#but I mean. wearing sunglasses always makes you look like a twerp. such is life.

[trasno-personal]

[ID 1/ Crowley's sunglasses. They're round with metal sun shields on the sides curving around the lenses. /End ID 1]

[ID 2/ A pair of sunglasses that look like two big connected scalene triangles. /End ID 2]

the worst part about good omens getting popular is that it has now convinced thousands of people that those stupid sunglasses that crowley wears are actually cool

[marsupials-of-mars]

Nightmares

“What if you die? You get in a wreck, and you just die. What’s death like? What if they don’t like your new video? What if they hate it? What if your channel dies? How big really IS the universe? Does it end? And if it doesn’t, in the long run literally nothing you do matters. In a billion years someone who looks just like you could have the exact same life and it would be just as pointless-“

“Virge I know I’m nervous but it’s night and I can’t do anything about it so could you quiet down a bit?”

“Hey, I’m doing my job.”

“Can you work a bit less hard?”

Virgil sighed. He was laying next to Thomas, on top of the sheets. It was summer and he refused to take off his hoodie so blankets were a no go.

“If you insist.” They stayed in silence a while. “What if nothing happens when we die?”

“Look I know you’re trying but I’m tired.”

“Fair enough. Night man.”

“Night.”

Virgil patted Thomas’ shoulder and retreated into his mind. He rose in the hall and made his way to his room. He threw off his hoodie and pulled off his jeans, falling onto his bed. His favorite part of the day, sleep. He rolled up in his sheets and sighed at the breeze from the fan playing with his bangs.

After a bit of laying in bed, humming to himself, and tossing and turning, he realized he wasn’t tired. At all. And he knew what that meant. He groaned and rolled over, willing himself to drift off, but no luck. He let out a long sigh and rolled out of bed. He slid his feet into his black slippers and threw open the door. Usually he’d never leave his room without his hoodie much less without pants, but if there was one person in the entire world who’s opinion of him he didn’t give a rats ass about, it was this little shit. He trudged down the hall toward a black and sickening hot pink door. He tried to yank it open, but the knob wouldn’t turn. He smirked. Might as well have a little fun if he had to deal with the night shift. He put on a gross snooty accent and leaned dramatically on the door. He did a great Roman impression.

“Rem, open up! Dream time! Let’s party!” He heard an excited shout from somewhere inside.

“Give me some warning you bitch, I just finished working out I’m a mess!” The lighthearted name calling made Virgil gag.

Too cutesy, too social. He heard the knob jiggle and stood up from his Roman pose. The door flew open.

“You have no idea how-nnGAAH!” Remy fell backward and dropped his iced coffee. “ANXIETY! Where’s Roman?!”

Virgil snorted. He blinked down at the coffee covered Remy, tank top, hot pink sweat bands and all. “He couldn’t make it. I’ve got the night shift.” Remy gulped. “Believe me buddy I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here. A jobs a job.”

“F-fine. Come in. But don’t touch anything.”

Virgil brushed past Remy who jumped back like he was poisoned. He plopped on the couch and stretched out his skinny, sickly pale arms and legs. Remy opened his mouth like he was about to protest, but decided against it.

Virgil sighed. Remy had hated him as long as he could remember. Not just like the others had hated him, the twerp acted like he was an actual monster. He was scared of him. He couldn’t tell why, but if he had to choose one of the sides, or whatever sleep was, to be afraid of him, it would be Remy. He never had a desire to be friends with him. Their personalities did NOT line up. But he did like terrifying him. If he had to put up with screaming he’d make it for a good reason. He dropped his new-ish friendliness he used with the sides and reverted to good ol’ scream-at-the-sight-of-him Virgil.

“S-so...” Remy tried to regain his composure. “Should we get to it?”

“Nah... we’ve got all night.”

“I don’t want you in my room.” Even with the confident words, his voice tapered off into a squeak halfway through the sentence.

“Rude. You’ve got such a fun place, a soft couch... a wall mounted flatscreen?” He looked at the tv. “You like horror movies right?”

Remy shook his head. Virgil chuckled.

“Aw, poor little Remington.”

“I...I mean if you want-“

“Great!” Virgil grabbed the remote and pulled up The Shining. “Im more into physiological horror, less blood and guts. If there’s too many jumpscares...well... I go a little...” His eyes went black and he hissed, clawing at the air. Remy shrieked and jumped back, tripping over the coffee table. Virgil chuckled. “So yeah, I don’t think that’d be too great an idea. This ones a classic. Cmon, sit.”

Remy conjured a frappe and sat on the couch, keeping a good few feet from Virgil. “Mkay. But I’ll be doing my nails.” He seemed to be getting a bit more comfortable.

“Mhm. Sure.” Virgil hit play. As he watched the movie, Remy started to relax a bit more. He painted his nails a deep red and used a toothpick to add tiny white hearts on each thumb. He adorned them with a few black sequins. His movements were so smooth and precise. Virgil hadn’t noticed that he’d stopped watching the movie. Remy looked up.

“Oh... like them?”

Virgil’s eyes darted up to meet Remy’s. “No. But you’re good at that.”

A slight smile pulled at the corners of Remy’s lips. “Yeah, it took a while to master. Ro made me this book of different designs he’d come up with, we do each other’s all the time.”

“Huh...” Virgil thought a moment. He paused the movie. It wouldn’t hurt... “do you have black?”

He saw Remy’s eyes brighten. “Udoy, I have pretty much any color you can think of.” He seemed proud. It was almost cute.

“Do you think you could do mine...?”

Remy seemed confused a minute but slowly smiled. “You’re kidding.” Suspicion crept onto his face. “Is this a trick...?”

“No, not at all. I’ve actually thought about doing it for a while but it seemed a little... out there. For me.”

Remy blew a raspberry. “You wear eye shadow, I don’t think a mani would be too out there.”

Virgil flushed. “What are you trying to say about my makeup?”

Remy’s smile faltered. “Oh, no that’s not what I meant, I’m saying you’re braver than you think you are. Though your eyeshadow it’s kind of...messy.”

Virgil bristled and brought a hand to his face protectively. “I like it!”

Remy put his hands up. “I do to, I like it, I’m just saying it could use a professional touch!”

Virgil blinked. “You want to do my makeup?”

“Um, yes, I have so many ideas! Well, Ro Ro helped design them, but I’ve wanted to try them out for so long!” Remy conjured a binder titled ‘Nails and Makeup for Rem’. He set it on the coffee table and thumbed through it with his coffee free hand. Virgil watched over his shoulder. The pages were full of Romans drawings, first all kinds of nail designs, then the sides faces, colored and shaded with makeup to fit their personalities. Remy stopped at Virgil’s section. “There’s like, literally a billion of you, you’ve got all sorts of potential!” He grinned. His eyes sparkled with passion. Virgil blushed.

“I always thought you kind of... hated me?”

“Oh, I do, you terrify me physically and emotionally and are overall a wet blanket, but I’m obsessed with your character!”

“My character?” He decided to ignore the previous bits.

“Dark, brooding, scared, troubled, badass, that kind of look is so fun to do! I LIVE for that shit!”

Virgil thought about it. He nodded, slightly red in the face. “Okay. Go ahead.”

Remy pulled out a bottle of black nail polish and set Virgil’s hand on his leg. He looked at the dark side’s nails and furrowed his brows.

“Oh... you’re... you’re a biter aren’t you?”

Virgil looked down. He’d forgotten about that.

“Oh yeah... is that really bad?”

“No... no it just means we get to try something even cooler!” He pulled out a few oddly shaped plastic sheets, a brush, a container of powder, and a glass of water. “This’ll take a while but it’ll be worth it! I won’t need the black paint because I’ve got a black acrylic, I’ll just gloss and decorate it.”

“Acrylics? Fake nails?” Virgil raised a brow.

“Trust me you’ll love them, I’ll give you some manageable stiletto nails, they’ll look like claws, you’ll LOVE them trust me hon.”

“Fine, Fine...” Virgil watched as he sculpted and UV dried and filed and glossed and adorned them with purple rhinestones. Virgil resumed the movie and sipped an iced black coffee Remy had made for him. It took all in all a couple hours.

“Done!” Remy revealed his handiwork. The nails were each about two inches and filed to a point. They were glossed with minimalist design: The thumbs were tipped with violet, And each cuticle was dotted with a tiny purple jewel. Virgil stared at them. He smiled. “Nice...”

“He likes them!” Remy clapped his fingertips. Virgil shrugged.

“Guess so. Makeup?”

“Fuck yeah!” He took off his sunglasses revealing simple but perfect eyeliner framing dark pink eyes. Virgil stared. He chuckled. “I know, I’m gorgeous.” He clipped his glasses on his shirt and pulled out a bottle of makeup remover and a makeup bag. “Keep your eyes closed.” Virgil closed his eyes. He could still feel Remy’s hesitance in the cotton ball on his skin, which was fine. He wasn’t there to make friends. He kept his eyelids still as he felt eyeliner and mascara being applied, then eyeshadow. It took a few minutes. Remy fanned his face, tossing his bangs around in the breeze.

“Aaaand open!” Virgil opened his eyes to a mirror in his face. Remy grinned from behind it. “Like it?” Virgil stared at himself. His lashes were unbelievably thick and long with thick black mascara. He didn’t even know they were that long in the first place. His eyeliner was winged and precise. The best part was the eye shadow, it was smoky, Black to silver to violet. He blinked and stared in awe.

“Like it?” Remy repeated himself.

“Mhm...yeah. Thanks man...” He felt awesome. Gorgeous. “Want to make some nightmares?”

Remy’s smile faltered. “Yeah.”

“I’ll keep it mild.” Virgil rubbed his thumbnail. Remy lightened a bit.

He tailed Virgil as he walked to a door and opened it into darkness. They walked in and Virgil shut the door. “Okay Remington, give it to me.”

Remy pulled out a few folders. “Hmmm... he recently discovered what a goblin shark is.” Virgil nodded and pulled the shark from the folder, enlarging it to the size of a school bus. He conjured a dream Thomas and encapsulated him in a tiny submarine. He filled their surroundings with murky ocean. Remy shivered.

“And um... he’s been having back pains-“

Virgil twisted dream Thomas’ spine into a crooked mess.

“Give me another. Maybe some company.”

Remy gulped. “Um...” he thumbed through folders. “His friend Terrence is moving away.”

Virgil closed his eyes a moment and took a breath. “I’m more than aware...” he plucked Terrence from the folder and shoved him into the sub with Thomas. “He gets eaten first.”

“Are you sure-“

“I’m sure. My job is fear.” Virgil darkened the ocean a bit more and added two pure black giant squid. He blinded the submarine with schools of dead fish. He quickly wrote a script. “Perfect.” He locked the dream into place and hit play. With a moment of thought, he slapped his hand over Remy’s terrified eyes before the bite came. He ushered him out of the room and locked the door.

“What was that?!”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see the shark take a chunk out of Terrence.”

Remy gulped. “Well... thanks.”

“No problem.” He began to head to the door.

“Don’t you want to stay for the showing?” Remy motioned to the tv.

“Nah, I wrote the script. And I’m tired.” He grabbed the doorknob. He paused a moment. “Thanks. For the makeup. And the nails.”

“No prob Virge. Does this make us... friends?”

Virgil gagged. “No, never, and don’t call me Virge.”

Remy shrugged. “Sounds good. But if you do ever want to swing by for a makeover, I’d be up to it.”

Virgil smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He walked out and shut the door behind him.

He made his way to his room and laid down, but before he got to sleep he rose in Thomas’s bed. He looked over to see him panting and sweaty.

“Nightmare?” Virgil smiled slightly in the dark. Thomas spoke through breaths.

“Yeah...”

“Sorry.”

Thomas sighed. “It’s fine...” He hugged Virgils side. In ten minutes or so of steady breathing and happy thoughts, he drifted off. Virgil smiled. That bitch was doing his job pretty well.

[resmarted]

what happens when you run out of the energy required to even make those sounds that come out of your body? i don’t even mean just the violent passion but what the fuck happens when you, teensy tiny mcgee, run out of steam for it all? hi, by the way. i’m trying to decide if i’ve run out of stories. everything i think of just sort of fades out midway and i’m not sure if i’ve lost my spark and just don’t have it in me to plot out our lives the way i once did, or if i’m outgrowing this whole thing altogether. i’m a little confused as to how you can wear socks that aren’t black and brown at the bottom, so i mean i still have important questions, but i feel kind of lackluster in this whole sifl & olly show i’ve been putting on. like i thought of putting us in the 70’s with disco lights and roller-skates and this plotline where me and all my dude friends are confronted by you in your tube socks and adidas shorts trying to join our bowling league and we are all gasp a girl on our team and i’m the one that’s like no guys i think we should give her a chance and how it’s this totally unheard of thing to let a girl play on a guy’s bowling team, and we are only like twelve in this scenario and mostly i wanted to imagine a world of locking braces and riding bikes all day and night because the kids on milk cartons don’t exist yet and people don’t really know anything about trafficking, the cocaine our parents are all on make everything seem totally fine. but i don’t want to tell that story, because where is the substance? it would literally be an entire montage of things about the seventies that are fabricated entirely based off things i’ve seen depicted as that time period in films later, like some sort of really bad dazed and confused ripoff. ok so i thought of a new one today where you’re like this monster brat of a celebrity and i’m your publicist, and we are trying to get you to transition to a more adult image but you keep fucking it up. like for example, i make a call to a paparazzo that you’re dining outside at a nearby la restaurant but the second they find you, you’re splashing water at their lenses and causing this big scene, this big nightmare for me to clean up, one after the other after the other. one day you storm into my office with this insane ensemble that only you would think is incognito, of like pleather thigh high boots and daisy dukes and this long fur coat in the middle of sunny la weather. your face looks like a bug behind these giant designer shades and your hair is in this complicated high space ponytail with a braid wrapped around holding it up and it dangles like a jump rope swinging against the small of your back. before i can even scold you for the latest nonsense you’ve created, you beastly nightmare of a client, you slam your things down and demand very loudly, i won’t do it! and let’s say your name is something really awful like jessephanie and i’m like jessephanie!! all the time, but it always sounds so stupid like i’m calling after a pekingese that just peed on the carpet. you stand your ground though and you’re like, no i’m not going to do it, there’s no way in hell. i sigh like it’s the 80th time we have been over this drama when it’s more like the 800th, and again i try to patiently explain that this, my dear, is how we play the game. you want everyone to know you as little deena from the rugrats or whatever for the rest of your life? you take your sunglasses off and look at me with your firestarter stare, smiling as you speak in an eerily calm manner, i’m not. doing it. why not? because it’s stupid! all these things you make me do are stupid! i reiterate that this is the game and we are playing to win. you yell at me with a high pitched squeak like, you think kissing a guy for a photo is the way to win? oh come on, it’s literally two seconds and it’s for a kiss cam, you won’t even be caught off guard, there’s no surprise element involved. you let out a frustrated huff like, well maybe i want a surprise element! maybe for once that would be nice! maybe i don’t want to kiss an actor at a ballgame for more points in this stupid game! i sit back in my chair the same way i always do when this happens, and throw my hands up in surrender. alright fine, you don’t want to do the kiss we won’t do the kiss. you give a very jessephanie sounding ugggh, pointing out that WE don’t have to do the kiss because it’s all you, you’re the one that i’m making look stupid, how i’m just humiliating you, and now here we go down this road again. this paranoid fit of distrust that stems from being too famous too young and anybody could be a snake. i say no no, really. i’m not in the mood for this. you don’t want to do the kiss, you want to be a martyr about it, fine let’s move on to something else. this is where you get enraged and my employees in the next room can hear you slamming a paperweight across the room, shattering a framed certificate on the wall. that’s like the third time this week, so it’s whatever. you go into a manic rage about how i’m making you out to be this big crazy spoiled brat and that you just want to be a normal person, which is such a lie and we both know this, but i nod and play along and hold you when you have your meltdown in your long dramatic floor length fur. the following week we are flying out to australia for a press tour junket to promote the new movie you’re in and everyone is going to ask about the nude scene. you say you’re not sweating it because they love you in australia and while that may be true, you have to be careful during your major interview on their 60 minutes because the journalism here is different, they will actually challenge you to your face and they don’t just bring guests on to smother them with compliments, it’s not what you’re used to. you flip out over this, of course, and go on and on about how mean people always are to you and that i have no idea what you’re used to. i have a migraine in the middle of my eyeballs so i don’t bother to fight you, rather drown you out quietly for the rest of the ride. in melbourne you get into a fight with a reporter that goes viral overnight and we are swarmed by flashbulbs from every direction after that. jessephanie, no one is going to take you seriously in your career if you keep acting out like a b-r-a-t, spelling it out as though that will soften the blowup reaction you’re bound to have. you scream at me i can spell, you know! and i’m like, i would fucking hope so by now! you slap me in the face, and i look back at you like one more breath and a murder might go down, and i death glare you once more before walking away. before i can walk out you run after me with apology after apology and you are petting my face and there’s something very dorothy and scarecrow about it, and you’re looking at me with your most sincere pleading stare. you say very earnestly, i’m sorry for being such a petty mayonnaise. this makes me laugh out of my body and the tension melts just like that, like it always does. you’re such an obnoxious little twerp, aren’t you? we get back to la where the front page of every rag is a varying photo and headline about you, which you swear isn’t your fault. you give an interview with rolling stone about how hard it is to keep a sense of balance with your hectic schedule, and at one point you mispronounce the word posthumously which haunts you through meme after meme for months. you get caught on audio saying that americans are so gross when drunk at a fast food restaurant, which sends the twitterverse in flames. i resent you for knowing words like twitterverse, because if you would just play the game with me instead of against me i wouldn’t have to wake up to news alerts of trending hashtags and jessephanie is over parties happening around the world. your talent is overshadowed by your antics and you’re just worried about the number of likes on your new instagram pic. get your head in the game, kid. there’s a limit to how many times the public will forgive you, and you’re on your ninth life. you pout at me like meow, and no i’m serious, you can’t just keep doing this same bullshit over and over again and that’s when you make your move, which i am completely against btw. your fingers are grabbing at my collar, this newly pressed designer shirt because a second ago you were just this kid on an after school show and now that you’re the hollywood it girl my dress code has much higher requirements. all the stakes are higher, and it’s making us both lose our minds in different ways. when you try to kiss me i push you off like a terrified parent, trying to explain to you the power dynamic and how this is not on any level okay, not at all, i’m not about to go down this fucking howard k stern anna nicole smith road with you no fucking way, dude. you fire me in an attempt to justify it, but it makes things worse and i walk out, wash my hands clean of you once and for all. do i see you years later when we are both in different places in our lives? should we go back to the seventies and try that one again? do you even miss me at all? alright fine, i kiss you back in this way that feels like revenge or maybe repayment for all the dumb shit you put me through, with hands that grab you around by the backs of your thighs, inhaling you like a beast unleashed. is that too much? i become stricken with guilt and panic and it’s all too much, this torrid affair, this is not what either of us signed up for. we still make out for hours and i’m torn between my dick and my moral compass, while you’re torn from my dick and just kidding, i love you.