YGMM: Apron Animus

JournalWord: That straight-jacket feeling.

::

"You are cooking?" she asks in disbelief. Tristan grins when Chris pulls the strap of her messenger bag over her head and drops it beside the doorway to the kitchen.

Jones picks up the orange book on the counter and waves the pages in the air. "Yup. We bought a cookbook."

Tristan twirls in his flour splattered apron. It's a sunny-yellow apron with smiley-faces decorated everywhere. Jones has his own apron; a cobalt blue apron with fluffy grey clouds. Chris notes that Jones has been spared from the spilled flour.

"You've got everything," she realizes, taking in the colorful array of bowls and matching cooking utensils strewn over the counter tops and cluttering the sink. 

Chris settles herself on a stool, relieved to see that the new stove hasn't been destroyed.

"Oh!" Tristan says, rifling through one of the plastic bags on the counter, "We got you something too!" 

She bristles when Tristan pulls out a lacy pink apron with red hearts out of the bag, tag still attached. "Now we'll all match!" he exclaims, ripping the price tag off.

Tristan tugs Chris off of the stool and turns her around so he can slip the apron over her head. The apron certainly isn't like the others. The boys have the average cotton apron that covers from full-body exposure and almost touched their knees. Chris's, on the other hand, is a totally different story.

"It's lingerie." She states bluntly. 

Tristan just keeps on smiling. "It's an apron," Tristan reassures, ignoring the glare sent his way. 

Jones just picks up the cookbook and scans the page they are on.

"Tristan, I'm not wearing this," Chris says, tugging on the hem of the lacy garment, but it wouldn't stretch from its mid-thigh length. Hell, it shouldn't even be considered clothing.

"Come on!" Tristan pleads, wrapping his arms around her, "You look absolutely delicious."

At that moment, the whole kitchen is silent at the sound of Tristan's husky growl. 

"Okay," Chris nervously starts as Tristan's face buried itself in her neck, "I really have to take this thing off." Chris frantically pulls on the bow behind her, struggling with the knot. "What the hell did you do to this stupid thing? Tristan!"

Tristan just lightly laughs, and smiles at her scrunched eyebrows, utterly amused by her sharp cry. 

"Tristan. Get this thing off of me," she commands, breathing slowly, humiliated that she had resorted to screaming. 

Tristan is ignorant to her still present, hostile expression, and gently rocks them left and right, his arms still around her. "Nope," is his stubborn reply.

Chris has had enough of his games and struggles out of his constricting hold. "Jones, put the damn book down and help me." Chris still tries to wrench the bow off while attempting to back away from Tristan. 

"Jones!" she yells just as Tristan starts running his hands up her sides, erupting an explosion of shrieks. 

"Oh!," Tristan says excitedly, a mischievous sparkle brightening his eyes, "Chrisy is ticklish!"

"Jones! He's going to rape me!" she screeches through a patch of giggles.

Chris and Tristan twist and turn, much to Tristan's pleasure and to Chris's displeasure. "Tris! Stop!" Abruptly, Chris jumps when Tristan pokes her in the side, causing them to lose their balance and topple over. 

Tristan ends up on the floor alone. Jones gives Chris an apologetic smile. "You still breathing?" he asks, letting go of her arms. 

Chris glances from Jones's apologetic but amused smile and Tristan's pleasured grin. "You should join me on the floor, Chrisy," Tristan proposes, leaning back on his hands to invite her in. "I swear I'm comfy."

Chris inches away from his sexual aura and sticks her tongue out at him. Jones's eyebrow raises. "That was very adult."

"I don't care," she pouts. Her hair is splayed around her face and her face is still flushed from the giggles. "I just want to get out of this wretched thing."

Jones gently turns her around and works out the tangled knot. Behind her back, Jones sends a returning grin at Tristan. Tristan watches from his place on the floor, admiring his handiwork being unraveled

. 

"You know, that was going a little too far, Tristan," Jones says conversationally, although Tristan remembers his unabashed and intrigued stare when Chris was calling for help.

Tristan openly ogles at Chris, who is purposely avoiding his stare by turning her gaze to the left. He can still make out the blushed cheeks she is trying to hide with her straight, black hair. She really is a headstrong lass.

"I'm sorry Chrisy," he repents, an apologetic smile directed her way. She nods, but doesn't flinch from her still position

.

The knot finally comes undone, and Chris immediately strips off the pink apron and tosses it in Tristan's direction without a glance. "It's all yours," she says breathlessly.

Tristan's smile never fades. "That's fine. I'll just find another way to get this beauty worn." He twirls the skimpy attire around his finger.

She glares at him, but her attention is pulled to Jones, who has suddenly disappeared. "Jones?"

"Just a sec," Jones calls from the hall, and he emerges from the hallway, a plastic bag in his hand. He reaches for the green apron in the bag and tosses it her way. 

Chris straightens it out and sucks in a breath. "It's perfect," she says, a light smile gracing her lips. Chris instantly dons the fabric, swiftly tying the back with an absently tied loose bow. She smiles at the green checkered print. "Thank you Jones." 

"Hey, what about me?" Tristan intervenes. "Where's my thank you?"

"What about you, Tristan?" Chris counters with a blank stare, hands on her hips.

"I got you an apron first. I deserve a hug."

"Not a chance."

Jones backs away to the kitchen and picks up the discarded cookbook. 

"What were you planning to cook anyways?" she asks, ignoring Tristan's whines, and walking to the counter. Tristan follows her to the counter, taking a seat on one of the stools beside her.

"Why don't you take a look?" he says, sliding the book across the counter.

Instead of cakes, roasts, and other regular recipes featured in cookbooks, this cook book is full of obscene concoctions.

"'The recipe of a Hate Cake. What?"

"That sounds scrumptious. What's in it?" Tristan leans forward on the counter.

"'First, mix together a handful of dried cat intestines and the blood of the suffering into a bowl.' Okay, I'm not reading anymore." Chris passes the book to Tristan.

"Come on. You haven't even seen any of the other stuff you can cook up," Jones prompts, trying his best to hold in a peal of laughter.

"You have gone nuts."

"Hey," Tristan calls, nose still buried in the pages of the book. "I need those for this one."

Chris shakes her head. "I know you guys make a lot of money now that you're working a lot of bookings, but don't spend it all on this.. crap." She waves her arms out to indicate the mess they've made in the kitchen, but pointedly flicks her wrist at the crumpled fabric on the floor.

"Save me some! I need two cups!"

Jones walks out of the kitchen and flops onto the couch. "You don't need to worry, Chris. We're huge hits." Jones flashes her a lounging pose with his signature smile. 

The smile didn't faze her since she has become used to its dazzle, but the exaggerated pose and concentrated pursed lips unconsciously perks a smile on her face. 

"Alright. It's your money."

Tristan leans sideways on his stool so he can holler into the living room. "Where the hell am I supposed to find a blushing virgin?"

::

I'm all over the place *sticks tongue out*

I just wanted to expel some of my YGMM obsession, and this is what ya'll got. 
This is set somewhere near the beginning of the timeline where the boys are fascinated and on a mission to figure out Chris.
Even if it requires making her scream.

Yeah... sexual innuendos are extremely prevalent in YGMM.. 

Keep cheery!
Mera!

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YGMM: The Baby Elephant

Warning: This has a lot of description.

JournalWord: Bubble-wrapping desks.

::

It’s another dreadful, winter afternoon at the downtown hospital. Flurries beat down over the cabin-fevered building, snuffing out light from windows in the mission to bury the hospital in white. The walk ways and paths winding around the hospital grounds, freshly scooped earlier in the day, are piling up again, disguising the stamped footprints and packed snow banks. Bare trees, hidden for months by hanging glass icicles, pack cold powder between frozen branches; puffing up the trees in a strange winter orchard. 

Clumps of snow fall from over the front entrance, landing and becoming welcoming mats to the concerned emergency medical technicians. The ice under the layers of snow crystals shine through the powder, winking danger at every passing victim to slip. Daggered icicles overhead wait for a strong gust of wind to knock them off the ceiling of the entrance, shaking in their patience. The automatic sliding doors are freezing together, sticking and hesitating an extra minute before opening to break the forming ice. 

 

The lobby of the hospital buzzes like a trapped hive; the air crackling in claustrophobia and fevered escape. The smell of disinfectant and bleach mix into a crude scent with the dank wetness of drenched fabric. Two secretaries slouch over keyboards and files, hiding behind their curved desk like a shield. They shiver and clutch at their layers of jackets and sweaters every time the entrance doors squeak open. A layer of snow that has managed to infiltrate the building, melts on the green mat, vaporizing in the blast of the heating system.

White capped nurses usher hunching, canned seniors away from frosting windows, and back into individual rooms. They muttering inconveniences as they stretch exhausted smiles over painted, chapped lips, attempting to soothe cabin fever with sweet words between grinding teeth. Their fleeting feet track into puddles of sleet, trailing rivers across the lobby’s dull white floor. Tuts and irritated sucking noises peal from their lips whenever they glance at the groups of shifting visitors trapped in by the blizzard.

The visitors cluster together in front of the expanse of the windows. They watch dejectedly as the cold glass is slowly swallowed by the blizzard, stamping their slush saturated boots. They flip their cell phones open and close in frantic clacks; all that is keeping them at bay from running out into the snowstorm. Their gloved hands grasp their coat’s collars, pulling them up to protect their curled mouths from incessant coughs and uncontrollable sneezes for fear of catching a doctor’s attention.

Down a series of corridors, past rooms and floors of various hacking and groans, Dr. Cahill’s office remains shut and ignorant of the gloom surrounding the rest of the medical building. A light shines though the opaque glass slit placed in the wood door, admitting a person inside by a shifting shadow, although the doctor is away, tending to a patient downstairs in the hustle of emergency surgeries. However, despite her absence, the trace sound of shuffling plastic can be heard underneath the howls of pounding wind and sighs of bored patients. 

In the centre of the square room, a slouched figure in dark jeans and a yellow sweater lightly kicks a black office chair out of his way. The expelled oversized, rounded chair slides from its place behind a cedar desk and careens over the floor. The expensive leather chair wobbles and rolls, top-heavy, across the expanse of the hardwood. An armrest collides softly into one of the ceiling-high bookshelves that covers three of the four surrounding walls. 

A thick medical textbook, one of the many hundreds of the like that fill the bronze wood shelves, knocks loose from its categorized fit. The blue hard covers flap open to swallow air into its pages before collapsing flat on pages six-hundred fifty-two and fifty-three. A cloud of aged paper emphasizes the fall and clatter. The books that depended on the toppled volume, tip into each other to sate the empty space. The crash of the fallen echoes like a booing crowd, the sound bouncing a path to the blonde head, snapped to attention.  

The tightness in Tristan’s face relaxes from a clenched frown to a mischievous smirk when he discovers the whereabouts of the sound. He glances at the door, and satisfied by the undisturbed lock on the doorknob, drops his gaze to the desk in front of him. His bottle green eyes frolic at the sight pf his doings, brightening his winter-paled complexion and distributing golden highlights to his already tousled, fair hair. He doesn’t flinch at the howls and scratching of the wind against the walls and windows, instead, masking the sound with a quiet hum of his own. 

The shriek of duct tape ripping off its roll is instantly muffled by the light pats of a hand smoothing the shiny, silver adhesive flat. Tristan’s warm hand skims the ridged tape, exerting just enough pressure to stick the adhesive to the bubbled surface covering the oak desk. Fingers stretch and reach for another roll of duct tape while the dominant left hand holds down another section of curling bubble wrap.

He elongates his lithe body over the length of the large cedar desk, straining for the extra roll tucked behind a tipped, framed photo. The concentration he applies is disguised by his tongue, peeking pink from between his lips, and a flop of wild, static-infused lock suspended inches from his narrowed eyes, His fingers poke the overturned roll, forcing it to flip, however, accidentally setting it on a course over the edge of the desk. 

The silver roll bounces and hops a couple metres before halting in the cushion of stacked bubble wrap sheets waiting in front of the door. A whoosh is exhaled by the stack as the top layer floats off the tower and skids to the door. The bubbled edge of the sheet jam themselves into the crack under the door in a fluid swoop. Tristan lifts his hand off the section of bubble wrap on the desk corner, allowing it to curl into a tube. He straightens to retrieve the roll and finish the job he has started. 

His well worn, tan jacket folds back into familiar creases when he readjusts his posture. He rolls his shoulders at the setting soreness of being slouched for so long, his suede jacket skimming over his torso with a liquid drift as he walks to the door. He bends over to gather the runaway roll, the obsidian buttons on his jacket winking and blinking in the light. They laugh, whether from the glow of the florescent lights overhead or from the radiation casting off Tristan’s quirked grin.

He resumes his position at the desk, smoothing down the curling flap of bubble wrap before taping it down with a swatch of tape. Despite the ear splitting screams and thunderous pounds of pulsing snow, Tristan keeps on humming. The ripping of duct tape unravelling contrasts with the visage of the cloudlike, bubbled desk. The translucent bubbles lining each sheet shine glossy reflections on their rounded shells. A corner of the desk remains unsheathed in safety plastic, but the exception is swiftly dealt with one last tear of tape, smoothed to perfection with the excess carefully tucked under the ledge.

The job is finished with a quick shuffle of desk trinkets, file folders, and framed pictures, all covered in matching bubbly sleeves and placed in their original places. He steps back to admire his work, a whistle of satisfaction and a smile adorning his pink lips. The duct tape roll twirls around is left index finger in admiration. He tilts his head down to check the time on his watch, only to fumble the roll between his hands when he notices the time. He jams the roll into his pocket and gathers and collects the leftover sheets of bubble wrap into his arms. He sprints to the door, hastily turning the doorknob before shutting it closed behind him as he rushes out to the elevators.

The young man smiles to himself in the crowd of frowns and scowls in the lobby. His eyes glitter and dance as he waits for the unrelenting storm to exhaust itself. He waits like everyone else in the lobby for the sun to peek out from behind the angry clouds. However, unlike everyone else, he holds a warmth of adding a smile and shaking head to someone, despite the dreadful afternoon. To him, it’s an otherwise sunny afternoon at the downtown hospital.

::

I've been busy lately, wrapping up on my classes (just a week left!) and worrying about finals. 
My emotions are on a sloppy run right now, zig-zagging dramatically, and I've been super tired lately. (Maybe from my anxiety peaking again?) Let's just hope I can pull myself together in the next week. 
And maybe crank out some more ideas! Or spend some time working on the ones I've already laid out... :P

Keep bubbly!
mera.

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Nutty

JournalWord: Squirrels.

::

"You can't just dump me because I hit someone's mailbox. That's unjust."

"You're right, that would be unjust. But mowing down a fence and clobbering a couple of innocent gnomes is another story."

"You're being unreasonable."

"Am I, Donny? You suddenly swerved off an empty road."

"If I didn't, I'd have killed an animal."

"An animal. Was it a deer, or maybe, a cat?"

"No.."

"What was it then, Donny? What was it, Donny, that would have caused you to scream to the Lord above, and take a sharp right into someone's koi pond?"

"..A squirrel."

"My gods, Donny. A squirrel?"

"Yes, a squirrel. Don't tell me that it's suddenly an accepted act to run-over a squirrel because last time I checked, running over cute, furry animals is a no-no."

"Donny?"

"Yes, Elizabeth."

"A squirrel?"

"Shut up! And stop laughing!"

"You-you saved a cute, furry squirrel, Donny? Aww! You're such a humanitarian!"

"Shut up and dump me already."  

::

I've gone MIA, I know, but I've been super busy an distracted as of late. 
Midterms (I have a genetics one tomorrow that I should be studying for right now but the uni website is acting up...-.-), volunteering (I totally got into the massive assisted living place and I'm on the insane task of completing 30 hours in a month! Btw, it's pretty fun :P), and prepping for finals and presentations and papers and assignments and all that other uni crap I really don't want to do. *pout*

My right arm throbs painfully at the thought. :S Maybe I should take up the thought of being ambidextrous... :D Wouldn't that be handy! (Pun intended, hehe)

Well, wish me luck, and in return, I'll wish you all a great week! And hopefully I update a little sooner (perhaps this week if prompted.. :P)

Be merry and great,
Mera!

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Monkey-Punch

I. Hate. Monkeys. 

It has now become a conditioned response for me to point this out at any mention of the species, and sure, you can point out that we, humans, are monkeys (*shudder*), but I'll only retort that we have an intellect that surpasses them. And that we can, usually (I understand there are some exceptions...), abstain from flinging our own feces at any hint of wild emotion. 

I don't care. I just really detest them.

It's like a hatred for spiders (I really don't mind spiders though). You got me?

Well, anyways, my friends really like this silly little story I made up a while back, and although I'm not a huge fan of it (monkeys...), I'm posting it at their insistence. 

So enjoy!

(ugh.)

(And I did have a goldfish that lived for only four hours in my care..)

::

The pet store was selling monkeys for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand. I like monkeys and decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys.

I took my monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into the third hour. Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive. They all died. No apparent reason. They all sorta dropped dead. Kinda like when you buy a goldfish and it dies four hours later.

Retarded cheap monkeys. I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, and hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs. I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad. I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed. I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them.

Unfortunately, there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't all go bad. I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire. Then I had one, wet monkey, two frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed.

The odor wasn't improving. I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better. I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they liked them, but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals. I like monkeys.

::

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