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blonde jesus; aza [blitz]
Feb 6, 2017 13:34:45 GMT -5
Post by heather - d2 [mylee] on Feb 6, 2017 13:34:45 GMT -5
s h e l b y ♔ l e v i a n e
Though I do not believe in the same past lives as my sister, I do believe in the simplest form of déjà vu. Though the world is not that dependent on preconceived notions alone, there is no limitation on the amount of times certain instances can occur.
And as I had every other afternoon that I stumbled into the training center on unsteady limbs, I have an arrow in one hand, a bow on my back, and I am fucking hammered.
Today is no different.
People who have certain knowledge in certain areas have said that dexterity decreases with rising levels of alcohol in the bloodstream, but I think that they’re either full of bullshit or simply a bad shot. Due to the amount of alcohol replacing blood in my veins, my body is absolutely clear of any and all forms of bullshit, and I’m still a damn good shot.
I’ve got an aim on my target but not the bullseye, and as I release the bowstring I catch a glimpse of a girl watching. Due left ninety degrees and not one extra, I am lost until the thunk of arrowhead into foam chest catches my attention and I see the point just left of center. Close enough is decent enough and never not enough, so I shrug off the exceptions of almost within the seconds it takes me to actually think of the word almost before dropping my bow, walking over to the girl—still watching— and taking her head in my hands and turning it until she is looking at the arrow still wedged into target. My hands loosely let go and I place one hand on her shoulder and pointedly make motions with the other towards my show of pride, “That is how you shoot a drunk arrow.”
And as I had every other afternoon that I stumbled into the training center on unsteady limbs, I have an arrow in one hand, a bow on my back, and I am fucking hammered.
Today is no different.
People who have certain knowledge in certain areas have said that dexterity decreases with rising levels of alcohol in the bloodstream, but I think that they’re either full of bullshit or simply a bad shot. Due to the amount of alcohol replacing blood in my veins, my body is absolutely clear of any and all forms of bullshit, and I’m still a damn good shot.
I’ve got an aim on my target but not the bullseye, and as I release the bowstring I catch a glimpse of a girl watching. Due left ninety degrees and not one extra, I am lost until the thunk of arrowhead into foam chest catches my attention and I see the point just left of center. Close enough is decent enough and never not enough, so I shrug off the exceptions of almost within the seconds it takes me to actually think of the word almost before dropping my bow, walking over to the girl—still watching— and taking her head in my hands and turning it until she is looking at the arrow still wedged into target. My hands loosely let go and I place one hand on her shoulder and pointedly make motions with the other towards my show of pride, “That is how you shoot a drunk arrow.”
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