(no subject)
In general, trying to hide behind a record wasn't the best idea in the world. Trying to hide behind a record with your picture splashed all over the back was an even worse idea, especially when it said in large and gigantic glittery letters MAKE IT SPARKLE. Of all the things that she could be holding, this was a bad idea. She was going to put it back, even, but every time she lowered it to do that, she saw someone walk into the rec room.
Usually she tried to hope that people couldn't recognize her on legs or hips or breasts alone. Well, if you weren't Barney. She didn't even try to understand some of the odd talents that Barney possessed and body-part recognition just happened to be in that category.
But no face meant no recognition. Plus, she had her hair tied back in a pretty strict ponytail which did not match the blonde perm of hell on the album cover. Man, she might hate her father for the whole 'raising her a boy' thing, but sometimes she wondered what the hell her Mom was thinking when she let Robin get that perm and get into modelling.
She lowered the record another inch and cursed swiftly when yet another person walked into the room. "Damn it," she hissed to herself. "What is this, literary happy hour?" she muttered to herself. "Come on, people, go get drunk or something."
[In the rec room, hiding behind a record of herself, and feel free to have heard that last part. ST/LT open through Thursday]
Usually she tried to hope that people couldn't recognize her on legs or hips or breasts alone. Well, if you weren't Barney. She didn't even try to understand some of the odd talents that Barney possessed and body-part recognition just happened to be in that category.
But no face meant no recognition. Plus, she had her hair tied back in a pretty strict ponytail which did not match the blonde perm of hell on the album cover. Man, she might hate her father for the whole 'raising her a boy' thing, but sometimes she wondered what the hell her Mom was thinking when she let Robin get that perm and get into modelling.
She lowered the record another inch and cursed swiftly when yet another person walked into the room. "Damn it," she hissed to herself. "What is this, literary happy hour?" she muttered to herself. "Come on, people, go get drunk or something."
[In the rec room, hiding behind a record of herself, and feel free to have heard that last part. ST/LT open through Thursday]