Metatron is spinning in lazy circles in Naomi’s desk chair, trying to decide which Heaven he wants to study for the day, and the door to the White Room slams open. Messy brown hair, blue eyes, and a familiar scowl greet him. Marv frowns. “Castiel. You weren’t supposed to die this soon. Your story won’t be an interesting one.”
Marv is hauled out of the chair by the front of his sweater and shaken like a ragdoll. “My name is Jimmy Novak. I’m from Pontiac, Illinois, and I’m fucking sick of angels.”
If you think about it, Nick Carraway is kind of just a fangirl.
And The Great Gatsby is the equivalent of a passionate hash tag rant:
#Listen #my dad told me not to judge people when I was growing up #because you never know what someone else has been through #or has had to overcome #BUT CAN WE FUCKING TALK ABOUT GATSBY FOR A SECOND #AND HOW JUST LIKE FLAWLESSLY GREAT HE WAS #AND HOW DAISY AND TOM AND JORDAN ARE JUST LIKE THE WORST KIND OF PEOPLE EVER #AND THEY DON’T EVEN DESERVE TO EXIST #BECAUSE THEY’RE SUCH ASSHOLES #LIKE #FUCK NEW YORK #AND ALL OF THE CARELESS PEOPLE WHO JUST DIDN’T FUCKING KNOW GATSBY LIKE I DID#FUCK