I always wanted a house, you see
It's one of those things, one of those phases in life. You get near 30, and you get tired of paying rent.
Suddenly, the nesting urge hits: paint the walls, rip out the carpet for hardwood, a decent VR setup, a place you could hold a proper dinner party. I've never wanted much, really...a thousand square feet, all of it mine, enough room to let guests stay the night without them sleeping in a closet-hold, the proper cat-to-rooms ratio, that sort of thing.
But everyone knows such things just don't exist anywhere within a reasonable 'port of the day job, so I did the only sensible thing a house-buying-minded girl would do. I got a night job. After all, I have plenty of talents, what's the harm in bringing home a bit more dosh to stash? Simple enough, really, on the surface, you'd think. So one comes to ask oneself, "What can *I* do?"
It really ought to have gone more like "What can't I do", I fear...or better yet, "What won't I do?" or "What shouldn't I do?"...
First it was dancing. I already had those mostly-volunteer slots at my favorite clubs, where for the price of admission and a few drinks I'd "provide ambiance". So I pushed it a bit harder. Started taking gigs at places where it wasn't my scene, but the pay? Money in is always better than money out. Then I got spotted...discovered...spotlit, you could almost say, and it left stars in my eyes. I had that "wholesome look". Blonde, freckled, petite, "the girl next door".
Dancing turned to modelling. At first it was all photography, nice pictures in nice dresses, nothing too strange, at first. They liked my interest in history, in historical clothes and costuming, and the loved that I knew how to wear that sort of stuff already. Soon my evenings were filled with girdles and corsets, panniers and hoops, every conceivable type of vintage dress, always a different flashback.
Modelling turned to acting. Mom always told me she thought I was born in the wrong era. I was a 50's political wife, in my New Look dress and heels...I was Dorothy Gibson, rich and aboard the Titanic with my trosseau... and on and on, back through history. I was Queen Victoria, I was Elizabeth, I was Guinevere. Famous women who changed the world, I was every one of them. It was grand, fabulous, and I was perfect at every one of them.
The last one was Mary. No, not Mary Tudor. Not Mary Queen of Scots. Not William-and-Mary. Mary. Just Mary. That Mary. The virgin. I had to get that back, for that one. He was conceived immaculately, my little boy, in a tube in a lab before they put him inside of me. Nothing so horrid as sex was involved in the making of my perfect boy.
He is perfect, you know, in every last way. It's a good thing I got a degree in Biochemistry so that I could understand just exactly how they made him so very perfect, and it took all of my old university learning and then some to understand it, but I was determined. As I gestated him I had lots of time, between workouts and all the rest to come to terms with the perfection inside of me. They trained me all the while, kept me safe, taught me everything I needed to know to prepare for His coming.
The birthing room was in the wilds, in a perfectly controlled stable, with a manger. They had Joseph there too, of course. We used to model together for them. They liked us together, I guess. It's fine with me, after all.
Of course they took him away soon after He was reborn. He's come back to Earth now, our Saviour, and he's been very busy.
They have promised me he will remember me when my time comes...and finally, finally I got my house.
Suddenly, the nesting urge hits: paint the walls, rip out the carpet for hardwood, a decent VR setup, a place you could hold a proper dinner party. I've never wanted much, really...a thousand square feet, all of it mine, enough room to let guests stay the night without them sleeping in a closet-hold, the proper cat-to-rooms ratio, that sort of thing.
But everyone knows such things just don't exist anywhere within a reasonable 'port of the day job, so I did the only sensible thing a house-buying-minded girl would do. I got a night job. After all, I have plenty of talents, what's the harm in bringing home a bit more dosh to stash? Simple enough, really, on the surface, you'd think. So one comes to ask oneself, "What can *I* do?"
It really ought to have gone more like "What can't I do", I fear...or better yet, "What won't I do?" or "What shouldn't I do?"...
First it was dancing. I already had those mostly-volunteer slots at my favorite clubs, where for the price of admission and a few drinks I'd "provide ambiance". So I pushed it a bit harder. Started taking gigs at places where it wasn't my scene, but the pay? Money in is always better than money out. Then I got spotted...discovered...spotlit, you could almost say, and it left stars in my eyes. I had that "wholesome look". Blonde, freckled, petite, "the girl next door".
Dancing turned to modelling. At first it was all photography, nice pictures in nice dresses, nothing too strange, at first. They liked my interest in history, in historical clothes and costuming, and the loved that I knew how to wear that sort of stuff already. Soon my evenings were filled with girdles and corsets, panniers and hoops, every conceivable type of vintage dress, always a different flashback.
Modelling turned to acting. Mom always told me she thought I was born in the wrong era. I was a 50's political wife, in my New Look dress and heels...I was Dorothy Gibson, rich and aboard the Titanic with my trosseau... and on and on, back through history. I was Queen Victoria, I was Elizabeth, I was Guinevere. Famous women who changed the world, I was every one of them. It was grand, fabulous, and I was perfect at every one of them.
The last one was Mary. No, not Mary Tudor. Not Mary Queen of Scots. Not William-and-Mary. Mary. Just Mary. That Mary. The virgin. I had to get that back, for that one. He was conceived immaculately, my little boy, in a tube in a lab before they put him inside of me. Nothing so horrid as sex was involved in the making of my perfect boy.
He is perfect, you know, in every last way. It's a good thing I got a degree in Biochemistry so that I could understand just exactly how they made him so very perfect, and it took all of my old university learning and then some to understand it, but I was determined. As I gestated him I had lots of time, between workouts and all the rest to come to terms with the perfection inside of me. They trained me all the while, kept me safe, taught me everything I needed to know to prepare for His coming.
The birthing room was in the wilds, in a perfectly controlled stable, with a manger. They had Joseph there too, of course. We used to model together for them. They liked us together, I guess. It's fine with me, after all.
Of course they took him away soon after He was reborn. He's come back to Earth now, our Saviour, and he's been very busy.
They have promised me he will remember me when my time comes...and finally, finally I got my house.