#but dear lord does it pile up. we’re not in a movie!! oh my fucking lord!!!

[tsumikoz]

ok so u kno how on monday I was like hm maybe things r good :-) well apparently universe heard that n had enough of my shit

[spideycents]

B-Roll // Shawn Mendes - 1: picture’s up

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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a/n: This starts off cringey because I had no other ideas so I just started writing a conversation between me and a friend.

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"I can't help it that I love drama."

   "You definitely CAN help it," I laugh. I tug on my seatbelt to loosen it a little so I can get comfortable in the passenger seat of Michael's car. "You just choose not to cause the drama is so good."

   "It is! It's too good!"

   I laugh harder, a snort dares to sneak into my giggles and I cover my mouth with my hands. Not that I'm nervous to laugh around Michael, I mean he's my best friend. I'm just kind of nervous just in general around all people, no exceptions, but the snort caught me off guard and I'm afraid of it being followed by bad breath or another snort or a burp or something gross and weird.

   "The tea just doesn't stop spillin," he continues. "It's some good ass tea and you know a bitch loves a good mess."

   "This is true." I nod. "You do. And a good mess is always quality."

Michael chokes back a laugh. "Quali-tea..."

   My laughter immediately stops and I look at him. He's grinning wildly and derpily and has about five chins right now. He's a looker.

   "I'll see myself out," he says as he unlocks the door and reaches for the handle.

   I know that he won't actually open it. I know this. I trust him. He's not that fucking stupid. But, I still reach over him and pull his arm away and lock the door. It's a scramble and we almost rear-end the car in front of us, but at least that voice in the back of my head can calm down now that Michael's definitely going to stay in the car.

   "DAAAAAAAMN!" He hangs onto the word as he laughs at me. His eyes are wide and his hands grip the wheel tightly and his elbows are locked. "Are you trying to kill us?"

   I fall back in my seat and curl into myself.

   "Sorry," I mutter and look down at my hands in my lap.

   "It's okay," he laughs lightly. "You know I wouldn't really do that, right?"

   I shrug. "Yeah," I say quietly.

   "Uh...no. You are not going to sit here and tell me you thought I was actually going to jump out of the car."

   I shrug again. I don't like lying to him. I don't see the purpose in lying about things like this. I mean, I know it's trivial and he's just kidding, but...I don't know...some part of me actually believed he might do it. Part of me wasn't just worried, I was scared. Why would I lie about that? He'd know I was lying anyway. He always knows. I don't know how. I guess I just wear everything on my sleeve. I'm easier to read than a stop sign.

   "Well, I wouldn't, okay? I wouldn't ever do that and you know I'm joking, so just...like...try to be more chill, okay?"

   I laugh. "Me? Chill? Who do you think you're talking to right now?"

   He laughs too. "I know, but..." he sighs. "Just try, maybe?"

   I throw my hands up. "I don't know how! Teach me your wayss. sensei. Teach me how to be more chill."

Michael grins hard again and glances at me then grabs his phone.

   "Oh my dear sweet lord," I groan. "What have I done?"

   "Don't judge me," he whines through gritted teeth.

   "The Smartphone Hour" from Be More Chill starts to play and he quickly turns the volume up and starts singing. He's offkey and kinda sounds like a dying raccoon that's stuck in a trash can that's being run through a wood chipper. He loves to sing though and we've talked about how god awful we both are so it's cool and, honestly, I kinda like it. It's a familiar raccoon sound and it's a raccoon that I care about and don't want to hurt it's feelings, so I'll just let it be.

   I don't know the lyrics to any songs in Be More Chill, even though Michael plays them all the freaking time, so I pull out my phone and scroll through Instagram.

   The first thing to pop up on my feed is about Shawn Mendes.

   Breaking news, according to Entertainment Weekly, it was just announced by Deadline that singer, Shawn Mendes, is confirmed to have been cast in the remake of The Breakfast Club.

   "Oof."

Michael glances over at me. "What?"

   I turn my phone to show him and he tilts his head back and lets loose a guttural groan that's also kind of a shriek and a sob at the same time. It's a mixture of sounds from the belly and head and back of the throat and your inner spirit animal. We call it: The Dying Puma.

   "This is why we can't have nice things!" He shouts at the roof of the car. I laugh 'cause I'm trying not to freak out about the fact that he lets go of the wheel so he can grab his head and he's now driving with his knees. I know he's tall and I know he does this a lot, but...I don't know...my internal scream is deafening.

   "I mean, they're so preoccupied with the fact that they could..." I let it drift off and Michael picks it up perfectly.

   "They didn't stop to think if they should. Exactly." He claps to punctuate the point--really bringing it home. Not that he needs to. I literally let him finish my sentence. "Can't wait to watch that steaming pile of shit dominate the box office."

   "Here's hoping it doesn't open against anything that actually deserves to make all the money," I grumble.

   "Oh it definitely will."

Michael follows release dates and box office reports with the kind of dedication that most people have for fantasy football. Come to think of it, he's even apart of a fantasy movie league. I don't think he does very well, but he still talks about his picks every single week and walks me through his predictions for how he thinks every film will perform over the coming weekend.

   He shrugs. "I might see it though."

   I laugh in a way that sounds, and kind of feels, like one of those sneezes that you manage to hold back and force down your throat.

   "What?" He looks at me; he's smiling, but he knows I'm judging him.

   God, am I judging him.

   "You have a problem," I say simply.

   His smile grows, "I do. I've never said I don't."

   "You're obsession with Shawn—"

   He holds up his hand to stop me. "Not an obsession. This is love, Lyla. I love him."

   I side eye him, hard.

   "I do," he laughs. "I am in love with him."

   I roll my eyes and laugh lightly. "I'm gonna kick you." I look back at my phone and keep scrolling through Instagram. Unfortunately, my feed is 80% posts about Max's casting.

Michael must feel my pain because he laughs again and says: "You'll never be rid of him. He's everywhere." He waves his right hand around and wiggles his fingers for extra emphasis.  

   God, maybe I'll tuck and roll out my own door.

   I open Google and search for more articles about Shawn. The Deadline article pops up first so I click on it and read aloud.

   "Shawn Mendes to star in the highly anticipated Breakfast Club remake."

   "Highly anticipated by who???" Michael's skepticism is exactly how I feel right now, but I continue.

   "Just two weeks after news broke that Paramount would be remaking some of it's John Hughes' classics, it was announced early Tuesday morning that Grammy-nominated singer, Shawn Mendes has joined the cast of the modern-day reimagining of Hughes', The Breakfast Club. His role is yet to be revealed, but Mendes is the first casting to be confirmed after it was announced that Greta Gerwig (Little Women) is set to direct and the screenwriting pair who brought you Love, Simon and This Is Us: Elizabeth Berger and Isaac Apataker, along with and John Francis Daley (Spider-Man: Homecoming) were picked to pen the script. Fans eagerly anticipate Mendes' long awaited, and long promised, big screen debut."

   "Well, they got that right!" Michael whoops. "Anyone else been cast yet?"

   I repeat the part of the article where it says Shawn's the first person to be cast.

Michael flips me off and I smile. He sticks his tongue out while he glances at me, but I ignore him.

   "That's our exit," I point out. His blinker's on before I finish and he moves over to get off.

   A car swerves into the lane ahead of us, causing Michael to stop on his breaks for only a second. It continues into the exit and comes to a sudden stop. A middle-aged white guy gets out of the driver's seat and storms around to the passenger side.

   He's pointing at us.

   And he's yelling.

   "What the fuck," Michael laughs, trying to mask his nervousness as the guy walks into the highway and toward our car, still yelling at the top of his lungs.

   He wants to fight with us, I think. I don't know why though. We didn't do anything.

Michael has to swerve to avoid him, but the man reaches out and hits the car. His palm smacks Michael's window. Michael puts his foot to the floor, we barrel onto the exit ramp—but the guy manages to hit the back of the car again as we pass him.

   "What the fuck?!"

   "Holy shit!"

   "What the fuck is going on?!"

   "He's insane!"

Michael's speeding too fast as we go around the turn for the clover exit and we're both thrown a bit to the side. Thankfully we're the only car on the ramp so we can drift through the two lanes and not have to worry about anyone.

   "What the hell was that?" I shout once we're off the ramp and heading down the straight road that goes right up to the park gates.

   "What the fuck just happened?! Did I do something?!" The corners of Michael's mouth are pulled tightly down and he's squinting his eyes again. It's a face he makes a lot whenever things just get too much for him and he doesn't have words or emotions or anything else to express how he's feeling. Somehow, this face says it all.

   "No."

   "Then why the fuck did he do that?!"

   "I don't fucking know!"

Michael laughs awkwardly and I laugh too and our nervous energies bounce off each other until we're legitimately laughing so hard that my stomach hurts and Michael's wiping tears from his eyes.

   "That's the stuff of nightmares," he chokes out.

   "It's always the crazy ass white people," I chuckle.

   "Please kill me before I turn into that."

   "With pleasure."

   We pull up to the gates of the park as a mass exodus of people since it's almost to sunset and closing time. Michael's laughter calms down and he composes himself as he rolls down his window to talk to the guards.

   "We're with the movie," he says and the woman in the hut waves us on.

   I shake my head. "I can't believe that's all it takes for us to get through. They don't even ask us what movie."

Michael shakes his head too and his laughter bubbles up again. "A mess."

   I feel my laughter coming back too. "A whole ass mess."

***

I plop my big canvas bag down on the table and drop into my chair. It's plastic and collapsible and probably over a decade old, but right now it's the comfiest thing in the world. I'm exhausted and my coffee doesn't seem to be helping today. I'm tempted to fold my arms on the table and fall asleep resting on the soft, squishy cushioning of my biceps.

   I'm pretty sure Michael's got the same idea cause he pulls out a second hoodie from his backpack and bundles it up, sets it on the table in front of him, then rests his head on it and hugs his arms around it, holding it tight. He's wearing another hoodie, but he needs that one to conserve the little body heat he probably has right now. I wish I had an extra jacket to wrap myself up in too. I'm wearing fleece leggings and an XL men's sweatshirt, but I'm still shivering. Michael's in his usual shorts, t-shirt, and hoodie combo so he's probably already suffering from hypothermia or frostbite or both.

   I wonder if that pile of cheap Walmart fleece blankets is still around. A lot of people walked off with their blankets when we wrapped this morning, but maybe there's still a few lying around. They got kinda soaked and gross last night when it rained, but here's hoping they're dry by now.

   I'm too cold and too tired to care about how clean they are. Hell, even if they made me so sick, I'd have to go to the hospital, I'd take that over the shitfest that has been this shoot.

   We're almost done with our second week of filming here and we're not even halfway done. We were supposed to finish earlier this week, but the weather has not been kind. At this point, they're just trying to wrap first team here so they can move onto their next location, but the extras will still be stuck here with second team to finish up the stunt stuff since this is a major battle sequence. I believe it's supposed to be the climax, but I refuse to read the book this movie is based on. Julie-Anne read it cause she reads everything and Michael started it, but he can't stand it and Julie-Anne wishes she'd never opened it so I'm not even going to bother. I don't even know the first word and I'm perfectly okay with that. They'll tell me things they think I should know.

   I finally see the mound of blankets on the ground up against the tent on the side where the exit to the costumes and hair and makeup tent is. The pavement is still wet and there are still a few puddles around so I highly doubt that any of the blankets are actually dry, but I'll get Michael to go check.

   "Hey," I bump his arm gently, but he doesn't even slightly budge. It's barely been a few minutes and he's already out like a light. I swear he's narcoleptic or sleep is his superpower or something. My vote is the latter. He's got that Peter Parker look to him. I wouldn't be surprised. He could fall asleep when he's hanging upside down with Spidey. They'll call him Possum.

Even though I'm really freaking tired, if I fall asleep right now, I'm going to be groggy and miserable all day. Might as well fight my way through this current bout of drowsiness, chug some coffee, eat breakfast, and keep going. There's no food set out yet, so I down a few gulps of coffee and open my phone.

Instagram loads up instantly and it's still on the posts about Shawn Mendes being cast in The Breakfast Club. I scroll through a few of them, most use the same photo, which I'm pretty sure they just copy/pasted from the Deadline article, but a few are different. There are a lot of red carpet shots, but a few magazine photoshoots. Then MTV has a TBT from his appearance on The 100. Pretty sure that's the only acting he's done. At least, it's all I've seen.

I keep scrolling until I recognize a Variety photoshoot and click on their article

Of all the 80s classics audiences are desperate to see get the remake-over, The Breakfast Club may not be the first on people's minds, but it's definitely all anyone can talk about right now. News broke this morning on Deadline that singer Shawn Mendes has been cast as one of the misunderstood teens stuck in Saturday detention. Which teen was not confirmed so we're left speculating if Shawn is more of an athlete, brain, or a criminal. This reporter would honestly like to see them switch things up and maybe the heartthrob will be a basket case or, better yet, a prince?

   The article goes on to talk about the director and writers who I read about before so I scroll past.

   The film does not yet have a release date, but production is slated to begin in late September in Atlanta, Georgia.

   Holy shit.

   They're filming here.

   I kick Michael's chair and falling sensation startles him awake.

   "That was cruel," he glares at me.

   "Sorry, but you have to see this."

   I hold my phone right up to his face. His eyes are squinting, but I can see them moving along the page as he reads. His eyebrows raise slightly when he reaches the end.

   "Find out the casting company so we can apply," he mutters, then lowers his head back down and covers his face with his hoodie. My eyes are trained on my phone, but I can't help being distracted by his fidgeting. He must not be able to get back into the comfort of before cause he moves around for a minute, adjusting the jacket pillow, the hoodie he's wearing, and his chair. He ultimately puts his hood up and tugs it over his forehead, then scoots his chair back a few inches before curling back up on his makeshift pillow.

   I google more information about The Breakfast Club. It would be cool to work on it with my friends, but so far I'm not seeing any extras casting calls. I did find a crew call though.

   I don't have much on my resume, but I really do want to break into the tech side of production. I've only done two other projects so far and one of them was a student short film where I did special effects make-up for a ghost. The other was my first ever film, which I wasn't signed onto officially. I had a friend in the cast and he let me tag along. Since I didn't have a specific job, they just used me wherever they needed me.

   I find the email to contact about crew, then copy/paste it into Gmail and attach my resume. I add a few more things to it, mainly rehashing my contact info, skills, and previous sets I've worked on and what I did, then I paste in a few photos of the makeup I've done. I hope it's enough and not too much.

   I read back over it, edit a few misspellings, then hit send.

   Fingers crossed.

   When I look back up from my phone, there are a few more extras here now and they're getting settled into their usual spots. We can sit anywhere, but it's the same kind of thing that happens in high school and college, once you've chosen your spot, it's your spot until the end of time and if anyone tries to take it from you, you'll fight them.

Michael fought a group of obnoxious 16-year-olds once and one of them actually tattled on him to their mom and she came over and scolded him. He has no tolerance for the minors or set moms and I can't say I blame him. They're the literal worst.

   Our favorite casting assistant, Shelly shows up about 10 minutes later and she waves at me happily, then sneaks over quietly and scares Michael awake. He's about to murder her until he realizes who it is, then he relaxes and gives her a hug. We laugh and talk for a while and he asks about the I-9s, but apparently, we can't help her fill them out anymore cause she got in trouble for it last time. But, she slides us three I-9 forms and checks our names off the list, then goes back to her table to get her work done before call time and we fill out our forms, tuck them in our bags, then leave to go find breakfast.

   When we come back, the last member of our trio, Julie-Anne, is in her seat. Her completed I-9 on the table next to an open book, her knitting in her lap, and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

   There's no way she's been here longer than five minutes, but she's a master at making herself at comfortable.

   She looks up at us as we walk up to the table and her eyes light up when she notices our plates.

   "Ooo!" she exclaims excitedly. "Pancakes?"

   I nod and tilt my plate to show her and before we can say anything, she's up and speeding out of the tent to find food.

   "You gotta hand it to her," I laugh lightly. "She works fast."

   "Yeah." Michael sets down his food and drink and picks up her knitting. When we wrapped yesterday, she'd just started a new blanket, it's almost halfway done now. "Too fast."

   We look at each other skeptically, then back at the bright neon orange blanket, then at each other again, and burst out laughing.

---

So, yeah. That’s chapter 1. Let me know what you think.

[seenashwrite]

Conversations With The Commissioner: Crappy Monsters In Barber Shops, a.k.a. Nash's First Headcanon + Wine = The Image I’ll Never Be Able To Top

@lipstickandwhiskey kindly thought to tag me when she saw a jovial post that reminded her of my disappointment in the lack of dinosaurs in the *alternate world and hoped to cheer me, but little did she know [mainly because I completely brain farted on posting this way-back-when] this had been addressed. In an objectively bizarre way. Admittedly.

FYI: Spit-take warning in effect, also cursing, should you choose to carry on

Preamble

* Dear SPN Writers' Room*: I'm not calling it The Bad Place, because I'm done with y'all ripping from other stuff, in this case, a beyond phenomenal show - hey! you do recognize carefully crafted season arcs when you see it! - even if y'all thought it was a homage, it's not since viewers of the show "The Good Place" already know about The Bad Place and it's not a physical nightmare, it's a psychological nightmare.

Pay. Attention. Stop ripping from well-known pop culture shit without (1) making sure the “homage” is used correctly, (2) double-checking that something similar hasn't been done before and, if so, (3) adding your own cheeky-sneaky spin. Not doing so makes you look, at best, like hacks, at worst, like doofy dipshits, particularly when it is from shows in your same genre - like a renowned show from the same fucking network that hadn't even ended their run but a year and a half prior to when yours started - and wrapping up *your* season with a title that was an iconic element from an iconic show [it was iconic, for several reasons, that's an essay for another time] which was the basis for everything from a/possibly *the* pivotal moment in the series and which was tied to many of the composer's pieces for the soundtrack, as it was a central thread. TV Tropes is your friend.

Tangentially related, while we're here:

[Shep as Romo Lampkin]

I digress.  

The Background

The Commissioner and I pop a cork, start talking about the Wayward pilot. We don't say a word about the scripting or the acting [because if we do, I go down a Dolly Deadeyes road, and nobody wants that]. Rather, we do a deep dive on the things that resemble other things and postulate how this came to be. Not in the minds of the peeps behind it, no, the dive comes via what the youths call a "headcanon". I've never had one before, I don't think, and I'm proud this is the first.

Oh, and a housekeeping side note: While my observations/the conversing began that night, the main convo/legit start on the image at the bottom happened later on. This has been run through the Nash snark filter for funsies, which is why the tone is the same for the whole conversation as, in truth, I have little clear memory of a lot of this, and the time taken for the assemblage of the image took longer than a conversation's worth, since the beginnings were sponsored by wine but it had to be done, it's how I combat insomnia and after seeing the monsters, I needed to purge my feelings of.... well....

The Beginning

After a verbal review (an accosting-of, really) of both Well-Coiffed Predator in a Bane Mask and Dollar Store Doomsday from the Wayward pilot, we begin discussing theories on how exactly this came to be in the alt world. Everything below is based on (a) the fact that New!Kaia's outfit denotes the presence of some sort of killa shopping and/or a hella talented Matrix-obsessed seamstress in the alt-world, therefore why not additional styling like a salon, and (b) the fact that we were lit on wine.

And the Predator rip - who, in the concept art, does not appear rippy-offy, it should be noted - got that mask somehow. He's either homaging Bane all over his face [his own face, not the other-way-'round] or he's gotten hold of one of the real things, modded it a touch to account for the spread of his general mouth region. Seems their temp name is the generic supernatural/folklore catch-all that I was vaguely aware of - "Canid" - and that some dude who's apparently of import on the show hates it, and I concur because all I can think of when I see the name is Candida. The Commissioner asked for a reminder, and I explained what that infection was and that now upon learning the creature’s name, I looked upon it as a yeast infection made sentient. The copious amounts of viscous discharge helps that along.

This then got a general science light bulb to pop, and we again consulted the googles, and boo-yah:

It's a dog. That. That up there, that I linked to. A daaaawwwwg.

No, not a if-this-is-a-dog-then-what-does-the-owner-look-like, maybe-they're-just-disgruntled-puppy-mill-alums type of WTF. The WTF is because I, once again, am wondering if at any point people over yonder are bothering to check shit out with this cool new thing called google. I know. It's a novel suggestion.

Somebody sure as shit used said googlins for squid beak - it's a touch birdy beak, but nah, slimy squid goes better with the aesthetic - and I guess they had to, as they already gave the far superior on the creepy scale pacu teeth to the Dollar Store Doomsday.

Because we were sneery and feeling gross at this point, we needed something fun, so we refilled on wine, and decided to make a mash-up image of the “inspirations” [to be clear: The Commissioner decided I should make a mash-up]. We were also feeling gross after looking at all that above, so for an eye sorbet, we needed some pretty, and STAT. We both instantly knew what would do the trick.

We start the conversation with Bane.

The Conversation

[looking at still from that Batman movie Bane was in; neither of us have cared to clarify which of the Nolan B-mans it was, because we don't care]

The Commissioner: He is so smooth, like, everything, even the fit of the clothes.

Nash: I'll never forget his turn as young Picard in that shit 'Trek movie, what was it called?

[we do not look it up; digression discussion of the awesomeness that is Sir Patrick Stewart]

TC: What's in his hand? Is that a riding crop? Or a shuffleboard thing?

N: Yes, exactly, Bane took a break from beating up Batman to shuffle. Nooooo. He got drug away from riding his horsey----

TC: YOU MUST MEAN HIS STALLION - if he rides horses, they are buff

N: ---to bring the mask, and is he pissed about it?

TC: No. No, because he is a dollbaby - he loves dogs.

N: You're mixing Tom Hardy with Bane.

TC: NO.

N: [realizing] BECAUSE THAT IS A DOG THING, THAT CREATURE IS DOG

[digression googles to look at pics/vids of Tom Hardy with pups]

N: Oh, no, wait - can we make it a putter? Like he was on his way to golf?

TC: But he still doesn't mind, because he's good guy Bane? And golf sucks? Oh hell yes.

[putter image sought; we go back to staring at Hardy, sip wine for untold moments]

N: And Preddie's all - Oh Bane, no! I couldn't possibly! Aren't these custom made? But he's gripping the shit out of it, like, pry it from my hands, bitches.

TC: And he takes a sniff when nobody's looking and swoons. *SWOONS*

N: Freaked-out stylist saw, though, and a touch of pee slips out, because it was weird before, but now shit's kicked off.

TC: Oh, she's already wet her pants at least once, absolutely. Do we need to add her?

N: No, she's in the bathroom.

TC: But you know who we should add.

[Image of 1990s Leonardo Di Caprio is immediately sought; we love the R+J still too much for words and select it with zero pause]

N: But why?

TC: You know he's gonna end up bopping  around to other worlds anyhow, and for Bane to be here, there must be other rifts----

N: Low-Sugar Low-Fat Low-Calorie Eye of Saurons?

TC: ----so they're babysitting.

N: THIS MAKES SO MUCH SENSE [gulp of wine]  Hey, you know who should be his foster parents if he’s bopping around to all points?

TC: Is it some side-character who's off-show at the moment? So we can get the show back to, um, Sam and Dean?

N: Chuck and Amara.

TC: You remember they're brother and sister, right?

N: [side-eye] Okay.

TC: They are. It's canon.

N: OKAAAY.  [stares at Leo] Alright, what are we having him do? Satan's crotch goblin?

TC: [possibly disgusted with me] Pencils.

N: YES I KNOW WHAT TO DO they need to keep him busy so they just keep giving him piles of pencils to sharpen, and he's distressed because there's no more and the sharpener’s motor burnt out.

TC: [touch of a spit take]

[we stare at the collection of images; it is a bitch to find a clear shot of a Pred sitting, but we need him in a barber chair; I will ultimately cobble it from three separate images; it was worth every goddamn minute]

TC: Okay, now what about that thing? The thing? Deadpool?

N: No he was something else, that's Reynolds. Deadshot? Wait, hang on.

[we watch the Bob Ross Deadpool thing, maybe twice, I have no idea]

TC: What'd you say?

N: I dunno.

TC: Me neither I just remember thinking you were wrong.

N: [looks it up, or we'll be here all week] DOOMSDAY

TC: Stop, stop, stop - didn't we also say Lord of the Rings cave troll?

N: I can't remember if it was me or somebody else.

TC: Do cave troll.

[we search]

N: Holy shit. He's in the club.

[image chosen; best one is of him pointing; I later add the touch of a framed photo of King Kong that's inexplicably hanging in the barber shop, also next to it a photo of Captain Shitty Render]

N: But Doomsday.

TC: Do it.

[image chosen; this was also a bitch, I had to blur and cobble and blend and hide part of his bottom half because ZACK SNYDER LOVES SHOOTING EVERYTHING LIKE WE'RE IN A DANK CAVE]

N: They're so glad Bane pulls through, because Preddy won't shut the fuck up about him.

TC: It's because his last boyfriend was garbage, keeps hanging out with humans, and Bane's loyal, like he was to that chick from Inception, like----

N: LIKE DOG

[the bottle is empty; we are sleepy]

The Results

I regret not adding an aquarium with a squid.

The Aftermath

Both TC and my Tumblr wife @butiaintgonnaloveem had reactions that can nicely tuck under the umbrella of [in concerned tone] Nash are you okay, like, is life beating you down somehow, this is crazypants which I appreciate from the latter, but as for the former I pointed out that they are my enabler/dealer/peer-pressurer in every bit of this.

There is no end to this post. 

[blaperile]

Homestuck Epilogues - Meat - Page 14 (Epilogue 3 Page 1)