Status: Updates every four days.
We Way? Three Way!
The Funeral
“Are you reaaaaaaaaaadyyy yet?” Jill was pacing back and forth down the hallway where our bedrooms were. She was wearing her dress with the four million zippers, her hair all pretty and straightened. She’d been pestering Becca to come out of her room for the past fifteen minutes.
“No! Give me ten more minutes!” Jill groaned and plopped down on the floor. I took a last glance in the mirror before joining Jillian in the hallway. I was wearing a black dress that dropped to my ankles, and went all droopy by the sleeves but tighter by the stomach. My hair was braided and tied with a silver bow, and I wore gladiator sandals to give the illusion that I was not, in fact, seven years old. Topping it off with more black eyeliner, I left my safe, solitary bedroom.
“Hi.” She said.
“Hi…” I replied. It was a solemn event…
“Nice shoes.”
“Thanks. Nice zippers.”
Becca walked out then. She wore a long-ish gray dress with knee-high boots, and lots of jingly bracelets. She carried Cupcake, who wore a dapper black tuxedo and top hat. Jill led us to the backyard, where we were met with the band, dressed in their Helena costumes, and several others. A lovely looking Pete Wentz, a Patrick Stump, a not-very-tall Bert McCracken, a bored looking Brian Schechter, and a Brendon Urie, who was highly amused by a certain children’s toy that contained an attachment bearing great resemblance to a certain male body part, in his opinion. In the center of all of these people lay an open guitar case on top of a picnic table, cleverly disguised with a dark red tablecloth. In the case lay scattered and torn fragments of metal wire and plastic, and some other random material because not very many people actually know what guitars are made of. Behind it lay giant bouquets of flowers, huge
“Feel Better” cards, and the like.
“Did he really go this far…?” Becca asked, her eyes traveling to the flute player in the corner who was playing a very depressing melody.
“Well…that thing was probably more important to him than the stuff between his legs…”
“Oh…Jill…really?” A giant wailing noise interrupted our awkward predicament. “FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD IN THIS WORLD, WHY??” Mikey pat Frank’s back while he blubbered over the loss of his poor instrument. “I think we should start the ceremony now…”
“No! Give me ten more minutes!” Jill groaned and plopped down on the floor. I took a last glance in the mirror before joining Jillian in the hallway. I was wearing a black dress that dropped to my ankles, and went all droopy by the sleeves but tighter by the stomach. My hair was braided and tied with a silver bow, and I wore gladiator sandals to give the illusion that I was not, in fact, seven years old. Topping it off with more black eyeliner, I left my safe, solitary bedroom.
“Hi.” She said.
“Hi…” I replied. It was a solemn event…
“Nice shoes.”
“Thanks. Nice zippers.”
Becca walked out then. She wore a long-ish gray dress with knee-high boots, and lots of jingly bracelets. She carried Cupcake, who wore a dapper black tuxedo and top hat. Jill led us to the backyard, where we were met with the band, dressed in their Helena costumes, and several others. A lovely looking Pete Wentz, a Patrick Stump, a not-very-tall Bert McCracken, a bored looking Brian Schechter, and a Brendon Urie, who was highly amused by a certain children’s toy that contained an attachment bearing great resemblance to a certain male body part, in his opinion. In the center of all of these people lay an open guitar case on top of a picnic table, cleverly disguised with a dark red tablecloth. In the case lay scattered and torn fragments of metal wire and plastic, and some other random material because not very many people actually know what guitars are made of. Behind it lay giant bouquets of flowers, huge
“Feel Better” cards, and the like.
“Did he really go this far…?” Becca asked, her eyes traveling to the flute player in the corner who was playing a very depressing melody.
“Well…that thing was probably more important to him than the stuff between his legs…”
“Oh…Jill…really?” A giant wailing noise interrupted our awkward predicament. “FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD IN THIS WORLD, WHY??” Mikey pat Frank’s back while he blubbered over the loss of his poor instrument. “I think we should start the ceremony now…”