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verbal_kintTitle: Glue
Rating: PG
Summary: House, Wilson, Foreman, and Chase get locked in the janitor's closet. What ensues are recounts of the four's most embarrassing (and most influential) moments.
Genre: Humor/Angst...does that seem weird?
Disclaimer: You know how somewhere in the world there's a guy named Joe who doesn't own a bike? That's kinda how I don't own House.
Chapter One: Locked In
It’s 1PM when Chase finds House in the janitor’s closet.
He opens his mouth to ask why exactly his boss has taken up residence in the 3rd floor janitor’s closet, and then promptly closes it, watching a bottle of Pine-Sol slowly empty onto House’s 120 dollar sneakers. House doesn’t seem to notice as he digs fervently through a large trashcan in the center of the closet, knocking over nearby brooms and assorted cleaning products when they impede on his “mission.”
Chase opens his mouth once more after the Windex spatters House’s jeans.
“What are you doing?”
House looks up, not unlike a large and possibly radioactive rodent in most respects. He sticks his head back in the garbage and after a minute, his disembodied voice responds from the depths of the black plastic bag.
“Dumpster diving.”
“For…kicks?” says Chase, not quite venturing into the closet.
“A matter of business, actually.”
Chase nods to himself, repeating the words soundlessly. “Wait, what?”
House lifts his head up again, proudly displaying the bit of spaghetti that’s somehow looped its way around his ear.
“Well,” he says, “a nurse gave me ten bucks to get a piece of your chewed gum. Something about a shrine.” He smiles innocently. “Trust me, it’s not half as bad as what they made me find last week.”
“You’re…kidding, right?’
“Yeah, it’s actually Foreman who’s making the shrine.”
Chase laughs in a somewhat pitiful attempt to be included in his own joke. He says, “Well, Foreman never did have much luck with the ladies.”
“Oh, hi Foreman.”
House’s eyes lock someplace beyond Chase’s head as he speaks. Chase smiles and doesn’t budge, determined not to give House the “made you look” satisfaction.
“Hi, House.”
Chase’s eyes widen to a degree previously considered impossible.
He turns his head slowly, as if maybe by the time his eyes react to Foreman’s voice, Foreman’ll be long gone. It’s a charming notion, if completely idiotic.
Chase’s eyes meet Foreman’s in some kind of unintentional stare-down—on Chase’s part, that is. Foreman would be perfectly content to glare at the back of Chase’s head.
“Hey, Foreman,” says Chase, a guilty quiver on his voice, “we were just—“
“Discussing your love life,” House finishes, “or lack there of.”
“Thanks for your concern,” says Foreman.
Foreman watches House next to Chase and smiles, his memory of their latest “discussion” quickly drifting away. House’s current misadventure seems far more interesting.
House’s voice rings out again from his trash-ridden abyss, waves of sarcasm elegantly rolling over his words. “Thanks for helping out, guys. I really, really appreciate it.”
“Well maybe we’d be able to help out better,” says Chase, “if we had a clue what you’re looking for.” He takes a few steps toward the closet; Foreman follows.
House removes his head from the trashcan and stares mischievously at Chase and Foreman. He looks around, making sure he hasn’t been “caught” before inviting his two fellows in with a nod, his eyes scanning the hallway like vultures for other signs of life.
“Wilson was in his office all morning. Writing notes.”
Foreman says, “And?” Chase says, “So?” Combined, it rather sounds like, “Sand?”
House continues with the panache of one practiced in telling scary stories. “He kept throwing the notes away, and since Wilson uses a tape recorder for everything but sex and tennis, it means it was something important. Plus, the notes were on stationary. Nice stationary. He’s in love again.”
“Or writing Christmas cards,” says Chase, unable to contain the eye-roll that’s been building up inside of him for the past two minutes.
“It’s June.”
“Fourth of July cards?”
House grabs his cane from its perch above the doorframe. “He’s writing love cards. Or ‘please screw me’ cards. Question is, to whom?”
A brief silence weaves its way into the closet as Chase indulges himself in another eye roll and Foreman takes another step closer to House.
“So you’re in a janitor’s closet…looking through Wilson’s trash to find the love letters he’s supposedly writing in between cases?” Foreman makes no attempt to hide the scorn in his voice.
“Nope,” says House, “technically he only wrote one love letter. I’m looking for the ones that ‘didn’t quite do justice’ to his lover.”
“How do you even know his trash is in here?”
“This janitor…” House indicates the trashcan before them. “He hates his job. Thing he hates most about his job, is taking the garbage out. Weird huh? So every day, about noon, he empties everyone’s garbage can—when it’s still not full. He takes that garbage in here, stores it, locks the door, and spends most of the day sweeping the same square foot in the cafeteria. Then at night, he takes out the garbage, which is nothing more than coffee cups and love note stationary. People assume he’s taking out the whole day’s trash, but he doesn’t have to smell a thing. He’s been working here six months and hasn’t been caught. The other janitors pick up his slack.”
Chase is a little annoyed at his own growing interest. “Why do they put up with him?”
“He’s the bookie for all the bets they place on the NFL.”
“So,” says Foreman, genuinely trying to sift sense out of the madness, “you watched Wilson’s office all morning, then followed the janitor here once he’d picked up Wilson’s trash? I thought you said he locked it. How’d you get in?”
“I stuck a bottle of glue in front of the door while he was walking away. The door locks from the outside, which is why we need to keep it open.”
And while Chase doesn’t roll his eyes this time, the necessary emotions are conveyed through a quick: “You need a new hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby, Chase.” House points to the bottle of Elmer’s glue wedged between the door and the wall. “It’s a way of life.”
House pushes the door open while Chase and Foreman squeeze inside. He makes sure the glue is back in place before letting the door shut with a thud.
“Good,” he says, “let’s proceed.”
Chase looks around and sees, well, nothing. “It’d probably be a lot easier to ‘proceed’ if the room weren’t pitch black. Can’t see a damn thing.”
House gives them a sheepish grin, which they’d be able to see…if they could see. “About that…I guess I got carried away looking and, uh, knocked a broom into the light bulb.” His last few words are nothing but slurred whispers, like afterthoughts that shouldn’t be afterthoughts, such as “I’m pregnant” or “I’m gay.”
House is expecting them to walk away. Hell, it’s what he would do if he were normal. But Foreman and Chase stay put, too drawn in by House’s convoluted explanation of how this all started to stay, and not angry enough at their own curiosity to leave. So, they feel around for the trashcan and start digging for paper that feels pretty, if such a thing were possible.
House pauses after pulling out his third receipt, frowning at his inability to read what exactly it’s a receipt for.
He collects little mental images once more of Wilson writing the notes. His long, thoughtful pauses as he considers what to write next, his penmanship’s girlish finesse, the disgruntled furrow of eyebrows when he makes a mistake—it had all the signs of love, or lust, or both. Probably lust; it had to be lust. If it was love, then House was wrong, and the prospect of House being wrong is often…wrong.
House hopes he’s right. Wilson doesn’t need another girlfriend, and House doesn’t want another Wilson’s girlfriend, and this doesn’t strike House as immature, not yet.
However, in the true nature of the thought process, he takes a step back, because House remembers the peculiar way Wilson throws away paper.
Wilson doesn’t simply roll it into a ball. After all, that’s what the trashcan will be expecting. Wilson needs to surprise the trashcan for reasons yet unknown, so he folds the piece of paper in half. Then and only then, does he roll it into a ball and deposit it into the can. Wilson is the king of unnecessary individualism.
House inserts his hand once more into the forbidden cave that is this morning’s garbage. “New plan, troops. Now we’re looking for anything that's rolled up into paper balls.”
“Everyone crumbles their paper up,” says Chase, “we’re just going to get 20 pieces of paper that we can’t read to begin with.”
“It’s not the amount of crumbling, soldier. It’s how the paper’s crumbled.” House dawns a southern accent that doesn’t quite communicate the drill sergeant part of the joke. He’s not sure they would’ve laughed anyways.
“I assume you at least have an exit strategy if you don’t find Wilson’s love letters?” says Foreman.
“Well, I’ll have you write him love notes and see if we get a response. It’s a social experiment, you know, to see how desperate he really is.”
“Can’t wait.” Foreman feigns a smile, which of course, nobody can see. Sarcasm’s harder in the dark.
In the hallway, someone’s shoes are becoming as obnoxiously loud as Cuddy’s. These are men’s feet though, painfully apparent from the way they scuff slightly with every step—indication that their owner once knew how to walk properly, but had since fallen out of the habit.
House, Foreman, and Chase freeze like meerkats on alert as the steps come closer and closer.
Then they stop.
That’s when Chase sneezes.
Now, exactly why Chase chooses this particular moment to sneeze is one of life’s great unanswered questions, like why round pizza comes in a square box, or what cheese says when it gets its picture taken.
The only difference is that cheese and round pizza don’t make the footsteps come closer. Chase’s sneeze does. House finds a foot (possibly Chase’s) and stomps down a well-placed cane. Hard. Squeals follow, prompting him to say, “Shut up.”
“House?”
House cracks the door open just enough to let a face in. “Hi, Wilson, what brings you here?”
“I’d ask you the sa—Foreman, what are you holding?”
The light floods in to the rim of the trashcan as Wilson nudges the door open. All eyes drift to Foreman, who’s standing next to the trashcan with a piece of paper—crumpled into a ball, folded in half.
House smiles broadly. “Foreman, hang on to that paper. Wilson, got anything you’d like to tell us?”
Wilson opens the door a little more and begins to work his way into the closet. “Foreman,” he says, “could I have that paper? I didn’t mean to throw it away, and—“
“You also threw away your good bullshit generator?” House takes a clumsy step back, his shoulders even with Foreman’s as Wilson licks his lips nervously.
“I’m just saying—“ Wilson lunges forward with the grace of a cheetah (who’s been eating too much antelope) and trips...on a bottle of glue precariously placed around his ankles.
The glue breezes across the floor as if participating in a massive Slip n’ Slide competition. Wilson gets a hand on spilt Pine-Sol and a face full of garbage on the rebound, attempting to get up while still falling.
This is when the door slams.
This is when the door that locks from the outside slams.
The glue is at Wilson’s feet when he opens his eyes to darkness. Thankfully, he can’t see all of the scowls pointed in his general direction. Thankfully, House can no longer read his note. Thankfully, those are the only things he can be thankful for…it’d be downright tedious to listen to him go on about pleasantries all day.
Thankfully, Chase is the one to point out: “We’re going to be in here for a while, aren’t we?”
Everyone’s scowl coagulates and freezes to their face, inside the janitor’s closet.
Next Chapter
Rating: PG
Summary: House, Wilson, Foreman, and Chase get locked in the janitor's closet. What ensues are recounts of the four's most embarrassing (and most influential) moments.
Genre: Humor/Angst...does that seem weird?
Disclaimer: You know how somewhere in the world there's a guy named Joe who doesn't own a bike? That's kinda how I don't own House.
Chapter One: Locked In
It’s 1PM when Chase finds House in the janitor’s closet.
He opens his mouth to ask why exactly his boss has taken up residence in the 3rd floor janitor’s closet, and then promptly closes it, watching a bottle of Pine-Sol slowly empty onto House’s 120 dollar sneakers. House doesn’t seem to notice as he digs fervently through a large trashcan in the center of the closet, knocking over nearby brooms and assorted cleaning products when they impede on his “mission.”
Chase opens his mouth once more after the Windex spatters House’s jeans.
“What are you doing?”
House looks up, not unlike a large and possibly radioactive rodent in most respects. He sticks his head back in the garbage and after a minute, his disembodied voice responds from the depths of the black plastic bag.
“Dumpster diving.”
“For…kicks?” says Chase, not quite venturing into the closet.
“A matter of business, actually.”
Chase nods to himself, repeating the words soundlessly. “Wait, what?”
House lifts his head up again, proudly displaying the bit of spaghetti that’s somehow looped its way around his ear.
“Well,” he says, “a nurse gave me ten bucks to get a piece of your chewed gum. Something about a shrine.” He smiles innocently. “Trust me, it’s not half as bad as what they made me find last week.”
“You’re…kidding, right?’
“Yeah, it’s actually Foreman who’s making the shrine.”
Chase laughs in a somewhat pitiful attempt to be included in his own joke. He says, “Well, Foreman never did have much luck with the ladies.”
“Oh, hi Foreman.”
House’s eyes lock someplace beyond Chase’s head as he speaks. Chase smiles and doesn’t budge, determined not to give House the “made you look” satisfaction.
“Hi, House.”
Chase’s eyes widen to a degree previously considered impossible.
He turns his head slowly, as if maybe by the time his eyes react to Foreman’s voice, Foreman’ll be long gone. It’s a charming notion, if completely idiotic.
Chase’s eyes meet Foreman’s in some kind of unintentional stare-down—on Chase’s part, that is. Foreman would be perfectly content to glare at the back of Chase’s head.
“Hey, Foreman,” says Chase, a guilty quiver on his voice, “we were just—“
“Discussing your love life,” House finishes, “or lack there of.”
“Thanks for your concern,” says Foreman.
Foreman watches House next to Chase and smiles, his memory of their latest “discussion” quickly drifting away. House’s current misadventure seems far more interesting.
House’s voice rings out again from his trash-ridden abyss, waves of sarcasm elegantly rolling over his words. “Thanks for helping out, guys. I really, really appreciate it.”
“Well maybe we’d be able to help out better,” says Chase, “if we had a clue what you’re looking for.” He takes a few steps toward the closet; Foreman follows.
House removes his head from the trashcan and stares mischievously at Chase and Foreman. He looks around, making sure he hasn’t been “caught” before inviting his two fellows in with a nod, his eyes scanning the hallway like vultures for other signs of life.
“Wilson was in his office all morning. Writing notes.”
Foreman says, “And?” Chase says, “So?” Combined, it rather sounds like, “Sand?”
House continues with the panache of one practiced in telling scary stories. “He kept throwing the notes away, and since Wilson uses a tape recorder for everything but sex and tennis, it means it was something important. Plus, the notes were on stationary. Nice stationary. He’s in love again.”
“Or writing Christmas cards,” says Chase, unable to contain the eye-roll that’s been building up inside of him for the past two minutes.
“It’s June.”
“Fourth of July cards?”
House grabs his cane from its perch above the doorframe. “He’s writing love cards. Or ‘please screw me’ cards. Question is, to whom?”
A brief silence weaves its way into the closet as Chase indulges himself in another eye roll and Foreman takes another step closer to House.
“So you’re in a janitor’s closet…looking through Wilson’s trash to find the love letters he’s supposedly writing in between cases?” Foreman makes no attempt to hide the scorn in his voice.
“Nope,” says House, “technically he only wrote one love letter. I’m looking for the ones that ‘didn’t quite do justice’ to his lover.”
“How do you even know his trash is in here?”
“This janitor…” House indicates the trashcan before them. “He hates his job. Thing he hates most about his job, is taking the garbage out. Weird huh? So every day, about noon, he empties everyone’s garbage can—when it’s still not full. He takes that garbage in here, stores it, locks the door, and spends most of the day sweeping the same square foot in the cafeteria. Then at night, he takes out the garbage, which is nothing more than coffee cups and love note stationary. People assume he’s taking out the whole day’s trash, but he doesn’t have to smell a thing. He’s been working here six months and hasn’t been caught. The other janitors pick up his slack.”
Chase is a little annoyed at his own growing interest. “Why do they put up with him?”
“He’s the bookie for all the bets they place on the NFL.”
“So,” says Foreman, genuinely trying to sift sense out of the madness, “you watched Wilson’s office all morning, then followed the janitor here once he’d picked up Wilson’s trash? I thought you said he locked it. How’d you get in?”
“I stuck a bottle of glue in front of the door while he was walking away. The door locks from the outside, which is why we need to keep it open.”
And while Chase doesn’t roll his eyes this time, the necessary emotions are conveyed through a quick: “You need a new hobby.”
“It’s not a hobby, Chase.” House points to the bottle of Elmer’s glue wedged between the door and the wall. “It’s a way of life.”
House pushes the door open while Chase and Foreman squeeze inside. He makes sure the glue is back in place before letting the door shut with a thud.
“Good,” he says, “let’s proceed.”
Chase looks around and sees, well, nothing. “It’d probably be a lot easier to ‘proceed’ if the room weren’t pitch black. Can’t see a damn thing.”
House gives them a sheepish grin, which they’d be able to see…if they could see. “About that…I guess I got carried away looking and, uh, knocked a broom into the light bulb.” His last few words are nothing but slurred whispers, like afterthoughts that shouldn’t be afterthoughts, such as “I’m pregnant” or “I’m gay.”
House is expecting them to walk away. Hell, it’s what he would do if he were normal. But Foreman and Chase stay put, too drawn in by House’s convoluted explanation of how this all started to stay, and not angry enough at their own curiosity to leave. So, they feel around for the trashcan and start digging for paper that feels pretty, if such a thing were possible.
House pauses after pulling out his third receipt, frowning at his inability to read what exactly it’s a receipt for.
He collects little mental images once more of Wilson writing the notes. His long, thoughtful pauses as he considers what to write next, his penmanship’s girlish finesse, the disgruntled furrow of eyebrows when he makes a mistake—it had all the signs of love, or lust, or both. Probably lust; it had to be lust. If it was love, then House was wrong, and the prospect of House being wrong is often…wrong.
House hopes he’s right. Wilson doesn’t need another girlfriend, and House doesn’t want another Wilson’s girlfriend, and this doesn’t strike House as immature, not yet.
However, in the true nature of the thought process, he takes a step back, because House remembers the peculiar way Wilson throws away paper.
Wilson doesn’t simply roll it into a ball. After all, that’s what the trashcan will be expecting. Wilson needs to surprise the trashcan for reasons yet unknown, so he folds the piece of paper in half. Then and only then, does he roll it into a ball and deposit it into the can. Wilson is the king of unnecessary individualism.
House inserts his hand once more into the forbidden cave that is this morning’s garbage. “New plan, troops. Now we’re looking for anything that's rolled up into paper balls.”
“Everyone crumbles their paper up,” says Chase, “we’re just going to get 20 pieces of paper that we can’t read to begin with.”
“It’s not the amount of crumbling, soldier. It’s how the paper’s crumbled.” House dawns a southern accent that doesn’t quite communicate the drill sergeant part of the joke. He’s not sure they would’ve laughed anyways.
“I assume you at least have an exit strategy if you don’t find Wilson’s love letters?” says Foreman.
“Well, I’ll have you write him love notes and see if we get a response. It’s a social experiment, you know, to see how desperate he really is.”
“Can’t wait.” Foreman feigns a smile, which of course, nobody can see. Sarcasm’s harder in the dark.
In the hallway, someone’s shoes are becoming as obnoxiously loud as Cuddy’s. These are men’s feet though, painfully apparent from the way they scuff slightly with every step—indication that their owner once knew how to walk properly, but had since fallen out of the habit.
House, Foreman, and Chase freeze like meerkats on alert as the steps come closer and closer.
Then they stop.
That’s when Chase sneezes.
Now, exactly why Chase chooses this particular moment to sneeze is one of life’s great unanswered questions, like why round pizza comes in a square box, or what cheese says when it gets its picture taken.
The only difference is that cheese and round pizza don’t make the footsteps come closer. Chase’s sneeze does. House finds a foot (possibly Chase’s) and stomps down a well-placed cane. Hard. Squeals follow, prompting him to say, “Shut up.”
“House?”
House cracks the door open just enough to let a face in. “Hi, Wilson, what brings you here?”
“I’d ask you the sa—Foreman, what are you holding?”
The light floods in to the rim of the trashcan as Wilson nudges the door open. All eyes drift to Foreman, who’s standing next to the trashcan with a piece of paper—crumpled into a ball, folded in half.
House smiles broadly. “Foreman, hang on to that paper. Wilson, got anything you’d like to tell us?”
Wilson opens the door a little more and begins to work his way into the closet. “Foreman,” he says, “could I have that paper? I didn’t mean to throw it away, and—“
“You also threw away your good bullshit generator?” House takes a clumsy step back, his shoulders even with Foreman’s as Wilson licks his lips nervously.
“I’m just saying—“ Wilson lunges forward with the grace of a cheetah (who’s been eating too much antelope) and trips...on a bottle of glue precariously placed around his ankles.
The glue breezes across the floor as if participating in a massive Slip n’ Slide competition. Wilson gets a hand on spilt Pine-Sol and a face full of garbage on the rebound, attempting to get up while still falling.
This is when the door slams.
This is when the door that locks from the outside slams.
The glue is at Wilson’s feet when he opens his eyes to darkness. Thankfully, he can’t see all of the scowls pointed in his general direction. Thankfully, House can no longer read his note. Thankfully, those are the only things he can be thankful for…it’d be downright tedious to listen to him go on about pleasantries all day.
Thankfully, Chase is the one to point out: “We’re going to be in here for a while, aren’t we?”
Everyone’s scowl coagulates and freezes to their face, inside the janitor’s closet.
Next Chapter
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 06:56 am (UTC)Love the reason why they're there, and that Foreman and Chase listened to the story and were so intrigued that they actually help. Can't wait for more!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 02:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 07:31 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 02:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 03:14 am (UTC)And because it's true.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 07:42 am (UTC)This was AWESOME. Cheese and forgetting how to properly walk and afterthoughts that shouldn't be afterthoughts and oooooh! :-D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 02:16 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 07:52 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 02:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 08:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 02:19 pm (UTC)Thanks a lot for reading, and especially for commenting; it means a ton!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 08:52 am (UTC)I don't know where you get your ideas from but I can't wait to see where this is going. So many great lines. Loved your references to Meerkats and a round pizza in a square box. LOL
I love the way you write. I know that if you wrote this it will be great! :))
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:41 am (UTC)Oddly enough, I got the idea from "Dear God" after realizing that the scene I loved writing most was the one in the beginning when they're all in the car together, lol.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 12:36 pm (UTC)The four of them stuck together in a janitor's closet. Hehehehe!
I loved how House knew every little detail about the janitor and his habits. So House.
You have such an entertaining tone to your writing. Makes it so enjoyable to read! I was snickering while House had his head in the garbage can. :)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 02:33 pm (UTC)Loved these parts especially:
"House hopes he’s right. Wilson doesn’t need another girlfriend, and House doesn’t want another Wilson’s girlfriend, and this doesn’t strike House as immature, not yet."
Among other things. Oh and "“New plan, troops. Now we’re looking for anything that rolled up into paper balls.”" should be "that is" or "that's".
Love your work. =)) Did you get my Wilson picture? I posted it in a comment but am not sure if it actually showed up.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:45 am (UTC)Anyway, thanks for picking up on that, and now it's fixed. :)
Thanks again,
Verb
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 03:23 pm (UTC)Hahaha there should be a fic of Wilson and balloon animals. That would crack me up.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 03:02 pm (UTC)Wonderful! Can't wait for more!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:43 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 04:13 pm (UTC)Can't wait for the next installment. XD
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:45 am (UTC)Thanks!
This is so good.
Date: 2008-10-28 04:54 pm (UTC)hppyflwr
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 08:31 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 08:52 pm (UTC)Sarcasm’s harder in the dark.
Foreman is a slacker. Obviously he isn't practicing enough.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:47 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 09:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 11:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:51 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-28 11:48 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:54 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 04:02 am (UTC)If only something this funny ended up on the show...
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-29 06:56 am (UTC)I'm really glad you like it. Thanks for reading!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-30 04:46 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-31 04:26 am (UTC)So, so, very funny. I love your writing. It is so perfectly matched to each character; and did I mention, funny?
You have such a way with words... it's insane.
I can't wait to see where you take us from here!
(no subject)
Date: 2008-10-31 03:33 pm (UTC)I love your style of writing and the idea is one that will undoubtedly provide lots of entertainment ;]
I can't wait for what happens next. =]
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-17 09:45 am (UTC)This line makes me love you.
I know that sounds creepy, but it's true :) That line made me laugh. Hard.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-17 05:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-12 07:24 pm (UTC)x
(no subject)
Date: 2009-02-12 11:00 pm (UTC)