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rainbowfic2015-08-19 11:38 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2015-08-19 11:38 pm
Admin Yellow 26
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Summer Carnival, Lilith Fair Main Stage: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lissie/loosentheknot.html), Sculpture (?), Glitter (http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/if-i-am-someone-else)
Characters: Maria (POV), Spenser
Colors: Admin Yellow 26 (The higher up you go the harder it is to tell the good guys from the bad guys.)
Word Count: 731
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Maria says goodbye.
Note: Leaves off where one of the other stories picks up!
My Problem is You
My boss told me I should split us up. Said it was going to fuck up our professional judgment.
Well, I have two questions for him:
How the hell did you find out we were involved without either of us telling you?
Why do you think I’d approve any more of the way you’re utilizing him if we didn’t have a relationship?
I mean, it was easy enough to say yes. Before he even said anything, I’d already been planning to talk to you.
No offense, but you’re a little more than what I bargained for.
When we met, I thought you were perfect. Maybe not in the long-term, because I tend to get sick of everyone after a good few months, a year or two at most. But, you were great. You were crazy, and I thought I liked crazy. I’d been with my share of crazy people. And I had a goddamn blast.
But, I guess I just didn’t know crazy.
When I met you, we talked and got acquainted, but you wouldn’t stand in one place. You made me laugh. I told you I thought you had the look of a guy who lived in his car, and you didn’t even get offended. Just chuckled, and said there were times when you did.
It didn’t mean you looked gross or anything. (Though, really, you could be cleaner.) It’s just that, having dated about four of the bastards, not even including you, I’ve noticed that guys who live in their cars really do have a “look.” There’s about five lives-in-car haircuts, and you have one of them. They all dress like you. If they have bad vision, they wear your same glasses. I didn’t even explain this, but you still took it in stride.
I guess you were used to hearing unflattering shit about yourself.
When I met you, I didn’t plan on this. I took you out to dinner because I was worried. I brought you back to my condo because I was bored. It escalated, I guess, because you were as bored as I was.
Well, if anything, you’re a good cure for boredom. I really hope you know that.
And I hope you know that you were, at least for a while, worth putting up with. You were great conversation. And I got the idea you’d let me do anything I wanted to you. It was like there was no such thing as getting too rough, and that felt like freedom. You could take whatever I felt like dishing out.
That’s kind of how I knew you really were crazy after all.
And thank god for Crazy.
But, it’s one thing when Crazy is reclining on my couch, stringy-haired and rambling, full of ideas.
It’s another thing all together when Crazy starts depending on me for its sense of reality. Because Crazy doesn’t sleep, and the whole world blurs together in its eyes. Or when Crazy drives over to my home and crashes in my bed all day, watching bad horror movies and infusing the sheets with Old Car Smell.
In a word, you went from holding my attention to demanding it. And when that happens, I know it’s time to split.
Let’s just say that’s a very old rule of mine.
It’s harsh, but hey, that’s me.
Talking to you was easy. You didn’t even try to plead your case. Just nodded, said goodbye, and retracted back in to that foil-covered cave of yours.
Less easy was feeling like I just screwed you over, bad. Like I had, without realizing it, become someone’s final straw.
Well, I guess that’s your problem.
My problem was you.
The only part that really felt hard, real, true, I-can’t-do-this hard, was when I was the only one around to assist with the surgery. I had to stand there and watch them carve into your arm, and pretend I’d never known you.
Even that, when I got down to it, was easier than I thought. It wasn’t like I had to look you in the eye.
And now my phone is ringing, and I see your number, and I don’t know what you want.
Letting it ring would have been hard.
Answering it was harder.
“…Maria?”
I only kept listening because it sounded like you were in pain.
I had to make sure it had nothing to do with me.
starphotographsStory: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Summer Carnival, Lilith Fair Main Stage: http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lissie/loosentheknot.html), Sculpture (?), Glitter (http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/if-i-am-someone-else)
Characters: Maria (POV), Spenser
Colors: Admin Yellow 26 (The higher up you go the harder it is to tell the good guys from the bad guys.)
Word Count: 731
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Maria says goodbye.
Note: Leaves off where one of the other stories picks up!
My boss told me I should split us up. Said it was going to fuck up our professional judgment.
Well, I have two questions for him:
How the hell did you find out we were involved without either of us telling you?
Why do you think I’d approve any more of the way you’re utilizing him if we didn’t have a relationship?
I mean, it was easy enough to say yes. Before he even said anything, I’d already been planning to talk to you.
No offense, but you’re a little more than what I bargained for.
When we met, I thought you were perfect. Maybe not in the long-term, because I tend to get sick of everyone after a good few months, a year or two at most. But, you were great. You were crazy, and I thought I liked crazy. I’d been with my share of crazy people. And I had a goddamn blast.
But, I guess I just didn’t know crazy.
When I met you, we talked and got acquainted, but you wouldn’t stand in one place. You made me laugh. I told you I thought you had the look of a guy who lived in his car, and you didn’t even get offended. Just chuckled, and said there were times when you did.
It didn’t mean you looked gross or anything. (Though, really, you could be cleaner.) It’s just that, having dated about four of the bastards, not even including you, I’ve noticed that guys who live in their cars really do have a “look.” There’s about five lives-in-car haircuts, and you have one of them. They all dress like you. If they have bad vision, they wear your same glasses. I didn’t even explain this, but you still took it in stride.
I guess you were used to hearing unflattering shit about yourself.
When I met you, I didn’t plan on this. I took you out to dinner because I was worried. I brought you back to my condo because I was bored. It escalated, I guess, because you were as bored as I was.
Well, if anything, you’re a good cure for boredom. I really hope you know that.
And I hope you know that you were, at least for a while, worth putting up with. You were great conversation. And I got the idea you’d let me do anything I wanted to you. It was like there was no such thing as getting too rough, and that felt like freedom. You could take whatever I felt like dishing out.
That’s kind of how I knew you really were crazy after all.
And thank god for Crazy.
But, it’s one thing when Crazy is reclining on my couch, stringy-haired and rambling, full of ideas.
It’s another thing all together when Crazy starts depending on me for its sense of reality. Because Crazy doesn’t sleep, and the whole world blurs together in its eyes. Or when Crazy drives over to my home and crashes in my bed all day, watching bad horror movies and infusing the sheets with Old Car Smell.
In a word, you went from holding my attention to demanding it. And when that happens, I know it’s time to split.
Let’s just say that’s a very old rule of mine.
It’s harsh, but hey, that’s me.
Talking to you was easy. You didn’t even try to plead your case. Just nodded, said goodbye, and retracted back in to that foil-covered cave of yours.
Less easy was feeling like I just screwed you over, bad. Like I had, without realizing it, become someone’s final straw.
Well, I guess that’s your problem.
My problem was you.
The only part that really felt hard, real, true, I-can’t-do-this hard, was when I was the only one around to assist with the surgery. I had to stand there and watch them carve into your arm, and pretend I’d never known you.
Even that, when I got down to it, was easier than I thought. It wasn’t like I had to look you in the eye.
And now my phone is ringing, and I see your number, and I don’t know what you want.
Letting it ring would have been hard.
Answering it was harder.
“…Maria?”
I only kept listening because it sounded like you were in pain.
I had to make sure it had nothing to do with me.