1. Ask me three questions.
2. I will pick two of them to answer.
3. One I will tell the truth about.
4. One I will lie about (the last you will have to try and answer for me).
5. Post this in your journal so others can ask you.
indifferentName three things that you're looking forward to in the near future and why.
( 'Don't we have anything lighthearted? Something about teenagers trying to get laid.' )
melancholyBruins win.
I needed that almost as much as they did.
weird![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
slayer3063790]Visiting mental institutions is not, unfortunately, the sort of activity that becomes easier with practice. Never mind that the grounds are well kept, never mind that the staff seem cheerful and friendly, their teeth bared in identical grins--the moment Alan sets foot in the facility, a certain restlessness takes hold.
"The hill looked green to me," he says.
The woman examining his identification doesn't so much as spare him a glance. "Sorry?"
"The hill." Helpfully, Alan jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "It had a distinctly greenish tinge. You may want to have that looked into."
"Oh. Oh." She fixes him with a stern look; his name is being added to some mental list of troublemakers. "It's named after the river. There used to be a mining operation around here."
"No kidding," Alan says, feeling vaguely cheated (or perhaps simply outdone), but the woman's eyes have already returned to her computer screen, and an orderly has arrived to usher him and his flowers--pink tulips and blue irises--to Mrs. Osborn's room.
anxiouserikscordelia and backdated to Wednesday]Deep Ellum—named, apparently, for the citizenry of Dallas, Texas’ inability to pronounce “deep elm”—is housed in an unassuming brick building far from the beating heart of Boston, wherever that may be. The interior is neither flashy nor particularly sleek (Alan, upon entering, experiences a strong urge to loosen his tie), but it’s clean and pleasantly noisy without being loud. There’s a welcoming sheen on the counter and the few unoccupied stools.
Alan takes a seat and begins perusing the drink menu.
calm( Two of a kind )
chipperWrite about a lie your parents told you.
( If you insist. )
uncomfortable01. How it works: post this in your journal.
02. Friends, enemies, itinerant smartasses (and their writers, too) are then to comment to your post with music that reminds them of you, their relationship with you, or whatever strikes their fancy.
03. Said music is shared via an upload (or a link to lyrics for the connection challenged).
04. When you comment, leave the song title and artist in the subject line, so that if someone else thinks of the same song they'll be spared the agony of sending it to you again. ;)
05. With enough people and enough variety of songs, you should end up with a lovely playlist inspired by those who know you pretty well. Or so you hope.
hopeful1 question...
1 chance...
1 honest answer...
That's all you get. Ask me one question. Any one question, anything, no matter how crazy it is. An honest answer. No catch.
Well, okay, there's just one. All comments will be screened so your question stays private between you and me, and only you will get to see my answer to your question.
Limited time only. While supplies last.
ooc: Comments will not actually be screened, since that's no fun and the whole screening process is too much for my puny brain to handle.
curiouslorraine_weller]Had they been dating, had Lorraine not outfitted herself with a wonderful, likeable, and possibly chimerical boyfriend, dinner might’ve been appropriate. Lunch, at least—reservations somewhere exclusive, food expensive enough to pass for the apology he has no intention of giving.
They are not dating, however, and for the first time Alan finds this state of affairs, the resultant lack of expectations, completely to his liking. It’s been three days since the motion was dismissed, and something in him still wants to…well. Stir up trouble. Kick up a ruckus. Pick a fight.
Boyfriend aside, there’s probably a good reason they’re not dating.
He raps on the door to Lorraine’s office and, before she can identify and then dismiss him, lets himself in.
“We lost,” he says, though she undoubtedly knows. He smiles (not that he’s aware of it) the same rueful smile he’d offered Terrence upon the reading of the ruling. “I thought I’d deliver the good news in person.”
frustratedWhat are you afraid of?
( [private] )
gloomyHaving been internet deprived for the past few weeks, I wasn't able to properly thank people for the generous gifts bestowed upon Alan during the holiday season. Thank you, a_deaths_head, for the delicious virtual cookies--I'm so glad you enjoy reading along (hopefully I'll have posted something for you to read very soon). Thanks also to the anonymous person who gave Alan paid time. If either of you would like, you're welcome to comment with a scenario/prompt/lewd MS Paint illustration and I will write you a ficlet inspired by it.
In fact, anyone is welcome to comment with a lewd MS Paint illustration, though you'll be less likely to get a ficlet out of it.
To everyone I've neglected in the past month, I'm glad to be back and will slowly but surely be tagging, posting, responding to prompts and all that good stuff. I hope the holidays treated you well!
chipperSometimes the appropriate response to reality is to go insane.
( Temporarily, anyway. )
drainedcarl_sack_esq and displacedspace]Continued from here.
After the policemen in the lobby—efficient, taciturn, masking any surprise at the uncanny resemblance between defendant-to-be and his counsel—bracelet Joey’s wrists with nickel-plated steel and escort him from the premises, Alan and Carl are left to finagle an arraignment. Ultimately, four o’clock (the hour a product of some wheedling on Alan’s part and the odd veiled threat on Carl’s) is settled upon.
“How do you think he’s holding up?” Alan asks, referring not so much to Joey’s well being—the man’s been arrested before—as his ability to keep his head down and his mouth shut. To a certain type of person, there’s nothing so torturous as a period of enforced silence.
Alan should know—he’s of that type.
curiousmost_amazing]The temperature outdoors has declined precipitously, and yet it’s the air inside the office—warm but not unpleasantly so, like a fresh-baked loaf of bread—that provokes a shiver. Empty bottle in one hand (the volume of liquid having declined in direct proportion to the temperature), empty glass in the other, Alan steps into his office. Crane, Poole & Schmidt never truly falls silent, but at this hour the reigning sounds are mechanical, as though someone’s peeled back the chatter of the day to reveal a skeleton of wire, steel, and silicone.
Glass clinks against glass as he sets down his burdens; somewhere in the hall, a vacuum hums.
Alan’s snapped off the lights and begun to pull on his coat when he notices her at her desk. “Hermione. What are you doing”—he nearly says up, as though she's still young enough to have a bedtime—“here this late?”
tired( Forty-two questions and some gloating )
bouncyHe’s sure got a lot of gall to be so useless and all
Muttering small talk at the wall while I’m in the hall.
How can I explain?
Oh, it’s so hard to get on
And these visions of Johanna, they kept me up past the dawn
( 'Dirigibles coalesce in the maverick guava.' )
listless