I'm going through the list of every journal I have ever created (even ones I never posted anything to, and just used to troll open threads) and posting something to them. Out of spite.

Because when I signed up for this site, they said they would never delete my content. And I'm holding them to that.

Warren.

Grumpy.

Fiddles with the scarf he's wearing in the reflection of the living room window.

It doesn't look right no matter what.

It's evening in the perfect Hell.

Street lights have just come on. Families are sitting down around dinner tables.

"Hey Baby?" Warren says. "Can you pass the peas?"

The sun shines brightly on a suburban neighborhood. Birds chirp. Orchestral music probably plays on the soundtrack ( Read more... )

The apartment is spotless. This can mean only one thing: Warren's been trying to make things better by being the perfect husband. He cleaned, even! Vaccumed and everything. Mopped in some places.

There's a light racket coming from th kitchen.

He may be trying to cook. He's clearly losing it.

It's a slow day at W&H. Anything evil is behaving itself, and nothing has exploded since last Thursday.

Warren taps his pencil against his desk top and surfs the internet in a fit of boredom. Something vibrates in his pants.

Warren answers his cellphone.

It rained the first week of their honeymoon ( Read more... )

It's a good day for it. Wedding, that is. Although seventy degrees means many of the guests and participants are sweating into their formal wear.

Warren has lost the power of speech.

How you doing?

Warren's rough list ( Read more... )

It's like an addiction: heroics. Heroism. Heroes. And everyone everywhere seems to be an inhibitor ( Read more... )