kafka. d8. fin

lucius branwen / 10 — fox
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1,482 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Nov 16, 2024 1:28:44 GMT -5

but a butt ?

kafka. d8. fin Jun 20, 2016 11:34:12 GMT -5

Quote

Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 20, 2016 11:34:12 GMT -5

-kafka o'flaherty
-eighteen & queen
-everything fun happens in d8

-glutton for all nice things
-fashion sense: 1/2 capitol, 1/2 homeless
-lazy waiter/stand-in bartender
-poisons mixer
-ass-shaker
-bye @ haters
-apatheist

-ex-foster care
-life is pretty lit
-idk

Last Edit: Jun 30, 2016 18:58:44 GMT -5 by lucius branwen / 10 — fox

lucius branwen / 10 — fox
Graphics

1,482 POSTS

Pronouns: she/her
last seen Nov 16, 2024 1:28:44 GMT -5

but a butt ?

kafka. d8. fin Jun 20, 2016 18:34:38 GMT -5

Quote

Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 20, 2016 18:34:38 GMT -5

K A F K A O' F L A H E R T Y

Afternoons,

sometimes it's an extension of mornings. Sometimes I go shopping. For a place of greenless yards churning out textiles every minute in smoke puffing from rooftops, the clothes are kind of shit here. For a place in which I gotta work three super-duper-hard jobs just to make a penny for eats, the food sure tastes like shit here. And for a place where pollution finds its way into everything good as a shiny gray sheen, the scenery is definitely shit here.

Sometimes I go shopping, but you can't buy much except distaste in District Eight.

Sometimes Kira comes and tries to take me out on dates, which is fine and all because free lunches -- plus he's friendly and neighbourly and I don't know what he wants, but he usually wants something. Honestly, it's all dumb stuff I could've done for free, but probably wouldn't have anyways.

He'll buy me things, and then say stuff like:
Kafka, you're the smartest person I know,

[that's because you're a dumbass, xoxo ♥]

Kafka, I'm so lucky to know you,

[but really, how could I argue with that?]

Kafka, you look good in that

[shirt, pants, skirt, birthday suit, yada yada etc.]

Kafka, your hair is so nice today -- okay, that is fake-as-the-fucking-Panem-propaganda-fake because I'll literally haven't had brushed this bleached ass shit in three days.

Yet somehow, one way or another, I'll be spending my afternoons feeding stray cats with Kira, or helping him look for a present for his mom, or running little errands when he's busy with his own set of three jobs.

Evenings,

people lean over the table in an obvious-as-fuck clandestine-not-even way, furtive glances and hush-hush tones, looking too alive to be drinking here on a weekday evening because, ripred, you gotta be kinda dead inside to come to a place like this. A few words into the conversation, and it'll be common sense that they don’t want any cocktail that's listed on a drinks menu.

They’ll be whispering about how they know a friend who knows a friend who knows a friend who -- et cetera -- knows I sell some “lethal” shit or something something something like that, and by the way they need to get a job well done to death.

When you're just trying to live, who else is there to go to except a teenage girl? And these people always have this weird idea of what poison is supposed to be -- like it’s some toxic mix of scary heavy metals, unnamable chemical reactions, and rare compounds, stoppered in an aesthetic, yet inconspicuous, clear crystal vial.

But really, I’m just going to be selling them pipe cleaner for a couple of hundred dollars -- I mean seriously, that aesthetic-yet-inconspicuous clear crystal vial is expensive.

It’s all for the sake of some artistry, I suppose.

Drug lords and crime syndicates aside, I never understood why people would want orpiment (?) or castor bean extract (??) or the secretions of some blue-spotted frog (what the fuck.) No need to get fancy when you can be lazy.

After all, practice says household items are the best for steeping into your ex-husband’s tea. It’s coincidence that ethylene glycol’s a sweetener, and lamp oil looks clear, and that bleach plus ammonia makes a cleaning product fit for scrubbing out your lungs. Coincidence, accident, simple and easy --

yo, still need the people asking for mysterious jungle plants though, or I’ll be out of business.

Nights,

it's tough luck to hold down three jobs just to live a little. But what can you do in an economy that's bad-because-our-nation's-a-fucked-up-place-to-live-kind-of-bad, like it's been for the last century or so?

Most days are passed uninterestingly without the District Eight citizen still alive enough to be looking for some cash grabs or retribution or a fun time with chemistry. Most workdays are spent with the suckers who are halfway to hell -- and there's really no need to sell them bleach in artistic flasks when all they're gonna do is drink it themselves and not even appreciate the aesthetic along the way.

Ripred, I spend my Sundays thrifting for those crystal fuckers.

Dinner shifts, and I'm chewing on straws and hanging upside on the couch of the staff room, counting away the hours on my fingers until I'm nearly fired or free. Nearly -- after all, I still gotta support my day job of sleeping in.

Waitering is boring, shit, lame, ten other adjectives that could probably describe something shitty except words are hard. And sometimes I'll end up standing behind the counter, thrown in there by the boss when the place gets busy and the real life bartenders are off ditching for midnight endeavours and exoccuppational hazards. It's not much different, sans the people ordering cocktails with these really creative names: Flaming Nipple, Cock Sucking Cowboy, Screaming Orgasm™. Then they do the thing where they wink and be an asshat, and so I do that thing where I smile and under pour them.

Nice ass, nice legs, someone once told me I had nice skin -- people get thirsty as fuck here. But the debilitating pointlessness of their existence keeps them in check, I suppose.

At least it beats walking back and forth from the kitchen. Plus I get free drinks. It's just too bad after first sip of grenadine, milk, and some other five flaming things -- no one trusts me with the alcohol.

Mornings,

haha. ~~Who even wakes up before noon, though.~~ Because what's there to do in District Eight except sleep and die?

[presto]

IN HEAVY MIST, IN GLITTER DUST

[/presto]

Last Edit: Jun 30, 2016 19:01:34 GMT -5 by lucius branwen / 10 — fox

lucius branwen / 10 — fox Graphics 1,482 POSTS Pronouns: she/her last seen Nov 16, 2024 1:28:44 GMT -5 but a butt ?	kafka. d8. fin Jun 30, 2016 19:00:30 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on Jun 30, 2016 19:00:30 GMT -5 omg fin

анзие (Anz) Retired Staff 1,547 POSTS last seen Jun 14, 2015 16:34:46 GMT -5 probably away	kafka. d8. fin Jul 2, 2016 8:01:44 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by анзие (Anz) on Jul 2, 2016 8:01:44 GMT -5 Accepted!
	✨ zozo. made this. she is my spirit animal. basic table guide