some very specific instances of crackheads.

Ari/Eric, Entourage Fic

illiterate — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 17:15:08 GMT

Three Ways and a Million Ways
Ari/Eric, R
Word Count: 600
Authors Notes: If I told you my academic adviser was Ari Gold, would you tell me to fuck off?

(You don't know this, but in college Ari went to Israel and thought about opening a shwarma shop for about five seconds before he realized he was piss drunk in a Tel-Aviv bar, that it was the 80s, and that there was a bare-chested dude giving him the once over from the corner while saying, pretty American boy want cocaine?)

illiterate — Mon, 19 Feb 2007 16:22:51 GMT

This journal is Dead.

Ahem.

illiterate — Mon, 19 Feb 2007 06:57:22 GMT

You know how sometimes things shouldn't be hot...and then they are and you kind of hate yourself but also want to go masturbate frantically in a corner or at least read/see them again? Yeah, that's what this Scubs fic is like. It's JD/Dr. Cox. It's not good, so it shouldn't be hot, but something about it got me just right. And I feel kind of soiled.

Enjoy! And share your recs if you've got 'em.

LJ makes me feel like a ghost.

illiterate — Mon, 05 Feb 2007 07:12:53 GMT

Because masochism is the flavor of the week:

Unscreened, unlocked, unlogged: tell me what you think of me, anonymously or not. If you've got something to say, now is the time.

(I used to think I was the the bad influence, tobyzantium.)
(When I stop watching the same six episodes of Scrubs over and over again, maybe I'll feel sane.)

i am stuck in caps.

illiterate — Fri, 15 Dec 2006 03:44:21 GMT

HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME!!!

REMEMBER JACK OF JILL?! THEY WERE BAD. I LOVED THEM.

DOES ANYONE HAVE JACK OFF JILL ON THEIR COMPUTER?! CAN THEY USEND IT TO ME?!

THIS IS A DESPERATE PLEA. I FEAR THAT ONLY JACK OFF JILL CAN GET ME THROUGH FINALS.

I WILL. I WILL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU IF YOU HAVE ANY OF THEIR ALBUMS FOR ME. EVEN A SONG OR TWO.

ITUNES DOES NOT HAVE THEIR MUSIC. IT'S GOING TO KILL ME. I AM SO ACCUSTOMED TO INSTANT MUSIC GRATIFICATION. PLZ HELP. PLZ. IT'S THE CHRISTMAS SEASON.

I'LL SUCK YOUR DICK.

I think a new picture of Kel and me is the best way to take up your flist.

illiterate — Thu, 07 Dec 2006 07:26:21 GMT

EAT CUTE, BITCHEZ.

So, what's new with you? Here's a list of all of the work I have to do before/during finals:

~~Summary of Im Westen Nicht Neues (due: tomorrow, auf deutsch, two pages)~~
~~Five page draft of Paper I Do Not Know What to Write (due: Friday)~~
~~Response paper to Most Boring Classics Lecture Ever (due: tomorrow)~~
~~Final draft of Aeneid paper (due: 12.11, five pages)~~
~~Draft on Dante paper (due: 12.15) HALF DONE~~
~~Final draft of Paper I Do Not Know What to Write (due: 12.15, 12 pages)~~
~~Final German paper on Topic of Choice (due 12.18, four pages)~~
~~Take-home Final, Women in Modern Europe (due 12.22)~~
~~Final exam, self-scheduled, Victorian Sexualities~~
~~Final exam, self-schedules, Western Classics in Translation~~

What kind of work do you have before the semester (assuming you're in school) lets out? I invite you to post your own list to the comments and we can whine together. Actually, I think I need to go have a lie down. Looking at my own list is making me ill. Two weeks and four days until Christmas?

music is my hot hot sex

illiterate — Fri, 24 Nov 2006 17:04:12 GMT

Last night I was up until 3:00AM re-doing my LJ layout. I seriously tried three different designs before I decided on this one and made the graphic in Photoshop Elements which is not an easy program to navigate on the first go. I'm kind of obsessed with image maps now, though. So that's kind of cool.

In other words, check out my new layout: illiterateilliterateilliterateilliterate

And tell me a secret. I could use a few good secrets. I've turned off IP logging, and you can be anon.

illiterate — Fri, 03 Nov 2006 15:06:06 GMT

Dear Yuletide writer,

Let it be said that I already love you. I mean, just in case you were worried at all that I wouldn't like your writing, or if you doubted yourself when you realized that you had to write out one of my lame desires. You know, it's funny... but I can't remember what the hell I've chosen. Either way, I am thrilled that you have gotten my requests! Best of luck, and I cannot wait to read your genius words. Isn't yuletide swell?

Heartspuppiesbunnies,
Chloe

House fic!

illiterate — Thu, 02 Nov 2006 01:02:59 GMT

Pillowtalk
By Chloe (illiterate)

Note: This ficlet was brought on by a snipped of dialogue from this Tuesday’s House. It went something like this:

House: What’s that Foreman? You’re racist?!
Foreman: Thanks a lot, Chase… NO!

Anyway…. Have some fan-fiction about characters that obviously do not belong to me in any way, shape, or form. Enjoy!

--

House knows everything about them.

He knows things about them before they know things about them. Every time Foreman buys something new… House knows. Every time Cameron has a patient slip her his number …House knows. House knows when they have fights with each other, fights with patients, even fights with people who have never come within 100 yards of the hospital. Somehow, he just always knows.

He knew when Cameron switched moisturizers. He knew when Chase forgot to pick up his dry cleaning for three weeks, and it wasn’t simply the extra bad ties that tipped him off. He just knew.

Cameron is convinced he’s put a video camera in her apartment—put video cameras in all their apartments.

Foreman disagrees, but says he wouldn’t put it past him.

Chase tends to say nothing at all, but he can commiserate, because House tends to know everything about him as well.

They even go so far as to ask Wilson if perhaps House has extra-sensory perception.

“ESP?” Wilson laughs at them. “The only extra sense House has is one that picks up on lies and the scent of Vicodin” Then he pauses and looks thoughtful. “Although,” he adds, “ESP would surely explain a lot.”

Thus, they wonder. How does he do it?

--

Chase smiles, and it’s more of a smirk really. He’s lying on his side, his head propped up on his hand, elbow on his pillow. He brushes a few strands of blondish hair out of his eyes and looks momentarily coy.

“You’ll have to give me something in return,” he says, and smirks again.

“What do you want?” His companion asks.

“Pair of new trousers and pancakes in the morning.”

“Did Vogler give you pants and breakfast ?”

Chase scowls and House rolls his eyes, says, “You know I’m not a large black man. Or Wilson.”

Chases considers his words. “You know,” he says, “you’re right.”

“Am I?” House raises an incredulous eyebrow.

“Certainly,” Chase grins. “I really ought to get over to Wilson’s. No bloody idea what I’m doing here. Here in the land of no pancakes.” Chase moves to get out of bed, and House makes no effort to stop him.

He does, however, tweak Chase’s bum and say dryly, “Oh very funny…now spill.”

“Pushy,” Chase says, but lies back down again. He snuggles up as close as House will let him and brings his lips close to House’s ear conspiratorially. Tastes the skin of House’s earlobe for a second before he says slowly, in his best impression of a phone sex girl, “Today a patient accused Foreman of being racist.” He smiles against House’s ear.

“Oh that’s fucking brilliant,” House says giddily. He bites his lip in awe. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” he says to Chase, not without affection.

“Let’s hope informing you about our colleagues isn’t the only one.” Chase frowns.

“Certainly not,” House says before pressing their lips together. “But payback’s a bitch.”

END

Apparently I love this show.

illiterate — Fri, 20 Oct 2006 08:10:57 GMT

Five Things Gregory House Will Never Know about Chase
By Chloe ( illiterate )

Gen, Chase-centric.
PG-13, 297 words
PS: inkaddict made a BEAUTIFUL wallpaper using the text of this story. You should totally check it out here.

ONE:

House is always ahead of him. Not just mentally, but physically as well. This is truly remarkable.

Even before the brief Ketamine miracle, House was ahead of him. Somehow, movingly awkwardly along, cane in hand like he’s coming in first place at the Disabled Olympics, which Chase has actually been to, no joke. He was 15, it was a summer internship. He’s never going to tell House about that one. It’s not worth the torment, or the pleasure it might lend him in return.

TWO:

He likes mismatching. It’s fun, it’s colorful, and it makes ten year-old girls smile. Ten year-old girls really like Chase. Maybe too much, but that sort of makes him smile too…and not in a perverted Humbert Humbert sort of way.

THREE:

Although he didn’t have enough time to work up a fully constructed fantasy, the entire time he was fucking Cameron (and the two times afterward they never told anyone about), he was pretending to be House.

Cameron was just too drugged up to notice, and Chase didn’t mind that one bit. So maybe he is kind of a pervert. But really, not in a Humbert Humbert sort of way.

FOUR:

When he isn’t paying attention to the white board during one of their little brainstorming sessions he’s just noticing how blue House’s eyes are and how if only the sky around Princeton were that blue he wouldn’t miss Australia quite as much. No one is ever going to know how much he misses Australia.

FIVE:

Chase loves his job. But he thinks cool, aloof, and slightly stupid is far better than whiny, ass-kissing (although he’s been both), know-it-all.

He won’t be naming any names, thank-you-very-much...but he thinks that if House guessed, he might answer yes or no. He pretty much always answer yes, but he'll never tell House that either.

End.

This is just a bit of late-night fluff and pretty much what happens when you spend the night at the local hospital waiting for House to suddenly show up. Wishful thinking, although I did cut out a picture of Hugh Laurie from a magazine! *wins at life*

Shameless Plug

illiterate — Wed, 18 Oct 2006 23:10:40 GMT

I wrote some House fan-fiction and even if you don't watch House you should totally go and read it because I could use a little self-esteem boost as far as writing fan-fic goes-- I really need to know what people think about the dialogue, because this is a hard show to reproduce properly in prose.

Seriously, if you read this story I will be your best friend. No joke. Anyway, you can find it here.

In other news, I have a prospective student staying with me tonight! Excitement. She seems like a real sweet kid, I just hope I'm not scaring her. Also: I need to do my homework. Like right now. Thank god it's only midterms and I have the rest of the semester to make up for all of the slacking I've done so far.

Kel and I have our anniversary on SATURDAY! I am so excited. We're going to Salem, MA with friends and he may be coming up here on Thursday! A whole day earlier than usual. I cannot wait. I bought him some really cool prezzies...shhh, don't tell. Sadly, they have not yet arrived in the mail. Here's to hoping they'll be here by Saturday *crosses fingers*!

Okay, I should get started on my homework. I love you, flist. Maybe I'll even write you some p0rn, soon. <333

JUST SO YOU KNOW, I'LL CRY IF YOU DON'T READ THIS

illiterate — Tue, 17 Oct 2006 20:33:50 GMT

Artful Possibilities

House, M.D.
House/Chase, PG-13 {3,854 words}

Notes: This is for Kitty, and she knows it. Thank you so much to my kindly betas, and those who allowed me to read snippets of this to them, despite their complete disinterest in fanfiction. Also, thank you to my mother who allowed me to purchase House, M.D: Season Two when my funds were sorely lacking. Hope you enjoy!

When Chase first begins working with Doctor House he is reminded of the hours he spent reminding himself to be pious and Good when he was at seminary, except now he is reminding himself not to speak out of turn and to look as unassuming as possible even when he’s the only person in the room. For those reasons, and those reasons alone, Chase feels a sense of relief when the two other members of the current Scooby Gang join House’s team.

--

“Do you always need to have something in your mouth?” House asks him out of nowhere on a Tuesday morning, early. Early for House, which means 11.

Chase guiltily pulls the lollipop out of his mouth.

“It helps me think,” he says.

“Wet sucking noises help you think?” House raises his right eyebrow.

Chase gingerly puts the lollipop back into his mouth without making a sound.

--

Later, when the whole team is together working on a diagnosis and Chase has a brand new lollipop, Cameron is whole-heartedly backing up a theory with the utmost conviction and Foreman is clearly counting the number of tiles in the ceiling.

Feet up on his desk, House is tossing his ball back and forth.

Chase doesn’t hear the ball hit the ground, but he knows it’s gone because out of nowhere House has a hand around the stem of Chase’s lollipop, and he tugs it from between Chase’s lips with a resounding pop. Then he sniffs it.

“Funny,” he says, “didn’t have you pegged for a cherry man.” He sticks the sucker into his own mouth.

Foreman raises his eyebrows half way up his forehead. Cameron looks vaguely sick.

Chase just blinks.

“So, is the plan to just let the patient die? Or do you intend to catch flies in those open mouths of yours for the rest of the day?” House asks them blandly.

“I’ll draw some more blood,” Cameron says hurriedly and leaves before House can get another word out.

House twirls the lollipop around in his mouth.

“I’ll get a better documented family history,” Foreman says, but looks like he wants to either kick Chase under the table or take a very long lunch break.

“And you?” House asks Chase directly.

“I, well, I…”

“You were thinking of tormenting the patient with the fabulously annoying sound effects you seem to be so keen on making today? Or was that just your treatment for me and the rest of our colleagues?"

"I’m going now.” Foreman grabs his clipboard, straightens his lab coat.

"I was just—” Chase sighs. “It’s just a bloody sucker. It’s not like I was smacking gum.”

“No, by all means,” House waves his hand dismissively. “Smack gum. That’s better. That’s way better. That way you’ll remind me of diner waitresses when they’re actually on duty, as opposed to their post-work,” leer, “predilections.”

Chase swallows. Draws his lips into a pout.

“What?” House pouts mockingly back at him. “Did you think I hired you just because you have great hair?”

“No, I thought you hired me because my father made a phone call.” Chase crosses his arms defiantly.

“Actually, that just sounded better than, ‘I hired you because you have cock sucking lips.’” House shrugs.

Chase pales, wishes he were used to this by now, wishes House would just resort to hitting him with his cane instead of using verbal torture. Then again, House probably knows that Chase would enjoy that all too much.

House rolls his eyes.

“Stop fish-mouthing at me and go do something useful.”

Chase leaves.

“You forgot your sucker!” House calls out from his chair, and it sounds smug.

--

“I guess it’s your day today,” Cameron says to him a little later while they watch their patient go through the second MRI of the work up.

“Yeah, no shit.” Chase sighs.

Cameron shrugs. “You know he’s like with all of us. Foreman’s kind of lucky, though. He only gets racism.”

“It was only a sucker.”

“It was kind of annoying.”

Chase looks at her. She shrugs again, the picture of innocence. Sister Mary Cameron. If Chase hadn’t fucked her once already, he’d wonder if she wore a habit under her little sweaters and slacks. A very close-fitting habit.

“He really needs to get some.”

“Yeah,” Cameron says, as she goes to help the patient out of the MRI machine, “I had that exact thought once.” Wink. She actually winks at him.

--

Against odds of a thousand to one, several angry visits from Cuddy, and two very flustered parents, the patient is cured. At 1AM she stabilizes and House has Cameron let her family know that she’ll be ready to go home after 24 hours of observation. Relief all around.

Chase gets to spend the rest of the night at the hospital because he’s an intensivist, and because their patient is still on slightly shaky ground. Her parents have gone home for the night, leaving her in his more than capable hands. Now all Chase has to do is make sure she makes it through the last few hours of the night. He can do that. He brings a book with. Watches her sleep, her breathing and heart rate carefully monitored.

Soon he’s falling asleep, and he knows it. His tired body is lulled by the quiet bleeps of the hospital machinery, the whir of the lights, and the gentle whoosh of their patient’s respirator. The respirator, which she, with hope, will not need tomorrow.

Whack!

Chase hears the whack before he feels it, and then it feels like his shin is on fire.

“Goddamnit!” he shouts, before quickly lowering his tone of voice, “what the hell is wrong with you, House?”

The patient rolls over. Makes a few childlike snuffling sounds.

House shrugs. “Checking in on you,” he says, and sits himself slowly down on the plastic chair next to Chase. “Ah, the beauty of a sleeping child.”

“Almost not.” Chase scowls, and then raises an eyebrow. “What are you doing here so late anyhow?”

“Paperwork.”

“You hate paperwork.”

“Even what we hate must get done at some point.” House reaches into his pocket. “I brought you another lollipop.”

Chase takes the candy suspiciously. Looks at it.

“Oh please, even if I were to poison you, you’d probably be able to cure yourself.”

“Yeah, probably,” Chase says, and puts the sucker in jacket pocket.

“So.” House crosses his arms over his chest.

“So,” Chase says right back.

The patient sleeps soundly on into the night.

--

In the morning, Princeton is cold and the first fall frost covers the hospital grounds. It’s midterms at the university, and the whole hospital knows it because they have had three suicides, all under 21, in the past two days. House has clinic hours and his mood is less than amicable. Lucky for his team, he isn’t very good at sneaking up on them. Holed up in their little conference room, Chase, Foreman, and Cameron can hear the thump and skid of House’s awkward walk before they see his unshaven mug.

Chase has just helped to discharge their little patient from the day before, and she gives him a hug before her parents wheel her out the door. In many ways, he supposes that being a doctor is probably way better than being a priest. Although being a priest have certainly involved far fewer cane induced bruises.

“Woman, age 22, hacking cough and bloody urine. Connect the dots.” House throws the patient file down onto the table.

“Blood in the urine is always an anomaly,” Cameron says quickly, adjusts her glasses.

“Is she black?” Chase asks.

Foreman looks at him.

“Hey,” Chase says, “bloody urine can sometimes be indicative of sickle cell disease… which is more commonly found in African-Americans.”

“Which I know,” Foreman says, “but let’s focus on her first symptom. How long as she been coughing?”

“About three weeks. The bloody urine brought her in.”

“Test for TB?” Cameron tries.

“She’s a college student not a recent émigré,” sneers Chase.

House smirks at them. “What? It could be sympathetic illness. She’s been reading a lot of Keats lately.”

Foreman groans. “What else is there besides a cough and urine?”

“Ah, the lovely Doctor Cameron never let me finish.”

“You said ‘connect the dots.’” Cameron looks indignant.

“Well you missed one. She’s been losing weight. Lots of weight.”

“Did she tell you that?” Chase asks.

“No,” House says glibly. “Her boyfriend mentioned it in passing when I weighed her.”

“Cancer,” Foreman concludes

“One of you call Wilson,” Cameron sighs. “I’ll have a nurse admit her."

Cameron leaves, Foreman goes to knock on Wilson’s door. House has a sip of coffee. Chase sits alone at the table.

“That was too easy,” Chase says.

“It was,” House concurs. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

“It’s lunch time.”

“It’s time to drink somewhere. We're going. Now. Before they get back.”

“You hate me,” Chase says, but grabs his coat.

“Yeah, but I love drinking.”

They leave the hospital together.

--

House is driving that hot little red car of his, and he takes Chase to the sketchiest bar in pretty much all of Princeton.

“The Dirty Truth,” House says as they enter, “serves more imported beer than any other bar in the city, and,” he grins, “there are way fewer college students.”

“Great,” Chase says, “no one will know where to find my body.”

“Hah,” House says dryly. “Go get a table. Pick a corner. I’ll get you one of their good English,” he holds up a finger as if to say sshhhh, “ales.”

Chase sighs, takes the blazer House passes to him and watches the older man lumber toward the bar with a certain kind of uneasy grace that Chase has always found remotely mesmerizing. Once he’s certain that House has actually ordered them beers, Chase wanders off and finds a table.

“Drink this,” House says, and hands Chase a pint of something colored like milky piss.

Chase sips.

“It’s good.”

“I know it’s good, I wouldn’t have ordered it for you if it wasn’t good.” House rolls his eyes. Sips his own beer.

“Why are we here?” Chase asks.

“Can’t a man take one of his ducklings out for a drink?”

“No.”

“Okay, you’ve got me. I’ve wanted to do this for a while.” House looks down at his hands, does that thing he does where he rubs one of those hands over his scrubby face and looks long suffering. Chase doesn’t even want to know.

“You’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” House says.

“You’ve wanted to feed me beer in the afternoon for a while, is what you’re saying?” Chase looks confused. Actually, he is confused. His brow furrows. “Like, what? Like a pre-meditating doctor-knapping for a lunchtime kip?”

“Sure, you could call it that.” Sip of beer.

The Dirty Truth is dark even at 1pm, and the few characters lazing about are pretty good at ignoring each other and paying incredibly little attention to the two gentlemen sitting in the corner. Dire Straits is playing on the speakers, Chase is wondering what the fuck is going on and why the floor is so damn sticky.

“Is this,” Chase pauses. “Is this some kind of date?”

“Sure,” House says again. “You could call it that.”

“So you think I’m gay?”

“No.” House quirks his lips. “I know you’re gay.”

“I fucked Cameron.”

“Actually one might argue that Cameron fucked you.” Full blown grin.

“Fine, fine.” Chase shakes his head. “So you’ve got me, I’m gay. Kind of gay. I mean, not a total pouf, but you know. Gay.” He sighs. “It’s no wonder people really hate you.”

“It’s no wonder your father disowned you.”

“I hate you.”

The bar hasn’t picked up at all in the last few minutes, but Chase sort of feels like he’s suffocating.

“You don’t hate me. You like me. And here’s the trouble:”

“Enlighten me, Doctor.”

“I like you, too.” House looks down again. Finishes off his beer. The whole half a pint of it.

Chase is pretty certain he’s cracking up. But his stomach feels kind of funny and he kind of wants to kill himself or start a barroom brawl, but there really aren’t enough people around for the kind of brawl that would cause a good enough distraction so that he could run the fuck away.

“You like me,” he says, because it might actually be more dangerous than taking a swing at someone.

“Sadly yes, even I’m not perfect.”

“What now?” Chase asks.

“How about we go back to work and you meet me in my office when your shift is done today.”

Chase nods. “I think I can do that,” he says slowly.

“Good, great,” House says. “Let’s get out of here. We don’t want your little pals to think I’m showing favoritism.”

As they walk out the door, Chase swallows his heart.

--

The ride back to the hospital is silent, and when Chase is back on the job, both Cameron and Foreman want to know what he was doing, and where House has been for the past hour. Chase is shaky. He drops two needs while trying to perform routine blood work and is almost run over by an orderly when as he exits the patient’s room. Cameron pulls him aside indiscreetly in the staff restroom and wants to know what’s up. Badly. She almost shakes it out of him.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” he covers for himself quickly.

“Seriously, Chase,” she says. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. My lunch was. I had a weird lunch, okay?” Chase shrugs. “Honestly, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Cameron concedes, “but if you want to talk… you know where to find me.” Sometimes she treats him like a little brother, and Chase just thinks it’s…awkward. Really awkward.

“Thanks,” Chase says, and spends the rest of the day busying himself with anything he can get his hands on and basically doing the best job he can to avoid Foreman, Cameron, and even Doctor Wilson.

--

He declines an offer of dinner with Foreman, Cameron and Pierce-from-Cardiology at around 6:00 and then slips into the staff lounge to shower. He’s not exactly certain why he feels the need to shower. He knows House won’t have showered because House is a little bit like Rick Blaine in the sense that he doesn’t put himself out for anybody.

Ivory soap clean, Chase combs his hair in front of the slightly steamed mirror. Feels ten different kinds of guilt creeping into his gut, and as he decides not to put his tie back on a moment later, he thinks that maybe being a priest wouldn’t have been that all that different from being a doctor.

Priests help the lame, too.

--

House is waiting for him in his office when Chase gets there at just after 7:00. He’s tossing that ever-present ball around, his feet up on his desk. Chase can see that his eyes are just a little glassy and the open bottle of Vicodin on his desk is a good enough hint as ever. The Doors are blasting out of House’s iPod speakers.

“You haven’t changed much since the 70s, have you?” Chase quips.

“Didn’t think you were going to show.” House ignores his barb.

“Well, here I am,” Chase says, and sits himself down on one of the chairs across from House’s desk. He always thinks of the Head Master’s office at school when he has to sit across from someone like this.

“Here you are.” House nods.

“So, what’s the plan then? Do you intend to take me home and ply me with wine and sucking candy?” Chase purses his lips.

“Something like that,” House agrees. He throws Chase his keys. “You’re driving.”

“Sweet!” Chase says, before he thinks better of it.

--

House’s car practically purrs as he’s driving it, and Chase knows that’s a cliché, but the Corvette really feels that good under his control. The seats are leather, bucket style. House has the seat warmers flipped on and Chase’s butt feels toasty. Mobsters sure know how to pick out cars.

"You know,” Chase muses as he’s driving, “you’re kind of fucked up.”

"Pot, meet kettle,” House says without missing a beat.

“I am not…” he stops. “Where are we going?”

“My apartment.” House is his tapping his cane along to the music.

“This isn’t the way to your apartment,” Chase says.

“We’re taking the fun route.” House half-smiles and Chase thinks it looks a little sinister.

“Seriously, House….Where are we going?”

“Just drive, pretty boy.” House rolls his eyes. “Just drive.”

“Humph,” Chase sniffs. And then he’s actually laughing.

--

They end up at a park somewhere in Pennsylvania. Not one of those dinky urban parks, but a full-blown mountains and lakes type of deal. They are not even close to House’s apartment, or Princeton, but Chase parks the Corvette by the edge of the glassy pond, and House limps out of the car and over to a picnic bench. He leans his cane against the wood and then hauls himself up onto the table. Chase hears his foot scrape along the bench, and half-winces. It is already dark. Winter is coming on fast and strong. He shivers in his quilted jacket.

“I didn’t know you liked hiking,” Chase says.

“I suppose it’s too dark out to look at the foliage,” House rejoins.

“It’s cold.” Chase blows on his hands and sits down next to House.

“It’s cold in my house, too.”

“The hospital isn’t cold,” Chase offers.

“The hospital is full of people. I hate people.”

Chase shrugs. “So,” he says.

“You keep saying that.” House looks at him. He didn’t shower, Chase can tell.

“I keep expecting you to say something…something—”

“Something what?” House snaps.

“Something revelatory, you know, like you always do.” Chase feels helpless. And his feet are cold.

“Maybe it’s your turn.” House takes a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket, passes them to Chase.

“You brought gloves?” Chase takes them, puts them on. They’re worn brown leather, cashmere lined, and lovely. His father had a pair just like them, but Chase doesn’t exactly want to go there right now.

“You don’t like the cold,” House says nonchalantly. Like it means nothing at all that he just offered up a pair of gloves to Chase, even though he seems to derive more pleasure than humanly possible from taunting him, from taunting everyone.

“Thanks,” Chase says, and then, “it’s really nice here. I mean, even though I can’t really see any of it.”

“I think so, too.”

Time passes, slowly. Chase can hear geese somewhere in the distance. They’re flying south.

“House,” Chase touches his shoulder. He can feel the camelhair of House’s coat through the gloves. Coarse, probably, but very warm, classic—a little bit like House.

“Chase,” House says, and they both have their heads turned toward each other for the first time. Chase knows that his name was really a question, the equivalent of an expectant twist of lips.

“You’re my boss,” Chase says, lets out a deep sigh, his hand still on House’s shoulder.

“That didn’t seem to bother Cameron,” House smirks.

“You’d be surprised to know how few scruples Cameron actually has,” Chase shrugs, remembering that one night with her, the way she stretched herself out for him.

“You’ll have to tell me about them sometime,” House leers, reading his mind, and the expression makes Chase feel a little bit weak. A little bit like he’s about to fall from grace.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” Chase says, and finally closes the space between them, presses his lips just lightly to House’s.

House kisses him back, there’s no tongue, but a soft parting of lips instead. Chase has always been told he has lips like a girl, and if he’s ever kissed anyone with lips like a man, then it’s House, whose stubble is rough and warming against his smooth cheek. Before either of them pull away, Chase has his other gloved hand on the back of House’s neck, and House has his eyes closed, which Chase didn’t think he knew how to do without the aid of drugs.

Somewhat reluctantly, Chase pulls away first. He can see both of their breaths in the cold night, coming together in soft white puffs of air.

“Is this…is this what you want?” He asks quietly.

“I hired you all for a reason.” House looks as innocently as possible at him.

“Bollocks,” Chase sneers. “You’re a bastard.”

“You kissed me,” House says slowly. “Just now, you assumed that’s what I wanted. Romantic setting, letting you drive my car, beers this afternoon—those could have been signs. And sure, I told you that I liked you, but I could have been messing with you. Logic would dictate that I was just messing with you. But you went there. You used your instincts. Like a good doctor, you went against everything you already know about me, about us. You went there before I did. You,” he looks directly at Chase, “kissed me.”

“Now what?” Chase says, feeling a tremor of indignation rise in his chest, mixed with a hint of astonishment. This was a test. Another test.... He shoves hands into his pockets petulantly. “You break my heart and leave me stranded in the middle of nowhere?”

“No.” House raises that infernal eyebrow again. “Now I take you back to my apartment.” He gets up from the table and takes his cane in hand.

“Wait,” Chase says, unmoving, “Do you even actually want me?” He narrows his eyes. Everyone lies. Everyone wants something.

House stops. Turns slowly and looks at him, looks exasperated.

“Get in the car.”

“Okay.” Chase gives in, because he always gives in to House. Always. He feels like hanging his head as he walks to the car, but there’s a shimmer of excitement in his stomach that he can’t ignore as House revs the engine and Chase realizes that he stole the keys back while they were kissing.

He buckles his seatbelt defiantly.

“Robert,” House says sternly, and Chase looks over at him quickly because no one ever calls him by his first name anymore.

“Yeah?”

“This isn’t the start of a beautiful friendship.”

“I figured as much,” Chase shakes his head.

“I mean,” House pauses and looks, for a moment, like he cannot find the perfect, cutting words. “I mean,” he says, “this is start of something else entirely.”

“Okay,” Chase says, and knows he’s just accepted whatever craziness House is offering him. He puts his hand near House’s, somewhere between the stick and the armrest.

House glances at him.

Chase nods resolutely.

“Okay,” House says.

They drive on.

End.

Feedback is much appreciated. This is my first piece of House fan-fiction, and I am, per usual, a nervous mother bird.

Sometimes...

illiterate — Fri, 13 Oct 2006 07:43:36 GMT

you post thing in communities like madradhair and then you're like, "Hey, I should totally post this in my LJ, because all those other bitches deserve to see how awesome I am, too." Thus, check out this shit: July to August of my hair. You know it's pretty vain that I think you might actually take the time to click this cut. BUT! I just got my hairs did, so you bettah click it, ho.

i had my hair opti-smoothed and this is the last picture i took of it curly.
i kind of miss the curls, but you can ignore that i look like i have consumption here.

post-smoothing.

on a boring vintage day.

actually styled....sort of. audrey (twigg) did this cut and color.

okay, mostly i like this picture because you can see my tattoo and glasses.

with freshly colored and washed! hair, this last one is me wondering what to be for halloween.
what are you going as?

Also, I'm a little pissed off because I think this bitch's monroe looks better than mine. Also, this one's. Seriously, what is it with every fucking scenester bitch with a pain threshold getting a monroe? When I got mine OVER TWO YEARS AGO, I was like, the only ho rocking it. Now I feel like I some kind of trend-setter. If I were Paris Hilton I would have to kill myself. Lest to say, bitches, take those things out of your face. I own that bit of metal. God, it's late at night. BUT SERIOUSLY: I LOOK -GOOD- WITH A MONROE. SO FUCK YOU:

Fan Fiction

illiterate — Sun, 01 Oct 2006 23:49:59 GMT

Hey there Flist! I need a little favor. Are any of you very familiar with House, MD? I've been working on a piece of House fanfiction for the past few days, and I had the lovely and talented yeats take a look at it, and while I trust her implicitly, she's not very into the show.

So. If someone out there is, and would be kind enough to read over this thing I've been writing, I would be super grateful. I'm not normally so skeptical about my own writing, but House is such a great show and I really want to make sure that my dialogue sounds right. Anyway, the pairing is House/Chase and so far they haven't fucked. In fact, they're not really cooperating with me. SHOCKING!

Again, thanks so much. Just leave a comment here with your email address and I'll send the fic your way. <333 BIG HEARTS.

reasons why karma is a bitch

illiterate — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 23:39:30 GMT

Yesterday I wrote one of my professors an email letting her know that I would have to leave class 20 minutes early due to a family emergency and a train ride home to New Jersey. This was, of course, a blatant lie. I just didn't want to take a later train. Today my mother has a terrible pain in her side and my father is currently taking her to the hospital.

I have a terrible sinking feeling. And I sort of hate myself.

You can take the girl out of fandom….

illiterate — Fri, 11 Aug 2006 15:19:00 GMT

Let me tell you a little story: I got about four hours of sleep last night, so this morning I did something that I very rarely do. I put on make-up. I'm always shocked that a little bit of powder on skin can make you look like a totally different person. When I woke up at 8:00am today, I looked like someone had basically beaten my face with a baseball bat filled with cocaine, now with a little help from my good friend cosmetics, I look better than I do on a full eight hours of sleep and a long spa weekend. Oh make-up, if only I weren't so lazy and laid-back… then we could be pals everyday.

You may, of course, be wondering why I only got four hours of sleep, and that is very kind of you. Here's why: yesterday deliberatehips posted on damnyouwentz that Cobra Starship would be playing at The Annex last night. Alas, the show appeared to be 21+ and it was pouring. I, however, am a persevering mofo, so my friend and I decided to go check it out. Yes, it took some persuasion, but we went and when we got there the guy at the just waved us in* with a kind, "I know you girls have your IDs." So we paid our $6 (!!!!) cover and headed in.

The Annex is super tiny. It's like, basically a hipster dive venue with totally ridiculous wooden walls and eighties lighting. There's a long bar and an upstairs with tables. There's also a pretty great sign that reads, "Dancing is forbidden by Order of the City of New York," which I think is hilarious. Anyway, we got inside and the first band was on. I can't remember their name, but people were doing the head nod and chatting. We were petty much the youngest people there at first, and the crowd was kind of dull. It picked up after the second band, during whom we stood outside. I had a cigarette. I lose at life. My friend was like, uber tired and we almost went home and then, like a knight in shining armor, Gabe Saporta showed up and made everything better.

When Gabe got there, we suddenly felt a sense of renewed energy and realized that the crowd wasn't boring, they were just so hip that they didn't have to look like hipsters. We also realized that about 50% of the people there were "someone." Gabe wandered about kissing people hello, being generally tall and attractive, and having a good time. I turned to my friend and was like ,"Man, I half expected to see Mikey Way here," at which point the girl behind us giggled and said, "Who said that?" and I was like, "Me, and I am not ashamed….*defiant!*" She smiled at me. "No, no," she said, and I noticed her cute UK accent. "I'm like, one of Mikey's best friends. I hear his name and I'm like, 'Ohhh! Mikey! I get so excited!'" I 'awwwwwwed' at her, and it turned out that she was Gurj of internet and general NYScene fame. She introduced herself to us later after Cobra's set, while Gabe was hanging out with Utralgrrrrl, who is from my town.

So Cobra Starship was pretty fucking rad. They played five songs, because each band did a wicked short set. Gabe as sexy as hell, and rather fey. He spent a lot of time grinding against his mic stand and doing wonderful little arm-out-to-the-audience moves. The actual band is very cute, and the girl's parents were there, which was like, so adorable. Every song was AMAZING except for "SoaP: Bring It," because it's just not the same without Travis and Maja, and Becks. Best thing though, was that before they sang, Gabe was like, "This is song that's going to buy us all matching outfits!" Some Columbia/Drive-Thru exec introduced them, and then gave me a fist-five, you know, like fist-to-fist, because we were both from New Jersey. "I love you, kid!" he said. Mostly I cannot wait until the full Cobra Starship album comes out on October 10th.

Post show, Gabe talked to people and just hung out. He was wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and one of those black hats with the little brims everyone seems to have these days. The various label people were all over him post-show, but then he hung out with the audience. He had, like, three bevs with him. He was Gabe Three Bev, which I told him. My friend and Brad Walsh, the photographer for Stolen Transmission were wearing the same snake necklace, and Gabe was like, "OMG, where did you get those?" The answer is somewhere in China Town. That's always the answer. Gabe was wearing a snake necklace as well. He told that he bought his on Ebay.

I told Gabe that they were fucking awesome and he gave me a hug and got his ~~sweat~~ hot all over me. He's like, so tall. He had to bend down, like, a lot. Oh! I used to have a SoaP (bring it) button, but I don’t anymore, because Gabe Saporta is wearing it. In lots of photographs. Basically, he was super nice and really down to earth and at one point when they were striking he started dancing on an amp. Post-Gabeness, Brad took our picture and we chatted with Miss Moderage and Gurj for a while. Todd from Men Women and Children was there, and the Misshapes, and Josh Madden…but that was the extent of our brush with 'fame'. All in all, it was nice, really chill, and a good time was had. The only thing that could have made last night better would have been the Oxford Houe Family all up in there with me...!

My friend took some footage of the concert, which you can see here. She's going to put up more soon, I think. I'll be adding some photographs to this post pretty soon as well. Okay! I should actually do work now. This weekend I'm going up to Northampton to see some ladyfacezzz. It's going to be lovely!

*I noticed later that only ugly girls and bros were being carded. Oh well….

P!ATD SLASH >:O

illiterate — Tue, 27 Jun 2006 22:39:33 GMT

My father's driver just came to the door. He rang the doorbell, and when I opened the door he handed me my father's carkeys and said, "here you go, Miss Chloe." I said thank you and he left. My father's driver is a large, not unattractive black man who's been working for us for years now. His name is Woody and he sings in church. And I think when he called me "Miss Chloe" just now, time did a bellyflop into the sea of racial inequality. Or perhaps I am simply over-sensitive. And now, something I thought I would never write: Pop{punk!} slash. </p>

Fire on Your Tongue

Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross from Panic! At the Disco Rated R, for adult situations and language. By Chloe

Disclaimer and Thank Yous: I most certainly do not own these boys, as they are Real People, as much as that dismays me. This is dedicated to Lah, my partner in crime and the bitch who got me into this shit. And to Jori, also BFF, and my beta.

If there were a religion that worshipped the shiny, the over-the-top, the fake, and the outrageous, then Las Vegas would be its Mecca. Brendon likes to say to Ryan, but mostly to himself, that growing up in Vegas was like growing up in glitter. And Ryan knows exactly what he’s talking about, even if he thinks Brendon is shit with metaphors.
A Mormon, a closeted homosexual, and a seventeen year-old walk into a club… Ryan knows that they are the start of a very bad, probably raunchy joke, but he tries not to think about it very often. Mostly he just pats down his tiny Euro-mullet, smoothes pomade into his faux-hawk and tries not to poke himself in the eye with his liner. At first, Brendon needed to help them all out.

You see, Brendon used to be Goth. He was a Bauhaus listening, Poppy Z. Bright reading, Cure worshipping Goth boy with the practiced eyeliner applying hand to prove it. The phase probably lasted from the summer before sophomore year to mid-junior year when he discovered Thursday. His mother still has the pictures, even if the bondage pants look didn’t go over very well at church.

Ryan’s not very much for mess. Their tour bus is a fucking warzone, so he’s glad they’ve got a night in the hotel. Spencer is really into his X-Box right now, and the games are all over the place. Since going on the road, Ryan’s become a vegan. He got fucking sick of fried food and burgers. He’s trying to get everyone to switch to soymilk, Spencer doesn’t care either way, but Brendon is having none of it.

“That’s milk made from a plant,” he had told Ryan. “Milk made from a plant has to have so much extra stuff in it.” They were diving from Los Angles to Seattle. Looking out of the window at the coastline was making Ryan feel nauseous.

“It’s good for you!” Ryan argued.

“Good for me is you shutting up and stepping away from the refrigerator,” Brendon had smiled, and dodged an arm around him to grab a fresca.

“I’m telling you!” Ryan said uselessly, and closed the fridge after him.

They had a whole kitchenette on the bus. None of them were used to cooking for themselves— hence that whole fueled-by-ramen thing. For the first time in his life, Ryan had a pretty good amount of pocket money and he still wasn’t eating very well. Vegan nuggets weren’t exactly cheap, though… so it was good in that respect. Even if Spencer and Brendon thought he was going crunchy.

“I get the straight-edge thing,” Spencer had said. “But dude, what’s life without a burger?”

Ryan had just sighed.

Now they’re in Seattle, and he’s sad they had to leave LA, where he and Greta did some hella good shopping—another one of the perks of having money. They’ve played two shows here and the crowds are pretty good. Young, but then again, they’re fucking young.

Still, Ryan knows that most of the kids who come to their shows are driven there by mommy and daddy. Those kids wear their Hot Topic wardrobes and feel badass, and it’s okay, because they’re like, fourteen. It’s hard, Ryan thinks. He’s gotten so much older in the past few months, and he won’t see his next birthday for a while. And it’s those kids who buy their merch and let him go shopping for vegan brownies and hot clothes.

So yeah, he bought a Louis Vuitton belt in LA. And whatever. It’s a hot belt. Designer, Ryan holds, can be punk. He likes the monogram. And anyway, he bought the belt at a high-end thrift shop—as opposed to, say, a high-end mall. Brendon and Spence give him shit for it anyway.

“It’s a girl’s belt, you know,” Brendon says from the couch behind him in their room.

“So?” Ryan says petulantly, looking at himself in the mirror.

“Just saying.” Brendon shrugs.

“This from the boy said that wearing makeup would make us way hotter?” Ryan raises an eyebrow.

“It does make us look hotter.”

“You mean it makes you look hotter.” Ryan adjusts the sizing, flips the buckle to the side. Better. “Do you think the letters are kind of a…a taupe color?” He curls his lip up a little scrutinizing his waist.

“I dunno,” Brendon says and comes to stand next to him. He gets down on his knees and looks real close.

Ryan feels his face begin to color, maybe feels a bit of sweat at the nape of his neck. The euro-mullet is going to frizz. He tugs at his bangs.

“Could be taupe,” Brendon says ponderously from the ground. “But I left my glasses on the bus.”

“Taupe’s not bad,” Ryan says slowly.

“Can I try this thing on?” Brendon asks, and before Ryan says yes, or no, or you-are-totally-on-your-knees-ohmygod, Brendon has his fingers on the buckle and his tongue between his teeth while he carefully pulls the belt apart and off of Ryan’s waist. Ryan swallows hard.

“Um,” he says.

Brendon stands up and loops the pilfered Louis Vuitton belt around his own waist. It clashes horribly with his lavender hoodie. At least Ryan thinks it does. But Ryan isn’t really thinking much at all right now.

“I like this belt. This is a nice belt.” Brendon nods at himself. “This belt looks good on me.” He makes a few patented Brendon faces, puts his hands on his hips, looks like he’s about to pirouette.

“See? It’s a great belt. A grand belt.” Ryan pouts. “And it’s vintage,” he says, with conviction.

Greta says that everything is better when it’s vintage. Spencer says that everything is better when it’s free. Brendon says that everything is pretty damn good if he’s doing it. And Ryan likes when things are cruelty free….and sober.

Brendon is much too busy looking in the mirror. They usually share a room on tour. Spencer is too messy for him, and he and Brendon generally wear the same size clothing so it works out well. In any case, he’s used to Brendon looking in the mirror. Brendon, though not very conceited on the outside, really likes looking at his own face.

“Can I have my fucking belt back?” Ryan puts his hand out.

“Nope.” Brendon smirks, “bitch is mine now.”

“Just give it back, okay?” Ryan got enough of this in middle school. He and Brent were losers. And even when he finally had a group of friends they always seemed to be stealing his shit, hiding it, watching him search helplessly around when whatever he was looking for was pretty much always right behind him, or being passed from hand to hand.

“Whatcha gonna do about it?” Brendon asks, and hops out of his way when Ryan tries to paw at his waist and remove the belt himself.

Ryan huffs, and frowns. “Nothing, fuck it. Keep the belt.” That is pretty much his way. He isn’t much for dicking around about stupid things. Instead, he goes and sits on one of the double beds. Picks up a copy of Spin he bought at a truckstop.

“You’re no fun,” Brendon says and jumps up onto the bed, bounces next to him for a minute.

“And you’re about six years old,” Ryan says, losing his grip on the magazine. The Comfort Inn beds don’t have much shock control. They also squeak something awful.

There’s a massive thump, and Brendon falls down next to him.

“Man, these things must sound like hell when people fuck on them,” he says, and rocks back and forth, making the bed squeak some more.

“Stop it.”

“No.”

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

“Stop.”

“No.”

Squeak, squeak.

“Stop—“

Ryan hits him over the head with the magazine and suddenly Brendon is on top of him and the belt is off and Ryan doesn’t know exactly what happened and but he knows that maybe Brendon wasn’t kidding when he tried to drunkenly crawl into bed with him a week or so back. Ryan likes him better sober. Even if he is annoying.

Squeak, squeak, goes the bed, Brendon’s legs on either side of his hips, the pillow crushed behind him against the headboard.

“You know what I like about this belt?” Brendon asks.

“That… that it’s taupe?” Ryan swallows. His hands fiddle in his lap, black nail polish chipping off on his straight-leg jeans.

“Nope, that I can do this,” Brendon says, and jerks Ryan’s hands above his head and against the top of the headboard. He wraps the belt around Ryan’s thin wrists, and loops the leather through the bars of the headboard. Buckles it, and Ryan feels the metal and the broken in, vintage, leather against his skin.

“Brendon…” Ryan says slowly. “You just tied me to the bed.”

“Oh, look at that, I sure did.” Brendon looks appreciatively at his handy work. Flexes his thighs a little, which Ryan really feels.

“What are you going to do?” He asks.

“I think I’ll watch some TV,” Brendon says from above him.

“What… are you? The shit?”

“Just kidding,” Brendon says, and he’s real close to Ryan’s face then. Really close.

Ryan can see where he didn’t get all of the makeup off after their show tonight. There’re flecks of black on his checks where the mascara caked, and sparkles left over under his eyes. His lips look bitten. He’s breathing on Ryan’s cheek.

“Am I freaking you out?” Brendon asks.

“Nothing freaks me out,” Ryan says defiantly, opens his eyes a little wider because he knows they’ve become slightly lidded with lust.

“Good,” Brendon says. “Now close your eyes.”

Ryan closes his eyes, because when Brendon says something, people just seem to go along with it. It’s like he’s the antichrist…people just bend to his will. That simple. If Brendon asked a waiter to bring them 60 veggie burgers soaked in truffle oil on the house, then the poor schmuck would probably do it. Because he just couldn’t say no.

Ryan closes his eyes and Brendon licks his left eyelid. Fucking licks it. Ryan feels his tongue, wet and hot against the thin skin, and he feels the pressure on his eye, and for a moment he hopes very stupidly that he won’t get pinkeye, but then Brendon moves on to his left ear and Ryan tries not to grind his hips upward, he tries not to struggle at his belt, holding his hands in place. He tries so hard, but his hips jerk when Brendon sucks his earlobe between his lips.

“Oh fuuuuck,” Ryan says.

And Brendon whispers, “yeah?” into his ear, and Ryan thinks it sounds a little bit like a question.

“Yeah… yeah,” Ryan mutters and Brendon goes in for the kill. Because that’s really what it is. He’s fucking killing Ryan with this. Brendon’s lips are on his then, and they are bitten and kind of torn at, but still soft and Ryan tilts his head back, knocks it hard into the headboard trying to get more, and wants to tear his hands out of this fucking belt and pull Brendon so hard against him. But he’s not the type to do rough things, really. He’s not about to flip Brendon over and straddle him like some kind of pet. Even if he wants to.

He will beg, though. He’s not above begging.

“Please,” he says.

“Please what?” Brendon asks.

“Don’t—“ Ryan inhales sharply. “Don’t be cliché.”

“Please take my hands out of this belt?” Brendon questions.

“No.” Ryan squirms.

“No?” Brendon raises an eyebrow.

“Please, please do something…” He purses his lips. Curls his toes inside his socks.

“Like what?”

“You fucker!” Ryan grins, and it kind of hurts his face.

“That’s right,” Brendon says and slithers down him, down to his crotch. And because Brendon isn’t some stupid scenester girl he doesn’t even bother with kisses on his stomach or any of that cutesy bullshit. He just undoes Ryan’s tight, tight jeans and takes his cock into his mouth.

Ryan moans. Brendon’s not good at this. But he’s fucking enthusiastic and better than the last person, who was wearing braces, which Ryan hadn’t noticed in the dark. His leg jerks, and Brendon’s lips are wet around his cock and it’s warm and good and like coming home or something because Brendon looks really good down there, his dark hair against Ryan’s open jeans and softly curling pubic hair.

Brendon looks up at him and his eyes are a question and Ryan doesn’t know how he’ll be able to keep this out of his next set of lyrics. He nods, and Brendon keeps going and even cups his balls in one perfect piano playing hand and Ryan wants to come but doesn’t want it to stop and it’s like drowning and flying at the same time, and instead of trying to fight it he lets go.

Brendon spits cum on the comforter and chokes a little bit and it’s even hotter than if he swallowed.

Ryan’s hands really fucking hurt, and the belt has chaffed his wrists in the struggle, but his cock is flaccid on his thigh and Brendon’s hair is still perfect because Ryan couldn’t mess it up, but there’s a tiny pearl of cum at the corner of his lip that Ryan would kill people, doves even, to wipe away.

And it’s. It’s the hottest thing that has ever happened to him, and there’s no music playing but Radiohead’s been blasting in his head since Brendon unzipped his pants.

He’s breathing hard. He sounds like a panic attack.

“So,” Brendon looks at him smugly, sitting back on his knees. “Can I keep the belt?”

“Keep the fucking belt,” Ryan says. He breathes deep.

End.

I LOVE FEEDBACK! :D

bad music team awesome

illiterate — Fri, 09 Jun 2006 17:52:56 GMT

Does anyone want to come see Forgive Durden with me on the 27th of June at 7:30 at CBGB? I would really like to go. You should come too. Come on, myspace bands are totally where it's at!

Drop me a comment if you're interested.

illiterate — Wed, 07 Jun 2006 23:31:56 GMT

My mother keeps kicking my ass in Scrabble but I'm on vicoden and she's not, so I'm going to take this as a personal victory because when I was little I couldn't sit through a whole game of Scrabble without throwing a tantrum or throwing my letters on the ground or both.

Also: I would really like to visit Chicago this summer. And I am sad because my iPod is broken and I have to mail it in to apple. On the bright side, I took my first Yiddish lesson yesterday with the nicest old lady ever and he was so so sweet she gave me a tooth ache. If you're interested in taking Yiddish lessons with me and are in the Valley, let me know. We meet on Tuesdays for an hour or so and it's $25 per lesson. Her name is Henny. I know already mentioned that in a pervious entry. But seriously, Henny, how awesome is that?

In further news, I still look like a chipmunk. Note the following evidence:

Tomorrow I am having lunch with a Jewish bookseller. Let's hope that it goes well.

FAN FICTION!!

illiterate — Fri, 02 Jun 2006 20:27:12 GMT

I love Snarry.

On another note: Do you remember when I wrote fanfiction? I'd like to try my hand at it again. Dear flist, I beg of you, give me a pairing and a few choice words and I promise to write you at least a drabble. Anything, dear ones, to fill the long summer hours.

illiterate — Thu, 11 May 2006 14:36:33 GMT

I think it honestly may be more productive at this point to shoot myself in the face.

</div>

Pictures! Getcha Pictures!

illiterate — Tue, 02 May 2006 02:27:57 GMT

Chloe, Alex, Sarah, and Kitty -- in order.

Alex and I!

Kel and I!

- and a bonus picture of me dressed in drag. WHOOOA NELLY.

</div>

rant, stupid rant

illiterate — Wed, 19 Apr 2006 19:20:14 GMT

I am so sick of feeling like my professors have no time for me, let alone want to have time for me. I am so sick of feeling like I come second to other students and like I am a complete disappointment. It just feels very unfair to me....and every one of those stupid Hillel girls in Justin's class can seriously kiss my ass and drop dead because I am so sick of their giggles and their in-jokes, and their more Jewish than thou attitude despite that one goy who actually holds an OFFICE with Hillel, not to mention Dane and her radical nonsense... because that's just what it is: nonsense.

NO, I COULD GIVE TWO SHITS IF YOU SLEPT WITH EVERY NEW YORK JEWISH INTELLECTUAL AND I DON'T CARE IF YOU SCRIBBLE LITTLE INTELLECTUAL NOTES ON YOUR TINY SCRAPS OF PAPER. BEING AN ELITIST JERK DOES NOT MAKE YOU AN INTELLECTUAL, NOR DOES IT MAKE YOU COOL, AND AS YOU CAN SEE, I DON'T WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND. EVER.

Also, I miss German Camp, which makes me sadder than I care to admit. Why am I so afraid of the future all of a sudden? I feel like everyone is working against me.

Note to self: stop be so emo.

Further Adventures of Sleeplessness

illiterate — Sun, 16 Apr 2006 10:46:15 GMT

Apparently I've decided that sleep is for the weak, and that I would much rather watch a)Hook on TBS, b)Various gossip shows on E!, and c)the TAIL END OF EVERY MOVIE EVER. I also watched Mostly Martha, which is in German and very sweet, although I did zone out at the very end because I started looking at knitting patterns online.

This weekend has been a total bust. Drag ball was fun, yes... but I have been whiny, tired, stupid, and an overall stick in the mud for nearly 48 hours, if not more, now. Looking for an apartment is driving me crazy. It, as witnessed here, keeps me up at night. Yesterday (God, Saturday was yesterday) Meg and I went to look at a place and it was seriously in the projects of Amherst if they actually existed. It was just seriously sketch, and call me spoiled, but I refuse to live in one of those terrible, dorm-like apartment complexes. Honestly, it will just depress me. I want to go home after work and not cringe as I walk up to the front door. Kel and I are going to see a place at 2:30 today in town that may be very nice, so we'll see. The guy sounded like something of a flake on the phone, but perhaps he's better than he came off as. I'm sure I sound like a horrid fool on the phone, or as Meg and Kel decided, like a robot. I am robot-phone-voice girl.

In other news, my first day of work was yesterday. The Brewery is pretty cool. It's HUGE. The girls I work with are total bitches but in a Dlisted sort of way which is a good thing. Pity that I showed up in jeans and a gay-ish shirt when they were both dressed to the FUCKING NINES. One of the girls, Hortensia, also has a monroe, which is a little odd. Doesn't hurt a bit that both she and Ana happen to be tall, thin, and older than I, but whatevs! Lest to say, I plan to be just a wee bit better dressed next time... you know how it is. What else? A party of 40+ Northampton yippie lesbians/assorted queers showed up for a 'birthday party' they hadn't called ahead to tell us they were having and thus proceeded to camp out like Gypsies all over the restaurant and take of up massive amounts of space in the most obnoxious, pachouli smelling way possible -- oh! the sense of entitlement... and that was my first day.

Tomorrow I have more work to do than I even want to think about. The more infrequent I hand things in on time, the more the work piles up, and the less I want to do it. Thus, I have several late things to complete tomorrow and with hope I'll get them done as well as FINALLY purchase that stupid Doctorow book I keep not buying.

Don't have much else to say. I'm feeling remarkable awake. Maybe I shouldn't have had those cheese and crackers. Meg and I went to The Book Mill today and it was probably the best part of my weekend. I bought a bilingual Rilke edition and Meg also bought me The Professor and the Mad Man, which is a somewhat exaggerated account of the making of the OED. I'm excited about both books, but I'm even more excited about having my own place to store them. Let us hope that I can find one.

I haven't cam-whored in a while, so....

illiterate — Thu, 13 Apr 2006 17:01:12 GMT

This picture makes me look a little pudgy, but how cute is my outfit!

Close up of face. ACK.

Look! I have a butterfly in my hair!

I love these girls so much it hurts.