Coquelicot

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About Coquelicot

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  1. Outside Lands!

    Regina! Radiohead! Beck! Wilco! Devendra! WOW. I'll be there (:
  2. Outside Lands!

    Regina! Radiohead! Beck! Wilco! Devendra! WOW. I'll be there (:
  3. SpoOoky.

    Hi, I need some help with editing/feedback. I'm in a film adaptation class in whiiich I have to adapt any kind of work into a screenplay (it won't be produced, just turned in and graded.) I decided to adapt the short story "Nightmare Box" from the book Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk. and...here it is. Well, the first ten pages. I've worked hard on these, and all I need to do now is the ending. But I'm calling it a night, for now. I'd really like to know how it is so far. comments, critiques...suggestions? whatever you can offer. kthx (: (and in case you don't know: CU= close up. V.O.=the character's voice is heard, but it is not them physically talking. INT.=inside EXT.=outside ) FADE IN: INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH-AFTERNOON The pews are still with a dusty silence. Yellow light shines through high stained glass windows, the glow sparkling with specks in the musty air. CUT TO: The confessionals, equally empty…save one. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-CONTINUOUS LYDIA CLARK sits in absolute silence. The dim light blurs her image…her slight presence feels forlorn, but tense. She glances at her wristwatch, exhales. CUT TO: INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH-CONTINUOUS Lydia peeks out of her booth. Her face is revealed—middle aged, and perhaps once beautiful. The collagen she once relied on is sagging. She glances around warily before retreating back into the confessional. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-CONTINUOUS CU on Lydia’s pursed lips…she gulps loudly. LYDIA CLARK The night before she disappeared, she cut off her eyelashes. CUT TO: INT. CLARK APARTMENT-EARLY MORNING The simply decorated home is completely silent. CUT TO: INT. BATHROOM-CONTINUOUS CASSANDRA CLARK (16) is naked, sitting on her knees on the bathroom counter, halfway in the sink so as to be as close to the mirror as is possible. Her hair is frizzed and matted, her eyes disturbed and dark with smeared black. She raises FINGERNAIL SCISSORS slowly, shakily to her face, cuts off her mascara-clumped eyelashes with one snip. She braces the edge of the counter with her free hand. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-CONTINUOUS CU on Lydia’s quivering lips. LYDIA CLARK It was just Cassandra, my Cassandra. But it wasn’t really her. I knew her from the very moment the little egg in my ovaries went ‘a-ha!’ CUT TO: INT. BEDROOM-NIGHT A quick glimpse of the darkened bedroom, and the outline of Lydia and a MR. CLARK in bed. Lydia gives a low MOAN. CU on the video camera on a tripod, recording them. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) One bad porn and sixteen years of raising a child later, I’d be led to look the devil in the face. CUT TO: INT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT A black lacquered box on a tripod sits alone in the center of a large room, a foreboding spotlight on it. On each side of the box are brass handles, and a brass peephole in the front. Suddenly, the camera backs away from the box at a dizzying speed, a WHOOSH of stale air as we exit the room and several other darkened rooms to turn out into EXT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT Outside, the feeling of lifelessness is gone—it is the art gallery’s opening, and it is bustling with glamorous people exiting taxis, limos, etc. Swiveling around, the gallery is ALIGHT and full of people. A CAB pulls to the curb. Lydia comes out of one side and Cassandra from the other. Both are very smart and elegant, Cassandra in a dress particularly sensual for her age, and Lydia in one particularly youthful for hers. Cassandra yanks up the bust line of her dress, and Lydia circles the car to her, placing a reassuring hand on her arm before the two enter along with the other people. CUT TO: INT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) I wish I could have captured her in that moment. Mother and daughter browse the paintings, chatting idly. Both hold a fragile glass of white wine in hand, Cassandra not drinking hers, but holding it for the image. They mingle with a group of socialites. LYDIA CLARK …but they’re not so significant, you see? A PLUMP WOMAN decked out in a sequined frock adorned with feathers nods. PLUMP WOMAN Oh, the Europeans know best, that’s what I’ve always said, haven’t I, Harold? HAROLD, her comically frail husband, nods feebly. HAROLD You’ve always said so. PLUMP WOMAN Now if they’d just learn how to learn a razor. And deodorant. And maybe learn the magic touch to making a le’big mac! They all cackle politely. LYDIA CLARK Yes, yes! “Behoove me the louvre,” indeed! All the while, Cassandra is smiling with her arms to her sides, awkwardly. Her attention is caught by a crowd gathering in the next room of the gallery. There is a loud buzz, mostly comprised of murmurs of disbelief. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-AFTERNOON Lydia wrings her manicured hands. LYDIA CLARK The owner…I think his name was Rand. Yes, his name was Rand. CUT TO: INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH-CONTINUOUS The camera peers out from between the pews, close to the ground. Bare feet pad silently past, down the aisle. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) It was his pride and joy. The very center of his show. In the very back room, all by itself, as if the other art couldn’t bear to be in the same room with it. Beaten-looking hands press silently on the wooden door of the confessional neighboring Lydia’s. The door whispers as the hands open them. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-CONTINUOUS Lydia appears to have not heard the entrance of her new audience. LYDIA CLARK He had a thin mustache, plucked and trimmed perfect as two eyebrows. CUT TO: INT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT CU on RAND. He looks just as Lydia says. He stands at the eye of the gathering of people, next to a box on a tripod. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) …and a little devil’s beard, that made his chin look pointed. CUT TO: Cassandra touching her mother’s arm in silent notice, and moving towards the crowd. Lydia nods to the plump woman and her husband, trailing after her daughter curiously. Cassandra sets the wine glass on a ledge that she passes before pushing through the people surrounding the point of interest. CUT TO: Rand from a diagonal so that he looms above, him and all of his blue velvet banker’s suit. Something catches his attention, and he smiles a wicked smile, stepping forward. CUT TO: Cassandra emerging from the crowd at the very front, nervous. The tightness of her arms at her sides press her breasts out of her dress. Rand smiles down the front of her dress, the fake diamond of his single earring glittering as the spotlight hits it. Cassandra SHUDDERS involuntarily. Lydia comes up from behind and stands beside her daughter. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) The devil spoke. He spoke of his tool of evil. CUT TO: Rand running his hand affectionately across the top of the box, facing his eager audience. His mouth moves in a muted but visibly grand introduction. Everybody listens with interest, with shock. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) He spoke of it with cold affection, and he called it the Nightmare Box. A relentless TICKING takes over, starting out faint and growing louder and louder until it is overwhelming. Rand traces the complicated moldings, ridges and grooves of the box with his sharp finger. The TICKING continues. It is now more of a pounding. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) And I should have known then to pull Cassandra away right then. Maybe go look at some splatter paintings, or the tin sculptures… The TICKING quiets to a more present volume, still very audible. A BOHO with a sleek ponytail and Lennon glasses breaks the silence. Chewing gum shows when he talks. BOHO Like a little coffin. RAND A coffin? Perhaps in nature. It won’t treat you with any more kindness. A few people in the audience tilt their heads, murmur to other members of their party. RAND (contd.) But no, it’s not a coffin. You hear that ticking? The crowd is silent, and the ticking echoes dramatically off of the cold stone of the room as Rand pauses. CUT TO: Person after person looking through the peephole of the nightmare box. Rand stands next to the box, and a single file line extends then curves out of the room. The TICKING loudens. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) Call it the Random Interval Timer. Each person that looks in looks frightened, putting one hand on each of the brass handles while they peer in. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) It could run for a month, always ticking. Or it could run for another hour. But the moment it stopped, that would be the moment to look inside. The ticking is steady. Each person that looks into the box draws back and shakes their head. They’ve seen nothing. Each shows a mixture of relief and disappointment. CLARISSA is next in line to look inside. Her mother stands behind her. The WOMAN having a turn now is a plus sized Barbie. She lingers at the hole, and people hold their breath. The TICKING continues. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) …steady and forever. Like a heartbeat. The woman pulls away, pouts. The TICKING SLOWS. CLARISSA smiles nervously, clenching her hands into fists. Rand smiles at her, beckoning her forward. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) But don’t ask me what you’ll see. Years and years it hasn’t stopped—when I found it, it was in an antique shop. He told the customer it was broken, it just ticked for nine years, until it was coated with dust. Clarissa starts towards the box. Her mother grabs at her wrists, only very slightly. LYDIA CLARK Maybe you shouldn’t. Clarissa simply smiles at her reassuringly, and pulls away. The TICKING continues to slow. RAND (V.O.) Until the antique dealer’s grandson found it. It was silent. Waiting. Rand holds his arm out invitingly as Clarissa comes to the box. She returns his smile, cautiously. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) He took the handles. He looked inside. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-DAY Lydia bites her lip. She SNIFFLES, and tears come. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) The antiques dealer found him, dust still smeared around his left eye. Blinking. His eyes focused on nothing. He just sat in a pile of dust and cigarette butts he’d swept up on the floor. The grandson, he never went back to college. Lydia SOBS. The silhouette of her listener bows its head, but doesn’t make a sound. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) His car sat at the curb until the city towed it away. Every day after that, he sat in the street outside the shop. Twenty years old, and he sits on the curb all day, rain or shine. You ask him anything and he just laughs. That kid, by now he should be a lawyer, practicing law, but now you can go visit him in some fleabag hotel. Public housing, on Social Security for complete mental depression. Not drugs, even. CUT TO: INT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT The TICKING has STOPPED. A rustle runs through the crowd. BOHO It’s stopped. Cassandra looks inquisitively at Rand. RAND Be my guest. She hands him her clutch. She puts one hand on each handle, more confident. CASSANDRA Like this? Rand nods and smiles, cupping her slender neck. He bends with her as he pushes her gently to an angle at which she is eye lever with the box. She looks inside, with her left eye. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) Just a case of a total crackup. Lydia watches, helpless. CU on Cassandra’s eye. Her eyelashes begin to tremble, and her eyes are moist. Her eyebrow rises to her hairline. The crowd around her is totally and completely silent. Rand continues to cup her neck, bent beside her. He watches expectantly. The TICKING starts again, and Cassandra’s shoulders sag. She does not move her face for a moment. When she does, she is blinking quickly, shaking her head jerkily. Everyone stares at her, and she finally looks back…solemnly, silently. Her hair falls in front of her face, and her dress sags. Her elegance is gone. RAND Well? Cassandra doesn’t look at him, but stares downward. RAND What did you see? She stumbles away, awkward in her high heels. She slips them off and leaves them there, walking barefoot towards her mother. LYDIA CLARK What happened? CASSANDRA CLARK ..can we go home? The box is TICKING steadily again. It is the only sound in the room.
  4. SpoOoky.

    Hi, I need some help with editing/feedback. I'm in a film adaptation class in whiiich I have to adapt any kind of work into a screenplay (it won't be produced, just turned in and graded.) I decided to adapt the short story "Nightmare Box" from the book Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk. and...here it is. Well, the first ten pages. I've worked hard on these, and all I need to do now is the ending. But I'm calling it a night, for now. I'd really like to know how it is so far. comments, critiques...suggestions? whatever you can offer. kthx (: (and in case you don't know: CU= close up. V.O.=the character's voice is heard, but it is not them physically talking. INT.=inside EXT.=outside ) FADE IN: INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH-AFTERNOON The pews are still with a dusty silence. Yellow light shines through high stained glass windows, the glow sparkling with specks in the musty air. CUT TO: The confessionals, equally empty…save one. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-CONTINUOUS LYDIA CLARK sits in absolute silence. The dim light blurs her image…her slight presence feels forlorn, but tense. She glances at her wristwatch, exhales. CUT TO: INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH-CONTINUOUS Lydia peeks out of her booth. Her face is revealed—middle aged, and perhaps once beautiful. The collagen she once relied on is sagging. She glances around warily before retreating back into the confessional. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-CONTINUOUS CU on Lydia’s pursed lips…she gulps loudly. LYDIA CLARK The night before she disappeared, she cut off her eyelashes. CUT TO: INT. CLARK APARTMENT-EARLY MORNING The simply decorated home is completely silent. CUT TO: INT. BATHROOM-CONTINUOUS CASSANDRA CLARK (16) is naked, sitting on her knees on the bathroom counter, halfway in the sink so as to be as close to the mirror as is possible. Her hair is frizzed and matted, her eyes disturbed and dark with smeared black. She raises FINGERNAIL SCISSORS slowly, shakily to her face, cuts off her mascara-clumped eyelashes with one snip. She braces the edge of the counter with her free hand. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-CONTINUOUS CU on Lydia’s quivering lips. LYDIA CLARK It was just Cassandra, my Cassandra. But it wasn’t really her. I knew her from the very moment the little egg in my ovaries went ‘a-ha!’ CUT TO: INT. BEDROOM-NIGHT A quick glimpse of the darkened bedroom, and the outline of Lydia and a MR. CLARK in bed. Lydia gives a low MOAN. CU on the video camera on a tripod, recording them. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) One bad porn and sixteen years of raising a child later, I’d be led to look the devil in the face. CUT TO: INT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT A black lacquered box on a tripod sits alone in the center of a large room, a foreboding spotlight on it. On each side of the box are brass handles, and a brass peephole in the front. Suddenly, the camera backs away from the box at a dizzying speed, a WHOOSH of stale air as we exit the room and several other darkened rooms to turn out into EXT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT Outside, the feeling of lifelessness is gone—it is the art gallery’s opening, and it is bustling with glamorous people exiting taxis, limos, etc. Swiveling around, the gallery is ALIGHT and full of people. A CAB pulls to the curb. Lydia comes out of one side and Cassandra from the other. Both are very smart and elegant, Cassandra in a dress particularly sensual for her age, and Lydia in one particularly youthful for hers. Cassandra yanks up the bust line of her dress, and Lydia circles the car to her, placing a reassuring hand on her arm before the two enter along with the other people. CUT TO: INT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) I wish I could have captured her in that moment. Mother and daughter browse the paintings, chatting idly. Both hold a fragile glass of white wine in hand, Cassandra not drinking hers, but holding it for the image. They mingle with a group of socialites. LYDIA CLARK …but they’re not so significant, you see? A PLUMP WOMAN decked out in a sequined frock adorned with feathers nods. PLUMP WOMAN Oh, the Europeans know best, that’s what I’ve always said, haven’t I, Harold? HAROLD, her comically frail husband, nods feebly. HAROLD You’ve always said so. PLUMP WOMAN Now if they’d just learn how to learn a razor. And deodorant. And maybe learn the magic touch to making a le’big mac! They all cackle politely. LYDIA CLARK Yes, yes! “Behoove me the louvre,” indeed! All the while, Cassandra is smiling with her arms to her sides, awkwardly. Her attention is caught by a crowd gathering in the next room of the gallery. There is a loud buzz, mostly comprised of murmurs of disbelief. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-AFTERNOON Lydia wrings her manicured hands. LYDIA CLARK The owner…I think his name was Rand. Yes, his name was Rand. CUT TO: INT. CATHOLIC CHURCH-CONTINUOUS The camera peers out from between the pews, close to the ground. Bare feet pad silently past, down the aisle. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) It was his pride and joy. The very center of his show. In the very back room, all by itself, as if the other art couldn’t bear to be in the same room with it. Beaten-looking hands press silently on the wooden door of the confessional neighboring Lydia’s. The door whispers as the hands open them. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-CONTINUOUS Lydia appears to have not heard the entrance of her new audience. LYDIA CLARK He had a thin mustache, plucked and trimmed perfect as two eyebrows. CUT TO: INT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT CU on RAND. He looks just as Lydia says. He stands at the eye of the gathering of people, next to a box on a tripod. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) …and a little devil’s beard, that made his chin look pointed. CUT TO: Cassandra touching her mother’s arm in silent notice, and moving towards the crowd. Lydia nods to the plump woman and her husband, trailing after her daughter curiously. Cassandra sets the wine glass on a ledge that she passes before pushing through the people surrounding the point of interest. CUT TO: Rand from a diagonal so that he looms above, him and all of his blue velvet banker’s suit. Something catches his attention, and he smiles a wicked smile, stepping forward. CUT TO: Cassandra emerging from the crowd at the very front, nervous. The tightness of her arms at her sides press her breasts out of her dress. Rand smiles down the front of her dress, the fake diamond of his single earring glittering as the spotlight hits it. Cassandra SHUDDERS involuntarily. Lydia comes up from behind and stands beside her daughter. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) The devil spoke. He spoke of his tool of evil. CUT TO: Rand running his hand affectionately across the top of the box, facing his eager audience. His mouth moves in a muted but visibly grand introduction. Everybody listens with interest, with shock. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) He spoke of it with cold affection, and he called it the Nightmare Box. A relentless TICKING takes over, starting out faint and growing louder and louder until it is overwhelming. Rand traces the complicated moldings, ridges and grooves of the box with his sharp finger. The TICKING continues. It is now more of a pounding. LYDIA CLARK (V.O.) And I should have known then to pull Cassandra away right then. Maybe go look at some splatter paintings, or the tin sculptures… The TICKING quiets to a more present volume, still very audible. A BOHO with a sleek ponytail and Lennon glasses breaks the silence. Chewing gum shows when he talks. BOHO Like a little coffin. RAND A coffin? Perhaps in nature. It won’t treat you with any more kindness. A few people in the audience tilt their heads, murmur to other members of their party. RAND (contd.) But no, it’s not a coffin. You hear that ticking? The crowd is silent, and the ticking echoes dramatically off of the cold stone of the room as Rand pauses. CUT TO: Person after person looking through the peephole of the nightmare box. Rand stands next to the box, and a single file line extends then curves out of the room. The TICKING loudens. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) Call it the Random Interval Timer. Each person that looks in looks frightened, putting one hand on each of the brass handles while they peer in. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) It could run for a month, always ticking. Or it could run for another hour. But the moment it stopped, that would be the moment to look inside. The ticking is steady. Each person that looks into the box draws back and shakes their head. They’ve seen nothing. Each shows a mixture of relief and disappointment. CLARISSA is next in line to look inside. Her mother stands behind her. The WOMAN having a turn now is a plus sized Barbie. She lingers at the hole, and people hold their breath. The TICKING continues. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) …steady and forever. Like a heartbeat. The woman pulls away, pouts. The TICKING SLOWS. CLARISSA smiles nervously, clenching her hands into fists. Rand smiles at her, beckoning her forward. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) But don’t ask me what you’ll see. Years and years it hasn’t stopped—when I found it, it was in an antique shop. He told the customer it was broken, it just ticked for nine years, until it was coated with dust. Clarissa starts towards the box. Her mother grabs at her wrists, only very slightly. LYDIA CLARK Maybe you shouldn’t. Clarissa simply smiles at her reassuringly, and pulls away. The TICKING continues to slow. RAND (V.O.) Until the antique dealer’s grandson found it. It was silent. Waiting. Rand holds his arm out invitingly as Clarissa comes to the box. She returns his smile, cautiously. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) He took the handles. He looked inside. CUT TO: INT. MIDDLE CONFESSIONAL-DAY Lydia bites her lip. She SNIFFLES, and tears come. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) The antiques dealer found him, dust still smeared around his left eye. Blinking. His eyes focused on nothing. He just sat in a pile of dust and cigarette butts he’d swept up on the floor. The grandson, he never went back to college. Lydia SOBS. The silhouette of her listener bows its head, but doesn’t make a sound. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) His car sat at the curb until the city towed it away. Every day after that, he sat in the street outside the shop. Twenty years old, and he sits on the curb all day, rain or shine. You ask him anything and he just laughs. That kid, by now he should be a lawyer, practicing law, but now you can go visit him in some fleabag hotel. Public housing, on Social Security for complete mental depression. Not drugs, even. CUT TO: INT. ART GALLERY-NIGHT The TICKING has STOPPED. A rustle runs through the crowd. BOHO It’s stopped. Cassandra looks inquisitively at Rand. RAND Be my guest. She hands him her clutch. She puts one hand on each handle, more confident. CASSANDRA Like this? Rand nods and smiles, cupping her slender neck. He bends with her as he pushes her gently to an angle at which she is eye lever with the box. She looks inside, with her left eye. RAND (V.O.) (contd.) Just a case of a total crackup. Lydia watches, helpless. CU on Cassandra’s eye. Her eyelashes begin to tremble, and her eyes are moist. Her eyebrow rises to her hairline. The crowd around her is totally and completely silent. Rand continues to cup her neck, bent beside her. He watches expectantly. The TICKING starts again, and Cassandra’s shoulders sag. She does not move her face for a moment. When she does, she is blinking quickly, shaking her head jerkily. Everyone stares at her, and she finally looks back…solemnly, silently. Her hair falls in front of her face, and her dress sags. Her elegance is gone. RAND Well? Cassandra doesn’t look at him, but stares downward. RAND What did you see? She stumbles away, awkward in her high heels. She slips them off and leaves them there, walking barefoot towards her mother. LYDIA CLARK What happened? CASSANDRA CLARK ..can we go home? The box is TICKING steadily again. It is the only sound in the room.
  5. What are you listening to right now?

    Flight of the Conchords (:
  6. Not particularly...anything...

    Daring, leapt forth, laughing in the glaring blank facial curl weaving in and out at the beat of a Dylan tuneto which breath was held; Delicious and thumping, a footstep broken into the quick tap-tap dancing with two dives and a turn towards nowhere in particular. Wearing amber-stone glasses fished from sediment in a hollow stirred into deepened nostrils, small from the distance but with space a little futher in for a trophy grater than the size of achievements. Falling heavily from curves in a solemn drip to be licked up; we pursue the absence of sugar.
  7. Not particularly...anything...

    Daring, leapt forth, laughing in the glaring blank facial curl weaving in and out at the beat of a Dylan tuneto which breath was held; Delicious and thumping, a footstep broken into the quick tap-tap dancing with two dives and a turn towards nowhere in particular. Wearing amber-stone glasses fished from sediment in a hollow stirred into deepened nostrils, small from the distance but with space a little futher in for a trophy grater than the size of achievements. Falling heavily from curves in a solemn drip to be licked up; we pursue the absence of sugar.
  8. Advice, or not.

    Thanks guys. nothing else has happened, so I can't say much more, but I'm glad with how things are.
  9. Advice, or not.

    Last friday he gave me the other half of the story which I obviously was a character in...in which I give the main character a (graphic) blow job and act like a manipulative slut. He gave it to me himself to read it. And the rest of the night (we went to a show and had dinner with some friends that night) he made things awkward for everybody, making sexual jokes all the time like he always does. So, later I went home with my friend and we were being petty and I decided, "hey, I need to stand up for myself once and for all." But I realized I couldn't stand to talk to him on myspace and AIM when I was planning to put my foot down only in a few days, so I deleted him on myspace. It was a dumb thing to do, but once it was done, it was done. He basically flitted about between all of my best friends, having mental breakdowns about how I broke his heart and cut him out of my life (because myspace signifies life; who knew?). He got angry and told my friend (who just then delivered their conversations to me) that he was going to never talk to me again and throw a poem in my face on Monday. So, yesterday (monday) he did give me a three-page long letter along with a poem. I'm not sure whether anybody would want to read it, but it says (quite eloquently) that I'm infecting him and he loves me so much and he wants to make me cry, yet he'd never make me shed a tear, and he would get with me in a minute etc etc. Mostly about how I don't accept him for his sexual, inappropriate self and he's sad and I'm sad and blah blah blah. Then the poem was just as woeful. I told him what I had to say, just that I wanted him to be courteous towards me, and that I couldn't trust him any other way (which turned out to be quite a short rant, adding to the awkwardness), and then just kept saying "water under the bridge. I don't care. Water under the bridge." Yet he kept bringing it up again and again. And the day ended with him telling me, "I'm getting a girlfriend, you'll be happy to hear. She's not like you though." And today I saw him only once, he was off with his new girlfriend or something, and only said one or two words to him. And it was a really good day. :]
  10. What are you listening to right now?

    SEINFELD. I love this show so much I could cry.
  11. Advice, or not.

    quote: Originally posted by PerksOfAWallflower: well. thats a tough situation, but i would take any advice andreseng gives because hes good wiht this stuff. p.s. i love your signature. (its like her synapses are married directly to her fingers..like this, in this way. **makes funny hand motion**) <3<3<3 Aaaw gosh that movies my favorite! Glad to find another fan. LET'S BE FRIENDS. expanding on my situation... it just had to get worse, we're both in creative writing together at an art school, and he just wrote a story in which the hero's love interest is....ME. Like, uncannily so. She has short, highlighted hair and wears excess amounts of glitter makeup and has freckles. Gosh this boy is hard to shake.
  12. What are you listening to right now?

    Alone together - the strokes
  13. Songs that never get old

    Someday - The Strokes That Green Gentleman - Panic at the Disco Mariella - Kate Nash In Defense of the Genre - Say Anything Nantes - Beirut ETCETCETC.
  14. Advice, or not.

    Sorrysorry, I'll log on now. one moment.
  15. What are you listening to right now?

    Daniel Cowman I'm having a Regina marathon.