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OOC

For a start, this is nowhere near the size of the drama we encountered last time, and for that I am supremely grateful. Thank you, guys, for keeping your heads.

For those who don't know, the mod journal has been hacked (there are only four people who have the PW and we're all accounted for, so it's definitely been hardcore hacked). The password was changed, then the email, meaning we can't retrieve it ourselves and have to rely upon the unpredictable, sporadic mercy of the Livejournal support team. I sent them a message as soon as I found out about it (and by 'as soon as' I mean after the groaning and hair pulling stopped - decidedly less erotic than it sounds, let me assure you) and I'm waiting on their judge's hammer. If they decide to help us retrieve the accounts, fucking dandy. If they don't - and this is what we're preparing for now - we're going to start up a new community. Same characters, same lists, same set-up, same game - just new names for the comms. It's really simple, just a little bit of dull work, and there is only one thing you guys need to do:

KEEP BLOODY WELL PLAYING!

You've been amazing so far, being the worn old veterans you are in regards to the clusterfuck dramafest that is this ever-disappearing island, and I can't thank you enough so that. So please, keep rolling. We've gotten over worse than this and come out of it higher than we started, and I truly believe this is nothing but a blip in the road for us all. But we need the game to survive while we make this transition, so please, keep up the good work, my bbs.

In other news, the previous mods, and previous sources of our previous drama, supposedly have nothing to do with this. When an email's changed, the IP address that changed it is sent to the original address. Meaning I know that whoever changed it lives in Illinois. Illinois Belvidere, actually. Between 1112 and 1116 Warren Avenue, with the zip code 61008. If you wanna be creepy like me, get their house up on google maps! It might scare them enough to leave the community if they're still stupid enough to be hanging on. I'm perfectly comfortable posting this since they crossed the line first, and it's information readily available on google anyway.

We are the zombie community of awesomeness. We can't be kept down, and now's no difference. So keep on rockin', stalk the haxorz, and marvel at the lulz that is this secret:



ADAM LAMBERT ACCIDENTALLY YOUR COMM

Eh, if we can't laugh at ourselves, what can we do? Also - anyone who has ANYTHING, be it caches with comm info still in them, any lists of characters, any and all creepy things relating to that area, please message me or IM me. Anyone who was constructing indexes and may have things saved, anyone who had downloaded the most recent AIM buddylist, I'd be so grateful if you could contact me. Thank you <3

Adam Lambert is the saviour of the nature vs. nurture debate. His father was a trucker; a brusque man to the core. There were no fairies in his stocky-jawed family. No dandies amongst the lumberjacks. No fudge packers interwoven with the army sergeants. No uphill gardeners prancing around the firemen (though I'm sure they'd like to, given the chance). All the genetics screamed heterosexual. All the upbringing throbbed and pulsed with thick doses of testosterone infused soccer, football, hockey, rugby, baseball, basketball.

So maybe all that playing with balls just got to him.

He wore his mother's stilettos and his sister's eyeliner. His father was almost relieved when he stole his own coarse scarf - only to be sorely snubbed when little Adam wrapped it around his head, tied it beneath his chin and screamed that he was a movie starlet.

By the time he was seven his Pop signed him up for Junior League Soccer. By the time he was eight he was auditioning for musicals. Age nine Pop bought him his first bicycle; encouraged him to rip open his jeans and scuff his sneakers in the mud. By ten he was polishing the buttons on his jazz band uniform. Eleven years of age and Pop was telling him about girls; that porn was okay; not to be embarrassed if he wanted to get something a little 'top shelf' - it was perfectly natural. By twelve he was kissing Tommy Hilton beneath the bleachers.

By thirteen he had accepted that he was the antithesis to perfectly natural. And that his Pop would never be caught dead buying the top shelf shit he had his eye on.

Adam Lambert is not the product of nature. Nor nurture. He is merely what he is. An anomaly. Though, funnily enough, one that was warmly accepted. One that wasn't excluded from the final tally of averages. Adam's Father simply nodded his head as he came out early. His Mother smiled and didn't frown half as much when he stole her mascara. His sister got overly excited, being three years his senior, and spent most of her time asking him whether he thought her guy friends were 'fit or pits'.

Everything about him was encouraged. Every theatrical nerve, every musical bent, every homoerotic leaning. He took his boyfriends home for dinner on the third date. He lost his virginity in his childhood bedroom because his parents decided to give them the house for the weekend to 'be alone - nudge nudge, wink wink'. Pop sweated at the yard to buy him his first pair of tap shoes. Mom worked over time to pay for vocal coaching. His sister, before she went off to university, gave him the cash to live his dream.

Therefore it was no surprise that by the age of 17 Adam was going by the name Stella Stefano, wearing six inch Louboutins and performing illegally in drag joints across the cheap(er) and tacky(er) parts of Las Vegas.

One month he was flitting across to Burning Man in a three foot silver wig held up by wires. The next he was playing a violently pink electric guitar in a Queen cover band and a spandex miniskirt. One week he was getting fucked by two German foreign exchange students who didn't speak a word of English; the next blowing his senior high school gym coach in a gay bar bathroom after a surprise re-encounter.

After eighteen months of coke, sunshine, buttercups, lollipops, glitter, blowjobs, bell bottom jeans, miniskirts, fireworks, orgasms, orgies, karaoke, wigs, hair extensions, metallic lipsticks, herbal cigarettes, teal stockings, girls, boys, cuddles, tears, handjobs, microphones, stages, Bohemian Rhapsody, Gloria Gaynor and vomit, he broke.

No one really knows what did it. Not even him. He was sitting in the back of a run down bus, thighs spread, wig in his fist, and beautifully, flamboyantly fine. The next tears were pouring down his face. They wouldn't stop. They couldn't stop. His collar was stained with blue eyeliner. Glitter choked his lips. The smell of smoke and the salt of tears and the thick, heady, throaty rasp of sobs rung through the air. The optimism was milked from him in an instantaneous burst. The boy synonymous with encouragement, smiles, ease and laughter stumbled out. He shrugged everyone off. He sat in his bathroom, back against the door, knees crushed against the toilet, and he fucking cried. And cried. And cried.

And prayed.

The moment he got an answer he stopped crying. He cut off all his hair. He burned his clothes. He called his Mom. He bought a pair of sneakers. He took Stella Stefano by the wig, smashed her perfectly formed nose against a wash basin, and ended up in the ER with a shattered septum, a touch of blood in his vodka stream and self-afflicted cuts permeating the insides of his thighs. Stella Stefano never came around.

Adam did.

On the plane to Niihau he grieved for her for the last time. Because as the tears fell, and the sex addiction screamed to be fed, clawing his insides, for two days in a fucking toilet, he had realised who he had found, and he knew who he needed to follow.

God.