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Post by bris on Aug 24, 2009 16:27:24 GMT -5
STRETCHING HER ARMS ABOVE HER head to loosen the muscles in her back, Bris concluded that it was way too fucking early to be awake-- let alone thinking words like concluded. A foggy chill hung heavily in the five’ o’ freaking clock in the morning air, raising goose bumps on her not so modestly bare legs as she stumbled groggily into the coffee place. Right. Most fully conscious people called it a café. Since she wasn’t fully conscious-- eighty-eight percent and dropping didn’t count, right?-- she figured she could be an exception to the rule. Why on earth she’d agreed to pull an all-nighter with this girl she tutored on Tuesday nights slipped her mind. She’d had a reason the night before when she called her apartment and left a message about being out until sometime tomorrow morning when the voicemail picked up instead of her mom. There must have been a reason when she curled up in the armchair to look over said girl’s shoulder and double check that she’d actually been doing her work and not texting. Now, staggering through the streets like some insanely drunk partier at o’ dark hundred, the reason fled from her prying mental fingers to hide in the back of her surely empty head.
As a bell chimed above her head, she blinked and squinted at the bright lights of the overly bright and cheery café. Did everything have to be some pastel color that a nursery would be painted? Especially yellow? When it was this early in the morning, Bris definitely didn’t want to see a color that reminded her of the sun and flowers and other happy things; she wanted to go curl up under her blue and brown comforter and sleep until two in the afternoon. For fuck’s sake, it was summer! She could sleep until nine in the evening and not go to bed until now if she so chose.
With a groan and a headshake, the teen took a deep breath and held it until her lungs ached. And then she exhaled, of course. The scent of coffee sent her nerves on overdrive, cleared her head a little. Promised the universal alarm known as caffeine.
“Mocha with a double shot of espresso,” she mumbled to the clerk behind the counter. She eyed him warily while she picked a five out of her wallet and handed it to him. Anyone who was that chipper this early was obviously fucked up in the head or a serial killer. Oh, wait. Serial killers are fucked up in the head. Right. Duh. Curling her fingers around the styrofoam cup when it was offered to her and shoving the change into her pocket with her wallet, she turned and headed to the first abandoned table she saw. No scanning of the room to find someone interesting to people watch. No observing the announcements taped to the windows. Just taking the first untaken seat she saw.
After quietly but greedily downing half of her morning pick-me-up, Bristol pepped up considerably. Entirely awake would be pushing it. But she woke enough to realize that the slight tip tip tipping she heard wasn’t the sound of a nail being pounded into her temple, but rather a drizzle of harmless rain battering the window beside her. Great. The sky was raining on her day again. Brilliant.
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TAGGED!? the slut (you know who you are)
WEARING WHAT NOW!? click-eth
LISTENING TO!? “Starstruckk” 3Oh!3
WORD COUNT!? five six oh
BABBLE AND NOTES!? I hope this is okay. I’m majorly sucking lately.
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Post by ezra on Aug 24, 2009 21:09:50 GMT -5
  WE ARE, WE ARE THE SHAKEN ;
WE ARE THE MONSTERS UNDERNEATH YOUR BED.
HE HATED PARIS HILTON.
There were many things he hated in his life. He hated that there were so many people who bothered him to quit smoking. He hated a good percent of the people he met. He hated the staff at Pandemonium and how they always seemed to think they were better than he was. He hated dogs, and how they kept him all night with their stupid barking and their constant need to have attention. He hated the color yellow, and how much it reminded him of his cousin Ukiah, whose life was astronomically better than his all the time. He hated sunflowers, and how they made him feel short, and he hated getting burns from the sand when he walked too slow on the beach. He hated the fact that everyone thought he was a small-town type of guy because he happened to have lived in a ratty apartment in Hamburg, where some of his family members also happened to live. He hated that he was shorter than that creepy bouncer at work, and that the most retarded people turned him on.
But mostly, he hated Paris Hilton.
He'd spent all night watching her stupid show--the one about her new "bff", or whatever--because one of the new girls at work had told him to. She said that it was stupid otherwise, but the music on it was phenomenal. So, he watched. He watched and tried to ignore all the disgusting things about upper-class girls, and tried to look for one good song somewhere in that whole fiasco of a show. Nothing. He'd wasted a good three and a half hours trying to get in good with the new girl, and for what? He could've gotten with at least five people in that time, and for nothing. Hell, he could've baked her a cake (an accomplishment with his outstandingly bad cooking skills), or spent a day at her house to charm her up--anything but this. It was like watching Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, and Amy Winehouse babysit blind children.
There was no end to the terror.
Now, it was almost sunrise. He had another good hour or so to go out, but what the hell was he supposed to do now? There was virtually no one out at five 'o' clock in the morning. Everyone was sleeping at this point (well, okay, not everyone)--but, he knew, as soon as he would go to sleep, all of the people in his apartment would be rising to greet the day and making all sorts of unnecessary noise. Until then, he was stuck with crazy old men and bums on the street for company. He didn't really feel like mingling with other downworlders at this point--too tired from having to deal with bitchy blondes on his TV. He'd just lay low for the rest of the night, he supposed. Maybe grab some caffeine. Yeah, caffeine. That sounded good.
After locating the closest coffee shop on google, he strolled down the empty sidewalks, hands shoved in the pockets of his jackets and sunglasses on. It wasn't light out yet, but it was a shade light enough that it would take him a few minutes or so to adjust--not that the sunglasses he was wearing did much for UV protection anyway, but it was comforting all the same. Of course, karma was a bitch, and by the time he was halfway there, the rain started pouring down. It was about then that he started wishing that all the stories Mundanes told about vampires were actually true, and he could have some super-special power that would allow him to fuck with the weather (or, at least, conjure up a convenient little umbrella). But, no. He finished the rest of the fifteen minute walk in the rain, muttering to himself under his breath and tugging mindlessly at the bottom of his jacket.
He reached the door to Java Jones, silently wondering who Jones could be, and brushed off the stare he was getting from the old man to the right. He supposed he gave off that kind of vibe--when you were wearing a bright red shirt that said "rehab is for quitters", you tended to get that sort of reaction. That, or grins. Raising a hand, he pushed the glasses up into his spiked hair and gently shook the rain off of himself near the entrance. Upon realizing that the old man was still staring at him, he deadpanned for a few moments, and then started off to the counter. "Hey, man, I appreciate the thought, but I don't swing that way," he drawled, picking up one of the cookies at the counter and examining it, "but, I mean, go you. Shine with all the colors of the rainbow, and all that shit." He muttered something to the waitress, flashed a quick smile, and then waited patiently for his drink.
Finally, when it came, he picked it up gently and carried it over to the table nearest to the window. He sat in the corner, as usual; people asked questions when you were in the middle (where people tended to pay more attention to). Besides, the corner gave off the whole leave-me-alone vibe, and he wasn't really up to charming a whore, so that worked out nicely.
It was only when he sat down that he realized he didn't like coffee.
Ah, well. The dark-haired boy pushed the steaming mug forward a little and turned to look out the window. The rain hit a little lighter, he noticed. Maybe it would clear up by the time he left. His eyes refocused, and he was hit by his reflection. He snickered for a moment at how absolutely pathetic he looked; there was a bandaid on his nose, several on his neck, a few on his arms, and one on the side of his face. He'd gotten a little...beaten up, he supposed. The best part of breaking up fights at the Pandemonium was that it took away the boredom of sitting there. The only bad part was that it happened so often, that he almost certainly had no bandaids whenever he needed them. So, he was stuck with--yes--batman bandaids. He had to say, though, it was sexy. Well. As sexy as you could get with batman bandaids.
"Fuck-ing choir," he muttered under his breath as he saw the group of teenagers across the street. He had forgotten that they got up earlier to go sing for their church. He would probably be stopped again. Damnit. Shit always happened when coffee was involved.
Coffee - one. Ezra - zero.
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Post by bris on Aug 24, 2009 22:07:29 GMT -5
MORNINGS SUCKED WORSE THAN HOMEWORK.
Bris came up with this conclusion as she sat there alone in a café with rain pelting the window and fog hanging over the streets so thickly that she could only just make out the little orange spheres of the street lights not more than twelve feet up. A lot of things sucked worse than homework, her mind reminded her. The fact that a gazillion ovens and coffee makers must have been running behind the counter, yet the seat over by the windows was freezing sucked worse than homework. Having an old guy stare at her for no particular reason other than she was there sucked worse than homework-- and, admittedly, made her feel much more uncomfortable than homework did. A mother who paid more attention to work than her daughter sucked worse than homework. A mother who paid more attention to work and refused to tell her daughter anything about aforementioned daughter’s father, other than that he lived in Bristol, England, sucked worse than…
Well, you get the point.
Yes, for some unfathomable reason, the rain turned her thoughts toward the father she never knew. It never failed to happen. Unless, of course, she was out getting soaked to the bone and busy swearing at the rain and looking for a way out. Then maybe it didn’t happen. But other than that, her mind digging up thoughts and questions and possible scenarios about her father and his life always occurred when the brunette was left to her thoughts while the drops played out in the steady rhythm they were known to have.
Now, alone in a freezing café with a fog dampened hoodie and a styrofoam cup of caffeine as the only known force of heat, she contemplated a matter she rarely thought about. You see, she often thought about things that were perfectly acceptable to wonder about an unknown father. Questions like “What’s his name?”, “What does he look like?”, “Did he know about me?”, “What kind of a job does he have?”, and “Where is he now?” were ones often dredged from the muck known as the back of her mind. Today, that evil little swamp of seriousness and dire unimportance tossed forward a new question for her to ponder: Did he leave her mother because of her? The mere thought made her sick to her stomach. She pushed the cup away from her, something that under any normal circumstances she wouldn’t do. Under normal circumstance, she wouldn’t have let go of that precious liquid even if she was going to be killed for not doing so.
Obviously, these weren’t normal circumstances.
Distraction.. Distraction, distraction, distraction. Her apparently colorless eyes searched the room for something interesting enough to shift her attention from focusing wholly on the nausea bubbling in the pit of her stomach. Nothing stood out. Nothing at all. No interesting quote to wonder about, no fancy design that became something else if she cocked her head the right way, no crappy music to pick apart and over think and be anal about not liking. And then the bell above the door rang. Her gaze swiveled, and a shock of red hair stood out. And not normal carrot-top , orphan Annie red hair; fire engine, stop sign red red hair.
Perfect.
Okay, so people watching it was. She discreetly watched out of the corner of her eye as he pushed the sunglasses back into his spiky hair, ordered his coffee, told off the old man whose attention had shifted from her to him when he walked in the door, and went to sit down in the corner. As he walked by, the corner of her lips lifted into an amused smirk. Of course he’d be wearing Batman band-aids. It’d be boring if he wore the simple brown ones that would stand out against his pale skin. Whoa. Wait a minute. Pale skin? Why did that seem so familiar? She searched her mind for the source of the déjà vu feeling that poked at her cerebellum and told her that this wasn’t right. Only when her eyes landed on the sunglasses for the second time did it click. In fact, it clicked enough that she nearly groaned and hit her head on the table before her.
Why did she have to keep running into vampires? Why not your average serial killer, stalker, kidnapper even? Why, as of late, did it always happen to be the not so mythical ones popping up on her radar? Had she done something wrong that the Big Guns Upstairs felt deserved the punishment of slow brain rot? Running her fingers through the length of her hair, Bristol averted her gaze quickly before he could realize that she was staring.
That was another thing that was coming up way too often in her life-- staring. At that realization, she sighed. Being creepy twice in one week? Check.
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TAGGED!? slut <3
WEARING WHAT NOW!? click-eth
LISTENING TO!? the sound keyboard keys make when pressed
WORD COUNT!? 819
BABBLE AND NOTES!? -shot-
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Post by ezra on Aug 24, 2009 22:53:32 GMT -5
WE ARE, WE ARE THE SHAKEN ;
WE ARE THE MONSTERS UNDERNEATH YOUR BED.
HE RAN HIS FINGERS through his hair and took a second sip of the coffee. It tasted exactly the same as it had a few moments ago, and he scowled and wondered why he'd even tasted it again when he knew it was just going to taste like shit. It was habit, he supposed--and, most likely, a good percentage was stupidity. He'd always been like that. Huh. Maybe this black, burnt pizza will taste better now. Hey, doesn't bad news just go away after a few moments? Maybe, if I wait a few seconds, this blue shirt will miraculously turn orange. Unfortunately, he had a tendancy to be incredibly ridiculous. He took another sip of coffee. Yeah. Still tastes like shit. Maybe, if he added more cream, it'd taste a bit better than fish guts.
The only reason he'd started drinking coffee in the first place was because it was the only thing they'd had around his house--when he lived back in Hamburg, that is. His mother was either really drunk in the morning, or really fucked up (no pun intended) due to a crazy night of sex and stripping. It sounded so horribly cliche--a whore for a mother--but he guessed that it was the hand he was dealt, and he would have to make the most of it without turning into one of those emo-band kids whining over themselves. But still, taking care of his mother was work. They'd always needed coffee for the buzz and hangover deal, a year's supply of crackers, and a hell of a lot of soup. It was amazing that she didn't get alcohol poisoning, really. Then again, it was also amazing that she'd managed to pay the rent every now and then when business was slow (well, slower).
He'd gone back to staring at the window when he heard a tiny squeak. Instantly, his light eyes snapped to the tiny figure that had crept onto the table. Its white fur matched the color of the mug that it was inspecting--aesthetically pleasing, if nothing else. A mouse? he mused in thought, frowning slightly as he watched the tiny creature. His eyes swiveled up for a moment to check the counter. The woman behind it was too busy helping the choir freaks that had walked in to notice. Well, that was good. Quietly, his eyes swung back over to the mouse, and he watched as it leaned up over the top of the mug and began sniffing the murky substance. After a few seconds, it wrinkled its nose, shook a little, and plopped back down on all fours. "Tastes kind of like maggots, doesn't it?" he muttered, gesturing to the coffee with a nod.
The mouse twitched in agreement.
A smug grin crossed his face for a moment, and he watched as the mouse scurried down the table and under the radiator--most likely to a hole that it had made in the wall. He didn't blame him--who wanted to be outside in that weather? The worst part of it all was that it was drizzling. C'mon, god. You can do better than that. Drizzling is more like half-assed raining that you couldn't be bothered to finish because you had to save a civilization, or something. If you could create a world in a week, you could probably put a bit more thought into the concept of something as simple as water falling from the sky.
But, enough about god. He didn't like to talk about the big guy--or even think about him, for that matter. They had enough shit to settle between them. First off, there was the whole my-mother-is-a-whore thing. Second, there was the whole great-I'm-a-bloodsucking-vampire thing. It wasn't bad enough that his skin had unfortunately turned a shade lighter, but he was now doomed to watch all of the people that he had previously loved die. That was a heartwarming thought. The only thing that was possibly worse than never being able to have a relationship with a human again was that someone up there had heard his inner ramblings and it was now raining harder.
Fuck.
He attempted to distract himself by looking over at the choir gang, who were still bickering over what drinks they should get. No, they shouldn't get too much caffeine, because then they would be hyper and wouldn't have the patience to pay attention to their director--but, no, they had to get enough so they could actually stay awake during rehearsal. He turned his head a little more, pleased to see that the old man had gone back to reading his newspaper, and then shifted back to look towards his coffee. As his eyes traveled across the room, he hit something of interest. There was a girl, sitting a few tables away from him, who was staring. He blinked a few times. Shit. He could never tell if it was because they had the sight, or if he was freaking attractive, or if they thought he was going to murder someone.
Eh, well. Either way.
"If you're going to stare, at least admit it."
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Post by bris on Aug 25, 2009 5:40:31 GMT -5
WELL FUCK. HE WASN’T SUPPOSED to see her staring. That was the entire web of complicated reasoning that always made her look away. After all, everyone knew it was as impolite to stare as it was to point. Knowing it was impolite didn’t stop some people from doing either one-- staring and pointing, that is. They simply felt guilty when they followed through with these impolite actions because their parents and teachers had rooted in their brain that it was wrong.
But now, being called on her newest little nasty habit, she couldn’t rightly deny it. Denying it would be like trying to claim not to have drawn on the wall in crayon when the messy picture framed itself behind where she still clutched the waxy art supplies in question. Being caught only worsened the situation, really; it made her sit there for a minute and weigh the possible ways out of this predicament. Ignore him? Well, that was pointlessly stupid. Get mad? A tempting thought, but very unreasonable in this situation. Apologize? The most likely option she was going to come up with. Make excuses? Nah. It was too early to think through possible legitimately believable excuses. Leave? Hell no. She’d been here first, and walking back to SoHo in this rain hadn’t suddenly jumped to the top of her “Things to Do Today” list.
Well, if she couldn’t beat him, she might as well join him. With a sigh and a protesting groan from the chair she slid backwards across the tile floor, she stood and grabbed the remnants of her mocha before sauntering over until she found her forearms crossed on the back of the chair across from what’s-his-name. This required a little leaning forward, of course, but that was to be expected. True, she happened to be vertically challenged at her slightly smaller than average height of five feet, two inches tall. That had never deterred her before, and it wasn’t going to sway her now.
Up close and semi-personal, she noticed a few more things than she had from across the room. The first thing she noticed would be nothing other than the vast number of Batman band-aids marring his skin. Without her permission, her lips twisted into an amused grin for the briefest of seconds before returning to their former peeved frown. Had she known him better-- enough to know what his reaction would be-- she probably would have reached across the table to prod the one on his nose before asking what he’d gotten into. Though, that seemed pretty obvious. The chances that his cat had flipped out and scratched anything within claw’s reach just didn’t seem to fit. For one thing, that theory would require him to have a cat. And he didn’t look like a cat person, whatever cat people happened to look like.
Another noticed item worth pointing out had to be his eyes, the sight of which sparked a flare of envy to light in the back of her brain. A blue that stunningly perfect should not have been wasted on someone already attractive enough without them adding to the overall level of doable-ness. Ah, fuck. Wait, no! Not fuck. If her mind already resided in the gutter-- and the word doable-ness directed toward a total stranger indicated that it, indeed, resided in the gutter-- there was no point in egging it on. She mentally slapped herself, physically ran the fingers of her free hand-- the one without the cup’ o ‘ coffee-- through the bottom layers of her inky hair.
No point in putting it off any longer. All that would do is lead to more thoughts with enough random in them to make a comedy act.
“Okay, fine: I was staring. Do you have a problem with it?”Bris caught her bottom lip between her teeth to cut off the babble faucet before it could gush every thought that passed through her brain the second it passed through-- in an unfiltered manner, obviously. Filtered babble never amused anyone.
Not that she planned on amusing him.
At last she took her seat, annoyed at the way the edge of the chair cut off the circulation in her fingertips. Tingly fingers plus a hand holding something never equaled good. It especially didn’t look well when the held item happened to be something relatively warm. Like, say, coffee.
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TAGGED!? ezra
WEARING WHAT NOW!? click-eth
LISTENING TO!? “I Caught Fire” The Used
WORD COUNT!? 727
BABBLE AND NOTES!? -still shot-
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Post by ezra on Aug 26, 2009 21:06:06 GMT -5
WE ARE, WE ARE THE SHAKEN ;
WE ARE THE MONSTERS UNDERNEATH YOUR BED.
AS HE SAT THERE, WAITING, he realized something that probably should've stopped him earlier: he didn't even know why the fuck he had gone out. First of all, the weather looked like shit from his window. The winds had been roaring--a bit earlier, they'd seem to die down by now--and rattling the windows back and forth, which had caused him to crank his ipod up to full volume. The sky was a murky blue-grey, and the clouds hung ominously above the town. Needless to say, most of the residents around there had decided to stay indoors and find something amusing to do with their time (in most cases: sleep). Indoors did not appeal to the dark-haired boy, no; that was too...ordinary. Plain, if you will. He needed to get out and be noticed.
Apparently that plan had worked very well. He looked the girl up and down as she thought. She was one of those...eh, what did you call them? Oh. Scene kids. She had the hair down, anyway. It wasn't like he was one of those guys who absolutely hated certain types of people--he wasn't sexist or racist, or anything like that; he hated them all equally, and frankly, he didn't give a shit if they wore a cake on their face, or a skirt that barely hid their thong. If they were annoying, they were annoying. If they were hot, they were hot (probably what played into the whole pansexuality thing). In fact, this girl was a little on the cute side. Not smoking hot, but...childish cute. And now he sounded like a pedophile.
The screeching that the chair made caused him to wince a little, but he brushed it off as she walked over. She paused then, and he took the opportunity to look her over a bit closer. She had pretty eyes. He found himself constantly searching out people with nice eyes; he absolutely adored when people had big blue eyes, or twinkling, green little things. He noticed that she was watching him again, but was beyond that; instead, he was a bit more interested in what exactly she was looking at. He followed her eyes to his nose, and blinked, remembering that he had a bandaid there. If he'd been self-conscious, he would have averted his eyes when she grinned, but instead looked back to her with a tiny smirk. So he liked batman. Big whoop. It was better than the disgusting little brown bandaids that most people wore.
The other thing he noticed about her was she was incredibly short--and that wasn't because he was a little on the tall side (well, he thought six-three was a little on the tall side). She was short for the average human being, wasn't she? The way she had to lean a little, standing there, and the fact that she looked a bit more like an eight year-old than the teenager she probably was. And upon realizing this, a wider smirk crept onto his face. She seemed like one of those little firecrackers that had a lot more punch than you'd think for their size. He liked that--the whole feisty thing.
"It depends," he replied, leaning back in his seat lazily and watching her curiously. "Why were you staring?"
Of course, the back of his mind knew why. He was hot.
He watched her sit down, digging through his pockets to find a cigarette, and kept his eyes firmly on hers. "I mean, I understand the whole attraction thing," he continued, extracting a cigarette from his pocket and holding it between his middle and forefinger, "but, really. I'm sure a picture would last much longer." His accent snuck in for a moment, but he shoved it back down his throat. He didn't need her asking any more questions about him, other than why he wasn't drinking his coffee, or why he was wearing batman bandaids. At this point, he was just a bit worried if she knew what she was getting into.
Well, no. He was worrying if he still had a bag of lays on his counter.
But, c'mon. Cut him some slack.
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Post by bris on Aug 27, 2009 19:54:03 GMT -5
BRIS BLINKED. ONCE. TWICE. AGAIN.
She hadn’t really thought about why she’d taken to staring at him. Many reasons rattled her vocal chords, begging to be turned into audible words, but none seemed right. ‘You kinda look like this guy I just met.’ He’s a vampire. I figured you were one, too. ‘You blur a little around the edges, like I’m not supposed to see you.’ That’s been happening a lot lately. In those cases, the blurry people end up being things like vampires, werewolves, or warlocks. Oh my. ‘Your aura just feels…’Foreign. Different. The wrongness in every plausible reason she thought up easily explained itself: the little voice in the back of her mind kept reminding her that he could be human. That she could be wrong. Worse-- she could be completely nuts. Psycho. Crazy, even. And that was one fate that she just couldn’t accept.
There were many things wrong with her, sure. Her handwriting may as well have been chicken scratch. She tugged at the longest layers of her hair when nervous. If anything claimed a right to the title of “disaster zone”, it would have to be her room. She couldn’t hold a decent conversation with someone she saw on a regular basis, but appeared to be perfectly fine chatting up random strangers who she might never stumble across again. Forgetting and misplacing of everything happened to her at least four times daily. She zoned out at the worst times. The department of romance and relationships was unexplored territory to her. All of those things she could accept, get over, and put in the past. The thought that she may be clinically insane perturbed her to no end, making her act even more normal than the average person. And acting more normal than the average person only made her less normal than she had been before she started acting.
“I mean, I understand the whole attraction thing, but really. I’m sure a picture would last longer.” Her eyes narrowed in a unique mixture of thoughtful annoyance at his comment. The comment about vampires not being able to show up on film balanced on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. Instead, she leaned forward to cradle her chin in her palm, cocking her head a little as she held his steady blue gaze. “Well,” she started, dragging the word out to last three times as long as it was supposed to be, “I guess I could blame my staring on your attractiveness.” She made a face, somewhat disgusted at the word and somewhat amused that he’d used it before she had. “Or, y’know, it could be because you look like someone just threw you into a blender and you happened to cover the scratches with the Dark Knight. You don’t see that every day in SoHo, that’s for sure.”
Her gaze swung to rest on his cigarette for a second-- mere curiosity as to what he was digging through his pocket for-- before returning to meet his eyes. He looked way too amused for her liking, but getting him all riled up didn’t seem like a good option. She liked the current arrangement of her face, thank you. “I’d tell you that you shouldn’t smoke, but you seem like the type of person who doesn’t give a shit what I say, so I really shouldn’t bother, should I?”
[/b] ---------- TAGGED!? the manwhore
WEARING WHAT NOW!? click-eth
LISTENING TO!? CSI: New York
WORD COUNT!? 560
BABBLE AND NOTES!? Whoo. Epic fail. God I'm tired.
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