(She's sitting several stools down -- dressed in a black skirt, a black turtleneck sweater, black tights, and black combat boots -- her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.)
She turns out of sheer impulse and catches sight of...some misplaced mirror. A misplaced mirror that's ingesting something that looks good...where the hell is it? There's only one other explanation.
"Um!" she trots over, stopping at the stool and sticking her hip out. "I don't know exactly who you think you are, but I do not do the Marilyn Manson concert thing."
She gestures to her own face obscurely while swaying. "This? Right here. That's mine."
A pause. Her eyes widen.
"You're not one of those nerdy girls from high school who got plastic surgery to look just like me, are you? 'Cause I want some kind of payment for you banking on my looks!"
She thrust out of her hand as if demanding the money right there and now.
"Oh," says Liz Sherman, "my. God."
There are no words for the depth of her horror.
(She's sitting several stools down -- dressed in a black skirt, a black turtleneck sweater, black tights, and black combat boots -- her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.)
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"Um!" she trots over, stopping at the stool and sticking her hip out. "I don't know exactly who you think you are, but I do not do the Marilyn Manson concert thing."
ooc: *dieeeees* <3
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This is worse than last time.
Much worse.
There is -- yellow. And short shorts. And -- and hip-jutting.
Liz's mouth opens and closes a few times, and then, she says (eloquently):
"What?!"
(By the end, her expression looks much more like this:
( ... )
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A pause. Her eyes widen.
"You're not one of those nerdy girls from high school who got plastic surgery to look just like me, are you? 'Cause I want some kind of payment for you banking on my looks!"
She thrust out of her hand as if demanding the money right there and now.
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"My face," she grits, "my looks, no plastic surgery."
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"I mean, I know when people say you're an individual it's total bullshit...but come on!"
Does she have another change of clothes? ...or a bag to put over the girl's head? This is embarrassing.
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This is serious. She takes a deep breath, spreads her hands at the level of her chest and tries to control herself.
"Okay...who are you?"
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Beat.
"Who the hell are you?"
(If she says 'Liz Sherman,' Liz tells herself, she is lighting her on fire.)
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