they love to tell you stay inside the lines

Defeat - Bakura/Yami

papervanity@gmail.com — Fri, 10 Oct 2008 05:53:43 GMT

Title: Defeat
Pairing: Darkshipping; Yami no Bakura x Yami no Yuugi
Disclaimer: This story is based on Yu-Gi-Oh! and its characters and situations, all created and owned by Kazuki Takahashi.
Summary: Bakura cheats on Yami. This is the aftermath.

( Defeat )

Breaking Point - Charlie/Mike

papervanity@gmail.com — Wed, 11 Oct 2006 06:10:02 GMT

Title: Breaking Point
Pairing: Charlie/Mike
Disclaimer: This story is based on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and its characters and situations, all created and owned by Roald Dahl and Warner Bros.
Summary: A miserable Mike and a hopeful Charlie form a correspondence and friendship that changes their lives forever.

When Mike hears that Charlie Bucket won Willy Wonka’s contest, he wants to punch the reporter on his computer screen.

When Mr. Teavee reads aloud the latest headline and accompanying it, the article about Wonka’s new heir and the mysterious disappearance of the other Golden Ticket winners, Mike wants to tear the newspaper out of his father’s hands and rip it to shreds.

When he arrives back home in Denver and his mother screams at the sight of him, eight and three-quarters feet tall and paper thin, he cannot squelch the horrible feeling in his chest.

Most of the reporters have given up on trying to lure him out of his home. He stays holed up in his room most of the time, when he doesn’t have to go to that hellhole called school.

His classmates shy away every morning when he arrives on campus and when he makes his way to his next class. The majority of them are too terrified to say a word—Mike is well known for his short temper and involvement in fistfights—but the looks on their faces tell it all. He wants to yell, “Stop looking at me, you freaks!” but he knows that he is the freak, now. Even the outcasts narrow their eyes and wrinkle their noses at him in disgust. Mike hates them all, wishes that they would all die horrible, tortuous, violent deaths, but what he hates more is that they affect him at all. And even worse than the hushed whispers of the gossiping girls, the verbal jabs and taunting by the school jocks, and the clearly disapproving frowns of the teachers who hate the idea of anything foreign or new in their classrooms—

Even worse than what he goes through at school, is what he has to go through at home.

Because it’s not just students and teachers—people he’s never cared about at all—who have reacted negatively to his transformation (Mike thinks of it as more of a disfiguration). At home, even his own mother shuns him. It doesn’t matter that it’s been years since Mike last had loving thoughts towards her and it makes no difference that he’s called her a nagging bitch in his head thousands of times—it is still this betrayal that hurts the most.

The walls of his room are not soundproof and he cannot pretend that he doesn’t hear his parents arguing every night. He knows that it is his fault. The first arguments had been about what to do about Mike’s…condition, as they so delicately call it now, and then it had escalated from there.

During the first few days of his homecoming, Mrs. Teavee had merely seemed uncomfortable when alone with him in a room at any time. A clearly false smile had been stiffly plastered on her face at the dinner table every evening, although she was never openly hostile. But then there had been that one night when Mike had been in the kitchen grabbing a glass of water and had walked past his parents’ bedroom on his way back. The door had been left ajar and a strange wail had sounded from within, accompanied by his father’s flustered and desperate voice.

“Mary Anne, you can’t keep doing this to him. . . . Honey, please stop crying. . . . it’s not his fault this happened, and the longer this goes on the more . . . please, Mary Anne, calm down. I don’t know how to deal with you when you’re like this. . . . Look, how do you think Mike feels about—”

“I just want my son back! Is that so much to ask for?”

Mike had froze, the glass in his hand falling several feet to the wooden floor and violently shattering into a million pieces. After a few choking sobs, the horrible caterwauling had started up again. His mom didn’t cry, he had thought numbly, before another part of him had added, and neither do you, but why is your vision clouding up? Sure enough, Mike had found his eyes suspiciously wet. He had hastily wiped them away with his shirtsleeve, but to his misfortune, he had chose to do so just as his father had decided to investigate the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.

Mike had hated the look in his father’s eyes: unmistakable pity. The two had stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, and then Mr. Teavee had said (rather weakly, Mike thought back derisively), “She didn’t really mean what she said, Mike.”

He had sneered contemptuously at him and responded with a cold, “How would you know?”

“Son…”

“I’m not stupid, Dad.”

And then he had turned and walked back to his room, making sure to slam the door extra hard.

After that night, things had never been the same again in the Teavee household.

Mike had adapted a habit of eating his dinner in his room and he avoided his mother even more than before. A week later, when progress reports had come in the mail and she had found him at the front door, armload of mail in one hand and progress report in the other, she had attempted to apologize.

“How did you do?” she had asked quietly. Mike had neither looked up nor answered. “Straight A’s as usual?” He noted out of the corner of his eye that she was trying to smile.

“Duh,” was all he said.

And then there had been the uncomfortable silence. Neither moved and neither made a single noise. Mike knew that she was trying to say something to him. Part of him didn’t want to hear it and willed him to just walk away, but the other part was curious…and slightly hopeful…about what she had to say.

“I—I don’t know exactly how much you heard…the other night…but…”

“Enough,” he said shortly, pretending to be engrossed in his grades.

“Oh. Well. Then you must know that I was hysterical and feeling especially emotional after a horrid day at work—my boss had been unreasonably upset with me and I just wasn’t feeling like myself—”

Trust her to blame it on her boss and work, Mike thought nastily.

“And what I said—well, it doesn’t matter now. What I mean to say is that I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” he had muttered. It was too late for apologies in his mind. The damage had been done.

“Mike…” It had been the first time she had addressed him by his name since his return.

“I’m the same person I was before, Mom,” and he had left it at that, shoving the mail into her arms and then making his way to his room.

The truckload of chocolate that soon arrives hardly compensates for anything. Mike still hates chocolate. His parents are clueless as to what to do with a lifetime’s supply of it, so it has been piled up in the garage for the time being.

Mike doesn’t care about the chocolate. What he cares about is that with the chocolate comes, a letter. Two letters, actually, he finds out when he tears the envelope open. There is Wonka’s letter—official looking and obviously a carbon copy of the letters sent to the other winners—and then there is the Other Letter.

The Other Letter is handwritten, not word processed, but the writing neat and precise with a tiny hint of a boyish look to it. The “A’s” all have a perfect tail and the curl of the “E’s” is exact. It is folded properly in thirds, and it reads, “To Mike”. Before he reads it, he skips down to the salutation and examines the signature. Charlie Bucket, it reads in childish script. His first reaction is anger and jealousy; the kid won Wonka’s stupid contest and came out (or rather, didn’t come out) unscathed. Mike suffered and he didn’t even win. Not that he would’ve wanted to inherit the stupid factory anyway, but…

He raises an eyebrow as a mental picture of Charlie instantly comes to mind, ratty sweater, constantly awed look, and all. Mike remembers thinking that he looked like a stray puppy off the street, the kind that people would take pity on and bring home. (Mike also remembers thinking that the kid is kind of cute in a naïve, loser-y way, and that if he bought some new clothes and lost that wide-eyed look, Mike might actually find him attractive, but that doesn’t matter, because Mike isn’t gay and the kid sure isn’t.)

Dear Mike,

~~How are you?~~ Hi ~~Hello~~ ~~I was just~~ Hello, I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Charlie Bucket. I was one of the winners of the Golden Tickets and I was there with you in the Television Room. I just wanted to write to see how you are doing. I know you left the Factory in a horrible condition

Mike laughs ironically. How fitting that even some English kid uses the term “condition” for his deformity.

and I just wanted to apologize on the behalf of Mr. Wonka, ~~because he refuses to do it himself and says that you got your just desserts~~. I wish there had been some other way to ~~fix~~ change you back after you got sent through the telly, or at least that the Oompa Loompas had not been so careless in their stretching! I can’t imagine what it’s like to be that tall or that thin

Mike glares at the paper and thinks, oh, how nice of the kid to rub it in, but another part of him is still dwelling on the part where the kid makes it sound like he actually cares that Mike is suffering without pitying him (Mike hates pity).

The letter goes on, the kid blathering about how he wishes that they had all been able to win and stayed longer and gotten to know each other.

I wish we could’ve gotten the chance talked a bit, because you seemed like you would be an interesting person to get to know. Plus, Augustus wasn’t too nice to me, and even though you were a little harsh towards Mr. Wonka, you didn’t seem too horrible or frightening~~, unlike those girls~~. I hope this isn’t too blunt, but I really do wish that we could have become friends.

Mike is annoyed by the tiny burst of pleasure he feels when he reads those words. He cannot help but read them over and over again until he can recite them by heart. He may hate his classmates and teachers and adults and family, but he is still human. He is still a young boy who yearns for the comfort and dependability of a friend.

When he enters a room and his mother first looks up at him, wide-eyed and as if he is a bomb ready to explode at any second, then quickly excuses herself, he thinks of the letter. It makes him feel a fraction better. When his father enters his room (uninvited, Mike glares at him for intruding on his privacy), looking resigned and five years older—are those horrid things bags under his eyes?—, and begins to speak softly about how Mom has just been stressed lately and loves him as much as she always has (Mike snorts and Mr. Teavee’s eyes narrow warningly, but when has Mike been afraid of his dad?), Mike tries to tune him out by reciting the letter in his head.

After having practically lived on Charlie Bucket’s letter for a week, Mike decides to write back. He labors over his reply for what seems like hours, typing up long, thoughtful sentences before backspacing and debating whether to pour his heart out or not.

He manages to convince himself that because the kid said that he is (was?) looking for a friend in him, it’ll be okay to be honest. Part of him hopes that the letter will never be received—he is a little embarrassed at being so open—but the other part hopes that the kid will read his letter and cling onto it and not think that Mike is a complete freak.

In the end, he has managed to write an honest letter without pouring his heart out—and it still sounds like him, sharp tone and a few scattered, scorning insults included.

Charlie,

Thanks for your letter. It has helped me get through a lot of this last week without losing my sanity. Lately, I’ve been on the verge of cracking but it’s nice to know that somebody cares (or at least cares enough to send a letter overseas to some dinky little house in Colorado). I’m usually not one for “friends” or whatever, everyone I know is either a complete loser or unbelievably lame, or even worse, both of the above. Maybe it’s time to give it a try, what with all the anger and lack of support I’m getting over here.

I’m not guaranteeing that I’ll like you. I probably won’t. I don’t usually like people. They piss me off. But like I said, at least you care. Not even my own mom cares. But you don’t want to hear me whine about that.

About my “condition”, as everybody likes to call it. I’m not exactly enjoying towering three feet above everybody else. Actually, I really hate it. Most guys at school would probably be excited to be able to see down girls’ shirts, but I just think it’s kind of gross. Like I said, I hate people, and that includes girls. None of my clothes fit anymore and I can’t even sit in a car comfortably. Tell your Mr. Wonka that I hate his guts and his chocolate and wish that he would die. I wish I had never gone to that stupid thing in the first place. But then again, I wouldn’t be talking to you, so I suppose it’s a moot point.

A reply would be nice.

Mike Teavee

His mother gives him a strange look when he asks for a ride to the local post office, but drives him anyway. He is thankful that the distance is short, for neither of them can stand to be in the same room for very long, much less in the even smaller space of a car.

Checking the mail has always been his responsibility, but in the past has been lazy and left it to pile up on many occasions. He soon begins to check it every day, and he hates the tiny nagging feeling of disappointment he gets every time he looks through the stack of bills and advertisements and finds no letter addressed to him.

Soon, he begins to wonder if his letter has reached its destination at all. Maybe it got lost along the way—after all, England is not exactly next-door neighbors with Colorado. He debates printing out another copy and sending it again, but then what if it had been received? It would seem rather silly of him to have sent two identical letters, wouldn’t it? And then, as the days go on, he begins to doubt the truth of what is said in the Letter. Maybe nearly the same letter had been sent to the other three children as well, and none of it was really directed at him. Maybe the kid didn’t care about him, after all. Mike quickly shoves this oddly horrifying thought away, because it would mean that one, he has been living on a complete lie and two, he spent time writing an honest letter for no reason at all. (And secretly, three, he has been really looking forward to the prospect of having a friend, only to be rejected without a single word.)

But then one day, when Mike is flipping through the mail (despite his pessimism, he refuses to give up on the hope that has sustained him this far), he finds an envelope with his name and address on the front. The name provided accompanying the return address reads “Charlie Bucket”.

Mike’s heart leaps and he throws the rest of the mail down carelessly, bounding up to his room. He doesn’t care that it is pathetic to be this happy over a stupid letter from some chocolate-loving kid in England or that he would never have felt anything like this before visiting that stupid factory—because Charlie has written back and strangely enough, that’s all that really matters to him at the moment.

Instead of carelessly tearing open the envelope, he carefully opens it, succeeding in keeping it (mostly) in one piece. He pulls out the two sheets of paper and flops down onto his bed to read.

Dear Mike,

I’m so glad that you replied! I hope everything is okay over there—although what you said doesn’t make it sound especially great. If you need someone to talk to, I’ll listen. Mum said that’s what friends are for. I’ve never really had any, either, so I’m new to this too. My family was rather poor before I met Mr. Wonka, and the other children at school looked down on me because of it. It’ll be nice going through this together then, don’t you think? I hope you find me worth your time.

And of course I care, and are you really sure that there’s nobody else who cares about you? I’m sure both your dad and your mum love you. (Do you have any siblings?) If you’d like, I wouldn’t mind hearing about why you think your mum doesn’t care. Everyone needs to whine sometimes. I love my family and know that their love is worth much more than money, but that doesn’t mean that I never envied the other children for being so prodigal and free to buy frivolous things like train sets and video games and imported dolls and satin hair ribbons while all my father’s earnings went to feeding the family. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever admitted that to anyone.

I wish there was something I could do about your height problem! Being that tall can’t be easy. I suppose a lot of the boys here would also love being able to let their eyes roam without being suspected of being a complete pervert and slapped, but I don’t think it’s right at all. There’s nothing wrong with girls, ~~but I’m not really attracted to them~~ though. And how on earth are you wearing your clothes? Are you just wearing that same shirt over and over again, or what? It must be a pain to not be able to fit in a car—I almost wish that you hadn’t come just so that you wouldn’t be suffering so needlessly.

I told Mr. Wonka (he keeps telling me to call him Willy but it’s just too awkward) that you wished death upon him but all he did was suggest that you express your anger in a useful way, like playing basketball, with your height advantage and all. When I added that you still hated chocolate, he screamed and went mad telling me to ship you a boxful of our newest inventions. I reminded him of your lifetime supply of chocolate, but he didn’t listen. Speaking of that, what on earth are you doing with all that chocolate, if you don’t eat it? I hope that one of your parents likes it, because it would be a shame for all that good candy to be wasted!

Oh, and Mike, I hope this letter reaches you quickly; I hope you didn’t think that I wouldn’t respond. Things have been so chaotic here that Mr. Wonka never told me that I had received a letter from overseas. I’ll make sure that the Oompa Loompas tell me directly when I get mail, next time (hopefully, if there is a next time). Oh, I have been enjoying my time at the Factory—sometimes it is grueling work, inventing and testing and finding the solution to problems, but with Mr. Wonka, things are never boring. And best of all, my family has food to eat now and a warm place to live in.

Looking forward to your reply,
Charlie

In a moment of foolishness, Mike grins stupidly at the letter and cradles it to his chest. Then he catches himself and merely smiles at it.

That evening, dinner is a completely foreign affair for the Teavees. There is a strange light in Mike’s eyes, and the smallest trace of an upward curve to his lips. When his potatoes need more salt, he asks politely for it to be passed instead of simply reaching over his mother’s plate and grabbing it with his now incredibly long arms. Mr. and Mrs. Teavee exchange looks and Mike almost resists the urge to roll his eyes.

Charlie,

I was getting anxious when it seemed like you wouldn’t reply, but it looks like you didn’t let me down. Thanks for writing. It’s nice to know somebody actually wants to be my friend. I’m kind of glad that you’re new to this too, because it makes me feel less like a loser.

When I said in my previous letter that I have been clinging onto your letter as a means of survival/to prevent myself from going freaking insane, I meant it. Basically, my mom hates how I look now and she pretty much said that I wasn’t her son anymore. It makes me so angry because I’m no different a person than I was before visiting that stupid factory, I just look retarded. But she refuses to talk or even look at me. Then again, I don’t really want to talk to her anyway. It’s just that—aren’t parents supposed to love you unconditionally or something? Whatever. Anyway, it’s been really weird. Mom and Dad are always fighting and yelling at each other. Dad seems really tired nowadays, but I’m not exactly happy with him either. He keeps trying to get me to talk to him and throwing me all these pitying looks. I hate pity. School isn’t any more fun; everyone is always steering clear of Mike the Freak Show. I hate hearing those girls whisper when I walk by and I hate trying to avoid all the guys trying to trip me or making fun of me, just trying to rile me up and laugh at it. And the teachers all either completely ignore me and pretend that there’s no eight feet tall guy sitting at the back of their classrooms or they pick on me nonstop, always accusing me of not paying attention. Oh, and I’m an only child.

You seem too good for envy of materialistic things, but I’m kind of glad that you told me that. Now I know that you’re not a perfect kid, which is great.

The only good thing about being eight feet tall is that I can reach high things and stretch far. I think part of the reason that the guys at school haven’t seriously tried to beat me up is because I have a height advantage over them. And about my clothes—well, there isn’t much else I can do about it, is there? I’m doomed to wear the same thing every day, how fun for me.

I still hate Wonka. I have no idea how you can spend more than a day around him without going crazy. You must be braver than you look. And I can’t play any sports because you have to have ‘sportsmanship’ and I hate having to work with people. Teamwork sucks. I get more accomplished on my own. Oh yeah, the chocolate? It’s piled up in my garage. I don’t think anyone’s going to eat any of it. I don’t really care as long as it’s not in my way, but do you want it back or something?

Ugh, you just had to mention those Oompa Loompa things. Those things are so creepy it’s not even funny. I’ll bet they did this to me on purpose, just because I knocked a few out of my way and called Wonka an idiot—which he is. Talk about vengeance. I hope you get rid of that stupid taffy torture machine. Being stretched was the scariest and worst experience of my life.

And because I’m trying out this whole friend thing… How was your life before the whole ticket thing? I knew you weren’t the richest person on the block, but I didn’t know that it was so bad that you lacked food and a place to stay. How did you find the ticket anyway, if you were so poor? And whoa, what are the chances that you won? But I’m glad you are better off now, even if your sanity will probably be impaired by spending too much time with that crazy maniac.

Mike Teavee

Dear Mike,

You don’t need to thank me for writing! We’re friends, right?

Mike secretly glows at those three words as if they had crowned him the King of the Universe. Never in his life has he felt appreciated and liked the way that Charlie makes him feel without batting an eyelash. Never in his life has he felt the way he feels when he thinks of Charlie and his letters. Yes, Charlie, he thinks to himself, we’re friends. And I am so glad of it.

I am horrified at what you said about your parents. How can your mum treat you like that? I tried thinking about it from your parents’ perspectives, and maybe they’re just worried about you. Maybe your mum just doesn’t know what to do with you now that you’re eight feet tall. What did she say when you explained it to her?

Mike snorts at the question. He, explain to her, after all her screaming? No way. His dad probably did, anyway. Probably why all his video games had been taken away and he had been forbidden to watch the television.

Maybe if you talked to her, you could get some things sorted out. And maybe you should talk to your dad; you never know, it might help to get your frustration out. He seemed like a good person who worried a great deal about you when and after you were sent by the telly. I’m not very fond of pity either, though. I remember running through the streets on errands for Mum and strangers would just look at me with this horrible sad look in their eyes, and sometimes I just wanted to yell at them. I may not have been the wealthiest boy in England, but at least I had a loving family to go home to. Life before meeting Mr. Wonka? It was much less eventful, I have to say. I think you misunderstood, though—we did have a place to stay, and though it lacked in size and grandeur, it functioned well enough. Kind of. Except in winters, it was rather awful. Things are much better now, though. Dad is still working even though Mr. Wonka has offered to pay for everything—I suspect he likes feeling like he’s supporting the family. I’m really glad that we have food to put on the dinner (and breakfast and lunch) table every night. Before, we barely had any to go around. And we’ve upgraded our furniture a bit—Mum and Dad have an actual bed, now, as opposed to just a mattress! Mr. Wonka offered me a room of my own, but I like staying with my family. Everyone is a lot happier now.

I used to only get one chocolate bar a year, on my birthday. And I lived within sight of the factory, too! It was terrible torture. I found my Golden Ticket in a chocolate bar I bought with some money I found on the ground. At first, I wasn’t going to come to the Factory—I wanted to sell the ticket to earn some money for the family; can you believe one lady offered me five hundred? —but then Grandpa George convinced me. I’m so glad that I made the right decision.

I wish the trip had turned out as great for you as it did for me. I asked Mr. Wonka if there was anything to be done about your…predicament… and he advised you to take some Supervitamin Candy. You’ll find some included in the envelope. Apparently it’ll help you grow some, dimension wise. Eat three a day. Mr. Wonka says you’ll need a triple dose. I’ll send more if you want. I pleaded him to help me create something that would fix your height problem. It took some work, but I think he’ll help me now.

Mike gapes at the paper, not sure if he is seeing correctly. Charlie wanted to…invent something to fix him? And he wanted to enough to beg Wonka for help? A warm, fluttery feeling courses through him and he smiles, thinking of Charlie hard at work in the Inventing Room.

And Mike, I still can’t believe all that chocolate is going to waste! I’ve asked Mr. Wonka to send someone over there to pick it up; if he won’t sell it, I’ll eat it myself. Not all at once, though. I may love chocolate, but I do have certain limits.

I look forward to your next letter!

Sincerely yours,
Charlie

Mike takes the Supervitamin Candy as instructed, trusting Charlie. Within days, he can see—and feel—the transformation, slight as it is. He no longer feels like a giant gangly piece of paper with wires for arms and he doesn’t look quite so sickly anymore. His parents notice it, even if they don’t say anything to him. His mother cooked some of his favorite dishes last night—Mike doubts it was merely a coincidence. He doesn’t treat her any warmer than before, though; he still cannot believe that his appearance matters so much to her.

When the trucks arrive to pick up the chocolate, Mike directs the drivers to the garage and watch as box after box is piled up in tall stacks. After a moment of hesitation, he quickly scribbles up a note and tapes it securely to the top of a box.

Charlie,

The candy is working wonders. Thanks so much. Enjoy the chocolate, you pig. I look forward to hearing from you.

Mike

Soon, the two boys are writing like mad; a response is nearly always composed the night of receiving a letter. The letters become Mike’s life. He doesn’t even bother asking his mother for a ride to mail them anymore—whenever he needs to send something to Charlie, he takes it to school (stashed carefully in his backpack between his math and science books) and walks to the local post office after the last class of the day is dismissed.

His correspondence with Charlie truly does change Mike. It’s the little things, like the tiny glimmer of life in his eyes and the thoughtful, almost spacey look he adopts when he is thinking about something Charlie said. It’s in the barely-there smile that curves his thin lips slightly upwards when something reminds him of Charlie—cold weather, sweaters, toys (Charlie had a severe lack of toys in his childhood and is mad about them now, especially the train sets), and any type of candy. It’s in the way that he sometimes manages to stop himself from screaming at his mother and the way that he tells his father that he just can’t stand his mother—and then quietly asks him if he’s all right.

Mike knows that Charlie is somehow always on his mind, but it never occurs to him that he is becoming slightly obsessive with his new friend. He marvels at the wonder of having his very own friend—one who is sweet, charming, and actually cares about him. (A small part of Mike is constantly trying to get himself to admit that he thinks Charlie is cute, but that’s just a small part and nothing more.)

Despite the fact that they have only met once, the two boys begin acting as if they are old friends after having exchanged two weeks of letters.

But things are never wonderful for Mike for very long.

One day, he comes home from school and finds his room impeccably neat and tidy, which is rather odd. While Mike may not be a horribly messy boy, he is not fond of cleaning. But Mike couldn’t care less whether his room is clean or not—what his attention is drawn to is his desk.

The night before, he had been feeling down and had taken out his collection of letters from Charlie and reread them in order. He had fallen asleep with the most recent one resting on his chest.

But today, there are no letters sitting next to his computer, and at this realization, Mike nearly has a heart attack. He runs to the kitchen, hollering, “Mom! Mom!”

Mrs. Teavee turns around and looks at him with raised eyebrows, a spatula in hand.

“When you cleaned my room, did you find any letters lying on my desk?”

She frowns, thinking. “Oh, those papers? Yes, there were quite a few. Mike, you really need to get your act together and start taking responsibility for cleaning your own room. You’re thirteen for heaven’s sake, and not a child any more. I keep telling you but—”

Mike’s eyes widen and he ignores her scolding. “What did you do with them?”

Mrs. Teavee sighs loudly in exasperation and turns back to the stove. “Oh, I shredded them.”

”What?”

Mike does not take to the loss of his beloved letters kindly. He yells and screams and shouts and curses his mother, who does not appreciate being scolded by her son. The argument escalates into a full-fledged clash and both parties end up in tears, Mrs. Teavee after Mike wishes that she would learn something about privacy or just fucking get out of my face, you bitch (he usually never swears around his parents, but he is just so incredibly angry) and Mike later when he is alone in his room and buried under his covers.

He cannot explain why the loss of Charlie’s letters feels like a hole has been burned through his heart. It is not as if he doesn’t have it all memorized, anyway. He knows that the physical letters themselves are nothing as long as he still remembers the joy of receiving them and his friendship with Charlie, but… It’s just that Mike sometimes cannot believe that he really has a friend now, and he needs to see the letters to prove to himself that he is not just dreaming. And now that the letters are gone, Mike feels less confident. It takes him three days longer to respond to Charlie’s latest letter than usual.

He overhears his parents expressing their concerns about his sudden return to his previous nastiness, a sharp jolt from what “improvement” they had sensed before, and it does little to make him feel better.

He hears his father say, “Mike’s not trying to cause any trouble. He only wishes to get along with you, honey; he may be a growing boy but deep inside, he still seeks our approval,” and he wants to kick the wall. The words are too close to the truth for his comfort, and it stings. Mike has spent his life avoiding sentimentality, letting himself care for others, and being dependent on anyone but himself; and after visiting Wonka’s factory, he feels like his entire world and everything he had lived by before has been completely upended. His parents are affecting him, what his classmates and teachers think of him is actually bothering him, and he… Charlie. He now has a friend, one whom he feels comfortable discussing his thoughts with. Mike feels so lost sometimes, like he is living someone else’s life.

Dear Mike,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So, how does it feel being fourteen? Is it any different at all? For me, turning twelve didn’t feel very different at first, but what came after obviously changed my life. I still think of my Golden Ticket as a sort of late birthday gift, the Factory and Mr. Wonka all included as part of the package. And you too, Mike. It’s been amazing, being able to have my own friend—I mean, my family and Mr. Wonka are wonderful, but sometimes I just need someone my own age to talk to, you know?

I’ve taken a brief break from working on our latest project to write to you, but now Mr. Wonka is bugging me to go back to the Inventing Room with him. I’ll write longer letter tonight, okay? I just wanted to make sure that you got my presents in time. I hope you like them.

I hope you have the happiest birthday ever. You deserve it, Mike.

Yours,
Charlie

Mike stares at the box in wonder. He hadn’t expected to receive a gift from Charlie at all, much less multiple ones, according to the brief letter. He has no idea as to what lies within the cardboard walls. What would a twelve-year-old chocolatier-in-training buy his friend across the Atlantic for his fourteenth birthday?

He digs through the padding and finds a stack of five brand new t-shirts. He frowns in confusion. Had Charlie forgotten that he no longer fit any clothes? They look to be the same size as the ones in his wardrobe. He doesn’t believe that Charlie had a memory lapse and accidentally forgot his “problem”, but he cannot think of any other explanation. He looks at them at feels disappointed—he wishes that he were able to fit them properly.

He peers into the box once more and finds a carefully wrapped canister, buried within the foam. There is a note attached.

We’ve done it! Inside this container is the cure for all your problems. Well, most of them, anyway.

Take as many red ones as you need to return to your regular height—each piece will shrink you about two inches. If something goes wrong, the blue ones will make you grow two inches. Mr. Wonka and I have worked hard day and night to make this, but please be careful. I really hope that it works.

I want you to be happy, Mike.

Happy birthday,
Charlie

Mike stares at the paper in disbelief. They… They had created something that would fix him? He would return to his “normal” height? He would no longer be gawped at by classmates and strangers alike? His mother would love him again?

He wrenches the cap off with a barely restrained enthusiasm and determination. The inside is filled to the brim with little spherical candies, red and blue. He takes a red piece out and examines it.

They seem so…ordinary. Part of him doubts that they are any different from any other (pointless) candy. Another part doubts that they are safe—had they been tested? He hopes that if they had, the victims had been those freaky Oompa Loompa things, or even better, Wonka himself. He debates not risking trying some, but the temptation is too great. If his mother starts speaking to him again, she might let him have his precious video games and television back…

And Charlie seems so confident…

Maybe he would just try one first.

He pops it into his mouth. There is a strange tingling in the pit of his stomach, and then suddenly it is gone. He frowns at the Halo poster directly in front of him. Is he remembering wrong, or had that poster somehow been moved slightly up on his wall?

Then it hits him.

It works.

(September 2005)
Notes: Originally, I had planned on posting this as a one-shot, but I rather liked this ending. So. Even after all these years, I’m still not all that confident in my writing, but I hope that it’s at least decent. I spent half of my summer (during which I should’ve been working on summer assignments) drilling myself to keep writing this every night (morning, really, it was around 4AM that the words truly came flowing out of my fingers).

Now that I’m back to school, there’ll be no more of these 4AM writing sessions (unless it’s an essay for English or History or something, gah). I do write in school during the duller classes, and I plan to spend a lot of my weekend writing. I want to write as much as I can whilst I still can—my last bout of Writer’s Block lasted over two years! Gah.

So… Thanks for reading, and reviews would make me happier than you can imagine. I look forward to posting the next part. Charlie/Mike shall live on!

* (October 2006) I haven't worked on this story in a while, but I do plan on continuing it. Hope you enjoyed, and keep your eyes out for an update sometime in the future! :)

papervanity@gmail.com — Sun, 08 Oct 2006 09:44:48 GMT

gay rights

papervanity@gmail.com — Thu, 05 Oct 2006 23:37:07 GMT

Hospital Visitation Rights <-- Please watch this, no matter what your view!

cars icon -- the second batch!

papervanity@gmail.com — Thu, 28 Sep 2006 07:31:28 GMT

Yay, icons! More to come. :)

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	28	29	30

31	32

No hotlinking.
Ask for permission to alter textless icons.
Credit aesthetica_not if used.
Comments are appreciated! :)

papervanity@gmail.com — Mon, 25 Sep 2006 03:45:11 GMT

I have a date for homecoming. :)

ere january

papervanity@gmail.com — Fri, 22 Sep 2006 09:33:05 GMT

e.e. cummings and clay aiken and nervous voices and soft hands and gay rights and burnt hair and warm arms.

for love: the foolish things we do, the stupid things we say, the lost words that we never said

for love: the time we spend together, the time we spend apart, the time we should've made a move, the time that slips past tan fingers like grains of sand

for love.

I miss the way that things used to be, a long, long time ago.

Someone to Care About - Chick/Lightning

papervanity@gmail.com — Wed, 06 Sep 2006 10:37:52 GMT

Title: Someone to Care About
Pairing: Chick/Lightning
Disclaimer: This story is based on Cars and its characters and situations, all created and owned by Walt Disney Pictures and Pixar Animation Studios.
Summary: Lightning thinks that Chick is only using him, but Chick will prove him wrong.

I: Confessions and Plans

“Hey, buddy! What’re you—”

Lightning turned around, startled. He quickly shoved something in a drawer and said nonchalantly, “Mater! Hey! Didn’t see you there, ehehe.”

Mater peered over him, at where whatever Lightning was hiding had been a moment ago. He frowned. “Wha’ was that?”

“Huh? N-nothing,” Lightning replied nervously.

Mater gave him a Look and opened the drawer to see for himself. Lightning raised a tire as if to stop him, but then sighed in defeat. A face-down picture frame lay on top of a messy stack of newspaper clippings. Mater picked it up to look at it. It was a photo of Sally and Lightning, sharing a smooch in the middle of the V8 Café, surrounded by smiling friends. Some were even clapping. Mater saw himself in the picture, grinning proudly around a can of fuel. He racked his brain, trying to remember the occasion.

Oh!

It had been Lightning and Sally’s one-month anniversary. Of course, three weeks later they had broken up. He frowned.

“I dun get it, Lightnin’. Why’re you lookin’ at this? I thought you was datin’ that ugly, mean green car, now.”

Lightning laughed. “That’s my…uh, boyfriend,” he grimaced slightly at the term, “you’re calling ugly! And he’s not so bad once you get to know him.” He paused, grinning. “Okay, that’s a lie. He’s a total pain in the bumper. But he has his perks.” He glanced at the picture, sighing. His tone suddenly turned solemn and wistful. “I was just… I miss her sometimes.”

Mater looked confused. “But you see Miss Sally all the time! How c’n you miss ‘er?”

Lightning shook his front end. “I mean, I miss being with her,” he clarified. “Chick’s great and all, but sometimes I just miss what it was like with Sally, you know?”

“’m not quite sure what you mean,” Mater said, looking puzzled. “D’you miss her lady parts or somethin’?”

Lightning flushed, his hood turning a deeper shade of red. “No, it’s nothing like that! It’s just… Sally was so nice and sweet to me and everything, and Chick’s so…rough and unemotional, you know? Not that I want him to give me flowers and declare his love to me on a beach or anything, but it would just be nice if he showed that he cared about me just once. He barely ever even talks to me when we’re alone, and refuses to go anywhere in public with me. I can’t even tell anyone—except for you of course, Mater—about us because he doesn’t want people to think badly of him.” He snorted. “As if they didn’t already.” Suddenly, realizing that he had just said all of that aloud, he looked at the ground sheepishly.

Mater was frowning. He hated to see his best friend unhappy. He could tell that Lightning really liked this guy, even though he was a real asshole.

“Why dun you talk t’him about it? Tell him about why y’re sad ‘n stuff,” he asked, trying to help.

Lightning shuffled his tires. “I doubt he would care,” he said honestly.

“Shoot, Lightnin’, I’m sure he cares! Mebbe he jus’ dun know how t’show it.”

Lightning shrugged. “Sometimes I think he’s just in this for the sex,” he said sadly. “I mean, not that the sex isn’t fantastic and everything,” he looked starry-eyed for a moment, “but if he’s going to be like this, I’m going to leave him soon. I don’t want to be anybody’s sextoy.” He chuckled at the irony of the situation. “Three months ago, I would have loved a no-strings-attached relationship, but I guess Radiator Springs has really tamed me.”

Mater smiled proudly, nudging him with a tire. “Knew you had it in ya from the moment I firs’ met ya,” he proclaimed.

Lightning rolled his eyes, grinning. “I still blame it on whatever Flo puts in her fuel.”

*

After spending the entire afternoon practicing in Lightning’s private track, Chick was exhausted, sweaty, and in desperate need of a wash.

He found the door to Lightning’s living quarters open and went in. He headed for Lightning’s massive room—the bathroom adjoined to it was the most spectacular one for miles—but stopped when he heard the voice of that dumb tow truck. He scowled, starting to make a U-turn towards the other bathroom when he heard himself being discussed.

“Chick’s great and all, but sometimes I just miss what it was like with Sally, you know?”

He froze, slowly moving towards the bedroom again. He peered over the door frame. The two cars were by Lightning’s desk, with the tow truck holding a framed picture of…Lightning kissing the Porsche bitch? His heart pounded. He had practically given himself over to the other racecar, and Lightning was paying him back like this? By saying it just wasn’t good enough?

Take that back, he pleaded Lightning silently.

He didn’t take it back, but he did go on to explain:

“…Chick’s so…rough and unemotional, you know? Not that I want him to give me flowers and declare his love to me on a beach or anything, but it would just be nice if he showed that he cared about me just once. He barely ever even talks to me when we’re alone, and refuses to go anywhere in public with me. I can’t even tell anyone—except for you of course, Mater—about us because he doesn’t want people to think badly of him.”

That’s not why, Chick thought disjointedly, feeling more and more annoyed—and yet, a little…sad?—by the second. I warned you not to tell anyone because I knew they would only try to make you leave me.

“I doubt he would care.”

Chick almost snarled. Who did this guy think he was? He didn’t move in with anyone just for the hell of it. Having heard enough of Lightning’s insecurities, he was about to go take his shower when he heard Lightning say, “If he’s going to be like this, I’m going to leave him soon.”

Panic flooded him. He swallowed painfully, sinking lower to the ground. Scrunching his eyes shut, he quickly cleared his mind of any disappointment, replacing it with anger and determination.

Like hell Lightning was going to leave him. Not after Chick had gone through so much trouble trying to win him over. Okay, he had just cornered him and kissed him senseless, but it had been more difficult than it sounded. And he liked the way things were. Even though sometimes it was so boring here in Radiation Stinks, with nothing to do but race and watch old movies on the television, the nights made it all worth it.

But if Lightning wasn’t happy with the status quo, Chick would have to do something about it. He grimaced. He had to somehow show him that he “cared”. Frowning, he wondered when Lightning had become such a sap. Damn town. If only he had gotten to him sooner…

Oh! The truck was saying goodbye to Lightning. Chick watched disdainfully as the rusty creature drove out of the room, happily singing to himself and completely overlooking Chick. Oh well, all the better for him. He counted to five and then entered the room nonchalantly, heading towards the bathroom.

“Ch-Chick!” Lightning stammered in surprise.

“What,” Chick snapped. He hoped the kid wasn’t about to take the hillbilly’s lousy advice and actually try to talk to him. How the hell was he supposed to explain that he just wasn’t the affectionate type, but did care about him?

“I thought you were practicing.”

Chick stopped, turning around. He raised his windshield. “I was. I’m finished.”

“Oh.” Lightning shuffled his tires, looking anxious. He opened his mouth to speak, and then snapped it shut again, looking regretful and slightly embarrassed. “I, uh…” He looked toward the desk drawer guiltily. “Did you hear what Mater and I were talking about?”

Chick shrugged, feigning an uninterested look. “Something about fuel? How am I supposed to know what you and your dumb little friends talk about?” he complained. Lightning looked partly relieved and partly annoyed.

“Okay,” he said.

Chick gave him an odd look before shrugging and driving into the bathroom.

Outside, Lightning exhaled and bit his lip, looking conflicted.

*

“Hey, what do you think of…”

Chick glanced over at Lightning, who appeared to have nodded off. He put down the magazine he had been lazily reading. Looking furtively around him—as if to check that nobody was watching—he scooted closer. He peered at him, musing to himself about how childlike and (Manufacturer forbid he use the word) cute Lightning looked when asleep, with his eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open. (Chick quickly chased away the sexual thoughts that suddenly assaulted his mind.) His tires shifted every once in a while and he mumbled incoherently under his breath.

Just as he was wondering what he was dreaming about, Lightning murmured his name softly.

Startled, Chick jumped a little before peering more closely at the younger car. So the boy was dreaming about him, eh? He debated just leaving him be, but he decided to put the first part of his plan into order. A voice in the back of his mind whispered that it had nothing to do with plans of any sort and everything to do with knowing that sleeping on the hard wooden floor would be hell on Lighting’s tires.

He nudged him, muttering, “Hey, wake up. Yo, kid. McQueen! Wake up, you idiot!”

Lighting slowly opened his eyes, squinting at the green blob that was Chick. “Huh?” he said blearily.

“Bedtime!” Chick said cheerily.

Lightning groaned. Bedtime meant sex time in Chick’s world. Even on the days when Lightning had come home late, Chick had always been wide awake and waiting. It would have been a sweet gesture if Chick hadn’t been waiting up to have sex. And he always got what he wanted, even when Lightning protested. But Lightning couldn’t exactly accuse him of rape because by the time Chick’s mouth had found its way to that sensitive spot on his left side, he was begging Chick for release.

“I’m not really in the mood tonight,” Lightning said honestly, hoping that Chick would listen for once.

Chick raised an eyebrow. “Not in mood for bed? You were sleeping like a log five seconds ago; you can’t honestly tell me that you don’t want to go to bed.”

Lightning rolled his eyes. He clearly wasn’t getting the message. “Chick, I don’t want to have sex tonight,” he said, yawning exaggeratedly.

Chick raised his windshield, looking incredulous. “Who said anything about sex? I said ‘bedtime’. As in sleep. No sex.” Inwardly, he cursed himself. Damn plan. Damn Lightning. He wasn’t going to get any tonight; he would have to keep his tires off of the other car. Things like this were easier said than done.

Lightning stared at him in shock.

But then again, maybe it was worth it, just to put that look on the other’s face.

He nudged Lightning’s bumper and pushed him to the bedroom. He settled down next to him on the bed before reaching a tire over and switching off the light.

“’Night,” Chick said gruffly. Lightning gaped at him, shocked that he was going to sleep without a sore rear end. He opened his mouth to ask Chick what the hell was going on when Chick suddenly let out a loud snore.

Lightning frowned in confusion, closing his eyes. A moment later, he was asleep.

Next to him, Chick stopped pretending to be asleep, eyes snapping open. He inched closer to Lightning and threw a tire over his hood before falling asleep as well.

II: Complications

When Lightning awoke, it was nearly noon. The mat next to his was empty. That was odd. Chick usually slept until early afternoon.

“Chick?” he called out. There was no reply. Puzzled, Lightning checked the bathroom and living room, trying to remember if Chick had said something about going out last night. Ordinarily, he just lounged around the place watching television and reading magazines, practiced for hours on end on the track, or went out to do whatever he did that sometimes kept him away for days on end (though he did usually tell Lightning beforehand whenever that was the case).

Finally, when he had given up and was going to have breakfast (or lunch, rather), he found a note hastily scrawled and stuck on the refrigerator.

Kid:

Agent reminded me I’m appearing on some talk show today. Driving the hell out of here to California. Back by the end of the week.

- C.

P.S. Keep Friday free—we’ll go for a drive or something.

Lightning didn’t think that his eyes could be any wider. He reread the last line of the note. Then again. And again. And again. What…the…hell…? A drive? They didn’t take drives! He had asked Chick once, but the other had brushed him off with a scowl and something about drives being too girly and “relationship-y”. Lightning had flared up in response, angrily asking Chick what they were if not in a relationship. Chick had slept in the living room that night.

Wondering what the other car was up to, he opened up the refrigerator and began scrounging for something to eat.

*

Munching on Gask-its, Lightning flipped through the channels, bemoaning the lack of anything remotely interesting. Wait, there…

“How confident are you about this year’s Piston Cup?”

“Oh, baby, the Cup is as good as mine. What can I say? The Chick era has begun.”

Lightning stepped away from the remote, chuckling to himself at Chick’s unwavering confidence.

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” he said to the screen, but smiled.

“You sure do seem confident,” Katie Klutch, the hostess commented.

“I hear pretty ladies like you like that in a car,” Chick said, winking. She giggled and blushed as several female cheers were heard in the background.

“Oh, Chick, you charmer! But back to business. How do you think the hotshot rookie Lightning McQueen will affect your chances of taking home this year’s Cup?”

Chick rolled his eyes. “Lightning McQueen this, Lightning McQueen that; you’d think the kid was Chrysler on Earth or something, what with how everyone goes on about him.”

“Well, then, Chick,” she said, “What do you think of him?”

“He’s an egotistical, over-confident brat who could do well with a losing streak to dampen his ego.”

She raised a windshield, suddenly looking very smug.

“You seem to dislike him, Chick. How would you describe your relationship to McQueen? What do you think of the rumors that he is your lover?”

Chick, who had been relaxed the entire interview so far, suddenly stiffened and straightened up. “What?” he said in alarm.

Lightning’s eyes widened almost comically, his mouth forming a perfect ‘O’. Who… Who would have started that rumor? Who could know? None of his friends even knew, except for Mater! And Mater knew how to keep a secret. He hoped desperately that the media was just out of their minds and needed a story. He watched the screen intently, waiting to see how Chick would deflect the question.

“The rumors that you are romantically involved with McQueen, are they true?”

“Ah, that. Well.” He appeared to relax again, but his eyes betrayed that he was taken aback by the question. He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Yeah, we’re seeing each other,” he said nonchalantly.

No! Lightning’s mind screamed. No no no no no!

A nosey gossipmonger, Klutch eagerly leaned forward on her front wheels. Her eyes glittered in excitement. “And?” she prompted.

“You know, it’s just nice to have someone to care about,” he finished, keeping his cool.

The warm, fluttery feeling Lightning felt at Chick’s admission—he cared about him!—was quickly drowned by horror. Klutch’s show was incredibly popular. Everyone was going to see it. Then the reporters and journalists would hop on the story and broadcast it to the rest of the world, and soon everyone in the world would know that he, Lightning McQueen, racecar extraordinaire, was with the unpopular, cheater Chick Hicks! His supposed enemy! How would he deal with the embarrassment? Famous racecars were supposed to have pretty girls glued to their sides, not be sleeping with dirty cheating losers. Chrysler, what would his fans think? Would they ditch him and find some other car to support? Some car that wasn’t involved with Chick Hicks? Was his reign going to fall to shambles because Chick had said something dumb on television?

He kicked his empty fuel can across the room. Stupid Chick! He just had to open his big mouth and blurt out to the world that Lightning McQueen had chosen his enemy over all those pretty girls who always lined up for his tire print.

What an idiot you are, Lightning chided himself. What an idiot you are for actually trusting that bastard.

*

Chick returned to Radiator Springs three days later. He zoomed down Route 66, excited to be back (though he would never admit that). He hated Radiator Springs—the people were sickeningly nice and dull, plus they probably all loathed him; the food was boring; and there was nothing to do—but being with Lightning was worth staying in this hellhole. He would never admit that either.

He slowed down when he reached the headquarters, twisting his face into his usual scowl to disguise his joy at returning to the closest thing to home that he had.

*

Lightning heard the back door of the headquarters open and Chick’s voice muttering angrily in the foyer. He unlocked the door and parked himself next to the entrance to his rooms.

“Hey,” Chick grunted when he entered, going towards the bedroom and sparing him only a glance.

Lightning glared at him.

Chick stopped, turning around, frowning.

“What?”

“I saw Katie Klutch’s show,” Lightning snarled.

“Yeah? I looked good, huh?”

Lightning ignored him. “What the hell were you thinking? I’ll be ruined!”

Chick stared at him incredulously.

“Don’t you understand?” Lightning cried. “How could you tell everyone about this?”

“Oh, so now it’s this?” Chick narrowed his eyes and growled. “I thought you were the one who was so adamant about it being a relationship?” Lightning flinched. “Or are you backing out, now that it’s not a secret anymore?”

“You’re the one who wouldn’t let me tell my friends!”

“I just didn’t want them to make you leave me, all right? Clearly, I’m not the one who cares more about their image than their relationship!” Chick growled, deliberately emphasizing the last word in a mocking fashion.

Lightning narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”

“’Oh no, I’m ruined!’” Chick mocked cruelly in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. “Sounds like somebody is ashamed. Is that it, McQueen? Are you ashamed to be sleeping with the ugly, mean, cheating Chick Hicks?” He leered. “And liking it?”

“Can you blame me?” Lightning cried. Chick reared back, failing to hide the pain in his eyes. But Lightning was too busy ranting to notice. “I mean, you’re no sports car!”

“You didn’t seem to mind on Saturday night.”

“Like you would have cared if I minded.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“What I mean, is, you care nothing about my say when it comes to taking what you want. You practically rape me every other night!”

“Rape you!” Chick shouted. “What the fuck? You’re the one always moaning ‘Oh, don’t stop, Chick!’ the whole time!”

“Whenever I’m not in the mood, you always go ahead and take what you want from me anyway. If that’s not non-consensual sex, I don’t know what is.”

“How can you not be in the mood? And I thought you liked the sex!”

“If I only wanted sex—like someone—I could easily find someone just as willing and twice as nice. You’re such an asshole, Chick.”

“Yeah? You think I’m that easily replaceable?” Chick challenged, misunderstanding Lightning’s point. “Great to know that I’m appreciated. Well, you know what? I’m leaving! For good, this time! Should’ve known that a little runt like you wouldn’t know a catch if he joined you on a big fluffy mattress and stuck his bumper in your face!”

“Fine! Leave! See if I care! It’ll be nice not having your lazy ass lounging around my place all day!”

“Oh yeah? Well, it’ll be nice to not having to listen to you whining all the time. And to think that I admitted that I cared for you on public television, just because I thought that it might make you happy.” He glared. “Fuck you, McQueen. Have fun looking for someone else who won’t mind dealing with all your shit.”

And with that, he swung out the door.

Lightning glared at the door when it slammed shut and ignored the aching pain he felt prickling his engine.

“Good riddance,” he muttered, but couldn’t muster up enough hate to mean it.

*

The next morning, Lightning woke up to an empty room again. Like the last time, he didn’t know where Chick was.

But unlike last time, he didn’t know if Chick would ever come back.

TBC

live for yourself and for your happiness

papervanity@gmail.com — Tue, 05 Sep 2006 23:18:24 GMT

This is my response to a friend's post. But like, I'm not addressing her or anything.

There's nothing wrong with "just dying". What's so sad about it? Why must we be so greedy, wanting some heaven, some perfect life after this one? What's wrong with this life? If you make the most of it, you don't need some heaven after "this". Something to look forward to? What's wrong with looking forward to things like going out with friends this Friday, getting your paycheck, going to college, getting your first promotion? Maybe some people don't like the way their lives are now. Well, you gotta get up off your lazy ass and MAKE it better! Why're so many people bouncing in their seats, eager for The Next Big Thing, when they could be happy NOW? Why do you need a heaven, when you can make yourself happy? When you already are happy? When you know you couldn't be happier?

There's no Greater Deity, no Meaning of Life, no provable explanation of how we came to be. Who cares about any of that? But you say, what do we live for? Live for?! We live for ourselves, for our happiness, for that explosive, loving feeling you get once in a while when you're with your friends and you feel tears prickling your eyes because you're laughing so hard, when that boy you've had your eyes on talks to you, when you get to do something you've wanted to do for a long time, when you get an A on that test you studied so hard for, when that box of toys or polaroids or computer games or posters arrives at your house, when you realize how lucky you are to have everything that you have. Why are we here? We're here to live and love and learn and be.

Heaven? Who needs heaven, when we have this? Happiness? Bliss? Ecstasy? Paradise? We already have all that HERE and NOW. Some people reach for that, and some don't. The people that don't are the ones who sit here, idly waiting for That Next Big Thing. For that heaven, where everything'll be jolly great. Nobody likes waiting. Save yourself the trouble. Reach for that happiness. Reach for that moon. And they're right--if you miss, you'll land among the stars. And then you can try again. Some people make it, some people don't. Some people die without ever feeling happiness. But if they tried, then that makes all the difference. There's always some kind of silver lining, whether you like it or not. Whether you see it or not. Maybe you were head-over-heels in love with this guy in your math class and wanted him to ask you out, and so you chased him, but all you ever got was a hug and a bunch of idle conversation. Maybe you wanted to be a manager of a store, but when you applied, they gave you the lousy cashier job. Maybe you wanted to ACE this test and prove to everyone that you're not a dumbass, and you studied your ass off, but you got a B+. We're so greedy, wanting more, always wanting more. But maybe you can try to not be so greedy and just appreciate what you got, what you have. It makes you happier, it makes the people around you happier.

Maybe it's okay that you don't understand your siblings. But you'll find that even if you don't understand them, you should try to get closer to them. Talk to them more, say funny things that make them laugh; maybe they'll seem so immature and dumb sometimes, but laugh it off and then act their age! Maybe you'll feel silly, but they'll have a great time. And it's strange, but being an older sibling... When they're having a great time with you, a smile just appears on your face as well. Maybe it's the way they (unconsciously) look up to you, maybe it's the way they brag about you or something you have/have done to their friends. Maybe you'll never understand each other, but maybe you can come to an understanding. You're siblings, and in the end, they'll be the ones who will still care for you, even when everyone else is gone, even when they're busy with their own lives. It's a terrible thing, but sometimes friends come and go, but siblings are more concrete. And... I know that I feel a lot happier and lighter, now that my sister and I are on such great terms.

People come and go in all of our lives. But sometimes we meet new people, new people who make it all worth it. Sometimes we don't, but at least we still have those great memories. Maybe we all only have two years, and we'll all fall apart. But I don't think any of us are going to forget each other, or the great times we had together. Maybe we all only have two more years together, but isn't that even more initiative to make the most out of these two years? Maybe someone will walk away, maybe someone will die, maybe someone will just fade away, but in our hearts, we'll remember.

And maybe, just maybe, that makes it all worth it.

(If only the essay I have to do for summer homework would flow from my fingers so easily...)

kelly's birthday partayyy! (numero dos)

papervanity@gmail.com — Sun, 03 Sep 2006 06:51:54 GMT

Kelly's fondue party was lovely. :) As it seems that it can never be ALL of us (seriously, I think we're always missing at least one person [ETA: Never mind; we all hung out on the last day of school]), everyone but Mag was there. It was food galore, wow! Pretzels and Pirate's Booty and Lil' Smokies ("My weenie is covered in cheese", hee) and chicken and meatballs (squares, cubes!) and broccoli and carrots and fruit and cheese and barbecue sauce and sweet n' sour sauce for dinner; chocolate/coffee ice cream cake and chocolate and caramel and STRAWBERRIES (!!!!!!) and cake cubes and pretzels and cookies! Muy delicioso. :) Kelly's mom is un fantastic cook.

After dinner we got all sweaty playing DDR (or in my case, having epileptic fits?) changed (well, Diana stripped, hahah!) and went in el Jacuzzi. w00t. Except for Jayne, who is an insecure loser. I felt like a Sim; it was great. Someone exclaimed, "OMG, Diana, are you in your underwear?!" And Kelly said, "It's okay, she looks no different than Elaine" or something, but it was the most hilarious thing! Being made fun of by Kelly is funnier than anything. She's so hilarious. :D

Also, I was like "REALLY, he likes Keira Knightley?! You know, I'd always thought that it was so weird that a lot of guys like her. I mean she's... She's just... you know? Umm... I don't know how to describe it. Hmm... She's really...flat. And I mean, that's like, yeah, you know?! Umm." And then Erin says, "You know Elaine, if a lot of guys like her, and you're a girl, I think you're the weird one," or something to that extent. HAHA. It was like, first time ever Erin had made a joke about my sexuality, and there was a little sting there because I know what she thinks of things of that sort, but I'm glad I was able to laugh it off.

Kelly and I were talking about how everyone is so different (at my party, I randomly awoke from dozing off and said, "Dude, we're all so different!" and then lay back down, haha), and I was talking about how maybe the one little thing we all have in common is that we're able to laugh off what other people might find insulting. I mean, how many people really find it hilarious when their closest friends make fun of them for being a desperate slut or for their lack of a chest? And how many times have we laughed at Diana's constant absence and strange taste in the male species (and blatant lesbionic-ness!), Maggie's randomly stained shirts and repeating punchlines, Kristine and Amanda's crazy eating habits, Erin's manga obsession, Jayne's maleness/lack of gender, Kelly's random threats ("Don't make me punch you!") and matter-of-factness about the funniest things, and that's just off the top of my head! It's pretty awesome, yeah? That we can stay close despite all our differences? And I mean, it's not just Plaza Vista. We've all had opportunities to move on, hang out with other people (and hell, some of us have), but we're still...THE circle, you know? Or maybe I'm just delusional and nobody really cares as much as I do about us, but I mean, well. Kelly was like "Aaah!" when she opened my card to her (my classic thing is all the mush about being friends and stuff, heh), and I hope that she and everyone else knows that I really mean everything I write in those things. :)

Oh, and ala Erin: "Hello, is Mr. Kok there?"

Instead of putting my name on my cup, I wrote CARS. And at one point Diana was like, "Well, that's because I create feelings in others that they themselves don't understand" and I could've died of love! :D

birthday partayyy

papervanity@gmail.com — Mon, 28 Aug 2006 09:40:37 GMT

Hooray, I ended up being able to celebrate my sixteenth birthday after all! Disneyland with a big group is so much fun.

So everyone met at my house in the morning and we just hung out for a while, waiting for Diana (as usual). More gifts! My friends are the best. ♥ Mag got me the big Mater plushie, a picture frame with Lightning and Sheriff on it, and keychains of the King and Lightning (which I'd planned on buying, so yay!). It was fandom heaven! Cars merchandise = ^___^ And Kelly's gift was soooo sweet and personalized. She got me a Cars coloring book (because it's what I've been raving about lately), a $15 iTunes gift card (because I buy my music), lip balm (because I love makeup), bronzer for legs (because I'm always complaining about my pale legs), and a bunch of bags (because she knows I collect bags!). Even the bag that everything was in is my favorite blue. And Kristine made me a loooovely card. It has the original! polaroid of us at Disneyland for Kelly's party on one side and pictures of the little boys she knows that I love on the other. YAY!

Went on River Run three times, w00t. We sat with an 11 year old kid, this freshman dude, and an old guy, hahah). I went on Tower of Terror for the first time--and then I went on it twice again! The first time, the lady doing the acting was like, "Are there any first riders?" or something, and I was the only one to raise my hand (and terrified-out-of-my-wits-edly!). The entire room laughed. Haha, and before that, this guy in front of me was like, "I bet I'm going to scream louder than you are" and I replied, "No way!" We argued over it for a bit and then I said, "This is my first time," and he was like, "Oh, okay, you're going to scream WAY louder than me." He was pretty cute, heh.

Oh, and when we were getting off of the boat on Jungle Cruise, the attendant said, "Be careful, princess," to me, hahaha. And when we were out of earshot, Diana started talking about how "not-so-bad" he was and spluttering with jealousy when I told her what he'd said to me. Hahahahah. :)

We left at eleven-ish and Di, Mag, Kelly, and Jayne stayed over. w00t!

Amusing moments of the day:

Me saying "Okay, let's meet at the E in California!"
Me blatantly pointing at some guy in the line for Pirates and saying, "I want his shirt!"
Diana saying "Shut the fuck up, Jayne! Oh shit! Damn it!" after Jayne swore in front of some kid.
Don't believe my terrible math skills? The cashier said "$27.49, please," to Diana, who showed him her annual pass for a discount, and then amended it to "$24.49, please." My response? "OMG, wow, that thing is awesome! $5 off? Wow!" And then, not even realizing my mistake, I went to gush about the wonderfulness of annual passes to Maggie ("$5 off, can you believe it?!), who gave me an incredulous look. I laughed so hard when I finally realized how dumb I was.
Spotting this (it was pretty small) in the distance and shrieking "CARS!" at the top of my lungs. I haven't gotten that many stares in a long time, heh.
Diana asking, "If you were falling off the top of a building and had to choose whether to land in an 'average-sized' pile of crap from you-don't-know-what (it could be animal or human waste) or a HUGE pile of your own, which would you pick?" and Kelly responding incredibly matter-of-factly (with the facial expression and all), "Of course it would be your own! What kind of question is that!"
When we were all waiting for Diana to get to my house, I called her and talked to her mom on the phone. (It was like half an hour after the time I'd scheduled for everyone to meet.) She said, in a very confused voice, "Is Diana supposed to be at your house right now?"
Walking by some random guy who was saying to his friend, "And then I was lubricating..." and cracking up like a maniac (or rather, like an immature eighth grade boy). :D
Maggie and Diana asking me if I had "panty mattresses" at my house.
In front of Tower of Terror, the waiting time says "13 Minutes". I was like, "Yay, my favorite number! But wow, what an odd number!" And then, "...Oh. OHHHH, I GET IT!"
So I went into a laughing fit and Diana asked me what I was doing. I replied, "Laughing my ass off!" and then Kelly said, "Like LMAO!" As in, actually pronounced it out: lah-mau!

Jayne, Erin, Diana, Kelly, Maggie, Diana's feet, and me.

I thought it was my birthday!

I love this one. I wish Jayne and Amanda were in it, too!

Maggie's head is up Mike's ass, Jayne is a princess, Kristine has massive fluffy claws, and I'm...sexy. What's the world coming to? :)

Hooray for another successful birthday party! And Kelly's birthday party (her one in June was from her dad and this one's from her mom, haha) is this weekend, yay. (I'm never going to get any homework done.)

papervanity@gmail.com — Sun, 20 Aug 2006 19:09:41 GMT

Rules:
1. Emphasize all lines that apply to you.
2. Tag five more people after you finish, complete with links to their sites.
3. Let the person you've tagged KNOW that they've been tagged, for Pete's sake.

I wish I was a different ethnicity.
I have an eating disorder.
I'm short.
I'm tall.
I think I'm really attractive.
I prefer winter over summer.
I'm a geek. In varying degrees and tastes.
I'm a shopaholic.
I'm reasonably intelligent.
I'm attracted to girls.
I'm attracted to boys.
I like British accents.
I smoke regularly.
I drink regularly.
I smoke socially.
I drink socially.
I get drunk easily.
I do drugs.
I will never date a bad kisser.
I've lied to avoid kissing them again.
I brush my hair at least 50 times a night.
I'm religious.
I'm not religious but have morals.
I lie frequently.
I'm impulsive.
I'm hardworking.
I liked "Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind."
"She's All That" is one of my favourite movies.
I'm good at History.
I speak more than two languages.
I enjoy taking pictures.
I like spending money on myself.
I like spending money on others.
I have a regular income. Allowance, yo.
I earn money on a job-by-job basis.
I pay my own bills.
I rely on my parents for money.
I can cook.
I enjoy cleaning.
Tidyness is a must in my life.
I like clutter.
My idea of good music is Britney Spears.
I have heard of Blonde Redhead.
I enjoy Blonde Redhead.
I'm fashion-conscious.
I have good taste.
People tell me I have good taste.
I excel academically.
I'm told I have yet to fulfill my potential.
I'm good at sports.
I'm good at certain sports.
I couldn't do sports to save my life.
I'm creative.
I'm artistically inclined.
I wanna be an artist when I grow up.
I wanna be an engineer when I grow up.
I eat when I'm upset.
I cannot adapt to change.
I'm interested in politics. Very.
I have shoplifted.
I download MP3s.
I've done underage drinking.
I've gone underage clubbing.
I can dance reasonably well.
I can dance extremely well.
I dance like a cardboard gorilla.
I can sing.
I sing like someone stepped on my foot.
I can swim.
I enjoy surveys.
I keep a journal.
My teachers don't like me.
I enjoy controversy.
I can be a bitch/bastard. And I hate it.
I have a thing for bad boys/girls.
I have tattoos.
I've been in a nudist colony.
I'm not sure if I want to have children.
I'm not sure if I'll get married.
I know who I will marry.
I'm interesting.
I'm a good liar.
People enjoy talking to me.
I annoy people from time to time.
I'm a born leader.
I'm a born leader but shouldn't lead.
I enjoy felching.
I have a foot fetish.
I have a shoe fetish.
I watch "Sex and the City."
I don't think Sarah Jessica Parker is pretty.
I wanna be J.Lo.
I cut myself.
I've cut myself.
I hate people who pretend to be suicidal.
I hate popular people.
I think cheerleading is a sport. (I think that it is a sport in the way that dance is a sport.)
I'm photogenic.
I live in Chucks.
I think graffiti is art.
I have dated a criminal.
I have been cheated on.
I have cheated on someone.
I have a temper.
I like playgrounds.
I dance in the rain.
I'm obsessed with Shakespeare.
I have tanlines.
My favourite color is pink.
My favourite color is black.
I would classify myself as emo.
I'm musically inclined.
I like listening to music.
I like music-blasting cars.
Thongs are comfortable.
I like flip-flops.
I know what monogamy is...
...and I believe in it.
I wanna be a social worker when I grow up.
I have sibling/s.
My sibling/s annoy me.
I think "South Park" is funny.
I believe in LOVE.

Tag: igagme, rahrahrancune, the_hoozah, pikakao, feretsberets

dland trips > mainstream teens' rebellious shit :)

papervanity@gmail.com — Sun, 20 Aug 2006 01:35:33 GMT

Sometimes I think we live for these Disneyland trips. I'm so glad I got that Annual Passport. $139 is nothing compared to the sheer amount of fun we have whenever we go. Of course, there is also the 308023895 dollars we spend on food and other random impulse buys, but hey, it's better than going to wild parties and getting drunk and smoking and doing drugs, right? :) As the days go by, we get closer, we get more comfortable with each other, we laugh more. The sheer amount of inside jokes and funny stories and teasing/ridiculing of one another--all in good fun, of course--triples. I dread the day when all of this ends. We've got two more years--a long time, and yet such a short one. Well, whatever it is, I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts, with the people I love more than anything in the world.

Mother drove me to Kelly's house in the morning (I saw a Sally--a blue 911 Porsche--on the way!) and Erin showed me her shiny new playing cards (w/ birds + facts on them!) while we waited for Diana. Picked up Amanda, headed off. Park-hopped! It's our new tradition, heh. Went on both Space Mountain and the River Run three times! Erin had to buy a new sweatshirt after the third time she got drenched, hehehe. Missed Indiana Jones, though. But the frozen lemonade and clam chowder and fish n' chips made up for it. (But not for the hole in my wallet! Well okay, I actually ended up having $13 left over! Crazy.) Watched the Electrical Light parade thing, too. Wow, spastic colors and spastic music! Awesome. Erin and I played Speed and War with her bird cards while we waited (she went CRAZY; I love hyper!Erin) and Diana, Kelly, Amanda, and Duy played with these clear cards that they bought, hahaha. They kept yelling about not being able to see the cards.

Di and I got our faces painted! At first I was like dude, no, too expensive, but then we saw some little girl getting kind of a customized one, so I was like, "OMG I WANT LIGHTNING ON MY FACE". I asked the really nice guy if he'd seen the movie, and he said no, so I asked him for just a red racecar with a lightning bolt on the side. And wow, he did a great job. I was expecting just a red blob with black wheels and a yellow smudge, but it actually looked like a car! He asked if I wanted eyes, but since I was afraid he would mess them up, I told him it was okay. (But later we drew his eyes in with Amanda's eyeliner, hahaha! Even though it wasn't blue.) He even put red glitter on it so that it looked shiny! In the pictures it looks kinda like the Rust-Eze logo. I should've asked him for a "95" on the side, too. Hee. :)

I really wanted to see the Cars Pre-Parade and take pictures with Lightning and Mater, but I was in line for the River Run when it was going on! I really wanted to just go off by myself, but since I was undecided (Grizzly River Run is my favorite ride after Space Mountain, and it's SO much fun with friends) everyone promised that they'd come with me next week to see them. For my birthday celebration. w00t. :)











P.S. I got to see a MASSIVE 107503275037 FT TALL poster of Cars, and watch the Life is a Highway video in the World of Disney store with a huge, maniacal grin on my face. :D!!!!

The Dangers of Attraction - Doc/Lightning

papervanity@gmail.com — Sun, 20 Aug 2006 00:21:37 GMT

Title: The Dangers of Attraction
Pairing: Doc/Lightning
Disclaimer: This story is based on Cars and its characters and situations, all created and owned by Walt Disney Pictures and Pixar Animation Studios.
Summary: Sheriff tries to warn Doc about the danger of his attraction to Lightning, but Doc is already in too deep.

“You’re just going to end up hurting yourself,” he tells Doc for what feels like the hundredth time. Doc nods, but he has a faraway look on his face. Sheriff sighs.

“I don’t understand what you see in that delinquent, anyway.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Doc says shortly.

Sheriff frowns, undeterred. “Try me.”

“He reminds me of myself, when I was young,” Doc says quietly, and Sheriff knows there is some big, important story behind this. He waits for an elaboration, but Doc remains silent, staring into the distance.

“How?” he ventures.

“Like I said, you wouldn’t understand,” Doc says in a forceful tone that demands that the subject be dropped, before pushing him out of his office.

Sheriff stares at the closed door, windshield furrowed.

Doc’s right. He doesn’t understand.

*

“Why don’t you get a quart of oil at Flo’s? I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Sheriff gives him a sidelong look. Doc doesn’t appear to be fazed. He looks determined.

Sheriff sighs, giving up. “Thanks, Doc. I’ve been feeling a quart low,” he says in a cheery tone that nearly overrides his concern. “Watch yourself,” he warns him in a quieter tone.

Doc gives an imperceptible nod, eyes fixed on Lightning.

Shaking his front end, Sheriff turns back towards the town.

*

“Doc, you know I’m your friend, right?”

Doc gives him a funny look. “Of course, Sheriff. Why?”

Sheriff narrows his eyes at him. “And you know that you can tell me anything, right?” Doc looks nervous. He knows what’s coming. “Why was the boy talking about you being a racecar?” Sheriff asks, even though he already knows the answer. “Why—”

“Some things are better kept buried in the past,” Doc says sharply. Sheriff frowns, attempting a different tact.

“He seemed really excited about it. Like he worshipped you or something.”

Doc looks away. “Yeah. I heard.” Then quieter, “That boy is going to be my demise, Wallis.” Sheriff’s engine wrenches at the pained look on his long-time friend’s face. “He’s everywhere,” he almost whispers.

“Well, this here ain’t exactly the biggest town, Doc.”

Doc shakes his front end. “No, he’s everywhere. Everywhere I go. He won’t get out of my mind.” If he didn’t sound so serious, Sheriff would laugh at him for sounding like a lovesick teenager. Before he can respond, Doc cuts in, suddenly sounding angry. “I want that boy out of here, Sheriff.”

“No, you don’t,” Sheriff replies matter-of-factly.

Doc remains silent.

*

Doc drives into Flo’s and parks at the stall next to Sheriff.

“I just talked to him,” he announces quietly, and Sheriff narrows his eyes at him, attempting to gauge whether this is good news or not. “He doesn’t care about anything but himself,” Doc continues, and Sheriff frowns at him. Doc is obviously upset, but he knows that prying will be useless. If Doc wants to tell him something, Doc will tell him of his own accord.

“The boy? But that’s nothing new.”

Doc nods slowly. “He says that I’m just as selfish as him. I’m nothing like him,” he growls, and Sheriff is completely bewildered. Hadn’t Doc told him that he was attracted to him because he reminded him of himself in his younger days?

“Doc, what…?”

Doc sighs heavily, as if burdened by some invisible weight on his roof.

“I want to tell you about my history,” Doc says, and Sheriff has no idea what this is about, but he settles down with his can of fuel and listens.

*

The morning sun rises over Radiator Springs and everyone comes out to see the progress of the new road and thank the car who paved it. Problem is, he’s not there.

“He’s done,” Mater says in wonder. “He must’a finished it while we was sleepin’.”

“Good riddance,” Doc says, and Sheriff catches a glint of regret in his eyes as he drives past him to his office.

*

“Sheriff.”

Sheriff’s eyes snap open and he blinks to clear his eyes of sleep. “Doc? What are you doing h—”

He looks panicked. “I called them,” he confesses. He is referring to the press, of course. Sheriff shrugs.

“Yeah, I heard you talking to Sally earlier tonight.”

Doc nods. There is a long silence, during which Sheriff stares at his friend in bemusement. He looks like he is trying to put his words together. Sheriff waits.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

Sheriff looks at him, shocked at how helpless he sounds. Doc’s always been so strong and firm about everything. He’s always kept his head straight in any situation. It seems almost wrong to see him like this, so vulnerable and anxious.

“Doc, I…”

“He told me I was amazing,” Doc says, voice cracking. He begins to shake uncontrollably, and for a second Sheriff worries that he is having a seizure of some kind before he realizes that Doc is silently crying. He has no idea what to do. After a moment, he settles for allowing Doc to lean on him and murmuring “It’s okay” every few seconds.

“I’m never going to see him again,” Doc chokes out between gasps, and Sheriff doesn’t know what to say.

*

He can’t help but notice that it was Doc who took the initiative to go after Lightning, not Sally. He can’t help but notice that Doc ordered Sally to stay in Radiator Springs—he finds the thought of a jealous Doc strange indeed, but he supposes attraction (attraction as strong as Doc’s interest and attachment to the boy, anyway) does funny things to people—and that Sally consented with little protest. He can’t help but notice Lightning’s huge smile when he stops by the pit to greet them—and how he has eyes only for Doc the entire time.

He can’t help but see the way Doc lights up after that, practically bouncing on his wheels like some child on Chryslermas morning. He can’t help but see the way Doc glows with pride and admiration and maybe even something more when Lightning executes that sliding move (Sheriff isn’t very familiar with all those fancy racing terms) that puts him ahead of his competitors.

When Lightning gives up that trophy he couldn’t stop raving about when he first arrived in Radiator Springs to help the wrecked car, Sheriff feels himself swell with pride. The egotistical, selfish car that wrecked their road would never have given up his chance at winning the race, and Sheriff knows that all of his companions are thinking the same thing.

But all of their smiles added together are nothing compared to the smile that spreads across Doc’s grill. Sheriff looks at him, and can instantly tell that what he feels for the boy is much more than mere attraction.

When Lightning rolls up to them (all waiting for him in front of his sponsor’s tent) and he smiles—almost embarrassedly, it seems—at Doc; the two don’t say much but seem to say everything at the same time. Some secret understanding appears to pass between them through some connection invisible to everyone else. Watching the boy and his wide grin now, Sheriff has to wonder if he doesn’t share Doc’s feelings—to some extent, at least.

When he comes back from speaking to Dinoco’s sponsor, Doc nudges him and says something that Sheriff can’t hear. Lightning nods happily and nuzzles Doc briefly before they head off towards Lightning’s trailer, driving closer together than necessary.

Sheriff smiles.

He can’t help but hope that maybe Doc won’t end up hurt, after all.

yayyy

papervanity@gmail.com — Fri, 18 Aug 2006 00:44:15 GMT

DISNEYLAND TOMORROW, BITCH! :D

Ummm, hopefully everyone will be in a good mood and will let me indulge in my Cars love? Cough Cars Pre-Parade at DCA cough. And ummm, Think the World of Disney store would have diecasts? GODDAMNIT I WANT CHICK. Strip's so lonely, what with Lightning and Doc snuggling all the time. Although Doc would probably get jealous as Chick might have a tendency to hit on Lightning... Well, he just has to learn to share! And I have to learn to Not Eat Lunch so that I can save money to spend on things I really want.

Sigh, how much you wanna bet that tomorrow I'll end up spending half of the money I've earned so far this summer?

carsss

papervanity@gmail.com — Tue, 15 Aug 2006 07:03:39 GMT

There was this sweet little girl at work today who asked me for a to-go box. She had to be at least four or five, but was missing her two front teeth, just like me at that age. Cutest thing.

Cars. Wow, it's a car-ful summer. My Art of Cars book came today! Oh my god, it's beautifulllll. Now I have a Doc plushie, a Lightning plushie, a Lightning spiral notebook, a sticker book, three diecast toys (the King, Lightning, and Doc), a poster, a video game, and ethe "Art of" book. Oh man, I am awesome. I still remember what the nice lady at the Barnes and Noble counter said to me when I bought the sticker book. She was like, "Oh, would you like a gift receipt for this?" And I laughed and admitted that it was for myself. She seemed so delighted, and started talking about how great it was that I was in touch with my kid side and that she was too. (Apparently she had just bought a huge set of crayons for herself the night before, LOL.) I love the Barnes & Noble people. When I bought Brokeback (the novel, obviously), the lady started gushing with me about the movie and how beautiful it was. And she told me about how she'd read the story before the movie and had been really excited about the movie and wasn't let down. Like, wow. I swear I bounced out of the bookstore that time. :)

Anyway, more cars, except this time its RL ones, heh. Taking Driver's Ed (about time, eh?) this week. It's pretty mucha total waste of twenty-eight hours (seven hours a day), but I guess it could be worse. At least it's easy. All we do is watch vids and do worksheets and talk and eat and have a bunch of breaks, haha. Di, Amanda, Kelly and I all got 100%s on the quiz, w00t. Teacher was like, "Oh wow, the whole table, huh?" hahaha. When the scores were announced, Kelly was instantly like, "Oh no, it's so suspicious!" That's Kelly for ya. Oh, and there was this one break where Amanda and I reached the door first and refused to open it because our fingers were covered in chocolate from the Twix bar that I bought. Everyone started yelling at us and so we ran to hang out in a corner away from the others. I guess we're the nerds of the class, haha. And OMG Kayan is in our class! He looks exactly the same, but like BIG. And OLD. Haven't seen that kid since sixth grade or something. And Brittany and Chelsea, I think. 'Tis funky.

Holy fuck. Just looked at my iTunes and when the HELL did I get 400 songs? Whoa. I've got nothing on Kristine (she's craaaaaazy, man ♥), but just...whoa.

papervanity@gmail.com — Thu, 10 Aug 2006 21:35:04 GMT

I love this kinda stuff.

You know your are living in 2006 when...

1. You accidentally enter your password on the microwave.
2. You haven't played solitaire with real cards in years.
3. You have a list of 15 phone numbers to reach your family of three.
4. You e-mail the person who works at the desk next to you.
5. Your reason for not staying in touch with friends and family is that they don't have e-mail addresses.
6. You pull up in your own driveway and use your cell phone to see if anyone is home to help you carry in the groceries.
7. Every commercial on television has a web site at the bottom of the screen.
8. Leaving the house without your cell phone, which you didn't have the first 20 or 30 (or 60) years of your life, is now a cause for panic and you turn around to go and get it.
10. You get up in the morning and go on line before getting your coffee.
11. You're reading this and nodding and laughing.
12. Even worse, you know exactly to whom you are going to forward this message.
13. You are too busy to notice there was no #9 on this list.
14. You actually scrolled back up to check that there wasn't a #9 on this list.

Imperfect - Charlie/Mike

papervanity@gmail.com — Wed, 09 Aug 2006 21:54:29 GMT

Title: Imperfect
Pairing: Charlie/Mike
Disclaimer: This story is based on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and its characters and situations, all created and owned by Roald Dahl and Warner Bros.
Summary: Mike thinks that Charlie smiles too much and he hates that Charlie always smells like candy. A boy’s jumbled thoughts on the person who has changed his life.
Notes: I just found this on my hard drive and had to post it! Whoa, I wrote this last year. Anyway, enjoy!

Mike is far from perfect.

He has never been the same since stepping out of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. One does not get shrunken to the height of a few inches and then stretched to ten feet without coming out damaged—both physically and emotionally.

He is only six feet and a few inches now, after Charlie and Wonka (Wonka was rather reluctant but Charlie had managed to persuade him) built a machine that condensed things as opposed of stretching them. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience for Mike, and being compacted had been almost as bad as being stretched. He had screamed and screamed and demanded for the machine to be stopped. He is still tall, but at least he can (kind of) pass under doorways and not have to bend over whenever he is inside a room. Unfortunately, despite all the Wonka-Vites he had stocked up on, he is still unnaturally skinny and has a strange sickly, grotesque look to him—the natural one of someone who’s body had been forced to defy the laws of nature. His features still appear disconcertingly flat.

Mike has never been a bright, sunny, naïve boy, but after being thrown out of his own home, he has become bitterer than ever. He lashes out at whoever annoys him and rarely feels sorry for it because at least they’re not deformed. But sometimes Charlie is the victim of his harsh words and it is only then that Mike feels horribly guilty. Sometimes he says terrible things without meaning to—they just come out—and Charlie’s face crumbles and his eyes get suspiciously wet and he runs out of the room and refuses to speak a word to Mike for a long time. Mike usually feels so bad that he cannot eat and shuts himself up in his room and tries to lose himself in his video games.

Once, Mike had said something horrible about Charlie’s family and they hadn’t spoken for three days straight. Mike had tried so hard to apologize—even sending Charlie flowers by Oompa Loompa—but Charlie had refused to comply. Mike hadn’t eaten a single morsel of food and he hadn’t been able to get any sleep, either. He had even vomited twice. It had taken Wonka casually mentioning his sickliness and refusal to eat anything to get Charlie to see him. And when he had seen the ghost of a boy Mike had become in those three days, he had cried his eyes out. For weeks later, he had taken to smothering him even more than usual—Mike still blushed at the memory of the overly sappy words Charlie had repeated to him over and over again, followed by long, lingering kisses and warm, loving hands that traveled his body and left tingling trails upon Mike’s skin—and treating him as if he was fragile glass just waiting to shatter.

Charlie Bucket, the boy who has brought light to his life and changed him and saved him from an unimaginable fate. And even if he has never said it to Charlie’s face, he loves him with all his heart.

They have their ups and downs, just like an ordinary couple. Sometimes Charlie annoys the hell out of him, with all his upright morals and childishness and his stupid obsession with candy. Sometimes Charlie comes back from experimenting with Wonka and he smells so sweet that it hurts Mike’s senses. Sometimes Charlie is so selfless and generous and good that Mike just can’t stand him.

But it is Charlie who gives Mike a home and food and a ‘job’ so he can eventually support himself. It is Charlie who wants to share the Factory with him—even though Wonka is adamant that his life’s work should never touch the hands of a “television brat”—and it is Charlie who showers him with affection and pecks his cheek sweetly and holds his hand in public, not caring about the disapproving looks they receive from passersby. It is Charlie who makes him feel loved and special and like he is actually worth something. It is Charlie who sneaks into Mike’s room every night and climbs into his bed, and without a word, wraps himself tenderly around Mike and makes Mike feel safe and secure and appreciated. And most importantly of all, it is Charlie who takes all of Mike’s shit, lets him know that what he says is unacceptable, and yet comes back every time and forgives him and gives him another chance.

Mike knows that Charlie deserves someone better than a twerpy teenager who never looks quite normal, even though most people cannot put their finger on why he looks so wrong. He knows that Charlie is too good for him.

But Charlie has promised forever—Mike knows that this is highly improbable, but for once in his life, he hopes that he will be proved wrong—and Mike is going to hold on for as long as he can, because he doesn’t think he could ever love anyone else the way he loves Charlie.

Apologies - Doc/Lightning

papervanity@gmail.com — Wed, 02 Aug 2006 06:10:26 GMT

Title: Apologies
Pairing: Doc/Lightning
Disclaimer: This story is based on Cars and its characters and situations, all created and owned by Walt Disney Pictures and Pixar Animation Studios.
Summary: Two years later, Doc apologizes to Lightning.
Notes: This is more of a ficlet than a full-fledged story. I just wrote it because the lack of conclusiveness regarding this issue bothered me. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to write about happy!Doc. :)

For the first time in many, many years, Doc was happy. He had a comfortable roof over his head, he had a successful job with many patients, he had friends who he trusted and who trusted him in return, he was far from penniless, he felt good about himself, and most importantly, he had found a best friend and (hopefully) lifetime partner in one Lightning McQueen.

But there was just one thing that constantly plagued his mind, now that a quaint sort of complacency had settled in.

He had never apologized to Lightning for calling the press and informing them of Lightning’s whereabouts. Perhaps it wasn’t such a big deal now, since Lightning had decided to settle down in Radiator Springs anyway, but Doc’s selfish thinking that night still disturbed his guilty conscience.

Sighing, he turned off the light in his study and went to the living room to find Lightning.

He was exactly where Doc had predicted he would be: in front of the television set, lazily flipping through a magazine.

“Hey,” Lightning greeted without looking up.

Doc parked next to him, amused.

“I didn’t know you were a fan of Titanic,” he commented mildly.

“Huh!” Lightning looked at the screen, eyes wide. He cringed and shuddered, quickly flipping the television off. Doc chuckled.

“What are you looking at?”

Lightning showed him the magazine. It was one all about paintjobs that were in fashion nowadays, complete with an assortment of pictures of shiny models. Some fancy sports car was featured on the cover, under block letters spelling out “Auto Trend”.

“I’m thinking of getting a new paintjob,” he explained. “Ramone mentioned that it’s been forever since I last got something done, and he said that he’d give me one for half-off.” He sighed. “I have no idea what to get, though. Everything’s either too fancy or too boring or too weird.”

Doc shrugged. “I like the way you look now, hotrod. But I reckon you youngsters get tired of your paint pretty quickly. If you do decide to get something new, I have just one request: keep the red. I like the red,” he admitted.

Lightning grinned. “You mean it? I’d probably have to keep the red anyway, because of Rust-eze, but that makes me feel good about it. Thanks, Doc!”

Doc smiled. “No problem, kiddo.”

Lightning nodded and leaned into the other. Their tires gently touched, and he sighed in contentment before frowning.

“Doc, are you okay? You seem really stiff…”

A ghost of a smile appeared on Doc’s face at Lightning’s concern. He was still unaccustomed to having someone care so much about him.

“I’m fine, but… There’s something I need to tell you.”

Lightning pulled away, looking at him in interest and slight alarm. “What is it?”

Doc frowned, hesitating. “Lightning, do you remember your last day here before that big tie-breaker race?” At Lightning’s nod, he continued. “Did you ever wonder how the press found you here?”

Lightning frowned too, thinking hard. “I was kind of too surprised to think about it. I guess I just assumed that someone found me on their GPS or something.” He looked at Doc with narrowed eyes. “Wait a second… Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Doc sighed. “If you think I’m saying that I was the one who called the press, then yes. I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

There was a long silence.

“Why?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you really hate me that much?” Lightning asked. Doc could tell that he was trying to hide his hurt.

“Far from it. I wanted you so badly, but all you could see was Sally. You helped everyone in town…. Buying tires from Luigi, purchasing Fillmore’s fuel, helping Red plant new flowers, fixing the town’s neon for Sally… Everyone except for me. I watched you closely that day—waiting for my turn. Wondering how you would help me. But you did nothing. It angered me, and well. When I’m angry, I tend to be very irrational. So I asked the operator for the number of a RSN reporter, and I told the reporter where you had disappeared off to.”

Lightning stared at him, windshield furrowed.

“You were…jealous?” he said uncertainly. “But Doc, you’ve never seemed like the type to…” he trailed off.

Doc nodded. “Even old cars like me are susceptible to jealousy.” He didn’t say anymore. There was a long, slightly uncomfortable silence.

“The whole thing was partly just to prove you wrong. And impress Sally,” Lightning hesitantly began trying to explain. “I… Do you remember what you asked to me in the garage? I still remember it exactly—‘When was the last time you cared about somethingexcept yourself, hotrod?’ And so I finished paving the road that night, drove to Willy’s Butte to perfect that turn—another effort to prove you wrong—and then came back to help everyone. The road was sort of a way of helping you, I guess? I worked hard on it,” he added.

Doc nodded. “It is a fine road.”

A stifling silence settled over the two cars again.

“Is that all that’s bothering you?” Lightning asked. “It’s no big deal, Doc. We’re here together now, and that’s all that matters, right?”

“You’re not angry with me?” Doc inquired, just to make sure.

Lightning leaned against him. “Of course not. It was a long time ago. And besides, things are different now.”

Doc smiled at him and nuzzled him back. He hadn’t really expected Lightning to be enraged or anything, but his conscience felt lighter regardless. He closed his eyes and kissed Lightning’s fender gently.

“You’re welcome,” Lightning replied. Doc smiled at him, amazed at how good he had gotten at reading his thoughts. One would never be able to tell by just looking at him that he was such a wonderful lover. He sighed in content.

Yes, he was happy.

papervanity@gmail.com — Mon, 31 Jul 2006 06:08:32 GMT

Nice day, in a quaint sort of way. Lunch at Spectrum with everyone, then just hung around.

Had a bunch of my favorite foods today! Sushi and sashimi (♥♥♥!!!!), Jamba juice, crepes, and shared a tiny cheesecake with everyone. :)

Stopped by Barnes & Noble and bought the Cars sticker book. Had some interesting info! Like the King's nine Piston Cups. Dayum, that's impressive.

Thanked Erin profusely for the b-day gift (the Cars PS2 game) today! It is so sexylicious. Jess and I have been going crazy with it. Oh, I absolutely need a Chick diecast! And The Art of Cars book! I looked through the whole thing, and OMG IT IS LOVE. Muuuust get. Forty dollars, but I do have the membership card thing, and a 15% discount coupon. So it'd be approx. thirty dollars. Whoa, that's awesome! Ten dollars off! Oh, and I still need to get that 195702 dollar straightner, too, grr. At least Jess is getting me the poster! And el parental units are getting the domain! :D!!!!

The story behind this: We (well, Diana, but Amanda and I participated) bought Kelly a thong for her birthday. Yep, it's the one in the picture. Yep, we actually gave it to her. [amusement]


Di's so pretty!

Top: Kelly and Lisa; Bottom: Amanda, me, Erin!


On the left is Kelly's friend from COSMOS (her summer science camp kind of thing at UCI), Lisa. Nice girl. She's from Norcal.



Tired! PV tomorrow; have to wake up at the time that I'd usually go to sleep. Lovely.

cars icons -- the first batch!

papervanity@gmail.com — Thu, 27 Jul 2006 18:57:00 GMT

So once I learned how, I took a billion random screencaps of Cars. Then I challenged myself to make an icon of every single one of them. And hey, it's not all sixty-two of them, but that's just because I'm dirty and half of the screencaps were from that scene where he was dreaming. ;) Anyway, most of these are from the Piston Cup sequences. I'm going to make Radiator Springs ones soon.

Warning: Some have slashy overtones, I guess? It's totally overlook-able, though.

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	28	29	30

31	32	33	34	35

36	37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44	45

No hotlinking.
Ask for permission to alter textless icons.
Credit aesthetica_not if used.
Comments are appreciated! :)

(Amusing-as-heck screencap used in #23 and #24 taken by xellinamazoku!)

papervanity@gmail.com — Wed, 26 Jul 2006 03:43:11 GMT

"Are you satisfied with your life?"

An out-of-place, deep question in an otherwise light-hearted conversation, asked by the oddest person: my sister.

"Yes."

The Path to Victory - The King/Chick

papervanity@gmail.com — Tue, 25 Jul 2006 10:06:44 GMT

Title: The Path to Victory
Pairing: The King/Chick
Disclaimer: This story is based on Cars and its characters and situations, all created and owned by Walt Disney Pictures and Pixar Animation Studios.
Summary: Can the ends really justify the means? For in favor of victory, in favor of winning, in favor of his pride, Chick has lost the one car who would have given him everything. This is the story behind the King's wreck.

“Chick, we need t’talk.”

Chick frowned at the King’s serious tone and braked. The two racecars had been practicing at the track of the Los Angeles International Speedway, both preparing for the big race and just spending time together.

They weren’t exactly friends, per se. Friends-with-benefits was more like it, for being friends with the King certainly had many benefits for Chick: the kisses, the drives, the talking, and (not that Chick would ever admit to being the cuddling type) the snuggling. It was a no-strings-attached sort of arrangement. They both had priorities: the King had his marriage and Chick had his pride. Neither of them held any romantic notions—well, that had been the original plan, anyway.

But Chick was shrewder than most thought. He could tell that the King’s feelings about him were a lot stronger than they had been when the whole thing had started. There was just something about the way he kissed his fender, something about the way he touched him with his tire, something about the way he gazed at him when he thought that Chick wasn’t looking. Chick never brought the subject up when they were talking, though. Because he didn’t feel he same way, so what was the point, right?

Oh, who was he kidding? He was less expressive and obvious about it, but there was definitely something there, blooming. The King just made him feel things that nobody else had ever made him feel. It just made him really uncomfortable, that was all.

One thing that had clued him in to his odd attraction was that he hated it when the King talked about his wife. She this, she that—he couldn’t stand it! And if Chick was anything but ambitious, he was possessive. At first he had brushed it off, thinking it was just that—possessiveness—but then again, why should he feel possessive about the King? Chick didn’t care for him…right?

It had disgusted him, when he had first realized what had been happening as they became closer and closer. He had begun to develop…something for the older car. It wasn’t love, it wasn’t lust, and it wasn’t even a yearning for friendship. He had begun looking forward to seeing the King. He just… The King… The King made him feel good, in a more-than-physical way. He made him feel special. He made him feel appreciated. He made him feel loved. And try as he did, Chick couldn’t deny to himself that he liked that feeling. In fact, he liked it so much that part of him wished to make the King feel the same way. But that would never happen, because Chick refused to let anyone—anyone—get an upper hand on him. He would not let himself be weak.

And so he let himself kiss the King. He let himself nuzzle him. He let himself watch him out of the corner of his eye. He let himself look forward to seeing him before the races, during the races, after the races. But he never allowed himself to love him.

And this was where it had gotten him.

“This is gonna be the last time, Chick,” the King declared solemnly. His eyes were looking everywhere except directly at the green stock car. “We ain’t gonna be seeing each other like this anymore.”

Chick scowled reflexively, masking the sudden panic that had flooded him. “What are you talking about?”

“We’re done, Chick.”

Chick’s heart stopped.

“Done?”

The King sighed heavily. “This has gotta stop now. I’m tired of all this lyin’, all this sneakin’, all this betrayin’ a woman who has never done me any wrong.”

“I see,” Chick lied.

“S’been fun n’ all, and you’re a great guy n’ everything, but you’re not what I need. And it ain’t healthy for either of us to hold on. At this point in my life, I can’t risk the loss of my wife. I’m too old to be playin’ these kinds of games.”

Chick nodded, clueless about what to say. All he could think of was, He’s leaving me. The King stared at him for a minute. He seemed to be waiting for something. When Chick didn’t say or do anything, he sighed in disappointment.

“See you tomorrow at the race,” he muttered, and began driving towards the exit of the stadium.

A thousand confused cramming his mind, Chick blurted out, “What did I do wrong, Strip? What can she give you that I cannot?” He didn’t think that anything could stop the King when his mind was made up, but he had to know.

The King didn’t look back.

“Love,” he said simply. Chick’s face fell.

“If I told you I loved you, would you leave her for me?”

“Would you mean it?” the King challenged.

Chick was silent.

He thought about it. He could say it. He could easily say it. But meaning it… Ah, that was another story. The King was right. Chick could never give him love, or stability, or kindness. He could give him danger, risk, fun, entertainment, the joyride of his life. But not love. Never love. Not if his pride had anything to say about it.

It had started out as a game to gain power. He had always fallen behind Strip on the racetrack. Veteran or not, he had to lose sometime! But no, not a single time had Chick won a race with the King competing against him. His entire career—a complete failure, and it was all Strip’s fault.

But Chick had never been one to give up. If he couldn’t defeat the King on the racetrack, then he would defeat him in another way—a much more humiliating way.

He would seduce him and make him pine for him. He would coax him into the clutches of his tires, and then, when he had grown dependent, Chick would wrench away and leave the other crumpled and broken.

But he had never counted on the King ever loving him.

How could anyone love him? He was nothing but an ambitious machine, caring little about hurting anyone or anything that stood in the path of his goal. Any obstruction to the path to victory was game. The King had only been a pawn.

He was the kindest, most warm-hearted pawn Chick had ever faced.

He understood his attraction to the King. He hated it, but he understood it. The King was everything Chick wished he was—kind, generous, friendly, charismatic, loved, adored by all, and the best damn racer around. He had fans, he had a successful marriage, he had friends, and he had under his belt the most successful career the racing sport had seen in a long time. He had even been dubbed with an honorable title—“The King”. And if Chick couldn’t be Strip, then he wanted Strip to be his.

But here he was, losing him. Losing him to that old devil woman who could give him everything that Chick could not.

Chick had so many things to say. He wanted to confess to him about the reason he had wanted him in the first place. He wanted to admit that the King was the embodiment of everything he wanted. He wanted to tell him that although he didn’t love him, it might just come to that in the future. He wanted to beg him not to leave. He wanted to ask if they would ever see each other again, after the big race tomorrow.

Chick opened his mouth but no words came out.

And so he said nothing.

Even from behind, the King looked sad and disappointed. Chick saw him sink a little lower to the ground.

“I didn’t think so.”

And with that, he revved his engines and sped away.

As Chick watched his lover drive away, his face as blank as an unpainted mask, he wondered if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

*

The morning of the big race came. The race of the century, the media was calling it.
Chick felt anything but excitement as he spoke confidently to the reporters, feigning an eager and cocky attitude. He was still smiting from his confrontation with the King last night.

“Oh yeah? You wanna hear the forecast? I’ll give you the forecast! A hundred percent chance of…thunder! Ka-chigga! Ka-chigga! Say it with me!”

He hoped that the “thunder” thing would unnerve McQueen, along with the twins having switched sides to support him. The idiot punk deserved it! He hated him for having entered the elite ranks out of absolutely nowhere—that place in the upper rankings belonged solely to him and the King! Oh, but what a laugh Chick would be having when he had won, with McQueen in the third place!

He growled when he saw the aforementioned red racecar. He had been hoping that the little brat had gotten lost on the way to California, but (unfortunately, in Chick’s mind) they had been able to find him. Honestly, the kid was a pain in the bumper. He didn’t deserve all that glory, all that popularity that everyone lavished upon him. That spotlight belonged to him. That spot behind the King belonged to him. Not some cheap flashy show-off with talent he didn’t deserve.

When the loudspeaker signaled for the racers to go to the start line for the practice laps, he pasted a confident smirk on his face and taunted McQueen. He didn’t get the reaction he was expecting, but the other car did seem to be really out of it.

Chick began the race with a fast start, determined to beat both the King and the brat. He would show them not to ever mess with Chick Hicks, not if they knew what was good for them.

*

A hundred and ninety-nine laps later, and the rookie brat was going to win the race. Lightning Mc-what’s-his-face. The arrogant, boastful, and yet unfairly talented kid. Damn it all! Chick growled. He was still trailing after the King. Curse his luck! He was not going to place third. He was not going to come behind ol’ Weathers again. He’d show them. He’d teach them a lesson they would never forget. He’d make sure they would all know not to mess with Chick Hicks ever again.

He’d show Strip for dumping him like he had. He’d show him that he was the one who had made a mistake. He had made a mistake that would cost him his life.

“If I can’t have you, nobody can,” Chick muttered, and then said louder, “I am not coming behind you again, old man!”

He slammed into the King and sent him sailing in the air. Inwardly he cringed as he heard the clatter and thuds of the wreck (he tried not to imagine what Strip would look like when he finally stopped), but he plastered a triumphant grin on his face.

The rookie brat suddenly stopped right before the finish line, for no apparent reason. Maybe he had run out of gas or had realized the danger of robbing Chick of his deserved Piston Cup. Either way, the path to victory was clear!

He sailed past the checkered line, cheering and spinning around in pure delight. He had won! At last! All those years of hard training and hard work… It had finally paid off! He had won the Piston Cup!

“Yeah! Whoo! I won, baby! Yeah!”

He paused and looked around in confusion. The crowd had suddenly gone silent. “Hey! What? What’s going on?” Was the crash really that transfixing? He didn’t dare look at the damage, afraid that he would regret what he had done. Instead, he sped to the stage.

After being booed offstage, he grabbed his trophy and rushed to join his pit crew.

Fools. The Chick era had begun! They should be bowing down to him, not throwing tires at him! He scowled, but the sour expression on his face soon evolved into a shocked one. The King was a few feet away. He slammed on his brakes. His eyes widened in horror as he took in the damage he had caused the older car. Sure, he had intended to hurt him—hell, he’d wanted to kill him in the heat of the moment—but now, after the fact… He gritted his teeth together. If it had been any car that had done this to Strip, Chick would have hunted him down and given him a piece of his mind. He debated apologizing to Strip. He had been his one-time lover, after all. But no, he deserved this! For leaving Chick. For making Chick hurt. For making Chick doubt his completely unromantic thoughts towards him.

Just then, the King—guided by his wife—slowly drove up to him, glaring darkly. Mrs. The King looked angrier than Chick had ever seen her.

“You’re a nasty car, Chick Murphy. You’ll regret doing this to King. We are going to sue you ‘til you’re left with nothing but your own four tires. Just you wait and see. Now apologize,” she demanded.

He smiled nastily.

“No.”

“Now look here, mister,” she snapped. “You just almost killed my husband. I think he deserves an apology at least, don’t you?”

“I’m not sorry,” Chick snarled. He hated this woman. Hated every part of her, down to the very last screw. It was this woman who Strip had left him for. It was this woman who Strip loved. It was because of this woman that Strip would never love him. Suddenly, he wished that it had been her that he’d nearly killed.

The King sighed heavily. “Honey, why don’t you go talk to Tex for a bit? I need t’speak with Chick.”

She narrowed her eyes at Chick in a deathly glare before leaving the two alone. The King slowly led them to a more secluded area so that they could talk privately.

As soon as they were away from the reporters, he shoved Chick hard, though Chick noticed that he winced at the strain on his injuries.

“What the hell was that all about?”

Chick was finding it hard to maintain direct eye contact with the other. He shrugged.

“You left me,” he said, as if it explained everything.

“So you go and try t’kill me?”

“If I can’t have you, nobody can.”

The King stared at him, eyes narrowed. Chick couldn’t identify his expression.

“You’re messed up in the head, Chick,” he concluded.

“Fuck you!” Chick yelled. “We were having a great time—don’t even say it, I know you were! You were the one part of my life I was happy about! Even if I always came after you, it was okay, because there were always those times after the races to look forward to! When you’d… When you’d… When you’d make me feel good about myself, all right! Your presence there, after the races… It just… It was nice knowing you didn’t care that I was a loser.” He grimaced. He hated sounding so weak, but Strip had always brought out that side of him. Chick scowled. Despite all his misgivings, he had let himself be vulnerable, and look at where it had gotten him.

“You’ve never been a loser,” Strip said quietly.

“I lost you, didn’t I?” Chick snapped.

The other car opened his mouth to speak before quickly closing it again.

“And then you left me. You fucking left me! And just when I had finally come to terms with liking you, too.”

“Likin’ me,” the King repeated. “That’s great, Chick. Thanks a lot. If y’think that you likin’ me is gonna make me leave my wife, you’re very mistaken. Likin’ someone n’ lovin’ them are two very different things.”

Chick shrugged. “Who knows, maybe with time—”

“Look, buddy,” the King interrupted, “I’m not young anymore. I don’t have time for this kinda thing. I ain’t as patient as I used t’be, n’ I can’t afford lovin’ a car that may never love me back. Once upon a time, maybe, Chick, but s’too late now.” He paused. “I’m sorry.” With a disappointed smile, he slowly drove away, presumably to rejoin his wife.

Chick smiled bitterly at the King’s retreating spoiler, wondering at the irony of Strip apologizing when it was Chick himself that had almost killed him.

Two birds with one stone. Two victories in one. The King had paid for his crime and the Chick era had finally begun.

Chick stared at his Piston Cup and wondered why the victory felt so empty.

FIN

papervanity@gmail.com — Tue, 25 Jul 2006 08:17:36 GMT

It ended the moment she first implied that I should be paying attention to her instead of writing.

(I'm sorry.)

papervanity@gmail.com — Tue, 25 Jul 2006 07:05:48 GMT

HAHAHA.

My sister is hilarious.

Okay, so like, she's totally in love with Guido, but couldn't get his name right at first. She kept calling him "Luido", a bizarre blend of "Guido" and "Luigi".

I gave her a bunch of Guido screencaps and a link to Guido's page on the official site, and she comes up with this hilariously adorable (but well done) manip:

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	28	29	30

31	32	33	34	35

36	37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44	45

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	28	29	30

31	32	33	34	35

36	37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44	45

1	2	3	4	5

6	7	8	9	10

11	12	13	14	15

16	17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24	25

26	27	28	29	30

31	32	33	34	35

36	37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44	45