I have this problem where I won’t acknowledge the fact that I have to get up at six tomorrow morning.
This is what i spent a whole class doing
Pancakes! They’re just as useful as they are delicious! Follow along as we improve your every day problems with some handy
Flaphack #1: Got a wobbly table? Throw some flapjacks under that thing, baby! Boom! Problem solved!
what the fuck dennys
if I had a twin I would go into crowds of strangers and profess my love to someone and then say “if our love isn’t meant to be, I will go back in time and slap myself” and then my twin would burst in and slap me
He wishes that he could get dialogue written for his real life interactions with people. Especially with her.
It’s easy being a character – someone who effortlessly knows exactly what to say, coming off witty and smooth (when the scene permits) without having to stutter through all the wrong things to say. He wishes he could be the James on camera. Sure, the guy screwed it up inside the house, caused her to storm out with anger molding that devastating expression onto her face. But outside, exposed and unsheltered in all the ways that matter, skin pierced through by the ice of the rain and her grey-green eyes, that other James created a kind of poetry with his plea. His words were enough to excuse the insufferableness, the rash way of speaking, even the arrogance of his nature.
(The height they share, though. Neither James can do anything to fix that. Onscreen James knows she didn’t really mean that criticism. Offscreen, he’s sure that it is yet another thing she dislikes about him, even though there’s hardly much difference between their statures.)
“But look at me, standing here…in the pouring rain…and I’m going to keep standing here till the end of time, because I can’t go another step without you.”
He wishes he could say things like that without the prompt of a script. Just the way he wishes he had the confidence his on camera counterpart has when extracting the unsaid “I love you” from her denunciation. He loses that the minute Nancy calls “cut”. He suddenly feels awkward, bothered by the foggy glasses that have slipped ever so slightly down his nose. (He tries to blow at them to make them clear, then to turn it into a joke. He knows she can see him from the corner of her eye but chooses to ignore him.) And now he’s embarrassed about the eagerness of his kiss, and yes, by the tongue which had gently but impatiently pushed past her lips. At least he can assign the guilt of that to the onscreen James. He’s just apologizing for the character, over whom he has little to no control.
The silence between them (standing awkwardly, their just broken kiss – and the various kisses of the past few takes – creating a barrier to conversation) seems blank. He feels like he should be able to close his eyes and picture in his head a page of a script with perfectly crafted dialogue designed specifically to fill this space between them. It would be funny but clever, engineered to create a bond between them, to nudge their story arc along to a well rounded peak. But the blankness reaches his mind as well, because there’s not a script. He’s flying solo on this one.
It’s all he can do to keep from slamming his head against his palm. Again, with his damn tongue. Next time he just won’t say anything at all. She would probably appreciate that more than anything. But now he probably will be standing here till the end of time after all because he’s guaranteed to be reliving this mortification for the foreseeable future, keeping himself trapped in the memory of how he just keeps making things worse. Replaying it over and over in his mind, how he’s so good at irritating her.
And the rain has drenched every inch of him, water trapped by his sodden clothes. The rain clings to his clammy skin the way the imprint of the kiss still clings to his lips. He wishes both sensations away. (He’s making too many wishes, he knows.)
For now, he trudges back down the hill to get ready for another take – dried off a bit, makeup touched up, composure seemingly regained. He can’t imagine it’ll be a better take than the last one now. He can barely stand to look Lily in the face. At least it won’t really be him. Just the other James.