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You are far too nice to me. I’ll be over in about an hour? I’m going for a run first and then I’ll lie down on the end of your bed or something.

Sounds fine, gives me time to straighten up before you come by. I’m not going anywhere and we should (hopefully?) have the room for a few hours before my roommate comes back from doing whatever he does when he’s not here.


keep your friends close, but your enemies closer

like really, very close

intimately close 

so close that you can feel your enemies breath on your neck

and you shiver with hatred and… anticipation? 

turn around and look deep into your enemies eyes, letting your gaze drag down to their lips, your eyes intense with desire. push your enemies up against the wall.

make out with your enemies.

your friends, who are still close, are super uncomfortable and kinda grossed out


requested by  



[Wow, WOW, John was wondering if his roommate was ever gunna actually do anything about this besides sulk and there’s his stinging answer; his head snaps to the side with the force of it and he takes a half step back but that’s it, doesn’t give Daniel the satisfaction of bringing his hand up to cover the reddening mark and doesn’t wince like he wants to, just bares his teeth in something between a smile and a snarl and shoves the guy back with both hands. Fuck you.]

Bite me, you prissy fucker. Oh no, I pissed off the Hulk, and how he’s gunna hit me. Grow the fuck up, Daniel. You can’t know whether I’m going to listen to your or not without fucking trying, and you can’t make that decision for me and when you’re going to turn it around on me that’s just fucking trashy. People are pissy, I’m a fucking pissed off person and I know that but you don’t seem to have any fucking moods besides “oh no how do I function anywhere near someone” and this stuck up “how DARE you enter my space” bullshit and I’ve gotta walk on eggshells so I don’t light your fuse. That’s bullshit. Don’t you fucking try to put that on me; I have made myself available to you, I have tried to show that I’m doing my best to look out for you but that’s something I’ve got to balance along with all of my school shit and the band and my family and my personal life and you certainly don’t make it fucking easy and you don’t make it fucking worth the effort.

[So much for all the talking, because John’s cutting back a little deeper than he expected, and Daniel is left nearly speechless. He’s fought people before, sure, with words and with his hands, but never someone he actually felt something for— he supposes he’s never really felt something for anyone until John, anyway, and that makes it worse. It disgusts and confuses him and god, John’s opinions shouldn’t matter, John’s bullshit words and pretentious attitude shouldn’t have the gears grinding to a halt in his mind but. But. Maybe John’s shitty opinions are right on the mark after all and he’s not worth anyone’s time or effort.

More than any of that, though, Daniel really doesn’t like being pushed— not that he didn’t deserve it, but still— so he pushes harder in return, palms shoving roughly at John’s shoulders in hopes of knocking him back onto his bed. It’s hard not to grab him by the hair and— and— something. But he resists whatever that is.]

Look, I get it, you don’t like me. That’s fine. I never asked you to care about me, I don’t expect special treatment. Don’t act like my moods and my problems are a personal affront on your life because I do everything I can to keep it contained to myself and I can only be so sorry for it.

[Daniel’s somewhere between hitting him again, kissing him, and running away, he’s not sure. The only thing he knows is he’s about to fucking cry, so he starts stepping back, wondering if John would even bother following him if he left.]

So go back to focusing on yourself and your life because you’re right. You said it yourself. I’m not worth the effort.

TRACK NAME: The Past is a Grotesque Animal
ALBUM TITLE: Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?
ARTIST: of Montreal


The Past is a Grotesque Animal - of Montreal

It’s like we weren’t made for this world
Though I wouldn’t really want to meet someone who was.


talk shit get cried in front of



Holy fucking shit dude, you don’t get extra brownie points because you think your fucking problems are worse than mine and you don’t get to act like a bratty recluse every single day and then turn around and get affronted because you ‘care’ or whatever. I don’t give a shit about your issues and it’s gunna stay that way because you don’t fucking talk about them—you don’t fucking talk PERIOD, you just sit up in your little corner and act like you’re too good for everyone else. Excuse me for actually having the capacity for emotions and excuse me for knowing how to socialize with anyone other than that fucking girl— and you’d know that my issues were bigger than a breakup if you actually got down off your stupid high horse and made some vague effort at communication.

Find a fucking private school or something where you can be surrounded by moody prats just like yourself, yeah?

Capacity for emotions? Are you kidding me? Jesus fucking christ. And you know what, I don’t expect you to care about my problems— which I never said were more important than yours—, I don’t want you to, that’s why I don’t tell you about them. I don’t talk to you at all because you have made it so abundantly clear that you don’t have time for the likes of me. I don’t talk because I know you’re not going to listen anyway. There’s no point. 

[He’d been sitting in bed tuning his violin before all this, and god, he should’ve kept his goddamn mouth shut, but here they were. The adrenaline had his fingers shaking, twitching and twisting the tuning pegs, and by the time he was getting up to cross the room he’d already snapped a string.]

So don’t get shitty with me for keeping to myself when you consistently go out of your way to remind me what a fucking social pariah I am. But hey, good job pissing me off enough to say more than two words. There’s your ‘vague effort at communication’. Look, I’ve tried. I try talking to you and you push me away. 

[At this point he’s closed the distance between them, and while the urge to break his violin against the guy’s skull is strong, he resists in favor of just raising a single hand and slapping him once, hard, right across the face. There you go, John, you pretentious pile of horseshit.]

I’m not the one that needs to come down. It’s you.