One Time I Wrote Fanfic


It was awesome. There’s something really exhilarating about writing absolute tripe on the internet…maybe that’s why I like blogging. Anyway, it’s some of the most ridiculous nonsense I’ve ever written but I thought I’d share it with you here, because…because it’s Downton Abbey fanfic and Carson is sassy in it. So you’re welcome.

 

Midnight in the Library

In which Carson keeps it tight. Meow.

“Carson.” Thomas leaned against the doorframe, his sleeves rolled to the crook of his arm, vest buttons undone. His chest rose and fell quickly over labored breath. “Carson, I need you.”

Charles Carson looked up from his desk, his glasses at the tip of his nose. He pulled them off to chew tenderly on the end of his wire frames. “Oh?”

Thomas walked forward, leaning on the desk and pushing his face toward Carson’s. A small trickle of sweat ran down his temple, his hair disheveled, chest still heaving. “You’ve got no idea.”

This had become a common occurrence lately, as Thomas became more and more stressed with his duties serving Branson, so Carson was not particularly surprised to see him in disarray, panting above him. At first, Carson had disapproved of Thomas’ growing familiarity, running into his office at all hours of the evening, constantly needing advice or support of some kind. But loneliness gets the better of even the most upstanding men, and he’d begun to find Thomas’ adoration difficult to eschew. Carson was leaving tomorrow, anyway, without a word to anyone, not even Thomas. So no, it wasn’t surprising that Thomas arrived in Carson’s office at midnight, as the last bits of his candle flickered weakly. What was surprising, however, was that a desk still separated the two men.

Thomas led him into the library, fingers lightly grazing Carson’s hip through his jacket while he spoke. “I just can’t get these books straightened.” Never mind that book-straightening had never been an actual duty around Downton. Never mind that, had it been, Carson would have been even less capable of the task than Thomas. Never mind that they could be caught at any moment, suspiciously wandering the upstairs while the family slept. Nothing mattered now. Not now that Carson was leaving Downton forever. This was their last night together, and it would be spent in their place. It would be spent in the library.

It was too much. Carson found no reason to stay at Downton now, not now that he’d sullied his position and all it stood for. He’d loved every moment of his mischief, loved every warm breath that had passed from between Thomas’ beautiful lips, loved every second they’d spent alone in this darkened room. But he could no longer look Lord Grantham in the eye at dinner with these secrets ricocheting through his head. Given his propensity for telling the truth, no matter the cost, Carson knew he wouldn’t make it much longer without outing Thomas and himself as the sinners they were. The incandescent, passionate, sinning lovers they’d become.

It had been the false premises that intrigued him, always gave him that giddy fluttering in his stomach that he’d never experienced before. The questions Thomas had needed to ask him in the wee hours of the morning, drawing him from his bed in just a nightshirt. Before, he’d walked a tightrope of perfection that had thrilled him; polishing candlesticks had made his heart race in a way no woman ever had. But Thomas was an enigma, the most beautiful enigma, and now that he’d tasted freedom with Thomas, staying at Downton felt futile.

So he stood in the library, that same candle glimmering away in all its dying glory, his arm against a bookshelf as Thomas stood between him and so many classic pieces of literature, his breath catching in his throat, passion choking him as it never had before.

“Thomas,” Carson breathed. Thomas’ eyes twinkled wildly, his lips curled into the most glorious smirk he had ever seen. He exhaled heavily, leaning closer.

The candle flickered and, in a tiny burst of light, died.

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I Grew Up So Well


I may be up at 2 a.m. and it may be because I finished editing a short story I’ve been working on for a year and I may have just submitted it to my university’s literary journal so I may be having a mini heart attack but also may be feeling so accomplished that I can’t stop jittering. Y’all, I actually finished something. Conceptualized, drafted, wrote, edited, re-edited, ruminated, re-re-edited, and…submitted. This is real life.

And it got me thinking…I had the best childhood. (How’d this thought train happen? I wrote something! –> Reading as a child helped me write –> one time I wrote a crappy story about Cleopatra and my mom loved it –> My parents were so supportive –> My parents had such eclectic taste in everything –> I practically came out of the womb singing Neil Young.)

When I say “best childhood” I don’t mean “most innocent” or “happiest” necessarily. I mean I had a childhood that I look back on and appreciate, because I accidentally was a pretty insightful kid. And everything I did then, everything I was exposed to, has made me pretty awesome (if I do say so).

Want an explanation? I present you with a series of poems from my childhood, which you will receive every other day for as long as I can come up with them. They will all be first drafts and will probably be written in the middle of the night, so feel free (gently and lovingly) to offer criticisms and ideas.

We’ll begin with BLOCKS.

I drag Pops’ box blocks, dead like wooden bricks
across the oriental carpet (red spirals from somewhere I will dream of later)
and — thunk — drop rubber zoo animals from their cloth prison, only to box them in again
within the lifeless block-walls.
The harder they come the harder they fall
Jimmy Cliff sings, high and warm, as lions leap upon giraffes, teeth tearing through tendons and muscles, spurts of blood hitting onlookers.
Years later I will remember this carnage fondly
if only to laugh at my morbidity as a five-year-old
and to rent a copy of The Harder They Come
which was about drugs
according to Dad
and I didn’t know that meant violence, too, because drugs are always paired with violence
at least when desperation gets involved,
so we document it in movies that hurl knives against the TV screen.
Age 5 doesn’t allow for true understanding of desperation, but I must’ve seen it
because I replicated it
with lions
in my house.
Peace often followed, as the lions
sick with remorse and giraffe flesh
bathed in the sun, rolling in the red tide of a rug born somewhere I’d never heard of.
As all I couldn’t comprehend washed over me
heavy accents filled my ears
and mondegreen* stole my understanding, turning every sad lyric into something pleasant.
Them a loot them a shoot them a wail shanty town.

*mondegreen is the mishearing of a word, usually within a song.

I Should’ve Been British


I don’t remember the first time I ever heard a British accent, but I imitated it from then on. Some of you may remember that I had an imaginary friend — Annie — for quite a long time (some may say an inordinate amount of time, but I think it’s pretty normal for a girl living in the middle of nowhere to have an imaginary friend until the age of 12). Anyway, Annie and I spoke to each other in a British accent even though I was president of the United States…there was a complex storyline to my imaginary friend(s) and our daily mischief.

I might’ve first heard it from the BBC, either on the radio or television, because my parents kept Public Radio and Television on often as a source of news. Maybe it was first from a woman at our church who had an very strong accent despite having been in America for years and years. Maybe it was from Rumpole or Fawlty Towers. Either way, I heard the magical noise of Brits and there was no turning back. Since then, I become incredibly attached to British media — almost all my favorite books and television shows are from the UK, and I plan to study abroad in England or Ireland or Scotland (hey, it’s hard to pick, ok?) over the summer. And since my soul is patterned like a Union Flag (only called a Union Jack when it’s flown at sea, kids), I figure I’ll tell you about the lovely British things I have enjoyed throughout the years (the list is long, but you should at least watch the videos, as they’re fantastic):

1. Harry Potter: Obviously. The books are better than the movies (again, obviously), but not by much. J.K. Rowling is an inspiration to me as a writer, and generally as a kind human being who loves what she does. Plus, magic!

2. The Hobbit: I’m pretty sure I made my dad read it to me at least 5 times as a kid. I love it I love it I love it. And I even love the movie, even though it adds dumb things and everything is CGI and it’s not as great as the original LOTR movies were. I still love it because HOBBITS.

3. Fawlty Towers: Don’t mention the war! I discovered John Cleese through this show, as it was constantly on marathon during pledge drives on my local PBS station. There should be more people named Basil and Sybil, braying laughing and bumbling about with concussions. And even though Manuel’s character is probably insensitive/offensive to Hispanic people everywhere, he’s so lovely and stupid that I can’t help but laugh when he yells “MANAHERRR.” Come back to me, lovely British imbeciles. “I’m tho thorry I’ve made a mithtake!”

4. The Confessions of Georgia Nicolson: This book series shaped my adolescence in so many ways it’s kind of disgusting. I don’t act like normal Americans because I’ve gotten too used to saying “twit” and doing the “viking hornpipe dance” which I only break out on special occasions. Louise Rennison is my comedy soul animal and I love her, partially because she has a huge nose and I used to think I did (I think my head grew into my nose a few years ago…), but partially because she has no filter and doesn’t mind acting like a loon. I accidentally say things like “why in the name of Gandalf’s burning bra” and other nonsense, and people think I’m crazy but really…well, yeah, I’m crazy. But also awesome?

5. The IT Crowd: There is so much to say and so little space to say it in. Basically, this is one of the most brilliantly written, hilarious shows on all of television. Remember Officer Rhodes from Bridesmaids? Chris O’Dowd? Yeah, I had a crush on him before you did. He. Is. Mine. I watched him be all greasy and weird in a basement as an IT guy for years before he got all…yummy and whatnot. So I feel it is my right to claim ownership of him and tell you to back off. Besides, Richard Ayoade is the most hilariously dry comedian ever, and he’s got a side part in his fro. What’s not to love?

6. All the British (and Irish) standup: Dara O’Briain, Russell Howard, Sarah Millican, Chris Addison, Ed Byrne, David Mitchell, Michael McIntyre. Russell Brand. Look them up. I love them all so very much. So very very much. Also, there’s almost no one funnier on Twitter than Dara O’Briain, that saucy Irishman.

7. All the British panel shows: Mock The Week (favorite ever). Big Fat Quiz of the Year. Never Mind the Buzzcocks. 8 Out of 10 Cats. QI. Just look them up! Your life will be enriched, even if maybe you will never be productive again.

8. MI-5: If you don’t love Zaf we can’t be friends. Also, it’s just brilliant and makes me want to become a spy. But not really at all because…guns. It’s just nice that it seems a little more realistic than most American shows about cops and the CIA and whatnot. Also, Lucas North (gorgeous spy, gorgeous gorgeous gorgeous) is played by the actor who plays Thorin in The Hobbit. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but I loved it very quickly.

9. Rumpole of the Bailey: There’s nothing better than a sassy barrister who quotes Wordsworth, smokes cheroots, drinks cheap wine, and calls his wife “She Who Must Not Be Named” (behind her back, of course).

10. Music: Rizzle Kicks, Kate Bush, Lily Allen, Kate Nash, example, Lady Sovereign, Jessie J. Plus The Beatles (GEORGE), The Rolling Stones, The Moody Blues… just assume that if they’re British and good that I love them. See below for a combination of several of my favorite things (Lily Allen, Russell Brand, Big Fat Quiz, and a touch of Noel Fielding). See below below for another combo (Noel Fielding pretending to be Kate Bush).

Hooray!

There are probably more (SKINS!), but dang that’s a lot. Anyway, enjoy all the lovely things I love. And if you happen to have any suggestions, please comment below! Cheers!

I Would Ship You All


I might secretly want to write fan fiction. Like, really badly, if only to make it so absurdly ridiculous that I’ll get some sort of cult following of 14 year old girls who love me and make me rich and famous. Kind of like that doof who wrote 50 Shades of Grey, only…a million times better at writing and not British. And I don’t have children who will be mortified to find out that I’m the one writing kinky Twilight fan fiction. Someone should call child protective services on EL James. ASAP.

Anyway, I wanna write fan fiction about everything. And I will ship everyone. For those of you who don’t know, shipping is when you take two characters you’d like to see together and write a fan fiction piece about it. So let’s get started.

Crime and Punishment, where Raskolnikov actually falls in love with Alyona Ivanovna and decides not to kill her with an axe. Instead, he shacks up with her and Lizaveta and becomes landlord to his former neighbors, becoming rich and grumpy in the process. But, no matter how surly he is, he always has his beloved Alyona, and they live happily ever after amongst their gold coins and furrowed brows. It’s amazing what Cupid’s arrow can do.

The Great Gatsby. After that fateful night when Daisy ran over Myrtle, Gatsby decides to go on a little vacation with Nick. Just to get away, to clear his head. Soon, the two friends become more, so much more, and run away together into the sunset. Daisy doesn’t matter. East Egg and West Egg don’t matter. Nothing matters but Gatsby’s eyes, Nick’s smile, their love.

The Office. Meredith and Creed have sat so close all these years, yet their hearts have been so far apart. Finally, after Meredith has to shave her head due to that unfortunate lice incident, Creed realizes that they’re similar in so many ways (hairstyles now being one of them). He walks to Meredith’s desk, places a joint on her desk, and waits. She smiles knowingly. This is love. This was meant to be. How had she never seen it before? She invites him to her minivan and they talk for hours, completely forgetting the joint they’d planned to smoke. Talking is all they need. Unfortunately, someone sees the joint, calls the police, and they’re both arrested for possession of illegal substances. Due to prior offenses, both are sent to prison and separated forever. It’s tragic, but rather fitting.

The News Hour with Jim Lehrer on PBS. Gwen Ifill and Ray Suarez, having worked together for so long, finally realize they’ll never find anyone else who works the crazy hours that they do. Longing glances across the anchor desk turn to whispers in dressing rooms and soon, Gwen is receiving flowers daily. Coworkers are confused at first, but finally realize yes, this was always meant to be. Gwen and Ray are America’s Will and Kate, and they reign over the nightly news with dignity and class never before seen, especially not on FOX news.

So there you have it. I’m amazing. Feel free to send me fan mail.

This Is The End (Of Comedy)


Chloe (aka my Supreme Muffin) and I saw This is the End a few days ago and were almost physically sick because…well, here are a few reasons:

1. Penis and ejaculation jokes. The amount of times I had to hear Danny McBride (who the hell are you, anyway?) scream about ejaculating all over James Franco’s house got a little over the top. Incredibly, annoyingly, overbearingly over the top.

2. Mindy Kaling disappointment extravaganza 2013. The only reason I believed it could be a good movie was that Mindy was in it for three seconds. I love Mindy Kaling. I idolize her, and read her book in the middle of the night with a flashlight, and I secretly want to be her, and now she’s in the crappiest movie I’ve ever seen in my entire life. The crappiest movie in which Michael Cera is in a bathroom having a weird threesome with two girls while high on coke. And she chose to be in the movie. Sure, I believe Rihanna would be in a movie like that because she’s probably actually insane, but Mindy is a smart woman who does smart, funny things. And she was part of this and it made me sad.

3. When I originally planned to major in Creative Writing in college, people told me not to. It’s a hard field, they said. There’s only so much room for talented writers. And then tripe like this makes millions of dollars. My first draft of the teen romance novella that I wrote in high school is higher quality and more intelligent than this script. And guys, there’s a really awkward kissing scene in that novella that nobody ever needs to read…I think it’s total crap, but it is so much better than this movie. The realization that something I wrote out of angst and confusion at age 17 contains more meaning and profundity than something that earned a bunch of people millions of dollars makes me want to vomit a little.
Some person sat down at a desk and vomited this script up and said, “A few more rape jokes and it’ll be perfect” and that is truly tragic, my friends.

4. I don’t want to have to be the person who is grumpy about these things. I don’t want to be the one who rants in the car on the way home because this is not what funny is. This is just inappropriate and nonsensical and people screaming and chopping penis statues in half. It isn’t that we all need to have the same sense of humor, because that isn’t how I want the world to work at all. But can’t we be smart? Can’t we think of jokes that don’t involve our genitals or the objectification of women or semen or our genitals or semen?! I’m tired of trying to make sense and seeming uptight, when all I ask is that we all stop being twits.

5. It was clearly made for the group of three idiotic guys sitting in front of us at the movie, who had a rollicking good time and were gasping with laughter when the weird demon with a massive penis (why why why) raped Jonah Hill (so much why). That makes me sad too. Those guys are the minority of the population (or at least so I thought) and should not be the only group that is marketed to. They laugh at stupid, immature things because they’re probably sexually repressed and aren’t intelligent enough to find humor in something that doesn’t involve farting.
Somebody needs to produce a good movie that makes people think about themselves and the human condition at least a tiny bit while laughing their sides off. Laughing is good for you. Penis jokes, on the other hand, slowly make my brain disintegrate.

I want my $10 back.

Harry Potter HAHAs


Okay kids, buckle up. I found this bookmarked on my computer as “Harry Potter HAHA” so you know it’s good. Readysetgo.










































































P.S. Can I please enroll in Swoopy Cloak 301, Intro to Cape Ripple?
Source: http://apriki.tumblr.com/post/13924618900/more

And Sean Cried…


Hopefully you guys don’t mind my rants about The Bachelor, cuz heeere comes another one! I just finished watching the most recent episode online and I shall summarize it for y’all in case you don’t follow the nonsense that is The Bachelor.

Sean goes to the hometowns of the 4 remaining girls and meets their families:

He meets AshLee’s parents and she cries and tells them that she loves him and it’s weird and they’re all drinking sweet tea. Sean is probably wearing some sort of weird sweater and too much gel in his hair.

Sean then goes to the army base that Lindsay’s family lives on and she pretends to be his drill sergeant. She yells “straighten up” and “get it together!” a lot, and she slaps his butt more than necessary.

He goes to Seattle (woot woot!) with Catherine and tosses fish (lucky bastard) at Pike’s Place, then meets her family. Her sisters tell him Catherine’s messy and Sean looks entirely too constipated the whole time.

Then Des makes dinner with him at her house and he meets her brother, who basically calls him out for being on a show with 25 women and sweet-talking them all. Then Sean leaves with a wedgie and Des is embarrassed, crying the next night to him during the rose ceremony. Chris, the host of the show, stands awkwardly in the background. I think.

Sean sends Des home (after awkwardly looking at her picture a lot in some other room), because her brother has found him out! Also, because he is a vampire. I don’t know what that has to do with anything, but it’s obviously important.

And here’s what I predict happened next:

Sean went back to the picture room, picked up Des’ photo, and caressed the small image of her face. A single tear slid down his cheek.

“No, Sean,” he muttered to himself. “You won’t do this. You won’t be weak.” He paced the room a little, the picture still in his shaking hand, and finally, when he could stand it no longer, he ran outside and chased after the limo, but it was too late. He’d sent her on her way and he’d never see her again. The picture fell from his hand, the glass from the frame shattering on the asphalt. He walked back to the house; someone from the crew would clean up the broken glass, but no one could fix his splintered heart.

No one but Des, and she was long gone.

Chris was waiting for him in the picture room when he returned, and they shared a long, silent embrace. Chris patted Sean’s back, noting how muscular it was. As they hugged, he let his hand wander downward, finally allowing it to rest on the small of Sean’s back. Sean flinched a little, but realized it didn’t feel that weird, so he let it happen. After a moment, he pulled away slightly, meeting Chris’ gaze.

As they slowly leaned toward each other, eyes locked, Sean’s thoughts — and heart — raced. “What’s happening?” he thought. “He’s my bro. But…he’s somehow more.” So Sean let it happen. He let it happen so good, and when their lips finally met, electricity shooting up his spine, he realized that maybe it wasn’t Des he’d been looking for. Maybe it had been Chris all along.

Chris, who had been there for him when Tierra was a crazy mofo. Chris, who knew how to count roses (“There’s one rose left, ladies”). Chris, who kissed better than any of these pansy-ass girls could.

Chris…

Try Not to Pee. Just. Try.


So, I haven’t written in a while (obviously). Finals are next week and life’s been nuts, but you all know that! For the time being, I wanted to show you some videos I’ve seen lately. We all love animals being silly, so I’ve brought you three of those. And since dancing children is another crowd pleaser, have one of those too :)

Love you all! Enjoy!

1. I’ve watched this way more times than I should admit:

2. This has become my new favorite way of saying no:

3. Yay quacking dog!

He’s better than Elvis (Pay particular attention to 1:25 when he finishes):

Giggling in the Morning


It’s 1 a.m on Monday. I just ate caramel banana pecan pancakes (rocked my world) with a bunch of friends at Denny’s. I then walked home with no shoes on while watching (but really listening) to this video on my phone…chuckling to yourself and holding your shoes in one hand in the wee hours of the morning doesn’t often make you look sober.

But I am. I just love this place.

Enjoy :)

 

Jedgar.


I saw J. Edgar last night with my friend Chloe. It was…well, I am no Ebert, so I’ll give you some selected quotes from the cinematic delight and you can decide for yourself:

Jedgar met a pretty lady. “I’m gonna show her the card catalog system I invented on our date,” Jedgar said to his mother. Let me reiterate: She was pretty. He wanted to show her a card catalog. Then he tried to kiss her, got rejected, then proposed. Because that’s what normal people would do. Needless to say, he got rejected again. As Roger Ebert said, “She could tell nothing was stirring in his nether regions.”

Then Jedgar meets Clove, or Clive, or maybe Clyde. He instantly likes Clock, and asks him to be his new best buddy/awesome sidekick at the Bureau. Clint is a really attractive fellow who likes talking about suits and shoes and hairdos. He is, in a word, fabulous.

Then they go to a swanky nightclub in New York and sit with Ginger Rogers and her mother and her loose friend, who asks Jedgar if she can warm his bed up for him. Then Ginger’s mama asks Jedgar for a dance and he (awkwardly) declines. Then he leaves the club, goes back to his hotel room with his mother, tells her he hates–hates–hates dancing…with women. Because apparently he has homoerotic tendencies and a stutter. Mother makes him talk to himself in the mirror without stuttering, which is actually kind of heartbreaking, and then she says she’d rather have a dead son than a daffodil son, because that’s just not natural. And also impossible, because really, who ever heard of a human-flower hybrid. Then she picks her creaking body off the bed and teaches him to dance.

Cut. Clive shatters a glass against the wall in rage. He and Jedgar have just had a really weird conversation which started with Clover saying he loved Jedgar and ended with Jedgar saying he was gettin’ frisky with an actress. “Have you been physical?” Climb asked. “Yes,” Jedgar replied. That’s when the glass shattering began. “Pick that glass up right now, Clunk!” Jedgar shouted. “NO!” Klutz screamed back, his body language resembling that of a small child having a tantrum. He smashed something else. “You’re not wearing shoes, stop doing that!” Jedgar yelled, worrying for Clove’s safety. “Blahhhhh!!!!!” Clarence yelled. Then they started punching each other and fell to the ground in a writhing mass of blood and fists and (oh weird I totally didn’t predict this because it’s so not clichéd) then Clud held Jedgar down and they kissed and it was really weird.

Let’s please not forget that just moments before, the pair had been criticising Desi Arnaz’ alligator shoes and his “fake redhead wife’s” hat, which Jedgar skillfully reproduced with a bouquet of marigolds or some such flower.

And then Jedgar’s mother died. Throughout the whole movie his mother was in his ear whispering things like, “Have faith Jedgar, keep strong, hang on a minute while I lock your father in this weird closet.” So when she died, it came as a great shock to Jeddyboy, who proceeded to put her dress and necklace on, then rip the necklace off, then curl up in the fetal position on the floor and cry…because that is the beauty of cinema.

Cut. They’re old. Clove enters, all puffed up like a mannequin/robot/slug? Here’s a question: who did the makeup for this movie? For goodness sake… Anyway, Clink’s got a swollen, freckled face and then he has a stroke at the racetrack and Jedgar gets mad at him because he isn’t the young whippersnapper he once was. Then they eat eggs.

Then Jedgar dies. And his housekeeper leaves his body sprawled across the floor and invites Clink up. And he’s really sad, because they were bros for life, and it was actually pretty cute and super sad but also freaky because Jedgar was like…dead…

And that’s all I have to say about that. Because really, what else is there to say besides thank goodness that’s over. Because writing this involved reliving some of the scenes and I almost had a breakdown.