(no subject)
January on the magic island: everybody gets a gift. A little "sorry you got kidnapped from your life and you're in paradise and it's kind of boring, actually," consolation.
Kim's had been more like a bad joke, like she hadn't gone weeks without playing back home before the months of drifting through this place. A drum care kit with her name on it and a pair of gloves, and every time she went to the box another pair waiting for her.
"This would be great," she'd muttered at the useless shit on her bed, "if I were interested in keeping my air drums clean." Not that she had air drums. She's not Adrien Brody in The Pianist, pining for the sweet sounds of Chopin she used to make with her tiny girl hands.
It's really more like The Raconteurs, and maybe the Blue Fairy (or, apparently, the fucking space station) in charge heard her, because it's the end of February and her bad-joke-gift is starting to make sense. Because it's the end of February, and she's climbed a ladder up to the compound roof to have a cigarette, and there are her drums, all packed up just like she left them.
Her cigarette can wait, because nicotine is nothing compared to the feeling of putting her set together again. All those gloves and wipes are downstairs in her room, but her tiny girl hands are just fine without. She fits them around her sticks and has a super pathetic moment where she kind of wants to cry.
Fuck that moment. Kim lifts her skinny arms triumphantly, cracks her sticks together and yells, "ONE TWO THREE FOUR," before laying waste to her set.
For a few minutes anyway: she's as rusty as she's ever been, and when she's done waking up the rest of the island with an onslaught of suck, she sits back and laughs. "Happy birthday to me," she says.
[Holy shit, Kim Pine is EPing publicly and happy. Come up to find out what the racket is or just yell at her to knock it off from the ground, open to anyone and everyone with a 6 thread limit since I'm starting my new job tomorrow.]
Kim's had been more like a bad joke, like she hadn't gone weeks without playing back home before the months of drifting through this place. A drum care kit with her name on it and a pair of gloves, and every time she went to the box another pair waiting for her.
"This would be great," she'd muttered at the useless shit on her bed, "if I were interested in keeping my air drums clean." Not that she had air drums. She's not Adrien Brody in The Pianist, pining for the sweet sounds of Chopin she used to make with her tiny girl hands.
It's really more like The Raconteurs, and maybe the Blue Fairy (or, apparently, the fucking space station) in charge heard her, because it's the end of February and her bad-joke-gift is starting to make sense. Because it's the end of February, and she's climbed a ladder up to the compound roof to have a cigarette, and there are her drums, all packed up just like she left them.
Her cigarette can wait, because nicotine is nothing compared to the feeling of putting her set together again. All those gloves and wipes are downstairs in her room, but her tiny girl hands are just fine without. She fits them around her sticks and has a super pathetic moment where she kind of wants to cry.
Fuck that moment. Kim lifts her skinny arms triumphantly, cracks her sticks together and yells, "ONE TWO THREE FOUR," before laying waste to her set.
For a few minutes anyway: she's as rusty as she's ever been, and when she's done waking up the rest of the island with an onslaught of suck, she sits back and laughs. "Happy birthday to me," she says.
[Holy shit, Kim Pine is EPing publicly and happy. Come up to find out what the racket is or just yell at her to knock it off from the ground, open to anyone and everyone with a 6 thread limit since I'm starting my new job tomorrow.]