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Below are the 7 most recent journal entries recorded in
Skwisgaar Skwigelf (Post-Dethklok)'s InsaneJournal:
| Saturday, January 24th, 2009 | |
| 7:12 am | |
| Sunday, July 27th, 2008 | |
| 4:53 pm | The 101 Meme 101 Questions You Should Be Able to Answer About Your Character, UTR style. ( Cuttings dis. ) |
| Thursday, July 10th, 2008 | |
| 2:39 am | Pre-UTR part 3. It had been a couple months down the road since Miniver had broken his hand on the wall, and Skwisgaar had divulged his secrets to the poet. So naturally, he'd forgotten all about it. Well, mostly. He knew something happened wherein he was pissed off and upset, and coincidentally, so was Miniver. He also knew that things were different because Miniver hadn't been being a dick to him for a while, and that was totally cool with him. It had only been a week or two since Miniver got his cast off, and Skwisgaar was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not that he was particularly worried about it dropping, he was just tense. He also recalled something vaguely different-shaped about how he viewed the hippie. It was something more than tolerance and attempting to be cordial. It was almost as if he'd made up his mind to... do something. He wasn't sure what. So he defaulted to what he'd known best, and went in search of the one with the curly black hair, knowing full well his intentions of the evening. He just hoped things would go smoothly. Because he vaguely recalled them not doing that a while back. |
| Monday, July 7th, 2008 | |
| 2:11 am | Pre-UTR Something-or-another. Skwisgaar hadn't enjoyed being teased mercilessly by the newcomer-that-wasn't-new. He'd known Miniver for as long as he'd known Pickles, but he'd known Miniver before Miniver was... living there. In their world. Stupid time fluxes. He never could wrap his head around them. The fact stood, however. He never understood what he'd done to deserve the seemingly unjust bullshit that had always come to fall on him. Perhaps it was Miniver's way of looking out for Toki, even though Skwisgaar considered Toki to be well looked after. After all, that was his responsibility - to look after the younger, less experienced, more hyper guitarist. Maybe it was Miniver's way of trying to get his attention. He didn't know. But it got under his skin like a botfly and crawled and burned and itched him just as bad as one. Stupid dildos hippie. So why, after all the years of practical jokes and jokes about his height and his devotion to the two things that mattered to him, did he feel attached to the stupid little useless goofball? He'd tried shaking it off, he'd tried shutting it down. He even tried overdosing just to see if that would clear his conscience of it. No luck. He was stuck with the itching burning hippie botfly. He had no other recourse. He had to confront him. |
| Thursday, June 26th, 2008 | |
| 9:49 pm | Elder!Skwis, Miniver Skwisgaar had been acting a little more oddly than usual. He'd been up earlier than noon, he'd been out with the roadies, learning swordplay, and had, of all things, quit smoking. He'd given his cigarettes to Pickles three days ago and told the redhead that if he asked for one, that Pickles was allowed to deck him. And most of all, he HADN'T been fucking the hot chick with the big tits that had been coming over regularly. Things must have been seen as being amiss. |
| Monday, June 23rd, 2008 | |
| 11:14 pm | He clutched the neck of his new guitar, quietly breezing down the hallway to his stark white room. It was only a month previous that he'd made the same tracks down to the Gibson Assembly Room to pluck up a guitar, and there he was, now on his what, twelfth guitar of the year? He huffed a wry chuckle and kicked the door closed behind him, settling at the corner of his bed, before inspecting the instrument. His cold blue eyes wandered over the curves of the guitar like they had so many curves of so many bodies, and he took it in with an equally lustful, discerning way. He knew every inch, every corner and curve and straight line of the Explorer, even if it had just been finished but an hour ago. He knew so many, and with the tips of his fingers, he touched the strings, trailing down them and the fretboard with a soft sound, almost a sigh of pleasure, before he turned the guitar around and he started to play. It was decades ago that he'd touched the first strings of the first Gibson Explorer, and she was new to him, a virgin still in his eyes. He had played that first guitar like wildfire, burning up the chord progressions and fantastical solos and treated that guitar like a goddess. But that was only after the first night with it. With her. She called out his name from the window of the instrument shop in downtown Stockholm, and his eyes, wide and shimmering with delight, stayed still, glancing only at her. "Mother!" Spoke the young Swede, barely even ten years old, in his native language, "I want that guitar!" "Skwisgaar, you've got twelve guitars already, what could you possibly want with another? Anyway, we're on a tight budget as it is. Mummy needs her beauty supplies, or how else will we afford your tutors?" "Mom, this is different, this is important!" Servetta Skwigelf huffed around the long stem of her cigarette holder, "Darling prince, you've said that about every guitar you've owned! You'd better make a commitment to this one." She then grabbed the young man's face between her long, red nails, leaning down and breath stinking of cigarette smoke, her lips curled into a cruel smile. "You know how I feel about commitment, don't you? If you are to even try, you'd better be the best, or you're a worthless, pitiful thing." She let go, leaving sliver-moon marks where her nails had pressed into his cheeks. He bowed his head, "Mother, I'll treat that guitar as if she were my own wife, my truest friend... my lover." His fingers flew over the strings, already a prodigy and barely ten years old. He knew so many tricks and variations on each and every style of music, but he preferred, of all things, metal. The speed and urgency about it, along with the impossibly beautiful chords, they all sung to his heart. He played the Explorer, which although was full sized, still felt right in his young hands. He played until his fingertips bled, until it seemed that the fretboard was weeping red tears, and even after, still he played on, claiming her as his own, his lover and wife and truest friend. Twenty some years later, he sat, playing the guitar. There were so many like her, but this one... this one right then was his lover. His wife and most true friend. He bowed over the guitar, his fingers weaving impossible tapestries of notes and chords, and the guitar sang for him as he worked out the tune he'd tried plucking so long ago, as the strings bit into his calloused fingertips. It was his ritual for many years, after that first Explorer was too used, too overplayed, to work anymore. He'd take the next up with the love he had of the last. He'd treat her the same way he treated the first, with a dignity and respect that one would give to the only thing in their life that mattered. And truly, that's what the guitar was to him. He believed what his mother said -- if you aren't the best, you're worthless -- and he lived every day to master his wife. He spent hours a day at first, and then it slowly progressed into natural habit to constantly have a guitar either at his side or in his hands, and played it. He'd lost count of the track of days he'd fallen asleep with the guitar in his hands, only to wake up and start practicing again. He lived for the music, for the guitar, and it lived through him. A soul, a breathing entity of his life. He would never have admitted to it, but there were times he'd spoken to his guitar, whispered it secrets as he played the music that brought him to the greatest band of all time. |
| Wednesday, May 7th, 2008 | |
| 6:33 am | 100 facts on me. |