angelgazing (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
angelgazing) wrote2005-05-24 08:45 pm
angelgazing) wrote2005-05-24 08:45 pm
Entry tags:
d00m oh noes
I am doomed.
I am very, very doomed. I even make a song to that effect. It goes like this:
Doomed-Doomed-Doomed-DoomedDoomedDoomedDoomedDoomed
Sadly there are no dance steps to go with it. Though in my head Bugs Bunny is popping up cause apparently I really was brainwashed by too much television as a child. You have to be in my head to get the connection I think.
Anyway, so, yeah. DOOMED.
It's like, a thing. The stressing I wasn't doing last night came up to bite me in the ass about ten minutes ago. Now I'm all with the "oh-holy-fuck-what-is-wrong-with-me-I'll-never-make-it-work-oh-no-oh-god-oh-fuck." Again, it's a thing in my head. ::shrugs::
So, in an effort to, you know, pretend I don't suck.
The first part of the first attempt at the O11 ficathon piece, which will never ever be used as anything else so now it's here as something just a little over a drabble.
Rusty is movement, constant. His fingers curl and tap on his glass. He's got salt spread out and sticking to his bottom lip.
Danny isn't. Danny isn't a lot of things.
Outside the sky is golden from the sun, and Rusty's golden against the window, against the late afternoon heat of outside. His fingertips scrape against the windowsill, where the paint is peeling and the wood is splintering.
When he's had too much to drink Danny thinks that in another life he would've been a poet. He's a dreamer, like Lennon said. He could've been a poet, could've written sonnets on the way that blonds look in the sun.
"You got the keys?" Rusty asks, and licks away the salt.
Danny doesn't even know what a sonnet is, and he's always going to be a thief.
Really, I'm sort of fond of that part, but the rest of it is better in the new version. I swear it is.
I am very, very doomed. I even make a song to that effect. It goes like this:
Sadly there are no dance steps to go with it. Though in my head Bugs Bunny is popping up cause apparently I really was brainwashed by too much television as a child. You have to be in my head to get the connection I think.
Anyway, so, yeah. DOOMED.
It's like, a thing. The stressing I wasn't doing last night came up to bite me in the ass about ten minutes ago. Now I'm all with the "oh-holy-fuck-what-is-wrong-with-me-I'll-never-make-it-work-oh-no-oh-god-oh-fuck." Again, it's a thing in my head. ::shrugs::
So, in an effort to, you know, pretend I don't suck.
The first part of the first attempt at the O11 ficathon piece, which will never ever be used as anything else so now it's here as something just a little over a drabble.
Rusty is movement, constant. His fingers curl and tap on his glass. He's got salt spread out and sticking to his bottom lip.
Danny isn't. Danny isn't a lot of things.
Outside the sky is golden from the sun, and Rusty's golden against the window, against the late afternoon heat of outside. His fingertips scrape against the windowsill, where the paint is peeling and the wood is splintering.
When he's had too much to drink Danny thinks that in another life he would've been a poet. He's a dreamer, like Lennon said. He could've been a poet, could've written sonnets on the way that blonds look in the sun.
"You got the keys?" Rusty asks, and licks away the salt.
Danny doesn't even know what a sonnet is, and he's always going to be a thief.
Really, I'm sort of fond of that part, but the rest of it is better in the new version. I swear it is.