new journal. mountainhalo. add it if you want. dont if you dont.

against all better judgment, i'm just going to say this and be done with it:

you definitely do not want to be the heychris to my pete wentz, that's all.

Comment to this post with an offer to write in any fandom that you and I have in common. I will answer with a prompt. Then, you will write me comment-fic, snippets, or whatever comes to mind. Now go post this in your own journal and demand fic of your very own! Make your flist work! You had a long week and you DESERVE it, dammit!

basically there isn't much to choose from. either mcr or pete/patrick, unfortunately. or maybe some jesse/vinnie. yes.

you have no idea how easily i could hurt you, but i've never played fair. consider this fair warning: someday, you'll play the villain twice. i'm tired of blank slates. i need a remote - i need to rewind, hit pause, and study everything i've done wrong. i'm not asking for salvation. i'm not asking for martyrdom. i ask the same thing of each person i meet and there's not one person who's been able to give it to me. i thought how nice it would have been yesterday to just drive until my skin peeled off, until i hit icebergs or gulfs, because there is nothing keeping me here. i have a lot of halves that add up to a whole lot of nothing. maybe i'm selfish, but i just need something. i need to be something. worthwhile. worth fighting for. i've never been worth fighting for. just a mistake. i need someone to look at me and say, 'oh, god what a mistake i've made - you know i dont deserve you, but i'm willing to try. god, am i willing to try.' but i'm not holding my breath because you cant miss what you forget.

she's sprawled on the cold hardwood floor, listening intently to the grinding of the needle on the record, and she thinks maybe it's not so bad after all. she's making decisions about moving south and emulating the only person she's got left to envy, and she's not worried that maybe she'll be leaving him behind, because she knows he loves her enough to find her under the shade of the maple trees. every moment is just an increment of time that she can't explain, but she knows the cold will break and her face will burn bright in the heat of august and the words will flow down interstates and overpasses and she won't be so tired from the comparisons that she never thought she could live up to, anyway. 'you can be whoever you want to be, you know?' and yes, she knows. she just never saw a point in trying until now. she will be somebody before this life is over.

all i ever wanted to be was something i'm not. i want to be your february sunsets and i want to be the words on pages that meant something more than their worth. but now the words are trapped in larynxes and fingertips and there arent enough dictionaries to create a sentence worth a second glance. i am unoriginal and paranoid that everything anyone has ever told me has been a lie. i need southern air and a little common courtesy and the will to accept that i write what i know and that's not very much, not at all. i'm more pete wentz than jesse lacey and it's a full-time job comparing myself to everyone else and always falling short. nothing short of a breakdown, nothing. it's ennui to a degree i'm not sure anyone has ever felt. this is not a rut; this is a broken record. this is the moral written continuously on 96 pages of an outdated novel. 'if at first you don't succeed -' then what? so much for you saving me from myself - but i will never hold your words against you.

why does this always happen to me? this is my post-modern novel complete with antagonists and the most unfortunate ending. i do not want to have to make a choice. talk about the fucking devil and god raging inside me. can i get myself back from underneath this guilt that will crush me? i thought seeing jesse lacey sing 'play crack the sky' solo would be the best moment of my life but it's always more complicated than it has any fucking right to be. it's random and calculated and cruel. i should have said, 'meet me in montauk' because i'm terrified i'll never see you again. i feel like i could throw up - there's such a bitter taste in my mouth. and i wish that i could tell you right now (...i love you) it was the longest, most unsympathetic train ride home - i have to live with this for the rest of my life. well jesus christ, i'm alone again...

i wrote this for whitley, and while i'm not particularly fond of it, it's being posted just the same. very, very loosely based on the prompt she gave me.

( A Moment Suspended in TimeCollapse )

new mcr = two thumbs down. too bad. i wanted to like it.

in case anyone was wondering, here's how my other anticipated albums of the year fare in comparison.

brand new > mcr
the decemberists > mcr


also. i didnt know i wasnt allowed to like both the blood brothers and p!atd. thank you, livejournal, for showing me the error of my ways.

also, part 2. new aim sn. linen and curls. borrowed from the decemberists without intent to return. use it.

also, part 3. i want two english bulldogs. their names would be rosencrantz and guildenstern. tell me that's not fucking amazing. steal my idea and die.