolras would much rather see Grantaire take his disagreements elsewhere. Or. Well. Would have to be elsewhere, himself, while Grantaire continued to be disagreeable. He couldn't very well kick a man out of his own room.

"Yes, I do believe you can, but," Enjolras clarified, taking a few steps away from the door. To add to the ever-growing list of doubts he lamented needing to have on his friend, as a reminder to not get his hopes up, "I don't believe you will. Still." His pace was slow, but not quite reluctant, towards the bed. "I would prefer to be able to stay."
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Sample Platter - Thread Example - Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Mis modern AU) [13 Aug 2013|05:30pm]
ME: The trouble that came with the security (...frustration?) of always knowing where someone would be, at any given time of the day, was never knowing how capable they were of putting a stop to being where you knew they were and being, instead, where you needed them to be. It couldn't possibly have been more than ten minutes, but Enjolras stabbed at his phone for what felt like the thousandth time, only to be greeted with still no answer. And an increasingly wetter screen, which he could dry off on literally nothing about his person. The best he could hope for was wiping it against the inside liner of his briefcase, but that would mean putting it away and putting it away meant that no one would be sending unanswered-despite-being-set-as-high-priority texts.

It's four in the afternoon, he punched in. Don't you dare be asleep.

Followed by, In the time it takes you to notice this, the storm will have passed.

Where are you?

But the worst of it was that, no, this storm seemed stubborn enough that it would make for a pretty worthy opponent against Grantaire. What he ought to have pointed out was his own ability to make it back home, braving this sudden swell of weather, in the time it would take the other man to answer his first message of I hate to even ask, but please come pick me up. The walk, on day of less torrential downpour, was pleasant. Something he preferred to take, on his way to and from class. Even earlier, when the rain had been light, he had been fine.

Too bad something had shifted so dramatically, in the two hours he had been indoors, that not even halfway across campus, his umbrella not only caved under pressure but tore and created an unpleasant waterfall. So. Saturated through every single layer he had put on that morning, Enjolras took shelter at a bus stop and did all he could to wait patiently for a response from his lazy, almost-certainly unconscious boyfriend.

Five more minutes, he promised himself. Then a trudge back to the student centre for roughly an hour's wait, drenched to the bone, until he could try Courfeyrac or Prouvaire. Given the choice between taking his displeasure out on his phone and the broken umbrella, he chose the real culprit and heard another one of its ribs snap as his grip tightened.

[info]sailed: It would have been far more surprising, if Grantaire was not only up, but paying attention to his phone, at four in the afternoon. He had a similar level of expectation, regarding Enjolras's whereabouts. Enjolras moved like clockwork. He had various and sundry obligations, sure, but they all happened at the same times, in the same places, every week. The idea that he would have an emergency, or meet with some derailing inconvenience, was almost impossible to believe, when he was generally so firm and unyielding about everything going the way it was supposed to.

So, unless Grantaire went out on a limb and decided to go to his own afternoon class, he was accustomed to waking up to Enjolras coming home, anywhere within the same fifteen minutes, almost every day. Today, he woke up on his own, and was disoriented to realize that it wasn't the front door banging shut, or the bedroom door opening way too fast for his unconscious brain to handle, but the opposite of that. It was still quiet, and even though it was dark and cloudy, he had the feeling it was later than normal. Blearily, he reached for his phone, and stabbed it into life. Crap, after four. Double crap, half a dozen texts from Enjolras.

It took him two readings, for his sleep-fogged brain to figure out what the series of increasingly aggravated texts were trying to convey, and when he did figure it out, he wondered if Enjolras wouldn't have already started walking, by now, and if there was really no point in trying to retrieve him. No, the rain sounded pretty heavy. Even if he had started off on foot, by now, Grantaire still ought to go and try to find him. Time to get up.

Forty-five seconds, one pair of untied sneakers, and one too-light hoodie later, Grantaire was out the door and...immediately sorry he hadn't taken two more minutes to get properly dressed. The rain blasted through his hoodie in the time it took him to get from the front door, to the car. Oh well. At least he was awake, now. Normally, he'd say fuck it, and text while he drove, but the rain was actually thick enough that that seemed like a bad idea.

im coming, he sent Enjolras. That was going to have to be good enough. He'd apologize when he got there, even though he didn't think he was exactly to blame for anything.

It should have taken no more than five minutes (if that, to get to the bus stop. But between the wind, the bucketloads of water, and - more importantly - all of the people driving like assholes who have never seen weather in their lives, it took almost double that. But finally, finally, Grantaire pulled up, and reached across the front seat, to unlock the passenger's side.

ME: Committed to that clockwork by which he moved, Enjolras had begun counting down the seconds and was on his feet at about two hundred forty-five, two hundred forty-six-ish. At this point, what difference did it make to dare to stick his head out from under the shelter and glance, longingly, back in the direction of the building that might as well have been an ocean away. Literally, almost, with all this river, sprung up between it and his hardly safe haven. Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy...

His phone buzzed and sent a long avoided shiver up his arm and, subsequently, down his spine. It felt like giving in, letting this natural disaster of a delay win. So, he stiffened up and jabbed at his screen. And sat down, heavily. To a resounding squelch against the bench. The sick tremor that shot up his back almost made him drop his cell, as his hands twitched in frustration, for want of something else to do besides drip water and poke at electronics (that might end up waterlogged, anyway) and exist at the end of his arms, damned to rub against the edge of the washcloth that his sweater sleeves had turned into...

He had to close his eyes and literally bite the inside of his lip to keep the full-body spasm at bay. The sound of moving water hit his ears before the tires and car engine did. And he stood, again, just in time to catch a mild wave coming over the curb and washing over his shoes. ...Perfect. He had no energy left for a reaction.

The car door swung open and, first, in went the infernal shamble of an umbrella, followed (violently) by his briefcase, and then Enjolras himself. With another hard and heavy sit, cursing the passenger seat to a fate similar to his own. Even if the rain hadn't been pouring in as he wrenched the door, almost stuck and scraping against the pavement shut.

"You just woke up," he said, after a moment of silence. It was almost even a question, even though they both knew it didn't need to be.

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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Brad March (OC) [09 Feb 2011|05:53pm]
As predicted, after a long night filled with dreams of being shot at by helicopters in restaurants I go to with my old Haunt boss who's been moonlighting as a forty-something scene kid who sells energy drinks for charity in an outdoor mall, I sat up out of this bizarre haze of unconsciousness around eleven-thirty and, as soon as I was done realizing I'd better blow my nose or else suffocate, the first words out of my mouth were a squealy, "Oooh, that's diirtyyy!"

Shut up, woman. Get on my horse.

It's never. Going. Away.

About an hour later, I still can't say I'm completely recovered from any of that, but I've moved far enough away from my bed to the papasan (stop judging, I can feel it), so I could reach my laptop and give this thing a little wave before I disappear, again, into the XBOX. I give myself another half a day to wrap this binge up, otherwise I'm callin' in some kind of reinforcements. I acknowledge that it's not healthy for me. I acknowledge that I shouldn't be crying when I have to put a controller down and sign off because I have to go to work. I acknowledge that I shouldn't be yelling at anyone but myself for needing to tap out for an extended trip to the bathroom, after insisting on doing Taco Bell for dinner.

...Lunch, I mean. I don't know, I don't remember what time it was. Twitter doesn't have timestamps, I know. But go look at that, I guess.

When I'm done with this binge, it's probably time to take a shower. (And shave.) (Maybe.) They stopped yelling at me about that, maybe three years ago, when they realized I was right to want to make the viewers, the audience feel comfortable. At home. So they got used to the smell. Tzeitel's young, though. Fresh blood. We have to lull her into a false sense of security, first, before unleashing that.

For now, I'm nursing a bottle of water, stuffed with three packs of Emergen-C. Or at least what, at CVS, looked enough like Emergen-C that I bought it while we get rained out, over here. This nose-blowing thing better have been a one-time deal because I'm pretty sure I gave up colds for New Year's.

No, wait. That was hair gel.

Whatever it was, I'm not keen on letting the rain win. Especially since, back east, those sons of bitches are getting a snow day. Do we get a rain day? Can we get that going, somewhere? I mean, it's not raining now, but yesterday was miserable. Let's get one of those retroactively put into action, okay.

All right. Some kind of breakfast of champions, first. We'll check the freezer. Then, whether I go or it goes first, this madness ends TONIGHT.
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Sample Platter - Thread Example - Cassidy Johnson & Brian Dalton (original) [09 Feb 2011|05:47pm]
ME: It's Christmastime, there's no need to be afraid... If she had been drinking, already, and not just coming in to obtain a drink for herself, Cassidy would have sporfled something hot and laced with coffee all over the Promising Young Athlete who held the door open for her with a disarmingly friendly smile and the Denim Skirt With Tights And Uggs (In this weather? Really?) who jealously pushed passed both of them before she could come in. Ah, Red Hook Starbucks. Bustling with frantic swears of unpreparedness, the deafening clicks of fingers against keyboards, the constant hiss of the latte machine, and the underlying waft of 1980s bleeding heart musicians out of the speakers. In other words, the sounds of the season. Unlike what she assumed had to be literally every other one of her fellow students, Cass had the time to absorb this soundtrack, enjoy it. While everyone else whined and pissed and moaned and scrambled to prepare for their last academic hurrahs before disappearing for winter break, all that remained to be crossed off her to-do list was a final paper for Art & Internet, tomorrow.

Tomorrow, late afternoon. So the idea of jumping on that, tonight, seemed ridiculous. Equally as ridiculous was Chris's insistance on turning off his cellphone after the third time she called him, whining about how she needed someone to kill time with at Starbucks. Didn't he realize what an inconvenience that was? Cass hated going on adventures without at least one partner-in-crime in tow. What if she ran into someone she hated? Who would save her from the awkward conversation? No one, if she had to go stag.

But, obviously, in the end, the need for a gingerbread latte won out. The line nearly smooshed against the door she had come through, but as soon as she was inside and unwrapping the six-foot scarf obscuring her face, she heard someone call her name. Guy Who Looked Like Legolas waved to her, when she looked up, from behind the counter.

"Gingerbread, right?" he called, nudging another cashier out of the way to snag a venti cup and gesturing for her to meet him at the pick-up counter.

"Thanks, Ian!" she called back, skipping through the crowd and planting herself in front of the counter, hands folded under her chin while she waited for her on-the-house drink. Which was delivered to her in due haste for naught but the price of a hair-ruffle. She had almost turned her back when someone else pulled her attention back.

New-ish Girl With Pink Streaks Whose Name, she seemed to recall, Might Be Something Gender-Neutral handed her a paper bag. "Peppermint brownie," she informed Cass with a grin not too dissimilar from the one she'd gotten at the door from Ugg & Skirt's boyfriend. "You were so excited about them on Tuesday."

Cass gave her a hearty, "Fuck, yeah!" with a subdued fist-pump, blew her a kiss, and set off to do battle for a table.

...Which were all inconveniently very full. Even her stupidly uncomfortable armchair in the corner had someone's fat ass in it. Ugh. If a seat wasn't taken by a body, it was holding up piles of purses and coats and legs. All of them. ...Except the bathroom table. Sure, the table itself had a pile of equipment on it, but the seats were vacant. Both of them. "Hmm." Fortunately, and she confirmed as much when scanning the line she'd bypassed, she recognized that equipment. Who else brought a joystick into a coffee shop? No one that she knew and that was saying something. So, without a second thought, she set her drink and snack down and began the arduous task of removing her multiple layers of cold-combatting gear in order to sit comfortably.

[info]sailed: The even more absurd part of the whole thing was that the joystick was as big as the laptop, and between the two of them, the tiny table-built-for-two had about two spare inches of space, behind the laptop screen, for anything else that needed a place to rest. But that was what the deep window ledge was for. Drinks, pencils, and propped open books all fit there, and it came with the added bonus that any too-hot drink passed to you by the baristas wouldn't be too hot for long, after sitting next to the freezing glass. Of course, it had the opposite effect in the summer. The effect of totally destroying the ice balance in any glass of iced tea you dared bring near your seat.

Just as the effect of the warm coffee shop was having a less than ideal effect on Brian. It should have been relaxing him right into doing what he came to do, but instead, it calmed him just enough that he started to feel guilty for turning off the sound on his phone and shunning the losers who needed him. Well, they weren't losers. Most of them. Most of them were just overwhelmed, frightened freshmen who hadn't gotten the proper prerequisites in their high school algebra classes, and yet, mysteriously, had been passed straight into trigonometry, and were just completely lost and in over their heads. People who didn't have time to be fighting with uncooperative equations, when they also had more thought-consuming things to do, like write the first papers they'd ever written with a length requirement of more than two pages.

Suffice to say that Brian was less than impressed with your typical public high school education, but rather than look down on anyone for it, he just felt bad. Bad enough that, by the time he was out of the line, a drink identical to Cass's in hand, his phone was out, and his head bowed, skimming through texts while he made his way back to the table. Cass sort of faded into the background of all the other random bodies milling about, and he didn't notice she was actually sitting right across from him until he flipped his phone shut and reached for the power switch on his computer. Oh. He thought he recognized her, too, but the people he had talked to once or twice, here, all kind of blurred together. "Hey," he greeted her, because it would be rude not to. "You can sit there, I know it's really shitty in here, but you're not gonna have room for your books."

ME: Cass followed her tablemate with a smile, as he approached. For as big as his computer was, she actually planned to be not surprised when he never noticed her, at all. She was tiny, after all. The whole screen probably blocked her, even if she sat up straight. Which she didn't. As soon as her gloves were off and tucked away in the pockets of her overcoat, she scrunched up in her chair, knees into her chest and latte pressed to her lips. She hated window seats, convenient ledges or not. If she wanted to freeze in the winter or gain an uneven sunburn in the summer, she'd just sit on the patio.

"Hey, Ryu," she responded, cheerily, when he did acknowledge her. Pleasant surprise. "Sorry I commandeered your foot chair," she added, even though she wasn't terribly. It seemed like the friendly thing to say and Cass was nothing if not good with friendly responses. To everyone. ...To a fault. Which was really why she needed Chris to come be her buffer, lest she accidentally allow herself to get caught talking to someone unpleasant, in a moment of weakness. But, for the most part, it served her well. (Clearly. Who else, in the room, had been called to the front of the line for free drinks?)

Anyway. She liked Street Fighter Kid and his stringy scene hair, hidden under the hood of his black, Hot Topic zip-up. The whole package was just great. Greater than Legolas, almost, who she knew for a fact wore his hair half-up on purpose but wouldn't recognize a d20 die if it bit him on the ass. Faux nerds were so disappointing. Street Fighter Kid always seemed like the real thing.

"I'm not studying," she assured him, reluctantly setting the latte on the window ledge in favour of digging into her brownie. (From Devyn, who'd been kind enough to write her cell number on the underside of the paper bag...) "Just nomming and hanging out, 'til my friend calls me back." And, since they were such good friends, "What'd you get to drink?" she asked. Like she might know him well enough to guess. Cinnamon Dolce, maybe.

[info]sailed: "Actually," Brian said, and now he remembered this girl, solely because he could recall not correcting her, the first time she said it. "I've never played Ryu. If you're going to do that, call me Vega." The first time, he had been mid-game, and attempting to say anything at all to her, or even listen with more than a sixteenth of his brain, would have been extremely ill-advised. Of course, the internet had cut out almost directly after she approached him, killing his game anyway.

He didn't have anything at all to call this girl, but he did remember that she was chatty. Maybe this was a sign, he thought, as he punched in his password, and the computer booted up the rest of the way. A sign that he should not get completely absorbed in anything and should, in fact, respond to these texts. With this girl sitting there, if she continued to talk to him, he couldn't blatantly ignore her. And he couldn't converse and play at the same time. It would never work. Answering some stupid texts and talk...that, he could do. Until this girl left, it looked like that was what he had to do. He bent the screen down just enough that he could actually see her, over the top of it. "Gingerbread," he replied, since she asked, not knowing they were drink twins. "Who says 'nomming'?"

ME: Besides the girls (particularly Chun-Li and Cammy) and Ryu, though, Cass couldn't recall any other Street Fighter characters. Did she ever know any of them? Probably not. She much preferred Mortal Kombat, if not just for the uppercut function...the only (simple) combo she ever learned on a game system. Everything else invovled button mashing, Street Fighter definitely included, despite the fact that she'd only ever encountered it in arcades, where she had to use a joystick instead of a controller. Joystick mashing? Yeah, something like that.

As much as she hated being corrected, especially once she had saddled someone with a name she knew had to fit them, she appreciated that his passion was great enough that he felt the need to set her right. "Vega," she repeated, after him. Her love for him blossomed by the second.

"Gingerbread? Drink twins!" she sing-songed in a way that would have made her mom proud, apparently still playing Parrot. Excited, mind Parrot, but on repeat-mode, nonetheless. "Me, too!" she continued, like he wouldn't have picked that up. "I like it better at the Borders cafes, though. I've been trying to talk Ian into telling his manager that they need little gingerbread guys to stick in the whipped cream, too, but I might be the only person who thinks it's a good idea." She popped a chunk of candy cane-coated brownie into her mouth, but didn't bother to swallow before going on. "I say nom. The whole internet says nom! I'm practically writing an essay on it."

[info]sailed: Brian could see some sort of creepy adoration thing happening to the girl's face. He wasn't sure what was going on with that, and really hoped her loud exclamations were not some previously unseen method of hitting on him. That would make this conversation veer out of entertaining territory, and straight into wildly annoying, really fast.

As it stood, it was kind of entertaining, because the girl was clearly a nutbag. He probably should have assumed this about her, previously, but he couldn't remember doing so. He began stabbing at the screen on his phone, deleting the texts he could quickly weed out as unimportant. AKA, texts from people he actually knew. They could write him again, later, when he was done with all the little freaked out freshmen. Some of their messages needed deleting, too. The ones that weren't making any specific request of him. The ones that just wanted to whine, and had for some reason decided his status as their tutor meant they could complain to him. "It's not really the whole internet. It's people who think they're being cute, or people who think using it is ironic. What kind of an essay is that, anyway?"

ME: Anyone else might have taken the use of the phone, in the middle of their conversation, as a sign to shut up and sign off. Of course, anyone else wouldn't have sat down at someone else's table and procede to start a conversation with them, calling them by the name of their favourite video game character. Cass consumed her brownie like it was popcorn, staring patiently at Vega while he finished up whatever important business he had on his phone. Or, she gathered, gave up trying to temporarily ignore her, maybe alienate her off. She - inexplicably - took it for granted that most people should know how difficult to scare off she happened to be.

"I'm doing it ironically," she announced, although it happened to be one of those things that she had begun using ironically but accidentally let slip into her natural vocabulary. Like "roffle", "double-ewe tee eff", and "biffles". But she had an excuse for it. "One of my boyfriends is a hipster. Irony's kind of contagious, sometimes." She traded out the last half of her dessert for the coffee, hoping to save it before the ice window chilled it to the bone. "It's for Art & Internet. With Coonley?" Just in case he was familiar with the class. If he wasn't? He ought to be. "I'm covering the art of the meme. Like LOLcats, Rage Guy, Scene Wolf...that kinda stuff."
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Sample Platter - AIM Example - Shilo Wallce/Graverobber (Repo! The Genetic Opera) [21 May 2008|03:10am]
ME: During Graverobber's first absence, at least Shilo had been able to sleep and ignore the fact that she was utterly alone. However temporary that was, she couldn't stand it, would probably never get used to it. Even when her father had been out on business, she still felt him looking over her shoulder. She hated him for it, most of the time, but she was familiar with it. Still, being alone in the house with an unlocked, even open bedroom door shouldn't have seemed so daunting.

Almost immediately after his departure, she pulled her window shut and sat in the seat that surrounded it, for at least fifteen minutes, in silence. But if he came back and found her like that, she had a feeling he'd probably be pretty disappointed. So she climbed down from her perch and shuffled over to the dresser to collect her phone. Not that she anticipated immediately needing to make any calls, she just ought to have it on her, if she was going exploring. Another security blanket, of sorts. Rather than leaving just yet, though, she made her way to the dresser, rooting through the drawers for something she could put on, make herself more presentable in for Graverobber's return. But her heart wasn't really in the search, so, another twenty minutes passed and she came up empty-handed. When she left for the bathroom, black wig in hand, she still wore her nightgown.

At least washing her hair gave her a task, something real to keep her occupied the next little passage of time until her friend returned. Came home. Friend. Seemed silly, now, to try to think of him as just that. It wasn't really the case anymore, was it? If songs and stories and all the other things she'd turned to in order to learn about the things her father refused to teach her could be believed, it was something much more. The thought brought that very familiar fluttery feeling back into her stomach. So that's what it was like to be in love...

It didn't take too long for the water in the sink to start running clear again, when passing through the wig. Now that it was less encrusted with blood, though, it was damp. Ugh. Shilo brushed it a few times, but ultimately left it in the bathroom to dry. If she was lucky, it'd be ready in an hour or so.

Now what? She took to the stairs, hopping down, putting two at a time behind her, as if rushing down them might drive away whatever she thought was waiting for her underneath, at the bottom. Why was she so afraid of her own home? She hadn't been, back when she had freer run of the place. At the foot of the staircase, she lingered, eyes sweeping over the faux fireplace. If she ever wanted to break anything in her whole life, she knew she'd find it down there, in what looked like it might have been her father's slaughter house. Without realizing until she was peering down into it, she pulled the secret door open. Well. It wasn't like she couldn't run out if it was too much. At least this time, she'd had the forethought to step into her slippers before trying to brave the room.

Her stomach flopped and all the butterflies from earlier disappeared. Withered up and died, really. Before she knew it, though, her hands were gripping a metal tray and flipping it over, dumping all the tools - the murder weapons - off. She swung it at the rolling cart that had been propping it up, knocking that over too. Tears streamed down her face and she might have been screaming into the empty laboratory, but she couldn't be sure. Then, as if none of that had happened, she calmly gathered a little armful of the containers sitting on one of the shelves and carted them up the stairs. To the foyer. One of the glass bottles slipped out of her arms and shattered on the floor, as she tried to shift the load around in order to open the front door. Ignoring it, she stepped through the mess and out onto the porch, where she set all her things down, then picked them up, one by one, to lob towards the same place the machines from her room had landed. This time she was very conscious of how hard she was crying, but when all was said and done, she chalked it up to the sliver of glass she'd managed to step on and let pierce the sole of her slipper. Damn it.

Back inside, she nearly collapsed, exhausted, on the staircase. Unhelpfully, the phone around her wrist beeped, announcing in its automated voice that she needed to take her medicine. Her chest tightened at the suggestion. No. No, she didn't need to take her medicine because she didn't have any to take. Only poison. ...Okay, poison that helped her in a cinch, but not in the long run. It was not worth dragging herself up the steps to find the bottle inevitably sitting on top of the fireplace, waiting for her. So to spite the announcement, she pushed herself off the stairs and trudged into the den, where she instead came to rest on the sofa. Forced herself to take slow, deep breaths, as best as she could manage. Shut her eyes and, somehow, managed to keep breathing until she fell asleep. Which was certainly better than full-on passing out, at least...

THEM: He was carting the boxes up the stairs, unsurprised that he didn't hear or see Shilo anywhere, when Graverobber noticed the broken glass on the stairs and furrowed his brows a little. He cleaned it up quickly, threw it all away and figured that Shilo had just taken his advice about looking for more stuff to throw out. But if she did, he was certainly going to have to do something about all the broken junk and glass in the yard below her window. It could be done later, he supposed, and continued stacking boxes by her bedroom door. The idea that she was off exploring something made him happy and nervous at the same time. She was being brave, but bravery and stupidity sometimes went hand in hand.

It was only when he'd finished moving the boxes of Mag's stuff and the bags of clothes he needed to go through and wash, that he ventured back down stairs to make his way out to the graveyard - just to grab some clothes and books that he'd stashed away earlier in the afternoon. And it was then that he found her curled up on the couch, asleep. He rest his arms on the back of the couch and watched her for a moment, thinking that he should probably just let her rest - because who knew what she had gotten into while he was gone. Quietly, then, he slipped through the fireplace passage and started through Nathan's lab.

He couldn't say he was shocked by what he found - amused, really. A bit proud. But he carefully picked up the scattered scalpels and tools, tucked them away into the drawers and cabinets they belonged in and rolled the tray into a closet. He wandered for a bit, tucking things away and throwing other things into a box that he'd carry out to the trash later. Admittedly, he found it weird that he was doing the protective nesting thing for Shilo, trying to turn this house back into a home for her, but he really did need to keep his hands busy and sitting still just made him nervous. Another hour passed, occupied by this tedious work before he lugged the box to the dumpster along with the shattered pieced of medical equipment from the front lawn. And then he was back inside, sitting on the floor in front of the couch Shilo was sleeping on, his hands behind him propping him up and a rather amused smile settled on his face. Just... watching.

ME: If asked now, Shilo probably would have owned up to being a little more stupid than brave. Brave meant marching into something, unafraid, and taking care of it. She just stumbled into a room and started throwing shit. That was stupid. It was stupid to let herself get so worked up and it was stupid to think she should go into her dad's secret basement on her first real day out of...well, captivity. She ought to have started small, like in his bedroom, maybe. But if she'd broken anything in might have felt good at the time, but she'd never forgive herself after the fact.

Her nap had been anything but restful, filled with little bursts of nightmares, all interrupted by imaginary phone calls from her father, demanding to know why she hadn't taken her pills yet. She coughed and whimpered in her sleep until she was too beat to even do that. Hours later, when she did fight her way out of it, she sat up, drenched in sweat, with a sudden jerk and a loud, deep gasp. Although she had to blink, and hard, at least five times to get the blur and spots out of her vision, Shilo immediately felt that she was being watched and almost floundered to right herself before she completely had her wits about her. Now erect, she gripped the edge of the couch until her knuckles turned white and staunchly refused to look Graverobber in the face until her heart stopped beating so fast. "Hi," she said in a little, slightly hoarse voice, finally daring to peek up at him. Boy, was she ever aware of how stupid she was, now. "You're back." That, at least, put a small smile back on her face.

THEM: Smiling back at her, he nodded and moved to push himself up off the floor, sitting next to her on the couch and pulling her into his arms. "And all in once piece," he said with a tone that clearly conveyed how he was impressed with this fact as well. He brushed his lips against her neck and nuzzled against the skin there with a soft sigh. "There's some stuff upstairs, by your room that you should go through when you're ready. And there's some stuff I have to wash before you go through as well. A couple of the girls found out where I was staying and felt bad about the whole incident at the opera so they sent some stuff to help you out - clothes, new wigs, I think I saw a couple pairs of shoes in there too. And uhm..." he scratched the back of his neck, "there's some things from Mag's place, and a letter she left for you explaining what everything is. So when you're ready, it's there for you."

He guessed he didn't really see it as incredibly generous, doing what he did. It was something that he had to do because it was the right thing to do and Shilo deserved to have Mag's things. He'd only mentioned what size Shilo was and the bit about the wigs while he was out last night because, well, he'd been asked. And not all the girls were strung-out junkie whores. Not all the time, at least. Most of them were pretty decent people, who'd go pretty far out of their way for Graverobber, who'd never hesitated to help them out where and when he could. The thing was, he just usually didn't let people know he was the one doing things like this in the first place.

ME: Immediately, Shilo crawled into his lap and hung onto him. The last of what had plagued her in sleep slipped away, once she touched him again. Better, all better. Despite how badly she wanted to curl up and drift off again, now that she knew she was safe, she listened to his voice and tried to make out what he was telling her. "What kind of -" she pulled back and started asking, before he had a chance to go on. But even once he did say what he'd brought back, she couldn't comprehend it. "What? But...I, I don't..." Why would they do that? What made her so special that, now, even strangers wanted to help her out? Had her father been wrong, were there actually good people left in the world?

Well, duh, of course there were. She was sitting on one of them.

"Mag? You mean, one threw it away?" ...Of course, the opera had only happened last night, but it seemed like lifetimes ago. And GeneCo, she'd learned, could move fast. "And I can have it?" Somehow the idea had never crossed her mind. Things she would have killed just to touch, mere days ago, even before she knew Mag's relation to her, were sitting outside her bedroom right then. Belonging to her now. "That's what you were doing?" She uncurled to look him in the eyes, wondering if she stared at him long enough if she'd find a reason for all this, somewhere in there. Mostly, though, she just had the tendency to get lost in the blue of his eyes. Electric. Yeah. Kind of like Zydrate, but better, she reckoned. She put her hands on either side of his face and leaned in to plant a kiss of gratitude, and, of course, much more, on his lips. It scared her to death, sure, but it was the least she could give back.
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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Shilo Wallace (Repo! The Genetic Opera) [21 May 2008|03:04am]
from the diary of Shilo Wallace
So STOP READING NOW...that means you, DAD. It's not like I can't tell when the LOCK has been broken!!!



I'll call you Maggie. I always wanted to be named after someone important. I don't know why Mom and Dad picked what they did. My middle name should have been Magdalene. Mom wrote it in all the baby books. I wish Dad hadn't changed it, but I can't do anything about that, now. That's why I'm going to give you what I never had.

Well, lots of things I never had. Like, you know. A mother. I'm not sick. Well. I mean, I'm sick. But I'm going to get better. It's not going to kill me. It's not that kind of poison. I'll be well, I'm sure of it, by the time it matters. I won't pass on faulty, diseased genetics to you.

You're going to be healthy. You'll never be grounded. Your room won't have a lock on its door. This house will not be your house. We'll live somewhere that's full of light. Natural light, sunshine. Away from prisons and drafty mansions and tombs. No more death, no more graveyards.

Well...okay, maybe some graveyards. I won't say why, now. But I won't make you wait until you're older, either. You'll know when you want to. I'll never hide anything from you. There are no more secrets in this family. I want you to know as much as possible. I want you to know everything.

I think you'll be beautiful. In my head, you're as pretty as my mother on her wedding day. Prettier, maybe, because you'll have other genetics to draw from. Genetic perfection - you cannot buy it at GeneCo. You have to be born with it. (...Duh.) And I'll make sure you are. You'll have the prettiest hair. I think it'll be curly. Wavy, at least. And thick. You'll probably have blue eyes. Daddy, your grandfather, had blue eyes. And...well. If that's what you want, I think the odds are in your favor. I hope it's all what you want because I don't ever want you to change who you are, once you're here.

No surgeries. Surgery makes your face fall off when you're on stage trying to sing (BUT FAILING!!!!) and, while this is funny when it happens to certain people, it would not be funny if it happened to you. When people see you - and they will because you'll never have to hide in your bedroom - they won't laugh. They will love you, too.

Just like I love you, already, even though you're really just pretend and I'm really still a kid. An advanced warning? Don't look forward to your eighteenth birthday. Some things are nice, but those things are circumstantial and you would be selfish to expect that they'll keep happening, just because you're "of age". Age is not magic, it's a number. That might work for you or against you. (I'm not sure what it's doing to me.)

I know you're not even an idea yet, but if you ever happen, I'll be so happy to see you. I hope you happen. And, if you do, these are my promises to you. You will always be loved. You will always have me, in your time of need.

♥ always,
Shilo Marie Wallace (your mom)
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Sample Platter - AIM Example - Mark Cohen/Roger Davis (Rent) [04 Jan 2008|03:07pm]
ME: If this were some kind of movie, Mark might have made a move involving a switchblade pointed in Roger's direction. But outside of the movies, he had always been terrified of it. His luck, if he got the blade out, he'd cut himself with it. Instead he ignored his friend's protest and collected the few offending items into one arm as he made his way for the closet. Resting next to Roger's guitar was a box filled with a few loose sheets of music and a couple notebooks. He emptied those onto the floor of the closet and dumped the knives and lighters in. "It's not yours anymore."

[info]sailed: His head thumping with the speed of it, Roger skidded into the hallway, against the wall in front of Mark. He snatched at Mark's wrist again, pulled in a fast, steadying breath before he could protest. "You can't hide it with me right here, asshole. Put it back." And if he somehow managed to, Roger would just tear everything apart on principle, to find it again.

ME: Mark stiffened when Roger grabbed him, but left their arms hanging in the air for a moment before he made any movements. Breaking free of the grasp, he shifted the box to tuck it under one arm and headed right back towards Roger's room. Now, he was Scared. Paranoid. But with good reason, maybe. Roger was desperate and, worse, creative.

He set the box down in the closet again, but just in front of legs, where he knew he could keep Roger away from it, for the moment. Most of his friend's clothes were in a pile on the floor, but there were still a few shirts and coats that hung on wire hangers. He yanked the clothes off of those and dropped them into the box. What else? Box in hand again, he made a dash for the bathroom and stole Roger's razor from off the sink counter. "Who said anything about hiding?" he all but sneered, pushing past his friend as he came back towards the living room.

[info]sailed: Roger had a brief mental impression of Faye Dunaway screaming "NO MORE WIRE HANGERS," while he watched Mark with an angry sort of confusion that wouldn't even let him keep dashing around to try and stop the other man. He just stared, like it was appalling. It was appalling. This was over the top, stupid, because even if every single knife and piece of glass and shiny metal object was somehow removed from the flat, there was still the entire world. It was spite, it had to be spite. Mark had to be doing it to piss him off.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" He demanded again, from the hallway. It wasn't too dramatic, really - he was still half slumped against the wall. "It's not the only -" he cut off, as Mark went past him. He scurried after. "Give it back! I swear to God," he said, "I'll knock you the fuck out."

ME: Stopping near the window, Mark glanced almost hopelessly towards the kitchen. Did he need the silverware? The microwave oven? Shit, the coffee mugs. He closed his eyes. No, those were things he could keep Roger away from. Things he was going to keep Roger away from. Along with just about everything else in the apartment. He pushed the window open and stepped out onto the fire escape. "Go ahead," he said. He didn't care what Roger wanted to do to him, just as long as he wouldn't do it to himself. Disappearing for a moment, he climbed down a few flights of stairs and tossed the box in the general direction of a dumpster below.

[info]sailed: "Fuck you!" Roger yelled, but he didn't make it any farther than leaning out the window. He bit back a flurry of angry, hot tears that he could feel burning behind his eyes. The worst part wasn't Mark being unreasonable. The worst part wasn't how stupid and futile an effort it was. The worst part wasn't even quite that Roger knew he would fall over if he tried to chase Mark down the fire escape and deck him.

The worst part, really, was that he knew, deep down, that he was only angry because he knew Mark gave a shit. Roger told himself no one cared what he did because it was what he wanted. If no one cared, everything would be so much easier. It wouldn't matter if he dropped off the face of the earth, how many people he screamed at, how much damage he did to himself. If Mark would just stop caring, his life, he thought, would be so much better. He smashed his fist against the window frame, snagging a knuckle on a splintered fringe of wood. He didn't care. He sucked the blood off, gave the wall a kick with his heel that almost knocked him over, and stomped back towards his room.

ME: Mark made a speedy ascent just in time to see Roger disappearing around the corner, predictably towards his room. "Don't think," he shouted, chasing the other man down the hallway. "Don't think for a minute," he continued, in-between attempts to catch his breath, clinging to the doorframe for support, "that I'm gonna leave you alone, now." Standing straight again, he braced himself for that hit Roger had promised him.

[info]sailed: It didn't come. Reputation for picking fights or not, Mark would have to really wrack his brain to try to come up with a time when Roger had ever really lashed out at one of his friends, even if he threatened to. He hadn't. (Although he had once hit Collins when the other boy pulled him off a classmate in their last year of high school.)

Roger just stomped the rest of the way into his room and collapsed on his bed with his forehead in his palm. "Fuck you," he said again. "Go away."

ME: Mark hated to be repetitive, but for the second time, he ignored the command and pressed onward into Roger's room. He said nothing as he stomped in, once more towards the closet. Nudging the door open again with his foot, he lifted the guitar case and held it out so Roger could see. "I'm taking this," he said, through gritted teeth and a few stray tears. "You have to earn it back."

[info]sailed: Roger's head snapped up from his hand. He looked over at Mark with more distress than before, as his bleary eyes focused on the thing in his hand. He shook his head. "No," he said, hoarsely, straining to sound reasonable, over the fear of what it would be like if he was under surveillance and robbed of the one outlet he had that wasn't destructive. "You can't take that."

ME: "Why not?" Mark shouted, pulling it back in case Roger was going to make a grab for it. It was dangerous to be so close with the guitar in one hand, but Mark shoved his friend's shoulder. Hard. "You don't care, you're just gonna die." His voice cracked and a little sob escaped between thoughts. Turning on his heel, he went for the door again.

[info]sailed: Against what scrap of better judgment he had, Roger stood up again and wobbled after Mark. "What are you gonna do with it? You better put it somewhere safe." It was a big object, Roger reasoned with himself. It would be the easiest of easy things to find. Mark had to sleep sometime. He also had to leave the apartment sometime. Roger stuck his knuckle back in his mouth, and then in his pocket. "Give it back," he tried again.

ME: On the contrary, Mark planned to stay awake forever and never leave. But he was only thinking of leaving the guitar in his own room. Not the most secure of places. "I swear to God, Roger, if you try to take it back, I'll throw it away, too," he yelled, before Roger could finish. A good delivery, but mostly an empty threat. Roger might know so, too, but right now, it didn't matter. Very little, at all, did. "You don't deserve it anymore."

[info]sailed: "I didn't do anything to you!" It was probably the last yell Roger had saved up. All the stomping around, the kicking things, the screaming uselessly, it was finally occurring to his body that it was the opposite of going home and resting, like he was supposed to do. The only thing he was really equipped to do. He wobbled against Mark's doorframe.

ME: Yes, you did, Mark wanted to say, but couldn't. "You go lie down," he instructed, in the cold, angry voice he might have expected to hear his dad use when grounding him. "You're supposed to be resting." If Roger hadn't been standing where he was, he would have gotten a face full of the door. Mark left it alone, though, and moved further in to rest the guitar case next to his bed.
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Sample Platter - AIM Example - Orin Dorny/Tristan Summerby (Harry Potter) [04 Jan 2008|03:03pm]
ME: From his perch in one of the furthest back corners of the library, Orin flipped through his Muggle Studies textbook with the feathery end of his quill. There was a test on Monday and the concept of an escalator was still escaping him. Never mind the section on lifts. It was all review, things he had seen in years before this, but his brain still couldn't wrap around moving stairs, much less what he ought to avoid doing on them in 'department stores' or 'airports'. Dammit. It was his only barely-passing class, an embarrassment. But the closest he'd ever been to the culture was on the muggle side of his mum's shop. Where sidewalks that moved for you never came up in a conversation about herbs or what "medicine" to buy.

He sighed, disgusted with himself and fell forward, knocking his head into the crease of his book. Professor Canning promised him a tutor. If he had to have one at all, a timely one would have been preferable to whoever ought to have showed up seven minutes ago.

[info]sailed: To be fair, Orin was well hidden. His tutor, Tristan, had only been...maybe five minutes late. By the time he happened across his pupil-for-lack-of-a-better-word, his overtime had slipped into the ten minute zone. This could have been avoided, of course, if Tristan had deemed the situation worthy of asking Mme. Pince where the unfortunate who needed his help might be. But Tristan didn't like asking people for their assistance, nor did he really believe any fellow teenager would acknowledge a ten-minute time lapse.

Stepping into Orin's little stretch of the rack, Tristan plucked his muggle headphones from his ears, and hung them around his neck, a faint tune still throbbing from them. The cord led down into his book satchel, hung over one shoulder. "You're Dorny, right?"

ME: Orin's brow creased into his book, then up at his present company. Before answering, he glanced around for a wall clock, but nothing made itself immediately visible in his surroundings. "Yes," he answered, raising his eyebrows first to relax his forehead. "Dr. Summerby, I presume?" Of course, who else would come looking for him, this far back in the library? ...Correction, whom, who he didn't know already, who wasn't looking for pointers on a Herbology essay. "Make yourself --" Comfortable would have been the key word, if a had-to-be-second-or-third year Hufflepuff girl dashed up and stole the chair he was going to push out for his tutor, with a speedy "Areyouborrowingthisno?okaythanksineeditbye." Another displeased face and he swiveled towards the empty chair on his other side. "Here, quick. Before another one comes back."

[info]sailed: Tristan did take the other seat. The whirlwind that had just accosted them wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Whoever she was, she was always too skittish and fast-talking for him to figure out who she was, but she had done a fine job of throwing his homework all over the common room, on a number of occasions. Usually, because she felt the need to take a running leap at one of her friends, and tripped over the low table in front of the fireplace.

Tristan reached into his bookbag and turned off the CD player he was presumably hiding. The thrum around his neck was cut off. He did nothing in the way of taking out a textbook, or notes. Instead, he slouched down in the chair, with one ankle crossed on his knee, and asked, "So, what's the matter? Canning didn't say what you were having trouble with."

ME: Taking a cue from the other boy to get a little more comfortable, Orin pulled both of his legs up and crossed them in his chair. Leaning forward he tapped Tristan's bag, to indicate the CD player. "I understand things like that," he explained. "I haven't got one, but I see what they do, it makes sense. Most of it's like that. When we did transportation in fourth year, that's what I had trouble with. Like all this short distance stuff. Why can't they just apparate up, instead of climbing into a closet that goes up? Don't they get nauseous?" His body was still leaned towards the boy, but he tapped his notes which rested on the other side of his textbook on the table. "I hardly understand what they're for, I'm not going to be able to create a list of do's and don'ts on the test."

[info]sailed: Getting comfortable was all well and good, but Tristan was, perhaps, taking it a little too far. He had shut his eyes, and plucked the CD player up from his bag, by its dangling cord; it now rested on his stomach, one of his hands over it, as if threatening to start the music again at any moment, if this conversation became too boring. All in all, he looked nothing like a tutor, and more like he came to be sitting next to Orin entirely by chance, and was probably going to take a nap soon, as most were wont to do in the back of the library. "What do you mean, 'why don't they apparate'? They're muggles, they can't apparate."

ME: This was distressing. "Well..." Although there was never telling with Professor Canning, Orin had been hoping to be assigned to...well, someone who wasn't going to sit around and insult him. That's not how you taught people. That's not how he taught people. Maybe that's why they kept coming back to him for help. If he treated anyone like this kid did, he'd probably be socked right out of the common room. "Muggles like technology, right?" Their professor had done a particularly large unit on that in both forth and sixth year, it'd be a hard thing to forget, even if you didn't know what he meant. "There's no 'technological' equivalent? They can't move themselves? They have to have other things move for them?"

[info]sailed: "They can move, it's just easier this way." Luckily for Orin, Tristan liked being right about things. If he had to be here at all, he was going to spout out information at some point. Otherwise, even Professor Canning wouldn't still be allowing him to work as a tutor. "If you're in a crowd, in a store, you don't want everybody and their mum stopping in front of you. So the stairs move."

ME: "It just sounds so lazy, though," Orin said, shaking his head. "Who, in his or her right mind, stops when they come across stairs? The logical follow-through would be to walk up them, if that's where you want to go." It seemed to him that an arguement was brewing. Quite unfortunately for Tristan, Orin also enjoyed being right. Or rather, did not enjoy being told he was wrong. Even when he knew he was. Now, however, he was not. "All the pictures in the books, no one's walking up the moving stairs, they're stopping and letting the stairs move instead. That's less convenient."

[info]sailed: Tristan's fingers drummed dangerously across the buttons on his CD player, but he looked over at Orin. Or up, from his slouched vantage point. "People do it here all the time. How many times a day do you have to yell at half a dozen birds to get out of the way? Or whatever you do." He couldn't see Orin demanding his way past anyone. As far as Tristan could observe, the boy had the features of a pushover.

ME: Another wrinkle settled in Orin's forehead. Tristan was right, he wasn't much for yelling. He felt a little cornered, but the other boy didn't have to know anything about what he did or didn't do while making his way around the school. "So you ask them to move or you push through them," he insisted, straightening up as his tutor, his opponent, slouched further down. "You'd come across the same trouble on an esca...thing, if you were trying to move along it, and someone was stopped in your path. It doesn't solve anything."

[info]sailed: "If the stairs are moving, you're going to get to the top eventually, whether or not the people in front of you move," Tristan decided, indicating that this was a discussion that should be ended on that principle. "What do you need my help for, anyway? You're a Ravenclaw." He pointed in the direction of Orin's tie, the stripes at the neck of his sweater, as though, in light of new evidence, they might be a fabrication of some sort. "Can't you figure it out?"

ME: Not a satisfying end to come to, but the conversation had gone from slightly unpleasant to beating a horse who was clearly demised. "Oh, this was help? Hm." Orin snorted and shut his textbook with a resounding "whumph". "If any of this," he tapped the book, "made sense, I wouldn't have needed to ask. But it doesn't, so I'm stuck." He had never been one to make bold assumptions about house stereotypes, but he found himself wishing more and more that Professor Canning had pawned him off to one of his own, not some Hufflepuff with an attitude.
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Sample Platter - AIM Example - Remus Lupin/Sirius Black (HP AU) [04 Jan 2008|03:00pm]
ME: While it went against everything he had been trying to plan for, actually allowing Sirius to visit him at work was not exactly a decision Remus was reluctant to make. Subconsciously, he knew that later he would be disappointed in himself, ashamed of his weak willpower, but Sirius was making it too difficult to stay way. But that was the way of him. Just when one thing had to be done, Sirius would demand the opposite, and not always because he wanted it. But Remus wanted it, too. He thought that, maybe, after a while, he would want it less. Foolish, really.

Replacing the glass paperweight on his desk with a plastic one was the final touch. Nothing out of place or suspciously absent, but it was apparent that he knew what to expect during the course of his mate's visit. Nearly that time of the month, it was. With the last breakable item out of the way, he sat down in his chair with a great whumph. Since coming to stay ("for good") at school, he hadn't been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time. It would be different, now, though. Sirius was coming to take him home.

[info]sailed: What other people described as a "rare" mood was actually a normal one for Sirius. After satisfying himself that the house was about a third of the way in order (and by that, he meant not too much worse looking than when Remus had left), he took no more precaution than putting up a sound barrier around Tib before apparating out of the house and into the outskirts of Hogsmeade village. If the neighbours were home, chances were they wouldn't be able to figure out what in hell that noise was.

Sirius reappeared not far from the Shrieking Shack and took that way into the school grounds. It always seemed easier than coming up the front, if he wasn't trying to meet the kids. Back ways through the grounds led to back ways into the castle, and he knew that any familiar student who ran into him now would mean at least fifteen minutes of standing around talking about what he was doing there. What he had been doing at home.

Eventually, after a circuitous route through hall and doorways, he came to his mate's office, and stuck his head in, as if it hadn't been a very long time since he was there last. The casual swing almost stuttered to a stop, though, when he saw Remus sitting at his desk. Some of the awkward feeling of the last time they saw one another in person threatened to come back. He pushed it away, blurting out a quick, "Hey," before it could get the better of him.

ME: Remus had taken to staring vacantly at a dark spot in the wood of the desk, but surprisingly was not startled when Sirius walked in. "Hi," he said, rather slowly, taking his time to look up from it as if it were a long travel back into the room. "Hi," he said again, smiling when he finally looked to the other man. Although he had been in and out of the office after classes, Sirius's was one of the first adult, human faces he had seen in several days. (Since moving out, he had done his damned hardest to avoid friends, teacher and student alike.)

Standing, he looked down and pressed his lips tightly together, but couldn't surpress the smile. Pushing his chair in, his eyes flitted up to meet Siri's. They looked tired, but they still sparkled. And something else was different. His hair. It hadn't looked quite so neat since before Halloween. An accident, probably, born out of boredom gone horribly wrong. "You look good, today." He tried, in vain, not to blush. "Well, I mean. You always do. Look good, that is. You know."

[info]sailed: "I know, and you look as dull as ever," Sirius said, but he said it in the tone reserved for things he didn't mean, except to be endearingly contrary. He sidled around the door and leaned on it to push it shut. The office in front of him looked very strange and small, with Remus's cot still unfolded and laden with things from home. It gave off the impression that there was precious little space crossed before he stood in front of Remus, tucking a piece of his hair behind one ear, as though he was self-conscious of the choppiness of it. He wasn't, really, but Remus was the first person to have seen that he changed it. "That's dull in a good way, though. You're fantastically dull."

ME: The red blush in Remus's cheeks turned a twinge deeper as he pushed his chair in and came around to meet Sirius on the other side of the desk. "That comes naturally." Closing the gap between them, he stretched up ever so slightly to kiss the other man on the cheek. When he leaned back, he took him, gently by the arms. "I mean it," he said, reaching to fluff up the edges of Sirius's hair. "I like this." It was almost like being in a time warp, and here he was nine months ago with nothing yet to go wrong.

[info]sailed: Or it would have been, were it not for all of Sirius's fancy, new scars. All the gaps between them were closing very fast, though. While Remus toyed with his hair, Sirius slid up close and put his arms around the other man. "Good thing you're coming home then, huh? You can look at it all day."

ME: Remus took that as his cue to wrap his arms around his mate's shoulders and squeeze tightly. "I don't need to look," he admitted, nuzzling into Sirius's cheek. "As long as I can do this." Forget last October, he was ready to settle for the night before he left. Anything close to that would be more than he felt he was allowed to ask for.

[info]sailed: "Yeah," Sirius laughed, "but you like to." He slid a hand up into Remus's hair, tugged his head lightly to the side, and covered his mouth with his own. The worry that had followed Sirius to the office door was mostly gone, replaced with a good combination of delight in knowing Remus was coming back home with him, and mental imbalance from the time of the month. For the moment, he felt almost absurdly happy and good.

ME: Although a weak attempt at protest may have been planned, Remus was quickly shut up. His knees buckled and if his arms hadn't been locked around Sirius's, he might have taken a nasty fall back against his desk. Of course, that's what all the unbreakables and charms had been for, but it still might have made a mess a little ahead of schedule. When he tipped his head down to take a breath, he kept his upper lip resting against Sirius's bottom one. "I do like to," he admitted in one gasp. "I'd do it forever, if I could."
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Sample Platter - AIM Example - Ryan Dunn/Bam Margera (celeb) [04 Jan 2008|02:57pm]
ME: If Ryan had learned anything about Halloween in his last few years in West Chester, it was not to bother with costumes. No matter what he thought of, everyone else already had him beat; dressing up just wasn't his forte. This year? No exception. Instead of wasting time and effort, though, he only bothered to wrap a sheet around his neck and call it a cape. In fact, it seemed he had the right idea. Brandon was realy the only one who went full out, anymore, and that was...well, Brandon. The rest of the crew seemed to recognize that they were too old to fool anyone and that the more effective course of action would be to not conceal their identities when bothering neighbors. No one bothered to argue them out of taking candy, once they knew who they were dealing with.

Neighborhood-regulated festivities were over by eight-thirty. No one really began to disperse until around eleven, and even then, they were slow to trickle off. But the autumn breeze was almost as stubborn as they were. With activity winding down, the chill began to set in. Ryan didn't care too much for the cold, but he wasn't ready to go home yet. Only twenty minutes shy of midnight, he and Bam were the last of the team, patrolling the streets near the Margera household. And then, there were two, he thought to himself, with a tiny grin.

Ryan lifted his dragging paper sack (the handles had broken hours ago and spilled a good deal of his bounty onto the street, therefore making it fair game for whoever could grab it the quickest. Needless to say, it was not him.) to swing against Bam's leg. What little candy he managed to keep rattled on impact. "Let's chill for a sec," he said, wheezing a little. The walk wasn't strenuous, but the cold was sucking the air right out of his lungs. His chest hurt. And the remedy? "I need a cigarette. That cool?"

[info]sailed: Halloween was almost better, now, than it was when Bam was a kid. "Trick or treat" was an idle threat, during one's childhood. It took until about thirteen or fourteen, to realize you could make a killing, to speak, if you made good on the tricking. Few Halloweens had passed, since Jess and his friends were old enough to have figured this out, in which at least one house didn't get its entire bowl of candy stolen.

There had to be at least two houses worth, crushing down on a couple of inadvertently deployed packets of blood, in the pillowcase slung over Bam's shoulder. In the centre of his back, on the pale gray of his hoodie, there was a red splotch, deepening every time the saturated corner of the pillowcase bumped against him as he walked. Though plain, the clothing in question was new. When his mother finally raided his room for his laundry, he was going to get another useless talking to, about the importance of keeping things nice for longer than two days.

Understandable collateral damage, he thought. Less understandable? Why everyone he knew insisted on smoking, engaging in physical activity, and then interrupting his momentum, because their lungs couldn't handle the cold, or the speed, or the distance, or whatever it was, at the moment. Bam had picked up a cigarette once or twice in his life, as he expected everyone did at some point, but the lack of freedom that came with a nicotine addiction didn't appeal to him.

Fortunately for his friends, it gave Bam a decent sense of satisfaction, to be able to watch them smoke, and spend money on smokes, while he declined. He wouldn't complain about it, any more than he would dedicate himself to it. At the moment, he was even less likely to complain. They had been walking for a really long time, and his elbow was getting stiff from holding onto his candy collection. "Sure," he said, and sat down heavily on the edge of the nearest neighbour's driveway. Their porch lights were off, but a succession of electric Jack-o-lanterns were still lighting the sides of the driveway and the path up to the front porch. "You think they want us back at the house?"

ME: Ryan buckled onto the concrete equally as hard. His paper bag plopped into a leftover puddle from an earlier spurt of rain. Goddamn. "See?" he said, gesturing to the mess about to soak into what was left of his good candy. Before continuing, he threw his makeshift cape open and fished around in his jacket's breast pocket. "There's no shame in havin' a bucket," he insisted, sticking an unlit cigarette into his mouth. "Next time, no bag." Of course, he recalled, producing a lighter, last year at this time, he was saying the same about his bucket. Flame on. He let it linger at the tip of his cigarette, for a moment, while he warmed his hands. A moment later, he coughed and had to put it down. Exhale. Ah, better.

"Prob'ly." He shrugged, reclining back to elbows. "Guess it's kinda late." Not very late for them, but the kind of late and cold out that April (and really, his own mother, too) often insisted would land them a cold, if they weren't in by midnight. Ryan thought he felt one coming, anyway, and time had nothing to do with it. "We goin' back?"

[info]sailed:"Nah, not yet." If they waited until most of their friends passed out (which couldn't take too long, after the all-day rowdiness, and what was no doubt a very large amount of alcohol that had been snuck in under April's nose, courtesy of those who could buy it), they could do whatever they wanted. Take control of the TV, sleep on the roof, doodle on sleeping faces, go unnoticed into Bam's room. Whatever they wanted.

He splayed his pillowcase open in front of him, heedless of the water on the ground. The bag was already wet, and unlike Ryan's, it wouldn't split open because of it, so it didn't really matter. He pivoted around to face Ryan, so his back wouldn't block the dim yellow light from the jack-o-lanterns, and dug through the bag's contents, picking out a handful of non-sticky tootsie rolls. While he hunted for the rest of them, he put one of the smaller ones into his mouth, paper and all, to try and untwist the wrapping with his tongue. "How long you staying, tomorrow?" he asked, around the mouthful.

ME: Taking another drag, Ryan kicked, frustrated, at his torn bag. An unharmed package of bubblegum cigarettes came tumbling out. He kicked those, too, several feet away. Maybe the kids, whoever lived here, would have a nice little candy surprise in their grass tomorrow. More than he was gonna get, anyhow. (Not that he needed any, he reminded himself.) "I'unno," he answered, smoke in his mouth, while he rubbed his hands together. As if the cold wasn't bad enough, they were dry. Every little cut and hangnail was catching on his stupid sheet. "Pro'lly until Ape kicks me out. I don't really got anything to do." He reached over to tug on a little piece of wrapper hanging out of Bam's mouth. "'Cept watch you eat paper."
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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Ryan Dunn (celeb) [04 Jan 2008|02:55pm]

Plugging that. And not just because its friendly spokes...character (it's not really a person) looks kinda like me. That page has been my friend for the last couple of days. We're best buddies now. We have coffee together at three in the morning. Well. I have coffee. Sometimes a cigarette. Sometimes a bag of Doritos. It doesn't really eat much. It's a website, you know. Those don't eat anything. I did let it have a beer last night, though. Not a good idea. Could've shorted out the keyboard. Then where would I be? I'll tell ya, keyboardless. Not a pretty thing. Considering I might need a keyboard some time...hey, today. Happy first. Of Feb. It's a new month, so maybe that resets me. It's a new month. Turning a new calendar page, a new frame of mind. And the New Frame Of Mind (TM) survey says? Leave the goddamn window open, you don't know what you're doing yet.

I need a cigarette.

I need a drink, but if I can't drink, I'm gonna do something stupid. Like buy a plane ticket. Or close that window. With...out buying a plane ticket. Don't look at me like that, Roaming Gnome. You know I haven't made up my fuckin' mind yet.

Isn't this the sorta thing you're supposed to be able to talk to your best friend about? Seems like it. Or it would, if my best friend wasn't someone I've been FUCKING FOR TEN YEARS, who's getting FUCKING MARRIED IN A GODDAMN DAY. Shit. You know who I could talk to but haven't, in a week? Yeah. Angie. Honest to God, I don't know how I even know her anymore. Until last Tuesday, she hasn't said anything about this whole fiasco. But she just had to ask. So I told her I didn't know. And I may have hung up on her. Maybe. I don't know. I might have. What? It's not like you've never hung up on a girl before. You, sly bastard of an ad campaign gimmick. Jesus. The worst part of it is that if I called her, right now, and asked what she thought I should do, she'd tell me to go. No matter what kind of preamble I gave her. Who the fuck does that? She does. I don't know why I haven't married her yet. ...Heh. No, I can't now. Already said I wouldn't. And I said what I meant, and meant what I said. An elephant's faithful, a hundred percent. Faithful, right? I don't know, it's a fucking Hop On Pop book, 'scuse me if I don't remember the exact wording.


Heh. Dropped the lighter.

I have a lot of options, you know. It's not like I don't have some stifiling ultimatum. It's like...I could go. And if I go, I could stay for the whole shinding. I could get really drunk at the reception and start yelling about a lot of things that haven't been yelled about yet. I could skip the reception and go get drunk somewhere else. I could skip the reception and fly right back here. I could show up an hour before the ceremony and bitchslap him until he came with me. I could put on a white suit and grab someone to be my Mog and yell, "NO, HE DOESN'T" at the opportune moment. And see if anyone got the reference. I could not go and keep sitting here. I could not go and call up Ange, and see if, she doesn't hate me, if she wants to run off somewhere for a while with me. I could not go and call up Ange and tell her this just isn't gonna work anymore and listen to her be really understanding because I know she fucking knows. I could really keep going, but the possibilities are just endless.

You know what? I don't have to go. I'm really busy. I got shit to do, man. I got a car. I gotta race it. I gotta lot of math shit to figure out with that. Physics and stuff. Like what the hell speed I need to be going to flip the car and kill myself on impact. Because I don't know what the fuck else I could be doing behind the wheel of a car built to go really fucking fast.

Hey, hundred dollars off a Mexican vacation. Maybe I'll go to Mexico. Or Florida. Or Europe, these aren't some bad deals. You wouldn't steer me the wrong way, would you, Roaming Gnome?

Excuse a bad joke, but Christ, I'm just talking to myself here.

Fuck it. It won't hurt to search the flights. That's one button I don't have to be afraid of. And if I got a ticket, who's to say I have to use it? I could always just rip it up and throw it away. I don't have to go anywhere. I could even cancel it and trade it in for something a little more tropical. More European. More anything else than fucking wedding in Pennsylvania.

$306. Is that a deal? I don't know. $403, if I want a "luxury hotel". Fuuuuuuuck. I don't know. My fuckbuddy has a castle, do I need a hotel room? Can't I just stay in my old room? Which would be his room, which would be wherever his oh my fucking god wife is gonna be sleeping?

You know what? I don't want to ruin the party by being Captain Obvious here (when haven't I?), but this is gay. Everything about everything right now? Really fucking gay. I'm done. It's gay. I'm gonna stop dicking around now.
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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Ryan Dunn (celeb) [04 Jan 2008|02:55pm]
You're fucking crazy, have I told you that lately? I don't know if I have, but if I have recently, I probably didn't mean it very seriously because recently for us would be like...a couple months ago. I didn't hate you so hard then. But that's because I didn't really think this stupid MTV shit was really gonna go through. How much are they paying you again? Oh yeah. Too fucking much. To be a retard on national television. It's not really like you need the money, huh? It's like you need the coverage. The proof that you're actually going through with this so everyone can see that you, Bam Margera, are marrying a chick. A nice chick. A hot chick. A chick who likes you for whatever goddamn fucking reason. A chick who's gonna stick by you, even when you're fucking someone else, be it...whoever it be. Is that what we're gonna glean from this? Fuck, and you don't even know why I don't want to be involved. Because you're stupid.

I just don't feel like playing along anymore. Can't figure out why anyone else does. Especially can't figure out why you do. Is it just...what? Fucking comfortable now? You're so used to it, you don't know that there's any other way to be? I don't know why you think it matters so much, to keep all this shit up. It's not like anyone cares. It's not like it really matters. No one, in twenty years - no, make that ten years. Maybe even five, is gonna give a shit that you got married, much less to Missy. You coulda married Jenn. You coulda married Jessica fucking Simpson, if you really wanted to. It's not gonna make some kind of impact. You would've gotten press for maybe two minutes before someone else did something better, worse, or more important. You're not important. You don't matter. Not to the whole world. Not to the people that are gonna be watching your ridiculous show. Who, by the way, are frat boys who won't remember it in the morning and twelve-year-old girls who are writing death threats, in their diarys, to your..."wife". They don't really care about you. They just don't have anything better to do. Coincidentally, I don't have anything better to do, either. But even when I do, which we all know is fucking never, I still care.

So if this show is supposed to be directed to people you think care about wtf you do, then do something for me. Stop it. If not for me, then...fuck, I don't know. Your mom, maybe. Haven't seen her since I saw you last, but there used to be a time when I'd see her every fucking day of my life. I know, Bam, I fucking know that she doesn't want it to happen like this. Come on. She's your mother. Whose mother wants them to get fucking hitched for MTV? No one wants to make this kind of circus out of something that's supposed to be the most important day of your life, whatever that should mean. You know what she does want? For you to be happy. That's all she's ever wanted. And you're not. Or at least, you're not gonna be, once this is all said and done. She knows it. I know it. Fucking everybody knows it. So I don't care if you stop it, just for me. Just to come back and be with me. Dude, just cut it out for yourself.

No. No, hang on a sec. You should stop it for you, but you should stop it for me, too. You should cut the shit and come back to me. Honest to God, I'm that fucking selfish. But I don't get it, I just don't get it. What went wrong??? It's not even been a year. It's not even been a year, but it was almost perfect again. (WTF is perfect? I don't know, it's never been that.) But now you're doing this and I'll tell ya, I'm fucking pissed. I came back for us, for you. Even though I thought you'd pushed me to the end of my fucking rope, I came back and it was actually okay again. I'd like you to name one other person who has loved you, constantly and unconditionally, for ten years straight. But you can't. Because I don't think anyone else could even stand you for that long, much less love you through all that you've done. All who you've done.

Is Ville pissed? Is he talking to you? Fuckin'...if you didn't make me have to hate him...he's a good guy, you know? I'd like that guy a helluva lot more if it weren't for you. Maybe I should call him up. Maybe I should start letting him fuck me. HA HA.

But you know...that's just the fucking tragedy of it all. I'm not gonna go fuck anybody. I'm not even gonna get married in retaliation. I'm just gonna keep doing what I'm doing. (Nothing.) Maybe I'll go back to California. Worked out mostly well the first time around. It was pretty nice, out there. Pretty warm, too. I could probably shed my winter coat o' fur, even now. I don't know, I'll have to think about it. 'Cuz I ain't staying here. If I leave, it's kinda like I'm the one leaving you, you know. Because you never say, "Dude, we're fucking over." Sometimes I wish you'd say "I think we should see other people," though, because that would be fucking hilarious. But I'm not gonna see other people. I can't see other people. I can't fucking see. Anyone. But goddamn you. Sonnaffabitch. I like feeling like the one to put a final cap on it, though, even if we never do. I like thinking that I don't stick around long past the general last drop of hope. If I leave, I can tell myself I left before it got to its lowest low point. Or that I left because, finally, I just wasn't gonna take it anymore. Really, I just don't know what else to do, at that point. I don't know how else to tell you that I'm still trying to stick around and hope something's gonna change. Because when I do, you blow me the fuck off.

So, October to November, now to fucking March. Ha. Ha ha ha ha. Ha. Ha. Wow. Fuckin' shithead.

Wait, but seriously. ...I don't know what for. Jeeeesus Christ. I just. You know, I wish I coulda been good enough. Any kind of enough. Just enough. Enough for you. But I never have been, so I guess I don't know why the hell I would be now.
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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Rhys Lowe (OC) [04 Jan 2008|02:53pm]
(( PB: Ryan Dunn, faux-celeb ))

someone get this webpage an umbrella

You gotta admit it looks nice, though. The Internet Poltergeist has seemingly graced us with his presence, this afternoon. Of course, the sonoffabitch doesn't have the decency to tell me he updates my shit, until he knows I've already seen it, and then he sneaks an email into my inbox saying, "PS: CHECK UR INTERWEB." That's a direct quote, ladies and gentlemen. The Internet Poltergeist is not unlike a living cat macro, as well some of you out there know. I've been told that my inbox is starting to turn into a way to draw a response out of him and not me. Since when does the writer get less fanmail than his assistant?

(If he asks, that's not what I called him. He's a very competant individual who just happened to turn up at Dark Horse one day and demanded to be allowed to answer my emails. They didn't want to say yes, but I couldn't say no. At some point, he went from Answerer Of Email to Master Of Communications to Guy Who Does Lots Of Shit For Me to Brother From Another Mother. You can call him anything, as long as it's not late for dinner. Rim shot. Two wrongs don't make a right, but three rights make a left, and that's our show! Curtain.)

Sorry, I just had a dance break.

So. If you read this, you've probably been tricked, more than once, into reading Sofian's blog, too. Shameless pimping, shameless pimping. He doesn't need his own pimp. He's Wendy, he knows how to handle himself. Whatever he is, he's also a bastard and abandoning the apartment in the foreseeable future. What oh what does this agoraphobic (ha ha ha) couch potato do without his best buddy ol' pal ol' friend? I don't know, stretch out on the couch all the way. And watch movies.

What? Did you think this was about writing and work and a book I'm supposed to be working on? You poor, poor, misled sap. Drive? Non, my friend. We are blogeurs. Or something like that. I don't know. There's probably like...three pages of art sitting in the junk drawer of my brain that I could get on to paper right now. I don't suppose I can call anyone to come over and dictate a script, either, can I? I know, really? I can type up a blob, but I can't write my own work down. Sad, strange state of affairs. What, indeed, you ask, is this world comming to.

Another dance break. I groove. I stop grooving.

Maybe I'll call up the IP and tell him I need a to-do list for the week. That's always a good time, you know. A third of the stuff, if I'm lucky, will be easily done. The rest of it is shit I gotta figure out really good excuses to get out of. Even though it's stuff like "build a zombie baby military unit" or "make a Lego replica of your mom's friend", which, if you're anyone else, you know is understandably unlikely to be completed. Especially by this jerk, right here, who's been damned to Hell five times over but is still too slothful to get the heck down there. I don't know, maybe that's where I wanna be today. I bet they have the air conditioning on.

Aren't you glad you clicked on this link, in your favorites today? I bet you are, lucky reader.
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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Gabe Serafini (OC) [04 Jan 2008|02:50pm]
(( PB: Milo Ventimiglia ))

I don't know how I got here.

I mean.

Along the way, there was transportation. A plane, a bus, some taxis, some other vehicles. But sometimes, even when I remember all those things happening, it still seems like I blinked my eyes once and suddenly appeared in an e-cafe, or whatever they're calling them. And sometimes, I can't figure out why I'm here, even if I can tell myself what it was that motivated me.

Marvin's house was too safe. If I had stayed any longer, I might have gotten comfortable. I might have enjoyed it. He says that was "the whole damn point", but I'm not sure he exactly understood. Maybe he might have, once, but he hasn't been in the thick of it for a long, long time. I don't know safe and comfortable anymore. I don't want to sleep somewhere I don't know. So that could be part of it. I doubt that's all, but if I have to, at least I can cite something. Reversal of roles: comfortable has become uncomfortable. Of course, it was nice to spend some time with him. I know I'm lucky that my dad has friends who are stupid enough to care about him and his family. Can't imagine how that came about. Didn't think he had it in him.

When my mother died, I didn't know. No one told me she was sick, until after the fact. Marv was the one to tell me, too. There isn't an important moment in my life that I can remember him not being a part of. My dad...I think "aloof" is the right word for what he was. Is. “Disinterested”, maybe, too. Marv is a good dad, though, even if he's the reason I can't go back overseas. Keeps threatening to make up a bunch of crazy shit, if I try to reenlist. They'd believe him, too. He's the one who kept me flying, even after sniper school. If it weren't for him, I'd have probably been stationed somewhere else entirely. I wouldn't want that.

But God (or whoever), I want to go back. I was doing...I don't know how to say it. Something. With a capital S, to emphasize the importance of it. Twenty-three years of preparation for one thing to only last four years, that's what's crazy. Marv seems to think that what I'm doing isn't right for me. "Could have played it safe. You could have been a contender," he says, and I think he thinks he's quoting something, but I don't know what. He always says it in a strange, funny voice. I'm not sure what he means. There isn't anything else I could have done. I was born into this, I did everything right. I was meant to do this. What's the point of anything, if I've been forcibly cut off from what I do?

Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can take a break for two years, just a year or so, and he'll forget about it and they'll remember me and be proud to have me back. Until then, I'll stay here. Not here here - I don't think people can live in diners - but I mean...around here. In this city. This isn't an impossible mission. There are things, here, that I don't mind. Last week, while still with Marv, I saw fireworks for the first time since I was a kid. Colorful explosions everywhere, but no one was dying. Beautiful. I would like to see more things like this. There's only one person I know here, but I think he might be able to help me.

Before I made the bus-with-the-terrible-stench ride over here, it dawned on me that I didn't know where I was going. Fayetteville, sure. I remembered that much. So I did what anyone would have done, I...looked into Nick's file for his phone number, so I could call and I could ask him. But since I was already in it, it seemed pointless not to just look at his address. So I did. And now I'm here. Because he promised me he would save a room for me, if I ever came "back into town". Haven't seen him in two years, but it's Nick. Man of his word. Wouldn't say something like that if he didn't mean it, not to me. More than just that, I think he'd be disappointed if I never took him up on it. I think I would be disappointed, if I never got to see him again. He was going to play all the songs he used to sing for me, probably because I think he made most of them up. He just likes to say things, and sometimes he just says them with a melody. Nick, he's crazy. But he's my friend.

...There were other things in his file, which he never told me. Should have made me angry, maybe, since I thought he trusted me that much. But I'm not angry. I would just like to see him. I would like him to be okay. Could be naive of me to think that he doesn't have other good friends, but maybe this is why I'm coming here. While he's teaching me about summer and "euro dance pop", I can tell him that I think he'll be all right. It would be a very bad world, if he wasn't.

I don't really like writing, but sometimes I have more to say than I can talk about. Guess that's why I couldn't wait to get to his place before sitting down with an iced mocha (these are very, very good and I might have another, then take one with me before I go) to put this all down on, essentially, a piece of electronic paper. If I went there first, I wouldn't have had this chance. But no matter how much I like it, this drink is starting to make my stomach hurt and my hands wobble, kind of. If I waste any more time, anymore proverbial breath, he might be asleep when I get there.
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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Noel Bailey (OC) [04 Jan 2008|02:49pm]
(( PB: Cillian Murphy, faux-celeb ))

It's four o'clock in the morning. Dammit, listen to me good I'm sleeping with myse I'm not sleeping at all, thank you, Elton.


Sixth: In Which I Have Anxiety Attacks, Or At Least That's What I Gather From The Infomercials...

But I've turned those off, now because it was coming to the point where I was saying, "Darling, if that's true, then everyone in the whole world has anxiety," to the snotty looking woman on my television set. The only screens I yell things at are movie ones, and that's only during a particularly horrific horror. Or if a character is just bothering me. I haven't slept yet, as maybe you can tell, but I can't sleep so I thought I would give my brain a break from the dumb projecting from my "boob tube" (why does any one call it that? Are boobs on it that frequently?) and sit down and maybe say something of substance. Or at least treat myself to a rousing round of Solitare. Ooh, Spider Solitare, even.

Which reminds me. There's a large, black, spindly something in the bathtub and I don't want to wake Em up now but I very much have to urinate and I realize I have another bathroom downstairs, but I think the television lady was right - I have anxiety. Or at least I've been cursed with faux anxiety by this spider. Well, I curse you, in return, arachnid. With what, I don't know. Male pattern baldness. Or possibly death. By tissue. Whenever Em gets up. Because he has just as long a day as I do and I really don't think it would be fair to make him lose sleep over something quite so silly.

That wasn't meant to be a whole, long paragraph. I was only going to mention the spider.

Is it completely terrible of me to be up at this hour, still, when I'm only hours away from a concert? I must be out of the loop because I'm almost certain Em and I had nights like this during the first tour and I never batted an eyelash over it. But now it seems like I'm going to fuck something up for myself. I don't know, I'm so nervous. This is the first time anyone - current company (myself) and compatriates (Jim, Terry, and Millie) excluded - will here the album. And it's like I said, I know that I like it so that must mean everyone else will hate it. Is this anxiety? Or is this just me? I can't tell. Is that a sign? I should relax. I need a drink. I need to slip myself a roofie and pass out until someone slaps me awake and sets me up on stage in front of a microphone. I can't promise you'd hear anything off the album, then, but what does come out might be very interesting. Then, no one would be too surprised if I ended up draped over a piano, singing something that originally came out of Judy Garland's mouth. Hm.

No, that's not going to happen. Girl Scout's Honour.

Is anyone even coming? Oh, you really must. Em's going to be fantastic, like always. Come for him, please. I'm just an extra little bonus on the side, it's his show. I'm like some rainbow sprinkles on top of a cupcake. Everyone knows the cupcake is the best part. No one's just going to eat sprinkles by themselves, but if they're on a cupcake...well. That was a really gay metaphor, I'm extremely sorry. If something like that spills out again, just slap me and send me on my little way.

Oh. I remember the other little tidbit of info. Despite needing to communicate with him professionally, I am no longer socially communicating with Jim. This will go on for at least another two weeks, unless he does something utterly magnificient to make me forgive him. Apparently, since I'm "so busy" taking "irresponsible vacations" (not his words, but his transcriptions from the Higher Ups) at "terrible times", they had to make a video for "New Killer Star" without me. And James Patrick Fowler, the bastard he is, "ok'ed" this. It's HORRIBLE. I hate it. Obviously, I'm not even in it, since they went ahead and threw together something completely ridiculous without me. I don't want to pull a diva moment on anyone, but excuse me. I thought it was...well, I don't know, my song? Can't I have a say? I told dear James that the only way I would speak to him again is if he can somehow figure how to get them to destroy all footage of this and setup an actual shoot. Anything would be better than this. Honestly. I hate it. If I can find some way to load it onto the computer, I'll post it for you lovelies so you can hate it just as much as I do. But I'll fix it, worry not. Unless there's some horrible tragedy and I'm somehow not able to make something better out of spite to my Higher Ups. Then that shite is what you'll be seeing on your MTV, I guess. You don't have to vote for it on your ...what is it? Total Request? I couldn't stand seeing it there, either. If it comes on - which it won't, I'm sure, unless they ask me to come visit them (in which case I just might say yes so I'll have an excuse to be in New York again) - just close your eyes. Thank you.

...I didn't get to say half of what I meant to, did I? Well. The good news is single's officially out on Tuesday. I know, I'm cutting it awfully close with the album. Maybe if I wasn't so irresponsibly running off with my better half to Georgian resorts all the time, I'd have handled this so much better.


Oh. I should try bed again. Nothing is working. Worst case scenario, I'll take a half of one of Em's sleeping pills. And be out for a week because I'm such a bloody lightweight. Ugh. No, it'll be all right. I'm fine, really. Or I will be, once I crawl into bed. Which is warm. And occupied. Hoom. ♥
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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Rhys Loudoun (OC) [04 Jan 2008|02:47pm]
(( PB: Ryan Dunn, Harry Potter AU ))

Yeah, happy fucking Christmas. Mum and Dad are leaving for Grandmum's house tomorrow and we never got to watch bloody Muppet Christmas Carol. Mum says we can watch it when they come home, but like fuck I'm going to watch a Christmas movie after Christmas. I'm starting to kind of wish I didn't tell them they could go away. It's not that I don't want to give them a nice holiday (for once, in what feels like a million years). I guess I'm having second thoughts about leaving left alone for the...thing. The holiday. I mean. I think. I like Christmas. I even like it when it's at Grandmum's or Nanna's, as ridiculous as that is, since I haven't been there since I was fifteen, and they really are both very miserable old women. Well, Nanna's is bareable, when Uncle Rick comes over. Which, I think, is even less than we do. He's magic, I think. I don't know how else he can escape the guilt/wrath of Nanna. Any road...I...forget where I was going with this. Oh, right. Cheesed off about Mum and Dad going away. It was my bloody idea, too, which makes it even worse. Well, no, it's Nanna's fault, actually. But I was the one who told them it was okay. (I wonder if they hate me for that...) I just don't know. This is the first time...the first Christmas we've spent apart. And I'm telling myself, "Look, you'll have to get used to it eventually, you're not going to live with them forever, mate," and I'm not one to knock independence, but it feels like too much, too soon. Which, of course, I can't tell them. If I do, then they'll stay. They can't stay. They've got to go. Not because of obligation to their respective mothers, but because they need to know what it's like without me, too. They can't spend their whole lives taking care of me. Which I know they technically haven't. But I feel like they have. And they've done a good job. They deserve a break, though, and this is their break. I think Mum said they were going to take a day or two between houses to go do their own thing. Which is good, they need that.

It could be all right, you know, I guess. Having the house to myself. At least then I know Mum won't follow me around with an ashtray. That'll be a nice change. Ahah, and not a change but an incredible simulation, Dad threw me a bone (...HAHAHAHAH...) and filled the liquor cabinet. Fridge's pretty full of beer, too. So essentially, I'm free to drink the holiday away and make it go by really fast. Brilliant. If I don't come out of this next week with a serious liver disease, then there is no God.

Party on, Wayne. Party on, Garth.

Gah, my fingertips feel weird. That's what I get for poking the basement door handle.

Dad's a good enough bloke that he actually, quite literally, threw me a couple bones. I'm not sure if this is incredibly silly, or really nice. I've got new chew toys, too. Mum says she saw what kind of shape the last few are in, and she was sad to say that she thought it was time to retire them. She got me a couple cheap, little stuffed toys, too, since...she won't be able to bring my puppy down for me in the morning. I think I accidentally made her feel bad, though, about that, because I told her I didn't like the way they smelled. But I don't. They smell new and like a store. And a million people, so I predict that they'll all be small piles of fabric and fluff long before this time next week. The embarrassing bit of this is that what made me realize that I didn't want them to go was the fact that I wouldn't get my puppy. That'll be weird. My whole life revolves around routine. But I suppose it's okay to break routine. Doesn't hurt, does it?

Oh, and when I told Dad that I had the whole door handle thing all taken care of and not to worry about it...I may have grossly exaggerated. In fact, I did grossly exaggerate. My hand is going to be one giant blister. Fun.

Speaking of fun, if that's what you can call it, I'm having Sofi over for a mini-party on Friday, since I'll be otherwise a wolf for his actual birthday. I hate to say it, but I want to back out. Even though I'm stupid and already said, "Hey, come on down to the library, we'll have a wild time you're coming to my place." And this is why. It's recently...okay, not really recently. More like it's been a little bit in my head since we met. But it's recently become a big deal in my head, maybe that's what I meant. Augh. I can't even put it in writing. I'm going to. Write it. Right now. ilikesofi I've some feelings for I want to bang Geezus. I THINK I'M ATTRACTED TO SOFI. There. Fuuuuuuuuuuck. I'm fighting my right hand away from scribbling that out, too. But I can't help it. I don't want to talk about it. I don't. Because if I don't look at it, maybe it will go away. If I don't see it, it won't see me. I want to bash my head against a wall and then, when it cracks open, slowly rub every last bit of my brains into the dent I made. Why does this have to happen to me? I've one boyfriend boy friend FRIEND THAT IS OF THE MALE GENDER, and I go and fuck it up by having...thinking I have?...some stupid crush on him. My mother would be miserable if she knew the first real friend I've had in ages is also someone whose pants I want to get into. AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW IF I REALLY WANT TO GET INTO HIS PANTS OR IF I'M JUST SAYING THAT BECAUSE I'M A HORNY, WILD MONSTER. It's more than that. Yes, I keep thinking I want to shag him, but that's just because I do a lot of thinking with my penis around this time of the month. But. And I hate to say this because it would almost be easier if I just thought I wanted to shag him because I'm horny and he's pretty. It's more than that. I don't know what it is. I couldn't even...start to explain it., no, stoppit. OKAY I SAID IT. I'm not saying any more on the subject. Ever. It can't see me because I have my eyes closed and I am hiding from it. I am going to be a normal person when he comes over on Friday. I am not going to greet him with my reproductive organs. Or worse, with feelings. No more. Moot topic.

I like the way he smells. I don't know what kind of smell it is. But I like it.


I had that weird little dream about Sofi and me being in a bookshop again. Only this time, I think I was supposed to be Obi-Wan, but instead of a lightsaber, I had a stick.

Wow, appropriate music. Thank you, Jack White.
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Sample Platter - Journal Entry - Heero Yuy (Gundam Wing) [04 Jan 2008|02:44pm]
If someone asked me about it, there would be nothing I could factually report about Christmas and its religious significance. Just that it is significant. Even when it is not religious. But I've only just learned that, this season. I'm sure I've been here before in past years, but I can't ever remember. Everyone on Earth has to know what today, what tomorrow is. Last year, maybe I didn't know. But today, I do. Right now, right in this moment, I wish it was the only thing I knew. If I concentrate on it hard enough, it might be enough to fill up my head. It's so beautiful outside. If every day was Christmas Eve in the city, I don't know that war would ever happen. For the first time in my life, I might know what it feels like to be in love. I love this city, today. I love it tomorrow, which will be Sunday and Christmas Day.

I thought I wanted to disappear forever. I don't know how to keep company and if this was one year ago, I would have said that I never wanted to. If there was anyone to talk to - really talk to, not just wish a good morning to - I probably wouldn't say anything. But I've been thinking like this for weeks now. Maybe if I write it down, it can make room for something else in my brain. There are so many other things I want to be able to think of. That I've never been able to think of before now.

Yesterday, there was a clerk at the front desk who handed me an envelope. It was pink. There was a card in it. That was white, but it was ripped down the crease and said its sender had done me the favour of already being torn so I wouldn't have to go throug the trouble. An invitation to a New Year's Eve party. (Do people have parties for everything?) From Relena.

Relena. God. She's relentless. Part of her name is in the word. I...don't know how to feel towards her. When she's not around, I never do. When she was around, I wished she wasn't. I used to think that I might miss her, but I don't think that very often anymore. I have not actually thought of her until now. No, that's a lie. I thought of her when I saw the big Christmas tree in the town square. It looked like something she might have, right now. If I go to her party, and I won't say for sure that I will, I hope she'll still have it up. I want to know if it compares. (I doubt it does.) I...suppose I have no choice in the matter, though, do I? If I don't go, she'll come looking for me. Disappearing has been nice, if not just because of that. I see her face, hear her voice on huge screens almost every day and that's more than enough. She's been busy, I guess. She's not queen of the world anymore, but she still has a full plate. That's the only reason I haven't seen her, in person, in so long. I bet it drives her crazy. Would it, still? Of course it would.

I don't know why she was ever queen of anything.

If I don't come to her party, she'll find me. I think I want to stay hidden. I don't want to wake up to look out my window and see her pulling up in that bullshit car. Of which I'm sure is one of at least a hundred. I hate the car more than I hate her. When I feel like bothering with hating her at all. Sometimes I can't. Mostly I don't. (I don't know where I would be if I started hating those who do good.) By all rights and reason, she shouldn't be where she is. Shouldn't be doing the good she's doing. And it's a hell of a lot of good. Said once that it was because of me. I don't think that at all. A bunch of things happened because of me, I know. But she did all this on her own. I think she should keep doing it on her own, too.

I wonder how she would react if I told her I was in love, and not with her.

I won't really say that to her. I won't say much of anything, unless I have to. Wish I didn't have to go. Can't imagine who else she's inviting. Hope she doesn't think we'll be there together. Don't know if she can afford to do that, anymore, being the Prime Minister of Everything or whatever it is now. How she was's not right for a public figure. If I could thank a God for this, I would. Even if I weren't the target, I might still be embarrassed for her.

This cafe is closing soon, but the lady behind the counter is packing me up a box of frosting, sprinkle, and sugar-covered cakes and things. Says I look like I could use a little Christmas cheer. Told her the coffee was enough, but she won't hear it. She says a boy like me shouldn't be alone tonight, but I'm welcome to finish what I'm writing before I go home to my family because whatever it is, it must be important since I've been staring at the screen all night. (Have I? Maybe so.) She has a nice smile.

Outside, it's starting to snow again. Good thing, the last batch was starting to turn dark and dirty. But this is new and fresh. If I knew how, I would go ice skating tonight. Maybe I will go tomorrow, anyway. I do think I'll go see the Christmas tree again. It's on my way and they can't have turned out the lights just yet.
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