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WHY MUST JEREMY JORDAN BE SO GODDAMNED ADORABLE

embedded_item1422737431927 by very-fangirl
I AM BACK
FINALLY
DOES ANYONE WANT TO ROLEPLAY?!
IF YOU WANT, COMMENT BELOW!
WHEEEEEEE
You've read the story of Jesse James
of how he lived and died.
If you're still in need;
of something to read,
here's the story of Bonnie and Clyde.

Now Bonnie and Clyde are the Barrow gang
I'm sure you all have read.
how they rob and steal;
and those who squeal,
are usually found dying or dead.

There's lots of untruths to these write-ups;
they're not as ruthless as that.
their nature is raw;
they hate all the law,
the stool pigeons, spotters and rats.

They call them cold-blooded killers
they say they are heartless and mean.
But I say this with pride
that I once knew Clyde,
when he was honest and upright and clean.

But the law fooled around;
kept taking him down,
and locking him up in a cell.
Till he said to me;
"I'll never be free,
so I'll meet a few of them in hell"

The road was so dimly lighted
there were no highway signs to guide.
But they made up their minds;
if all roads were blind,
they wouldn't give up till they died.

The road gets dimmer and dimmer
sometimes you can hardly see.
But it's fight man to man
and do all you can,
for they know they can never be free.

From heart-break some people have suffered
from weariness some people have died.
But take it all in all;
our troubles are small,
till we get like Bonnie and Clyde.

If a policeman is killed in Dallas
and they have no clue or guide.
If they can't find a fiend,
they just wipe their slate clean
and hang it on Bonnie and Clyde.

There's two crimes committed in America
not accredited to the Barrow mob.
They had no hand;
in the kidnap demand,
nor the Kansas City Depot job.

A newsboy once said to his buddy;
"I wish old Clyde would get jumped.
In these awful hard times;
we'd make a few dimes,
if five or six cops would get bumped"

The police haven't got the report yet
but Clyde called me up today.
He said,"Don't start any fights;
we aren't working nights,
we're joining the NRA."

From Irving to West Dallas viaduct
is known as the Great Divide.
Where the women are kin;
and the men are men,
and they won't "stool" on Bonnie and Clyde.

If they try to act like citizens
and rent them a nice little flat.
About the third night;
they're invited to fight,
by a sub-gun's rat-tat-tat.

They don't think they're too smart or desperate
they know that the law always wins.
They've been shot at before;
but they do not ignore,
that death is the wages of sin.

Some day they'll go down together
they'll bury them side by side.
To few it'll be grief,
to the law a relief
but it's death for Bonnie and Clyde.
The Trail End
By Bonnie Parker
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Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: strong language)
(Three weeks later.)
   The timbre explosions of slamming lockers barely penetrated past the
membrane of Veronica's thoughts.  She walked slowly through the crowded
hallways of Westerburg High School, her mind in some distant, faraway place.
She felt as if her life had entered the twilight zone.  The unspoken truth
about J.D., Heather, Kurt, and Ram lay floating on the turbulent seas of her
conscience.  Now that J.D. was gone, the cross was all hers to bear.
Every now and then Veronica could hear Heather Chandler's cold voice spiraling
somewhere in the cacophony of cafeteria noise.  Sometimes, out of the corner
of her eye she would see the tail of J.D.'s long, black coat disappear around
some corner.
   "It's like the school's haunted or something," someone said.
   Veronica jumped at the words and looked around quickly.  Heather McNamara
walked up to her wearing a red and black cheerleading outfit.  Veronica stared
at her, her pale face shot through with horror.
   "What do you mean?" she asked, feeling her heart flutter with guilt for
the umpteenth time this month.
   Heather pulled her frail fingers through her thick fall of long, curly,
blond hair.  She shrugged, "I don't know, the school just feels weird.  So many
people have died this month, it's like everyone's walking around in a twilight
zone episode or something-especially you Veronica."
   Veronica winced and looked down at the shiny, dark floor.  Her distorted
reflection stared back  
   "Losing J.D. has really taken its toll on you," Heather continued, basking
in the bliss of ignorance.
   "Yeah," Veronica whispered, barely able to supply sound to the word.  She
felt her whole body churn with uneasiness.  A locker door slammed next to her,
and she jumped with the noise.
   "It's been rough.”
   A derisive, female voice wafted its way across the emptying hall and
Veronica looked up.  Heather Duke, all dressed in red and surrounded by her new
entourage, stood grinning like the Cheshire Cat in Veronica's direction.  
Veronica frowned, and Heather McNamara cringed like a guilty child.
"I gotta go, Veronica," she said sheepishly.
After all the hell Heather put Heather through, she still groveled her way
back into the coolest, albeit revised, clique in school.  The beaming grin
on Heather Duke's face never failed to declare her victory over Heather
and over all the other gullible minds of the student body.  Veronica
watched angrily as Heather went over to Heather.  She half expected to see
Heather Duke strap a leash and collar around Heather McNamara's neck.
"Oh, hello Veronica," Heather Duke called disdainfully from across the
way.  Her greeting was followed by a chorus of bitchy snickering, and Veronica
felt her annoyance flare.  While Heather McNamara crawled back to Heather on her
hands and knees, Veronica had remained determined to stay as far away from her
as possible; hence, lessening her status in the school hierarchy and making her
the perfect food for ridicule.  Despite everything that had happened, Veronica
found herself thinking that if J.D. were still alive, Heather Duke wouldn't be.  
She probably would have committed "suicide" weeks ago.  
Veronica watched the group saunter off towards the cafeteria, and
considered telling J.D. that he could blow the school up after all.  She
snickered nervously at the thought.

* * *

   Heather Duke had taken up almost all of Heather Chandler's old habits.  
Veronica sat down at a table in the cafeteria and watched as Heather had one of
her lackeys forge some sort of note to give to a poor, unsuspecting soul as a
cruel and nasty joke.  Way back when Heather Chandler was Queen, the prime
victim of such torment was Martha Dunstock, a quiet, 220 pound junior whom
everyone had dubbed "Martha Dumptruck" because of her excessive weight.
   For her reign, Heather Duke had chosen the lowly Stuart Salinger, an
outcast freshman who was shaped like a scarecrow, and who looked like he had
stepped right out of some "Revenge of the Nerds" movie.  The funny part was
that not even the nerds of the school liked Stuart; nobody did.  Sometime in
mid-December he came to Westerburg a scrawny, middle-class geek, and was
trampled underfoot by everyone, the Heathers above all.
   Veronica rested her head on her hand in mild boredom and watched through
her dark sunglasses as Heather McNamara ran to slip the phony note on to
Stuart's lunch tray.  Veronica yawned.  This had all been done before; the
whole day-to-day scenario of high school played like a broken record.  She
had saved the school from certain death only a few weeks earlier; but it was
like nothing had ever happened.  Sometimes she found herself wishing for another
rebel to come along in a long, black coat, riding a Harley Davidson and smoking
like a chimney.  J.D. was a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon of nature.  The Devil
sent him to take out the trash, and Veronica had chased him away before he even
had a chance to break out the vacuum cleaner.  Now she sat in his old seat, in
the back corner of high-society cafeteria life, wishing she at least had a dust
buster.
   Stuart slumped down at his lonely table with his carton of milk and tray
of slop and tater tots.  His limbs seemed to collapse inward from lack of
nutrition or something, and he slouched as if he were taking cover from unseen,
flying objects.
   Veronica cast her gaze at Heather and her lackeys, who watched with
gleaming eyes as Stuart unfolded the mysterious note.  His brown eyes widened
beneath his round-rimmed glasses and he nearly choked on his tater tot.
And then suddenly, his gaze crashed with the lenses of Veronica's black
sunglasses.  
   "Shit," Veronica muttered, hearing Heather laughing in the background.
   Stuart looked from the note to Veronica and then back again.
   "Goddamnit," she cursed as he feebly got up from his table and started
towards her.  She held her head, and gave some thought to bolting for the door.
Heather was almost drooling at the pure perfection of it all.  Undoubtedly she
had conjured up some sexually perverse fable about how Veronica was hot for
Stuart's muscle-denied body.
   "Hhhh-hi Veronica," he stammered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of
his beak-like nose.
   "Hi Stuart," she said, her voice a monotone, expectant, extension of her
bored thoughts.
   Stuart handed her the note, which she took shamelessly to glance over.  
Heather had no creativity.
   "I didn't write this," Veronica stated, combing her fingers through her
dark hair, ignoring the death of hope in Stuart's face.  His pale-sickly cheeks
flushed with embarrassment, and his eyes glazed over with horror.
   "Heather Duke wrote it," Veronica said plainly, not wanting to give
Heather the satisfaction she craved.  Poor Stuart had that old, familiar look of:
"I-just-totally-humiliated-myself-and-am-now-the-laughing-stock-of-the-whole-
school."
   "Oh," was all he could say.
   Veronica handed him back the note, and he hesitated briefly before
slinking back to his table.  On the way there he became aware of Heather's
laughter, and his shoulders slumped even further inward until they disappeared
into the sides of his bony torso.
   Veronica took a deep breath and lowered her sunglasses so she could glare
at Heather, whose green eyes sparked back at her.  Veronica scowled.  She
glanced at Stuart again, who seemed inches away from hiding under the table, and
then she glanced at some of the other familiar faces.  Keith and Courtney, a
pair of country-club snobs, gave her sly, knowing looks as though they were all
set to start circulating the rumors.  Veronica's frown deepened, maybe she
wasn't a Heather anymore; but she wasn't going to serve as the brunt of the
jokes either.
   "Oh that was hilarious, Heather," Veronica said, approaching the creature
in red who had once been her friend.
   Heather flashed her a charming grin, "A total laugh riot," she replied.
   "Was the joke on Stuart or on me?" Veronica asked knowingly.  She hated
the way Heather and her clique all seemed to share the same line of telepathic
communication.  They snickered in unison.
   "What's your damage, Veronica?" Heather Duke retorted, hugging her disdain
to her like a member of the football team.  "You should be used to the company
of losers, everyone knows you associate yourself with the scum of the school."
   The clique found this funny.  Even Heather McNamara laughed; it was either
play along, or be ousted and ridiculed.  Veronica felt her anger flare.  She
gritted her teeth and tried not to let it show that Heather could get to her.
   "Face it, Veronica," Heather continued, "You totally fell off your
pedestal when Heather died.  You started hanging around with Martha Dumptruck,
for godsakes.  You're not cool anymore, you're a tragedy."
   More laughing.  Veronica swallowed hard and tried to control her rage.  
She wanted to kill, and she chided herself for admitting it.
   "And what makes you cool, Heather?"  She snapped, "Is it your winning
personality?  Or the fact that you're just a cheap imitation of Heather
Chandler?"
   The smile fell off of Heather's alabaster face.  Veronica watched semi-
delighted as Heather's cheeks flushed with fury.
   "Veronica, can you only defend yourself by taking blows below the belt?  
How sorry is that?"
   "The only thing sorry here, Heather, is you," Veronica snarled.
   For a moment Heather looked genuinely enraged, and then her expression
changed totally, and she laughed.
   "God, Veronica, how lame you've become!  At least when J.D. was alive
there was still hope for you."
   The very mention of J.D.'s name sparked an inferno of anger.  She could
feel the hate for Heather churning inside of her fiery body, turning itself,
over and over like a pig on a skewer.
   "And what do you mean by that, Heather?" Veronica growled, no longer able
to suppress the flames from moving into her face.
   "Did I hit a nerve, Veronica?" Heather bantered, "J.D. was too cool for
you, you couldn't handle him; everyone knows that.  It's a pity you drove him to
his suicide."
   Veronica felt her head start to spin violently as she realized that this
was the popular opinion of the school.  No one here knew what J.D. had really
planned to do; they all thought the extravagance of his suicide was just part of
his rebellious nature, that deep down he was just lovesick, and she was at
fault.
   "I drove him to suicide?!?" Veronica hissed, feeling a dull ache throb its
way into her head.  She knew her mouth had dropped open, but she was so goddamn
angry she couldn't even feel her body.  There was actually a red tint to
everything she saw, as if some cheesy B-movie director were orchestrating her
life at the moment.  Heather looked so triumphant, and all Veronica could think
of was killing her.  A vision of Heather Chandler lying in her satin coffin
flashed across Veronica's eyes, and then she heard him.
   At first it was just a whisper, like a memory echoing off the walls from
weeks before, and then his voice was against her ear, feathered and sarcastic,
as if he had never blown himself up to begin with:
   "Wish you had that gun right about now, don't you darling?" he said.
   Veronica's spinning, red, world came to a crash landing at the sound of
his voice.  His VOICE!!  His raspy, wicked, maniacal voice!  Where the hell did
it come from?!  
'Get a grip girl,' Veronica thought, glancing around, and then
pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers.  She was getting too
excited, some chemical imbalance must have been kicking in.
   Heather was still beaming.  "The truth hurts, doesn't it, Veronica?" she
said, "Poor J.D., what a waste."
   "Oh the humanity," sneered one of the others.
   But Veronica had gone deaf to Heather's remarks; reality had just gotten
terribly weird.  She kept thinking to herself: 'calm down, you're hearing
things.'
   And then he spoke again, as if he were right next to her:
"Don't kid yourself, dearest, your hearing is perfectly fine."
   Veronica gasped sharply; she tore off her sunglasses and scanned the room
in a near panic.  It occurred to her that someone was doing an impression of
J.D. just to torment her.  But no one looked like the guilty party.  Dread and
horror ignited inside of Veronica's body.  She was losing her mind in the middle
of the caf!
   On the opposite side of her his voice came again: "Don't you think this
school is in need of another suicide?  It's been three weeks!"
   Veronica whirled around, and saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Heather
Duke grimaced as if Veronica were a mental patient who had been let out by
mistake.  Veronica was beginning to wonder if that was the case.  Either that,
or she had just fallen into the twilight zone.
   "Veronica!" Heather snapped, annoyed at being ignored.
   Veronica came back to reality long enough to see the irritated expression
chiseled into Heather's white flesh.  And then her gaze drifted beyond Heather,
and settled over a figure in black leaning against the "feed the world" table.  
It seemed as if Veronica had to manually focus her vision before it came in
clear enough to see every detail right down to the eyebrows.
   J.D. grinned, and gave a casual wave.
   Veronica's breath slipped out of her lungs and failed to return.  Her eyes
grew bowling-ball huge, at the sight of the apparition before her.
   "Greetings and salutations," he sneered, raising his wicked eyebrows.
   "God, Veronica, what's wrong with you?!" Heather demanded, as Veronica
watched J.D. nonchalantly light a cigarette.  Peter, who was preaching to no one
in particular about giving away their extra tater tots, coughed when he inhaled
J.D.'s smoke; but as far as seeing J.D. directly in front of him-Peter seemed
clueless.
   Heather frowned even deeper, "You look like you've just seen a ghost or
something."
   J.D. laughed at the irony and drew in a lungful of smoke.
 "You gotta love her!" he remarked in delight.
   Veronica felt her head grow light as the rest of her body sunk into a
nauseous, sickening stupor.  She couldn't tear her eyes away from where J.D. was
slouching.  He should have disappeared or something, the way the ghosts of a
guilty conscience were supposed to do.  But he didn't.  Instead he flicked his
ashes in Peter's direction, and smirked all-knowingly.  Heather followed
Veronica's gaze to see what she was gawking at, but J.D. shook his head.
   "She can't see me Veronica," he purred, "I'm here for your eyes only."
   "Get a grip girl," Heather growled, echoing Veronica's thoughts, "What
little reputation you have left is plummeting rapidly."
   Veronica managed to pull her eyes off of J.D. long enough to see Heather's
disgust, and feel her own utter horror welling up in her throat.
   "Oh my god," Veronica choked from somewhere deep in her gut.  She had to
get out of the room before she collapsed and died of shock on the floor.
   This wasn't happening.
   She whipped around and forced her legs into motion, vaguely hearing
Heather's bitch-queen protests as she tumbled out of the caf and into the hall.  
Veronica's head was doing somersaults on her shoulders as she scampered down the
empty hallways of Westerburg.  The main entrance was too far away, so Veronica
hoisted herself up the stairs and burst into the girl's room.  Luckily, it too,
was empty.
   She practically fell into the sink, splashing her beet-red face with cold
water.  The sudden, icy temperature against her feverish flesh made her insides
churn, and, feeling violently ill, she stumbled into the stall to retch up the
emptiness in her stomach.  Her whole life seemed to flash before her eyes as she
hugged the john.  And then logic began to creep its way into her head,
threatening to rationalize everything she had just seen in the caf.
   Veronica tried to collect herself.  She had just gone mental in front of
her worst enemies, and had probably ruined her reputation more in that moment
than Heather could have done in a week!
   "Oh God," she muttered, both horrified and stupefied by her own behavior.  
She could have sworn she heard Heather Chandler's voice like a distant ringing
in the outside hall:
   "Transfer to Washington, transfer to Jefferson, no one at Westerburg's
gonna let you play their reindeer games."
   It took Veronica some time to catch her breath before she managed to pick
herself off the less-than-spotless bathroom floor.  She felt trembly and dizzy,
and decided right then to cut out of school early and go back to bed.  Her blue
stockings had been smudged with some form of girls' room grime, and there was a
fresh run disappearing up into the shadows of her new skirt.  Definitely time to
go home.
   "Shit," she groaned, stepping wearily out of the stall and over to the
sink.  Her face still felt like fire had been set to it.  She turned on the
water and started to wash the sickness away when she heard the bathroom door
open.  With her luck at the moment it was probably Heather and her lackeys come
to watch the rest of the show.  
   The pungent aroma of cigarette smoke coiled around her as she bent to cup
the cool water to her lips.  It tasted like rust.
   "That was a true Kodak moment, Veronica!" he barked, "Pity I didn't have a
camera!"
   His voice was as raspy and dramatic as ever.  Veronica's heart thudded
against her rib cage, but she didn't lift her head.  Instead she stared at the
water as it spiraled down the drain, and wondered if that was her life going
with it.
   "You're not really here," she said uneasily, dreading to hear an answer
of any kind.
   J.D. snickered.  "Quite the contrary darling, I am very much here."
   "You're dead," Veronica insisted, the strength in her voice pushing into
the lipstick-smudged porcelain of the sink.
   "Of course!" J.D. sneered, "That's the beauty of it!"
   Veronica looked up and stared into the mirror her face now a sickly,
horrified white.  J.D.'s reflection appeared behind her own.  He looked the
same-well, almost.  His handsome, chiseled face was the color of alabaster, his
narrow eyes as deep black as pure, polished obsidian, and together, his features
looked just a tad more supernatural than they should have, had he been alive.
But everything else was the same, long, black coat and all.  He took a long drag
on the cigarette and the end glowed orange.
   "You're a figment of my imagination!" Veronica cried, whirling around to
face him.  "You blew yourself up!  You killed yourself!  You're dead!  D-E-A-D,
dead!"
   J.D.'s linear lips curled into a wry smirk.  "Well, it's a comfort to know
you can still spell at a time like this; however darling--" he paused, stared
at Veronica with the slits that served for his eyes, and exhaled smoke into her
face.  She coughed and turned away.
   "How can you be so sure?" he finished, meeting her incensed gaze
steadily.
   "You are NOT here!!!" she screamed, thrashing at him with her fists,
trying to chase his ghost, or his memory, or whatever the hell he was away.
   "Get the fuck away from me!  You are not here!!"
   J.D. let the smoking cigarette hang limply from his lips as he grabbed
Veronica's flailing arms.  She froze when he touched her; his grip was so icy,
so chilling.  For a moment she just stared, horrified, into his black eyes.
   "If I weren't here Veronica, could I do this?  Hmm?" J.D. asked,
tightening his grip on her wrists painfully.  Veronica gaped at him a moment
longer before she began struggling and pulling away, screaming over and over
again at the top of her lungs: "Let go of me!!"
   J.D. let her squirm awhile before he released her as an amused cat would
its prey.  Veronica stumbled back against the clammy, tiled wall; her breath
coming in hard, short gasps.  She glowered hard at J.D.-he raised his eyebrows.
   "What are you doing here?" she moaned, raking her hands back through her
shoulder-length hair.
   A small, unfamiliar voice answered her from behind J.D.: "Umm, I have to
go-to the bathroom?"
   J.D. snickered and moved aside so that Veronica could see the short, oval-
shaped freshmen that had just entered the room.  Her eyes were wide and stunned
behind her thick-lensed glasses, she looked completely befuddled.  Veronica's
mouth dropped open as she exchanged mortified looks with the girl.
   "Now who looks psychotic?" J.D. sneered, "She can't see me, Veronica,
you're the one ranting and raving like a lunatic all by yourself in a high
school bathroom!"  He laughed, "It's perfecto!"
   "You know what," the girl said, crinkling her nose, "I'll come back
later."
   She opened the door and slipped out quickly, undoubtedly fleeing for cover
to some nearby classroom.
   Veronica slid down the wall to sit on the cold floor.  She pressed her
hands to her throbbing temples.  "God!" she moaned, "I've gone completely
insane!"
   J.D. lit another cigarette with the end of his first one.  He threw the
butt down and sparks scattered outward as it hit the ground.  Veronica
watched listlessly as the cigarette bounced under the door of a stall and rolled
out of view.
   J.D. leaned over the sink to stare in the spotty mirror.  He had a
reflection.  He wasn't some mythological vampire or anything like that, and
unfortunately he probably couldn't be repelled with sunlight, or holy water, or
something easy.
   "I'm playing with a new look, Veronica," he said matter-of-factly.  "Tell
me what you think."
   Veronica glanced up, still holding her head.  Her pretty face twisted
upward, utterly perturbed.  The whole room was spinning and there was J.D., a
walking dead man, talking about a new look?  Oh the humanity.
   J.D. pulled his fingers, all ten of them, back through his choppy, black
hair, and as he did so, the hair lengthened until it fell past his shoulders.  
Veronica squinted in confusion.  It was all too weird.  J.D. turned to her,
long, black hair now framing his china-white face.  "Well?  Is it me?"
   "I didn't know fashion was an issue in Hell," she muttered.
   J.D. scoffed at her and puffed on his cigarette.
   "Why are you haunting me?" Veronica whimpered, "I mean, are you haunting
me?  Or have I lost my fucking mind?"
   J.D. brushed a couple of wisps to the left, and then to the right,
ignoring her.
   "Goddamnit J.D.!  Why are you here!?" Veronica shouted.
   "Because I can be," he answered, still studying his new hair.  "I like
it!" he declared, turning to her and grinning devilishly; "It'll go great with
the horns."

* * *

   "Dear Diary,
   "My ex-boyfriend has come back from Hell to make my life a living one.  
I don't know what to do.  I've made a complete ass out of myself in front of the
whole school, and now everyone thinks I'm a total nutcase.  J.D.'s everywhere I
go.  He won't leave me alone.  He's not just some grotesque product of my guilt-
ridden mind; yet at the same time, I'm the only one who sees him!  Is he a
ghost?  A demon?  Satan himself?  He won't tell me, he won't tell me one goddamn
thing!  This is all a big joke to him.  He sits next to me in class and
ridicules everything and everyone with that demonic wit he always had-and then I
burst out laughing-at nothing-in the middle of class.  The whole student body
agrees that I should be attending Cleavesburg Mental Institution instead of
Westerburg High.  I walk through the hallways, and people part like the Red Sea.
I've become the walking plague, and J.D. is reveling in it all.
   "He's sitting there now telling me how history class is so much more
interesting when you don't have to pay attention to it.  I'm not crazy.  You
have to believe me.  J.D. is haunting me from beyond the grave, I can't get rid
of him.  I killed the sonofabitch once-I can't do it again, he's already dead!
I ask him over and over again why he's here.  He says "The future's not ours to
see."  What future?!  Ours?  Or mine?  He shouldn't have a future anyway-he's
dead!
   "Heather is having a field day.  J.D. may have dug the grave for my less-
than-flawless reputation, but I put myself in it.  I try to ignore J.D.'s
harping presence, but he always shows up when I least want him to.  Stuart
Salinger walked up to me the other day.  He was wearing a long black trench coat
similar to J.D.'s, and he had gotten his ear pierced like J.D., although it had
gotten all infected and was covered in band-aids.
   "I wanted to crawl into a corner and die.  The whole school thinks I'm a
baskethead, and on top of that Stuart Salinger is trying to force-feed me his
scrawny, little heart!
   "J.D. was amused.  In fact, he was downright delighted that Stuart was
copying him to win my attention.  And then Stuart asked me to the prom.  I
wanted to scream.  I said: "Stuart, I'm not going to the prom."
   "Stuart looked upset-I wish he would just find someone else to bother,
someone who is not being tormented by her dead ex-boyfriend.  J.D., who was
present, as usual, clapped his hand over his heart in mock devastation.
"Oh, God, Veronica," he cried in that Jack Nicholson twang of his, "Can't you
see what you're doing to this little guy?!"  He gave me that wise-ass smirk and
pinched Stuart's gaunt cheeks like some overly affectionate grandmother.  
"You're chewing up his heart and spitting it back into his face!"  Stuart only
scratched at J.D.'s spectral touch as if it were a bug bite.  Of course he was
completely unaware that J.D. was even there to begin with, so when I screamed
"I'm not going to the prom," at J.D., Stuart thought I was screaming at him.  
And I wasn't!
   J.D. is making me a fucking lunatic!  I tried to tell Stuart I was sorry.  
His face was blood red with embarrassment.  He looked like he was going to hide
in his oversized coat as he attempted to explain to me why he had just asked me
out.  J.D., of course, stood behind him, making all of these mock-sympathetic
expressions that I couldn't help but snicker at, and once again Stuart got the
wrong impression.  I told him that I was sorry.  That I wasn't snickering at him
as he was telling me his sad life-story; but I think it was beyond saving at
that point.  That poor kid.  He should just steer clear of me; it would do his
self-esteem a great favor." -Veronica Sawyer
I AM BACK
FINALLY
DOES ANYONE WANT TO ROLEPLAY?!
IF YOU WANT, COMMENT BELOW!
WHEEEEEEE

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Bonnie Parker
Artist | Student | Literature
United States
Just a girl who dreams to be Veronica Sawyer and Bonnie Parker one day!
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:iconskylark9i:
Skylark9I Featured By Owner Sep 12, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thank you for watching! :) (Smile) 
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:iconspoopybuttperson:
Spoopybuttperson Featured By Owner Aug 31, 2014
its been a while my friend
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:iconvery-fangirl:
very-fangirl Featured By Owner Sep 3, 2014  Student Writer
Yes it has. Hello.
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:iconspoopybuttperson:
Spoopybuttperson Featured By Owner Sep 3, 2014
hi c:
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:iconvery-fangirl:
very-fangirl Featured By Owner Sep 4, 2014  Student Writer
hiiii
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