is here with me! *beams* On Tuesday night, we were out in Piccadilly Circus. She may be the only person I know who is capable of spending as much time as I can in Forbidden Planet. There is much laughter over my ability to say "Constantine" when I mean "strawberries". We walked into Burger King at 11pm, and there we talked about Constantine
and Neil Gaiman, and I forgot the time completely. When we finally got back home, I looked at my watch and it was past one in the morning
. She also managed to unearth an awful lot of my Harry/Peter and Constantine
fic, and has vowed to make me post something before she leaves at the end of the week. Must you leave.
Therefore I - should. *hides*
I was in Bournemouth last Friday, with giaan
and Sam, and -
did an amazing Fight Club storyboard
, and asked us to guess what the story was. Her answer's here
. And because she will always be my fluffy cloud, I wrote. This is clear evidence that I should stick to photograph-spams and not
to writing fic.
Each time the human heart beats, it pumps a cupful of blood through the body.
You know this because Tyler knows this.
Bent double over a chipped sink in a house on Paper Street, the chill of the new day cooling the tiles in this shithole of a bathroom, watching your blood swirl down the drain, you realise this
You and the rest of your disenfranchised, disenchanted nation, were raised on television to believe that you’d all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars.
But you’re staring down the bathroom sink you’re bleeding into and your name isn’t Keanu fucking Reeves.
Humans possess an extensive internal piping system. A cardiovascular network of tens of thousands of kilometres of blood vessels, in a human body.
You’re in the heart of the house on Paper Street, ensconced in a network of twisting pipes. Sometimes, in the still of the night, after Tyler and Marla have finally shut the fuck
up, you think you can hear that heart beating.
I am Jack’s twisted sense of jealousy.
You stare at the stained mirror before you, and don’t see the man who walked into his office every day, preoccupied with recall statistics, out-of-court settlement rates, and his insipid career. You don’t see the man consumed by the Ikea nesting instinct. That went out of the window a long time ago, along with unbleached paper wire lamps, Strinne green patterns, and yin-yang coffee tables.
You see the man who knocked out the Office Park’s maitre d’ in five minutes flat. You see the man who now strides into his office, sizes up everyone in a heartbeat, and realises none of them would last a second in the basement of Lou’s Tavern.
You hear the bathroom door creak and you see Tyler Durden in the doorway, as light from the hallway spills in over you.
He’s smoking again, and that makes you
smell unmistakeably of cigarette smoke, winding its insubstantial fingers through your hair, your clothes, and over your skin.
It makes you feel claimed
Tyler’s face falls in shadow, but you know the look on his face as well as you know your own.
, I got your parcel! And whiteravensong
, I got your postcard! *grin* It was so pretty I thought it was an advertisement! *hugs to kanekoichi
for being incredibly sweet* Also, moonythestrals
, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, SPEAR OF DESTINY INDEED. And you can kick me all day long if it'll make you write fic like this
Yen is now reading Fake
next to me. *evil grin* She hates me for bringing her to Forbidden Planet, and for somehow unearthing her John muse when we started talking about my Constantine
plot ideas, all
of which have plotholes you can drive a taxi through, as kannazuki
finds very amusing
. *evil grin* I'm afraid I regret nothing.
Our London household went to watch Hitch
today. I did not squee the cinema down. But moonythestrals
is right when she says the slash is so wasted on that movie. Also I dragged Yen to watch Constantine