Flash!
Bored. When bored write. When write, post. Return to hunter gatherer mood. *Smash*
Articulation in Amber
by Me (steal and I will reach down your throat and play connect-four on your lungs).
“Another one, kid?”
I hate being called a kid. It implies that I’m small, annoying, and probably Germanic (or from the New World, but heck; she’s a bartender, the chance of her affording the airship ticket to Gotham and back, let alone staying there long enough to pick up their colloquialisms, is somewhere between slender and bugger all).
That’s not to say that I’m not fairly small-fuck you, a double negative’s fine in these circumstances-or annoying, either immediately after waking up or before going to sleep, or indeed: any moment in between. But, as I solemnly avow by the decaying corpse of God (may He rest in peace, that deified bastard), am I definitely-positively-not Germanic.
Also, to be fair, there are plenty of people who are far more annoying than me. Stack addicts, the Aristocracy, those who give the undead a bad name, certain scriveners who deserve to have their writing implements gently nudged into their own eye-ooh, a coaster, it's made of cork.
That bartender, I can never remember her name; she's looking at me. Is she waiting for me to say something? Has she asked me a question? Oh, wait, of course she asked me a question; she asked me if I wanted anything else to drink. Quick: reply! Say something, girl! Ar-tic-ul-ate words!
“Wench, more ale!” Mirth, did I say that out loud? No, she's still smiling encouragingly and I can't see my own spine. Great, I guess this means I’m drunk. Stop thinking now, in case you say something that gets you a boot through the head. Good, we’re silent.
Unfortunately, clearing my brain of thoughts (a task that itself a fair challenge) means that currently I am also incapable of answering her question. Nuts.
“O, that men should put an enemy to their mouths to steal away their brains;” wise words there from a man who probably spent half his life throwing up in an alleyway. They say women are worse drunkards than men. Bollocks to that. This is my eighth shot of whisky and I’m still perfectly upright. Of course, that’s not to say that anyone who suddenly develops a romantic attachment to park benches, wears skirts up to their eyebrows and turns green after their second bottle of small ale shouldn’t be locked in the birdcage (not meaning to belittle Emmeline there, just showing my beliefs have conviction). But really, when it comes down to it, men are just as bad, when they’re not pulling off each other’s fingers for sport they’re doing something idiotic like attempting to perform a strip-tease around Nelson’s Column. At the top.
“Drunkenness is the vice of poets, writers and actors.” Wise words there from me. Hah, so I’m not any of those things yet, but I have designs, and while I maintain my career as a rogue will be long, successful and entirely devoid of my horrible death, certain factors (exempli gratia: the fact that I weigh 112 pounds, the fact that I have a tendency to run away from small dogs) mean that considering alternative careers might be prudent.
And now I’ve just realised I’ve been mulling over this for anything between five seconds or ten minutes. The barkeep’s still looking at me, but her smile appears to be fading. Granted, it’s not like I’ve never zoned out before, but we're now rapidly approaching the point where I've been silent for too long. We've passed uncomfortable, we're currently racing through embarrassing and, if I'm not mistaken we're on a collision course with “don't-you-think-you-should-be-sleeping-soon”? Look thoughtful. Hum. See, it's working. She now thinks you’re putting some serious effort into thinking about what to drink next. Start chewing your lip-ow!-chew, not eat. Project the cogs rotating in your brain as you come to a decisive decision.
And three, two, one…
“I'll just have another Scotch on the rocks thanks.” There, she heard that. She's going away to get more delicious drinkable gold, safe in the knowledge that I’m moody, stoic and don't have the brain of a upside-down giggling monkey. Now, while she’s away, I can shuffle closer to the cash register. There I go. Closer…closer…aha! Got it. I’m finally close enough to steal some of those croutons on the bar without her noticing.
Of course, now I’m starting to wonder if I wouldn’t be happier in bed right now anyway. It’s been a couple of hours since my vision was clear enough to make out the hands on the clock, but I think it was past midnight then, so it’s probably high time I start pretending I’m stealthy enough to get back to my room without Snow noticing. Of course, now that I’ve asked for a drink, I better stay and have this one, it wouldn’t be polite otherwise.
After all, when it comes down to it, there isn’t anywhere I’d rather be.
Articulation in Amber
by Me (steal and I will reach down your throat and play connect-four on your lungs).
“Another one, kid?”
I hate being called a kid. It implies that I’m small, annoying, and probably Germanic (or from the New World, but heck; she’s a bartender, the chance of her affording the airship ticket to Gotham and back, let alone staying there long enough to pick up their colloquialisms, is somewhere between slender and bugger all).
That’s not to say that I’m not fairly small-fuck you, a double negative’s fine in these circumstances-or annoying, either immediately after waking up or before going to sleep, or indeed: any moment in between. But, as I solemnly avow by the decaying corpse of God (may He rest in peace, that deified bastard), am I definitely-positively-not Germanic.
Also, to be fair, there are plenty of people who are far more annoying than me. Stack addicts, the Aristocracy, those who give the undead a bad name, certain scriveners who deserve to have their writing implements gently nudged into their own eye-ooh, a coaster, it's made of cork.
That bartender, I can never remember her name; she's looking at me. Is she waiting for me to say something? Has she asked me a question? Oh, wait, of course she asked me a question; she asked me if I wanted anything else to drink. Quick: reply! Say something, girl! Ar-tic-ul-ate words!
“Wench, more ale!” Mirth, did I say that out loud? No, she's still smiling encouragingly and I can't see my own spine. Great, I guess this means I’m drunk. Stop thinking now, in case you say something that gets you a boot through the head. Good, we’re silent.
Unfortunately, clearing my brain of thoughts (a task that itself a fair challenge) means that currently I am also incapable of answering her question. Nuts.
“O, that men should put an enemy to their mouths to steal away their brains;” wise words there from a man who probably spent half his life throwing up in an alleyway. They say women are worse drunkards than men. Bollocks to that. This is my eighth shot of whisky and I’m still perfectly upright. Of course, that’s not to say that anyone who suddenly develops a romantic attachment to park benches, wears skirts up to their eyebrows and turns green after their second bottle of small ale shouldn’t be locked in the birdcage (not meaning to belittle Emmeline there, just showing my beliefs have conviction). But really, when it comes down to it, men are just as bad, when they’re not pulling off each other’s fingers for sport they’re doing something idiotic like attempting to perform a strip-tease around Nelson’s Column. At the top.
“Drunkenness is the vice of poets, writers and actors.” Wise words there from me. Hah, so I’m not any of those things yet, but I have designs, and while I maintain my career as a rogue will be long, successful and entirely devoid of my horrible death, certain factors (exempli gratia: the fact that I weigh 112 pounds, the fact that I have a tendency to run away from small dogs) mean that considering alternative careers might be prudent.
And now I’ve just realised I’ve been mulling over this for anything between five seconds or ten minutes. The barkeep’s still looking at me, but her smile appears to be fading. Granted, it’s not like I’ve never zoned out before, but we're now rapidly approaching the point where I've been silent for too long. We've passed uncomfortable, we're currently racing through embarrassing and, if I'm not mistaken we're on a collision course with “don't-you-think-you-should-be-sleeping-soon”? Look thoughtful. Hum. See, it's working. She now thinks you’re putting some serious effort into thinking about what to drink next. Start chewing your lip-ow!-chew, not eat. Project the cogs rotating in your brain as you come to a decisive decision.
And three, two, one…
“I'll just have another Scotch on the rocks thanks.” There, she heard that. She's going away to get more delicious drinkable gold, safe in the knowledge that I’m moody, stoic and don't have the brain of a upside-down giggling monkey. Now, while she’s away, I can shuffle closer to the cash register. There I go. Closer…closer…aha! Got it. I’m finally close enough to steal some of those croutons on the bar without her noticing.
Of course, now I’m starting to wonder if I wouldn’t be happier in bed right now anyway. It’s been a couple of hours since my vision was clear enough to make out the hands on the clock, but I think it was past midnight then, so it’s probably high time I start pretending I’m stealthy enough to get back to my room without Snow noticing. Of course, now that I’ve asked for a drink, I better stay and have this one, it wouldn’t be polite otherwise.
After all, when it comes down to it, there isn’t anywhere I’d rather be.