Just got off work now so I'll post some more actual stuff later, but I figured I'd share this little thing. I really like writing prompts, seeing something then spinnin' a little something from it even if it's not actually a writing prompt, as some of you may notice on RGT when I'll randomly drop some odd 5 paragraph response to something. This was a random little something about where I think the writer of the infamous My Immortal fan fiction is nowadays, prompted by a random DM chat with a certain tender lad who obviously isn't here. That's all the context I'll give, as that's all there is.
I Don't Know What I'd Even Title This
They still knowingly giggle to themselves whenever they hear MCR on their Spotify playlist, or when their co-worker starts talking about that one Good Charlotte song they spent all day yesterday trying to find on YouTube.
"It goes like, duh duh dun duh duuuuh. I used to listen to it all the time, man. They just don't make music like that anymore. Better days, you know? What's so funny?"
They stifle their laughter then, blinking away the memories. "Nothing, I'm just remembering an old joke. You're talking about The Chronicles of Life and Death I think, great song and great album."
Even after Joel's iconic vocals ended, their co-worker's lunch break over as they both went back to the daily grind, they can still hear it. It's stuck in there like the black lipstick used to be stuck on their face, back in their better days. Back when all they had to worry about was the latest falling out with their friend Raven which happened every other week, and how sick it would be if Dumbledore was a gothic daddy, and what Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way was wear- no, there's no point thinking of that anymore, they think to themselves, I had to grow up eventually. They feel the faintest twinge of regret as they drive back to their studio apartment in their 2012 Honda Civic, their foot silently tapping the whole way.
They're standing in front of their bedroom mirror. They're already late to the pub, the one time a week everyone from the Duluth Trumpet bullpen gets together. Of course they protested at first, but eventually got worn down by the never-ending barrage of invitations from overly friendly co-workers in smart white button downs. It's not so bad, after a while. They laugh to themselves. God, what happened to me? For some reason, they just can't figure out what to wear. Every time they put together something, neutral and casual colours only as befitting a very casual co-worker get together, their mind just can't help but wander. What would she wear? Before they even realize it, they're reaching for the small jewellery box on the corner of their vanity, unused for years but never truly forgotten.
They're still humming Good Charlotte.
The pub is starting to empty out now. It's late into the Duluth night, being almost 8PM. As their coworkers brush past them, each one slapping their shoulder with the light fury and force only middle-aged workers in a dying industry could muster, they were miles away. Their fingers, idling tracing the black-and-purple lace of the choker around their neck, were still thumming that beat. They didn't realize of course, as their mind was elsewhere. On those better times, when they were the talk of the fanfiction world. Each chapter, each overly descriptive paragraph of their favourite Hot Topic clothes, every misspelling of really basic words, each and every ridiculous reinvention of a character and each deus ex insertion of their hatred of preps. They were alive then.
Yeah, I hope that's what they're doing.
