- "You have dibbles, I have dots."
- "The teacher wants me to write in curvis..."
oh tiny children, they are so cute. Especially when they sing lyrics they think are correct but are actually way off.
Boomer has it. Boomer has it. (Rumor Has It)
Moves my jacket, moves my jacket. (Moves Like Jagger)
I'll be up the boys (Call Me Maybe)
Went out with the sisters tonight for my birthday - all of them which we haven't done in a while. I enjoy our girls nights. Had some excellent food - I had surf and turf which I'm finishing now and then he brought us cheesecake for my birthday. I ate the middle stuff, Favorite Sister-In-Law ate the crust, Second Sister ate caramel off the top and Oldest Sister loved it all.
It was awesome, and work was good too. I'm currently sorting through all the lists compiled by the teens at Barnes and Noble for what they want added to the collection. But before I type everything up I have to check to see if each individual title is already in our collection. If so I skip it. Came up with an impressive list so far.
And that's basically all I've got from today.
Oh, I did some homework after dinner.
Tomorrow the boyfriend's coming up.
Okay, now that's all I've got.
Here's my music rec and then more fiction.
Way Back Into Love - Hugh Grant and Haley Bennett - Music & Lyrics
man, i used to listen to this soundtrack all the time. like obsessive crazy about it so it's weird that i haven't seen the movie or heard this song for like a year. it's still as good as i remember, and while i enjoy haley bennett i totally like the drew version better. but as they didn't have the video for that and did for this you get this
So as previously mentioned I hate the ending to the last one so until I can fix it you're stuck in an awkward temporary sort of hanging place. But I'll get there. In the meantime here's one that's actually finished.
College Fiction Writing Story #4
In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni - We go into the circle by night, we are consumed by fire - The Devil’s Verse
“Do we have an understanding, Herr Jameson?” the German asks, staring at me through the darkened office.
I nod, looking at the black leather briefcase open in front of me and assessing the amount. Fifty grand in cash. “We do,” I reply, closing the lid and pulling the briefcase toward me.
The German leans forward and puts his hands on the desk, his greasy black hair reflecting the light from the lamp in the corner. “You’ll receive the other half once the task is finished,” he says and gestures with his head toward the door.
No shaking hands. No paper trail. Phase two is complete. I turn and take my leave, passing the taller man standing guard by the door. Clearly the more muscular of the two men, he stands with his arms folded in front of him, his long brown jacket covering but not quite concealing the .48 caliber tucked into his belt.
I quickly descend the stairs to the back entrance and push the door open to the back alley. Aware that I’m probably being followed, my training kicks in. Don’t arise suspicion. Under the cover of darkness I walk in a normal pace with my head straight forward, transferring the briefcase to my left hand and retrieving the .38 Special tucked in the back of my belt to hold in my right hand. Looking up at the building next door I see cameras mounted on the corners. Stupid Americans and their security cameras. Do they really think a camera can stop someone like me? It’s not like anyone will be able to track me, my records have been wiped clean from every database thanks to connections with the higher authority.
With the briefcase in my left hand and a gun in my right, hidden by the long sleeves of my navy blue jacket, I walk two blocks north, counting each step in my head out of habit. Twelve-thirty-five, twelve-thirty-six, twelve-thirty-seven. The gun is a precaution against the gang members hidden in alleyways. I can’t afford to mess this up. “I have the money,” I say into the bug in my watch, slipping my gun in my pocket and raising my arm to hail a cab. It takes me five blocks west - the opposite direction of my actual destination. I’m used to being followed. I pay the driver in cash and get out, never releasing my grip on the briefcase. I notice a man climbing the stairs to an apartment complex and follow him inside then slip out the back door, pulling out my gun again. I pick up the pace through the dark alleyway filled with dumpsters and drug dealers. “Fifth and Westley,” I say into the watch and continue walking, counting each step and checking behind me every thirty seconds.
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