the phone rang, and rang, and rang. they were getting impatient waiting for him to pickup. too long. it had been too long. no snarky texts, no arriving at their door with a broken nose. nothing. they’d always been a worrier. the ringing stopped and they perked up at the sound of his voice, but it was just the voicemail message — don't leave a message because I won't listen to it. they rolled their eyes and left a message after the tone. “jem. you better not be dead. i’ll kill you if you are. yes, i’m aware of the oxymoron. please, at least send me a text or something. buenas noches, imbécil.”

“ ay… okay, alright. for the sake of this impersonation, let’s pretend that i’m holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey, yeah ? my name is james moore and i play football even though i completely despise it. i never grew out of my EMO PHASE, gah, i’m so friggin’ angsty. i gotta get drunk as heck and fight anyone who looks at me. ”

all fucked up beyond  i n t e r v e n t i on FUCK the world this is my revolution long lost souls and living in cages i'm on a bender it's one for the ages

“ how many gosh darn times do i have to talk about him, jesus. um, okay, fine. very tall, nice hair, gets into too many frickin’ fights, thinks he’s tough but personally, i think he’s a softie ”