Me: You really want to write.
Me2: Excuse me, you want me to stick *pins* in my *eyeballs*?
Me: No. *Write*, you lazy ass.
Me2: But I can't write while I'm lying on the couch. The computer is in the other room.
Me: Duh.
Me2: You mean I'd have to get up?
Me: You really are a masterpiece of lint and inertia.
Me2: But "Scream" is on. I've only seen it 41 times. 42 is the magic number. It's the meaning of life.
Me: I'm crushing your head! Crushcrushcrush!
Me2: This couch is comfy. If I lift my hand in front of my face, it's like my hand is Skeet Ulrich's head and my fingers are talking lips.
Me: ...
Spike: I'm sitting here in a bloody holding pattern, you stupid bint. Three more scenes, tops--is a little closure too much to ask?
Spike2: I'm still a whore and even though I've found true love in the well-muscled arms of a rich and manly Scotsman, I really think I should be with Xander. Why don't you lie down and ponder that for a while, hmm? I realize I'm speaking in a strangely out-of-character voice but I think my argument is convincing.
Me2: I am feeling...sleeeeepy.
Me: Laziest. Bitch. Ever.
Me2: Hey, I could go write this in my LiveJournal and kill ten minutes!
Me: *explodes, shattering bone fragements and brain matter across the walls*
The end.
