bang bang
Today is sort of show off day over at thelittlebang, but since I have snail blood in me I wouldn't call some 300 words out of a humble 2000 as showing off lol. I'm working on a Gossip Girl piece, tentatively using all permutations of Blair/Serena/Georgina and disregarding canon after You've Got Yale. Basically, I secretly call this, "The One Where Black Ops Means Black Ops But Oh Shit Serena I Didn't Do That".
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This is her life as a movie.
It opens on a Thursday evening smelling of impending rain, despite no sign of so much as a droplet of water anywhere. Blair Waldorf sits in the furthermost table Serendipity 3 has to offer, which is particularly convenient, considering there is a chance -- fine, a fragment of a chance -- she might actually slip off her heels; community service is not easy on one’s feet.
Blair considers it over a cup of hot chocolate. There is a significant touch of tackiness in secretly going Barefoot Contessa on a restaurant, but then again, mustn’t the heroine go through trials and tribulations, often losing her footing before rising from the ashes like a blazing phoenix and rightfully scorching all and any to have ever done her wrong?
“Why are you cringing?”
Blair quits dramatic internal narration and looks up. Across the table, her best friend is smiling over an obscenely large bowl of ice cream, the kind that ends up on the thighs of every woman not named Serena van der Woodsen.
This is her life as a movie -- the crappy workprint.
And Serena, being Serena, defies any metaphorical dark cloud parked over someone’s head. “Is the chocolate subpar?”
Blair lifts an eyebrow, her lips pressed tight. “So is the joke.”
Serena laughs and digs out another spoonful of ice cream. To her credit, nowhere in her does it say this is an intervention -- and it is, Blair knows the ice cream routine like she knows the drunken romps with investment bankers and unplanned jet-trotting with “borrowed” credit cards -- nowhere in her does it say she’s here to prevent a fire.
Blair smirks at the thought; some have the luxury of feeling beautiful, others make do with dangerous.
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This is her life as a movie.
It opens on a Thursday evening smelling of impending rain, despite no sign of so much as a droplet of water anywhere. Blair Waldorf sits in the furthermost table Serendipity 3 has to offer, which is particularly convenient, considering there is a chance -- fine, a fragment of a chance -- she might actually slip off her heels; community service is not easy on one’s feet.
Blair considers it over a cup of hot chocolate. There is a significant touch of tackiness in secretly going Barefoot Contessa on a restaurant, but then again, mustn’t the heroine go through trials and tribulations, often losing her footing before rising from the ashes like a blazing phoenix and rightfully scorching all and any to have ever done her wrong?
“Why are you cringing?”
Blair quits dramatic internal narration and looks up. Across the table, her best friend is smiling over an obscenely large bowl of ice cream, the kind that ends up on the thighs of every woman not named Serena van der Woodsen.
This is her life as a movie -- the crappy workprint.
And Serena, being Serena, defies any metaphorical dark cloud parked over someone’s head. “Is the chocolate subpar?”
Blair lifts an eyebrow, her lips pressed tight. “So is the joke.”
Serena laughs and digs out another spoonful of ice cream. To her credit, nowhere in her does it say this is an intervention -- and it is, Blair knows the ice cream routine like she knows the drunken romps with investment bankers and unplanned jet-trotting with “borrowed” credit cards -- nowhere in her does it say she’s here to prevent a fire.
Blair smirks at the thought; some have the luxury of feeling beautiful, others make do with dangerous.