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Bartholomew Henry Jasper Allen
"Most people say that it is the intellect which makes a great scientist. They are wrong: it is character."
Maybe it’s for the best you didn’t get snowed in at your lab? You probably can’t get it right because your kitchen wasn’t made for that type of work. It’s not the proper equipment and no amount of tinkering will help it become proper. This weather just puts me in a ‘never leave the house and sleep forever’ mood honestly. It’ll be over before you know it, and as soon as you’re reunited with your lab you’ll forget all about the pain it caused you.
No, Peter. Being snowed in your apartment just when you're running out of Dr. Pepper is not for the best. I feel as though I've done something to the Gods-- you know, maybe it was that one time the cashier lady-girl gave me too much change and I walked off without correcting her? Karma really is a bugger. Ironically, I can't sleep with no caffeine in my system. Without my Dr. Pepper, I'm pretty screwed for slumber. Potentially the pain could go away-- but there's no guarantee. I could be cursed with this pain for life. One day-- when I'm hopefully married with kids (one girl, one boy)-- I'll look back on this time and feel the same great depression I've felt on this day.
With this blizzard going on I suppose I have to resort back to this website if I want to keep communications with others going. It’s been awhile though, how is everyone?
I'm simply terrible, Peter. Not only was I snowed in the wrong place-- evidently my apartment and not my lab-- no matter how hard I try, I just can't get my kitchen to burn sulphur sufficiently. The best it does is burn essential oils and I don't know about you, but this weather doesn't exactly put me in the mood for a "Bali Sandalwood Fruit Fusion". It's been painful.
TASK: #001 - SEVEN DEADLY SINS (GREED but not really)
GENERAL NOTES: The most irrelevant thing I've ever written but I had to get it up before Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum (Kels and Cee) ate me.
Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
- The Serenity Prayer
“Kelsey!” He yells from afar, “Kelsey.” She had clients – ones who get up and leave, commenting on how “busy” she must be. It’s his fault, the post from his blog that he’d gotten her name from stating a time almost half an hour his arrival’s senior. Only one thing deemed important enough to break such a religious cycle of delayed punctuality—the one thing that made him his tardy self. "Have you go them?" He asks, his eyes hopeful.
“You said you had answers for me—leads for me.” He panics, extending the time he takes to clear his desk, creating more mess than there is to start with. “No,” she corrects, “I said I might have leads for you. What I have wouldn’t be relevant - to you or to anyone. I’m sorry.” Silence had to be one of the most familiar sounds to Barry Allen. Counting from an array of feeling, reticence—the lull music of absolute nothingness—found a fixed place in his timeline. If happiness struck, so did the silence, staying when the cold of misery replaced it. He circles the desk a few times, turning the opposite way to circle it a few more.
“No.” He disagrees once again, “you said you had answers for me.” The woman shakes her head, the rate of which she’s growing increasingly more agitated not nearly as vast as his. Wasting his time—although a problem—was far from the one burning an ever increasing hole in his mind, questioning what morals he could hook from the tail of his mind having been pushed by all the greed. Having only worked in his new job for the best part of that week, leaving university the summer before, there was no room for his mistakes—no room for his greed – still all he could he could do was ask—demand.
“You understand, don’t you? I can’t give you answers I don’t have.” She pleads half-heartedly, mind focussed on the paperwork, a physical symbol of her problems. He continues to circle, dragging his feet against the floor, the rubber of his shoes piercing both their ears. “Loosely,” He spits, “I understand loosely.” The greed for answers had always masked his otherwise keen eye for understanding. He lost everything that made him Barry Allen when the hunger for resolution came to play. One answer to one question that had plagued his mind for so many years was all he wanted—one answer to one question was all he needed. A single answer had the potential to solve more than what it was asking. The shadow of an orphan, querying the same as each birthday passed. A celebration of birth, yet the woman whom of which made it so was too far gone to show. His voice raises as he thinks—not about what the woman is saying to meet her in the middle with a forgiving compromise but considering all of what induced the pain he’d carried over from adolescence.
He's lost.
His weak arms unburden the desk, freeing it of its clutter, the sharp pain of his fingernails sinking into the surface of his hairline and his thumbs finding the hollow of his temples, balancing the guilt he'd attained from the floor's newly found carpet; the liquids race each other as they find the edges of the room, the crunching of glass under his feet concealed by his mewls.
He finds his phone:
Text to Iris West sent at 15:39
Is it okay to cancel tonight? A case is closing - has to be done by tomorrow. Miss ya :-)
He waits for a reply in the only way he knows how to find himself once more-- not in the colourful ring that brightens and warms the pupil-- or the beautiful flower with sword like petals, filling the world with its kaleidoscopic clusters-- but in a person: a heart-stopping, tempestuous, delicate girl his heart swells at the unalloyed thought of.
They didn’t believe me. I was eleven: one night, something just came into our house like a tornado. A blur. Somewehre inside the blur, I saw a person. My dad went to fight it - I tried to get him when suddenly, I was twenty blocks away from our house. Nobody believed me. They thought I was trying to cover for my father. But what I saw that night, was real— as real as the man that ripped down that metal door with his bare hands.
Christmas is such a sham holiday for the wealthy to shovel money into their corporations under the guise of cheer. To falsify charity only to forgo it the next day.
It also symbolises the birth of our Lord and saviour, Jesus Christ. Praise.
Just like you favour your cooking skills. See? We’ve come full circle. You named a rat Nostradamus? Interesting. That’s admirable, I’m sure your rats return the affection with as much sincerity as they can. Then let me assure you that I possess technique. I’ve been cooking since I was tall enough to reach the stove, Barry. That’s sweet. You’re taking her to the formal, right?
I don't appreciate your condescending attitudes, Gwen Stacy - especially when they're regarding the love I have for my rats. Yes, you'll find, I did. Nostradamus: the great prophet. I hoped little rat Nos would do give me the same kinds of results-- dare I say I was wrong. He just ate lots of food ... lots and lots of food. Oh, Nos-- little Captain Nossy. "... with as much sincerity as they can." Ha. I will have Gwen Stacy know rats possess the greatest of hearts when it comes to their return of affection. Since you were tall enough to each the stove, huh? Last week was a bit late to start cooking, don't you think? Of course. I asked her, she complied-- she's picking me up at 7:30, God have mercy.
It is? I am — I am absolutely shocked. Bewildered even. I just don’t know how on earth I could have missed something like that. You’d think it’d be so obvious. Some journalist I am, huh?
Precisely. Exactly so. It's not in my place to shame you for not knowing, Lois; I keep it pretty close to my heart, you see. Sometimes I think people know, but then I'm reminded they can't, otherwise she would know. You can't know something that significant and keep it hidden-- it's one of the flaws in human nature.
PETER: I'm putting my trust in you Barry Allen, don't fail me.
PETER: Gwen bought me a gift and I want to return the favor. I'm just at a loss when it comes to actually getting her something. What do girls even like?
BARRY: There is only one answer: you have to get your beloved a candle-- cinnamon if we're being specific. Christmas is a time for candle-giving, my friend.
BARRY: I don't have time for genderising Christmas gifts. All the men in my life are receiving firming lotion -- you're never too old to start the drawbacks of ageing!
Because they’re your own, and you’re proud of them. It’s the same reason as to why you’d favour Edison over any other rat. I do know how to properly beat an egg! Though that doesn’t stop me from being shocked that you’d make me pay for one of your cooking classes. It was a lot easier when you weren’t talking about cooking, and stuck to talking about Iris, or the latest and greatest trick Edison’s performed.
I favour Edison over every other rat because he's genuinely the best one there is-- that's excluding TinTin and Nostradamus. Each of my rats get the same love. You think you do, that's the thing: everyone thinks they can properly beat an egg until I've shown them how. It's all in the technique, something not a lot of people have. If you're after the latest in Iris News, we went shopping yesterday and she got me a new belt. It's pretty neat-- has a fox on the buckle. As for Edison, no news there to tell.
What can I say, Barry? Your scientific vocabulary, love for beady-eyed rats, and ability to never be on time to anything ever really just captured my heart and soul. I just never had the courage to tell you until now.
I'm glad you've found it within yourself to be open about your infatuation; I would never have known otherwise. But-- much to your dismay-- my heart is being kept for another.
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