ＢＬＵＥ ＆ ＹＥＬＬＯＷ
May 27, 2016 13:36:00 GMT -6
"Mr. God" Benjamin Atreyu, Spencer Adams, and 3 more like this
Post by 6ix Goddess on May 27, 2016 13:36:00 GMT -6
Look at the stars, look how they shine for you
And everything you do
Yeah they were all ＹＥＬＬＯＷ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The hospital room was quiet, dark, and empty – as anyone would expect it to be on a Tuesday night hovering around 3 AM. Save for the steady, rhythmic beat of the heart rate monitor and the occasion sigh from the respiration machine which kept the lungs of Edward Thorton Jr. steadily supplied with oxygen, the only hint of any life at all was the click of wooden heels against the tile of the hallway followed by the click of the doorknob and creak of the hinges. As she stepped into the room and took in the tableau of last week’s opponent fighting for life, Thursday’s lips curled down into a sad frown. She closed the door gently behind her, the click of it falling into place hardly audible, and walked to the nylon upholstered chair by the bedside. Kicking one leg over it, she straddled the back, resting her elbows upon the top of it and dropping her chin to his wrists to stare.
Thursday Kerrigan: So… Eddie. You’re not conscious. You can’t hear me. You have no idea I’m here.
The man in the coma did not respond. Thursday smiled sadly, tilting her head.
Thursday Kerrigan: And, like, that’s great. Fine. I don’t need you to talk. I’m not here for some discussion or anything. I guess I just have some shit to get off my chest.
She paused, her eyes tilting to the ceiling in thought. The sad smile soon turned to a wry smile of amusement and nostalgia.
Thursday Kerrigan: S’funny, a few months ago I was in a hospital room, too. For Jared, y’know? He couldn’t talk to well with the whole jaw-wired-shut-thing at first, but when He got better, we’d stay up all night talking. We talked about everything: music, movies, our hopes, our dreams. I think it was in that hospital room when I really fell in love with Him. Like, don’t get me wrong, I adored Him so much before, but when He was off the road and we had all that alone time, we really bonded, ya know? Like, it was just different.
Her gaze dropped, the smile slowly fading from her lips. As her eyes began to mist, her hand came up to slap herself across the cheek.
Thursday Kerrigan: Stop it! Stop it! Stupid, stupid!
After the moment of struggle, any signs of tears had evaporate save the faintest smudging of her eyeliner. The frown twisted up into a crazed smile as she leaned forward, the back legs of the chair gently tilting upwards.
Thursday Kerrigan: I’m sure you think I’m probably here to apologize. Sorry, I’m not. I’m not even really here to use you for therapy or any of that shit – Al is just a call away in those instance. What I’m really here for is to explain how I gave you greatest gift I could. And why I did it.
She rose, letting the chair clatter to the floor between her feet. She stepped over it, advancing to the bed and sitting on the edge, a single hand reaching over to lightly stroke Thorton’s cheek.
Thursday Kerrigan: Poor Eddie. Such a good guy. Too good for this world, perhaps. You had everything, didn’t you? A wife who loved you and bore you a son, a father whom you could idolize, a promising career … all gone in a flash of white hot pain and the void. This may be it, Eddie – no more white picket fence or family dog or retirement to Florida.
But that’s okay. In fact, that’s great because I’ve given you more than fleeting happiness: I’ve given you the keys to it all. You get it now, don’t you? In the end, it’s all gone. It’s like waking up from a dream and finding that nothing is real. And that’s so much better than the pain of bills or the worries about the economy or whatever. It’s real, Eddie! I’ve shown you reality! I’ve woken you up from your sleep.
She giggled, continuing to pet his face.
Thursday Kerrigan: Oh Eddie Junior. So perfect and pure and good-hearted and kind. What will happen if you ever wake up? Will your wife still be there for you? Will your father still be alive? Will that house with its white picket fence be foreclosed to pay for your medical bills? Or will you even want to wake up? Perhaps when the light strikes your eyes and they flutter open and your wife sits over you crying with happiness, you’ll turn to the nurse and say “I only want to sleep.” Sleep is good. We’re all so tired.
What was it Shakespeare said? “What dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil”? Something like that. Are you dreaming, Eddie? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be in a coma, y’know? Like, would it be like that part of Inception where Leo and his wife have that whole dream world they’ve made and his wife doesn’t want to leave? Maybe you have another wife and picket fence now, and when you wake up they’ll be gone? Kinda like the Matrix, too, I guess.
She paused, her gaze drifting for a moment as a look of apprehension crossed her face, her eyes darting back and her speech increasing in pace.
Thursday Kerrigan: D’ya know what the Singularity is? Jared talked about it a bunch, and I guess this kinda makes me think of that, right? Anyways, there’s this idea that technology helps us make better technology, and as it’s getting better, we’re making so much more new shit, right? Like, thanks to computers we can land rockets on little pads in the middle of the ocean and we’re growing tissue and shit in petri dishes to help us cure all sorts of disease we never could in the last century.
It’s kinda crazy, don’t you think? Like, I was watching some movie on TV Land the other night, and it’s set in the future and shit, and this woman pulls out this little baton and uses it to take a picture. Think of that shit: in the Sixties they were dreaming about a future with selfie sticks! That’s our future now! And shit, maybe we get the flying cars next or the jet packs or something! Or maybe… maybe…
She paused, the excitement dissipating.
Thursday Kerrigan: Or maybe it’s the Singularity. Sorry, I haven’t explained this. Anyway, the way Jared always put it is that this thing, the Singularity, is the point when technology would become self-perpetuating, right? Like, specifically with A.I.s and shit – they’d be able to innovate without us, and probably wouldn’t even need to push the buttons anymore. Like, I was reading online today that Foxconn – you know, that factory in China where they make iPhones and everyone was killing themselves? – just replaced sixty thousand workers with robots. Think about it: it’s cheaper to automate than run sweatshops at this point! It’s become inevitable, and it’s happening now! Soon we’ll have AIs that can write their own code and build their own machines and do whatever! The world will be efficient, and we’ll be totally obsolete!
Like, isn’t that kinda scary? I think so. Jared never really elaborated on how he felt, just that it was happening and it was ‘cause people were too lazy, stupid, or pre-occupied to care. That’s you, Eddie. The world is going to hell in a fucking handbasket around us; did you know the population of the little brown bat dropped by ninety-fucking-percent in the last five years? Bees are dying off, and the rain forest is shrinking rapidly. Everything’s getting hotter, and most people are just happy they can swim in October. And people like you? You’re all concerned about that fucking picket fence and what to name your next kid.
And that’s why I’ve given you the gift of sleep, Eddie. Because when the Singularity comes, it’s the people like you who won’t be able to handle it. You’re too stuck in the past; too conventional. You don’t get that the sky is about to split open, and when everything is perfect, you’ll have nothing. You’ll never achieve that picket fence when your job is done by a robot. You’ll never have that happy retirement when Miami is under thirty feet of fuckin’ water. You’re not going to have shit, and you’re going to die crazed and bored because there’ll be nothing left for you. When everything you stood for falls, you won’t have anywhere to stand. You don’t get it. You’ll never get it. So instead? You’ll never see it. You’ll sleep so fucking peacefully in your little shell, dreaming of that house and happy retirement while the world burns. Heaven, Eddie. I’ve given you heaven.
She pauses, her eyes widening as her lips twist up. She leans close to his ear, her voice dropping quiet and seductive.
Thursday Kerrigan: But not me, Eddie. See, I can see the wave. Jared showed me. And I’m riding that motherfucker until it crashes upon the rock. His rock. I’ve seen the designs traced in the stars around Carcosa and the beating of Antares. This motherfucker is going to burn in pastel flames while people take their lithium and browse Buzzfeed and Instagram their latest fucking Quesalupa. And it’s so fucking good because it’ll just allow that wave to swell and grow until it wipes out everything. You’ve got a few options, #fuccboi: drown, become one with the wave, or swim. And in those water-logged ruins of Old New York and from the murky depths of Miami will rise New Jalaxaritkatusa, and the Six God will be back with me as His Goddess at His right hand.
She giggled, leaning back and patting his cheek.
Thursday Kerrigan: But don’t worry, Eddie, I have one last gift for you.
Her hand ran down her cuff of her knee high boots. Reaching inside, she retrieved a single syringe filled with a pulsing blue liquid. Removing the protective plastic case from the needle, she smiled to herself as she depressed the plunger to remove any air bubbles. She sang softly to herself.
Thursday Kerrigan: She wore blue velvet… Bluer than velvet was the night…
She turned, placing the syringe on the bed as she placed two fingers on the IV extending from the gap between Eddie’s left forearm and bicep. Tracing her fingers up the line, she came to the junction point, pinching the end and disconnecting the line.
Thursday Kerrigan: Softer than satin was the light from the stars… She wore blue velvet… Bluer than velvet were her eyes…
Lifting the syringe once more, she connected the end into the plastic line, drawing the plunger back to draw the liquid of the line into the chamber.
Thursday Kerrigan: Warmer than Mars, her tender sighs… Love was ours…
Her thumb pressed down, the liquid slowly course into the tube and down into the veins of Edward Thorton Jr. As the liquid entered his system, his body stiffened.
Thursday Kerrigan: Ours was a love I held tightly… Feeling the rapture glow…Like a flame burning brightly…But when she left, gone was the glow…
He twitched as the heart rate monitor began to spike, the beating of the patient’s heart growing rapid. Thursday’s eyes kept on the line as her grin grew only bigger and wilder. As the chamber of the syringe emptied, she pinched the line again, disconnected it from the syringe, and replaced it with the standard saline drip bag.
Thursday Kerrigan: …Of Blue Velvet… But in my heart they’ll always be…
She rose, taking a moment to listen to the heart rate ease back down to normal as a slow smile spread across the lips of the man. Thursday’s mania subsided; she’d done good work tonight. The empty syringe slipped back into her boot.
Thursday Kerrigan: Precious and warm a memory through the years…
She rose from the bed, walking to the door and gripping the hand to pull it open, stepping out into the empty hall.
Thursday Kerrigan: And I still can see Blue Velvet through my tears…
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Thx 4 signing up to be my bitch this week : ) I receive THOUSANDS of letters every week asking to be my personal bitch, but after careful consideration, I decided your application best met the criteria I look for in a sub. In particular, I appreciated the excessive body hair (which is usually a consequence of poor grooming and hygiene habits, suggesting a lack of self-esteem), belligerent persona (see last bit about self-esteem), and veritably thick neck. How long until you think it breaks? : D One curb stomp? One Dolphin Driver? Maybe I can spend all night stomping the back of your head in as you beg for more. : D : D I’m SO excited!!! < 3 < 3 < 3
Now that you’ve been accepted for the position as loyal footstool for your new goddess, we ought to probably go over the demands on the position. After all, I am a high maintenance girl, and I expect a consistent standard of quality worship. An inability to maintain this standard or follow these results will first result in punishment, and subsequent failures will result in termination. I’m sure you don’t want that – I could care less, as there are plenty of other applicants – but I doubt you have many other prospects.
The first part of the position I’d like to go over is worship in the face of unrelenting humiliation. Considering your posturing and preening, I’m sure this will be rather natural for you to grasp. Beyond that, your residence in Omaha only reinforces my suspicion of your closeted masochism; WTF is in Omaha anyway besides Berkshire-Hathaway? A few record stores? Creighton? A university that is not UNL? God, what an awful city. What an awful state, come to think of it.
You live in a state whose most memorable celebrities include that untalented midget Howard Black, a rich geriatric, and that guy from Bright Eyes. Notice any exclusions from that list? You don’t even crack a short-list of relevant Nebraskans. You don’t even crack a top thousand list of relevant Nebraskans. I’ve seen people at Magnum Pro Wrestling shows in the Sokol Auditorium in your awful city that have more of a pedigree and caliber than you have. You have all the grandiosity of the old Con Agra headquarters, but like it is now, you’re completely hollow of any real value. They moved to Chicago; maybe you should hit up Kyle Kemp and follow in their footsteps. Then again, if you’re already a small fish in a state like Nebraska, we’d probably found you dead of a cum overdose in some ChIraq project within a few months. It’s a real shame they tore down Cabrini Green; you’d have been a king in that place.
This getting you riled up, big boy? ; ) Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from. You’re as limp-wristed as Taylor Martinez and Tommy Armstrong. The chances of you having any success in UCI are as likely as your state getting a professional sports team: laughable. You’re as liked as Governor Ricketts in a gay bar. Speaking of Ricketts, guess where he’s from: Chicago. The breed of your state is such a joke, it’s outsourcing its politicians. Ditto for Sen. Sasse; didn’t he go to an Ivy League for school? It’s like you people don’t get it; it’s a fucking identity crisis in the state. You want so badly to be relevant you set up a Caucus to mimic Iowa – mimicking Iowa is Nebraska’s favorite pastime – but then you have a Senator trying to start a coup against his own party for brownie points in a state where Trump overwhelmingly won. You want to hold up Lincoln and Omaha as these bastions of civilization and progress, but you move the fucking state fair to middle-of-nowhere Grand Island. I don’t know if there’s a Caucasian-equivalent of a Zip Coon, but it’s a sure as shit apt way to describe you. You and everyone else in your state are a bunch of fucking bumpkins who believe that having a successful indie folk artist and couple Fortune 500 companies makes you something you aren’t: modern. The third largest city in your state is Memorial Stadium on Husker Game Day; you are two clicks away from being as bland as Wyoming. Maybe you should just change your state name to South-er Dakota. Or North Kansas. Just like you should start filing paperwork soon to change your name to “Aaron Mild”. Much more appropriate. ; )
This getting you hot, big boy? Hot under the collar as Bo Pelini felt during the 2014 Wisconsin game? Well don’t worry, if that sort of beating gets you off, just wait until we hit the ring. : )
The second part of the job will be taking physical abuse. Allow me to elaborate: I’m going to beat you like Brandon Teena. This isn’t going to be Purdue vs. Nebraska in 2015; it’s going to be 2001 Colorado, where you have psychological scars fifteen years later. I’m going to leave you such a fucking mess that Connor Oberst is going to dedicate his next album to you. I’m going to tear your shit down like the Clarinda & Page Apartments and build a big Mutual of Omaha tower dedicated to me on your ruins. By the end of this shit, you’ll be such a fucking laughing stock you’ll declare permanent residency in Miami and be the true little sniveling coward turncoat that I know you are – and soon your whole birth state will know you are.
You’re as irrelevant as Hastings, and you’re gonna get beat drunk like you spent a weekend in White Clay. I’m going to brutalize and emasculate you so badly, they’ll reduce the size of Chimney Rock by half on the back of your state quarter. You’re absolute shit, like Terrell Newby trying to run on Illinois. After this week, your record is going to be worse than Mike Riley’s first season.
It is imperative to understand that while I may touch you, you may not touch me. Failure to comply with this rule may result in serious injury. : (
I hope you’re ready, Aaron. : ) If you thought what I did to poor Eddie and Burn Out was bad, you’ve seen nothing yet.
Your New Six Goddess,
Thursday XOXOXO
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
I swam across,
I jumped across for you,
Oh, what a thing to do,
Cause you were all ＹＥＬＬＯＷ
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Before slipping beneath the 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets of her bed, Thursday raised the glass pipe to her lips and touched the flame of the lighter to the fuzzy blue plant in the bowl. As it burned, she pulled lightly to draw the exotic tasting smoke over her tongue and into her lungs, closing her eyes to savor the electric hum in her body as she lightly exhaled. It was a habit she’d picked up from Jared; when they were together, they’d smoke a Blue Velvet spliff every night before making love and falling asleep. Now her bed was empty of His body, but in that absence, the ritual had not faded.
It was an oddly perfumed smoke, tasting of cardamom and lavender. It burned incredibly fast, but this was always helpful, as it required quite the intake to get the desired effects. Jared had always been one to roll a spliff and pull on it for several minutes, slowly building a wave to ride out, but Thursday had never been one to wait. Instead, she prefer the unadulterated plant and the rapid experience of smashing into the other side. With each draw, the engagement ring on her finger felt hotter, and when the bowl was cashed, she placed it on the bedside table and closed her eyes, her hand snaking down to brush the metal band against herself. As the first wave of psychedelic visions began to creep into her head, she thought of Jared rolling on top of her as He had every night before His disappearance.
The world was washing away rapidly as the darkness behind her eyelids replaced itself with brilliant strokes of color and pattern. She continued to stroke herself, sucking her bottom lip between her lip as her eyes opened to look around the new place she’d arrived. It was a familiar sight; one she’d seen many times in her Blue Velvet dreams but only for flashes. In this instance, she stayed. And by some odd compulsion, she felt herself knowing exactly where to go. She walked the familiar neon streets at night, far beneath the surface of the waves, and passed the head shops and clothing chains and fast food joints towards the humming lights of the wrecked Titanic and its golden ziggurat atop. In what seemed like no time at all, she’d found herself walking beneath the Yellow Sign and into the throne room of the King in Yellow. When she saw him, her heart rose in her chest as a single tear rolled down her alabaster cheeks to fall to the floor. Her lips parted to allow a soft, quivering, familiar name leave.
Thursday Kerrigan: J-Jared…
He rose from the throne, His robes of golden shark skin trailing behind Him as He strode across the room to her. His hand came for hers, gripping her fingers lightly, and He raised it to His lips to press a small kiss on the back of her knuckles. He smiled at her, His other hand coming up to cup her cheek. His thumb stroked the band of the ring on her hand.
Jared Holmes: I knew you’d make it here eventually.
It was hard to think under the grip of Blue Velvet, her emotions pushed to delicate limits and holding by threads to calm. Her body shook, her words unable to properly form. She fought to say anything at all.
Thursday Kerrigan: Wh-where are we? Why do I feel like I’ve been here before?
He smiled, His cool blue eyes flashing brilliantly.
Jared Holmes: Because you have been here, just never for long. Because I wanted you here, and I showed you the way. Did you not feel me take you by the hand and guide you here – to me?
He released her, turning and sweeping His arms widely to present the interior of the temple.
Jared Holmes: This? This is it. The next step. Don’t you see? We’re so close, babe. So very… fucking… close.
He turned back to her, His lips having parted into a wide grin. His excitement stimulated her, sending chills through her ribs and down her stomach. Somewhere, as if she were living simultaneously through a veil, she felt herself touch herself again.
Thursday Kerrigan: And now I’m here! We’re here, together! This… this is where we’re meant to be, right? Until the prophecy is fulfilled?!
Jared closed his eyes, shaking His head solemnly.
Jared Holmes: No. You can’t stay. You have work to do on the surface for me. For us.
He opened His eyes once more, locking gaze with her. Her smile faded as she became caught in His stare, the same way she’d felt beneath the stare of Jim Thuggin.
Jared Holmes: I can’t tell you why I’m here or where here is. Let’s just call this “Another Place.” You don’t belong here; not yet. By the time you do, this place will be one with your place. That is when everything will be ready.
He paused, approaching her once more and taking her hands in His.
Jared Holmes: We’re close, babe. So fucking close. But you need to keep that balling rolling for me. You need to continue that work. It started last week, and you need to continue it this week.
He released her hands to place His hands on her shoulders, His gaze unblinking and intense. A thin smile crossed His lips.
Jared Holmes: Tell me. What do you think about Aaron Miles?
Thursday brought a hand to her eye, wiping the residual tears from her cheek before slowly composing herself. Under this new spotlight, just as she’d suddenly felt under Thuggin’s the week before, a quiet confidence spread through her. She raised a hand to cup Jared’s face, a wicked shark grin spreading across her lips.
Thursday Kerrigan: Aaron, take a look at what a real man looks like. He doesn’t need some coifed haircut or moustache or pair of sunglasses.
Jared Holmes: I actually wear sunglasses quite a lot.
Thursday Kerrigan: I mean… yeah, but that’s not what I mean. You don’t slap on a pair of aviators to ape the look of some fucking M*A*S*H extra or Miami Vice walk-on. You’re fucking Maverick; You’re the goddamn Top Gun. It has nothing to do with the look; it’s the swagger You carry yourself with. You’re a cardboard cut-out, Aaron: a walking caricature of “cool” who has thrown a slew of clichés in front of himself to hide the truth he’s a babbling little loser baby. I see through you like Saran Wrap. Your little act is the costume equivalent of a plastic bag over your head, and on Sunday I’m going to secure it with a rubber band around your neck.
You ready for a world-shattering experience, Miles? You can slap all the asses you want, call me “hot cheeks” or whatever the hell makes you think you’re Don Draper, but when the bell rings, it’s going to be me riding you like a horse to the jeers of the audience while you call me “Mommy.” Take your stupid look at Party Like it’s 1999, because I’m the Y2K about to crash your #fuccboi ass and leave you as dead as the guy who sang that song I just referenced.
No mustache rides this time, #fuccboi; it’s all Queening from here on. I have every advantage on you from speed to lethality. I’m gonna do you like the cockpit window did Goose. I’ll leave you the consolation prize of my worn fishnets for you to smell and jack-off to for a few weeks before the nightmares get so unbarable you sign up on Grindr, posting “Big Bear looking for his Significant Otter.” You’re going to get so mangled by this bitch, you’ll be dusting dicks in the Castro District for years, trying to regain your self-confidence.
Jared smiled, releasing her shoulders to take her hands once more. The two grinned wickedly at one another, sinners in unholy matrimony.
Jared Holmes: What about this “Cool” thing? What do you gotta say about that?
Thursday Kerrigan: If by “Cool” you mean “Your career is cooling off faster than Dolph Ziggler, I agree. You fucking rolled over and took it up the stink tube from a nobody like Chase Jackson, and now you expect to come into a match with the bitch whose first match gave the FCC a mild heart attack? This isn’t wrestling, Aaron, this is #fuccboigenocide. Hope you got your faggy little ascot ready to wipe up your tears, blood, and the piss in your shorts after the bell.
The funny part is our stories aren’t too different in essence, we just got different deals. We both were two lost souls who met someone special who made us who we are now. The difference is you met some reject sage, and I met the fucking Six God. Let’s make something adamantly clear: Jared’s absence, like that of Flash and Andre, is a fucking godsend to you bitches. This tournament and first champion would be in the books already if He was here. Do you think the chick He personally trained would be any different? Little secret: I didn’t participate in that tournament you’ve already lost because I’m biding my time. Any time at all that I ever feel like it, this whole company is my bitch. Case in point: I’m going to absolutely shred you this week and single-handedly boost the rating of Overload. Then I’ll have Spencer Adams throw me some other poor soul, and I’ll shred him or her, too. I’m going to rip this roster to pieces without ever holding singles belt; I don’t need it. Al and I have our sights set on the Tag Titles, and we’re gonna rocket those bitches to the top of this company. And we’re going to do it by not only being an undefeated team but by being undefeated period. Those singles belts? They don’t belong to me. Those belong to one man only: Jared Holmes. My God is better than your God in every way. We are not the same.
The fuck is “Cool”, anyway? Are you some fucking Snoopy persona? Don’t you get that “Cool” died with jazz and Xtreme Sports? Fuck out of here with that cool shit. We only #swag these days, and I swag like the fukken ocean. Swag is for winners, Class is for neckbeards, and Cool is for faggots. Got anything else to add to that, Daddy-O? Yeah this Sunday’s gonna be one hep milkshake, ain’t it? You’re fucking pathetic. Embarassing. I’m surprised Nebraska is breathing a sigh of relief that you’ve fucked off to another state where you can’t drag down the property value and dignity of the population. You’re as outdated as a Loggins & Messina album and as bad as a Toto B-side. Go buy a Yacht and sail off into a storm where no one can see you or watch you shit up the ring.
Six Goddess Rising, faggot. The #FuccboiGenocide continues. Next body in that mass grave? Aaron Miles. #BitchLivesMatter.
She stopped, the grin slowly fading to a calm smile. Jared drew her in, His lips pressing to hers in a soft kiss. When they drew away, He smiled confidently at her.
Jared Holmes: You’re ready. You’ll be great. I knew I picked you for a reason.
She nuzzled her head against His neck, savoring His familiar smell and the feeling of His body against hers. Her arms wrapped around His waist as His looped around her shoulders.
Thursday Kerrigan: You’ll be back soon, right?
Jared Holmes: When the time is right.
His hand snaked up her neck and ran through her hair, gently stroking her scalp. She cooed lovingly under His touch. Softly, she sang a familiar song to Him.
Thursday Kerrigan: Your skin, oh yeah, your skin and bones… turn in to something beautiful… do you know, you know I love you so?
The world had begun to fade around her as the hotel room slowly returned to focus. A fresh tear ran down her cheek as she squeezed the embraced pillow tightly against herself, running her hand along it in vain to catch one last caress of His face. The final lyric came out choked by a sob.
Thursday Kerrigan: Do you know I love you so?
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ｆｏｒ Ｙｏｕ Ｉ＇ｄ Ｂｌｅｅｄ Ｍｙｓｅｌｆ Ｄｒｙ
