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the house that ruth built

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jennifer aniston - thread example [24 Apr 2010|10:03pm]
example )
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katie cassidy pb - thread example [23 Mar 2009|01:51am]
bolded, under the cut. )
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randy orton pb - aim example [23 Mar 2009|01:45am]
exquisite jules: Jules pulled a baseball cap over her platinum strands, glancing at her reflection in the mirror. In the week or so since she had returned to HPA, life had returned to normal. As much as possible given the circumstances at least. The corners of her crimson lips curved into a smile as her frame seemed to disappear in the oversized sweatshirt. It mirrored her life well, the ability she had to disappear and go unnoticed on her own. But she was no longer invisible when she wore that sweatshirt, in large part to the name scrawled across the back. Fusco, as in popular Rob Fusco. She smirked to think that people stared at her in stunned curiosity. How did little Jules Slagel associate with someone like Rob Fusco? The rumors stirred were well worth it. Perhaps she was tired of being invisible, and she saw the way that he looked at her. He looked at her, not through her. Interesting. Grabbing her dorm key and shoving it into her back pocket, she wandered down the hallway to his room, knocking softly on the door. She needed to escape, and he was the perfect companion.

rob benches cars: Having a female roommate was probably the most educational thing that could've happened to him. Through Teesh, he learned all about the menstrual cycle and when to keep his dirty socks off of the floor, how to clean up his dirty cereal bowls, and when to keep his mouth shut about what he did the night before. However, Teesh was not currently in the room that they shared - which left him able to make a mess wherever he wanted so long as it was cleaned up by the time she was back. His feet were propped up on his bed as his laptop sat in, well, his lap - leaning back in the computer chair as he tried to figure out the best way to scratch his balls without dropping the expensive computer. Reaching around under his thigh hadn't worked, through his legs was risky, and there was no way in hell he was going to move. Fuck that. Wiggling uncomfortably, his gaze shifted from his boxer shorts to the door as the knock came. Shit, she was back early. Oh well! He gave a grunt, reaching his arm and pulling the door open, a hand smoothing over the front of his white tee shirt. "Did you forget your ke--.. oh, hey you!" He grinned, for that brief moment forgetting that the room looked like Armageddon.

aim example continued )
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carrie underwood celeb - entry example [08 Aug 2008|12:51am]
The lie tasted just fine in my mouth. Do you know what I mean by that? You're standing there with your feet planted firmly on the ground, bracing yourself for the worst and then it comes - brutish and nasty as it is - and the easiest way to remove yourself from the situation is to lie and extract yourself quickly. I've never been the type to wade around in uncomfortable waters for very long, and this is a method I've used time and time again. It sounded right in my head, then fine in my mouth, but the second my lips parted and the words were released from their warm, moist haven into the cool, harsh air... I realized that they just weren't right. I shouldn't have to lie. I didn't want to lie. This was a person I cared for, a person I enjoyed and respected. What is any of that worth if you can't be honest about how you feel? Honesty, trust, and respect are three things that I value most in a relationship - whether that be romance, friendship, or anything else that you might think of. But I still lied. Not your typical white lie, but a big, fat, legitimate lie. The feeling shook me straight to my core, leaving my entire body trembling in the wake of such a terrible thing. I wanted to scream at him - to tell him that no, I wasn't okay and I didn't understand and it wasn't fine that he didn't want to be with me. I wanted to slam my fist into his chest, right into the spot between his two broad shoulders, about six or so inches down from the collarbone I'd pressed so many small, distinct kisses on just the night before. We spent the night wrapped in each other's arms, so entwined that I thought we'd be stuck that way when we woke up in the morning.

The past few months had been so perfect. I'm not foolish enough to say that we were in a serious relationship, but I am honest enough to say that I thought we were moving in that direction. All signs indicated that he cared for me just as much as I cared for him, we just hadn't had that conversation, we hadn't said the words aloud to make it real. I really did think that after dating on and off for so long that we'd find ourselves in a committed relationship. I'm not the type to date around - I'm a one man kind of gal, that's how I was raised to believe things were supposed to be. I did my fair share of waiting for this. I didn't push, I didn't bring it up, but I knew he was aware of how I felt. Last season he said the same thing to me, said that he needed time to focus during the season and that we could pick things up where we left off as soon as it was over. Naturally, as smitten as I was, this sounded completely plausible and he kept his word. We picked up where we last left off, dating casually and just enjoying each other's company as a bit more than friends. These past few months things have escalated. I played it cool because I thought that was what he wanted, that it was some kind of strategy to tone down media publicity. Lord knows I don't want my private matters all over magazines, and a lot of the time that's what you see in magazines - articles about people in the public eye and their relationships. This was something I was forewarned about. But we played it down, never really admitting aloud that we were seeing each other. Maybe I got the wrong impression. Maybe that's how he really felt towards me, that we were just friends, dating casually. But I didn't fly to Dallas for his birthday because we were friends who occasionally went out on dates. I gave a piece of myself to him that I can't get back.

How do you take a break from a relationship that doesn't exist? I'd really like to know. Because in order to ask for a break over the course of the football season, there must be something to take a break from in the first place. There's your proof. There was something, we were something - but whatever it was, it's not important enough to hold onto. Believe me, I understand the rigors of work and the need to focus on your career of choice. I gave in last time, I gave him the space he asked for and took a step back, regardless of how much I wanted to be taking steps forward. I'm not high maintenance. I'm a people-pleaser, I've been this way since high school. I even started to say that it was okay for him to be selfish this way, I allowed a lie to pass over my lips because I wanted to make him happy. But I couldn't just walk out with that knowledge in the pit of my stomach, churning until I thought I would faint from the nausea. Not this time. Not again. I might not have had the self-esteem to correct myself last year, to admit all of the things that I was feeling in that moment. But at least this year I had the confidence to stand up and candidly speak on my own behalf. No, I'm not okay. No, I don't understand what you're trying to say. No, it's not fine that you don't want to be with me after everything I've invested into this relationship, everything I've said and done to make this work. And no, I'm not going to lie to make you feel better only to have a horrible night's sleep tonight wondering what I did wrong. Because I haven't done anything wrong. Maybe a few years ago he would've had me convinced that I was the selfish one for wanting to be with him, but now? I won't be had. I'm better than that.

I may wear my heart on my sleeve, but that doesn't mean its yours to break.
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rachel mcadams pb - entry example [08 Aug 2008|12:50am]
I'm crazy. No, really, I am. I hear little voices inside my head, each with a distinct tone, rhythm, and timbre to their speech - different, but all linked in some way, shape, or form. They aren't creepy voices that tell me to do things like in that terrible Lifetime movie that just under .001% of the population had the willpower to stick through, but rather, voices that inspire me.

Perhaps it's wrong to call them voices. They've got thoughts, emotions, and physical features as well. The voices in my head are better known to the common world as characters. Yes, I'm a creative writer, an author - an artiste, if you will. I pour my heart and soul onto paper via chicken scratch handwriting and ballpoint pen. I create imaginary people so real that if they're eating Jello in the scene I'm writing, I can taste the Jello on my own palate. People so real that I feel what they're feeling as the story unfolds and unravels itself in my mind.

It's my belief that not many people understand what goes on inside of the head of someone like me. Like I said, I'm absolutely nuts, so I can't really blame anyone for not understanding. Writing is a craft that involves a lot of individual thought processing, a lot of time spent staring at blank walls while your mind spasms in technicolor explosions of creativity. On numerous occasions friends have snapped their fingers in front of my face to jerk me back into reality, and much to their frustration, found that sometimes I just can't escape from fantasy. I daydream like it's my job. I remember a few distinct conversations where I was looking someone right in the eye, nodding as if I completely comprehended what they were saying, when in actuality only about 10 percent of what they were talking about registered. The other ninety percent of my brain was focused on something happening on a parallel universe unknown to them.

Not to say that I can't focus, because for the most part my thoughts are like television - a few good programs and then a whole lot of crap. When writing, you need to be prepared to start a story with loads of enthusiasm only to find twenty pages later that the entire concept is a dud. I've had many a dud story in my day, and it's probably one of the more frustrating things I've experienced. Next to accidentally closing out a window on the computer and losing three pages of work. That's the absolute worst - I would know, it happened two days ago and I'm still wickedly bitter about it. Because you don't know if that voice will resurface and call out to you, desiring a medium through which to explain it's story. That's my way of saying I've got the urge to write - the voices in my head are talking to me. Crazy, but true.

You won't find many brilliant writers that haven't heard these voices at one point or another. Not to say that I'm brilliant, because that isn't realistic. My goal is to be brilliant, and I'm constantly working on that. But the fact of the matter is that anyone who can completely step outside of their boundaries and put themselves in a completely different mindset - into the body of a twenty-six year old lawyer, a twelve year old ballet dancer, or a forty-five year old mobster - is insane. No if's, and's, or but's about it. They're nuts. As a twenty something year old woman, I find it frightening that I'm able to map out the small quirks and flaws of a forty-five year old man with such attention to detail that I know which slipper he puts on first when he gets out of bed in the morning. That's just not normal.

And while it may not be normal, it's very much the essence of who I am. It's what I'm passionate about. Pieces of me are scattered in each soul I create, and each life that I follow. I'm the Big Bang Theory in reverse. A million different personalities crossed paths and happened to intersect in my brain, thus causing a massive explosion of chaos that only I can hear. There are people in my head dying to have their stories told, and I for one am certainly not going to stop them from doing it. I'll provide the channels they need to express themselves, and they'll provide the stimulation that I need to express myself.

You may call it schizophrenia, but I call it inspiration.
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david beckham pb - entry example [08 Aug 2008|12:49am]
It was a gorgeous summer day, the kind that really makes you appreciate the season in all of it's vestal glory. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, it was hot but the breeze made up for it - there was even a hint of daffodils growing somewhere nearby floating in the air. We were all happy back then - Ashleigh, the kids, and our dog Jones, the damn cutest Jack Russell Terrier I've ever seen. It was quite a while back, Paul and Connor were four years old, and the baby, Luke, was two. The twins were running around chasing a soccer ball in the yard, and Ashleigh was trying to feed Lukie but he just wasn't having it. Ash was twenty-five that year, and sitting at the picnic table with my child fussing on her lap, I couldn't have loved her more. She'd never looked more beautiful. I was at the grill, where I was commonly found on hot summer days, cooking a dinner of hotdogs and hamburgers - and a cheeseburger for Connor, who always had to be difficult.

It occured to me at some point that Brandon hadn't come up behind me and asked to flip the burgers. Earlier in the day he swore he was going to cook, and I told him that he could flip the burgers if he really wanted to. So I turned to Ashleigh, spatula in hand, and asked where Brandon was. She looked back at me with those stellar hazel eyes of hers, furrowed her brow and said, "I don't know. I'm feeding the baby, Bob." And I gave a nod, supposing that made sense. If she was feeding Luke, I should be watching the other kids. The last time I had seen him was over by the pool, fishing for the plastic toy at the bottom with a makeshift pole we'd made out of a golf club and some string. Practicing for the trip we were going to take later that month - it was something my father and I had done every year. Usually consisted of him drinking at one end of the boat while I eagerly tried to catch something other than seaweed. So I flipped the burgers myself knowing he'd be mad as hell when he found out, set down the spatula and walked to the far corner of the yard to get him.

I unlocked the gate that only an adult, or seven year old with decent height, could unlock. I then walked in and shouted his name, even though I couldn't see him. I wondered if maybe he'd snuck by and gone inside to play with his video games or something like that. Turning back to my wife, I asked her to go look around inside for him, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted the fishing pole sitting on the pool deck. My head swung back, focusing on the golf club for a moment before fear took over. As a firefighter, my thoughts immediately go to the worst possible situation - because if I anticipate the worst, I'm prepared for whatever. But I wasn't ready for this. I knew where to look, but I didn't want to. After a brief moment of hesitation, my eyes dropped to the pool water and I realized a parent's worst nightmare. On instinct I dove in, pulling his lifeless body from the depths of the water and laying him flat on the concrete. I could hear my wife screaming - in nanoseconds she was right beside me, but it sounded like she was lightyears away. I remember yelling at her to get the other boys inside and call 911 before I began pumping on his chest, breathing air into his body.

The rest is something of a blurr. The only thing I remember clear as day was finding a small pulse and a glimmer of hope, only to have him die in my arms moments later. I don't think anyone who hasn't lost a child can even remotely fathom the pain that one feels, nor do I wish that kind of pain upon anyone. It's the kind of searing pain that leaves unimaginable scars on a person's heart, scars that don't fade nor disappear with time. It's been fifteen years and all I can think about is how he would've been twenty-two, graduating from college this year. I never thought I could die at twenty-seven, but I lost a piece of my soul when I lost my oldest son. Parents aren't supposed to bury their children, I thought to myself as they lowered his coffin into the ground, Ashleigh weeping on my shoulder. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right - it didn't make sense, most of all. We weren't bad parents, we weren't bad people, what had we done to deserve this? What God would allow such a thing to occur? In a time when I should've been clinging to my faith, all I could do was question it.

Years later I'm a divorced man - the fighting that began after the dust had somewhat settled brought us to our end. Stupid things, like why I hadn't cut the grass when it was five o'clock already, or where she put my black trousers because I had a meeting at the station and she'd gone and made me late again. We both knew it was all a facade, that we were both standing there pointing fingers at each other for being responsible. We were each other's scapegoat, and at the same time, we were pointing the fingers inward and blaming ourselves. Now I only get to see my three sons on the weekends and their weekday soccer games. Soccer was Brandon's favorite sport, and I coached him all through his years so it only seemed right that I coach the other boys. In fact, it was an obligation. Brandon would've wanted me to. Ashleigh never looks me in the eye anymore, even though we have to exchange words and discuss the kids. I don't really blame her, though. I barely look myself in the face when I wash up in the morning before work.

The horror stories never get easier to hear. Tragedy after tragedy in the news and on the radio, and I don't think I'll ever get used to it. I witness these evils on a daily basis, battle them tirelessly and save other people's families to compensate for the fact that I couldn't save my own. And while it may seem like I'm absolutely insane for that fact, I've been told that plenty of people do it. I'm just one of those people that has far too much time to think. Eat, think, work, think, shit, think, sleep. Not always with that frequency and in that order, but you get the idea. I try to fill my days up with work and people I enjoy, but my role at the station is slowly starting to shift. I'm beginning to feel the boss is relying more and more on the younger guys - and while I've got no problem giving them a shot, I still believes that there's power in seniority. I may not be as physically able to complete the job, but I know how to do it damn well.
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sophia bush pb - entry example [08 Aug 2008|12:48am]
Growing up in Staten Island, the Holden family didn't have much to speak of in terms of finances and a house, the apartment was always a home. Bernadette and George, her parents, were deeply in love with each other, and never hesitated to show affection in front of their daughter. This environment proved itself the perfect place for an impressionable young girl to sponge up personality. Monkey see, monkey do. Having inherited such a profound fondness for being showered in love and adoration, the small girl was often found doing the same unto others. Anyone and everyone was worthy of love - and sometimes that was all they needed. Love has been and will always be what makes Laurie's world go 'round. She was conceived in this atmosphere, and it constantly surrounded her as she made the transition from awkward child to knowledgeable young lady. But with this shift comes a loss of innocence, and hers came earlier than it should've. Her father would later say that growing up wasn't a choice, but a reaction to uncontrollable circumstances. At the tender age of eight, Laurie was forced to grow up.

On April 19th, little Laurie celebrated her birthday. Her most prized gift ended up being a beautiful dark green scarf, a white 'L' stitched carefully onto one end - a treasure that's packed away with all of her fond memories. But a few weeks after that joyous occasion, Bernadette Holden fell ill. It was a reoccuring nightmare that her parents had managed to shield her from for many years, but it was a nightmare that was fully realized upon word from the doctor. There was no more they could do. Her mother's life was in God's hands now. It was a long time coming, but still there was no way to lessen the pain of the blow. It was another month before they told Laurie of her mother's illness and pending expiration. How does one go about telling their delicate eight year old that Mommy isn't going to be around much longer? They grotesquely underestimated their little girl. She could sense that something had been wrong all along. Her mother wasn't out tending to the garden on Saturday afternoons, no longer cooked their humble meals, and didn't go to work anymore. The only time she left her bed was to attend church services on Sundays, and even then her father carried her to and from the car, and up to recieve holy eucharist. It was painful to see her strong, vibrant mother reduced to this weakened state - but for her father's sake, she put on her best smile and assumed her mother's role in the house. Laurie became everything her mother was, and then some. But the one void that Bernadette Holden left that couldn't be filled by her daughter was a second income.

In the years following her mother's death, certain realities became more and more apparent. Laurie had become everything to her still-mourning father, an honest man who gave his daughter everything he possibly could. She loved her father dearly, and would even go as far as saying he was her best friend. They depended on one another, especially when times got difficult. George worked two jobs and barely got time to sit for dinner at a normal time. But when he arrived home under the cover of night, his meal would be in the microwave waiting. With this stressful schedule, George didn't have much time to monitor his growing daughter. He was too busy scrimping and saving for a college education - something that he and Bernadette had missed out on - to involve himself deeply in her business. She was fine on her own, already instilled in her were the morals he had hoped she'd fully embrace. It wasn't that he didn't care, quite the contrary. He wanted to give his baby what he didn't have: a future. But feeding her desire to learn and her stomach at the same time became an impossible task for one man to do alone on pitiful salaries combined from various professions. He couldn't support the both of them and be the parent he knew she wanted and deserved. The living conditions they had been forced to endure due to financial constraints weren't suitable for a young girl. She never complained, though. If anything, she was the one sketching landscapes and using the pictures to cover chipping paint in the living room, or the crack above the toilet. It was at this point in time that her father decided he needed to do what was best for his child, not what made him happiest. He called up his distant mother in Seattle and arranged to have Laurie move in.

So she did as her father asked her. She had trusted his judgement up until that point, and he had never given her reason to do otherwise. Midway through her Junior year the sixteen year old began calling 'the rainy city' her home. She attended Rainier View, a prestigious high school in the upper-middle class portion of Seattle, and met her Grandmother for the first time. She found herself falling into a niche with other overachievers, and was given the opprotunity to bond outside of schoolwork thanks to extracurriculars that she had never had the time to get involved with before. Her classes always came first because she needed that scholarship, but she was now able to earn spectacular grades and pursue outside interests at the same time. An active participant in softball, swimming, and dance club, she was getting to be more social and confident in everything she did. She made friends, learned a lot, and met new challenges with her mother's vivacious passion and her own newfound boldness. Most importantly, it was at Rainier View that she discovered three things that would be an integral part of the rest of her existence: her political aspirations, high sense of pride, and Brian. Well, at least these were three things she thought would be important for the rest of her life.

Brian was the class clown all throughout high school. Charming, cute, with the ability to make anyone laugh in any situation at all. Laurie had developed a crush on him rather quickly, and he responded exactly the way she had hoped when it came to light. They started dating almost immediately and stayed together until the summer before college. He was a very important figure in her life because she experienced a lot in the amount of time they were together. Her first boyfriend, her first love, her first intimate experience. He may not have been the brightest crayon in the box, but he was sweet and caring, and that's what mattered to her. Unfortunately he was set to play basketball at Gonzaga, whereas she was headed to Barnard College back in New York the following year. The idea of being on the opposite coast as him was absolutely devastating. She didn't want to be anywhere without him, because she had become so accustomed to him sneaking through her window at night, his body pressed against hers as they fell asleep in rebellious triumph. They were young and in love, completely blissful until the moment they said goodbye and she boarded that airplane. Distance was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, but that wasn't so in the case of these two. They had highly underestimated the strain the distance would put on their relationship, and he ended up calling her in tears - confessing that he had been unfaithful. Worse, he had slept with a girl that Laurie had been close with during high school.

From that point forward, Laurie became somewhat jaded when it came to love. She was unwilling to open herself up to anyone who wanted a relationship, and typically kept things on a friendship level. Her senior year of college she got intimately acquainted with a guy that had been her friend for years, but was disappointed when he told her that he was only interested in non-commitmental relationships for the time being. It was only years later when she stumbled upon Alex Krycek that she learned how to trust again. She was fresh out of college and met him haphazardly while he was on patrol - a cop at that point in time. She was always a sucker for a guy in uniform, so she agreed to a date. And then another. And another. Eventually things got serious and she moved in with him, the whole ordeal resulting in three good years of her life completely wasted on a guy who was too involved with his work to care about his girlfriend. She knew that he liked to play hardball before they got together, but he never acted like a jerk with her - that was part of the appeal. He made her feel special by treating her better than she'd ever seen him treat anyone else. Unfortunately, when the fighting began, she slowly saw him begin to morph back into that person she saw him be with other people. The asshole. He broke up with her, basically to get it over with because they both knew what was coming. Still, she's unable to forgive him for so cruelly cutting her out of his life without notice nor reason.
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