I know. Looks like I may be living in the kitchen again, but it's only for 2 months and it beats the hell out of this. Plus, my roommates (well, the one I've talked to) seem friendly and speak english.
I didn't actually see the place, but I'm thinking the layout's similar to the room I had Freshman year. Which is good, although it looks like I'll be sleeping in the kitchen till the end of the semester. I don't mind, though. I was basically sleeping in an abnormally small kitchen with another person as it was.
Which one? Last year, yes. My roommate was always making tofu and tuna at odd hours (not together. usually.) This one...my roommate has a hot water heater, which she somehow uses to cook food. Don't ask me how. And she also likes tuna. It's sick.
I'm sending them off pretty strong, but she's very oblivious. It's her super power. And she literally only leaves the room to go to class. There was a FIRE DRILL and I came back to the room only to find her still there.
Haha, FIRE DRILLS. Wow. Good times, man. Ours talks to us when it's not WAILING LIKE A DYING BANSHEE. "The fire alarm has been activated, please exit the building." WAAARROOO, WAAARRRIIIIEEEEE. "The fire alarm has been activated..."
Oh yeah, you need to post lots of reminders when that's on.
Incidentally, my stupid group in my legal studies class scheduled a meeting IN THE MIDDLE OF BL tomorrow. I'm thinking of emailing them and saying I conduct other legal studies at that time.
Monday! The seventeenth! At 8:00 AM! Which means I'll have to go to bed relatively early, but, eeee!! What a great reason to!
Also, as I warned another friend of mine, if you're disappointed by it, that's okay. It's a bad movie, mostly. I mean, you can see where it needs improvements and such, and you'll probably notice my Jimmy isn't as good afterwards, but it's still worth a watch.
Ahhh, Herbie. Herbie is hugging Jimmy in this icon. And he is the person that uses Jimmy. He's funny, and caustic, and immoral, and fat, and played by Omid Djalili (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0229084/), previously of The Mummy and other great films. And someone has to start playing him. Or Stan.
Oh, wow. I need a Stan. Or Jimmy's dad! Or an Angel!!
The gas pedal's stuck and their speed is climbing. Alan experimentally lifts his foot off the pedal a few times; there is no deceleration. The brake pedal produces no result either. A glance in the rearview mirror reveals the clones are gaining. Alan gives Liza, seated in the passenger seat, a deeply apologetic glance.
"I'm sorry. It's the car's fault."
Liza looks in the passenger side mirror at the multiple Bill Clintons behind them. She shrugs, turns her dark eyes back on him, and reaches across to unbuckle his seat belt. Somewhere between her kissing him and the car seat changing to a beach, a beach still tearing down the freeway with an army close behind, her smile turns to Tara's and her eyes to Sally's and Alan feels himself waking up.
He grimaces into his pillow, mouth working to try and get rid of the thick taste of waking, and twists under the sheets, trying to drift back into sleep before he comes fully conscious. There's a soft sound in the room that isn't quite right, and Alan reluctantly surrenders. Head off the pillow and eyes blinking slowly open to peer around the darkness of his bedroom.
Paul Smecker's standing at the side of his bed, taking off his coat.
Alan closes his eyes hard for a few moments. When he opens them, Paul's still standing there, draping his suit jacket across the back of the chair. It takes Alan a ridiculously long four seconds to find words.
"...what are you-- no, how did you get-- Paul, it's three-forty two in the morning." This confirmed by the red glow of the bedside clock. Alan feels the roughness of his own just-woken voice in his throat.
In the darkness of the room, he can't see Paul's face clearly; a brief glance of light over the other man's unforgiving cheekbones, then his face is shadow again as he pulls off his tie. Paul says tonelessly, "Three fifty-five. Your clock's slow. Move over."
Alan closes his eyes again because he's tired enough that his eyes actually hurt. He finds the palpable irritation that weariness brings easily and bites out the words.
"Paul. I'm in court today at nine. I went to bed an hour ago-- give or take your thirteen minutes-- and I have to be up at seven. As complimentary as it is to my sexual ego that you feel the need to, presumably, break into my hotel at an ungodly hour just to get near my irresistible manly and virile self, if you honestly think you--"
"I'm not here for sex. Move your ass over, Alan."
The statement is unexpected enough that Alan experiences the moment of the witness springing a new fact on him in court. The requisite few seconds to regroup.
"You're here to use the pool then, I take it? Towels in the bathroom. Have fun." Alan rolls over so he doesn't have to watch the flicker of Paul's hands in the shadows unbuttoning his shirt with precise machine-like motions.
There's no answer, and Alan's gotten used enough to the rhythm of trading snappy retorts with Paul Smecker that it's enough to make him arch a curious brow, almost enough to get him to open his eyes again.
The mattress sinks and shifts. Alan gives up and turns his head to look at Paul. He can hear the exasperation in his tone when he says, "What are you doing."
"Going to sleep. You should too. Nine o'clock case and all that."
Alan takes a few moments to evaluate the possibility he might still be dreaming, then exhales firmly. "Paul."
There's a moment of silence and Alan's considering he may have to do something drastic, possibly even exerting himself to flip on the light, then Paul says in the same toneless voice, "I just left a crime scene where the mob decided to punish an informant by beating his wife, father, and daughter to death. When he got home, he saw the mess and pulled his gun on himself. I was about to head home and pop some valium so that I could enter a blissful state of unconsciousness for several hours when I recalled that I currently have three fucked-up Irish vigilantes in my apartment taking the couch and bed, and that I had planned to book a hotel for the night and forgotten. Then I remembered that you have a hotel room so I just decided to claim yours in the name of the federal government. You can enthrall me with your knowledge of the statutes limiting seizure of private property in the morning."
Alan rolls back over and looks. Paul's sitting the edge of the bed now, back pale in the dark. He hears Paul take a breath, slow and even in the quiet of the room, then say, "I was just going to take your couch without waking you, but yours has that fucking shiny leather upholstery shit on it. Past experience has taught me I slide right off that stuff."
Alan's turn to be quiet for a moment, watching the rigid line of Paul's shoulders, imagining a foot pushing at the gas pedal, pushing at the brakes, no reaction. The red numbers on the clock click over another minute, and Alan says calmly, "And suppose I'd had company?"
There's only a tiny beat before Paul says, some expression creeping back into his voice, "Shoot them, of course."
Alan feels something tugging at the corner of his lips. "You'd shoot them."
"Politely."
Alan smiles a little into the darkness and closes his eyes again, moving over on the bed and managing to make it look like he's just making himself comfortable.
"But back to the part where you broke into my room..."
"Nothing of the sort. The hotel staff were happy to cooperate with me when I flashed my badge. They seemed unsurprised that the FBI wanted to speak with you."
"I wouldn't call it speech, exactly. Their eloquence doesn't usually extend beyond a slap on the wrist. Anyways, they're hardly the scariest of the acronym-bearing organizations who seek me out," Alan murmurs, trailing off into a yawn.
"Yeah, I heard about that thing with you and the IRS..."
"You're going to have be more specific than that." The darkness is warm again with sleep; Alan allows himself to drift back towards it, paying no attention to whatever it is Paul answers him with. Or maybe there is no answer, just a silence, the silence of unspoken gratitude for the certain kindnesses they manage to show each other.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
3pipeproblem) wrote2005-10-10 09:17 am
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And the verdict on the new digs is...?
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...Could you cook there? *g*
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I don't think a person 'cooks' tofu so much as one 'reheats' it, really. Grossness.
...I wonder if the vibes of hate and discontent have reached her yet.
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Haha, FIRE DRILLS. Wow. Good times, man. Ours talks to us when it's not WAILING LIKE A DYING BANSHEE. "The fire alarm has been activated, please exit the building." WAAARROOO, WAAARRRIIIIEEEEE. "The fire alarm has been activated..."
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They scheduled ours during Arrested, which is the only reason I was near the building. Then it turned out Arrested wasn't on.
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*G* I'm just hoping there are no drills during TCK next week! *squee!*
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Incidentally, my stupid group in my legal studies class scheduled a meeting IN THE MIDDLE OF BL tomorrow. I'm thinking of emailing them and saying I conduct other legal studies at that time.
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Also, as I warned another friend of mine, if you're disappointed by it, that's okay. It's a bad movie, mostly. I mean, you can see where it needs improvements and such, and you'll probably notice my Jimmy isn't as good afterwards, but it's still worth a watch.
LOL. That is priceless. You totally should.
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Ha, you would be surprised. About movie!version Jimmy. He's a very awesome character that I wish I could write better. =)
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Riiiiiight :P I'll believe it when I see it.
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You'll see it! And then you'll have to pick up Herbie Bush.
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Who's that?
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Ahhh, Herbie. Herbie is hugging Jimmy in this icon. And he is the person that uses Jimmy. He's funny, and caustic, and immoral, and fat, and played by Omid Djalili (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0229084/), previously of The Mummy and other great films. And someone has to start playing him. Or Stan.
Oh, wow. I need a Stan. Or Jimmy's dad! Or an Angel!!
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Awww. Maybe someone will pick one of them up after seeing it.
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Mmm, I'd be kind of scared of that, too. Scared and excited.
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PPS: Are you on facebook? Or would that be blurring the lines of fandom too much?
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Um. Yes, I am on facebook. Not sure how to give you my info, though.
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Heeee!! Yay! I totally want to friend Alan! *g* How awesome is that?
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Heeee!! Yay! I totally want to friend Alan! How awesome is that?
You should start a BL group with him. *G*
beware my fluff
"I'm sorry. It's the car's fault."
Liza looks in the passenger side mirror at the multiple Bill Clintons behind them. She shrugs, turns her dark eyes back on him, and reaches across to unbuckle his seat belt. Somewhere between her kissing him and the car seat changing to a beach, a beach still tearing down the freeway with an army close behind, her smile turns to Tara's and her eyes to Sally's and Alan feels himself waking up.
He grimaces into his pillow, mouth working to try and get rid of the thick taste of waking, and twists under the sheets, trying to drift back into sleep before he comes fully conscious. There's a soft sound in the room that isn't quite right, and Alan reluctantly surrenders. Head off the pillow and eyes blinking slowly open to peer around the darkness of his bedroom.
Paul Smecker's standing at the side of his bed, taking off his coat.
Alan closes his eyes hard for a few moments. When he opens them, Paul's still standing there, draping his suit jacket across the back of the chair. It takes Alan a ridiculously long four seconds to find words.
"...what are you-- no, how did you get-- Paul, it's three-forty two in the morning." This confirmed by the red glow of the bedside clock. Alan feels the roughness of his own just-woken voice in his throat.
In the darkness of the room, he can't see Paul's face clearly; a brief glance of light over the other man's unforgiving cheekbones, then his face is shadow again as he pulls off his tie. Paul says tonelessly, "Three fifty-five. Your clock's slow. Move over."
Alan closes his eyes again because he's tired enough that his eyes actually hurt. He finds the palpable irritation that weariness brings easily and bites out the words.
"Paul. I'm in court today at nine. I went to bed an hour ago-- give or take your thirteen minutes-- and I have to be up at seven. As complimentary as it is to my sexual ego that you feel the need to, presumably, break into my hotel at an ungodly hour just to get near my irresistible manly and virile self, if you honestly think you--"
"I'm not here for sex. Move your ass over, Alan."
The statement is unexpected enough that Alan experiences the moment of the witness springing a new fact on him in court. The requisite few seconds to regroup.
"You're here to use the pool then, I take it? Towels in the bathroom. Have fun." Alan rolls over so he doesn't have to watch the flicker of Paul's hands in the shadows unbuttoning his shirt with precise machine-like motions.
There's no answer, and Alan's gotten used enough to the rhythm of trading snappy retorts with Paul Smecker that it's enough to make him arch a curious brow, almost enough to get him to open his eyes again.
The mattress sinks and shifts. Alan gives up and turns his head to look at Paul. He can hear the exasperation in his tone when he says, "What are you doing."
"Going to sleep. You should too. Nine o'clock case and all that."
Re: beware my fluff
There's a moment of silence and Alan's considering he may have to do something drastic, possibly even exerting himself to flip on the light, then Paul says in the same toneless voice, "I just left a crime scene where the mob decided to punish an informant by beating his wife, father, and daughter to death. When he got home, he saw the mess and pulled his gun on himself. I was about to head home and pop some valium so that I could enter a blissful state of unconsciousness for several hours when I recalled that I currently have three fucked-up Irish vigilantes in my apartment taking the couch and bed, and that I had planned to book a hotel for the night and forgotten. Then I remembered that you have a hotel room so I just decided to claim yours in the name of the federal government. You can enthrall me with your knowledge of the statutes limiting seizure of private property in the morning."
Alan rolls back over and looks. Paul's sitting the edge of the bed now, back pale in the dark. He hears Paul take a breath, slow and even in the quiet of the room, then say, "I was just going to take your couch without waking you, but yours has that fucking shiny leather upholstery shit on it. Past experience has taught me I slide right off that stuff."
Alan's turn to be quiet for a moment, watching the rigid line of Paul's shoulders, imagining a foot pushing at the gas pedal, pushing at the brakes, no reaction. The red numbers on the clock click over another minute, and Alan says calmly, "And suppose I'd had company?"
There's only a tiny beat before Paul says, some expression creeping back into his voice, "Shoot them, of course."
Alan feels something tugging at the corner of his lips. "You'd shoot them."
"Politely."
Alan smiles a little into the darkness and closes his eyes again, moving over on the bed and managing to make it look like he's just making himself comfortable.
"But back to the part where you broke into my room..."
"Nothing of the sort. The hotel staff were happy to cooperate with me when I flashed my badge. They seemed unsurprised that the FBI wanted to speak with you."
"I wouldn't call it speech, exactly. Their eloquence doesn't usually extend beyond a slap on the wrist. Anyways, they're hardly the scariest of the acronym-bearing organizations who seek me out," Alan murmurs, trailing off into a yawn.
"Yeah, I heard about that thing with you and the IRS..."
"You're going to have be more specific than that." The darkness is warm again with sleep; Alan allows himself to drift back towards it, paying no attention to whatever it is Paul answers him with. Or maybe there is no answer, just a silence, the silence of unspoken gratitude for the certain kindnesses they manage to show each other.
Re: beware my fluff
"Politely."
___
HA! FIREFLY REFERENCE!
I love your crack!fic fandom mixing insanity. <3
Re: beware my fluff
Re: beware my fluff
I adore the crack!fic. Ohm, crack!fic is awesome.. Ohm, or some junk.. *meditates*
Do feel free to friend away! Though I must warn I'm a boring person.
Yay! New friends! *dances*
Re: beware my fluff