i write this today in the wake of news that if america didn't have a drinking problem before then recent events have made getting black-out drunk understandable. not all is lost. we must not lose heart or decry god as inevident. think thus; rami malek exists.

rami malek exists and he has been moulded not by the haphazard accident of science and not by the passionless accident of cells. it is impossible for him to have been sprung from anything except the hands of an artist. did not god make him? was it not god? in your dark hours America, think of this brown boy, this masterpiece so fine as to render nice of samothrace and michael angelo's david but pale shadows and comparatively nothing but the works of first timer noobs who've too much enthusiasm for their little taste.

People of colour take heart in this beauty, forget not the fight, it isn't right that we live in a world that constantly demand you to be strong as if you were nought but a soldier or machine meant to be killed, that which must die for even its right to breath.

anyone who voted of trump...when you sit down on tv nights may you be faced with the unsettling, dawning realization that in utilizing your three brain cells in unexpectedly paying attention to the credits become unreasonably shocked by the revelation that ur boy elliot is played not by a caucasion but a brown imposter with an unchristian name. make america great again, you will whisper hollow but no one will hear you. you will look down and realize your bland daily serving of unseasoned coleslaw is wetted not by mayonnaise but tears you had not known were steadily seeping down your bland ass face while you were too busy realizing finally that your entire mediocre life has been a lie.

think of rami malek and be beset; the moral crisis as your racist denialist ass warrs with the inherently born compunction to recognize god's grace, may the coignitive dissonance in finding it here - this coginitive dissonance that literally only your privelaged ignorant ass would have in the first place over something like this instead of you know the sanctity of black lives and etcetera - tear you in two. may you be undone finally in this where your uneducated ass failed when you willfully ignored what even basic human decency has somehow failed to compel you, become undone by this act of god; the unsurpassably divine embodied in this little egyptian boy, also die - like straight up choke. tho. i'm not even joking, the idea of anyone who voted for trump reading anything i write (or reading, period. and being triggered by the word 'period', period) and still being this fucking ignorant is giving me high blood pressure.

remember rami malek. god is never more real to us than now. rami malek is proof of the divine.

also text me




Room on Fire, after years of waiting, after (re)visions and revisions, is now open to public viewing...for like...the third time. Thank you very much everyone who stuck around this long. From the oldies who knew the first version of this story, to the recent oldies (2013, I weep) who are only acquainted with its (last?) current version.

Word of warning; I try to be as historically accurate as possible however I have now decided to be more forgiving towards taking the easy way out and bungling up facts of the time in order to change them to fit my aesthetic instead of obsessing over the exact facts and stalling. It's not just a laziness thing. I've figured out heavily researching what I'm writing about in this period can sometimes harm more than it helps the whole writing process, especially when it comes to how quickly I churn out chapters. Given that this fic started out in 2012 and it is now more or less two years since I've updated I'd hate to be the annoying author who can't finish a project just because they're too busy obsessing over crinolines and angsting about whether or not to make the men wear the hideous - but (I weep) historically accurate - breeches, high heels and powdered wigs of the time. I am very shallow okay.

So, facts will be jumbled, royal titles manipulated and confused, basic spelling foresworn, geography abused, grammar debased, court ettiquette criminally misinterpreted and misrepresented...in conclusion; don't mistake me for someone who knows anything about what they're doing. I can hardly make pasta without somehow making everything within eight feet of me part of my danger zone. I implore you, believe that this is truly no exaggeration, I am the floppiest. I just figured we'll both enjoy this fic if we simply don't care as much about those finicky little (major) details. Apologies in advance to those who expect me to be some historian, all my history I have learnt from trashy bodice rippers in literature and in film.

What assurances can I make?


I told myself I would not update this fic until I was able to have at least two chapters ready for it instead of one. You deserve that much at least from me, after how long I've left everyone hanging.

But I thank you for sticking around for this long. Very sorry. Also I've deleted my author's notes from the beginning of each chapter. While amusing to write, the author's notes have been unnecessary distractions. I also scream in them a lot and I'd rather pretend to be some very distant, very intellectual loser paddling about some high brow piece of trashy fan fiction than the actual loser I am.

To all my reviewers I apologize for not replying to most of you or interacting with you as often. I am a painfully nervous person and do all my grandstanding in my author's notes - I am humbled and excruciatingly agonized by the tenderness and shyness your praise, insight and critique has elicited in me. I'm really bad at people, honestly. Forgive me. I'm getting sweaty palms just thinking about it. The only excuses I have for my absence are such;

I am very easily overwhelmed by everything and the past few years have been the unsexiest ever rollercoaster in terms of bullshit - and I am easily unsettled, I'm like an endangered species who can only exist in the most delicate of habitats, it throws me out of my writing funk and scatters my brain entirely. I am not good at change and I am still trying. The moment the weather turns I go into panic mode and eat my young. BUT ENOUGH ABOUT THAT -

Once Hannah accused me thusly; "All you do is eat cheetos and lie to me." That's fair. It still stands as the most apt thing anyone has ever said to me and my track record in updates.

But of course, needless trivia;

The title of this fic is named after one of the most important albums to me, 'Room on Fire' by the Strokes - their entire discography is hopefully to be utilized here as well as the music of other artists. What can I say, I'm a poseur. Music by all sorts of broody indie folk here is used in chapter titles and the fic is sometimes told from many Point Of Views, just for a little bit of dimension and to be atmospheric or something I honestly don't know.

I have been editing the previous chapters to make them less embarrassing and to also refamiliarize myself with the story in terms of details, plot, subplots and headcannons. Beware, herein lie errors galore, subplots began and then (almost?)forgotten - cheesy lines deleted and cheesier lines created. You can read my description and feel me sweating as I to struggle to think of another way to describe a doorway, a man's face, the architecture of a room for the thousandth way and grossly repeat myself in many, many things.

It won't hurt if you listen to the music as you read. I mean. You can pretend you're in a Sophia Coppola movie which isn't really an effect I realized this would echo or create when I first began doing this. But it makes sense, I guess. I mean. Things will go easier reading and writing wise if you cut me some slack by imagining this is the Anna Karenina movie (Sophie Marceu is my entire heart but the Keira Knightley version, the floppiest poodle of Vronsky's to date aside - THAT WARDROBE, THAT SCENERY - IT HAS BEEN TWO YEARS AND I STILL TREMBLE IN RAPTURE) aesthetic wise, or Coppola's Marie Antoinette who in drawing similarities to my fic I am well aware of what a reach I make- but help me. I am a struggling writer, disillusioned by cannon, shallow in love, well-versed in the theory but highly dubious of its practicalness/application, the imaginations has fits such that I am that who is falling into it wildly and then slinking out with such a vacancy of feeling one would think me stone or the most aloof and dispassionate of felines.

I mean. Do what you want. JUST READ MY SHIT AND THANK YOU.