• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37585860.html --DT/JB KISS
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37589477.html--SMALLVILLE
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37589037.html --DR WHO
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37599058.html--DR WHO MORE
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37595979.html#cutid1 --megan fox idk
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37601453.html --RUPERT not cc but IDC
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37588368.html --heAthus
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37580956.html --ZQ
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37578161.html ---inspector gadget?
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37572756.html --ST DVD INFO
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37572424.html --MIDDLEMAN HO SHIT
• http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/37565616.html#cutid1 --JONAH HEX

I think we need to organize this shit.

Who's coming with

What time are we going to the exhibit

What movie theatre are we going to see it in (well, I think River East is a given lol)

But really:

1) Are we buying the exhibit tickets before hand and
2) Who do I need to buy what?

U GUYS THIS IS SRS

Here's the thing. It's summer. We are freakin' bored. Between our dumb summer jobs and stupid summer school, we are in some serious need of doing something in the late afternoon that doesn't have to do with couches or chores. Because really, if I hear my mother complain one more time about me not doing anything but watching Doctor Who all day, I'm going to go postal. Seriously.

So we're two kids (18 yr female, 15 male, cousins, with the occassional intrusion of male's 17 year old, slightly musical sister) who really, really want to be in a band. And by "be in a band" we mean, sitting in our garage and tinkering with the few musical instruments we have. And by "tinkering", I mean going through the first 30 seconds of Jesus of Suburbia (drums and guitar, because that's all we got) and that's about it. I barely know drums, but I can sing pretty good (and hey, I'm a fast learner. Give me a beat and I got it.), and William over here is pretty good at guitar. He's a fast learner too. Plus when his sister comes around, she's got the bass. But she has a short attention span.

We play pretty much anything, as long as it's easy and familiar to us. Be warned, we like Fall Out Boy and Metallia, so don't come to us with some elitist shit, we're open to all kinds of music, "mainstream" or not. What we want is other really lame, really bored kids with nothing else to do in the Chicago area. We spend most of our time in my house in downtown chicago or his in Berwin. We mostly like to hang at his because he has a garage with drums (like, little kid drums. They belong to his 10 year old brother. I sit in a blue chair 2 sizes smaller than my ass. I have one cymbal and the kickdrum doesn't work. But we make do, because we're B.O.R.E.D.)

It would be super-cool if there was someone who knew a little more than us that could teach us stuff without getting frustrated or bored. We're not asking for 40-something-yr old professionals (honestly, we can't stress enough that we're kids. There are a bunch of 40-somethings on CL and I'm hoping to catch the eye of at least one other teenager), and we're not looking to form a serious band and make music. But if you have a few instruments and you like tinkering with them, then hey! Let's tinker together. Why not? We have two more months left of this shit, let's do something with them.

That the world is ugly,
But you're beautiful to me.
Are you thinking of me?
Are you thinking of him?

She imagines falling off buildings, sometimes. She got that idea from a story she read online somewhere, but really, she’s always thought about it. Dying, that is. Walking to school in the groggy hours of the morning, pausing justbarely at a red light. On purpose. Engrossed in the chill she gets as the cars whiz past too close, wondering what would happen if she took just one more step. It’s more the image than the chill, really. She isn’t some stupid adrenalin-junkie, or whatever. But she imagines her head splattered against the windshield, body spilled onto the pavement. Imagines the horrified driver who was just on his way to work spilling his Dunkin Donuts coffee over his pleated pants as a pedestrian screams. She wonders how a horrified scream would sound; not just from the movies, or from getting your fingers smashed in between doors, but a sound ripped from the purest point of your throat, from the back of your mind, the deepest inside of your gut, reverberating in your ears endlessly as the world around you slows. She imagines your vision might become blurry, edged; she imagines that that must be how the end of the world sounds.

Back to buildings. She sits in her Trig class on the third floor of her high school building. The room is in the corner of the building with only two real walls; the rest are windows. She sits where the two window-walls meet, in the back corner, and hasn’t bothered to actually pull out her Trig notebook since first semester. Instead she sits. And stares. She watches birds fly by and studies the sharp, solid edges of other buildings; watches as cars drive by and other students walk unhurriedly through grass and concrete. She thinks about how small they all are. Insignificant to her in her glass room. They’re not real. Her desk beneath her bottom is real; the linoleum beneath her sneakers is real. Those buildings aren’t. Those kids aren’t. And yet. They could be.

She imagines how it must feel to be perched on the windowsill. First, the rise of her pulse. She can feel her heart beat faster, furiously pumping blood to her tense arms, her trembling feet. Her knees will shake; her palms will get sweaty. But still, she stands. She’d stare down, wanting to know if the grass became more real, if she would be able to feel buildings from here. She would find that she can’t. But she’ll make it.

She imagines how it would feel to slip from the sill; she can feel the metal bars scrape the bottom of her shoes, the grating vibrating through her rubber soles and ticking her soft flesh through her cotton socks. Her hands would graze the wall lightly before being cut sharply by the edge; or perhaps, just lightly scratched. Maybe the only thing the coroners would see would be red, irritated palms.

She imagines the wind in her face, the pressure making her cheeks rise and her eyes squint.

She imagines the horrifying thrill as her body realizes what’s going on; she’d feel it in her spine, her neck, her arms.

She imagines the ground getting closer; finally, about to see how real it really is.

She can’t imagine crashing, though. She tries. She thinks about how the pain would start from her head, maybe, or her hands, shattering her body through out; but not really. All she can imagine is her head smashed against the grass, her body spilled beautifully on the pavement, and the echoing sound of a pedestrian’s world ending.