Room 505, Thursday Morning
So Katchoo hadn't slept well; no surprise. That was so par for the course, she might have sometimes pondered insomnia handicapping rules if she gave a flying crap about golf. But the unexpected and very -- ow -- rough stubble that greeted her when she finally gave up on attempting to go back to sleep for the 94th time and rubbed a hand over her face instead? That was very much a surprise.
Not a pleasant one. Katchoo staggered up and over to the mirror on the inside of her closet door on legs that didn't feel like they were working right, blinked hard, and . . .
"OH, SONOFA --"
It probably wouldn't have taken a whole lot of effort to hear the yell; the timbre might have been much deeper than usual, but the rasp and pissed-off-ness were exactly the same. Said yell was really not fit to be reproduced in any written form except maybe "@#)(&$(*@#$@!"
Which was about what it sounded like, really.
"Stupid frikkin' island," she snarled, tugging her suddenly too-tight tank top aside to note, with resigned disgust, that the world's dirtiest flower lily tattoo was still there, on her left . . . pec. Gawd. For half a second she considered taking a picture and cropping her head out of the shot, then sending it to L.A., because wouldn't that give Darcy a fit? Except for the part where no, letting Darcy know where she was would be a really, really stupid idea. But the mental image of Darcy's conniption over seeing her brand on a male body . . .
Katchoo was amused -- for all of the half second before the sound of her voice when she snickered pissed her right back off again.
Muttering, she dug through the closet for clothes that would actually fit, mostly because she wasn't dumb enough to break her toes by giving the closet door a good hard kick before she had shoes on. If this was some kind of twisted ploy to get her to take a less pessimistic view of the male gender, it wasn't going to work. Dammit.
[OOC: Establishy, and I go sleep now, but feel free to react to the yelling! Katchoo is David Gallagher because . . . BECAUSE. C'mon, 7th Heaven. And Katchoo. ETA because I forgot to mention last night: Mention of the tattoo NFB, please?]
Not a pleasant one. Katchoo staggered up and over to the mirror on the inside of her closet door on legs that didn't feel like they were working right, blinked hard, and . . .
"OH, SONOFA --"
It probably wouldn't have taken a whole lot of effort to hear the yell; the timbre might have been much deeper than usual, but the rasp and pissed-off-ness were exactly the same. Said yell was really not fit to be reproduced in any written form except maybe "@#)(&$(*@#$@!"
Which was about what it sounded like, really.
"Stupid frikkin' island," she snarled, tugging her suddenly too-tight tank top aside to note, with resigned disgust, that the world's dirtiest flower lily tattoo was still there, on her left . . . pec. Gawd. For half a second she considered taking a picture and cropping her head out of the shot, then sending it to L.A., because wouldn't that give Darcy a fit? Except for the part where no, letting Darcy know where she was would be a really, really stupid idea. But the mental image of Darcy's conniption over seeing her brand on a male body . . .
Katchoo was amused -- for all of the half second before the sound of her voice when she snickered pissed her right back off again.
Muttering, she dug through the closet for clothes that would actually fit, mostly because she wasn't dumb enough to break her toes by giving the closet door a good hard kick before she had shoes on. If this was some kind of twisted ploy to get her to take a less pessimistic view of the male gender, it wasn't going to work. Dammit.
[OOC: Establishy, and I go sleep now, but feel free to react to the yelling! Katchoo is David Gallagher because . . . BECAUSE. C'mon, 7th Heaven. And Katchoo. ETA because I forgot to mention last night: Mention of the tattoo NFB, please?]