noira: (pic#747444)

So... my vagina is a snob.

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Created on 2011-02-24 05:31:17 (#699344), last updated 2011-09-19 (317 weeks ago)

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Birthdate:Oct 12
It was night, moonless and crisp, by the time I made it back to my apartment. I lived in a rundown apartment not too far away from the ocean: far enough away that it didn’t have a nice ocean view, close enough that I got bombarded with the sounds of industrialism night and day. Exactly the right spot to be a cheap little apartment in the middle of the city; Hyrang’s version of the wrong side of the tracks. This apartment block was really more of a sort of trailer park; the owner had picked up a few long trailers, stuck them in a few parallel rows over the uneven ground, stuck a few stilts on them, built some balconies that didn’t match the beaten metal exteriors, and painted pretty stencils on the doors to try brighten the place up. It didn’t work, mostly because the exciting view of the gravel parking lot was one of the most depressing things, short of dead kittens, that I’d ever seen in my life. Someone had placed a few wilted potted plants around the lot. One was kicked in, two had crude phallic graffiti spray painted on, and the other two contained the most dismal looking petunias I’d ever encountered.

Some people try to describe moonless nights as dark and deep. This one wasn’t. Moonless nights were the only nights I could make out stars and the constant glow from streetlights and ever-waking shops made Hyrang a neon dabble on the satellite view. Certainly never dark—I supposed with the right cloud cover it could be seen for miles.

Gabriel had promised to meet me once I fell asleep.

I kicked off my shoes, stretching out my toes and giving an exhausted yawn. Normally I was home by now, not necessarily asleep but at least doing something that didn’t involve much walking. Preferably it involved at least one can of beer. If I couldn’t sleep my life away, at least I could drink it away. Incredibly, the universe seemed quite adept at providing a myriad of methods for escapism. I’d tried them all.

In the washroom, I soaped up and washed my makeup off. For all the Order blather about how humanity was made up of various elements, I knew better—it was ink enough to make a woman: not dreams, not memories, but just how good you were at covering yourself up. Underneath all of the eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, maybe just a bit more eyeliner… there was just another dark human face staring back at me. Without the makeup I was just another escapee from Mudville.

I’d made myself into the streetwise city girl I professed to be. It was all in the makeup. Black enough to make it noir.

I hadn’t noticed the pattern yet; the pattern drifting from the dream to even me here. I was becoming part of the story.

In retrospect—everything’s in retrospect, I guess that’s the Memory part of things—I should’ve noticed. I even joked about being that girl—you know, the girl with liquid black eyes, captivating fire beneath the shadows of her hat, backlit by moody streetlights, cigarette streaming smoke, always there to lead the hero into danger. Just a story archetype, but archetypes are there because they have a ring of truth to them. People know them. People trust them. And then they become the pattern. But in my mind the discussion with Gabriel rolled around, repeating itself and molding itself into something more than it was. Something more insistent. It was like listening to a song. But instead of lyrics and snippets of tunes getting stuck, it was words.

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