Two inches.

Moving.

Fri, 30 Apr 2004 21:13:00 GMT

To belial and kituralb and anyone else who might have randomly friended me, I'm moving to a new house before this one drives me nuts.

This username is much too long and my obsession with basketball is ebbing somewhat, so it's time to move somewhere more suitable.

My new username is moonshooter, so please friend me and de-friend beyond_the_arc.

Thanks. See you at the new place.

--Thiss

Irony

Thu, 29 Apr 2004 22:59:59 GMT

This is my late response to the FAME challenge. I originally had written something else, but after last night’s Idol, I had to go back and re-write. For kituralb – hope you enjoy this, and be gentle, since this is my first. I realize it’s totally unrealistic, but that’s what fanfiction pretty much is. So, enjoy.

Username: beyond_the_arc
Title of Story: Irony
Who You Wrote For: kituralb
Pairing/Rating: Simon/IV, George/Fantasia, PG-13

The lights hurt John Stevens’s eyes. Even when they were dimmed down, casting pale shadows across the faces of the expectant audience. Out of the thousands of faces, John seemed to be able to focus on one for more than a few seconds. In fact, even when he was searching for his parents, his eyes kept drawing back to front row, right of center.

Simon Cowell held his gaze.

John wished he could freeze the moment. Simon’s eyes, usually containing forced indifference, were focused but fearful, almost as though he knew. John was used to being looked at like a child, even in Simon’s eyes, but the love in Simon’s eyes – there was not a word John could find to describe it.

His thoughts traveled vaguely to George. Even though George was standing right beside him, John felt as though they were miles apart. He was distantly aware of thousands of pairs of eyes on him, but he couldn’t feel the glare. The only thing he knew was how much the light hurt his eyes, and how badly he didn’t want to go.

He promised himself he wouldn’t cry.

Not in front of Simon.

Irony. The word flashed into John’s brain like lightning. Simon’s comment about taking every bullet like a man seemed so bittersweet suddenly. Inside, John had been flattered that Simon would even dare say something so wonderful to him out in the public. Then the chocolate-ice-cream-and-onion comment. It was Simon’s graceful yet still so lewd way of saying “sayonara”. John didn’t understand it last night. He just went faithfully to Simon’s dressing room like he did after every show.

Irony.

John knew without having to be told that he would be taking his final bullet like a man.

That final bullet would strike the heart.

“Oh God, please… please not George…” Although she never spoke the prayer aloud, Fantasia Barrino was praying as feverishly in her heart as she’d ever prayed in her life. It was a God-given relief to find that she, with LaToya and Diana, was safe another week. Last week was the biggest scare of her life, and yet it was even tolerable to stand in the bottom two, holding onto Jennifer, after witnessing a gleeful George Huff rolling around on the couch, his safety confirmed.

This week, it was exactly the opposite. She was safe on the couch, and he was standing in the bottom two, next to a pale John Stevens.

Last week, that was me, she thought, clasping her hands together tightly. Did he even care?

She immediately shook the thought from her brain. Of course he cared. He was George – he cared about all of them. They all cared about each other, more than they could ever say. The closer to the finale they got, the stronger the bond became.

Fantasia didn’t know if there would ever be anyone that meant as much to her as her fellow competitors did.

Especially George.

That’s why it was so hard for her to sit there in safety and watch him sweat under the lights, her only power to save him a desperate prayer. Immediately she felt sick to her stomach. Not only was she totally abandoning her support of John, who was the sweetest guy she’d ever met, but she knew how disappointed she’d be if George were to get voted off. She knew she’d start sobbing right on stage.

Irony, she thought, knowing the true problem with this particular bottom two. She loved both George and John dearly, even though the love she had for one was much different than her love for the other. But when she came down to it, she didn’t want either of them to leave. She wanted John around as much as she wanted George there. You can’t have your cake and eat it, too, she thought.

Irony.

Anticipation rose high in her stomach as Ryan started to talk, welcoming the fans back from the commercial break.

Oh, God…

George Huff held his breath. When he ran out, he quickly drew another breath and held it. It was no use. He was far too nervous to stop breathing. He knew if he kept depriving his lungs of oxygen, he’d start to hyperventilate. At least hyperventilation would accurately describe to the audience how he was feeling at the moment – like passing out.

He forced himself to keep looking forward, out over the audience, even though he wanted his last memory of being an American Idol finalist to be Fantasia’s face. The thought, though he knew it was true, jarred him out of his nervousness for a moment, and for a split second, he felt calm.

He remembered watching her unwaveringly from the couch just the week before, how he’d prayed for her survival. As much as he loved Jennifer, she simply wasn’t Fantasia. Nobody was Fantasia. Nobody had ever befriended George like Fantasia. Nobody could hold George’s attention like Fantasia. Nobody had ever stolen George’s heart like Fantasia.

He loved her. Unquestionably.

If only he ever had the strength to tell her. More than one occasion had passed when the two of them found themselves alone, and he could have told her everything. How her smile brightened his heart, how her personality lifted his spirits. How everything she did made him love her more.

But he always chickened out. And now he no longer had the chance.

He was about to be voted out off of American Idol. There was no question. John Stevens was just too popular with the women to take his fall yet, in George’s opinion. And George’s performance had been lukewarm at best. Tonight he’d be back at the house, packing up his stuff and leaving.

Fantasia, I love you, he thought, and I want to tell you out loud.

Irony. It hit George like a lead weight. He loved Fantasia. He loved her dearly. He was standing center stage, finally ready enough to tell her how he felt, and he couldn’t. He was rendered mute by Ryan Seacrest, who was getting ready to read the name. George wanted to grab the mike from Ryan’s hand, shout his feelings to the world, and then take his leave gracefully. But he was forced into silence, just at the time he was bursting to shout his love for Fantasia.

Irony.

Ryan paused and looked down at the card.

He opened his mouth to speak.

Simon Cowell sat motionless in his trademark chair, eyes locked on John Stevens. His redheaded lover looked so sickeningly pale up on that monstrous stage that Simon found himself fighting the urge to go up there and hold John until the familiar gorgeous sparkle returned to his eyes.

He knew if anyone were to find out about his post-show exploits with the sixteen-year-old crooner, he’d be behind bars faster than he could say “sex offender”. When he’d first seduced John, he made sure John knew his two rules – it’s only sex, not commitment, and keep your trap shut.

John had complied with both of those rules wonderfully. He spoke of the affair to no one, and he never incorporated feelings other than lust into their sex. He did what Simon told him to, never flinching, taking everything with a smile. It had always been rough, hard sex, all of it always to suit Simon’s pleasures and nothing was about John. Until last night, when Simon had finally found it in himself to make love to someone.

What he said after they’d both come was the most shocking thing Simon had ever said – “I love you, John.”

The moment he uttered the words, he knew they were true. They’d been true for some time, since maybe the first day he saw John. Determined not to let what he then passed off as mild attraction get in the way of his appetite for sex, he seduced John on a strictly sex-only basis. But he finally fell hard when he saw John come into his dressing room the previous night and softly murmur “I’m scared.”

Simon had taken John into his arms and loved him slowly until he was certain that John’s fears were assuaged. He had whispered to John his feelings, and had felt wonderfully completed when he heard John return the sentiment.

And just when Simon knew he had finally found someone to love, he was about to lose that person.

Irony. Simon hated the word. For the first time in his life, he was truly sure of his love for his partner, and was truly sure that his partner loved him, too. They had so much to share together, their lives to spend in each other’s arms. Now John stood before him, shaking like a leaf and oh-so pale, not his usual post-sex flush, the unspoken realization between them that John was about to fall from grace. Simon had just found someone to love, someone that was able to see through the layers to the good man Simon hid, and loved him as well. And now John was about to be taken from him.

Irony.

Simon turned his head as Ryan read the name, willing himself not to cry.

A single, solitary teardrop fell from his eye.

Got my wish.

Sun, 21 Mar 2004 15:12:21 GMT

I fell asleep with the towel still in my hair, but the effect is the same. I wanted a drastic change, and I got one. So instead of drab brown hair, I have chocolate-red hair.

I bought the stuff that cost thirty dollars, too, just because I want this color to last a while. I hate those thirty washes dyes. What's the point of dying your hair if it'll be gone in a month or two anyway? Apparently the expensive stuff is also good for hair integrity, because my hair is really silky this morning. I use this really coarse conditioner, so I don't get the silky smooth stuff very often. This is a pleasant change. Too bad they only give you enough conditioner to last four or five washes. I'll have to look into buying some today, maybe before I go over to Dad's.

Thank God that my bald spot is almost gone, or else I'd have a red patch of scalp the shape of a diamond on the top of my head. Not too attractive, that.

Today is Darlington, the Lady in Black. As usual, I'm going to be camped out on my daddy's couch for the four hours, eating pizza and drinking Pepsi like the pig I am. Mom says I can take the car, as I have an ortho tomorrow and she's too lazy to take me. This also means that I don't have to get up at 5:30. I could get up as late as 7:30 and make it to school on time. The perks of having a car are endless.

I don't need to be reminded that the reason I don't have a car, at least one I can use whenever I want, was because I wrecked it last month.

I hate my name.

Sat, 20 Mar 2004 23:28:52 GMT

I hate my name.

In fact, I hate myself. I'm a big fucking downer most of the time, because I'm just not happy with the pathetic little girl who stares back at me when I look in the mirror. I suppose most of that is weight and hair problems but it's probably not helped by the fact that I don't like my name.

I hate my middle name, I hate my first name and my last name. When you string all three names together, it just sounds wanky. I go by Ther simply because my first name sucks, my middle name sucks more, and my last name is only six letters long but no one can pronounce it correctly. Not even my own mother can pronounce my last name correctly, and it was her last name for seven years. Actually, it was longer. She was only married to Dad for seven years. They divorced when I was five and my mom remarried when I was thirteen. So... it was my mom's name for... fifteen years?

Whatever. Point is, my name sucks. I really don't like Ther all that much, but it's short enough and it doesn't truly give way to what my real first name is.

Can I change my name to Landing? Seriously. I think that's the coolest name. If I ever have a daughter (and a husband crazy enough to give me free reign) I'm going to name her Landing. I realize I sound completely irrational.

Josh and I broke up. It was coming a mile away, like one of those summer storms with the thunderheads that when you see them you're supposed to go shut all the windows. Of course it didn't actually end like that. There was just no attraction. Probably because he's dog-ugly and I'm not that attractive either. I already spent enough energy on him back in September. And I've got my eye on Justin Prosek anyway.

I have eight dollars in my dresser drawer and I want to go get hair dye. Yet my mom doesn't trust me enough to run to the store five miles away just because I was an idiot and got in a car accident one time. I need change! I'm so sick of having drab brown hair. I want to be a blonde! Or a brunette! Or a redhead! Even black is a welcome change! But brown is so ugly. Ugly hair for an ugly girl.

I need to write AI slash. Beautiful people help me feel more ugly, or less like myself.

Bet this looks familiar.

Sat, 20 Mar 2004 17:10:03 GMT

Either I love this layout too much to change it, or I'm just a lazy ass. Take your pick. I really don't see any difference in them anyway.

It's really kind of pointless for me to start another journal, especially since I'm just going to end up ignoring it, anyway. In addition, why start a new one when I have the old one?

See, I don't make much sense at all. People like me define "bane on human existence."

At least it's fifty-five degrees and sunny today, or else I'd feel like a total loss. Isn't it wonderful how the weather can change your mood?

Forgive me, but the more I talk about random stuff, the less likely my mother will be to drag me off to Old Navy. *shudder*

Okay, I'm joining this American Idol slash thingy. I have never written AI slash, and I should start, because I usually have some nasty thoughts running around in my head when I start watching Idol. And if I join this thing, no one will laugh at me for liking Idol.

I'm really quite pathetic.