Frustrated trophy wives in their mid-20s- that's who!
Ew. Creepy older guy looking at her overalls. She likes any kind of attention, but this kind she just keeps a sekrit kk? So finishing off her handful of cashews she stops before she licks the salt off the palm of her hand and turns to the guy.
(She's sitting several stools down -- dressed in a black skirt, a black turtleneck sweater, black tights, and black combat boots -- her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.)
She turns out of sheer impulse and catches sight of...some misplaced mirror. A misplaced mirror that's ingesting something that looks good...where the hell is it? There's only one other explanation.
"Um!" she trots over, stopping at the stool and sticking her hip out. "I don't know exactly who you think you are, but I do not do the Marilyn Manson concert thing."
She gestures to her own face obscurely while swaying. "This? Right here. That's mine."
A pause. Her eyes widen.
"You're not one of those nerdy girls from high school who got plastic surgery to look just like me, are you? 'Cause I want some kind of payment for you banking on my looks!"
She thrust out of her hand as if demanding the money right there and now.
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It's the overalls that have his attention, really.
The overalls and the cashews. WHO EATS THAT MANY AT ONCE?
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Ew. Creepy older guy looking at her overalls. She likes any kind of attention, but this kind she just keeps a sekrit kk? So finishing off her handful of cashews she stops before she licks the salt off the palm of her hand and turns to the guy.
"You have to get your own."
Nobody was taking away her comfort food. Nobody.
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Blinkblink.
"Um."
THE OVERALLS
WHY ARE THEY YELLOW
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Slouching, she plants her elbows on either side of the bowl as if a precaution.
"NO. NUTS." she raises her voice careful to sound out the words with her lips.
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"Oh," says Liz Sherman, "my. God."
There are no words for the depth of her horror.
(She's sitting several stools down -- dressed in a black skirt, a black turtleneck sweater, black tights, and black combat boots -- her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.)
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"Um!" she trots over, stopping at the stool and sticking her hip out. "I don't know exactly who you think you are, but I do not do the Marilyn Manson concert thing."
ooc: *dieeeees* <3
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This is worse than last time.
Much worse.
There is -- yellow. And short shorts. And -- and hip-jutting.
Liz's mouth opens and closes a few times, and then, she says (eloquently):
"What?!"
(By the end, her expression looks much more like this:
( ... )
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A pause. Her eyes widen.
"You're not one of those nerdy girls from high school who got plastic surgery to look just like me, are you? 'Cause I want some kind of payment for you banking on my looks!"
She thrust out of her hand as if demanding the money right there and now.
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Someone sitting at the bar didn't just swallow her tongue. You can tell by the way it's still in her mouth, and not swallowed.
Still, it feels like she has when it takes her a full minute to muster up the coordination to talk.
"Maybe the bar didn't give her a door?"
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"Um. It's an open bar. Anyone can get through the door."
Apparently even the crazies.
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"I didn't know this was a gay bar," she looks around wondering where, well, all the gay went...
"Kinda a sucky one, though."
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