die die die

[cimorene]

yeah, okay. i'm at, say, about 80% of how much little sister and mother melodrama i can take, total, for a year. and it's been... two days.

send help.

i'm losing tolerance in general as a result and inclined to be snappish and bitchy for apparently unrelated reasons when random things remind me of them.

::whimper::

ex:

1. cim glances at dog.
2. cim reads friends list, while cim's brain goes, 'dog, dog likes walk. cute dog.'
3. cim reads another bit of friends list. cim's brain: 'mom apparently actually believes that everyone is out to get her specifically through their dog-walking habits whether they walk the dog (out to get her!) or not (out to get her!).'
4. cim reads another bit of friends list and encounters the word 'tree.'
5. cim's brain has reached the 'OH MY GOD HOW CAN SHE AUUGH' stage of the mom-train of thought. cim's brain goes, 'i saw a tree while walking the dog.'
6. cim snarls at whatever happens to be closest (in this case, the dog).

EVERYTHING IS ANNOYING. EVERYTHING SHOULD GO FUCK OFF AND DIE, AS LONG AS I LIVE IN A WORLD WHERE EVERYONE IS SEEING THE MOVIE A DAY BEFORE ME, MOM BUYS FOR $70 NONEXISTENT DOLLARS THE UGLIEST PLASTIC CHRISTMAS TREE EVER, DAD SERVES FOR DINNER MOTHERFUCKING BAKED HAM, AND I'M EXPECTED TO WRITE A SPANISH ESSAY. OH, BELIEVE ME, I COULD GO ON.

Comments

*cuddles cimmie* look! i brought you a...thing! to cheer you up!

[dorkorific.livejournal.com]

Biting his lip, Geoff slips back the lock, then creaks the door back. The hallway is white, dimly and flickeringly neon-lit; a long set of stairs and a rail, paint peeling, slope down into darkness.

This is probably not a good idea.

Luckily, Geoff thinks happily, I'm a *detective*.

He edges inside, carefully shutting the door behind him so that it barely clicks, and moves silently down the stairs, running through his plan in his head. He’ll go in--there will be the culprit--conveniently distracted by, um, the phone maybe? no! by his own evil cackling, yes, standing over the bodies of his victims and cackling--and Geoff will sneak in behind him, seize some heavy object off the convenient table, and smack him one, right over the head, bam!--and then drag his unconscious body all the way to the police station and be awarded some kind of medal for bravery. Yes. Brilliant.

The hallway at the bottom of the stairs is even more wan and decrepit-looking: white cement walls, buzzing lights, and a constant dripping noise that seems to come from everywhere at once. Geoff surveys it thoughtfully, pulls his black stocking cap a little further over his ears.

The second door to the right, the voice over the phone had said, come in and we’ll talk business. Talk business! the Geoff of his imagination had screamed. Why don’t we talk arresting your evil assassin ass, you bastard! and then slammed down the phone and gone to wreak Justice. Actual Geoff had mumbled something stupid, something like “right, yeah, I’ll be along then” and buggered off, thinking, dude, I just talked to a real hit man!

And now here he is, and Imaginary Geoff is as close as he gets to real: the combat boots, the black jeans, the sunglasses, the leather jacket he nicked off Mr. Wainthropp which doesn’t really fit and has weird stretchy seventies trim but will do for now. He flattens himself against the wall, biting his lip, trying very hard to resist the frantic urge to start humming his own theme music.

Curls his hand around the knob of the door and pushes it open and throws himself into the room and then, abruptly, forgets the entire plan and shouts, inanely, “UH!”

“AGH!” yells a mysterious dark figure in the corner of the room, and falls over. There is a crash. Geoff stands there, feet planted stupidly apart, and he realizes about three seconds too late that he is thrusting his hands out in front of him with the index fingers pointed, like a five-year-old
making an imaginary gun. Shit.

“What the fuck,” says the Mysterious Figure, sounding absolutely beyond furious, very American, and barely over fourteen. “What the fuck?!”

“uhh,” says Geoff, licking his lips rather frantically. “Um. You--uh.” Imaginary Geoff comes to the rescue. “I’m taking you, uh, into custody. For murder.” And, yeah, the words roll pleasantly on his tongue but not quite as dramatic as he would have liked, probably because he’s about to piss his pants and his voice kind of cracked in the middle.

Mysterious Figure curses and ventures into the light and Geoff realizes with a tingling little shock that is almost pleasant that he doesn’t just sound like it, he really isn’t over fourteen--short and slim, with tangling dark hair and enormous liquid eyes. He drops his imaginary gun and says, without thinking, “You’re seriously the hit man?”

“Dude,” says the hitman fiercely, “fuck you!”

“It’s just--” Geoff tries to backpedal, hits a mental wall. “You’ve just--uhhh. You’ve just got big eyes for a, you know, evil genius, that’s all.” WHAT THE HELL GAH.

The hitman glares at him, electric, shadowed. “Yeah, well, you’ve got big ears for a member of the human species, but I’m not saying you’re a monkey, right?” Something glints in the low light by his hip and Geoff realizes, numbly, that this guy actually has a gun, shit, he has a real honest-to-god gun not made out of his own hands, and really really wishes he were somewhere else.

“Listen, man,” whispers Geoff, ashamed and shit-scared and feeling oddly apologetic, “I didn’t. I mean, you can be a hit man, it’s just, I dunno, I expected something. Uh. Burlier.”

There is a horrible little silence.

Re: *cuddles cimmie* look! i brought you a...thing! to cheer you up!

[dorkorific.livejournal.com]

The hitman sighs and says, in a very small, even more pre-pubescent voice, “people do.”

“’Sokay,” says Geoff uncertainly, feeling weirdly sympathetic. “No one believes I’m a detective either.”

“You’re a detective?!” says the hitman incredulously, his wide eyes getting even wider.

“Well, yeah,” says Geoff, rather hurt. “I, like, fight crime and shit.”

“You’re fucking me,” yelps the hitman, and starts to laugh. He has a high-pitched sort of giggle/cackle, like a thirteen year old girl, and a big honking gap between his teeth. Hah. What a dork.

“No way, dude,” says Geoff. “I’m totally a detective. I have, you know, an agency...and stuff.” Fucker.

“Yeah,” says the hitman, the giggles coming slower, and he looks up at Geoff again. “I have a client list.”

“Cool. I have a phone-tapping system,” says Geoff.

“Wow. I have a silencer,” says the hitman.

“Trunk of super secret disguises.”

“Collection of high-powered rifles.”

“One time I sent a gang of drug dealers to jail. By myself. In a covert mission.” Beat that.

“Yeah? This guy tried to kill me with a cleaver one time. And I shot him. In the face.”

“Fuck me! You’re making that shit up.”

“No way, dude.”

“You totally are. No one uses a cleaver.”

“Fuck you! He did!”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

“Whatever, dude. You don’t have to believe me.” The hitman shrugs, one-shouldered, and then, bizarrely, offers a hand. “Mikey.”

“Geoff,” says Geoff.

“Want a cigarette?” says Mikey.

Geoff stares at him. Mikey shrugs. “Just asking, dude.”

“Yeah, okay,” says Geoff.

Re: *cuddles cimmie* look! i brought you a...thing! to cheer you up!

[cimness.livejournal.com]

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! LOVELOVELOVE! i will email you tomorrow after i write the paper of doom.

LOVE!

LOVE!

EEEEEEE!