singing behind the wheel

the(mostly mainstream)yoi ships as things my friend and her boyfriend have done:

viktuuri: they went to indigo so she could spend his 50CAD gift card

otayuri: left school early to make friendship bracelets

seungchuchu: she fell asleep on a school bus and when she woke up his arm was around her

milasara: he told her they’d be “friends in front of your dad brother”

leoji: he straight up asked her if they were dating…and then they started dating

jjbella: he invited her to go snowboarding with his family ~canadian courtship ritual~

emimike: watches shitty youtube videos during lunch, sharing headphones, while the rest of the friend group third-wheels

chris x mystery man: walked home together, taking up the entire sidewalk, while their three friends(@queen-of-pigeons @forgetmenotsandroses)third-wheeled again while singing love songs behind them

Jada Pinkett Smith and Queen Latifah Jam Out to Prince and Cyndi Lauper in 'Carpool Karaoke'

Girls Road Trip! The Late Late Show’s popular Carpool Karaoke segment has its own Apple Music spin-off show, and to help kick things up a notch, Jada Pinkett Smith hit the road with Queen Latifah behind the wheel to sing some of their favorite hits and promote their upcoming comedy, Girls Trip, in the process.

WATCH: Ed Sheeran Stuffs His Face With Candy & Dishes on Wild Nights Out With Justin Bieber in New ‘Carpool Karaoke’

In a new teaser clip, Smith and Latifah get down to Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy.”

The duo really give it their all, jamming out in their seats. In fact, they get so into the tune that Latifah has to slam on the breaks at one point to avoid a collision.

“It’s about to be Car-Crash Pool Karaoke,” she quipped.

For some extra backup, they enlist their Girls Trip co-stars Tiffany Haddish and Regina Hall, brainstorming creative ways to promote their new film.

“I know the Girls Trip promotion team is making it happen,” Smith says.

“We could at least help,” Latifah notes.

“I think I have an idea of how we could get the word out,” Smith adds, smiling.


WATCH: Jada Pinkett Smith Rocks Out to Miranda Lambert’s 'Pink Sunglasses’ and Country Fans Are Loving It!

The foursome then shout out the window using megaphones and shoot T-shirt cannons with Girls Trip printed on them. With the female-driven comedy coming up, the group naturally breaks into a chorus of Cyndi Lauper’s '80s classic, “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Watch the clip to see the funny moment!

Girls Trip hits theaters July 21.

For more Carpool Karaoke fun, watch the clip below!

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endverse gothic

[tw post-apocalyptic grotesque bleakness involving dead bodies & stuff]

He’s headed northwest on I-70 when at last he’s finally forced to pull over.

In the end, it’s not because he’s out of gas, or because stalled cars and trucks have blocked the interstate completely making it impossible to go around. He’s had to go off-road surprisingly few times, mostly thanks to multi-vehicle collisions; drivers long since dragged from their cars and either devoured or turned, stuck horns no longer blaring, headlights dimmed. Only very rarely is the clump of accidents so bad and the shoulder so impassable (or, once, in Pennsylvania, a washed-out bridge) that he simply has to change cars: walk to the other side of the tangle and steel himself to pull whatever’s left from another driver’s seat. Then there’s a ritual: jump-start the battery with his remaining juice, hot-wire ignition the way he was taught; check the gas level, wipe the oil dipstick, examine the tires. Sometimes, to his relief and pleasure—an uncomfortable pleasure, followed by a thick sickened feeling he suspects might be shame—all he has to do is just turn the key, because whoever was about to die had startled presence of mind enough, was so schooled and conditioned by habit, that she’d simply turned off her car in the moments before death.

It’s almost always she, he notices. The same ones who leave behind well-organized purses and center consoles and gloveboxes, handbags he ransacks for their stores of tissues and lotion, candy and gum, painkillers and stronger prescription drugs. These are the women who keep bottled water in the cup holders, fruit rollups and energy bars in the back floorboards or seat pockets. When he is forced to switch cars, he brings everything with him, carries it in the largest handbag he’s found: a pebbled chocolate-brown satchel with a dulled gold stamp reading “kate spade.” He addresses Kate, sometimes, not just in his head but already aloud; thanks her for the water, for the lip emollients that stop his own from burning.

Even this far from big cities the sky roils with dark smoke, heavy and unsettled. He’s lost enough grace not to be able to tell what it is that’s burning, which chemicals and pollutants sift down through the air and sting his eyes and membranes inside his nose and mouth. It’s sifting away, too; he loses it by the hour—it dries up, like watching water evaporate from a puddle. I wasted time, he thinks, not with bitterness but numbly, and now doth time waste me.

(Sometimes in the cars he finds children, their gender obscured by decay. He needs to remember, tries to, that they were people, that they were just as beloved. Whatever rags the children are wearing, whatever length of hair remains on their skulls, he calls them all Mary, because that name once meant something. He unstraps them gently from their seats, arranges families together by the side of the interstate and starts the fire, leaving quickly before it can draw attention. He prays sometimes but only once he’s driving away, safe behind the wheel; sometimes tries to sing “Dies Irae” or say the קדיש, mumbles requiums under his breath, larynx hoarse, throat choking shut on the notes.)

Long ago, pressed into the clammy stone, years he spent listening enrapt to that one contralto nun, her voice like rich soft rainwater gliding over the modal syllables of “Ave, generosa,” transcendent hymns she wrote in Mary’s praise. Listened decades, half a century, until her clear skin wrinkled and she grew old, until she was not. She had something he no longer has, did he ever have it. Did humanity. Was it a thing that ever existed once, that he helped smash. Does she write psalms even now in her heaven, does she still cradle and lift into the light that glorious lucent glasslike orb of her fragile but luminous faith.

for heaven’s flood poured into you
as heaven’s word was clothed in flesh in you
you are the lily, gleaming white, upon which g-d
has fixed his gaze before all else created
around you he enwrapped his warm embrace
so that his son was suckled at your breast

He drives. He has to know, it takes days, he doesn’t sleep, doesn’t stop. Goes faster at night when he sees eyes gleaming out at him from the roadside.

And yet finally, It’s a billboard that does it, just a stupid fucking billboard, peeling and weathered, stuck out crooked from a neglected cornfield, and he pulls over because he starts laughing too hard to keep driving.

HELL IS REAL, it reads, with conviction, in uppercase block letters, white against black; and of course across the front someone has inevitably spraypainted the livid diagonal scarlet warning: CROATOAN.

He can’t help it. He watches himself break open, has watched this happen to people before, knows it’s hysteria but there is it anyway, like swallowing down nausea or gasping in fear, something bodies just do that can’t really be avoided. So he gives into it, gets himself out of the car—no one for miles, if the plague ever had been there it’s moved on—barely gets the door shut and then just folds over against it, his forehead smacking painfully hard against the glass window as his mouth presses against the bare crook of his arm, convulsing, opened and biting into skin to muffle the sounds. His shirt sleeve is torn off up high where he’d used it to bandage—bandage someone—someone who immediately didn’t make it. Wasted effort. And his own efforts wasting him.

HELL IS REAL. Hell is real! They had no idea how real. Hell is here, hell is now. He’s been to hell, spent forty years plummeting down through the worst it had to offer and it was nothing, this was infinitely worse and more wrong because this wasn’t supposed to—wasn’t meant to be hell—this was a deliberately planned paradise, and both the gardeners and their caretakers, they’d all conspired, unintentionally, through a series of colossally egotistical, blinded choices, to uproot, to defile, to spoil everything that— 

He catches his breath, reaches to wipe wetness off his face and his hand comes away filthy, streaked with soot. It’s hard to swallow, it’s hard to make his chest stop whatever it’s doing. His arm is dirty where his face rubbed it. He should use one of the bottles of water to wash, probably. Find more water.

Vaguely gray and furry, an animal darts off through the corn and the stalks quiver and rattle behind it. Eventually he’ll need to eat but he can’t think about that, not yet, not when hell is real. Hell is nearby, so proximate it throbs.

Hell is that he’s maybe an hour outside of Lebanon, with Detroit’s ruins behind him. And he is terrified—not of what he will, but of what he might not find there.

Valentine's Day Blurb Requested by anon

Cole: I think that Cole would take you to the movies to see the latest ‘must see.’ You two would go see an evening viewing and share candy and a Coke icee. Afterwards you’d spend ten dollars worth of quarters on the games in the lobby, racing and having competitions. To finish the night off, he’d win you a stuffed animal from the claw game.

Dalton: Dalton would so do something cheesy and ridiculous. You’d come home and see rose petals leading up to your room. There are candles lining the stairs, dorky music playing, and hardly any lights on. When you’d open the door, you’d see Dalton holding a long stemmed red rose and a sign saying, “Watch Doctor Who with me?”

Dana: Dana would be the one to take you to a nice restaurant and eat dessert first. You’d share a huge brownie with ice cream on top, fighting over who got to eat the cherry. Dana would say, “I can tie the stem in a knot with my tongue.” You’d say something along the lines of, “I don’t believe you.” And he’d take the cherry, winning the fruit and amazing you with is stem tying skills.

Gabe: Gabe would take you to either the boardwalk or the local arcade (depending on location). You would play all of the games there, you winning some, him others. You two would make this huge competition out of it, making whoever lost carry the winner to the car piggyback style. The last game of the night, you two would be tied, and Gabe would let you win. You’d hop on his back and carry your small prizes you won to the car where you’d fall asleep with him singing softly behind the wheel.

Will Jay: I feel that Will would want to go all out, but isn’t sure how you’d feel about it. He’d make you this incredible diner, have candles on the table, and buy you your favorite flowers. You two would settle down in the living room with a bunch of rom com movies that HE picked out, and you would cuddle the entire night. In the end, you fall asleep on him and he carries you to your bed, tucking you in.

Today your favourite song came on the radio.
It took me a minute to remember why it was so familiar and then all I could picture was me in the passenger seat of your car with my feet on the dashboard and you behind the steering wheel singing the lyrics to me with a smile plastered across your face.
It’s been two years now and like all great first loves do, we disintegrated with time and distance only to find ourselves singing different songs with different people.
And here I am two years later, with my feet on his dashboard singing the words of the favourite song of the first boy I ever loved at the top of my lungs.
And I’m okay.
—  I hope you are too