A/N: Yeah... sorry this is kinda late again. First few weeks of school... you guys know how that is. It's insane. And I've been dealing with even MORE than just the typical beginning of school stress. So here's my disclaimer: Hetalia's not mine. At all. Moving on. Enjoy the story, kay? I kinda took forever on it. More soon, I hope!
"AMERICA is helping you cook?!"
"But Lovinito, mi tomate, don't you want Boss Spain to help you cook? W-We used to cook pizzas together all the time b-before your accident…"
…and again, with the comparing the "now" me to the "before" me… ugh. How frustrating.
"What about Sissy Bella?! C-Come on, Roma, you know you love me… can't you just call him back and tell him he can't help because I am? Because I really need an excuse to avoid Spain, sweetie…"
Hm.
I don't like that Bella and Spain are at each other's throats.
And I don't really want to spend hours on end in a kitchen making pizza with Bella after hearing about her cheating on Spain with France.
That's just too much mental shit.
"H-He makes market-style pizzas, Lovi, won't that upset you? Por favor, you taught me how to make pizza just the way you like it, I can help! I'll do better than he will!"
Why does he sound so desperate…?
"You know how American food is, R-Roma, you should let me help! Belgian food is always high quality! D-Don't you want me to help you make the pizza, because America will ruin it!"
Well I want Bella to sort out her problem with Spain… and I want Spain to sort out his problem with Bella.
And Spain sounds awfully jealous right about now…
T-That's what the hamburger bastard was talking about, though, wasn't it?
Making Spain jealous so he'd want me even more.
…and it's not like I could stop America from coming at this point even if I'd tried.
And last night… that didn't go well.
Spain really didn't get it… and he keeps comparing me to the old me.
Maybe this'll show him I'm not the same me anymore.
Er… I am, but I'm not because I can't remember it…
Oh shut up, Goddammit, I give up, okay? I feel different.
I think.
I can't remember, so I wouldn't know.
DAMMIT!
Fine, let's make Spain jealous. I'm going all out with this America shit.
W-Well, not all the way, "all out," b-but you know what I mean, dammit.
"No," I said firmly.
"N-No? Lovi, you can't be serious…"
"What do you mean, no, Roma dear, haha, how funny, I'm laughing… what a good joke…"
"I-I said no, and I meant it, dammit. A-America is helping me cook tonight."
\(^.^)/ - Spain.
Spain got home with the groceries and sulked around the house after that. Bella just sulked around the house wherever Spain wasn't sulking. The Netherlands passed through the kitchen once, smoking. I arranged all my pizza ingredients and washed the counters, for lack of anything else to do, and because the tension in the house was driving me fucking insane.
America came over at exactly three in the afternoon.
With Feli.
In Feli's (hideous) yellow Fiat.
And he was driving it.
How he managed to convince my brother to let him drive… I will never know.
In fact… how he fit in the God-damned car I will never know.
America is a large personification… and that is one small-ass car, dammit.
But… the wine- and eyebrow-bastards were right behind them.
In another car.
A blue one, some kind of French model. And the abino bastard and Canada were there too.
I guess they were all staying in the same hotel, but America didn't want to be in the same car with England and France. Or there just wasn't enough room in England/France's car for all of them.
Which begs the question of why America thought it was such a fucking brilliant idea to stuff himself into a fucking Fiat with my brother.
Well, anyway.
A-As soon as America stepped out of (read: extracted himself from) the car, I seized him by the arm and pulled him into the house and the nearest room with locking doors so I could lecture him on the stupidity of this situation and what he was absolutely not allowed to do.
That happened to be a bathroom. (In fact, a very familiar bathroom with a bubble shower and secret passage somewhere in the wall to my left.)
Um… oops.
"Eager, aren't we?" America laughed loudly, as I closed the door behind us, and locked it.
"No, now shut up and listen," I snapped, pointing a finger threateningly at his nose. (Che palle, when did he get so tall?) "I decided I'll help you win back the eyebrow-bastard after all. I-I'm not doing this because I want to make Spain jealous, s-so don't you think for even a second that's why I'm going along with this. Because it's not. Because I don't care at all if I make Spain jealous! So you better not think that! D-Dammit!"
"Oh, no, I'd never," America grinned, patting me on the shoulder once. I pushed his hand off before continuing.
"I have some rules, dammit," I said, frowning up at him for no particular reason. "You don't touch me unless I touch you first. You DON'T touch anything below my waist, and you DON'T touch my hair curl. You will lose your dick if you do."
"Um, ouch, haha…" America laughed weakly, shifting his legs more closely together in the confined space of the bathroom, and rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. "Right. That all?"
"No." I growled. "I'll… I'll call you by your human name, and you call me by mine. Or a stupid nickname or something, I don't really fucking care as long as it's not 'Mano.'"
"Do I get to call you Lovi, then?" America asked, brightening up instantly. …dammit, his eyes were pretty when he was excited. "What's that short for? Lovinus? I know your nation name is Italy Romano, because Feli's is Italy Veneziano…"
"I'm Lovino Romano Vargas," I said, cutting him off mid-sentence. "Feli's is Feliciano Veneziano Vargas. You can call me Lovino, Roma, or Romano, but don't call me 'Mano' and don't call me Lovi."
T-That rule definitely isn't there because I don't want anyone but Spain to call me Lovi.
Noooooope.
Where did you get t-that impression?
Well you should send it back wherever it came from.
Or to hell.
Because…
T-That's absurd.
Completely, and utterly… and absurdly… insane.
Yup.
S-So… stop it.
"Alright, alright," America conceded, holding his hands up defensively as I jabbed my finger at him again. "Roma, then. And you can call me Alfred, Al, or Alfie, but please, just don't call me Freddie. England did that for a while until I told him how pissed it made me."
"Alfred is fine for me," I rolled my eyes at the list of nicknames the western nation was offering me. "Hell if I'm going to call you 'Alfie,'"
"Okay then! Let's do this!" Ameri-ALFRED beamed, but I saw something wavering in his smile, and a lack of excitement in his eyes. He adjusted his glasses nervously, and ruffled his hair into place like he wanted to make sure he still looked alright.
"What is it, burger bastard?" I growled, seizing his wrist to stop him from opening the door and barreling out into Spain's house somewhere. "You don't look so thrilled. If you're going to fuck this up because you're nervous, I swear…"
"It's nothing," he lied, blue eyes glancing quickly from the sink to the shower then the toilet and back, trying to focus on anything except me.
"It's not nothing. Tell me, dammit, or I kick you out of this fucking house right now."
He hesitated a moment, before sitting on the toilet lid and resting his chin in his hands. "I'm just nervous," he sighed, looking up at me through his glasses as he tapped a foot against the tiled floor. "I don't want to make Iggy mad at me. Just jealous. I want him to leave that French bastard and come back to me. The reason we broke up was just so stupid, anyway, I…"
"Why did you break up, anyway?" I asked, genuinely curious. "I remember you two having a weird kind of relationship even way back in the 1800s."
Amer-Alfred glanced both ways as though someone could actually hear us in the bathroom, before whispering conspiratorially, "It was because we couldn't agree on the argument over unicorns versus zombies."
I just looked at him, unblinking. He looked right back.
Well obviously unicorns are superior, because-
"Because zombies are superior, obviously…"
"You idiot." I deadpanned. "UNICORNS KICK ASS. And… wait, you broke up with him over an argument about fictional creatures?!"
"Well it's not just that!" he whined, sounding quite the immature brat. "He can't cook but I have to eat his food anyway because I'm supposed to be supportive and shit, and he has really weird kinks that usually take me a while to get used to, like that one time with this tentacle thing-"
"I SO DON'T WANT TO HEAR THIS! GESU CRISTO!" I shouted, pressing my hands to my ears to try to block it out.
(Too late; images of England, America, and a giant octopus were already invading my mind. Shit.)
"Yeah, it was so big and nasty and slimy, too…"
"Change of topic," I decided quickly. "Don't be nervous, idiota, everything will work out just fine. I know Spain, and I know how to make Spain jealous. And if I make Spain jealous, England will be jealous because he'll see that Spain thinks I'm being serious. And if I'm being serious, he'll know you're being serious."
…yeah, that made sense.
…making Spain jealous to make England jealous… Spain thinking… (Hah, good one.) America being serious… (Another good one. Damn, I'm on a roll…)
But it all made sense.
…
Wait, I made sense?!
Shit, let's throw a party.
Oh, wait. I already am.
One that almost every single guest invited them-fucking-selves to.
"…I didn't follow a word of that, but I trust you, Italy Romano! Oh, um, I mean, Roma! Let's go!" he said, and with no further warning, dragged me by the wrist to the door of the bathroom, then out it, and into the hallway.
My face was red because I was furious he was tugging me around the house I had grown up in, which made it, in essence, MY house, (and the fact that dammit, I actually did make sense, I mean, come on, he didn't follow that amazing shit?!) and my hair was ruffled from being pulled off the shower wall, which I'd been leaning against, and about six feet out into the hallway, before abruptly crashing into Alfred's back, and having all the air knocked out of my lungs.
…I probably looked like I'd just made out with him.
W-Well shit.
"Idiot, what-?" I demanded, but was cut off as Alfred spun us around, pinned (read: slammed) me to the wall, and brushed a strand of hair out of my eyes with one hand, and covered my mouth with the other.
"Shh, don't speak," he whispered suavely –what the fuck, AMERICA is capable of this level of sexiness?!– and leant in like he was about to kiss me.
W-Which was against my very specific rules, d-dammit.
Honestly, at that point, I was a little too startled to react.
So I stood there, and Alfred was trying to kiss me, and…
"A-Alfred?" England's shocked voice resounded down the hallway.
The bespectacled personification pulled away from me to look down the hallway in the direction the voice had come from, saw England, (presumably for the second time, if the act he'd just put on was anything to go by,) and proceeded to blush furiously.
"Oh, England. I didn't see you there, bro," he said simply. "Um, we were just going…"
"Y-Yeah," I stuttered, shoving Alfred down the hallway away from the seemingly shell-shocked island nation. (No American Revolution the second, and not in this fucking house, thanks much.) "Alfred was just going to the kitchen to help me with the pizzas. Y-You can make yourself at home! I just need a m-moment to compose myself."
And with that, I left Alfred to his own luck (hopefully England wouldn't kill him,) and closed myself in the bathroom again.
Because it just so happened to be the same bathroom I'd been in with America the last time he was over Spain's house… last night.
And it had a secret passage to the kitchen I could escape through.
But… after having seen England's reaction… second thoughts were creeping up on me.
Like Russia.
With a drain pipe extended and dangerous.
Creeeeeeeeeping.
Up on me.
What the fuck.
Why was that sketchy bastard even in my house yesterday anyway.
Okay, maybe it's not my house.
But still.
Dammit.
What am I even…?
Second thoughts.
Right.
Um, I think I made my point.
Creeping thoughts.
And then I went about trying to open that passage, because hell if I was going back out into that hallway to see if Alfred had left for the kitchen or not yet.
…
Three broken nails and a stubbed toe later, I figured out there was a tile with a funny circular design on it that opened the shit for me, and pressed it, and then got hit (Ow, ow, ow, pain, in pain, this hurts, Jesus Christ!) in the side of the neck (what the hell, the side of the neck? Are you kidding me…?) with the section of the wall that did open, because some dipshit put the button on the wrong side of the door.
And then I wondered why there was a button to open the door if Spain hadn't known about it when he renovated this closet into a bathroom extension… and then gave up and figured I didn't give a shit at that point anyway.
Then I got a face full of cobwebs, realized I needed to charge my fucking cell phone, and tripped over three different empty buckets because I couldn't see shit worth a damn.
\(^.^)/ - Spain.
After successfully (well, if you can call that a success…) making it out of the closet passage (read: CATACOMBS OF DOOM!), I made sure the panel was shut tightly behind me, and then slipped out of the kitchen closet, and into the kitchen, praying it was empty.
"Romano?"
…
Well, shit.
The powers that be/are/whatever the fuck you call them hate me, don't they?
"You just came out of the closet," the Netherlands' voice pointed out oh-so-fucking-helpfully.
"No shit," I deadpanned, turning slowly around to fix him with a glare I reserved just for him. (Stupid, cheap-ass, manipulative, money-hoarding bastard. I still haven't forgiven him for that fucking squirrel incident.)
"So is this like, your second coming out of the closet? 'Cause you did it before, only I bet now you don't remember that."
"It's really not a joke, Netherlands," I said evenly, while inwardly fuming. "I only walked out of a closet. I'm pretty fucking sure I'm gay."
"You're only pretty sure?" he prodded, tilting his head, and leaning back against the counter he was standing by. "That's kinda unfortunate. I'd hope you'd know what sexuality you were. I think I'm asexual or something. I just think the lot of you lack brains. Or common sense. Or both. Or I haven't been attracted to anyone yet."
"No, just little girls," I quipped.
"HEY! I…" Netherlands snapped, instantly going on the defensive.
"Boys, boys, boys," Bella's cheerful-sounding voice interrupted him, as she stepped into the kitchen, wearing a dark green cocktail dress (Trying to impress someone, much? I'll have to interrogate her on who she's dressed up for later…) and matching headband, with two white aprons in one hand, while the other was held up in a placating gesture. "Let's all get along. Daan, I actually want you to help me with something, and Roma will be cooking the pizzas with America in a moment, so you'll need to leave the kitchen."
"Fine," the Netherlands harrumphed, crossing his arms and frowning petulantly. "The bitch has to cook us all dinner anyway."
"You like insulting me far too much," I growled beneath my breath, and heard him snort as he passed me.
"Hell yes, I do," he muttered.
"Daan," Bella said warningly, glaring him out the kitchen door, and tossing the aprons at me. "Now… Roma, I want you to be careful, okay? America was brought up by England, after all, and we all know…"
"Feliciano was training him earlier," I interrupted her. "I'm sure he'll do fine. I won't let him burn the house down."
"Okay," she frowned dubiously. "But be careful about… Spain… too. He's not happy, Roma."
"Right," I agreed, trying not to show how elated I was at that news.
(FUCKING SUCCESS! ALREADY! HELL YES!)
…
(I-I mean… oh, Spain's getting jealous? What a shame. I hope it's not m-my fault…)
Insert innocent smile.
Smiiiiiiiiiiiiiiile.
Heheheh.
"…Of course."
She nodded once, before departing the kitchen, leaving me to roll up my sleeves and wash my hands so I could begin preparing the pizza dough.
I actually managed to do that in complete peace and quiet (because everyone knows that is a HUGE rarity in THIS house…) before someone attempted to burst my eardrums once again.
This time, it just so happened to be America.
"ROMA~!" He exclaimed (loudly) from the back entrance of the kitchen, and I had only a second's (loud) notice –he walks loudly, dammit– before he glomped me (loudly- yes it can be done, dammit) and knocked me into the corner between two of Spain's counters.
"Get off me, bastard!" I shouted, struggling to remove his large –holy fuck, and I ask again, when did he grow so much?– arms from my waist, where they currently resided, and held me so that my back pressed against his chest.
Where I actually felt surprisingly comfortable.
…
Wait, did I just…?
Yeah, I did.
Shit, he was built.
I know this whole jealousy thing is fake, but…
Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit, his abs.
Hngh.
I'm so gay.
"Haha, right, Roma, of course!" Alfred acquiesced, releasing me and letting me back away from him to brush off my apron for any lingering American germs.
…dammit.
I mean, uh…
Y-Yeah, bastard better let me go.
I was about to go all mafia on his ass.
(Shut up, dammit. Just shut up. Now.)
I threw the extra apron at his face, before promptly turning to the fridge, and taking out the half-empty bottle of wine I remembered from being there the night before.
I was really, really going to need it.
"So… are we gonna make a pizza, or are you gonna just chug that wine?" America asked dubiously. "'Cause I don't see anything wrong with wine, but if we're gonna have these pizzas anytime soon, we better get started…"
"Shut up, dammit. Go preheat the fucking oven. 232 degrees."
"Of course!" Alfred exclaimed, darting over to the oven, before pausing, and freezing where he was. He pulled his apron over his head –and got it caught on his Nantucket for a second, at which I cringed, thinking of my own curl, but it didn't seem to bother him– then fiddled with the strings, and continued to stare at the oven, completely at a loss. "Er…"
"Oh, give me that," I huffed, marching across the kitchen to his side and yanking the apron ties around his body to tie them in a neat bow at the small of his back.
"Th-Thanks," he muttered, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. "But um, the oven…"
"You don't know how to use a Celsius oven, do you?" I deadpanned.
He shook his head, and I sighed again.
"Go get the fucking dough ready. I'll do it."
"Haha, okay!"
A companionable silence descended over the kitchen as we worked, and I helped him make and stir the dough the right way.
(I was wrong, Feliciano hadn't been enough to stop his American-cooking tendencies. He still tried to take the half-assed way out whenever the fuck he could. He wanted to stir it in a mixer! A MIXER! As if I'd have a fucking mixer in this house!)
And… it all went really, really well for a while.
Surprisingly.
Actually… I was having a really good time.
Honestly.
His jokes were really stupid, but I still laughed (or at least snorted) at most of them, and he was amusing to watch. The way he focused on the dough, on making sure it was just right, it was like watching a little kid trying to color in the lines. It was endearing, for lack of a better word.
And once the first set of dough (one recipe makes two pizza crusts,) was sitting on the stovetop to rise, the horseplay began.
"Okay, okay, I'll admit, the Godfather was an intense set of movies. You win that," Alfred chuckled as he mixed the ingredients for our second batch of dough together in one of Spain's largest bowls. "But what do you think of my cowboy movies?"
"Psht, you think I've watched a cowboy movie, bastard?" I laughed, as I leant over his shoulder to pour the warmed water into the bowl, to make the yeast rise and create the proper doughy texture.
"How can you not have watched a cowboy movie?!" the other nation exclaimed, gesticulating with the spoon, flinging a bit of flour over his head as he did so. "Come on, they're like, everywhere! And they're so cool! How can you not see the appeal of the wild west!"
"The wild west for me is Spain, idiot," I informed him, wiping the flour from the floor where it had landed with a frown. "And I haven't watched a cowboy movie because they're all about your conceited country. Chigi, you think you're all that because you're all free and shit, supposedly, but hey, Italy is free, isn't it? Because I'm pretty fucking sure at this point almost every country in Europe is 'free,' dammit."
"But we were like, the first country to do that! Damn, now you're insulting my principles," Alfred sulked, kneading the dough with his hands while it was still in the bowl, to see if it was ready to be properly kneaded. "And seriously. Cowboy movies. This is going to happen! The hero will introduce you to the awesomeness of the great open west!"
"You sound like that albino bastard," I pointed out, as he began adding more flour to the dough, and I twirled my fingers around in the flour that had spilled out of the bowl and onto the counter.
A sudden urge to flick his face with the flour struck me, and with a tiny, devious smile, I took a handful of it and tossed it right at his face. Unfortunately, he sneezed into his arm at that exact moment, exposing the top of his head to my flour attack. It coated his hair (including the Nantucket) and made it appear to be a shade of white also similar to the albino bastard's. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of the image. "And now you look like him too!"
He looked around, startled, then felt at his hair, and took away a hand also coated in white powder. "Shit!" he cursed, shaking his head out, and only managing to dislodge his glasses from their place on his nose, and send up a tiny cloud of white dust. "Oh, now you're asking for it," he grinned, picking up a handful of flour for himself.
"Not in my kitchen you don't!" I squeal-I mean, shouted, in the manliest of manly fashions- ducking behind the round wooden table I'd been sitting with Bella at just earlier that day, in a weak attempt to create a barrier between me and that flour.
"It's not your kitchen, it's Spain's," Alfred said thoughtfully, and then lowered the hand with the flour. He sucked in a deep breath –I assumed, to shout for Spain, probably to ask permission to throw flour in his kitchen– and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, before letting all the air leak out of his chest with a pathetic little wheezing sound.
"What?" I asked him, as he looked, startled, over at the kitchen entrance.
My eyes followed his, and I found myself looking into the roiling green eyes of a particular Spanish nation, with his arms crossed, and stance threatening.
His voice, when he spoke, was low and gravelly, unlike the voice he always spoke in, the chipper, upbeat Spanish accent I was so familiar with.
He was furious, and it was audible. Well, and visible.
And… I could even feel it in a creepy, visible aura that was rolling off him in freaking waves. And I would be lying if I told you it wasn't scaring the absolute shit out of me.
"No, Estadounidense. You cannot throw flour in my kitchen."
"O-Oh, OK then…" America murmured nervously, and carefully replaced the flour on the counter.
"In fact, I think I'll just watch you two to make sure you don't throw flour in my kitchen. I hope that's alright with you both," Spain said dangerously.
That wasn't a question… he was telling us he would be watching us.
There would be no argument.
I knew Spain's pirate voice was scary… but I'd never had it used on me.
I felt like my stomach was a pool of boiling acid and Italian guilt in one big pot of nervous.
Nobody would be able to hear that voice and not want to die where they stood… except maybe England or Russia. Because they're both also scary bastards.
"U-Uh, R-Roma… D-Do y-you w-want t-to k-knead i-it?" Alfred asked, his hands shaking so badly as he held the bowl out to me, I could see the dough jiggling from one side to the other.
"S-Sure, lazy bastard…" I muttered, taking the bowl (and shaking LESS than him! Hah!) and dumping it onto the flour-covered counter to begin to knead it.
"SPAIN!" Prussia's voice rang down the hallway, and into the kitchen.
All three of us looked up, and watched as Prussia and Canada, with Canada's bear trailing behind them, made their way awkwardly into the kitchen through the narrow entrance leading from the hallway into the rest of the house. Prussia came in first, his hair mussed and an unpleasant frown on his face. Canada came in directly after him, blushing bright red, and fidgeting with his glasses like there was no tomorrow.
It looked like they were just holding hands, but on closer inspection, I realized they were actually handcuffed together. With a pair of fuzzy handcuffs with the red-yellow-red pattern of the Spanish flag. A furious blush covered my face –that wasn't OURS, was it?– and a flush of pleasure ran up the base of my spine, warning me of my own arousal before it could begin forming. I silently thanked everything that was good and tomato-flavored in the world for my current apron-wearing state.
"Birdie and I were looking around, and then I found these unawesome handcuffs, and for some reason, Kumajirou and Gilbird thought it would be a good idea to PUT THEM ON OUR WRISTS. I want them off. NOW! I don't want kinky shit you used on the brat on my wrist!"
"…oh," Spain said simply, blinking, astonished, at the Prussian and Canadian nations. "Why are you… opposed to having Canada attached to your wrist, exactly?"
…I was just about to wonder the same thing. Aren't they dating now?
"Because Birdie's being unawesome!" Prussia pouted, crossing his arms across his chest, and trapping Canada's hand awkwardly between them. "We're not exactly seeing eye-to-eye at the moment, and the awesome me can't tolerate this kind of suckishness while stuck to his arm!"
"I-I'm really sorry, Spain, this really isn't your problem, a-and I don't mean to get you involved, b-but we really can't get these off…" Canada mumbled, barely audible even though nobody else was speaking. "A-And Gilbert isn't pleased, a-as you can clearly s-see…"
I felt kinda bad for the poor guy… and then Spain choked on nothing in particular, and suddenly there was a warm hand on the back of my neck, turning it this way and that.
"ROMANO!"
It was a pretty decent hand, just so you know.
Not sweaty, but warm.
Not clammy either. You know, because some people have nasty-ass clammy hands.
It was calloused, and rough, but there was something comfortable about that.
And then I realized there was a FUCKING HAND gripping the back of my neck, and holy fuck, what was going on…?
"What happened to your neck?!" Spain exclaimed.
"SPAIN, I NEED THIS SHIT OFF. NOW. IT IS SO UNAWESOME, I CAN'T EVEN."
"…Roma, are you getting hard?"
"This is so not okay… can everyone please just try to calm down? Fighting won't get us anywhere, really…"
"IS THIS A HICKEY? ESTADOS UNIDOS, VOY A CORTAR TUS PARTES REPRODUCTIVAS Y METERLOS EN TU GARGANTA SI ESO TRATA DE UN CHUPETÓN!"
A/N: First things first, translations! There are only a few, so here goes:
Estadounidense - American
ESTADOS UNIDOS, VOY A CORTAR TUS PARTES REPRODUCTIVAS Y METERLOS EN TU GARGANTA SI ESO TRATA DE UN CHUPETÓN! - America, I am going to cut off your reproductive parts and shove them in your throat if this is a hickey! (Roughly... if I'm wrong, correct me)
Next... ah, the next chapter's gonna be a doozy. Or so I hope. If I can actually get it out. Ya know. Let's just say school + depression + discovering sexuality + best friend issues + lack of inspiration + tons of homework = VERY little chapter-work getting done. Like, I can't even. It's so insane. But I so hope you guys enjoyed it... cause I really tried to make it good, even though my mind is just so much mushy shit right now. So yeah... reviews are love. Seriously. I need it. Bad days (and weeks) suck really hard. Either way, I hope I made some of you laugh, at least.