i love John Brown's beard.
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About Me
- sometimesmegan
- Grand FUNKtion, Colorado, United States
- I am seventeen years old. Indie flicks and documentaries are really fun to watch but I also enjoy watching movies like " The 40 Year Old virgin" and "Smiley Face." I have a crazy/annoying laugh that usually includes a snort or two. I have been told I tell " pro stories." I love fall and summer. Beaches and Forests are my favorite. I drive a 91 oldsmobile that looks very grandma(ish). I hate horses and most apples. My favorite t.v. show is "The Mighty Boosh." THE END.
my favorite video
my favorite things
- driving
- hipbones
- ki:theory
- kissing
- laughing
- lips
- movies
- my friends
- my laptop
- pasta
- patrick wolf
- reading
- rupert grint
- singing
- snow cones
- stomachs
- summer
- techno
- the mighty boosh
- traveling
- vogue
- we are scientists
Blog Archive
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2007
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September
(25)
- it's all down hill from here
- fruita fall feast
- i like phish food more than cherry garcia
- two miles
- back seats are sexy
- side-side-note
- MMM
- red hat
- my obsession
- let's get fucked up and die
- not worth it
- FYI
- people cake and millie
- 7/12
- cookies kick ass
- study session 8:00
- i send letters to him from the future
- doctors visits
- not another teen blog
- ironic
- voice changing
- side note
- today in history
- rawr
- vanity and greed
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September
(25)
2 comments:
I have to admit, that is one sexy ladykiller right there. (The beard. Not the man. XD)
I have a present for you. I was writing little bits and pieces of this today and it turned out so cool I had to type it.
What Would Happen If We Met Rupert Grint At CU:
It was him. Rupert Grint. He tossed his hair casually in the light breeze, hitching his bookbag a little higher on his shoulder. As one, the group of girls swooned. They sighed with longing. Their hearts pounded like the fluttering wings of doves behind their milky breasts.
“Follow the butterflies.”
The one named Megan whispered their Code 9 and they instantly went into Stalk mode, prowling after that flame of ginger hair like a pack of wild African hyenas, closing in on the oblivious gazelle. Their breath came hot and ragged in our throats. The hunt was on.
As if recognizing the intensity of our mission, the entire campus fell silent. It was a deep and ominous calm, but the girls plunged on undeterred. Then, somewhere in the back of their group, came the lone voice of the one named Kayla, breaking the quiet:
“First I’m going to pin him to the ground and peel off his shirt… reeeeally slowly… with my teeth…”
Her voice carried in the stillness. Heads turned. A group of college alumnae, sipping mature-looking lattes, raised disdainful, penciled eyebrows at the younger girls as they passed. One even whispered, in an utterly scandalized tone of voice, “What in Jesus' name are they wearing?”
The girls paid them no heed, but they moved faster. Their feet left dewy trails in the vivid campus grass (and the grass really is remarkably fucking green over here, all you Brits out there); their eyes, so carefully mascaraed, were narrowed into slits. They were lionesses of the Serengeti. They were jaguars of the Amazon. Their lips, sculpted perfectly in Berry Kiss gloss, pulled back from their teeth in identical feral smiles.
Then the one named Tessa stepped on an abandoned mechanical pencil, which, due to the extreme tension in the air, shattered into a million pieces.
Rupert froze. His head swiveled around slowly. He sniffed the air, gauging by the reek of Victoria’s Secret body spray how close they were. He could guess what was happening: he was, after all, a movie star. It happened all the time. In fact, he almost counted on it for his daily exercise. He tensed, bracing himself.
They looked at each other, calculating our chances. There was still quite a bit of distance between them and their prey, but their cover was blown, so there was no help for it.
“Time to bother Snape,” murmured Megan – their Code 1. The attack signal.
With a screeching howl, the girls ripped the Ron Weasley towels from their naked bodies and went flying down the lawn, bare limbs flailing. Rupert flung his bookbag from him and broke into a run as they crashed towards him, screaming and baying for blood.
“Jesus,” he muttered, glancing back at them.
"Rupie, wait!!”
“Can I braid your hair?!”
"He's so cute when he's scared!”
“Can I have an extra pair of your boxers?!”
"Megan, I can see his shoulderblades through his shirt! Megan, look!”
They thundered up the pavement steps and piled into the boys’ dorms, pausing for breath as Rupert’s red converses whipped around a corner.
“Quick! The Scabbers Decoy!” the one named Marie whispered. The girls sidled down the hallway, yelling out random phrases as they inched toward the corridor he’d vanished into:
“Where’d he go?”
“Did he even come in here?”
“Maybe we should go back outside.”
They mimicked the noise of receding footsteps and waited. After a long and suspenseful pause, they heard the tentative jingle of dorm keys. Megan gave everyone a thumbs-up as the one named Snoopy peeped around the corner. There was the soft snick! of a door closing surreptitiously, and she turned back to her friends with a triumphant glint in her eyes.
“Room 404,” she mouthed.
Tessa made frantic hand gestures: how many doors down?
Snoopy checked, and then held up six fingers.
“All right, girls. Easy does it,” Marie whispered as they crept back outside. Rounding the corner, they tilted our faces up to the windows and counted: one, two, three, four…
The blinds moved on the sixth window and the girls hastily flattened their naked bodies against the wall as Rupert peeked through the glass. He seemed satisfied enough – those crazy bitches were nowhere in sight – and they even heard the faint music of a cheerful whistle as he turned away.
“The Harry Potter overture,” Kayla moaned. “That’s just so CUTE!”
They reassembled, staring up at his shadowy silhouette on the blinds. He seemed to pick up a remote of some kind – or maybe a cell phone – and walked away.
“Steady,” Megan breathed. “Get into position….”
They grabbed Tessa around the ankles and waist (“Ouch! Fuck! Be careful!") and lifted her to the height of the windowsill. A shadow flickered on the glass; he was coming back over, somewhat more cautiously. Perhaps he was drawn by the muted cursing.
“This is it,” Marie hissed, and after a swift and silent countdown they heaved their friend towards the dormitory window. She went through with the force of an arrow, though perhaps not with the streamlined grace of one. There was a terrible sound of shattering glass and a high-pitched howl of impact, and everyone scrambled after her, trying gingerly not to cut themselves on the jagged glass.
The next few minutes constituted an explosion of noise, flailing punches, screams of terror, and a lot of destroyed furniture. The smoke eventually cleared to reveal this scene:
Tessa, straddling Rupert (and, in doing so, effectively pinning his arms), had two of her fingers jammed up one of his nostrils as she hollered, “It is red! I can prove it!” She yanked: there was another earth-shattering wail of horror.
Kayla, meanwhile, was working on his buttons: “If I undo these with my teeth, can I keep them? Like, as trophies, or something?”
“No- gerroff-” Rupert wriggled fiercely, trying to escape the throng of insane naked girls. His eyes shot skyward with the introduction of a new sensation: something crawling over his skull. The one called Megan had her hands buried to the wrists in the luscious red curls, and she gave the terrified actor a wide, upside-down smile.
“Hey, so you bought an ice cream truck, huh? Is that a pretty sweet ride?”
“You guyyyyys,” Marie whined. “You’re totally crowding him.”
“Yeah- you’re totally crowding me,” Rupert gasped, thrashing madly.
“His hair is so soft.”
“Oh my God, he’s wearing Valentine boxers!”
“I think that might even be Egyptian cotton.”
Rupert was panicking. It was obvious he wasn’t getting out of there any time soon if immediate action wasn’t taken. Summoning some sheer superhero force from the depths of his soul, he lunged to his feet – Tessa was thrown as if from a bucking bronco - and skidded away from the multiple grasping hands. The bathroom was closest: he dove into it and barricaded the door by ripping the entire shelf-mirror away from the wall and jamming it under the doorknob. Then he flipped his cell phone open and dialed 911.
“Hello? Hello? I’m being held hostage by crazy girls. What? No, I’m not inebriated. I haven’t been drinking – What? Whaddya mean, this is an emergency number? Goddamnit, there are crazy Americans breaking down my bathroom door, if that isn’t an emergency I don’t know what – Hello? Hello?”
The terrible thing about being an actor, he reflected grimly as he snapped his phone shut, was that no one ever believes this crazy shit actually happens to me.
As the wood of the door began to splinter and buckle, he sat down on the toilet and put his head in his hands.
He was doomed.
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