open to any who want to join!
"Would you joost-- git off me damn shoulders-?!" Gem hissed silently, a bit ironic that he was the one hissing when he had a stupid, fat, ugly cat perched comfortably on his shoulders. A nuisance and an abomination, he swore to God.
It wasn't like he wasn't used to making a scene in a quiet area, it was the fact he'd been losing a whole lot of sleep lately - it was difficult to force a smile that didn't look nasty at anyone who looked, like a miserable to try and make the situation at hand humorous. He'd worked on his posture forever, and this tub of lard was making him look like an idiot - he was so sure that he would look like the hunchback of Notre Dame by the time he left the room.
But even as he attempted to swat his cat off his shoulders, Basil remained snuggled up against his mess of hair, purring about as loud as the Colchester earthquake. He gave up after that, there seemed to be no point in getting that stupid 14-pound of lubber off his shoulders, so he hunched over and continued to write, his hand making ugly scribbles of handwriting on his paper, his fingers uncomfortably covered in a mix of paste and ink.
Since his adventure of recording music in Wales, he had taken plenty of pictures on an analog polaroid camera, and was now pasting them into his little journal of happenings. He generally hated the work, but having fun by recording music had given him such a heavy depression in doing anything that wasn't frustrating that he felt it necessary to do stuff he hated - like a masochist. (He had learned that word thanks to his father, who called the band's bassist, Corg, that because of the incident in which he wanted to record multiple bass parts on his own, even if they sounded perfect - because 'they could be even more perfect'.)
So here he was, angrily pasting pictures of his hellish trip.
It was like a fist replaced the kiss, he missed Wales, he hated it here. But he hated it there, and he hated Sheffield - oh, but he longed to be there. No, he didn't, but he'd be anywhere but here. He'd be in Wales, if it meant skipping school... except he'd rather be here than record the same guitar riff, solo, backing plucking, or power chords back in the most depressing area he could think of off the top of his head.
Or, maybe, he just hated pasting things into notebooks for memories he'd remember anyway.
What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.