The Un-Popping of Veronica Mars
(( Okay'd by Dick Casablancas-mun! A note to those who care that I'm playing Veronica post-S1, a bit after the solving of the Lilly Kane murder. Also, requesting a tag for Veronica here :) ))
I had three questions for the world.
First: Where was I? I could make out stone and more stone somewhere in the dim light of the room, but nothing else. Was it a dungeon? No, a prison cell. Ooh, Celeste Kane's soul! If so, the decorum was rather poorly chosen for this rendtion. Much too brightly-lit.
Okay, second question. Better. Why couldn't I remember anything? This was monumentally not good. The antonym of 'good', in fact, which entails words such as 'bad' and 'terrible'. Mostly because, last I checked, my previous experiences with me and memory loss involved a few roofies, body shots galore, a poor discarded pair of panties, way too much tongue and a few hours of my life that... frankly, I'm not sure I wanted to remember. Granted, I'd cleared up the mystery surrounding the situation - the who, mostly had been what was bothering me - but... still. GHB. Not as fun as advertised in The O.C.
Not thinking about that party, Veronica. Skipping ahead. To now. And the place made of rocks? It's fun, honestly. Third question for now, here. Best one, I noted, as I stepped out into the nearest doorway and gave my favorite sweater a nice, hearty whiff.
Why did I smell like a movie theater?
I don't mind the smell of popcorn. I live for the smell of popcorn. But this was... Wow, popcorn overload. DEATH BY POPCORN. The kind that came in ten-gallon buckets and was slathered with so much butter that you were positive you were going to bleed yellow for the rest of the week. Mmm, that was the stuff.
Damn, now I was hungry. You do not help matters, rumbling stomach. Begone with you! You shall not pass and other Gandalf-y sounding phrases! In the light of the hall, though. Well. I suppose I could have just eaten my sweater, at this point. Wasn't this thing gray at some time? I distinctly remember owning a gray sweater. Of course, swiping a finger down the front of the newly yellowed article of cltohing... Damn. Popcorn butter strikes again.
Well, strikes once, really. And just from several angles.
This may have been a time to switch strategies. Starting to trudge down the hall, I picked at sticky sweater sleeves, grimacing. I haven't been a particularly squeamish girl for a really long time now, but... I really didn't want to think about the state of my hair right now. I could only give myself a positive sort of mantra as I kept on down the hallway, turning down an empty corridor.
"Please let Jensen Ackles not reside in a castle. Please, please let Jensen Ackles not reside in a castle."
I only ask for small favors, honest.
I had three questions for the world.
First: Where was I? I could make out stone and more stone somewhere in the dim light of the room, but nothing else. Was it a dungeon? No, a prison cell. Ooh, Celeste Kane's soul! If so, the decorum was rather poorly chosen for this rendtion. Much too brightly-lit.
Okay, second question. Better. Why couldn't I remember anything? This was monumentally not good. The antonym of 'good', in fact, which entails words such as 'bad' and 'terrible'. Mostly because, last I checked, my previous experiences with me and memory loss involved a few roofies, body shots galore, a poor discarded pair of panties, way too much tongue and a few hours of my life that... frankly, I'm not sure I wanted to remember. Granted, I'd cleared up the mystery surrounding the situation - the who, mostly had been what was bothering me - but... still. GHB. Not as fun as advertised in The O.C.
Not thinking about that party, Veronica. Skipping ahead. To now. And the place made of rocks? It's fun, honestly. Third question for now, here. Best one, I noted, as I stepped out into the nearest doorway and gave my favorite sweater a nice, hearty whiff.
Why did I smell like a movie theater?
I don't mind the smell of popcorn. I live for the smell of popcorn. But this was... Wow, popcorn overload. DEATH BY POPCORN. The kind that came in ten-gallon buckets and was slathered with so much butter that you were positive you were going to bleed yellow for the rest of the week. Mmm, that was the stuff.
Damn, now I was hungry. You do not help matters, rumbling stomach. Begone with you! You shall not pass and other Gandalf-y sounding phrases! In the light of the hall, though. Well. I suppose I could have just eaten my sweater, at this point. Wasn't this thing gray at some time? I distinctly remember owning a gray sweater. Of course, swiping a finger down the front of the newly yellowed article of cltohing... Damn. Popcorn butter strikes again.
Well, strikes once, really. And just from several angles.
This may have been a time to switch strategies. Starting to trudge down the hall, I picked at sticky sweater sleeves, grimacing. I haven't been a particularly squeamish girl for a really long time now, but... I really didn't want to think about the state of my hair right now. I could only give myself a positive sort of mantra as I kept on down the hallway, turning down an empty corridor.
"Please let Jensen Ackles not reside in a castle. Please, please let Jensen Ackles not reside in a castle."
I only ask for small favors, honest.