Saturday, June 30, 2018

On the Latest "Skagboys" (Irvine Welsh) Book

I just finished reading "Dead Man's Trousers" by Irvine Welsh. Oh man.

Renton is way too evil... and Sick Boy is marrying a crazy 'old friend' that appeared
out of nowhere (like Dawn from "Buffy", minus the supernatural justification). Begbie
 has somehow become a non-violent, well-read human being. Diane and Nikki were
 both put on a bus (I guess?) between "Porno" and "[...] Trousers". And poor old
Spud Murphy... I really liked him.

If there's another book I probably won't read it. I love Irvine Welsh, yet there's only so 
much of this I can take. The first few books were really relatable. But now? The so-called 
Skagboys are sober cats with terrible taste in music.
DJs are in, these days... but c'moan! Iggy's Iggy, ken? Ehs, likesay, immortal. Ye cannae 

forget a cat like him.
That dialect... wow. My brain's a bit 'Leithified' (Spudified?) right now. I need to
read/re-read something civilized. Like "Harry Potter".

Thursday, June 28, 2018

Forced, Badly-Written Reaction to a Prompt

A/N: Somebody asked me to write a simple, child-friendly story with a sensible moral.
Here's the result. It's... interesting. And rather tacky. Ugh, I hate Obvious Aesops. 
They're always far too simple!

"These days, people spend way too much time on their phones - texting, calling, 
using social media. Even my granny is always taking selfies. That’s just how things 
are these days.
Still, people really ought to be careful. All this tech can be too distracting.
See, one time, I was walking to the library… listening to music on my headphones 
and texting my friend Emily. Without even looking up I began to cross a nearby 
street. Suddenly, a random guy grabbed my jacket sleeve and pulled me onto the 
If he hadn’t been there, I would’ve died. I almost walked right in front of a car! That’s
 the thing about phones. You’ve got to set ‘em down sometimes. It could save 
your life."

Slighlty Deranged, LGBT+-tastic Kids TV Show Idea

Title: ????

Premise: a young girl is sent to live with her grandmother in an unnamed city while her parents 
work out a divorce. In a slice-of-life style story she meets a variety of peculiar people.

Setting: basically, a G-rated Theme Park Version of Warhol’s NYC, mixed with the 1950s. I 
want it to feel timeless.

Dramatis Personae

Charlotte “Charlie” Jones: a young (3rd grader), tomboyish girl. Really likes telling
 (and hearing) stories.
Becky Zimmermann: a glasses-wearing, book-loving kid who takes school quite 
seriously. Her mother died of cancer when she was six. Based on my friend Sophia.
Joe: a boy who lives nearby. Very good with languages (managed to learn Yiddish, 
Italian, and German by listening). Probably autistic.

Charlie's Mother, Ali Dennis Jones: a housewife who wishes she’d pursued a ‘proper’ 
career as a secretary. As a result, she’s decided to divorce her husband.
Charlie's Father, Paul Jones: a hard working carpenter, who tends to be slightly 
bigoted. Somewhat selfish.
Granny Dennis - Charlie’s conservative, strict, serious maternal grandmother.
Clara Slattery - a trans woman (born male). She’s very motherly towards Charlie, 
and helps her with makeup (among other things). The kids always go to her for 

Local Eccentrics/Artists…
Mr. Zimmerman - Becky’s (single?) stay-at-home dad. He writes for the local 
newspaper and tends to associate with eccentric people.
Old Bill - an eccentric poet, sometimes works with Zimmerman. The kids think he’s
 really cool because of the strange Beatnik slang he uses. He’s full of strange 
stories and humorously bad advice. Something of a troll/troublemaker.      

Series Message: Different isn’t bad. Stereotypes tend to be wrong.
I want to normalize gays, trans people, mentally ill people, and so on. I want to portray an
 idealized world, in which people get along. On TV and in movies most characters are 
white, straight, and neurotypical (even now). That’s why I admire Rick Riordan. He made 
ADHD look like a superpower. He wrote gay kids into his stories. It’s awesome.

A Deranged Audition

So, I auditioned for an episode of the show Copycat Killers. There was an open casting call. A certain character really fascinated me. Of course I applied!

As you'd expect from a show like Copycat Killers, this so-called character wasn't fictional. Apparently some nutcase from Moscow and her Neonazi boyfriend actually went on a killing spree. They murdered tons of innocent homeless people. Why? Well, for one thing, she found extreme violence to be sexually arousing. I'm not making this up. Humans Can Be Serious Bastards.

Anyway, due to my red hair and curvy figure, they decided not to cast me. I've decided to post my audition videos because they're somewhat amusing. Or so I hope.

First, I did this sort of Harley Quinn-esque routine...

Then I went all Bellatrix-meets-Mr. Ripley. Kinda.

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Fragments of a Murder Mystery

A/N: I've got tons of notes. I've planned the whole damn story. Alas! I'm too depressed to finish writing.

Every Wednesday, at noon, three aging women would eat lunch together at the 
old Metro 22 Diner. They weren’t important or special in any way. No, they were 
merely very loyal friends. Dorothy’s husband owned the local movie theatre, 
Agatha’s used to practiced law, and Agnes was a spinster who’d inherited a 
decent sum many years before. They’d known each other since childhood.
These little lunch meetings had been going on for at least twenty-five years. 
They always sat at the table in the corner - next to that attractive stain-glass 
window, adorned with elegantly colorful patterns. The waiters never bothered
 bringing out menus, since the women always ordered the same meals. A 
greek salad for still-slender Dorothy, fish n’ chips for the Anglophile Agatha, 
and a hearty cheeseburger for the more indulgent Agnes.
“How have you girls been?” Agnes asked, between bites.
“Well,” said Agatha. “George keeps saying we should move to Florida, but I
 just can’t bear the thought of leaving you two behind.”  
These three women never lied to each other, even out of politeness. They 
were closer than sisters.

Meanwhile - hardly more than three feet away - a solemn businessman sat 
awkwardly in one of the booths. He wore a stylish Brooks Brothers suit and 
a dark burgundy tie. Beside him sat a large leather briefcase. Compared to 
the rest of the diner’s customers, he looked stuffy and slightly menacing.
Across from him lounged an aimless, brooding teenager in a green hoodie. 
With his thin face and fair hair he bore a striking physical resemblance to 
the businessman. His manner, on the other hand, was far more casual. For one 
thing, he’d scarfed down his lunch (a cheap BLT sandwich) within seconds of its arrival.
Dad,” the boy was saying, unhappily. “I’m really trying. This dude just
 isn’t, like, interested.”
“He isn’t interested, Dad.”
The businessman frowned, then said: “Are you sure you said 20,000, rathe
r than - say - 2,000? You’ve never been too good with numbers.”
The poor kid blushed a deep crimson. “I’m sure. This guy doesn’t care about
 the money. He’s in it for, like, the art or something.”
“Running a tacky old cinema isn’t art,” the businessman replied, his grey 
eyes narrowing.
“I know.”
Nervously, the young man began fiddling with his walkman.

Another Random Vampire Novel Fragment

A/N: Mary's POV, Again. 
And we’re sitting in the living room again, drinking the blood Bill brought 
home. It’s not very fresh. Still, it’s better than nothing.
“He probably thinks you’re on drugs,” Bill mutters, darkly, running his 
hands through his hilariously Paul Weller-esque hair.
“I am on drugs,” I point out, amused.
“Yes, but he isn’t supposed to know.”
“It could be worse. At least he hasn’t figured out that we’re undead,” I point out.
“That’s true.”
    We sit there in silence, sipping our dinner. I detect a trace or two of medical-grade 
speed. That’s the problem with getting blood from the mental hospital phlebotomist. 
The patients are on more drugs than your average dope fiend. Luckily, many medications 
like don’t affect undead types like us. Especially when drunk rather than injected. Our 
stomachs don’t absorb drugs the way human stomachs do. Luckily.
Still, I hate the way lithium-tainted blood makes my mouth feel all weird and dry. 
It’s a shame so many patients are on that stuff.  
That’s one reason I prefer to find dinner myself. If only the Craigslist personals 
hadn’t been taken down…
“Whatever happened to that patient of yours?” I ask, idly.
He furrows his brow. “Which one?”
“That weird bitch-” Bill winces at that word, though ignore him. “-who went 
around telling people you tried to suck her blood.”
“I had her diagnosed as schizophrenic.” There’s a hint of regret in his voice.
“See, that’s why I can’t get attached to my patients. If I cared about her I 
wouldn’t’ve be able to do that.” He also has trouble truly helping people he 
cares about, which might be why he tolerates my little hobby. Seeing a person 
suffer - even for their own good - really upsets Bill. He’s way too soft. Like a 
teddy bear without enough stuffing, except not.
Not that he’d ever admit it. Men are like that.
“We’re really terrible people, aren’t we?” I muse, smiling to myself.
Bill nods, solemnly. “It’s in our nature.”

Saturday, June 23, 2018

On My Alleged "Daddy Issues" (among other things)

So, a few hours ago, a nasty ex-/not-friend emailed me. Even though I blocked him ages ago I still reads whatever he sends me. That's how bored I am, ha.

He said: "I'm sorry Genius 8* got the shine**. I tried my best for you, but you've ignored my gifts, spit in my face, and have only wanted money or heroin from me (like you want from all men - daddy issues on steroids) - despite my telling you on many occasions I've been clean for over a decade."

As you can see, he accuses me of many things. Some of them aren't true at all. I never spit in his face. We never even met in person! Also, I never asked him for heroin or money. In fact, I offered to work for free on more than one occasion. (We started talking to each other because he wanted a writing partner of some sort.)
Okay, fine, I sometimes asked for sympathy. I'd occasionally complain about cravings... though that was merely because he used to be something of a junkie. I wanted to talk to someone who understood. He did... until I decided that I didn't want to help him write a book.

He's wrong about the so-called sugar daddies. I don't see them as father figures. Not at all. "Sex-work" is business, not pleasure (some of the clients have become almost-friends, though). And I've stopped going out for money. Yes, I'm both unemployed and lonely... but I'd rather not put myself in danger. It worries my Aunt Sharon. I actually care about and like her.

I haven't got any "daddy issues". My father - militant, eccentric man he is - has always been there for me. Well, honestly, he does travel a lot. Sometimes I won't see him for weeks. And we no longer get along, politically... though I still respect him. He's still important. When I was in the hospital, as a 4th Grader, he'd bring books and such. Sometimes he'd even sneak in a chocolate bar or two. He cares and understands.

Dad isn't the problem. I'm just pretty, eager to please, and really good at being fired from 'normal' jobs. That's why I dated for money. It's not Freudian. No, I'm merely trying to be practical. And I don't think I should be ashamed. A job's a job. Also, I never had sex with any of those guys. I merely dressed up and went to dinner.

At one point that ex-friend accused me of being an exploiter. He seemed to think that looking for potential clients was abusive, somehow. It certainly isn't. I never harassed them. No, that's silly! I'd just set up ads and accounts, then wait for responses. Then I'd read through the replies, sort out obvious trolls, and so on.
I'm not hurting anyone.

*  My little highly intelligent younger brother.
** The ex-friend's bizarre code word for 'talent'. 


Friday, June 22, 2018

Another Reason Not to Do Drugs

I might've ingested weed by accident. Somebody must've mixed it with the alleged opium I just took. No, really. My heart is beating faster than it ought to, my ears are ringing, my lungs still work, I'm not cheerful enough, and I actually feel like eating for once. Poppy derivatives induce a far more blissful, 'physically depressed' state (slower heartbeat, respiratory depression). Opioids also make dieting easier (food isn't interesting when one is high and starving oneself is really easy - one time I lost 10 pounds in, like, two weeks!). I'm very determined to never weigh more than 110 pounds. Before the junk I was, on average, 115-117. How chubby I (probably?) looked back then.

Anyway, I like being high... though this is quite different. I despise it. Damn that fiendish hippie-plant!

Somebody lied to me, did they not? That wasn't any sort of opioid. No, sir. It was something sinister, something evil. I wish I could file a complaint. Alas! One can't return drugs. I wasn't issued a gift receipt, ha.

At least my withdrawal symptoms have faded, somewhat. And I do feel a bit 'high'... except not really. It isn't enough. The chills are still there... and the upset stomach, and the skin-crawly feeling, and the gloominess. Perhaps I didn't take enough. Indeed, I often to do drugs as slowly as possible - ingesting tiny amounts at at time. If it weren't for the pot-ish effects I wouldn't have stopped.

Let's hope my brain doesn't turn to mush. Junkies are irredeemable scum, yes, but teaheads* are much worse. Those bastards don't even count as people. Well... maybe they do. Sort of. Still, they have atrocious taste in everything. They listen to Pink Floyd and Jefferson Airplane. They watch bizarre colorful movies. They do upsetting, uncomfortable, un-fun, headache-inducing drugs. How revolting.

Thankfully, I'm not laughing manically and I can read well enough. My mind still works. In a little while I'll be okay. One minor dose won't kill me, or turn me into Unfunny Kevin Smith.
Or so I hope.

Oh dear, oh dear. I can't believe I'm stoned. How humiliating, how horrible. At least I haven't started hallucinating or really freaking out.

[A few minutes later]
You know, I might've taken a stimulant of some sort. Does amphetamine ever come in the form of a brownish, crumbly sort-of-powder? Could I have taken a peculiar almost-speedball? After a few chocolates, the hunger seems to have disappeared... though my heart still beats too fast and I'm even more awake. Also, I'm not at all paranoid or 'out of it'.

This is all rather silly. 

Am I being selfish... taking things and randomly complaining? I suppose so. Right now I ought to be helping those immigrant kids somehow. Or being nice to my [few] friends. Of course, to be honest, there's not much I can do. By Jove, I can barely help myself. Nobody really listens to me. My words and ideas mean nothing. I cannot leave this house without being tracked by my Mother. I have no control over anything. Seriously.

Between this powerlessness and the junkie-ness, I'm trapped. I've sort of lost the will to live. Even if I do get a job I won't be able to move out. No, not in this economy. Unless I run away and live with a friend I'm stuck. Forever. And, yes, I've tried running away. Twice - at ages 17 and 18. They always bring me back. There's no way out. Worst of all, they're keeping me here because they love me. They don't want me to get hurt. Because of this, running away is morally wrong. Hurtful. Cruel.

I just want to be free. Even if it kills me. I want to live, for once. Maybe hug or kiss someone without being scolded. Go to concerts and the like without having to invite uninterested friends. Wander around the city without wondering how angry Mother will be. Meet people who understand - preferably people who aren't hypocritical wannabe-WASPs. Feel like a proper adult, not a fragile child.

That's why I need drugs (preferably morphine or diamorphine). Physically escaping isn't an option at the present time. Even if I managed to get away, I'll feel so guilty. Mother will be really upset. Father, too... and I actually like him, despite his Military Strategist-like mindset and general snobbishness. 

*As William S. Burroughs would say.

Song Parody: "Louie Louie (mumbling like Brando)"

A/N: After listening to the Stooges cover of this, I decided to write new lyrics. To do so I actually looked up the original. It's really dull, alas!
By the way... "Brando" refers to actor Marlon Brando (obviously?). People accuse him of mumbling his lines. I've only seen a few of his movies, and I don't really have an opinion... though I will say he didn't make a very good Sky Masterson. His singing voice wasn't strong enough!

Louie Louie,
oh man, I’m just mumbling like Brando,
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, baby
Louie Louie,
oh baby, what I’m sayin’ I don’t know

They think it’s so freakin' obscene
What does it actually mean?
Few people really know
And they’ve clearly stayed home

Louie Louie,
oh man, I’m just mumbling like Brando,
Louie Louie,
oh baby, what I’m sayin’ I don’t know

I might as well be extremely obscene
They don’t know what it means
On swearing I’m not so keen
Though they’ll still hear a naughty mondegreen

Louie Louie,
oh man, I’m just mumbling like Brando,
yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, baby
Louie Louie,
oh baby, what I’m sayin’ I don’t know

A/N: One day I might film this and post the video. Hopefully it would make people laugh. Complaining about the world's problems is pointless. I ought to work on cheering everyone up. That's really important.

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Vampire Story, Pt 2:

 A/N: Actually, it's more like "Pt. 5". I've been really lazy lately. As a result, only the
 most interesting scenes have been 'properly' written. If enough people find the idea
 interesting I might write more. Or not. Sobriety is a miserable state.

Mary's POV:
So, I’m sitting in front of my computer… but I’m a bit out of it. I keep zoning out. 
Nodding. That’s the funny thing about opioids. They make you sort of tired. Sometimes… 
sometimes I want to sleep. Except I can’t. Not right now. I’m editing TV Tropes. Reading, 
too. I think. Hands keep slipping. Can’t keep ‘em… can’t keep ‘em on the keyboard. 
Fuck, who cares? It’s great… feeling. So blissful, so happy.
I love heroin. More than anything.
Anyway, I’m trying not to seem lazy. I don’t want to be a stereotype… curled 
up in the corner, dead to the world. No, that’s not me at all. If you ask me, it’s 
better to work on something while you’re all hopped up. Often I’ll re-read a bit 
of Irvine Welsh. His characters tend to be pretty relatable. Also, that Scottish 
dialect is pretty thick. It’s a challenge, trying to understand the garbled spellings - 
even when I’m sober - and I like a good challenge.  
I guess I read his books to prove that I’m clever. Some people assume smack 
makes you stupid - like pot. They’re wrong. I mean, being a serious junkie is a 
full-time gig. Such a lifestyle requires a lot of planning and plotting and thinking
You’ve got to work at it, man. Most people hate your guts. Nobody’s on your side. 
Junk doesn’t grow on trees (opium kind of does, though not around here… and that 
isn’t the same!). Scoring take effort. Either you steal it - which takes a lot of scheming 
and/or physical strength/flexibility - or you buy it from some poor, paranoid bastard.
To be a successful dope fiend, you must be able to network and plan and lie convincingly
 and keep your mouth shut and know when to lie versus when to be quiet…
...And I think I’m going to pass out. It makes me tired. Real sleepy. Editing… that I 
can’t do. Now. Not right now. So peaceful.
I guess it’s pretty easy initially. Now, maintaining the lifestyle - that’s trickier. If you take 
too much, or use more than one drug, you could OD. That’s never fun. Also, prison. You 
really don’t want to get arrested. I (probably?) haven’t ended up behind bars, but I’ve
 heard it’s terrible. Even if you don’t end up ‘finding a stranger in the alps,’ or vice 
versa, it’s a nasty place to be. The food is shittier than public school lunches.
Anyway, one must avoid prison. And police. And overdosing. And lots of other things, 
including malnutrition. See, when you’re high, food doesn’t sound too interesting. 
Sometimes I’d stop eating. That’s never a good idea.
Luckily, I’m undead now so I don’t require food. In fact, I can’t eat. My stomach won’t 
process anything that isn’t blood or water. If I do try to eat something it often... returns. 
I’m getting better at controlling it, mind. These days I’m able to keep a meal inside for 
up to three hours (Bill can keep food inside for even longer, I think). That’s an important
 skill. I mean, we undead types have to blend in with humans. If we don’t we’ll never
 be able to go near our dinners. We’d starve!
Suddenly, Bill shows up. He’s carrying a couple of overstuffed brown paper grocery
 bags. They’re from a nearby Harris Teeter, I think. He sets them down on the counter.
“What’s all that for?” I ask.
“Our refrigerator is empty, save for some leftover blood. I don’t want Wade to get 
“We could just keep him away from the kitchen.”
“He might find that suspicious.”
I sigh and quietly reply, “That’s true.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’m just a bit tired.
“The undead don’t get tired.” He frowns. “You’ve been using again, haven’t you?”
“Would I do that?” I ask, sweetly.
“Yes. You suffer from a substance abuse disorder.”
I hate when he says things like that. He makes it sound so medical - so serious, so
 depressing, so detached. Claiming it’s a hobby - a choice, albeit a bad one - makes
 it easier for me to deal with. I can’t joke about a disease.  
“Do we have to talk about this right now? Wade will be here any minute,” I say.
“Marianne Falco…”
    “You’re a mess.”
“Thank you.”
Somebody's knocking at the door. It’s probably Wade.
Bill glares at me, saying: “You can put these away, I’ll answer the door.”
So, he leaves the room. I do what he says. Because I’m high, I don’t complain…
 even though I feel sort of pathetic and housewife-y.
Now he’s back. There’s a kid with him, looking pretty nervous. He wears a 
Cheetos-stained Green Day t-shirt. His jeans’re dark and slightly stale-looking, his 
messy hair chin-length and jet-black. Also, I’m pretty sure that's black 
eyeliner. What an edgelord. God, I bet he has shitty taste in music. Probably hasn’t
 heard of the Stooges or the Dolls. Poor baby. I’ll have to teach him, won’t I?
 I’ll have to show him what he’s been missing all these years… American Idiot indeed.
“Hey.” He mumbles. “So... you’re Bill’s roommate?
“Yeah. My name’s Marianne, but you can call me Mary.”
“Cool… Mary.” Kids looks terrified. How small are my pupils? Does it even matter?
 Even if he notices, I could really care less.
I grab a random book from the coffee table and begin reading. Then, I start to sort-of 
pass out on the sofa. Again. Fuck.
“Should I show you the kitchen?” Bill asks.
Wade doesn’t seem to hear. He just stares at me, and whispers: “What’s wrong with her?”
“I’m tired. I suffer from insomnia,” I tell him.
“She suffers from insomnia,” Bill repeats.
Does that make the lie truer? Should that sentence even exist? At this, I laugh.
“Ignore her, Wade,” Bill mutters, wise eyes narrowed.
“So, where’s the extra bedroom?” Wade asks.
“Right this way.”
Bill leads Wade into another room. I follow them, silently, still clutching a book.
 They don’t notice me, of course. Undead people are pretty good at being stealthy. 
We’ve got to be - I mean, how else would we sneak up on our prey?
“Wow, it’s small. Is this why you’re only charging $500?” Wade asks.
“Indeed,” Bill replies primly.
“How soon would I be able to move in?” Boy, isn’t he eager.
“Is there a down payment?”
“Cool…“ Why does he keep saying that?
“As long as you can provide proof of employment and pass a background check.”
“Okay… then. I’ll think about it.”
He turns around, steps out of the bedroom, and sees me. His already wide, 
kohl-rimmed eyes widen in wild surprise. The kid looks like a traumatized 
raccoon or something. I try not to laugh.  
“Hello… again,” he mutters, nervous as ever.
Suddenly, his expression changes. He smiles, eyes alive with excitement, and 
points to the book I’m holding.
“Wait - is that Marabou Stork Nightmare? By Irvine Welsh?”
I nod. “Yes. Are you a fan?”
“Have you read Trainspotting?”
“Who hasn’t?” Good answer.
    Acid House?”
“Loved it.” Saw that coming.
“That ending, man - so Renton.” He’s grinning like a child.
I’m smiling now, too. “I know! How did Sick Boy not see that coming?”
Bill just rolls his eyes at us, saying: “Not to be rude, but you both have terrible taste.”
“Says a man who owns every single book Michael Dobbs wrote about Churchill.” 
It’s true - he’s obsessed!
“Winston Churchill was an admirable man.”
“Well, some people prefer scoundrels,” I point out saucily.
“I’m a scoundrel,” Wade says. This man doesn’t know how to talk to women.
Bill raises a dark, stark eyebrow. “Are you?”
“Um… in a trustworthy way.” He pauses, blushing horribly. “Is there an application or…?”
Yes, there is. Bill gets it for him.
Wade leaves, and I’m on the couch again… reading. Bill paces ‘round the
 room ever so seriously.
I’m not quite sure how to react to all this. Who would’ve though Wade - of all
 people! - read Irvine Welsh? Okay, most adults have read Trainspotting or seen 
the movie. Acid House and Filth aren’t that obscure, either… but Porno? Marabou
 Stork Nightmare? They aren’t exactly well-known outside certain circles. In fact,
 I only know one person whose read them (a white trash junkie from Baltimore 
that I’m currently avoiding).  
Finding fellow fans is much harder than it sounds.
“I like him,” I say happily.
“I’ve noticed,” Bill replies.
“What do you, um, think?”
“He’s a bit too clever.”
“Is that really a bad thing?”
“Yes. We don’t want him to find out what we are.” I suppose he’s right.
“Even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.” Which is true. I mean, who would believe
 anything that kid said? He probably doesn’t even have friends.
“Yes, it would.” Now Bill sounds like a bratty kid... in a posh, sophisticated way.
“No, it wouldn’t. Nobody would believe him. He dresses like one of your angsty
 teenaged patients,” I point out.
“That true.” He sighs. “Still, we shouldn’t take the ad down yet. Someone better 
might come along.”
“Yeah, and my brother might come back from the dead,” I reply sarcastically.
Bill gives me a strangely teacher-y Look. “Stop being snarky. It doesn’t suit you.”
I roll my eyes, then say: “Says the 200-year-old who dresses like a character 
from Quadrophenia.”
Even Bill laughs at this. And it’s true. He loves the 1960s and still wears a lot of 
his old Mod suits. He still has that old Lambretta, too, with the decals and 
the mirrors. When we moved from London to New York… and then from New 
York to DC… he had it shipped specially. Being an immortal being with an
 almost-bottomless bank account sure has its perks.