#t poses. anyway. some shit will hit the fan tomorrow. it's fine. i have other things to be nervous about.

[lifeonashelf]

COLDPLAY

Let’s get this straight right off the bat: Coldplay is fucking terrible.

We all know this. Designating Coldplay as terrible isn’t a statement of personal opinion, it is an easily demonstrable fact. Just listen to them; Coldplay’s music proves the existence of Coldplay’s terribleness the same way that breathing proves the existence of oxygen. Surely, even the band’s staunchest supporters understand that their songs are pretentious, monotonous, and unimaginative—they’d kind of have to; I assume these people have listened to Coldplay, too. If you like music as superfluous as Coldplay’s, that’s totally fine. I’m not here to tell you that you shouldn’t, nor to convince you to stop listening to Coldplay (you can’t stop listening to them, anyway; no matter how hard you try to escape, wherever you go, Coldplay will find you). But they are unequivocally fucking awful, and I need to make that clear before we continue in case I end up saying anything courteous about them later. And, who knows? I may indeed find something positive to say about Coldplay—I mean, nothing comes to mind right now, but it’s going to take me a few hours to write this piece so it’s possible something will at some point.  

Okay, so we’re all clear on Coldplay being fucking terrible, right? Great. But that isn’t the main reason I hate them. I appreciate plenty of terrible bands just as I appreciate plenty of terrible movies. Listening to a really shitty group is sort of like watching a cast of really shitty actors—though they clearly suck at what they do, there’s something oddly appealing about the charming naiveté they demonstrate by giving it the best go they can anyway.

For instance, since I was still filing most of my Warped Tour emo discs in my punk section when I began this venture, I never got around to writing about a band called Adair. If you’re not familiar with them, don’t worry about it; they only existed for a few years in the mid-aughts and their diminutive discography merely consists of a self-released EP and one full-length album, The Destruction Of Everything Is The Beginning Of Something New. Sonically, Adair were so amusingly prototypical of every baby t-shirt screamo band that was thriving at the time, they essentially sounded like they were parodying the style of music they played (although, to be fair, a lot of those squads did). But, Adair were absolutely serious, regardless of what stridently nasal heights the vocals reached, regardless of how faithfully their compositions adhered to their genre’s textbook page by page, and regardless of the sublimely ridiculous realms some of their allegorical angst lamentations ventured into (the line “lock me up in Guantanamo Bay and throw away the key” from the song “I Buried My Heart In Cosmo Park” may very well be the lyrical apex of their entire genus).

Adair’s music is so inane that it makes me laugh out loud when I sing along to it—but here’s the thing: I do sing along to it. I have probably played The Destruction Of Everything Is The Beginning Of Something New a hundred times from start to finish since my copy was sent to me to review for some website back in 2006, and I have cued up individual high(low?)points like “The Diamond Ring” and “Folding and Unfolding” even more times than that. As silly as they sound—and trust me, they sound very fucking silly—I still sincerely enjoy their tunes and have spent enough hours listening to TDOEITBOSN for it to possibly qualify as one of my favorite records ever. Shit, even writing about it right now makes me feel like hearing the disc, so I’ll probably end up blasting it in my truck tomorrow (ed. note: I actually did). If they ever decided to do a reunion tour, I would absolutely go see them, and if vocalist Rob Tweedie did that whole “hold the microphone out toward the crowd so they can finish the lyric” thing which every frontman in every band that sounds like Adair does at least a dozen times per show, I would totally be able to fill in each of those blanks and enthusiastically do so.

Sorry, we were talking about Coldplay. To recap, they’re fucking terrible.

Unlike a frivolous whimper-core ensemble like Adair, the most off-putting thing about Coldplay isn’t their music. They’ve actually managed to excrete a few tracks that I grudgingly enjoy over the years. However, sporadically releasing songs which don’t sound like they were specifically written for Gap commercials actually works against Coldplay in this instance. Sure, most of their output is noxious twaddle, but since they occasionally come across as a marginally decent band, their work isn’t awful enough to at least ironically appreciate it for being awful.

In fact, there’s absolutely nothing ironic about Coldplay—other than U2 and Radiohead (more on them in a minute), I can’t think of another band that seems to take itself as dreadfully seriously as Coldplay does. There isn’t a single lighthearted number in their entire catalog, and the demeanor of their music is so staid and cheerless that it’s hard to imagine the dudes ever cracking a smile while they’re making it. Their approach to songwriting is rigidly Pavlovian—when the music gets louder, ring ring ring, that signals the listener the *really* poignant part of the tune has arrived and cues them to emotionally salivate in kind—yet despite their calculated use of sonic dynamics to manufacture sentiment, the vapid and unspontaneous nature of the delivery saps their tunes of anything resembling genuine soul or passion. Even when thrusting through the more energetic tracks in their litany, the musicians in Coldplay always sound like they’re actively striving to not play their instruments too hard. The result is that they consistently deliver some of the safest and least edgy rock ever created, shaping their ethos around a formula so willfully tepid and cuddly that they barely qualify as a rock band at all. Coldplay aren’t quite the musical equivalent of plain yogurt (that would be Jack Johnson, an artist so comprehensively flavorless that even his name is fucking boring) but the granola in their mixture is always judiciously distributed so as not to agitate anyone’s tastebuds.

And at the center of this slow-motion kaleidoscope, you have Chris fucking Martin (I find it difficult to cite his name without including the “fucking” in there; he’s just one of those guys—like Jason fucking Mraz, Blake fucking Shelton, or fucking Bono). Coldplay’s music may be stagnant, but you’d never know it from beholding the practiced arsenal of slinky paroxysms their vocalist bursts into while that music is playing. In performance and in their videos, Martin’s appendages are incessantly in motion, his hands ever-swaying gently through the air like he’s waving a pair of invisible cigarette lighters or finger painting on the goddamn sky, ostensibly so deeply lost in his band’s reverie of sound that he simply can’t help himself from moving his body in a cadenced pantomime of the way their music is meant to superficially move your spirit.

For the three non-ballads the group has written in their career, Chris usually switches things up by crouching in an incongruous bobbing panther-stance like a battle rapper delivering a diss track about fucking his opponent’s mama in the mouth, until it’s time to freeze in the tried and true messiah-statue pose as the number’s final notes chime into the ether. But it is in the quiet moments when Martin truly shines—which makes perfect sense given that he’s the leader of a group so systematically anodyne they probably should have actually named themselves Quiet Moments. These are the obligatory interims where the frontman takes the stage on his own to sit down at the piano, resplendent in the spotlight, and perform an intimate solo rendition of one of his most tender hits to show everyone in the audience that Chris fucking Martin is a bonafide fucking musician who, if he really felt like it, could totally do the whole Coldplay thing without the other three dudes whose names no one knows. His soaring falsetto croon is custom-feigned for the arenas the band was destined to coldplay from the moment they dropped their breakthrough single “Yellow” and caused a nation of book-sensitive sociology majors eagerly anticipating the arrival of their generation’s U2 to cream their Dockers in unison. When Martin opens his pipes to summon those indelibly contrived choruses about birds and stars and other monosyllabic nouns, it hardly even matters what words he’s singing—the leitmotifs in most of the tunes are basically interchangeable anyway. What matters is that Chris sounds like he really, really, really means it when he says he will try to fix you.

That analysis probably makes it seem like I hate Chris fucking Martin as much as I hate his band. I actually don’t—he’s too benign a character to elicit such a fervid response; hating Chris Martin is like hating turtleneck sweaters, or actual turtles. In fact, I suspect he’s probably a really nice dude.  At least, I’ve never heard any creepy stories about him showing his penis to under-aged fans on Skype or anything like that.

Regardless, while I don’t specifically despise either Martin, Dude Who Plays Guitar, or the other two anonymous members of Coldplay, I do gauge their collective as the fourth or fifth worst band of all time. And the reason I loathe them more than any of their neighbors on that list is because they aren’t the kind of prodigiously abysmal group you can just ignore until their moment in the spotlight inevitably passes—which is how I dealt with Five For Fighting from September 2001 through February 2002 and how I’ve been dealing with Twenty-One Pilots for the last four years (seriously, are you fuckers done yet?). Coldplay is a far cagier nuisance because they are massively popular and have been for a ludicrously long time. I’ve been patiently waiting for them to go away for two decades now, yet they continue to pop up every third summer or so to drop a new album and remind us that, yes, they’re still here assiduously mining the middle of the road for new ways to write more tunes about clouds being pretty.

Even worse, I can’t disregard their music because it’s everywhere. I hear “The Scientist” while I’m shopping for cereal at the grocery store, I hear “Talk” when I sit down to eat at any chain restaurant, and I imagine I’ll be viewing that idiotic video for “Adventure of a Lifetime” with the posse of animated dancing monkeys on an infinite Clockwork-Orange-eyes-gaping loop for the rest of eternity when my mortal essence exits this world and I am cast into the fiery pits of Hell. I can’t even watch football without encountering Coldplay, as I discovered with horror in 2016 when they took part in the most fatuous jumbled fucking mess of a Super Bowl halftime show the NFL had ever presented (a zenith of suckery which seemed impossible to eclipse until this past February, when Adam Levine showed up covered with prison tattoos and said, “hold my beer”).

The pervasive level of esteem Coldplay has reached dumbfounds me. This is a group that has sold millions and millions of albums worldwide, even though I have never once heard a single person utter the phrase, “man, that new Coldplay song kicks ass.” I’m sure their most dedicated fans have favorite hits, tracks that are significant to them in some way, etc. But their remarkable success is patently disproportionate to how patently unremarkable the work which garnered that success really is. Nobody ever describes the band’s music as “awesome”, just as nobody ever describes a glass of pinot gris as awesome—the term simply does not apply to their province; actually, in this case, describing the mouthfeel of Coldplay tunes and recommending cheeses they best pair with is probably more relevant than discussing how they sound. Coldplay is as universally popular as they are precisely because they aren’t awesome. They’re not beloved because they’re extraordinary; most people love them because they’re innocuous, functional, and suitable for almost any occasion—Coldplay is akin to a pair of cargo shorts, and no one thinks cargo shorts kick ass. Coldplay isn’t an alternative band (on the contrary, almost every good band is an alternative to Coldplay); they are a lowest common denominator band, undemanding and ubiquitous and safe to like because everyone else likes them. Their work is specifically geared toward people who think appreciating music demonstrates sophistication, but don’t ultimately give enough of a shit about the artform to put any effort into finding music that is actually sophisticated or appreciable. You may assume Coldplay is erudite because they’re British and they cite books you’ve never read when discussing the lyrical themes in their work, but they’re merely recycling the same emotional territory as every other pop act that writes tunes about finding love, losing love, missing love, and the 18th Century French peasantry.

The best thing about being a Coldplay fan is that it’s easy. You don’t have to buy their records, go see them live, or make any concerted effort at all to receive their music. If you listen to the radio for any extended period of time (or eat at an Applebee’s), you will eventually hear one of their songs; all you have to do is not hate it and, voila, you’re officially a Coldplay fan. There, don’t you just love the security of venerating a critically and commercially acclaimed band that will never challenge you or be unpopular?

Okay, I do strive to be fair—even in this arena where I can say whatever I want and no one can argue with me. I gave this a lot of thought, so here are four things about Coldplay that are not terrible:

 1)      “Clocks”: I resisted it for many years, but I finally had to concede that it’s kind of a pretty song. Notes of red currant and blackberries, and it goes superbly with a nice aged brie.

2)      “God Put A Smile On Your Face”: It doesn’t put a smile on mine, but that’s why I enjoy it. Most Coldplay songs sound like they’re aiming to evoke what being hugged by a koala bear feels like, so I appreciate Chris fucking Martin delivering a darker number that seems intent on making me feel depressed instead. Well played, sir.

3)      Viva La Vida, Or Death And All His Friends: I sincerely respect their effort to broaden their palate a bit by working with Brian Eno and making Dude Who Plays Guitar buy a distortion pedal to use on one song. This is still an archetypal shitty Coldplay record, but at least it sounds a little different than all of the other archetypal shitty Coldplay records.

4)      Nah. They’re still fucking terrible; they were lucky to get three things.

 There is one additional facet of the group’s career which has fascinated me over these past several years, even though it relates more to bands that are not Coldplay rather than the band that is Coldplay. Earlier I dubbed them the U2 of their generation, and recent events in particular have coalesced to underscore that comparison. See, when Coldplay came out, the tributes to their Irish brethren in choreographed affectation were far from subtle. Chris fucking Martin’s warbling was plainly modeled after fucking Bono’s, Dude Who Plays Guitar served up an endless cycle of repetitive but hooky high-register licks that were striking similar to the distinctive methodology of The Edge, and both bands’ workmanlike rhythm sections held things down with competent yet discreet backing tracks which militantly fulfilled each song’s basic requirements rather than showcasing the musicians’ dexterity. I don’t think anyone ever disputed the collective homage in Coldplay’s dogma, and no one was terribly bothered by it either; at the time there were a lot of people craving a band that sounded just like U2, because U2 didn’t sound like U2 anymore.

When Coldplay’s debut album Parachutes was released in July 2000, fucking Bono and company’s career was on a downward arc after they largely vacated their signature approach to instead craft a couple poorly-received discs dominated by insipid rave-lite tunes that not even the members of U2 listen to anymore. Though they would temporarily rebound later that year with “Beautiful Day”, the last honestly excellent song they would ever record, U2 had left a gap that needed filling. And the most obvious inheritors of their kingdom, Radiohead, had grown tired of anthemic guitar rock; they were hunkered down creating their demanding but exceptional opus Kid A, which sounded nothing like U2, nothing like Radiohead, and indeed nothing like any other music being made on planet Earth. Kid A still had some anthems, still had some guitar, and still had a little rock, but its oblique delivery clearly demonstrated that Radiohead was chasing a far different muse and had little interest in claiming the crown (of course, this would be abundantly clarified in hindsight when they subsequently slid further down their rabbit-hole, gradually abandoning the anthems and guitars and rock altogether, until finally settling upon their current songwriting formula, which seems to mostly involve Thom Yorke masturbating on his laptop, naming ten of his climaxes, and calling it an album).

So while U2 were busy trying to figure out why they weren’t relevant anymore and Radiohead were busy doing whatever the fuck they were doing, the lads in Coldplay stepped up and said, hey, why not us? They seized the ersatz-earnest arena rock mantle with A Rush Of Blood To The Head and never looked back. Now, 17 years and seven multi-platinum albums later, they can ruin the Super Bowl, collaborate with the Chainsmokers, and even make the same kind of lameass dance music that essentially buried U2’s career with impunity. Even more significant, they have come full circle. A group that started out playing second-rate U2 facsimiles under the moniker Pectoralz (this is absolutely true, by the way) is now one of the hugest pop institutions in the universe, beloved by millions of music and wine connoisseurs across the globe. And the student has eclipsed the teacher; U2’s desperate efforts to play catchup have made their modern work sound unmistakably like second-rate Coldplay facsimiles. Chris fucking Martin and those other three guys are no longer pretenders to the throne—they are Coldplay, and this is their empire now, bitches.

These days, U2 has to reprise their old records in their entirety on nostalgia tours to get anyone to come to their concerts, and Radiohead continues to release unlistenable albums which their fans claim to love while sheepishly casting them aside to listen to OK Computer for the thousandth time instead. But Coldplay has strategically situated themselves for an eternity as the undisputed emperors of rock mediocrity. I think they’ve got another two decades in them, too; I have no doubt that long after Twenty-One Pilots is (finally) relegated to the county fair circuit where they belong, Chris fucking Martin will still be promising sold-out crowds that lights will lead them home and having a series of polite, gently-articulated seizures while he sings “Speed Of Sound”.

It seems I respect Coldplay a little more than I suspected. You know what? I’m going to amend my original valuation right here and now. As of this moment, I am formally designating Coldplay the sixth worst band of all time.

Your move, Godsmack.

 May 15, 2019

[smile-smile-ichthys]

The Lyricist and The Hobi - BTS Fanfic - Chapter 1

I’m bored in lock down so I came back to post a new fic to keep me sane. It’s fluff between an OC from Scandal In The Spotlight falls for J-Hope from BTS.

Three whole years of practise came down to this one game, one game during their time at this week and a half long special event. Her honour was at stake. So were the rest of the boys’, but theirs didn’t matter, not to her anyway. All that mattered to her at that moment in time was winning this round. If she won this round, she won the whole game. And winning the whole game meant she was not spending anything on dinner that night. She gently rocked herself forwards and backwards on her feet, then bounced from one foot to the other to prepare herself as she stood in the lift, heading down to the lobby. The text came through in the chat from Iori, the great princely prince idol in the J-Pop group she was a lyricist for,  a minute or two ago, telling her simply ‘Lemony Snicket is in play’. She smirked as she pocketed her phone, but keeping her hand wrapped around it as she began her descent.

When the doors pinged open, her eyes roamed around the lobby, spotting the many different K-Pop and J-Pop idols that were now arriving. Black Pink were currently making their way through the main doors, Iori wouldn’t have hidden it on them so she avoided them. She made her way out of the lift and through the lobby area, her eyes constantly searching, but not drawing attention to herself. As she reached the point where the lobby changing into the bar, her eye caught a glimpse of yellow, they yellow she had been looking for. The yellow of a lemon! She kept walking but swivelled nonchalantly to confirm. Yep. There it was. The one thing she wanted. Now the challenge was to retrieve said item. Realising who the person was she had to fetch it from, she put on her best smile and turned to speak to his manager. Act natural. Act. Natural.

“Ah, you made it here ok I see!” she said, greeting the manager of the one and only BTS.  

He turned to face her, as did the whole group, and he smiled kindly since they had gotten on well during the meeting and planning stages of this event.

“Roo, so nice to see you again!” he bowed and she returned the greeting happily “Yes, just waiting for the rooms to be ready, they said it should only be about half an hour or so, been here long?”

“Since early this morning, the boys are…erm…somewhere” She chuckled, knowing fine well they were watching her from the bar area. Couldn’t draw attention to them, they may throw her game. Too much as at stake.

“I’m sure we can arrange a meet before rehearsals tomorrow” he suggested and she nodded, but turned to greet all the boys of BTS.

“Pardon my rudeness, nice to meet you all, I’m Roo, assistant manager, but mainly the lyricist of Revance” she smiled to each of them and they all bowed back. She spotted Nagi waving from the bar and tapping his watch. Ah shit. She didn’t have long. “I’m sure we can talk more later, if you’ll excuse me, I think Nagi needs some help” She pretended to trip over her own foot, nudging into one of the boys, J-Hope to be exact. As she rectified herself, she grabbed the item that was hidden on top of his duffle bag that was around his shoulders and apologised, running off.

In the bar, all six members of Revance were watching as closely as they could. Iori was the one to place the lemon on J-Hope’s bag, knowing fine well he was Roo’s favourite member of BTS. It was his personal test for her to see if she could act professional whilst playing their game of ‘The Travelling Lemon’. He cockily sipped his drink.

“I would have put it on their manager” Nagi piped up as he settled in his chair with his own drink.

“Yes, but you make it too easy, Nagi” Kyo, the leader of the group said, keeping an eye on Roo as she appeared from the lift.

“I do not” Nagi argued.

“Shh, she’s approaching them” another member, Kota, said as they lowered their heads slightly to be kept from being seen.

No matter where they were, what they were doing there, if they were in a hotel it was a tradition to play this game. Roo had explained the game about a month or two after joining the band to help with the lyrics. At first it was hers and Nagito’s game, after all, Nagi was the only one in the group to be kind to her. As the rest of the group warmed up to her, they all slowly began to join in with the game. Even when Ryo came back from his hiatus, it became a game that they all played together, no matter the situation.

The rules were simple. Name the fruit, usually a lemon, a pun like name. It must be hidden in plain sight, you can’t cover it. Each person takes a turn to find, then re-hide the fruit, once it has been hidden, you must tell the next player ‘the lemon/name of fruit is in play’. Whoever is caught by someone outside of the game, ie asked what they were doing, or they find the lemon/fruit, that player is out. Whoever goes on the longest, wins. You could put time limits on if you wished, which this time they did to make it more interesting.

Ryo had started the round, but got called out early by a staff member so he set up shop in the bar. He was always terrible at the game. Kota was the next one to fail, instead of being called out though, he ran out of time. Nagi soon followed, along with Kyo. For a while, it was between Roo, Iori and Taka and that’s when they decided to put a time limit on. Taka failed and happily sat at the bar listening to his music to keep working. Which left Iori and Roo. Roo had to bring the lemon back to the bar without being called out or run out of time to beat Iori.

“She’s not going to do it, she’s going to chicken out” Iori smirked.

“I wouldn’t doubt her ability so much” Kyo laughed as they watched her interact with the manager for a few seconds.

“She’s running out of time” Nagi checked his watch, gestured to Roo causing Iori to smack his head.

“Oi, whose team you on?” he said.

Nagi laughed rubbing his head.

“We’re not doing team this time, but I’d be on hers any day”

“Too true” Kota joined “here she comes”

Roo jogged over and presented the lemon, Lemon Snicket, to Iori.

“I do believe that is a win!” she smirked at him. Iori huffed and pouted, causing Roo to smile more. Deciding to mock him more, she impersonated his princely act “Oh is my prince not happy? How about I send all of my loving vibes to all my beloved fans? A rose? My my, it’s not as beautiful as your smile”

“No no, wait” Nagi laughed more, jumping off of his seat and joining in “You have to do the smoulder” he posed, pouting his lips ever so slightly, offering his hand out to Iori, Roo copying as best as she can.

“They are decent impressions” Kyo chuckled “Got to admit it, Iori, they have you down to a T”

“Hmm” he said, grabbing the hand that Roo offered in her little skit, pulled her to him and began to tickle around her sides.

She writhed and full on belly laughed at his vicious attacks. Nagi happily joined in, always ready for a laugh no matter what.

“Iori, no ah stop!” she laughed, almost collapsing to the floor. He picked her up and flung her over his shoulder. She ‘oofed’ as her stomach hit his shoulder, but flopping in defeat, too tired from the tickle attack.

“Punishment for teasing me so much” he said.

“We still have a bit of time before the press arrive for our arrival, what should we do now leader?” Kyo asked Takashi who reluctantly removed his head phones.

“I think we should go greet some other groups, and maybe get a drink of water for Roo as she’s gone bright red, you ok?” he asked.

“Normally I’d say I’m fine, but not only did BTS see me up here, but so did the rest of the groups, how embarrassing is that?!” she said as Iori finally lowered her to the floor.

“You’ve been with us for three years now” Kyo said flicking her forehead “if we embarrass you, it’s because we care, I highly doubt they’ll think you’re stupid, come on, chin up, let’s go meet some of the groups ready for the week ahead!”

She grinned, quickly rubbing her eyes and putting her professional head on. He was right. They did stupid stuff together all the time, and the fans still loved them a ridiculous amount. So what if some groups thought it was silly to be this close to each other. She loved the boys with all of her heart and soul, would do anything for them, even hiding a lemon. It was time to be their assistant manager and go see the other artists who had arrived for the biggest event in Asian Pop Culture history.

#BTS #SITS #Scandal in the spotlight #j-hope #jung hoseok #fanfic #crossover #bangtan #voltage inc

[suckasstakenames]

Craig and Those Guys Week: Day 5 - Sleepover 💤 🎮

The third and final oneshot I wrote for @craigandthoseguys-week !! Craig POV this time!

Thank you for reading!!

----

Token’s residence has always been the favourite hangout, so it was expected that the votes were unanimous when our group decided where to have our highly anticipated boy’s night. My house usually had adult guests over during the evening, Tweek’s parents don’t leave us alone at his place, Clyde wasn’t a very good host, and Jimmy’s parents had completely banned any of his friends from going over because of the aftermath when they went out of town once. Playing fantasy in fourth grade had it’s consequences.

Mr and Mrs Black even decided to take a spa trip so that we’d purposely have the house to ourselves. Risky, but I guess Token is reliable enough to make sure the house is in pristine condition by the time they get back. Even if the rest of us aren’t.

After the four of us shared a car to get there, we were joyfully greeted by Token at his front door and led up to his room. Only it wasn’t Token at the front, it was Clyde, who excitedly (and pretty rudely) barged right in front of us all. We’re all equipped with sleeping bags and rucksacks, each carrying a different assortment of things. Well...besides the essentials.

We collectively decided that I would be in charge of bringing booze to the occasion. My parents were the only ones who didn’t give a shit if I hoarded a large amount of alcohol, so there was no debating it.

Clyde had brought a TON of junk food. He regularly had a pantry stocked with all kinds of goodies (when he wasn’t scoffing it himself) so he just grabbed whatever he could find and stuffed it in a bag.

Tweek was in charge of DVD’s. Being the anxious wreck that he is, we figured it would be best that he picked the film selection so that he didn’t get too disturbed by anything. I did help him out a little, though.

And lastly, Jimmy took it upon himself to come up with any backup plans, incase we got bored with anything. We had no doubts that he would think of some fun shit to do, or bring something that would entertain us. After all, we’d do anything to avoid going to sleep early.

Token had a good amount of food and entertainment himself, but we thought it was only fair to handle our own, since his parents were being so accommodating to us. Plus, he had every video game console thinkable, and a good game selection at that. We were more than prepared.

~

Walking into Token’s oversized bedroom, Clyde drops his backpack on the ground and launches himself onto the kingsized bed starfish style.

“You know you’re not sleeping there right...?” I remind him.

“Unless you’re s-s-spooning with T-Token.” Jimmy jokes from behind me.

Clyde just nuzzles into the bed even further. “I’m sure he’d be happy to have me.”

“Uhhh like fuck I would...” Token retorts, “Your ass is on the floor.”

Clyde turns onto his side and attempts his sexiest pose (which, believe it or not, wasn’t sexy at all). “Don’t be like that baby~”

“Just get over here and unroll your damn sleeping bag” Token says, throwing the sleeping bag directly at Clyde’s head with perfect aim. The impact sends him flying backwards. I thought Clyde was supposed to be the sporty one out of us? He can’t catch if his life depended on it.

Tweek stands next to me, shaking his head and smirking. It definitely isn’t a first for us to witness antics like this; we’re so used to it, it’s unbelievable. I take his rucksack off him and put in down next to mine.

“Here, I’ll take care of your bed.”

“Ngh! Craig, I’m fine doing it myself, really!”

I ignored him and started to set it up anyway. But the little shit went over and grabbed mine instead. Tweek can be a stubborn fuck sometimes, but it wasn’t all that much of a bad thing.

We’d all laid out our sleeping bags in a line (in front of the television, of course) as the sun was just about to set outside. Mine was on the far left, with Tweek next to me, Clyde next to him and Jimmy on the right. We changed into our pyjamas and nestled into our sleeping bags, Token sitting down right in the middle of us. Damn right were we gonna make this a proper conventional slumber party.

Token switched the TV on and some animal documentary was showing. There was a lioness with some lion cubs and it was telling the story of their survival.

“No way?! You’ve got the Nintendo Switcheroo!” Clyde exclaims out of nowhere, making us all jump out of our skin. He crawls over to the console to investigate. Token looks pissed off as Clyde’s big-ass head was blocking some of the screen, and he seems kind of invested in the lion story.

I sigh. “…you did NOT just call it a fucking Nintendo Switcheroo..."

“Of course he’s got one man! He owns everything!” Tweek jokes.

“Yeah, p-p-pauper.” Jimmy stutters. Token just blows a raspberry in response.

“We need to play Mario Kart. We’re playing Mario Kart. Right now.” Clyde dictates.

I groan and roll my eyes. I thought that game had died many years ago…however…when it WAS a thing, I did kick some serious ass.

Fortunately the game box was staring him right in the face, so he started trying to set it up, taking out the disc and trying to figure out how to switch the console on.

Meanwhile the documentary was getting pretty dramatic, as a group of hyenas were closing in on the mother lion and her kids. She was fighting them off, but then the narrator explains how she left behind one of her babies while doing so. It shows one of the hyenas circling the cub like a shark.

Tweek yells out, turning his head away. “Oh god hurry up Clyde!! It’s gonna eat the cub!!”

“I’m trying!!” Clyde whines, pressing any button BUT the correct one. It was clear he wasn’t a fan of the documentary either by how frantic he was being.

The hyena started closing in on the cub.

“CLYDE!! PLEASE!!” Tweek holds his hands over his ears, trying to completely shut it out. I try and comfort him while looking over at Token as if to say ‘don’t just sit there, help him’. He does exactly that and crawls over, pressing a button on the side with ease. Thankfully, the channel automatically switches over and the game console loads onto the screen. I feel a giant exhalation of relief coming from Tweek, who finally withdraws himself from burying his face in my chest.

~

Eventually the title screen appears with the familiar Mario Kart jingle playing. Jimmy starts to wiggle along to it, which, of course, persuades Clyde to dance too. Tweek and I decided we’d share the controller and take it in turns since there could only be four players at once.

When it came to selecting our characters; Token picked Mario, Jimmy went for Toad, and Clyde settled for the ‘Fly Guy’ (Shy Guy). I let Tweek pick our character and he went for Yoshi.

The first course was selected and it was one of the basic Mario stadium courses. Tweek passed the controller to me and the race began. Clyde and I zoomed off ahead, Token went at a normal start, and Jimmy pressed the button too early and caused his kart to blow up.

“Fuck…f-f-f…f-fuck a duck.” Jimmy curses.

I end up taking the lead by quite a bit, Clyde chasing me in second. He’s super competitive; the kinda guy who leans in the same direction as he steers. He was constantly targeting me; sending red and blue shells in my direction at any chance he could. Typical.

The race ends with me in 1st, Clyde in 2nd, Token in 5th and Jimmy in 8th.

“Loser chugs his beer!!” Clyde makes a terrible suggestion. Jimmy rolls with it anyway, grabbing a can of beer and impressively chugging while Clyde and Token count from 10 down to zero. Jimmy can be a real dark horse. Well…maybe not when it comes to Mario Kart though.

Race number 2 is some sort of jack-and-the-beanstalk type level. Tweek takes the wheel this time, and it proved to have been a bad idea. The road has a lot of holes and tight corners without barriers, and Tweek somehow managed to fall off every single one. It even got to the point where the CPU in first place was lapping him.

Of course, he was very vocal about this. “Jesus are you kidding me?! How are you supposed to make that turn?! HOW?!”

Token ended up in 2nd place, Clyde in 4th, Jimmy in 5th, and Tweek…in last place. Before the other guys could even suggest it, I grabbed my can of beer and chugged for ten seconds. They just looked at me dumbfounded, including Tweek. Like hell was I gonna let Tweek chug his beer; I don’t even think he’s opened his can up yet. We’re a team, and I’m the one who’ll be taking the consequences.

The next race came around and it was one of the Bowser castles. Clyde struggled in this level, while Token, Jimmy and I were in the top three. Clyde, after somehow blaming Token for his loss, ended up coming 9th and chugged his beer like there was no tomorrow.

The last stage loaded up…Rainbow Road. Of COURSE Tweek had to get the two difficult courses... I kept my beer in my hand ready to chug again.

The race starts; there goes Clyde. Plummeting into the void below.

Jimmy starts off pretty well but eventually starts to lose his skill when it comes to the tight corners.

Token is a little better than the other two, but he keeps getting hit with items from the CPUs and ends up being knocked back in the placing.

With Clyde in last, Jimmy in 11th and Token in 9th…where does that put Tweek, I hear you ask? Well... Tweek was driving so slowly and cautiously that he managed to dodge the majority of the corners. Then he got a bullet item on the last lap and soared his way right into 2nd place. He even gave an excited little fist pump when he crossed the finish line.

“…...I think that victory alone deserves a chug from all of you.” I insist, slinging my arm around Tweek. He chuckles in response.

After a few groans and eye rolls, the three of them reluctantly chug their beer while Tweek and I counted down from 10.

~

A couple hours later and Jimmy had decided that we were going to play drinking games. How old were we again?

Tweek even agreed to it, intrigued at what kind of secrets were going to be revealed during this.

“Never have I ever…gotten arrested!” Token starts.

Well…we’ve all been in trouble with the police at some point, but actually arrested? Hmm…I’m sure I got caught with something illegal once. I drink anyway.

Jimmy drinks due to causing grievous bodily harm to his ex girlfriend, Nancy.

Clyde drinks due his whole involvement with the Nazi zombies and stealing the green goo from the government.

Tweek doesn’t drink because he’s never actually been arrested. Of course, he’s still been in trouble with the police like the rest of us back in our ‘vigilante’ days.

Next it was Jimmy’s turn. “N-never have I ever been awake for more than t-t-twenty four hours.”

Clyde doesn’t drink. The dude can’t function without at least 8 hours of sleep.

Token takes a sip while telling us about how one time he’d spent all night studying for finals and then worked a 12 hour shift the next day. He makes way too much work for himself sometimes...

Tweek and I both drink. Do I even need to explain Tweek’s reasoning?

“Uhhh…never have I ever…broken somebody's heart.” Tweek takes his turn.

Fuck, another shot for me. I had no regrets when it came to making girls cry when I was younger. He manages to catch the other three out too; Clyde and Token even clink their cans together, sighing disappointedly. We’re a gang of heartbreakers.

Clyde is up next. “Never have I everrrr…..sent a text to the wrong person!”

Nobody else drinks but Jimmy; I figured he would be pretty flippant in that area.

But then I realised something.

“…wait…that is horse shit.”

Clyde looks at me bewildered. I whip out my phone and bring up Clyde’s texts. I can feel Tweek’s chin resting on my shoulder, taking a peek.

“3 weeks ago. Wednesday, July 10th. 9:24pm. ‘hey babe u looked gorgeous on ur recent instagram pic, u got nice legs’.” I look back up at him with a blank expression, Tweek chuckling next to me.

Clyde goes completely silent for a minute, his face flushing bright pink. Jimmy and Token laugh a little too, Jimmy putting his arm over Clyde in sympathy.

“Are you s-sure he doesn’t just think your legs are nice, C-C-Craig?” Jimmy winks at me.

“Jimmy…when have I ever showed my legs on Instagram.” I scoff.

“There’s a first for everything!” Token jests.

~

In the early hours of the morning we find ourselves sprawled across the floor in our sleeping bags, watching All Dogs Go To Heaven - a film that Tweek had chosen. He was resting his head on my lap, and when it neared the end of the movie, I noticed him sniffing. I reached down and wiped away the tiny bit of water that had appeared under his eye. Meanwhile, Clyde had used up an entire tissue box, Token wasn’t even watching the film because he was cleaning up after Clyde, and Jimmy was making fun of every little aspect of the film.

When the movie finished we moved right onto another one; some cheesy comedy that Token had suggested. Mainly because Tyler Perry was in it.

Clyde was asleep within minutes; mouth wide open and snoring like a pig.

It didn’t take long for Jimmy to doze off too, clearly not impressed with the humour.

Token was now in his bed, snickering to himself and eating potato chips. From the angle he was at, he probably didn’t realise that all four of us were completely disinterested in the movie.

Tweek was snuggled into the side of my neck, slowly drifting into dream world. I drew circles on his back with the tip of my fingers, using my other hand to play with a strand of his thin blonde hair. A few years ago this would have never been a thing; there’d only be the four of us, with Tweek hanging out with entirely different cliques. Luckily the guys were quick to accept him into our group once we started dating, and treated him like one of us immediately.

I guess that’s one of the many things I can thank them for.

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