Completely off-topic

Hope you guys don't mind, but I kinda wanted a space to serve as a sounding-board for some of my writing. You guys have shown some interest so I thought I'd just use this thread to jot down my thoughts. I'd appreciate any comments you might have, but understand completely if you decide to ignore this stuff, as it isn't in any way House- related.
Anyway, this first thing I've just been working on for a few minutes. I decided to play around with descriptions, and am using my friend Al (and the first time I saw him) as my subject. Here he is:
(Posted Image)

Anyway. Here goes.

With some books, you can make judgements based on their covers. Or, rather, with some people. And, I suppose, with some books as well. The particular person I’m talking about in this particular instance, was sitting in a classroom when I first saw him. I had walked into the same classroom, obviously. Had I walked into a different classroom, or not walked into any classroom at all, I would probably never have seen him. But, surely, you’re clever enough to have deduced this.
As it happened, I made no judgement about him at the time, other than to absorb his aesthetic exterior. His thin, angular exterior was adorned with a black ribbed jumper, dark-wash jeans, and scuffed Dr. Marten oxfords. Perched upon his nose were rectangular, wire-rimmed spectacles. His hair was longish and greasy, but nice-looking in a shaggy-type way. It flopped down over one lens of his spectacles until he reached up with one large, heavily-veined hand, and flung it backward in a swooping motion. His hand continued backwards until it paused at the nape of his neck, then returned once again in a forward direction, off the crown of his head. It then paused in mid-air for a moment before returning itself to the boy’s lap.
I say ‘boy.’ Of course, he wasn’t a boy. He was, after all, twenty years old and surely would have balked at such an insult. But he wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, a man. His beard shadow was thick and blueish, and he had an air of young sophistication. He looked half-starved but friendly. And nauseatingly intelligent. His piercing evergreen eyes peeped out at me from behind his glasses for a moment before swooping back over toward his conversation partner in a rather dramatic way. I knew at once he was British.
For two months I studied this boy, and in those two months, I learnt a few things. Not from anything he said, but just from watching him. I knew right away that he adored Led Zeppelin but despised Pink Floyd. He was a vegetarian– he had that certain malnourished and ever-so-slightly gaunt look about him. He viewed hygiene grudgingly and reluctantly, but managed to keep himself clean enough to remain more or less inoffencive to the eyes and noses of others. He was definitely a drummer, and an atheist who viewed religion with contempt. And he was, unto himself, an exercise in contradictions. He somehow managed to be simultaneously hugely self-depricating and enormously egotistical. He hated social niceties but played by the rules. He, outwardly, appeared not to care what anyone thought of him but would readily admit that he was terrified of the idea of anyone not liking him. He’d lost his virginity at sixteen.
He was an open book to me, and I, somehow, knew all of these things innately. They were all confirmed later, of course, when I got to know him. As for me, well, he said he’d known I was gay as soon as I opened my mouth. Nobody else seemed to, so perhaps he was as good at reading me, as I was at reading him. Perhaps this is the reason that I fell in love with him

*grabs popcorn*

You know, I just though of something (that has nothing to do with this, sorry): Why do I keep grabbing popcorn when I don't even like it that much? You know what, I have a remedy:

*grabs caramel-covered popcorn*

Ah, much better, please continue.

Hahaha, I have the same popcorn problem.
Anyway, not sure whether or not I will continue this particular piece, but there will be more writing for sure. Hopefully soon.

Here's one I wrote almost exactly a year ago. Again, about Al. Apparently, it's the best thing I've ever written. Well, that's what everyone tells me. I used it as a workshop piece in my Uni writing class. I think it's always good to use the word 'fuck' in the first sentence of an essay, haha!

"The people in life who lots of other people are drawn to," my mother told me, "are the ones who don't give a fuck. They don't need anybody. Or, they pretend they don't."
And these people come into your life just when you need them-- when you need a friend, a new drinking buddy, someone to show you the ropes, someone to believe in, and who will believe in you. But they're hardly ever truly there for you, they break promises, and they leave you in the dark as to most of their true feelings. Why? Because they are the "it kid," the one everybody else looks to for the same reasons you do. They're spread too thin; they've got too many friends, acquaintances, followers... Yet, inexplicably, you love them. You envy them. You want to be them, and be with them, experience everything they experience, with them, whether in the role of a good friend or just as a fly on the wall. You share a few laughs, drink a lot of wine, listen to a few stories... The stories you hear are odd, in that they are not shared stories. You have no shared stories in the beginning. They are simply tales of people you don't know, don't care about, stories of places you've never been, things you've never done... Eventually the experiences you share with these people take on a life of their own, and develop their own personalities. After all, what is a story but an experience that has claimed its own life and its own personality?
And then, just as you've begun to know them, to understand them, to break the thick shell they've tried their whole life to build up so nobody can see that they have feelings like everyone else, they leave.
Some people say that the death of a loved one is like a long holiday-- gone but not forgotten, and that they will return when you need them. They downplay death, as if it is a part of life; death is to be mourned, and life is to be celebrated. Surely it's the other way around. Every time someone leaves, it is like death. It's a scary thing, abandonment. Some people disappear without a trace, and you're left behind, not knowing whether you'll ever see them again. Some may get in contact once in awhile for a few months, maybe even a few years... But invariably the emails stop, the letters stop, the phone calls stop.
Life moves on, the person you love fading into the background but still, somehow, very much a part of your life. An integral part of all you breathe, think, say, and experience. They float just below the surface of thought, like consciousness below the surface of a dream.
The fear of abandonment is as bad as abandonment itself. The people who leave don't know they're abandoning you-- they are simply moving through space, touching peoples' lives as they do, without a second thought. They don't realise the effect they have on people. The effect is deeply woven in, in a remarkably short amount of time. But these people are outsiders, unaware of how they live and the way others see them. They don't understand this "popularity" or why people are drawn to them. Indeed, the people who are drawn to them don't understand why. There is only the superficial: "he's funny," "she's just like me," "This new guy I met is so outgoing and fearless." It's what's deeper inside that we all try to dig up. In all reality, it could be the superficial-- we are drawn to people with similar interests, beliefs, personalities... Perhaps it's something as simple as a pheromone, a chemical attraction. Or maybe the allure is a part of some big cosmic plan, sending these angels along just when we need them.
This is where my story begins.

Can you guess who the first person who came to my mind after reading that first sentence was? Yep, House.

I love it. Out of curiosity, is that where the story ends (a cliffhanger of sorts) or have you just not continued it? This would be a good story to do something in class where someone starts and everybody has to come up with a part of the story.

Thanks very much :)
Ya know, I think I wrote some more, but I'm not entirely sure. I'll have to dig around and see if I can find a file somewhere. :-)

You're welcome and sweet, I'd love to read more, if there is more. If not, it'd be pretty cool if we did something like what I said before, only around here. Seeing as how it's Off-Topic, it doesn't necessarily have to be about House or Hugh (not that that would be an issue, just mentioning). It'd be interesting to see some creative juices flowing.

That'd be awesome, I think.

However, for the time being, it'd probably be just the two of us, though, as Nora's out of commision (really busy, she said hopefully she'll be back around Christmas) and Chuckles, well, she just doesn't seem to stop by so much. I'll have to keep bugging her. Teehee!

But yeah, definitely that'd be great. In fact, if you wanted to start your own in a new topic or whatever, that'd be cool, or you could continue with this one if you wanted, in a new thread would be best-- use one specific thread for that so it doesn't get confusing. I'm pretty sure there is more to the above piece, but I think it's on my mum's computer so I'll have to hunt it down on there.

I need to be bugged! *cries* I have a horrible memory. Thanks for the comment by the way. hehe. Spoon.

You're writing is awesome! I can't wait to read more.

Oh and FYI off, topic, I hate popcorn...hmmm....

Well, thanks very much. Here's some more to puruse, fresh off the, erm, keyboard. As in, I wrote it five minutes or so ago.

(and what is it about popcorn, anyway?)




‘Mmnph.’ Henry’s eyes opened, one at a time, with almost an audible ‘plop’ type of sound as his mother rapped softly three times on the door. Of course, for the moment, he didn’t know it was his mother, although he definitely knew the knock, which, after a moment, bombarded his ears again with such, quite frankly, ridiculous intensity he figured he must be lying with his head against the door. He reluctantly forced his eyes to focus, and saw that he was still in his bed, some ten feet from the door. A thought registered: ‘Mum. But why is she knocking? She only knocks when she wants to wake me up.’
‘Henry?’ Came his mother’s voice.
‘Oh,’ he thought. ‘She must be trying to wake me.’
He thought for a moment. The sun seemed to be brighter than it usually was when he woke up, so he figured it must also be earlier in the day. About noon, perhaps. Which would mean he’d been asleep for approximately five hours. That simply wouldn’t do. No, wouldn’t do at all.
He had been dreaming of a man. Nothing in particular about the man, that he could recall. But nonetheless a man who was a star of television and film, even though he seemed much too posh and intelligent to trouble himself with television. No. Posh was most definitely the wrong word. But what was the right one? Class? Yes, that would do. The man was much too classy to even enjoy watching television, let alone be on television. Especially in any sort of comedic quantity. Only, there he was, week after week, making appearances in comedic role after comedic role, and doing a damn fine job of it. At least, this is the thought that Henry’s sleep-mangled brain had decided to come up with. Perhaps there was no such man. Perhaps—
‘Henry?’

Nice. Oh, and no, I don't know what's up with the popcorn.

:lol: You guys and popcorn!

Abraxas, once again, your skills are amazing. ^^ Are you a writing major? You HAVE to be.

Nope, not a writing major. I failed out of Uni, but when I was going I was, get this, a theatre major. I think just because it's the laziest one can be. Teehee!

Here's a bit more. I've decided it should be a novel. So as soon as I come up with a plot, I'll write it. :lol:



‘Mmnph,’ he repeated.
‘Dad says you need to get ready for work, okay?’
‘Mmnph,’ was the reply. It wasn’t for lack of trying. What he’d meant to say was, ‘Kindly tell the man to arse off. My shift doesn’t start until 2, and I intend to stay in this exact position until precisely twenty seconds before that moment.’ But this quickly after being woken up, anything he tried to say would have ended up sounding more or less like garbled rubbish anyway.
‘Mmnph’ was a polite and non-committal enough response, he figured, and it was all just as well. He didn’t like to bombard his mother with messages of such loathing until much later in the day, even if they weren’t directed at her. Of course, Henry would never dream of flinging such verbal abuse at his mother, or even about her. She was, quite simply, the most sweet, kind, and wonderful person in the whole world, and any nastiness spoken about her would have driven Henry to suicide or homicide, depending on who the offender was.
So, yes, ‘mmnph’ worked nicely.
Henry set about disentangling his legs from the sheets, stumbled out of bed, then made his way toward the bathroom to prepare for the day. He stared into the mirror, blinking at the brightness of the six round bulbs, and used a pair of needle-nosed pliers to turn on the hot water. He’d broken the handle off at least six months ago, and even after his mother bought a replacement, he didn’t care enough to fix the thing. He looked back up at the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and crusty, but through the redness they shone silvery blue. His three-day stubble would have to come off, and he didn’t like that idea. His hair, normally a medium brown, was nearly black, and very stringy, with the accumulation of grease. He ran a hand through it and frowned at the snow that fell.
‘You disgusting, foul, offencive pig,’ he told his reflection. ‘You’re an utter disgrace. You’re ugly, you’re lazy, you’re smelly, and you’re stupid.’
His reflection grinned back at him defiantly with its fuzzy morning-teeth.
‘Bastard,’ he told it.
Henry spread Crest on his toothbrush and polished the fuzziness carefully away, then stripped naked and got into the shower. He turned on the water, too, in case you were wondering.
He hated the shower. Not the cubicle itself, not the act of showering, but the fact that the soap didn’t seem to lather quite the way he wanted to, and when he rinsed it off, it left him feeling slippery. He glared at the soap meanly, then set it back in its dish. Then he shaved, carelessly. As a result, he sharply nicked the area just under his prominent Adam’s apple. He cursed, but he wasn’t sure if it was because he’d hurt himself, or because he hadn’t been using a straightedged razor. He’d always wondered what a flayed Adam’s apple would have looked like. He rinsed the shaving cream off his face, gasping at the sting of the water seeping into the cut. He watched, fascinated, as the blood and water ran down his chest in rivulets.

Peter had returned with a vengeance.

Henry loved Peter when he was around, and hated him when he was absent. He hated him so much he could scream. But when Peter was around, it was a comfortable feeling; a feeling of home, of love, of everything good. But Peter was bad. Very bad. Peter made Henry do bad things. Peter made Henry hurt people, and Peter made Henry hurt himself.

Henry pulled on some almost-clean clothes and trundled down the stairs. His mother greeted him at the bottom with a hug and Henry wanted to cry. It passed soon, and Henry went outside for a cigarette.

I'm sensing psychological...shall we say, differences? Interesting. Hmmm... I'll give some thought to a plot.

Speaking of off-topic :D, there are a couple places in this week's TV Guide (well, the week of the 18th thru the 24th) that Hugh or something about House is ni it. Just thought y'all would like to know.