‘plz stup flaming da story if u do ur a foken prep n ur jelous ok’

That is a direct quotation from the story that we were reading, dramatically, intensely, hilariously, to one another last night.

So is this:

All day we sat angerly finking about Dumbelldore. We were so fucking pissed off. Well, I had one thing to look forward too- da MCR concert. It had been postphoned, so we could all go.

Anyway, I went to the common room sadly to cut classes. Draco was being all secretive.

I asked what it was and he got all mad me and started crying all hot and angsty (rnt sensitve bi guyz so hot).

“No one fucking understands me!1” he shouted angrily as his black hare went in his big blue eyes like Billie Joe in Boulevard of Borken Dreamz. He was wearing black baggy paints, a black MCR t-shirt and a black die. (geddit insted of tie koz im goffik) I was wearing a blak leather low cut top with chains all over it all over it a blak leather mini, black high held boots and a cross belly fing. My hair was al up in a messy relly high bun like Amy Lee in Gong Under. (email me if u wana see da pik)

“Accuse me? What about me!” I growled.

“Buy-but-but-” he grunted.

“You fucking bastard!” I moaned.

“No! Wait! It’s not what it fucking looks like!” he shouted.

But it was to late. I knew what I herd. I ran to the bathroom angrily, cring. Draco banged on the door. I whipped and whepped as my blody eyeliner streammed down my cheeks and made cool tears down my feces like Benji in the video for Girls and Bois (raven that is soo our video!). I TOOOK OUT A CIGARETE END STARTED TO smoke pot.

It’s called ‘My Immortal’, it’s commonly described as ‘the worst fanfic on the Internet’, and I hope that delightful excerpt is enough to explain why four adults, following the lead of the Prince of Poses, who is the one with the respectable job, and the Goddess of Mischief, who is the one embarking on her second degree, to dress up like this…

…if u dnt lyk it ur a fukin prep n u jst dnt no my existential pain of imitating that register of language any more, oh God what a relief it is to use normal words again, it was giving me headache trying to think about whether the writer of ‘My Immortal’ would even understand the concept of understanding, let alone how she’d try to spell it.

In conclusion: an evening of hilarity was had by all, and then Voldemort turned into a mime.

Flights of Fantasy

Last night I, Goddess of Mischief, suffered a terrible nightmare: the nightmare that the call centre in which I temped (not ‘tempted’, as my fingers automatically typed… how Freudian) had dragged me back to work in it once more, despite my sureness that I would never have to work there again. After sympathy spooning from the Prince of Poses, I bravely faced the nightmare down with mad shenanigans with our resident Queen of Subplot and Mistress of Revels. Here’s the evidence.

Soon, our beautiful JoseyO will return to us, and there will be tea. For now, I’m going to prepare lunch, and then prepare to go to Co-op in high-heeled shoes, just because I can.

Freezer Roulette

On the eve of Sunday last I, the Prince of Poses, and the Goddess of Mischief were joined by the lovelies Jose and Becca for gossip and good times – both of which were had. It is, however, our dining of which I blog, for on the hour of eight and one half rather peckish did I become.

Alack, little food stuffs were know to me, or the Goddess of Mischief, which could sustain we four. It was then that I did hatch a plan of most ingeniousness. A plan which I have planned a moon before but had yet to implement. The plan dear readers was this:

In our densely  compacted freezer draws was buried kilos upon kilos of penultimately consumed frozen meal components heartlessly left by erstwhile occupants. These lonely morsels, often the sole item left in their original packaging, were, frankly, hogging all the damn room in the freezer! I mean, seriously, there was no room for anything else in there!

*Ahem*

So it was dear reader(s?) that I resolved to dispatch deux oiseaux avec un rocher (that’s “two birds with one stone” in French!).  We would bake most of the left over protein, with much of the leftover carbohydrate, and boil some of the leftover veg! Whatever we did find first. To the baking tray was added:

– 2 small chicken burgers.

– 1 breaded cod.

– 1 quorn fillet.

– 1 bacon cheese thing which actually turned out to be really nice!

– Several meatballs.

– The last of a bag of crinkle cut chips.

– The last of a bag of farmhouse chips.

– The last of a bag of straight cut chips.

– 2 waffles.

And to a saucep’n was added:

– The last of a bag of peas.

– The last of a bag of sweetcorn.

– The last of another bag of peas.

– Some of a bag of mixéd veg.

There had been plans to have the several tubs of not quite finished ice cream, but they were forgotten and their fate saved for another tag (that’s German for “day”).

In this random fashion, a feast was prepared and there was much agreement that, whilst not the best meal ever had, it was certainly one of the most fun to prepare.

Kitchen Bitchin’

This eve I, the Prince of Poses, joined forces with the Goddess of Mischief and the Master of the Vine, and we three spent hours sharing tales while we prepared sumptuous feasts – tales of woe and horror, of the shortcomings of our housemately forebears. Such terrible tales you have never heard – such fierce battles with a tea-towel you have never seen, when the Master of the Vine threatened to enact one of Mischief’s pet hates, just to spite her.

We summarise the tales for you thus:

1. People who, in first year, went home over Easter and left their washing up for their long-suffering housemates to do must be punished. (The Goddess of Mischief would like to suggest spending the amount of time their washing was left undone in one of the more unpleasant circles of hell – perhaps in the freezing rain of the punishment for gluttony?)

2. Similarly, discovering half-rotten two-week-old pasta in a housemate’s saucepan should earn them a one-way ticket to pain.

3. Scraping plates and piling them up at the dinner table is truly disgusting and uncultured and anybody who does it should burst into flames from shame and the sheer power of the hatred being directed at them by the Flanagan family.

4. People who think it’s alright to clean only the tops of plates, the insides of saucepans and the business ends of cutlery are simply philistines who make other peoples’ lives miserable. And those who do it without even attempting to wash plates in hot soapy water but are happy to use leftover cold greasy water are simply too unspeakable to mention in polite society.

5. Oh, and people who don’t scrape their plates before washing up? Or who leave food in the washing-up bowl? Or who don’t even buy their own cleaning products all calendar year? Don’t even get us started. It was almost enough to put us off our dinners.

We refer to this evening’s entertainment as “Kitchen Bitchin'”. This story was brought to you by the letter S, the question mark and the number 5.

Sublime/Ridiculous

Fantastical and furious deep talk and thoughts have been bubbling under the surface of the metaphorical Illyrian stew today. The layers of meaning and meta have been, truly, something to behold.

Ms Josey O’Neal, Directrice Extraordinaire, has been Shakespearing all over the pages in front of her.

I have spent a while dissecting the fiction layers of the film I’m writing. I was considering how to direct actors playing a director and an actor when the director is directing the actor in the play within the film (which means that a character played by another character played by an actor would be directed by an actor playing a director who is being directed by me while using my ideas to direct the actor in the character he’s playing in the play).

And now, the arrival of the magnificent Miss Becca Smithers is adding some spice to the mix and I should tear myself away from the concentric circles of metareality inside my head and return to the outer world of fun.