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Old 10-17-2004, 09:22 PM   #219
Lush
Fair and Cold
 
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Leninia watched the proceedings on the ship, chewing on her claws, an unseemly habit she had picked up since de-glamourizing her existence and falling in with the GettingThereBitByBitship.

"Designer nails are better food than anything served on this floating funny farm," she snapped when Pimpi gave her a look of outmost horror.

I can't seem to be able to say anything clever, Leninia mused, as Pimpi turned away in terror. Alliteration only takes you so far, even lumberjacks that have their poetry published in cheap anthologies meant to rip off the gullible public (ha, they're even better at it than I was once upon a time) know that. Am I losing my touch? Have I been watching too much cable? What's going to happen to me in the Not Entirely Great (But Kinda Fabulous) Beyond?

Perhaps the answer to Leninia's woes could have been found in the fact that her life was being recorded by an irresponsible, tired, slightly mentally ill, more than a little neurotic college student, who was currently cornered by midterms and brainwashed by corporate culture into freaking out over the fact that she doesn't own the "right" pair of boots this season. If such a thing were possible, that is.

Unable as she was to find a cure for her present, most peculiar condition, Leninia finished feasting on Chan-hell nail varnish, and wandered onto [insert informed-sounding part of the ship; something that Leninia couldn't be bothered to remember] to enjoy the stale sea air.

The wind played with her hair like a bored playboy plays with the affections of the sweetly bland girl-next-door in a formulaic movie with a cheap script. She slapped at the wind, and the wind stuck its tail between its legs and left. She thought about John Lemmon, and blew him sea-foamy kisses, wherever he was. Though certainly, she thought, she would have never had as many (mis)-adventures had she not driven even her favourite husband to suicide.

Ah the strange fortune of the perpetually obscure anti-heroines! To be young, beautiful, ill-tempered and long-clawed, and not be killed off halfway into the story was something new in the history of "literature."

She felt life coursing through her veins (or was it the contents of her eternal hip-flask?) and she welcomed the feeling with the same hesitancy that one would welcome another one of Vogie's masterpieces, but, just like the afore-mentioned masterpiece, the whole thing was inevitable.

I'm going to be Ok over there, she thought, looking out toward the horizon and reflecting on all she had already survived, Vogie's ministrations, Orogarn Two's misplaced values, and stiff competition in the hair department from Merisu in particular. And if not, the Plāiböi Māñcion is hiring
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