a) He has been tasked with holiday-related items, so he perhaps wishes he were going to work.
b) I have no idea where I was going with this. They need to give us more material, so I can get back into the swing of bandom writing.
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Spencer's dog died.
His dog died, and he's in fucking Illinois in the middle of the storm of the century, and his life sucks right now.
Boba and Milo were still his, even though he and Haley agreed when they split that it would be better for them to stay with her. But of course when Boba, who'd always been more prone to infections, was diagnosed with canine leukemia, he'd drop everything - well, mostly just promotion, since the album was tracked and tours weren't scheduled until spring - to help Haley care for him.
Still. Right now, his dog is dead, he's going to die of frost-bite, his ex is politely waiting for him to get his ass off her couch, and his boyfriend is busy hanging out with rock stars.
He holds his iPhone in his hand, debating. Fuck it, it doesn't matter if it's the ass-crack of dawn in LA. He hits "call", and the other end rings twice, three times, four, and just when it's about to send him to voicemail, there's a click and muffled, sleepy, "Spence? You okay?"
no subject
b) I have no idea where I was going with this. They need to give us more material, so I can get back into the swing of bandom writing.
+
Spencer's dog died.
His dog died, and he's in fucking Illinois in the middle of the storm of the century, and his life sucks right now.
Boba and Milo were still his, even though he and Haley agreed when they split that it would be better for them to stay with her. But of course when Boba, who'd always been more prone to infections, was diagnosed with canine leukemia, he'd drop everything - well, mostly just promotion, since the album was tracked and tours weren't scheduled until spring - to help Haley care for him.
Still. Right now, his dog is dead, he's going to die of frost-bite, his ex is politely waiting for him to get his ass off her couch, and his boyfriend is busy hanging out with rock stars.
He holds his iPhone in his hand, debating. Fuck it, it doesn't matter if it's the ass-crack of dawn in LA. He hits "call", and the other end rings twice, three times, four, and just when it's about to send him to voicemail, there's a click and muffled, sleepy, "Spence? You okay?"