sacriligion
Jun. 12th, 2006 02:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wizened_cynicDrummerJew2002: you two amuse me
wcynic: haha
wcynic: well you and i, we amuse the molly too
wcynic: and you and molly amuse me
wcynic: we're like ... the badass version of the holy trinity
DrummerJew2002: that's a hilariously true comparison
wcynic: you can be god but i call jesus
DrummerJew2002: that works
DrummerJew2002: what's the third?
DrummerJew2002: the ghost?
wcynic: yeah
wcynic: holy spirit
DrummerJew2002: holy spirit, batman!
wcynic: it sounds like a DRINK
wcynic: "i'd like a bottle of holy spirit please"
DrummerJew2002: "hey, barkeep, bring me a holy spirit"
wcynic: "mostly vodka with a dash of holy spirit"
DrummerJew2002: the jesus shooter
wcynic: now that's just dirty
DrummerJew2002: we should start a religion themed bar
DrummerJew2002: we could have all these religiously named drinks
wcynic: YES
wcynic: THE MOHAMMED
DrummerJew2002: mary magdalene on ice, also known as the holy whore colada
wcynic: the burning bush
wcynic: and it actually comes
wcynic: ON FIRE
DrummerJew2002: yes!
DrummerJew2002: our motto could be
DrummerJew2002: "come get drunk on religion"
wcynic: "you've found jesus --- on the rocks, with a twist"
Piper Rhiannon: Fucking. Genius. would a Virgin Mary be a Bloody Mary with no alcohol?
wcynic: and a cherry
I would apologize for offending anyone, but I wouldn't mean it, so let's just cut the bullshit.
Founder's Day Punch tastes like cotton candy and a molotov cocktail, tastes like the goddamn town itself, sweet and slow burning. It scorches your throat going down, but you can't stop yourself.
Your mother's dead, you learned this morning. He says he's sorry and you don't hear him when he starts talking about arrangements, you're too busy thinking about how fucked up this is: your mother got to go to your funeral and you don't get to go to hers.
You lose track of how many cups you drink, but in the distance you can hear Rory telling you to stop, Paris did this last year and it didn't end well. How did it end? You don't remember, Paris? I have no recollection of it. How did it end? You ran down the street barefoot and begged for change to call Doyle. Oh. Oh, it's coming back to me now. It didn't end well. No, it didn't.
You don't run down the street barefoot to call your mother (she's dead) or Olivia (you're dead) or anybody else, instead you end up on the floor of the bathroom, throwing up until you're pretty sure you could see all your insides in the toilet bowl, your heart, still beating, not knowing how to stop.
You've got vomit all over your shirt and Lorelai is saying, Claire, sweetie, arms up. We need to get you out of these clothes. She covers you with a towel and wipes your face with a wet cloth, and in the middle of a pedantic lecture on why Founder's Day Punch should not be drunk on an empty stomach, you tell her, My mother's dead.
Oh, Claire. Claire, she croons. She strokes your hair, rubs circles against your scalp, and you press your face against her stomach so you won't be able to feel yourself cry. Claire, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. How many years has it been?
Claire's mother's been dead for years, but Alex's mother died yesterday. I don't know, you say as she rubs up and down your arm, kisses your shoulder. I can't tell anymore.
wcynic: haha
wcynic: well you and i, we amuse the molly too
wcynic: and you and molly amuse me
wcynic: we're like ... the badass version of the holy trinity
DrummerJew2002: that's a hilariously true comparison
wcynic: you can be god but i call jesus
DrummerJew2002: that works
DrummerJew2002: what's the third?
DrummerJew2002: the ghost?
wcynic: yeah
wcynic: holy spirit
DrummerJew2002: holy spirit, batman!
wcynic: it sounds like a DRINK
wcynic: "i'd like a bottle of holy spirit please"
DrummerJew2002: "hey, barkeep, bring me a holy spirit"
wcynic: "mostly vodka with a dash of holy spirit"
DrummerJew2002: the jesus shooter
wcynic: now that's just dirty
DrummerJew2002: we should start a religion themed bar
DrummerJew2002: we could have all these religiously named drinks
wcynic: YES
wcynic: THE MOHAMMED
DrummerJew2002: mary magdalene on ice, also known as the holy whore colada
wcynic: the burning bush
wcynic: and it actually comes
wcynic: ON FIRE
DrummerJew2002: yes!
DrummerJew2002: our motto could be
DrummerJew2002: "come get drunk on religion"
wcynic: "you've found jesus --- on the rocks, with a twist"
Piper Rhiannon: Fucking. Genius. would a Virgin Mary be a Bloody Mary with no alcohol?
wcynic: and a cherry
I would apologize for offending anyone, but I wouldn't mean it, so let's just cut the bullshit.
Founder's Day Punch tastes like cotton candy and a molotov cocktail, tastes like the goddamn town itself, sweet and slow burning. It scorches your throat going down, but you can't stop yourself.
Your mother's dead, you learned this morning. He says he's sorry and you don't hear him when he starts talking about arrangements, you're too busy thinking about how fucked up this is: your mother got to go to your funeral and you don't get to go to hers.
You lose track of how many cups you drink, but in the distance you can hear Rory telling you to stop, Paris did this last year and it didn't end well. How did it end? You don't remember, Paris? I have no recollection of it. How did it end? You ran down the street barefoot and begged for change to call Doyle. Oh. Oh, it's coming back to me now. It didn't end well. No, it didn't.
You don't run down the street barefoot to call your mother (she's dead) or Olivia (you're dead) or anybody else, instead you end up on the floor of the bathroom, throwing up until you're pretty sure you could see all your insides in the toilet bowl, your heart, still beating, not knowing how to stop.
You've got vomit all over your shirt and Lorelai is saying, Claire, sweetie, arms up. We need to get you out of these clothes. She covers you with a towel and wipes your face with a wet cloth, and in the middle of a pedantic lecture on why Founder's Day Punch should not be drunk on an empty stomach, you tell her, My mother's dead.
Oh, Claire. Claire, she croons. She strokes your hair, rubs circles against your scalp, and you press your face against her stomach so you won't be able to feel yourself cry. Claire, sweetheart, I'm so sorry. How many years has it been?
Claire's mother's been dead for years, but Alex's mother died yesterday. I don't know, you say as she rubs up and down your arm, kisses your shoulder. I can't tell anymore.
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