notaplanet (notaplanet) wrote in themoderngods, @ 2012-03-17 14:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | !thread, ♥ malachi grady : dropped, ♥ todd whelan : dropped, ♦ eris, ♦ muninn |
Who: Todd Whelan and open. [Eris and ...]
Where: NYC's streets, just outside of his flat!
What/When: St. Patrick's Day Parade.
Rating: PG-13 because it's Todd.
With a paternal grandpa hailing from Connemara (Letterfrack to be exact, which had been source of great amusement among his more nerdy peers), a maternal grandmother from County Kilkenny and an overabundance of Irish blood bursting in veins to the beat of the Irish fiddle that was his heart, it was no wonder that even Todd had managed to rise from his bathroom floor, with the knowledge of a parade lurking somewhere in between drunken half thoughts and outrageous ramblings. For a single beat, he even managed to ignore the corner shop piss in favor of glancing into the mirror, only to see bloodshot eyes lurking somewhere in the sea of flab that was his face. Or so it was how his rubbery bulldog cheeks looked like to him today anyway. Narcissism was no part of him today, especially not as his hand dipped down to grab the bottle of wine by the neck and he thirstily gulped down its remnants.
"Oh sure," he told his reflection. Perhaps he would have been better suited housing an Irish God, one of those fat, drunken bastards his ancestors would have worshiped. But ancestry wasn't everything. Who the fuck had been born in Guam? Who the fuck had lost his virginity in the arms of a big breasted MILF, among Italian words and gestures? Who the fuck had cussed out Zeus in front of his temple as a young, pimpled teenager in Greece's smoldering heat while licking a vanilla ice cream? Who the fuck was the greatest special fucking snowflake of all? And be completely fucking aware of it? Thatta right. He was.
After blowing a raspberry at his reflection, a hot and long shower numbed his thoughts, but it was a naked Todd who eventually scurried off to his window to catch view of the parade. You know, it was just passing. Through his street. See? He could do normal. Rummaging through his wardrobe got him everything he needed, and it was in a shocking tie and green shirt that he finally stepped outside. See? He could do fun as well. And that went even better when he had some alcohol in his hand and that same alcohol swam to his head almost instantaneously and churned in his guts. "Great. Great day," he mumbled to the person next to him and finally brought up a hand to his head. Christ, his head was trying to kill him.