miffed in philly

I feel helpless without my TwitterFox here at work, how pathetic is that???

Omg, I can't believe I'm going to be THIRTY-TWO tomorrow, I'm pathetic AND OLD.

ALSO, I can't believe next week is the Fall Out Boy concert!!!! I've taken off Thursday and Friday to properly prepare myself. Because I am old. I may need lots and lots of coffee.

There’s a low hum of music in the background, nothing overpowering, as Joe makes his way down the buffet table. Finally, he packs a plate full of extras and makes his way over to a wall, in between a giant painting of a craggy old man and one depicting some Hell battle with awesome blood splatters and skeleton beasts and shit.

It’s there where Bob finds him.

Joe’s got a buffalo wing between his teeth when his light’s blocked by Bob’s hulking frame, and while his body buzzes with silent appreciation – Joe had been right about the lip ring, and Bob’s hair is angled across his face and the sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, exposing really fantastic forearms and thick wrists – he recognizes Bob’s expression. Bob is seconds away from escorting him not-so-politely from the building.

“Not sure you have authority here, dude,” Joe says, and, seriously, if Joe were really a hobo, how the fuck does Bob think he got into The Basement? Security isn’t exactly lax.

Bob looks like he wants to argue, though. He says, “Joe,” and rubs a hand over his forehead, like Joe’s mere presence in his life is so fucking tiring.

“Relax, man, I was invited,” Joe says, which is not specifically true, but close enough. “You’re not working, I’m not working—”

“You don’t work, Joe,” Bob says, and hey, a full sentence, awesome.

Joe grins up at him. “You say that because you haven’t heard me play, dude. I’ve got an awesome repertoire. I’ve got groupies,” Joe says. “And, like, special guest stars, you should totally come jam with me one day.”

Bob’s scowling, but Joe can totally tell he’s smiling on the inside. His eyes aren’t nearly so rage-filled, for one.