#luarayayaya

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lr: *says some uNBELIEVABLE NONSENSE BULLSHIT*

me: you're so dUMB WHY

lr: you're hurting my feelings though

me: no i'm not. i don't believe that

lr: yOU ARE

me: okay. i'm sorry. how am i hurting your feelings

lr: you don't believe my leg is caught in a bear trap

me: i don't. i don't care. you're stupid.

lr: running for your life.

me: i don't care about your feelings.

lr: from shia labeouf.

me: they're stupid.

lr: he's brandishing a knife.

me: evERYTHING IS DUMB

lr: shia labeouf.

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why do we even fucking talk to each other grantvire

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buckvs: *out of fucking nowhere* where does bucky's arm go?

me: *exasperated sighing*

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It is the sun, Kunta Kinte.

Lr, just the fuck now, out of fucking nOWHERE???

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it's like we're not even talking to each other

[10:51:46 PM] upset ghost oli: YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO WASH UR SKIN EVERY DAY ANYWAY

[10:51:48 PM] shnon: I WAS SO TIRED

[10:51:51 PM] shnon: THAT IWA SLIKE

[10:51:51 PM] upset ghost oli: OR YOU RHAIR

[10:51:53 PM] shnon: NO FAIRIES

[10:51:54 PM] sleepy ghost / kanny: I NEEd TO SHOWER TOO I HAVENT SHOWERED IN ALIKE A WEEK

[10:51:54 PM] upset ghost oli: I DON'T EVEN ACARE

[10:51:59 PM] shnon: YOU DONT KNOW ANYUTHING ABOUT GENETICS

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me: i wanna be a mermaid

lr: i don't know how to turn you into one

me: ughhhhhhhhh

me: but i wanna sing a lot and kill men

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I tried really hard to make this like poetic and serious and like an actual introduction in a biography or some shit, and you know what, i literally cannot take myself seriously long enough to finish this nicely. Take this. Take my love. Take my bullshit writing. Lurajirjarruaryaa out.

There are people that you expect in life. Ones that come in like the foamed over waves of the Pacific to lap at your feet for a while, then leave. They are temporary. They are perpetual. They are salt water licking at your flesh for the better part of a few years, in the hopes that they might scar you in all the right ways to make you feel beautiful, or loved, or forgotten. They’re the people you remember in the heart of winter as you take small sips of cocoa from your favorite mug. The ones from your childhood that you grip to if only in memory, until you are thirty-five and all that you have left of them is what you want to believe happened. People that you expected not in themselves, but simply expected to be.

Then there are those that you don’t expect. The ones you trip over in the streets; small stones that embed themselves in your pavement-scraped hands until they are a part of you, for however long it takes you to kick them out. They’re snug, and they sting, and they make you feel whole in all of the same ways that they have the potential to tear your apart. It’s the injuries you don’t see coming that store warnings, after all.

But that’s only in logic with fallible quarries and craters, riddled throughout its being. Only in the perfect imperfect dream, can one fit another so succinctly into one of two, every time. And she was always the seamless proof of that. I couldn’t have expected her if I tried.

It was late at night when Shannon came into my life. Some hour in the AM when both mind and hearth were worn thin; eyelids fighting to good fight to keep themselves pried open enough to read the inhospitably bright computer screen. To listen. To process.

(Though, I suppose if I were to be entirely truthful, then the idea of her had entered long before in offhand comments made by a mutual friend. This is more or less irrelevant, however truthful. People are not stories, and stories are not people, you see. We only leave words behind like shed skin; carcasses of our intentions, left for those who seek to find us.)

At the time, she was the scratching of poor reception and urban ambiance accompanying her words, lightly grazed tone, and distracted breathing against an otherwise silent backdrop. I suppose that makes it time to mention that she was also slightly sick, and possibly somewhat drunk, traversing the streets of New Orleans with friends, if what I had ascertained was correct.

I hadn’t thought much of it then. I hadn’t thought I’d hear from her again, and hadn’t quite known what I was even supposed to say at the time. I suppose to her I must have been made of that same silence, only briefly ruined by emotional squeaks that had come with the occasion (One really cannot be held accountable for the noises they make whilst rping, can they?).

Shannon was a voice on the other end of a line. A line that would cut off almost as soon as it started. An impression of a person, dropped behind drooped eyelids as sleep washed over me. The kind of memory you don’t realize is important as you’re forming it.

[Insert unrelated and obviously beautifully crafted (duh) bridge piece of this novel I am not actually going to ever write]

The second time I notably met Shannon, she was no longer a voice behind a static over-drop. Instead, she came in the form of a Real Girl, lost behind a monitor screen to the confines of a programmed realm; speaking in sugar-bittered tongues I knew not how to understand of loneliness, and universal truth I couldn’t grapple with.

She was intimidating. She was impressive. She wasn’t really Shannon, but she was a piece of her. A piece that hung around for weeks, almost months, until contact was truly made again. It bears no use to note that the first time we really talked in a skype call that lasted hours, I spent the entire time terrified of stumbling on my own tongue.

Bears no use to mention because it was terror that ebbed away only hours later, replaced by a sort of amiable warmth that would only grow in the months to follow.

And like the Real Girl spoke in tongues, I know Shannon – turned Shn in our own language. One made of stumbling words and half-conscious thoughts. Of fuck-ups and one-ups and little lyrics composed early in the morning about the idiotic faces of attractive men and women. She’s a kidnappers trip to Disneyland, and a force to be reckoned with. She won’t put the hat on, and you can’t bet on it.

She's got constellations leaking from her veins, as her arms stretch ever upwards. Universes sway in the tips of her hair. And I know this, because the first thing that you learn about Shannon, is that she'll only ever belong amongst the stars (and I don't mean Hollywood bullshit, I mean motherfucking space ok).

SHn da bes swag swag swag swag i give the fuck up.

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laru: gettin' all 148 days up in here

shn: ...

shn: 127 hours?

shn: 148 days

shn: you think he chewed his arm off for 148 days