"I'm not staying for pizza," Project Boy says to me as he sits across the table in my dining room, looking at me over a huge pile of paperwork. "I have to be home by 6:30 because my sister wants the car." He grimaces. "And my last pizza experience was ruined by Este's body hair."
I blink. I'm sorry, could YOU refrain from asking? "Body hair?"
PB scowls. "From all over. You do not want to know."
I turn to Lyn, our other teammate ―the third and last of our team of five to have deigned to grace us with her presence, and ask, "Will you be staying for pizza?"
"Well, seeing as I'd be the last one here, I think I might as well just head home, so no, thank you."
I glance at my watch. Quarter to five. The meeting was scheduled for three o'clock sharp. PB showed up, breathless, at 2:40, thinking the meeting was at 2:00 and he was late, and spouting off plenty of apologies until I commented on how early he was. So he and I sat at my dining room table, going over the plan for our radio show (thank you, Journalism teacher, for the easy-and-relaxing-project-NOT), waiting for the other teammates to show up, talking and laughing.
By three fifteen, it occurs to me that no one else has shown up. I look outside. PB's car is parked in the street by our front yard. No one else is in sight. I turn back to him, and he sighs. He takes out his cell phone and dials our teammates' numbers.
The first one he calls, Iza, is unreachable at all times, both at home and on her cell. PB purses his lips, and dials again. He tries to reach Rin, another member of our team. She doesn't answer her phone.
He's about to dial Lyn's number when her car pulls up in my driveway. She's twenty minutes late, and is seriously apologetic. She wanted to gather more information for her part in the radio show. PB and I just shrug and greet her. At least someone else showed up.
So the three of us sit around the dining room table, going over the plans and details of our radio show.
I'm surprised by how well we work together. It's a serious advantage right there, considering the amount of communication required for the show itself.
I mean, I'm the show producer. My role is to control the technicalities and timing, tell PB what to do. Because PB is the show host, with his eloquent and sexy radio voice (not my words). Iza is supposed to be my assistant, calculating the time and ensuring everything is in working order so I can focus on choreographing everything (did I mention I hate leader positions?). Rin and Lyn, on their part, are PB's co-hosts, supposed to talk about specific subjects and leave all the extra hosting to him.
So PB and I have the major roles, pretty much, which emphasizes how important silent communication is for us, since he's to talk into the mic' on the other side of a windowed dividing wall, through which he can't hear me.
Today's meeting was therefore crucial. We discussed how we each wanted to be treated in stressful situations, developed what sort of working personality we had (me: be calm and confident, I catch on quickly to that sort of vibe; PB: be confident, allow a little bit of stage jitters to pump him up, no panicking; Lyn: stay calm and be well-prepared). PB and I exchanged presentation tips.
And then, it was five o'clock. Lyn's cell phone rings. It's Rin. Apparently she just got off work (?!?) downtown (!!?!?) ―I live in the suburbs― and was headed home.
Lyn: "Wait. Aren't you coming to CM's place? For the radio show?"
PB and I exchange tense and annoyed glances. Lyn looks up at us, and makes a face, in reaction to something Rin's saying. Finally, she just says, "Okay. Whatever. See you," and hangs up.
Me: "Well?"
Lyn: "She's too tired and says she's not coming."
PB: "... You're joking?"
Lyn: "Well, she just got off from work."
PB: "So what? I have a job too. She said she'd come." He's annoyed. "Does she think she's a diva or something?"
Me: "Great. So she's not coming. Awesome. And apparently Iza isn't either."
Lyn: "Well, I don't think it's that shocking that Rin would skip out on us. She's always slacking off and stuff."
And Lyn starts telling us all about Rin's unimpressive MO. Turns out PB and I will have to cover our backsides and make sure to do all of HER work, on top of our own, because she, to be blunt, is a fuck-up.
I take a deep breath. PB is listing his responsibilities and writing stuff in his agenda. I'm doing the same. We compare our lists. He has more stuff to do than me, but no task is negligeable.
By six o'clock, the three of us have organized everything, discussed additional content, and laughed our asses off as we tried to think of a fictional movie ad to include in our radio show.
I mean, you know how they do movie ads on the radio by taking audio clips from the movie and adding a dynamic man's voice to talk about it?
PB: "I was thinking, we could do that, except rather than have explosions and stuff, the sounds wouldn't help us to reconstruct the scene."
Lyn: "You mean, have duck quacks and thunder?"
Me: "Or better yet! No sound at all! It's a movie about deaf-mutes! On the radio!"
PB: *howls with laughter* "The Silence of the Mutes!"
Me: *burst into laughter* "With mimes!"
PB: *laughing* " 'Jack, I'm trying to interrogate this witness, but he's mute!' "
Me: " 'He's trying to mime the crime scene. Help me understand!' "
PB: " 'Wait, the first word. First word! ... A cow? A flying bicycle! A dildo―no, a tree! A tree!"
PB and I: *laughing to hysterics* " 'A TREEEEEEE!' "
Needless to say, it kind of went downhill from there.
And what do I see when I check my emails, after PB and Lyn are gone? A message from Iza (poorly spelled, too, and not because of chatspeak), that says her grandpa was hospitalized for grave reasons and she wouldn't make it to the meeting.
Seems to me like she hospitalized plenty of her grandparents in the past years for similar reasons.
But am I cynical? Of course not.
The pizza (Meat Lover... yum), by the way, was great.
Love,
CM
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Banana sandwich (and more pancakes).
That's what I ate today. Because you care. (We have an obsession with pancakes in this house―they're like the best in the universe. We have them for breakfast, lunch, or supper, depending on our mood.)
I was wondering at something during my French class last Thursday. In fact, I wonder at this EVERY French class, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have done so all session, and I'm confident I'm not the only one at my college to wonder the same thing...
How can two fat punk goths possibly become lovey-dovey?
I mean, the girl (more like hideous monstrosity of greasy hair and black clothes ―like Snape from Harry Potter, with the exception that Snape has the potential to be fixed― and excuse the cruel description: I'm trying to make this visual for you) is massive. She could probably kill me with some arcane sort of psychic power brought on by her gothness. She certainly looks weird enough to.
The guy is shorter than her, has long frizzy hair that he ties up in a ponytail that sticks out, wears black and enough metal to fight a war with. And he walks like an obese duck.
So when you look at those two nuzzling right before the She-Beast enters the French class... well, you kind of start wondering "what the heck is their story?" Seriously. How did they meet? What do they DO in their free time? Paint gothic posters that depict their love for each other? How can they withstand one another?
Because they are seriously all over each other. It's completely freaky, and kind of awkward, because they keep whispering stuff like, "I love you." "No, I love you." "I loved you first." "I love you more." All the time.
It would be sweet... if it didn't so completely clash with their goth look. That's why everyone just keeps furrowing a brow in half-wonder, half-discomfort.
I mean, the two of them are apparently way happier than most of us poor single suckers. And you look at both of them and wonder, "If SHE could get a guy, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?"
PB is somewhat philosophical about this: "If they're both off the market, half the singles in the world are being spared the experience of turning them down."
He has a point. That's not to say I don't continue to wonder, though.
Love,
CM
I was wondering at something during my French class last Thursday. In fact, I wonder at this EVERY French class, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I have done so all session, and I'm confident I'm not the only one at my college to wonder the same thing...
How can two fat punk goths possibly become lovey-dovey?
I mean, the girl (more like hideous monstrosity of greasy hair and black clothes ―like Snape from Harry Potter, with the exception that Snape has the potential to be fixed― and excuse the cruel description: I'm trying to make this visual for you) is massive. She could probably kill me with some arcane sort of psychic power brought on by her gothness. She certainly looks weird enough to.
The guy is shorter than her, has long frizzy hair that he ties up in a ponytail that sticks out, wears black and enough metal to fight a war with. And he walks like an obese duck.
So when you look at those two nuzzling right before the She-Beast enters the French class... well, you kind of start wondering "what the heck is their story?" Seriously. How did they meet? What do they DO in their free time? Paint gothic posters that depict their love for each other? How can they withstand one another?
Because they are seriously all over each other. It's completely freaky, and kind of awkward, because they keep whispering stuff like, "I love you." "No, I love you." "I loved you first." "I love you more." All the time.
It would be sweet... if it didn't so completely clash with their goth look. That's why everyone just keeps furrowing a brow in half-wonder, half-discomfort.
I mean, the two of them are apparently way happier than most of us poor single suckers. And you look at both of them and wonder, "If SHE could get a guy, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?"
PB is somewhat philosophical about this: "If they're both off the market, half the singles in the world are being spared the experience of turning them down."
He has a point. That's not to say I don't continue to wonder, though.
Love,
CM
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Holy pancakes!
Am I keeping to the food theme this month? Ohohoho.
Anyway. I must say, weekends rock. Most projects I have due are being handled by my delegates (I am the kind of person who naturally takes lead, even though it is a role I particularly despise, because I'm a lazy bum), and as a result, everything is going just fine.
Since you were wondering (because I know you were), most of my crazy projects list has cleared up, leaving me with only: a radio show to invent with PB and three girls whose names I don't even know (Journalism); a training program (Gym) which is again more written work; a comic page that I will be the one to make because my partner sorely (very sorely) lacks any and all drawing skills (Comics); an expressive montage that was completed last week by one of my teammates (Movie-Making and Scenario ―more on that in a moment); and plenty of essays.
This means I am, temporarily, free of work. (Don't ask; it's too long to explain.)
Anyway, I think I found my vocation in life.
Alright, that seems cliché and seriously definitive. It's not. It's my current vocation, subject to change, blah blah blah.
But it's as serious as I've gotten in a long while where my career orientation is concerned.
I found out about my vocation in this class called Scenario-Montage, which was predictably split in two segments: the first was about script-writing, and the second was (shocking) about video editing in professional programs. Both aspects were, to me, most informative and interesting.
A lot of people, though, seemed to think scenario writing was a bore and the hardest thing in the world. Slim and PB, on their part, were above average, with grades around 80%. I was consistently the highest graded of the group at all times, with approximately 85%.
Note: Slim, PB and I were the only ones to consistently get above 80% grades. All the others were under 80% at all times.
Between kissing his girlfriend (I'll get to it) and annoying Josie, PB remarked, "Hey, CM, YOU're the one who beat me by five points!" He wasn't annoyed, though, merely giving me the I-should-have-known look.
See, that's the thing. I'm good at Scenario writing. The teacher has had no complaints. I lose points because I tend to write more than he wants us to write. I get carried away. Good points: my characterization and timing, as well as quality of dialogue and feasible ideas, are among the best he's seen.
Translation: I pwn at this stuff.
Maybe it's not completely fair to the others. I do have a lot of practice in the field of character-development and dialogue.
But get this. Pierre (our teacher and originally a scenarist himself) claims that out of every promotion, he's lucky to even interest one person in script-writing.
I guess that person'll be me. Seriously. If no one will do it, if my language and writing skills are above average, if I can write fun and good stuff, why not?
I would get to write FOR A LIVING. This would be above awesome.
Editorial aside, I don't think I've updated about PB and Slim's love lives (because I know you give as much of a damn as I do).
Well, they are both happily taken. And not by me.
OMG, CM, BUT THAT'S SO UNFAIR FOR YOU, you'll say. THOSE JERKS! WHO ARE THOSE B!TCHES WHO STOLE THEM FROM YOU?
Well, first off, chill. They weren't "mine" to begin with. Besides, as you're sure to find out soon, the irony brought about by life has soothed any possible wound I would have suffered from if I hadn't been over Slim in the first place.
As far as PB is concerned, he's dating a girl who's been hanging out with us for a while now. They're in on a bumpy road, what with their schedules being so crazy and all, but they're really sweet together, and I totally approve of them. Besides, PB hasn't gone anal-retentive in the wake of couple life, as opposed to...
Slim, on his part... Well, let's just say that this is what conversations with Slim looked like before he got a girlfriend:
Guy: Hey, isn't Drew dating this fourteen year-old?
Josie: Ugh, stop. That's almost like pedophilia. What do fourteen year-olds know about eighteen year-olds? They're worlds apart.
Slim: No kidding. It's not that they're immature or anything. It's just that there's no way they can relate. I mean, they're in the middle of high school, just learning to know about sex, and eighteen year-olds are ages ahead, going to drunken parties and preparing for uni.
Me: Well, they're losing their "innocence" sooner than they used to.
Slim: Even so. They can't relate. It's two different worlds, two different atmospheres. Fourteen year-olds aren't like eighteen year-olds, no matter how intent they are.
I'm having trouble not to laugh as I write this, because the sheer irony of his discourse is brought back to me constantly.
This is the conversation I heard, roughly three weeks ago:
Guy: Hey, did you know Slim has a new girlfriend?
Josie: What?? OMG, WHO IS IT? SLIM DOESN'T DO GIRLFRIENDS. He's married to his drumset!
Me: He has a girlfriend?
I'll admit I'm trying to be casual. My heartbreak was still a little sore, even though...
Guy: Well, you can just ask him. There he is.
(Enter Slim.)
Josie: OMG, SLIM, YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME WE'RE CHILDHOOD FRIENDS!
PB: *snickers*
Josie: PB, why are you laughing?
PB: Oh, nothing.
Me: You have a girlfriend, Slim?
PB: *snickers again*
Josie: PB, what's up with you?
PB: *looks at Slim, who has slumped into his chair and is avoiding everyone's inquisitive gaze* Well, you remember how he used to bash Drew about his fourteen year-old girlfriend?
(Long silence)
Josie: *turning to Slim* Oh. My. God.
Slim: *grabbing his head, shouting* I'M NOT PROUD, OKAY?
Me: *unable to keep an ironic smirk from coming on* Wait. How old is your girlfriend, exactly, Slim?
PB: *hooting* SHE'S FOURTEEN! *bursts into maniacal laughter*
Slim: I'M NOT PROUD, OKAY????
Josie: Wait, how come you're dating a fourteen year-old???
Slim: Actually, she turned fifteen last week. And don't ask. She got me drunk.
Me: Do you like her, at least?
I mean, this seemed like the most sensible question to ask.
Slim: Yeah, I guess. I mean, I'm not in love with her, but I do care. GODDAMMIT, I SOUND LIKE A GIRL.
Josie: *teasing* That's what you get for being a pedophile.
Slim: This is me leaving now.
Guy: Dude, you better stop bashing Drew now that you're as bad as him.
And Slim proceeds to look utterly miserable.
I should say that since then, he's had little other focus than drumming, work, and his girlfriend. All in all, no major change, save for the last detail. But it's made him cranky. Poor Slim.
And yet, on the day I heard about it, it didn't really register. Until last week, when Alex told me to warn Slim his girlfriend (who is turning out to be quite a handful for her parents) was going to meet him at the end of school. When I passed on the message, it occurred to me, finally...
Slim has a girlfriend. And it's not me. It's a fifteen year-old trouble-making prep.
And you know what's the funniest part about it?
I didn't give a damn.
I skipped on my way home. Like some sick version of the Sound of Music or something. I was grinning like a moron, thinking, "I'm free!"
And damn if I haven't been enjoying that freedom.
Now, if that cute blonde guy from my philosophy and English classes would just give me a second-look... He has begun talking to me more since last week...
;)
Love,
CM
P.S. The following setting is the basis for a oneshot I'm currently writing. Because god forbid I could focus on one story at a time or anything.
Anyway. I must say, weekends rock. Most projects I have due are being handled by my delegates (I am the kind of person who naturally takes lead, even though it is a role I particularly despise, because I'm a lazy bum), and as a result, everything is going just fine.
Since you were wondering (because I know you were), most of my crazy projects list has cleared up, leaving me with only: a radio show to invent with PB and three girls whose names I don't even know (Journalism); a training program (Gym) which is again more written work; a comic page that I will be the one to make because my partner sorely (very sorely) lacks any and all drawing skills (Comics); an expressive montage that was completed last week by one of my teammates (Movie-Making and Scenario ―more on that in a moment); and plenty of essays.
This means I am, temporarily, free of work. (Don't ask; it's too long to explain.)
Anyway, I think I found my vocation in life.
Alright, that seems cliché and seriously definitive. It's not. It's my current vocation, subject to change, blah blah blah.
But it's as serious as I've gotten in a long while where my career orientation is concerned.
I found out about my vocation in this class called Scenario-Montage, which was predictably split in two segments: the first was about script-writing, and the second was (shocking) about video editing in professional programs. Both aspects were, to me, most informative and interesting.
A lot of people, though, seemed to think scenario writing was a bore and the hardest thing in the world. Slim and PB, on their part, were above average, with grades around 80%. I was consistently the highest graded of the group at all times, with approximately 85%.
Note: Slim, PB and I were the only ones to consistently get above 80% grades. All the others were under 80% at all times.
Between kissing his girlfriend (I'll get to it) and annoying Josie, PB remarked, "Hey, CM, YOU're the one who beat me by five points!" He wasn't annoyed, though, merely giving me the I-should-have-known look.
See, that's the thing. I'm good at Scenario writing. The teacher has had no complaints. I lose points because I tend to write more than he wants us to write. I get carried away. Good points: my characterization and timing, as well as quality of dialogue and feasible ideas, are among the best he's seen.
Translation: I pwn at this stuff.
Maybe it's not completely fair to the others. I do have a lot of practice in the field of character-development and dialogue.
But get this. Pierre (our teacher and originally a scenarist himself) claims that out of every promotion, he's lucky to even interest one person in script-writing.
I guess that person'll be me. Seriously. If no one will do it, if my language and writing skills are above average, if I can write fun and good stuff, why not?
I would get to write FOR A LIVING. This would be above awesome.
Editorial aside, I don't think I've updated about PB and Slim's love lives (because I know you give as much of a damn as I do).
Well, they are both happily taken. And not by me.
OMG, CM, BUT THAT'S SO UNFAIR FOR YOU, you'll say. THOSE JERKS! WHO ARE THOSE B!TCHES WHO STOLE THEM FROM YOU?
Well, first off, chill. They weren't "mine" to begin with. Besides, as you're sure to find out soon, the irony brought about by life has soothed any possible wound I would have suffered from if I hadn't been over Slim in the first place.
As far as PB is concerned, he's dating a girl who's been hanging out with us for a while now. They're in on a bumpy road, what with their schedules being so crazy and all, but they're really sweet together, and I totally approve of them. Besides, PB hasn't gone anal-retentive in the wake of couple life, as opposed to...
Slim, on his part... Well, let's just say that this is what conversations with Slim looked like before he got a girlfriend:
Guy: Hey, isn't Drew dating this fourteen year-old?
Josie: Ugh, stop. That's almost like pedophilia. What do fourteen year-olds know about eighteen year-olds? They're worlds apart.
Slim: No kidding. It's not that they're immature or anything. It's just that there's no way they can relate. I mean, they're in the middle of high school, just learning to know about sex, and eighteen year-olds are ages ahead, going to drunken parties and preparing for uni.
Me: Well, they're losing their "innocence" sooner than they used to.
Slim: Even so. They can't relate. It's two different worlds, two different atmospheres. Fourteen year-olds aren't like eighteen year-olds, no matter how intent they are.
I'm having trouble not to laugh as I write this, because the sheer irony of his discourse is brought back to me constantly.
This is the conversation I heard, roughly three weeks ago:
Guy: Hey, did you know Slim has a new girlfriend?
Josie: What?? OMG, WHO IS IT? SLIM DOESN'T DO GIRLFRIENDS. He's married to his drumset!
Me: He has a girlfriend?
I'll admit I'm trying to be casual. My heartbreak was still a little sore, even though...
Guy: Well, you can just ask him. There he is.
(Enter Slim.)
Josie: OMG, SLIM, YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME WE'RE CHILDHOOD FRIENDS!
PB: *snickers*
Josie: PB, why are you laughing?
PB: Oh, nothing.
Me: You have a girlfriend, Slim?
PB: *snickers again*
Josie: PB, what's up with you?
PB: *looks at Slim, who has slumped into his chair and is avoiding everyone's inquisitive gaze* Well, you remember how he used to bash Drew about his fourteen year-old girlfriend?
(Long silence)
Josie: *turning to Slim* Oh. My. God.
Slim: *grabbing his head, shouting* I'M NOT PROUD, OKAY?
Me: *unable to keep an ironic smirk from coming on* Wait. How old is your girlfriend, exactly, Slim?
PB: *hooting* SHE'S FOURTEEN! *bursts into maniacal laughter*
Slim: I'M NOT PROUD, OKAY????
Josie: Wait, how come you're dating a fourteen year-old???
Slim: Actually, she turned fifteen last week. And don't ask. She got me drunk.
Me: Do you like her, at least?
I mean, this seemed like the most sensible question to ask.
Slim: Yeah, I guess. I mean, I'm not in love with her, but I do care. GODDAMMIT, I SOUND LIKE A GIRL.
Josie: *teasing* That's what you get for being a pedophile.
Slim: This is me leaving now.
Guy: Dude, you better stop bashing Drew now that you're as bad as him.
And Slim proceeds to look utterly miserable.
I should say that since then, he's had little other focus than drumming, work, and his girlfriend. All in all, no major change, save for the last detail. But it's made him cranky. Poor Slim.
And yet, on the day I heard about it, it didn't really register. Until last week, when Alex told me to warn Slim his girlfriend (who is turning out to be quite a handful for her parents) was going to meet him at the end of school. When I passed on the message, it occurred to me, finally...
Slim has a girlfriend. And it's not me. It's a fifteen year-old trouble-making prep.
And you know what's the funniest part about it?
I didn't give a damn.
I skipped on my way home. Like some sick version of the Sound of Music or something. I was grinning like a moron, thinking, "I'm free!"
And damn if I haven't been enjoying that freedom.
Now, if that cute blonde guy from my philosophy and English classes would just give me a second-look... He has begun talking to me more since last week...
;)
Love,
CM
P.S. The following setting is the basis for a oneshot I'm currently writing. Because god forbid I could focus on one story at a time or anything.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Is that KD I see in your lunch box?
As time passes, I come to realize that we've all gone a little insane. From PB and Josie fighting about carrots (those damn carrots) and getting into a distressingly violent (and hilarious) pinch fight, to Kitty and I gawking at Eva's choice of a lunch (Kraft Dinner... warmed over), it's like the impending term exams have all given us a little bit of madness.
Oh, yeah, there was the, like, ten centimeters of snow that fell two days ago and which melted today. I swear. One week you're like, "Whee! Spring! Take out the sleeveless junk!" and two days later you're like, "Where the heck are my knit gloves? MY FINGERS ARE DYING OF HYPOTHERMIA!"
Okay, so it shouldn't be such a surprise. This is Que-frikking-bec. We are lumberjacks and fur traders, accustomed to the cold and rough temperatures, made to endure in the six-month-long winters without sunlight.
HAH. SO NOT.
At least, it was warmer today.
Surprisingly, this did not change anything to our typical insanity. This is somewhat alarming.
I have gone a little nuts too. Proof is, I wrote this, an AU, very short, exchange of notes Zelink drabble-ish thing. It doesn't even qualify as a fic, but I guess it does represent how we're beginning to feel about school.
Anyway, here it is. Because like heck I'm posting this on ff.net. I don't even know if it's in the rules and whatnot. Oh, the joys of having an alternative posting spot.
See you at ze bottom.
Hey! Talk to me! I’m agonizing over here!
Link, you’re not supposed to pass notes in class. It’s juvenile and sophomoric.
Zelda
Aw, come on. Like I didn’t see you yawn just there. This class is a count-the-holes-in-the-ceiling marathon.
So what’s up?
Link
You are impossible. THIS is why you always need my help before exams. Will you please focus on the class?
Zelda
How can I possibly focus when you seem so utterly uninterested? It’d be a crime to let you die of boredom.
Link
Alright. This isn’t funny anymore. Quit it. We could get caught.
Zelda
I’ll pretend you didn’t just verbatim quote page 34 of the textbook to the teacher and reiterate my question: what’s up?
Link
Look, I don’t know what gives you the impression that I particularly care to be distracted in class, but believe me, I don’t. So stop.
Zelda
If you don’t want to keep on talking, why do you keep sending the notes back with replies?
Link
Hey, I expected an answer to that last message, you know.
Link
Zelda? Please answer me?
Link
Oh, come on. What’s up with you today?
Link
I don’t know, Link. Maybe I’m just interested in getting a decent grade at the end of this term?
Zelda
(SHE LIVES!) Right. After all, you get an under 90% score once a year, which is unacceptable.
Link
Well, to some of us, success is important.
Zelda
Oh, I’m so sorry. Are my notes keeping you from getting that all-important honours diploma? Ah, wait. YOU’VE ALREADY BEEN PROMOTED.
Link
No, I haven’t. I’ve only been accepted CONDITIONALLY. Get your facts straight. But yes, your notes are distracting… mostly because you’re throwing them at THE SIDE OF MY HEAD.
Zelda
I do have my facts straight. You’ve always been top of the promotion in everything. Like a few notes will change anything to that. As for throwing notes at the side of your head, I wouldn’t have to do it if you were a little more receptive to them and just TOOK them from me whenever I want to pass them.
Link
I will be caught dead before I willingly accept to receive and pass notes.
Zelda
Damn, I must have missed your funeral.
Link
Oh, how spirited.
Zelda
Thank you. I’m here until Friday. Try the shrimp.
Link
That was sarcasm.
Zelda
No, it wasn’t. You can’t express sarcasm in the form of written notes.
Link
Right, and I intend to help Dark with his M-rated movie come the end of the term.
Zelda
Zelda, shame on you! I thought you had more self-respect than that!
Link
P.S. I’ll bug him for a copy.
It was SARCASM, YOU DOPE. Gods, you’re so gullible, or extremely simple. Either way, you’re acting stupid.
Zelda
P.S. That’s harassment.
Wow. Thanks. I feel so much better after this conversation with you. You always have the word to make a guy feel good about himself. And you’re so original when you give compliments. No “you’re so BIG! Please take me” from you. That would be too cliché, of course.
Link
P.S. It’s blackmail, actually. If only you weren’t such a prude, my plans wouldn’t foil all the time.
You do realise you just alluded to sex twice in one note?
Zelda
P.S. Plans? You have plans?
You do realise your hair looks like spun gold today?
Link
P.S. Sure, I have plans.
Link, please, could you just focus on the class?
Zelda
P.S. That’s a terrifying thought.
You know, my lack of focus is entirely your fault. You seem to me so much more important than anything this class has to offer. What do you say we skip the second part and just hang out?
Link
Are you asking me to miss class to go on a date with you? In the middle of the day?
Zelda
I guess I am.
Link
You’re out of your mind.
Zelda
I know. It’s your fault.
Link
Alright, now you’re starting to scare me. Stop that.
Zelda
What’s so scary? You know the second part of this class is only for those who have trouble understanding basic principles. It’s not exactly like YOU need to be here.
Link
You know that I only stay here after the break to help YOU. Because apparently, history is a subject you simply have no grasp on. I’m sure you don’t even know what today’s class was all about.
Zelda
Sure I do.
Link
Oh? And what was the name, date, and purpose of the treaty signed by Adlar the Great after the Imprisoning War? Who else was involved in its ratification? What system was it instated in? What were its consequences come the Twilight era?
Zelda
The Castleton treaty, signed on Biember 7th of 1007, also ratified by Darunia of the Gorons, Ruto of the Zoras, Nabooru of the Gerudo, Impa of the Sheikah, and Saria of the Kokiri. It was instated into a monarchical democracy, in order to found the first nationwide races accord. And it saved Hyrule from social implosion when the fallen armies of the Power-Wielder tried to strike back.
So, Latte’s or Stock’s? I’m up for some Lon Milk myself.
Link
… Impressive. Why exactly do you need me to tutor you?
Zelda
You didn’t answer my question. Latte’s or Stock’s? My treat.
Link
You didn’t answer mine. Since when are you good in history?
Zelda
Maybe I’ll tell you if you tell me which of Latte or Stock you prefer.
Link
I like Latte. Now tell me. Do I still need to tutor you, or have you miraculously become good?
Zelda
Are you going to subject me to this series of questions all day?
Link
Link, I’m short of patience today, and you’re testing me.
Zelda
Why? What’s wrong? If Dark harassed you, I’m searching every club in town until I find and kill him.
Link
Why would you do that? And you still haven’t answered my question.
Zelda
Because in my book no one’s allowed to hurt you or piss you off, that’s why.
And fine, you want the truth? Here it is: history is actually one of my best subjects. I’ve only faked stupidity so you could tutor me. I know, it’s stupid and I’m starting to think you’ll hate me for wasting your precious time when you could have used it on someone who really needed the help.
Whatever.
Link
You mean you lied to me? I don’t get you.
Zelda
Gods, do I need to spell it out? Fine, for Din-Nayru-and-Farore’s sake:
I like you.
A lot.
Link
Why didn’t you just SAY so? I’d have appreciated a guy who had good grades in history more than a guy who so desperately needed my help. I go for brains.
Zelda
Yeah, but we didn’t even talk to one another until you started tutoring me. Forgive me for thinking it would help you see how loveable I am.
Great. Now you think I’m a moron. Just great.
Link
I don’t think you’re a moron. I just think you’re the weirdest, most desperate guy I ever met.
Zelda
Wow. Thanks.
I guess that means I’m dumped before ever getting picked up.
Link
Not if you still want to take me to Latte’s.
Zelda
You mean it??
Link
Sure I mean it. Why not?
By the way, I don’t really think the notes are annoying.
Zelda
Oh. You had me feeling guilty, for a moment there.
Sorry, sarcasm. I did mean the spun gold thing, though.
Link
See you in ten minutes. ;)
Zelda
Sweet.
Link
This exchange causes me to wonder, because Zelda writes notes EXACTLY as I write notes. While Link writes notes the way most guys I know tend to write.
As Jack Skellington would say at the end of the Town Meeting Song, "Oh well."
By the way, this has nothing to do with my other works. It's a standalone and means nothing.
Love,
CM
Oh, yeah, there was the, like, ten centimeters of snow that fell two days ago and which melted today. I swear. One week you're like, "Whee! Spring! Take out the sleeveless junk!" and two days later you're like, "Where the heck are my knit gloves? MY FINGERS ARE DYING OF HYPOTHERMIA!"
Okay, so it shouldn't be such a surprise. This is Que-frikking-bec. We are lumberjacks and fur traders, accustomed to the cold and rough temperatures, made to endure in the six-month-long winters without sunlight.
HAH. SO NOT.
At least, it was warmer today.
Surprisingly, this did not change anything to our typical insanity. This is somewhat alarming.
I have gone a little nuts too. Proof is, I wrote this, an AU, very short, exchange of notes Zelink drabble-ish thing. It doesn't even qualify as a fic, but I guess it does represent how we're beginning to feel about school.
Anyway, here it is. Because like heck I'm posting this on ff.net. I don't even know if it's in the rules and whatnot. Oh, the joys of having an alternative posting spot.
See you at ze bottom.
Hey! Talk to me! I’m agonizing over here!
Link, you’re not supposed to pass notes in class. It’s juvenile and sophomoric.
Zelda
Aw, come on. Like I didn’t see you yawn just there. This class is a count-the-holes-in-the-ceiling marathon.
So what’s up?
Link
You are impossible. THIS is why you always need my help before exams. Will you please focus on the class?
Zelda
How can I possibly focus when you seem so utterly uninterested? It’d be a crime to let you die of boredom.
Link
Alright. This isn’t funny anymore. Quit it. We could get caught.
Zelda
I’ll pretend you didn’t just verbatim quote page 34 of the textbook to the teacher and reiterate my question: what’s up?
Link
Look, I don’t know what gives you the impression that I particularly care to be distracted in class, but believe me, I don’t. So stop.
Zelda
If you don’t want to keep on talking, why do you keep sending the notes back with replies?
Link
Hey, I expected an answer to that last message, you know.
Link
Zelda? Please answer me?
Link
Oh, come on. What’s up with you today?
Link
I don’t know, Link. Maybe I’m just interested in getting a decent grade at the end of this term?
Zelda
(SHE LIVES!) Right. After all, you get an under 90% score once a year, which is unacceptable.
Link
Well, to some of us, success is important.
Zelda
Oh, I’m so sorry. Are my notes keeping you from getting that all-important honours diploma? Ah, wait. YOU’VE ALREADY BEEN PROMOTED.
Link
No, I haven’t. I’ve only been accepted CONDITIONALLY. Get your facts straight. But yes, your notes are distracting… mostly because you’re throwing them at THE SIDE OF MY HEAD.
Zelda
I do have my facts straight. You’ve always been top of the promotion in everything. Like a few notes will change anything to that. As for throwing notes at the side of your head, I wouldn’t have to do it if you were a little more receptive to them and just TOOK them from me whenever I want to pass them.
Link
I will be caught dead before I willingly accept to receive and pass notes.
Zelda
Damn, I must have missed your funeral.
Link
Oh, how spirited.
Zelda
Thank you. I’m here until Friday. Try the shrimp.
Link
That was sarcasm.
Zelda
No, it wasn’t. You can’t express sarcasm in the form of written notes.
Link
Right, and I intend to help Dark with his M-rated movie come the end of the term.
Zelda
Zelda, shame on you! I thought you had more self-respect than that!
Link
P.S. I’ll bug him for a copy.
It was SARCASM, YOU DOPE. Gods, you’re so gullible, or extremely simple. Either way, you’re acting stupid.
Zelda
P.S. That’s harassment.
Wow. Thanks. I feel so much better after this conversation with you. You always have the word to make a guy feel good about himself. And you’re so original when you give compliments. No “you’re so BIG! Please take me” from you. That would be too cliché, of course.
Link
P.S. It’s blackmail, actually. If only you weren’t such a prude, my plans wouldn’t foil all the time.
You do realise you just alluded to sex twice in one note?
Zelda
P.S. Plans? You have plans?
You do realise your hair looks like spun gold today?
Link
P.S. Sure, I have plans.
Link, please, could you just focus on the class?
Zelda
P.S. That’s a terrifying thought.
You know, my lack of focus is entirely your fault. You seem to me so much more important than anything this class has to offer. What do you say we skip the second part and just hang out?
Link
Are you asking me to miss class to go on a date with you? In the middle of the day?
Zelda
I guess I am.
Link
You’re out of your mind.
Zelda
I know. It’s your fault.
Link
Alright, now you’re starting to scare me. Stop that.
Zelda
What’s so scary? You know the second part of this class is only for those who have trouble understanding basic principles. It’s not exactly like YOU need to be here.
Link
You know that I only stay here after the break to help YOU. Because apparently, history is a subject you simply have no grasp on. I’m sure you don’t even know what today’s class was all about.
Zelda
Sure I do.
Link
Oh? And what was the name, date, and purpose of the treaty signed by Adlar the Great after the Imprisoning War? Who else was involved in its ratification? What system was it instated in? What were its consequences come the Twilight era?
Zelda
The Castleton treaty, signed on Biember 7th of 1007, also ratified by Darunia of the Gorons, Ruto of the Zoras, Nabooru of the Gerudo, Impa of the Sheikah, and Saria of the Kokiri. It was instated into a monarchical democracy, in order to found the first nationwide races accord. And it saved Hyrule from social implosion when the fallen armies of the Power-Wielder tried to strike back.
So, Latte’s or Stock’s? I’m up for some Lon Milk myself.
Link
… Impressive. Why exactly do you need me to tutor you?
Zelda
You didn’t answer my question. Latte’s or Stock’s? My treat.
Link
You didn’t answer mine. Since when are you good in history?
Zelda
Maybe I’ll tell you if you tell me which of Latte or Stock you prefer.
Link
I like Latte. Now tell me. Do I still need to tutor you, or have you miraculously become good?
Zelda
Are you going to subject me to this series of questions all day?
Link
Link, I’m short of patience today, and you’re testing me.
Zelda
Why? What’s wrong? If Dark harassed you, I’m searching every club in town until I find and kill him.
Link
Why would you do that? And you still haven’t answered my question.
Zelda
Because in my book no one’s allowed to hurt you or piss you off, that’s why.
And fine, you want the truth? Here it is: history is actually one of my best subjects. I’ve only faked stupidity so you could tutor me. I know, it’s stupid and I’m starting to think you’ll hate me for wasting your precious time when you could have used it on someone who really needed the help.
Whatever.
Link
You mean you lied to me? I don’t get you.
Zelda
Gods, do I need to spell it out? Fine, for Din-Nayru-and-Farore’s sake:
I like you.
A lot.
Link
Why didn’t you just SAY so? I’d have appreciated a guy who had good grades in history more than a guy who so desperately needed my help. I go for brains.
Zelda
Yeah, but we didn’t even talk to one another until you started tutoring me. Forgive me for thinking it would help you see how loveable I am.
Great. Now you think I’m a moron. Just great.
Link
I don’t think you’re a moron. I just think you’re the weirdest, most desperate guy I ever met.
Zelda
Wow. Thanks.
I guess that means I’m dumped before ever getting picked up.
Link
Not if you still want to take me to Latte’s.
Zelda
You mean it??
Link
Sure I mean it. Why not?
By the way, I don’t really think the notes are annoying.
Zelda
Oh. You had me feeling guilty, for a moment there.
Sorry, sarcasm. I did mean the spun gold thing, though.
Link
See you in ten minutes. ;)
Zelda
Sweet.
Link
This exchange causes me to wonder, because Zelda writes notes EXACTLY as I write notes. While Link writes notes the way most guys I know tend to write.
As Jack Skellington would say at the end of the Town Meeting Song, "Oh well."
By the way, this has nothing to do with my other works. It's a standalone and means nothing.
Love,
CM
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Shortcut to mushrooms.
Did I ever mention I loved the Lord of the Rings (notice the subtle reference in my title)?
I did?
Oh, good. Because I do.
I also love fanfiction.
Isn't it great that one of my school projects is on the Lord of the Rings and another is about fanfiction?
I still have to start that LotR one (apparently, it's only due for next Tuesday), but I'm done with my hardcore journalism project. The one on online writers. It's for tomorrow, so I'm glad that's overwith.
There was one major problem, of course, that being that I needed at least three interviewees as references. This posed a certain obstacle, since I'd only interviewed one person and could not interview myself.
Even though I am CLEARLY an authority on the subject of fanfiction. Right?
But, as my dad said, "If you can't dazzle them with brilliances, baffle them with bullshit." I moved on to apply this very strictly.
And now my journalism project is a tangle of truths and lies so intricate that it is perfectly plausible yet falsely referenced. I mean by this that I took existing names (two of my friends' names and two names I found online) and made them obscure authorities on the subject of literature. They became my puppets and I made them say whatever I felt like saying.
So now, my five page text is extremely plausible (heck, the teacher would try to fail it and he wouldn't have enough solid ground to do it), and also secretely opinionated.
I'm a genius.
It only took me five hours, though, so I guess that'll teach me: next time, start ahead.
Still, not bad for a girl who thought she couldn't pull off as much bs as that.
Now I just have to start my Philosophy project. The one on Freud and Descartes. Dammit.
Love,
CM
P.S. If you're smart, people, do not imitate me. It is a dishonest method and should only be used as a last minute resort. Or a slacker way of getting work done without leaving your basement.
P.P.S. Here's another excerpt of my upcoming story... It's the same as the one I posted a preview of in one of my recent posts. After this I'll have to quit posting pieces, because you might get hooked and I'm looking out for your health. ;p
For the fifth time in two minutes, she pulled down on her vest, doing her best to adjust it. They’d been called to the museum of ancient history earlier today. Hero, the legendary thief, was no longer a petty back street burglar, and ―a testimony to his skill― he’d actually managed to attract the attention of the 11th Avenue unit.
Midna smirked. She had to hand it to the thief: he knew his thing. That a lone man could evade the police before their very nose so often was nothing short of exceptional. Not to mention he’d effectively stolen a good number of priceless articles in the past two years, from the Mask of Majora to the Wind Waker to, recently, the world-renowned Master Sword. That hit, deemed impossible until then, had propelled the invisible thief to the rank of legend and mystery celebrity. Anchormen and journalists had a field day every time Hero’s typical warning messages turned up. Often, the police task force hardly had time to get to the location that the item was already declared stolen. It was both admirable and frustrating.
Sheik Strike sat up. Midna turned to glance down at him. He was giving the camera a final once-over. He was a meticulous man, careful with his words and movements. He knew a thing or two about martial arts, what with his perfect self-control. It was best not to bother him.
She gazed back at the museum front. It was lively with journalists eager to get some footage for the evening news. The opening hours had long ended. They’d taped the museum off, placed all their equipment, and made sure to check every possible entrance to the museum, including the air vents. The 11th Avenue squad never failed. They’d catch this Hero and show the world just how safe and reliable they were… and the catch would serve as warning to other criminals.
At least, those were Rauru Luz’s orders. The chief inspector had been nervous, wiping his bare forehead with a cloth and anxiously glancing at the phone every few seconds. He was a curt, straightforward man, with a rough sense of justice. From his unusually uppity attitude, Midna Black, inspector for the 11th Avenue division, presumed he’d been reminded of the cost of failure.
It wasn’t new. Whenever some smart ass decided to toy with the police’s authority publicly, it ultimately fell to the 11th Ave. squad to fix everything. Rauru Luz got a regular number of warning calls and the higher ranks seemingly enjoyed breathing down his neck.
The police task force wasn’t all clean. Although individually the officers and constables were reliable and well intentioned, the governmental service was often backed-up by private organisations financially. Officers didn’t like calling the sweeteners by name; they preferred to be considered fiduciaries. Disillusioned, Midna was confident that the ones pulling the strings were the rich providers and not some abstract sense of justice on the upper crusts’ part. The economical threat eventually trickled down to the lower ranks and became a self-righteous need to stop those who opposed national safety, to protect intellectual and artistic properties.
Bah, humbug.
I did?
Oh, good. Because I do.
I also love fanfiction.
Isn't it great that one of my school projects is on the Lord of the Rings and another is about fanfiction?
I still have to start that LotR one (apparently, it's only due for next Tuesday), but I'm done with my hardcore journalism project. The one on online writers. It's for tomorrow, so I'm glad that's overwith.
There was one major problem, of course, that being that I needed at least three interviewees as references. This posed a certain obstacle, since I'd only interviewed one person and could not interview myself.
Even though I am CLEARLY an authority on the subject of fanfiction. Right?
But, as my dad said, "If you can't dazzle them with brilliances, baffle them with bullshit." I moved on to apply this very strictly.
And now my journalism project is a tangle of truths and lies so intricate that it is perfectly plausible yet falsely referenced. I mean by this that I took existing names (two of my friends' names and two names I found online) and made them obscure authorities on the subject of literature. They became my puppets and I made them say whatever I felt like saying.
So now, my five page text is extremely plausible (heck, the teacher would try to fail it and he wouldn't have enough solid ground to do it), and also secretely opinionated.
I'm a genius.
It only took me five hours, though, so I guess that'll teach me: next time, start ahead.
Still, not bad for a girl who thought she couldn't pull off as much bs as that.
Now I just have to start my Philosophy project. The one on Freud and Descartes. Dammit.
Love,
CM
P.S. If you're smart, people, do not imitate me. It is a dishonest method and should only be used as a last minute resort. Or a slacker way of getting work done without leaving your basement.
P.P.S. Here's another excerpt of my upcoming story... It's the same as the one I posted a preview of in one of my recent posts. After this I'll have to quit posting pieces, because you might get hooked and I'm looking out for your health. ;p
Midna Black knew when something was off. She couldn’t pinpoint why that was; it just was. At her side, Sheik Strike, security expert for the 11th Avenue division, was wordlessly changing the settings on their camera.
For the fifth time in two minutes, she pulled down on her vest, doing her best to adjust it. They’d been called to the museum of ancient history earlier today. Hero, the legendary thief, was no longer a petty back street burglar, and ―a testimony to his skill― he’d actually managed to attract the attention of the 11th Avenue unit.
Midna smirked. She had to hand it to the thief: he knew his thing. That a lone man could evade the police before their very nose so often was nothing short of exceptional. Not to mention he’d effectively stolen a good number of priceless articles in the past two years, from the Mask of Majora to the Wind Waker to, recently, the world-renowned Master Sword. That hit, deemed impossible until then, had propelled the invisible thief to the rank of legend and mystery celebrity. Anchormen and journalists had a field day every time Hero’s typical warning messages turned up. Often, the police task force hardly had time to get to the location that the item was already declared stolen. It was both admirable and frustrating.
Sheik Strike sat up. Midna turned to glance down at him. He was giving the camera a final once-over. He was a meticulous man, careful with his words and movements. He knew a thing or two about martial arts, what with his perfect self-control. It was best not to bother him.
She gazed back at the museum front. It was lively with journalists eager to get some footage for the evening news. The opening hours had long ended. They’d taped the museum off, placed all their equipment, and made sure to check every possible entrance to the museum, including the air vents. The 11th Avenue squad never failed. They’d catch this Hero and show the world just how safe and reliable they were… and the catch would serve as warning to other criminals.
At least, those were Rauru Luz’s orders. The chief inspector had been nervous, wiping his bare forehead with a cloth and anxiously glancing at the phone every few seconds. He was a curt, straightforward man, with a rough sense of justice. From his unusually uppity attitude, Midna Black, inspector for the 11th Avenue division, presumed he’d been reminded of the cost of failure.
It wasn’t new. Whenever some smart ass decided to toy with the police’s authority publicly, it ultimately fell to the 11th Ave. squad to fix everything. Rauru Luz got a regular number of warning calls and the higher ranks seemingly enjoyed breathing down his neck.
The police task force wasn’t all clean. Although individually the officers and constables were reliable and well intentioned, the governmental service was often backed-up by private organisations financially. Officers didn’t like calling the sweeteners by name; they preferred to be considered fiduciaries. Disillusioned, Midna was confident that the ones pulling the strings were the rich providers and not some abstract sense of justice on the upper crusts’ part. The economical threat eventually trickled down to the lower ranks and became a self-righteous need to stop those who opposed national safety, to protect intellectual and artistic properties.
Bah, humbug.
“Think we’ll catch him this time?” Sheik’s mellow voice asked.
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