Post by Dollface on Jan 16, 2017 22:24:54 GMT -5
I know.
No, really, I know. It’s weird for me too, it’s okay.
It’s nighttime, I’m at home instead of out having fun, and so help me GOD it’s because I’m sitting here typing a letter to Seromine. Yes, folks, PCW sometimes takes precedence over my social life. It’s gotta happen some time, right?
But yeah, I got me some Google Drive, some tunes, and an email address no one is going to know is me.
To be honest, I’m surprised gregor.clegane.the.hound@gmail.com wasn’t taken, but I guess the rest of the hardcore nerd-people are all out there trying to be creative. All creative with their word combinations and vocabulary and prose and -
Oh, that’s right. Speaking of which:
YO, SEROMINE! My buddy, my friend, my opponent, my sweet sweet little lollipop triple dipped in Walter Disney’s combination idea and wank-tissue disposal unit! How’s the family? How’s tricks? Though I suppose for you that’s one and the same, if what I’ve heard is true if you know what I’m sayin’. I just wonder if you use positive or negative reinforcement with your crew - gotsta keep the bitches in line, but at the same time when you’re raising your children in a cult I don’t know what exactly that entails.
On the other hand, I offer you the most excellent of mad props for your creativity… mostly. I’m not gonna say I had a betting pool going, but as soon as it became clear there was maybe even one SLIVER, one single IOTA of visible disconnect between Nathan and I, the thirsty boys were gonna come out of the woodwork.
Gotta say, man, you weren’t even on the list. No no no, I get it, I do, it’s not that you want to get with me it’s that you want to get with my friends.
Wait, wrong song. Wrong lyrics to the wrong song, no less.
It’s not that you want to get with me, it’s that you want to WEAPONIZE me. I’m weird, I’m hyper, I’m manic, I’m insane, but I’m not STUPID for fuck’s sake. Sure, my win/loss style can be best described as “hit-or-miss” at this point, but that’s not really important right now. What’s important is that when I’m on my game I’m good, and good is what you need. You done fucked up, boyo.
PCW is on to you, now. Didn’t you see what happened? Even people who would just as soon run each other over in public were joining forces AGAINST you. People who have been gone for months have come back AGAINST you. I mean, the fuck are you gonna do from here?
Oh, that’s right. You’re gonna do your posturing and preaching, pageantry and proselytizing until someone makes you stop. This is the part where you expect me to say I’m gonna make you stop, amirite? You write me a cute little note, I write you a letter, and since we’re up against each other this is when it all goes down, except... I just don’t see the point anymore. I might make you stop with words, but I sincerely doubt it. I could make you stop with violence, but your cronies will just pick your decrepit ass up from the arena floor and we’d see you in about two weeks anyway. Nah, man. We’re up against each other, but I’m not gonna take it as my solo, solemn duty to feed you head first up your own asshole… you’ve got it nestled up there nice and tight already.
See you at Trauma!
xoxox <3 Kelli Starr
Kelli hits the button with a sense of finality, a heavy sigh lifting from her as she shuts the laptop. Any playful antagonism or even outright pique seems to escape her with the sigh, the pink-haired superstar appearing to deflate in the fluffy purple chair. Rising, she makes her way into her closet, pointedly ignoring the three-way mirror. Draped in black, the mirror seemed more a macabre counterpoint better suited to the secret dungeon Rasputin had that she probably wasn’t supposed to know about (yes, Rasputin is into kink - go ahead, try to convince me you’re surprised). Rather the funeral style fabric was more a way to keep herself and the rest of the Universe on their own respective sides of the mirror.
She pulls on some clothes without much attention to what they are, avoiding ruffles and lace, glitter and glitz in favor of comfort. Still brightly colored, still obnoxiously loud, but about as subdued as one is likely to get when one’s wardrobe consists of Crayola getting into a fistfight with Swarovski. Sauntering out, she leaves her quarters and slides the newest packet of status updates off her “grown up” desk as she walks through the office, heading into the hallways beyond. A brisk jog takes her past everyone who knew her well enough to ask what was wrong, past anyone who would need an answer from her that couldn’t be expressed in a few terse words.
That was her trick, these days.
Out of desperation to avoid a resurgence of fractured self, to avoid a resurgence of being utterly lost when heartbroken, Kelli had redirected herself towards her factory. Avoidant? Sure. Healthier than losing her goddamn mind any time her reality got fucked up? Given the rate at which her reality was prone to coming down like a goddamn Jenga tower, yes. Making her way through the corridors she crosses the skybridge to gain access to the factory proper, ready to make her rounds for the day before heading out for training later on.
Sometimes that’s all there is. Just the usual day-to-day with some much needed asswhoopery breaking up the days. Such is Kelli’s existence.
