Losing My Religion

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Author's Note: Sorry I haven't updated in close to a month. I've had awful writer's block and when I was at my dad's at Vail I realized I couldn't upload from his computer if I had wanted to. I just got home from an Avs game and wanted to do some History before I went to bed exhausted, but decided I needed to write. Just for the sake of writing. This will be short, sorry, yet I need to post something to get me back in routine.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Tis a shame eh? And once again this story is dedicated to "CP's" or as they refer to themselves as "Hoods in the Woods" and the "KP Kayak Pride". Brand New owns the song and chapter title.

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Chapter Two: Failure By Design

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Watch you, on the one's and two's.
Through a window in a well lit room.
Become a recluse.
And I blame myself cause I make things hard and your just trying to help.
And when I wake up, your the first to call.
This is one more late night basement song.
And I'm so sore, my voice has gone to hell, and this is one more sleepless
night,

Because we don't believe in filler baby.
If I could I'd sit this out.

(This is over when I say it's over.)
This is a lesson in procrastination.
I kill myself because I'm so frustrated.
And every single second that I put it off, means another lonely night I got
to race the clock.
(I ignore it and it ignores me too.)
What say we go and crash your car?
And every time I leave you go and lock the door.
So I walk myself picking at a chip on my shoulder, I'm another day late and
one year older.
it's failure by design.

And we just want sleep, but this night is hell.
I'm sick and sunk and I blame myself because I make things hard and your
just trying to help.
I got no gas,I'm winding out my gears.
This is one more day on the verge of tears.
And now my head hurts and my health is a joke.
And now I got to stop cause the headphones broke.

And we don't believe in filler.
Baby, if I could I'd sit this out.
(This is over, when I say it's over.)
This is a lesson in procrastination.
I kill myself because I'm so frustrated.
And every single second that I put it off, means another lonely night I
gotta race the clock.
(I ignore it and it ignores me too)
What say we go and crash your car?
And every time I leave you go and lock the door.
And I walk myself picking at a chip on my shoulder.
I'm another day late and one year older, it's failure by design.

I'm out of everything.
No one sleeps until we get this shit out on the shelves.
It's late, I'm faltering.

Failure by Design Brand New

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Charlie gazed incoherently at the interwoven colours of his bedding, unable to focus on anything. His blood pulsated through his temples, sending a rage of fog through his brain, his thoughts murky. His body was fatigued without having moved, his throat knotted in frustration, eyes burning with reality. The only real feeling he could salvage from the wreckage of his musings was anger. The type of rage that was irrational was directed towards anyone and anything, unable to be eloquently justified. The kind that would send you on an emotionally charged fit of hysteria and destruction if it hadn't already drained you of emotional and physical energy.

He couldn't bring himself to cry, he saw no reason to. If anything it was a dull sense of denial that had wounded him. Stabbed him in a critical area he was too blind to acknowledge. Oh how that wonderful cliché, 'You don't know what you're missing until its gone' fit so well. Too well. Enough to give him the idea of beating whoever had first placed it into common English idiomatic use into a bloody pulp. Yet it was only an idea, for he knew if he attempted to stand up, his muscles, weakened by thought, would collapse.

The situation didn't make sense to him.

Why would she even contemplate the accusation?

What had he ever done to deserve this kind of rebuttal?

Did she ever even ponder the consequences of her actions, how it would come to affect those who had become the next closest thing to family?

Obviously not.

Which then logically led him to the conclusion that females were nothing more than raging hormones combined with backstabbing foul intentions. To play it out simply, whores, sluts, skanks. Untrusting bitches. Estrogen was a tainted substance, not to be toyed with nor touched. It was acidic poisoning on trusting souls.

One may first pass judgment on his rationalizations as unjust and charged only by anger and mal tended emotion. He cared to differ with them, threatening anyone ravishly with a hockey stick that came within a ten-foot radius to speak to him. Irrational? Him? Of course not.

He was the only sensible one left in society. The only one capable of distinguishing fact from lies, tossing aside preconceived notions of innocence based on tangible aspects of a person. The only one who was able define the meaning of justice and hope for it to be played.

And seemingly the only one there who believed in the truth. The only one who refused to turn his back and point fingers for the hell of it. The one who wouldn't sink down into a murky level of wishy-washiness when a controversy sprung. The only one who was stand tall in support of true goodness, and refuse to watch a man who had done nothing other than care, take a fatal fall alone.

Yet it was so hard to stand for someone who you couldn't contact because of the law. The law that protected liars and cheats from all that was first class.

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