Money, Money, Money [SO OPEN LIKE AN OPEN THING]
who ; Marjie Pots and anyone else ever
what ; Marj is a practical lass- and fuck the soup kitchen you guys, seriously.
where ; A medical facility- and later, octopi!
when ; Thursday- into Friday
warning(s) ; Cussing. So much cussing. She really can't help herself.
[[ OOC: Fell free to interupt or find Marj for interaction at any point in her day! <3! ]]
Alright, so this was the stupidest fucking thing in the world. She could admit that. The table was cold, which only made her think the place was more run by robots than it already seemed. I mean, really? Cold metal table? On top of the creepy robot doctor? Fuck, she needed a smoke.
It wasn't as if donating blood for cash was some new, revolutionary thing. Hell, Marj had actually done this before, twice even. It wasn't as if it were some kind of twisted, masochistic version of "fun" but hell. Girl's gotta eat.
Fucking soup kitchens. Free was nice, but christ- trying to explain how important food was in Marjorie's life tended to make people (Paul) edge away from her like she was some kind of religious zealot about to blow up a bus or something. In went the needle and out went the little spurts of red- and why the ever-loving hell did a robot city need blood donations in the first place? Get a lot of crowded hospitals around here?
"Shit, Marj. Hold it together," She muttered, trying not to watch the little spurts in the glass tube. Get her a cookie, she was done. Actually, the cookies were terrible and the juice tasted like sugar mixed into battery acid. Nasty.
And that, as she maintained her balance with admirable lack of aplomb, was the first credit. Time to go-
"Oh fuck yes, I got to get me some octopussy."
Time to go collect a net and sift for tiny octopi. Hell, it was already getting dark and she was sufficiently impaired that giddy octo-fishing seemed like a fine way to end the day. Nobody's told her about the crazy killer puppies, the insane crazy murderer-guys or anything else about this place. So, here's Marjie, leaning on the edge of the pool and inefficiently dipping out tiny, rare, glowing octopi and carefully scooping them into the tiny bucket that had been provided.
"Alright so. George, babe, can I call ya George?" She had three octopi, and after an hour's work, she wasn't feeling too prideful to refrain from naming them, "Georgie-boy, let me tell you, life is hard. See I'm doin' alright, got m'bakery, got m'dumbass assistant, and now I'm in space and talking to an goddamn octopus. Christ."
George declined to reply. He was too busy giving a stark commentary on the nature of aquarium life as a metaphor for slavery, via interpretative dance- or trying to phase through the bucket wall or something. Actually, that was a nice thought; an octopus superhero.
"By day, mild-mannered George, but at night..." At night he glows like a LED, "Octo-Star! Oh fuck me, I'm not drunk enough for this."
Seven octopi was enough right?
Right?
what ; Marj is a practical lass- and fuck the soup kitchen you guys, seriously.
where ; A medical facility- and later, octopi!
when ; Thursday- into Friday
warning(s) ; Cussing. So much cussing. She really can't help herself.
[[ OOC: Fell free to interupt or find Marj for interaction at any point in her day! <3! ]]
Alright, so this was the stupidest fucking thing in the world. She could admit that. The table was cold, which only made her think the place was more run by robots than it already seemed. I mean, really? Cold metal table? On top of the creepy robot doctor? Fuck, she needed a smoke.
It wasn't as if donating blood for cash was some new, revolutionary thing. Hell, Marj had actually done this before, twice even. It wasn't as if it were some kind of twisted, masochistic version of "fun" but hell. Girl's gotta eat.
Fucking soup kitchens. Free was nice, but christ- trying to explain how important food was in Marjorie's life tended to make people (Paul) edge away from her like she was some kind of religious zealot about to blow up a bus or something. In went the needle and out went the little spurts of red- and why the ever-loving hell did a robot city need blood donations in the first place? Get a lot of crowded hospitals around here?
"Shit, Marj. Hold it together," She muttered, trying not to watch the little spurts in the glass tube. Get her a cookie, she was done. Actually, the cookies were terrible and the juice tasted like sugar mixed into battery acid. Nasty.
And that, as she maintained her balance with admirable lack of aplomb, was the first credit. Time to go-
"Oh fuck yes, I got to get me some octopussy."
Time to go collect a net and sift for tiny octopi. Hell, it was already getting dark and she was sufficiently impaired that giddy octo-fishing seemed like a fine way to end the day. Nobody's told her about the crazy killer puppies, the insane crazy murderer-guys or anything else about this place. So, here's Marjie, leaning on the edge of the pool and inefficiently dipping out tiny, rare, glowing octopi and carefully scooping them into the tiny bucket that had been provided.
"Alright so. George, babe, can I call ya George?" She had three octopi, and after an hour's work, she wasn't feeling too prideful to refrain from naming them, "Georgie-boy, let me tell you, life is hard. See I'm doin' alright, got m'bakery, got m'dumbass assistant, and now I'm in space and talking to an goddamn octopus. Christ."
George declined to reply. He was too busy giving a stark commentary on the nature of aquarium life as a metaphor for slavery, via interpretative dance- or trying to phase through the bucket wall or something. Actually, that was a nice thought; an octopus superhero.
"By day, mild-mannered George, but at night..." At night he glows like a LED, "Octo-Star! Oh fuck me, I'm not drunk enough for this."
Seven octopi was enough right?
Right?