we used to be half alive-- now i'm alright

So now you’re seeing hobbits? Should I be worried?

I think if anybody could be filled with candy, they would be.

The problem with remembering people how they used to be is that you start wondering if they were always like that, and you just didn’t see it. I’ve got trouble rereading Watchmen because of it. I mean, I like him and all, but if I want grumpy old man nonsense, I’ll watch Ducktales, y’know?

It’s good, right? The movie wasn’t half bad, Natalie Portman was pretty excellent, though, the best part. I don’t usually re-watch movies unless it’s one I really like, but I’ll make an exception if you need the company. I’ll bring the candy.

Well, I just... Sometimes it's like -- My mom, and my dad, I kind of built up this persona for them. I didn't really have a chance to get to know them all that well, so I would imagine who they could have been. All on my own, and seeing them now, I see them as they are. Or at least, how they want me to see them. But I still wonder if that's how they were. But I can't remember, so I feel like I'm fooling myself. It's all smoke and mirrors, you know? That's silly, though, because I should only care about the present. So it's like.. the exact opposite. The past can poison the present, and so the present can change how you feel about the past. 

But it shouldn't. The two should, in theory, be entirely separate -- if you're the kind of person that believes in change. Which, I like to think I am. Even if sometimes it doesn't feel like it's possible.

… I don’t think I’m full of candy. I mean, I had a Snickers with lunch, but—full probably isn’t the right word for it. I guess. No! No. Don’t tweet him. Don’t speak to him. You’re a pretty white girl. I think he hates pretty white girls as much as he hates the Taliban, and if you’ve read his blog, you’d know that’s a helluva lot. Keep your pride in check. We’ll quote him and try to remember the time before he became a cranky old cur.

I—I probably wouldn’t argue. Maybe a little. A little bit of argument.

While I'm less impressed, I know it's not entirely your fault, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. I bet if you could be filled with candy, you would be. Fine, fine. I'll keep my 140 characters to myself. You think he'd know that it's World of Warcraft, you know? But no, I know, he's kind of like that old man sitting on his porch screaming at children that walk past, except instead of children, it's the Middle East -- and kind of everyone else, too. But we can always remember him as he used to be. I guess that's what's so good about memories -- sometimes they make it easier to forget things in the now, because you have the past to keep you company. But -- maybe that's their curse, too. You know? ...Or not, I don't know.

Oh, did I?

Must’ve been my pesky alter-ego on about some ring again. I’ll tell him to relax, don’t worry.

You did. I think. Unless I'm going crazy. But I'm not the one with multiple personalities. At least according to the voices in my head I'm not.

What?

Ah, well I’ll make sure I keep myself on guard at all times then.

Y’know if Frank Miller spent half as much time ranting about how terrible anybody from the Middle East is, and used that time to come up with quotes like that, I think the world would be a more peaceful place. Or all the creative types in the world would get shot at because of people wanting to test the theory of protective idea casing. 

More often than you’d think, but… yours are the only run-ins I look forward to.

See, that's exactly the kind of innovative thinking that I'm talking about. You're practically a pinata, just filled with ideas instead of candy. Just to be clear, you're not filled with candy, correct? Because if you were, I'm not gonna lie, that would be infinitely more impressive. I'll give him a heads up, maybe shoot him a tweet about it -- right after I get a twitter. Then again, Alan Moore could just go around quoting himself instead.

Well, I’m a year older. Odd, isn’t it? Time just seems to fly by.

It's not that odd. It is kind of an annual thing, after all. 

I just finished mumbling questions, but thanks

That’s not a disappointment at all.

You’re, like, one of the two people I don’t mind running into. If only because the lack of talons, see as how easily I bruise.

So, in a weird way, I'm good for your health. The time you spend talking to me is less time spent worrying over bumps, bruises and claw marks. You should be thanking me, really. Except, you'd think a logical person like yourself with so many ideas would be strong as steel. At least according to this book I read, ideas are bulletproof.

It's funny how little dreamers actually sleep. Most nights aren't spent in the haze of a lullaby, but in poor light, surrounded by tea and papers. The haze is usually thoughts, their minds weaving up far more imaginative endings to stories, and far more interesting lives than the ones they lead. Dreamers dream most when their wide awake. In quiet peaks of solitude and sanctuary. Charlotte stayed up most nights working on rewriting her memoirs. This left little time for actual sleep, and made the piercing echo of her alarm that much more intrusive. The raven haired dreamer begged silently for more time. Just a few minutes longer. That would change everything, wouldn't it? She slipped back into a dream, where instead of being wrapped in blankets, she was wrapped in a cocoon. Given just a little more time to emerge, she would burst through her bed sheets as a whole new person. If only she had five more minutes. Convincing herself of this, she lulled herself back into a light sleep. Still very aware of the time, and that she should be moving by now; even more aware that in just a few minutes her mother would be making that very clear.

Like clockwork, a knocking on her door shook her back to consciousness, and had her edging out of her warm covers. "Don't bother, I'm awake." She called, hoping that would make her mother leave. She knew it was unfair to be this bitter, but she was allowed. Most days she humored her, but the mornings were the worst. Despite how clear it was to Charlotte that her mother despised mornings, she woke up early, just to make breakfast and pretend to be mother of the year. She knew that after the charade, her mother retreated back to bed to catch a little more sleep. Charlotte pulled herself from the tangled mess of sheets and made her way to the shower, attempting to avoid contact with her house mates. It was a game she played, some mornings she was a spy, other mornings she was a thief. Each morning was the same, she would sprint from one room to the next, a shadow not even fast enough to follow. It wasn't always a successful mission, but it was the effort that counted. The effort kept her bitter, and if she was bitter, she was winning. Charlotte decided, as she let the hot water stream through her fingertips, that she would let her mind carry her away. Only in hopes that she would miss breakfast. And so she did. She escaped for a while in the steam and dreamed up something new. She dreamed of a love story. And when the water finally ran cold, and she could no longer ignore the pounding on the door, she turned it off and stepped into the cool air of cold reality.

Charlotte took a moment to stare at herself, wondering if she had what it took to be a main character. Someone important, or even seemingly unimportant. Someone on a journey. She sighed, and decided to put an end to her thoughts and began to dry herself off. When it came down to getting dressed, she found herself rushing through it. The girl had spent so much time in her own head she nearly let time slip through her fingers. Pulling her jacket over her shoulders, she grabbed her bag off the floor and sprinted down the spiral staircase towards the kitchen. There they sat. Charlotte smiled politely, keeping up her pace. In one swift motion she was in the fridge, water and banana in hand and ready to book it to her next destination. Brooke stared at her with wide eyes and her mouth agape. "Aren't you going to sit down with us and have breakfast?"

Definitely the ones who are lacking of their crack and look like they’re about to kill someone point blank if you ask me.

Interesting…

Yeah...