Crackpost Part 2
Aug. 11th, 2010 12:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sour_idealistSo, I actually fulfilled the previous post. To my surprise and delight, all three of the characters (even Brian) showed up in my head and proceeded to make themselves comfortable and did not shut up. I even had the luck of running into a very chatty, somewhat sarcastic narrator who kept making zombie analogies. Oh, and she named the clunker the Hellmobile on me.
(The above text is making me remember that I saw a post with "Writing is an acceptable form of schizophrenia" button somewhere, and I think I might need one of my own.)
Anyway!
“We got everything?” I asked, eyeing the pile of stuff that had semi-miraculously managed to be squished in the back of the Hellmobile despite having previously covered at least half of my driveway.
“You’re asking me?” Brian demanded from the driver’s seat, where he was doing an excellent imitation of a zombie. Pre-reanimation. “Chelsea was in charge of packing.”
“Fine. Everything packed?” I asked the aforementioned Chelsea, speaking to the ground at her feet because it was far too early in the morning to be confronted with her curly perky redheaded high-achiever uber-organized checklist-for-everything attitude.
(Okay, I guess technically I’m a high achiever too, but at least I’m not perky about it.)
“Most definitely,” Chelsea announced, tapping her heel-shod foot against the sidewalk. I wondered if she owned any shoes that weren’t heels. “Goodbyes are all said already, so load up and let’s hit the road!” I contemplated starting an argument over her energy level at six-thirty on a summer day, decided that starting one would make me a hypocrite due to the energy level involved in arguing, and slung myself into the shotgun seat.
“Where the hell’s my carryon bag?” I demanded the instant I reached for my iPod. “That better not have been buried under your eight thousand suitcases, Chelsea Anders, or so help me –”
“It’s right here, chill out,” she snapped, handing me my peace-sign-embossed canvas thing. “And you don’t have to carry it a carryon, we’re not on an airplane. Jesus.”
“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain,” I suggested.
“I thought you were an atheist.”
“Dead right. I’m also bi, did you notice?”
“And I, as you know, am a lesbian Christian. So shut up.”
“Whatever. Isn’t all the value of being in the Chastity Club cancelled out by being in the Gay-Straight Alliance?”
“Only if you are of the sadly all-too-common homophobic breed of Christian. Why the hell do you get to pick the music anyway?” she demanded, seeing me pull my iPod out of the aforementioned carryon.
“Because this is my miserable clunker, and it’s more than my share of my money funding this crackpot idea, and I’m the one in possession of the speakers,” I proclaimed, trying to persuade said portable speakers to stick to the door. “And because I don’t have Katy Perry on my iPod, and I know for a fact that you bought the entire album before you figured out what a faker she was.” Eventually I gave up (as usual), stuck the things to the stained dashboard, and fired up “Nowhere Fast,” which is this totally awesome song from this old movie called Streets of Fire . Aside from one caustic question from the backseat and my admittedly equally caustic answer, this magnificently apropos music silenced us from my house to the highway. (It’s kind of a long song.)
“Can we put on ‘Rose’s Turn’ next?” Brian asked as the song died. I quickly marked this down on my mental chart of evidence that I was not, in fact, letting him sleep-drive us halfway across the country.
“It is so ridiculously stereotypical for you to like that song,” the disgruntled backseat resident informed us.
“Oh, you’re one to talk,” I grumbled, twisting around to face her. She was somehow managing, despite the Hellmobile’s awful suspensions, to paint her nails a glittery pink with no disasters so far. “Besides, it’s only Glee he likes, and a couple of other musicals, so that’s pretty much only one fulfilled stereotype in a car of three queer kids. That’s fine.”
“Oh, I count a lot more than just that one stereotype, honey.”
“I’m wearing a skirt!”
“You’re wearing a ridiculous calf-length denim construct that looks like it’s been dragged through a hedge, and over that you’re wearing a flannel shirt that should have been buried with Kurt Cobain, and a pathetic white thing that I can only assume was once a perfectly respectable T-shirt. I’m sure it’s possible to look more butch while wearing a skirt, but you’re doing a remarkable job of it.” She paused. “Darling.”
“Well, it’s not like the uber-girly repressed cheerleader lesbian shtick isn’t turning into a cliché of its own,” I pointed out, feeling grateful that she hadn’t brought up the boots.
“I am anything but repressed. Or are you forgetting who spearheaded our little GSA?”
“Because that was so successful.”
“Not my fault all the other gay kids in the school are so deep in the closet that they couldn’t poke the door with a bargepole. Well, except Chris.” And Angie, but she is Not Okay to Discuss right now.
“It’s a gay-straight alliance, not the Queer Club. The total absence of straight kids is explained how?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, sugarplum, but weren’t you there when the administration screwed us over?”
“Ladies,” Brian interrupted, “I’m not sure if I’m listening to the beginning of a catfight or one of those stupid bicker-y romance things, but one’s a cliché and the other one would be wasted with just me to watch, not to mention dangerous in the car, so will you please shut up?” I blinked at this and carefully noted it on the mental stack of evidence: either he’s a sleeptalker as well as a sleepdriver (if this theory is correct, it might also be explicable as compensation for his silence most of the rest of the time) or the world’s most verbose zombie. We’ll see if he begins to decompose. I didn’t point out that I probably would have shut up at that point anyway, because Chelsea is a) right and b) only slightly less sore about this than all of us are about Angie.
“Now will you please just put the damn song on?” Brian asked after a moment.
“Stereotype-supporter,” Chelsea hissed from the backseat. The girl is incorrigible.
“You know perfectly well that I think Kurt Hummel is an irritating little pain in the ass,” Brian informed the two of us, seemingly totally unfazed. “But he’s an irritating little pain in the ass who’s played by someone who can really, really sing.”
“How come you object to Kurt and yet you went out with Chris for three months?” Chelsea asked.
“Because Kurt is fictional and bitchy, and Chris is neither. And besides, I dumped him.”
“Because he was so totally consumed by drama club that you laid eyes on him perhaps once a month, not because you objected to his nearly-parodic levels of campiness, as I recall,” I pointed out before I realized that this might be construed siding with Chelsea.
“Well, he isn’t fictional and bitchy,” Chris retorted. I rolled my eyes, rather redundantly, and put on the “Poker Face” cover in hopes of going back to sleep. Well, and to annoy Chelsea.
Possibly TBC, possibly not; I don't really know. The characters may not shut up, though. However, I probably will do something like this again at some point, because it was fun. TheyFightCrime.org may enter the picture too.
(The above text is making me remember that I saw a post with "Writing is an acceptable form of schizophrenia" button somewhere, and I think I might need one of my own.)
Anyway!
“We got everything?” I asked, eyeing the pile of stuff that had semi-miraculously managed to be squished in the back of the Hellmobile despite having previously covered at least half of my driveway.
“You’re asking me?” Brian demanded from the driver’s seat, where he was doing an excellent imitation of a zombie. Pre-reanimation. “Chelsea was in charge of packing.”
“Fine. Everything packed?” I asked the aforementioned Chelsea, speaking to the ground at her feet because it was far too early in the morning to be confronted with her curly perky redheaded high-achiever uber-organized checklist-for-everything attitude.
(Okay, I guess technically I’m a high achiever too, but at least I’m not perky about it.)
“Most definitely,” Chelsea announced, tapping her heel-shod foot against the sidewalk. I wondered if she owned any shoes that weren’t heels. “Goodbyes are all said already, so load up and let’s hit the road!” I contemplated starting an argument over her energy level at six-thirty on a summer day, decided that starting one would make me a hypocrite due to the energy level involved in arguing, and slung myself into the shotgun seat.
“Where the hell’s my carryon bag?” I demanded the instant I reached for my iPod. “That better not have been buried under your eight thousand suitcases, Chelsea Anders, or so help me –”
“It’s right here, chill out,” she snapped, handing me my peace-sign-embossed canvas thing. “And you don’t have to carry it a carryon, we’re not on an airplane. Jesus.”
“Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain,” I suggested.
“I thought you were an atheist.”
“Dead right. I’m also bi, did you notice?”
“And I, as you know, am a lesbian Christian. So shut up.”
“Whatever. Isn’t all the value of being in the Chastity Club cancelled out by being in the Gay-Straight Alliance?”
“Only if you are of the sadly all-too-common homophobic breed of Christian. Why the hell do you get to pick the music anyway?” she demanded, seeing me pull my iPod out of the aforementioned carryon.
“Because this is my miserable clunker, and it’s more than my share of my money funding this crackpot idea, and I’m the one in possession of the speakers,” I proclaimed, trying to persuade said portable speakers to stick to the door. “And because I don’t have Katy Perry on my iPod, and I know for a fact that you bought the entire album before you figured out what a faker she was.” Eventually I gave up (as usual), stuck the things to the stained dashboard, and fired up “Nowhere Fast,” which is this totally awesome song from this old movie called Streets of Fire . Aside from one caustic question from the backseat and my admittedly equally caustic answer, this magnificently apropos music silenced us from my house to the highway. (It’s kind of a long song.)
“Can we put on ‘Rose’s Turn’ next?” Brian asked as the song died. I quickly marked this down on my mental chart of evidence that I was not, in fact, letting him sleep-drive us halfway across the country.
“It is so ridiculously stereotypical for you to like that song,” the disgruntled backseat resident informed us.
“Oh, you’re one to talk,” I grumbled, twisting around to face her. She was somehow managing, despite the Hellmobile’s awful suspensions, to paint her nails a glittery pink with no disasters so far. “Besides, it’s only Glee he likes, and a couple of other musicals, so that’s pretty much only one fulfilled stereotype in a car of three queer kids. That’s fine.”
“Oh, I count a lot more than just that one stereotype, honey.”
“I’m wearing a skirt!”
“You’re wearing a ridiculous calf-length denim construct that looks like it’s been dragged through a hedge, and over that you’re wearing a flannel shirt that should have been buried with Kurt Cobain, and a pathetic white thing that I can only assume was once a perfectly respectable T-shirt. I’m sure it’s possible to look more butch while wearing a skirt, but you’re doing a remarkable job of it.” She paused. “Darling.”
“Well, it’s not like the uber-girly repressed cheerleader lesbian shtick isn’t turning into a cliché of its own,” I pointed out, feeling grateful that she hadn’t brought up the boots.
“I am anything but repressed. Or are you forgetting who spearheaded our little GSA?”
“Because that was so successful.”
“Not my fault all the other gay kids in the school are so deep in the closet that they couldn’t poke the door with a bargepole. Well, except Chris.” And Angie, but she is Not Okay to Discuss right now.
“It’s a gay-straight alliance, not the Queer Club. The total absence of straight kids is explained how?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, sugarplum, but weren’t you there when the administration screwed us over?”
“Ladies,” Brian interrupted, “I’m not sure if I’m listening to the beginning of a catfight or one of those stupid bicker-y romance things, but one’s a cliché and the other one would be wasted with just me to watch, not to mention dangerous in the car, so will you please shut up?” I blinked at this and carefully noted it on the mental stack of evidence: either he’s a sleeptalker as well as a sleepdriver (if this theory is correct, it might also be explicable as compensation for his silence most of the rest of the time) or the world’s most verbose zombie. We’ll see if he begins to decompose. I didn’t point out that I probably would have shut up at that point anyway, because Chelsea is a) right and b) only slightly less sore about this than all of us are about Angie.
“Now will you please just put the damn song on?” Brian asked after a moment.
“Stereotype-supporter,” Chelsea hissed from the backseat. The girl is incorrigible.
“You know perfectly well that I think Kurt Hummel is an irritating little pain in the ass,” Brian informed the two of us, seemingly totally unfazed. “But he’s an irritating little pain in the ass who’s played by someone who can really, really sing.”
“How come you object to Kurt and yet you went out with Chris for three months?” Chelsea asked.
“Because Kurt is fictional and bitchy, and Chris is neither. And besides, I dumped him.”
“Because he was so totally consumed by drama club that you laid eyes on him perhaps once a month, not because you objected to his nearly-parodic levels of campiness, as I recall,” I pointed out before I realized that this might be construed siding with Chelsea.
“Well, he isn’t fictional and bitchy,” Chris retorted. I rolled my eyes, rather redundantly, and put on the “Poker Face” cover in hopes of going back to sleep. Well, and to annoy Chelsea.
Possibly TBC, possibly not; I don't really know. The characters may not shut up, though. However, I probably will do something like this again at some point, because it was fun. TheyFightCrime.org may enter the picture too.
