First attempt and Blues Brothers writing, unfortunately.

It's a really important movie to me. It's the last thing I have that was my sister's, the first movie I saw with her, also one of the last movies before she left.
I have to write angst, too.

Anyways, the characters are Dan Akroyd's, I believe.
In any case, here we go.

This is from Elwood's point of view

I don't know where to begin, nor will I take a long time to figure it out.

I didn't have a really pampered earlylife, that's for sure. Beaten by the penguin, housed by Curtis, taught that the blues was an expression, all in the basement and behind boxes. Praying that she'd forget where the meter stick was, praying thatI wouldn't have to go up to her office,as that meant I would have to see Jesus hanging on his cross, eyes staring bleakly at me as if to say, "Oh, fuck, boy, you're gonna get it now!"

I was a bit..troubled, to say the least. I wasn't the picture of sanity or perfect mental health; starting a band already means you're about half-crazy. It didn't mean much when I drove despite probation, evaded the cops by destroying a fucking mall, nearly got my brains blown out by a crazy bitch. And Illinois Nazis (I hate Illinois Nazis, as Jake perfectly said). It landed me here, in jail, where I have nothing better to do with the time inbetween fucking awful food and playing some impersonation of an Elvis or Johnny Cash song or whatever else the fucking people demanded to hear.

I danced and jived and pretended I was enjoying myself. I wasn't anymore.

Prison suits, bland walls, rioting people.

That's what the Blues Brothers had come to. After a fucking great ride, I was half-thinking we'd make it, pull off some great escape. Maybe even salvage the Blues Mobile, the one that needed th cigarette lighter so that Jake could blow his lungs out.

Ha.

I don't even know why I bother to do this anymore. This music and dancing thing. The band's cool and the guys are awesome and shit, but..I don't know. I'm a man of few words, usually, but I feel obligated to..
Fuck that.

My life sucks, and that's that.

I'm going to rot in jail with my brother and my band, one of the countless jails I've been to, just whittling away the precious years of my life before I'm old and gray annd have prostate problems.
Maybe I should really become a fucking priest when I get out of here. Like I told my boss. Become a fucking priest and preach bullshit about haven and hell and how to get to them. Maybe I shoud just throw on a black robe and a white collar and try to convert people. It wouldn't be too much of a change from my usual attire. Minus the hat and the tie and the fucking sunglasses that I always seem to wear. It keeps the light out. Light exposes everything, and the last thing I need exposed is my feelings. If I even hinted at becoming sick of the goddamned routine, Jake would go off on a tangent about how it's always been like that, always will be or something like that. Or remind me that Curtis would be ashamed or some fucked up shit like that.

Lying in a prison cot, it's all I can think about.
Jake's below me right now, babbling on about out next prison show. I'm pretending to listen, making a half-hearted laugh or something like that here or there. Maybe even a nod, even if he can't see it. I feel like I have to, the man of few words. Just smile and nod and dance and sing and pretend like I don't die a little inside every time they struck up a tune.

It was Jake's idea to get us back together.

Maybe it's my turn to break us up again.

That's how it should've been.
We should've stolen the money, given it to the tax guy, and left it at that.

Goddamn nuns.

Goddamn missions.

And God damn the United States of America.

I know it's mostly ramble and natter, but, eh.
Read and review, if you choose.