As Brendon walks through the gigantic, forbidding gates of his new school, he trips over his shoelaces. He looks down at them forlornly and shakes his head.
“Wow,” he thinks to himself very loudly, an echoing voiceover bouncing around in his head. “I am such a loser.”
A kid skates past him quickly, but not before turning his head to yell “Loser!” in Brendon’s general direction. Brendon sighs and bends down to tie his shoelaces. This is going to suck. Switching schools junior year? Brendon’s not going to have any friends. He is such a loser. Has he mentioned that yet?
Because he is. He is a loser because he is klutzy and wears glasses and also, he doesn’t have any numbers in his name. It’s the new thing.
“My name’s Ry12113687an,” introduces a really hot guy. “I am really cool.”
Brendon is so jealous of Ry12113687an. His eyes are deep pools of Hershey’s chocolate, the kind that are more wax than cacao, and he has glossy tresses that remind Brendon of pictures of pelicans drowning in oil that he saw on the news.
“My name’s Brendon,” Brendon says. “Why do you speak in a monotone?”
“Because I am really cool,” Ry12113687an explains. Brendon nods understandingly.
“Not only am I hot and original and edgy,” Ry12113687an says, “I can also sing. Do you want to hear?”
“De-de-definitely,” Brendon stammers, and then he trips over his shoelaces again. Brendon is such a loser.
Ryan starts singing Dance, Dance, because that is the pinnacle of all musical evolution, and Brendon watches him openmouthed in awe. The dulcet tones of Autotune are like a balm for his soul. His deep, tortured, loserish soul.
“I want to tear out your vocal cords and eat them,” Brendon tells Ry12113687an. “I bet they would taste like red velvet cake.”
“I get that a lot,” Ry12113687an says. “It’s my cross to bear. It’s why I’m a social pariah, you know. Just like you. I am relateable.”
“Wow,” Brendon says.
“Yeah.”
And then suddenly, Brendon is swept up in a montage. It’s kind of dizzying, to be honest, and he doesn’t really like the Celine Dion song that’s playing, but he goes with it. It’s a friendship montage, and he and Ry12113687an are laughing in the sunlight, holding hands, talking shit about other people, and at one point, they’re even on a roof.
“Wow,” Brendon says. “I feel like I really know you as a person now.”
“Ditto,” says Ry12113687an, showing off some hip teenage slang. “I feel like I’ve known you for a lot longer than five minutes.”
“Ditto,” says Brendon, to show that he’s a quick learner. He can feel his loser status slowly slipping away. He is maybe at 98.7% social retardation now.
“You know what we should do?” asks Ry12113687an, excitedly.
“Your monotone’s slipping,” Brendon tells him helpfully.
“Oh, shit, thanks,” Ry12113687an says.
“No probs,” Brendon says. He thinks he’s getting the hang of this slang thing.
“Like I was saying,” Ry12113687an says flatly, “we should enter this band competition that is totally the biggest thing going on at this school even though I am still really anti-establishment. Really.”
“Sure!” Brendon says. “That sounds great.”
“Good. Head’s up, we’re going to have to have another montage now. Hope you can learn to play three different instruments in five minutes.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-06-17 10:02 pm (UTC)“Wow,” he thinks to himself very loudly, an echoing voiceover bouncing around in his head. “I am such a loser.”
A kid skates past him quickly, but not before turning his head to yell “Loser!” in Brendon’s general direction. Brendon sighs and bends down to tie his shoelaces. This is going to suck. Switching schools junior year? Brendon’s not going to have any friends. He is such a loser. Has he mentioned that yet?
Because he is. He is a loser because he is klutzy and wears glasses and also, he doesn’t have any numbers in his name. It’s the new thing.
“My name’s Ry12113687an,” introduces a really hot guy. “I am really cool.”
Brendon is so jealous of Ry12113687an. His eyes are deep pools of Hershey’s chocolate, the kind that are more wax than cacao, and he has glossy tresses that remind Brendon of pictures of pelicans drowning in oil that he saw on the news.
“My name’s Brendon,” Brendon says. “Why do you speak in a monotone?”
“Because I am really cool,” Ry12113687an explains. Brendon nods understandingly.
“Not only am I hot and original and edgy,” Ry12113687an says, “I can also sing. Do you want to hear?”
“De-de-definitely,” Brendon stammers, and then he trips over his shoelaces again. Brendon is such a loser.
Ryan starts singing Dance, Dance, because that is the pinnacle of all musical evolution, and Brendon watches him openmouthed in awe. The dulcet tones of Autotune are like a balm for his soul. His deep, tortured, loserish soul.
“I want to tear out your vocal cords and eat them,” Brendon tells Ry12113687an. “I bet they would taste like red velvet cake.”
“I get that a lot,” Ry12113687an says. “It’s my cross to bear. It’s why I’m a social pariah, you know. Just like you. I am relateable.”
“Wow,” Brendon says.
“Yeah.”
And then suddenly, Brendon is swept up in a montage. It’s kind of dizzying, to be honest, and he doesn’t really like the Celine Dion song that’s playing, but he goes with it. It’s a friendship montage, and he and Ry12113687an are laughing in the sunlight, holding hands, talking shit about other people, and at one point, they’re even on a roof.
“Wow,” Brendon says. “I feel like I really know you as a person now.”
“Ditto,” says Ry12113687an, showing off some hip teenage slang. “I feel like I’ve known you for a lot longer than five minutes.”
“Ditto,” says Brendon, to show that he’s a quick learner. He can feel his loser status slowly slipping away. He is maybe at 98.7% social retardation now.
“You know what we should do?” asks Ry12113687an, excitedly.
“Your monotone’s slipping,” Brendon tells him helpfully.
“Oh, shit, thanks,” Ry12113687an says.
“No probs,” Brendon says. He thinks he’s getting the hang of this slang thing.
“Like I was saying,” Ry12113687an says flatly, “we should enter this band competition that is totally the biggest thing going on at this school even though I am still really anti-establishment. Really.”
“Sure!” Brendon says. “That sounds great.”
“Good. Head’s up, we’re going to have to have another montage now. Hope you can learn to play three different instruments in five minutes.”
“Shiii---“