Gurl PowR!
"Of course I'm not all right, you idiot!" you scream at him, brushing yourself off as you stand up. However, something sticky clings to your hands. Looking down, you realize to your horror that you are covered in what looks like a mix of blood and brains. You look down at the ground and see the robber lying there, his head half blown off and dripping its contents onto the asphalt. You look down at yourself again. There's no way you or your drycleaner could ever fix this. You can feel a little breeze flutter against your bare skin as the flaps of your torn blouse lift into the air. You are furious.
"Look at what you've done!" you scream hysterically. "I'm completely ruined! Do you know how much this shirt cost? Or these shoes?!"
Officer Cutiepants stares back at you with a look of utter confusion.
"You can all just go to hell!" you cry, literally pushing your way past the stunned officers and stomping your way home. You don't even pay any attention to the shocked looks on the faces of the passersby as you approach your building.
Slamming your apartment door shut, you make a beeline for the kitchen, where you strip off all your clothes and stuff them into the sink. You run maniacally into the common room, where you open the door leading onto your narrow little wrought-iron-lined balcony.
"Aaaaaaaaagggggggggghhh!!" you scream, throwing your blood-soaked pumps into the air as some horrified people duck for cover several stories below. Taking some rubber cement from the closet, you make your way back to the kitchen, where you give your ruined, bloody clothes a good dousing of the stuff before lighting them ablaze. Ooohing and aaahing at the big pretty flames and not caring at all if you get burned, you run back to the balcony and throw the burning items down towards more terrified pedestrians.
You realize then that you are stark naked and people are staring, so you quickly slam the balcony door shut, grab a mostly full bottle of whiskey and lock yourself in the bathroom. Turning on some nice cold water to chill out your singed hands, you take a big swig.
And another.
And another.
The blood from your skin runs in little rivulets towards the drain.
As you sit there in your bathtub, you find yourself wishing that your phone worked so that you could call daddy to wire you some money for a new wardrobe.
Another swig. A little image of that man lying there with his head smashed open flashes before your eyes.
Another swig.
And another.
You giggle ecstatically. As that dude with the dreadlocks said, "Don't worry, be happy!"
"Look at what you've done!" you scream hysterically. "I'm completely ruined! Do you know how much this shirt cost? Or these shoes?!"
Officer Cutiepants stares back at you with a look of utter confusion.
"You can all just go to hell!" you cry, literally pushing your way past the stunned officers and stomping your way home. You don't even pay any attention to the shocked looks on the faces of the passersby as you approach your building.
Slamming your apartment door shut, you make a beeline for the kitchen, where you strip off all your clothes and stuff them into the sink. You run maniacally into the common room, where you open the door leading onto your narrow little wrought-iron-lined balcony.
"Aaaaaaaaagggggggggghhh!!" you scream, throwing your blood-soaked pumps into the air as some horrified people duck for cover several stories below. Taking some rubber cement from the closet, you make your way back to the kitchen, where you give your ruined, bloody clothes a good dousing of the stuff before lighting them ablaze. Ooohing and aaahing at the big pretty flames and not caring at all if you get burned, you run back to the balcony and throw the burning items down towards more terrified pedestrians.
You realize then that you are stark naked and people are staring, so you quickly slam the balcony door shut, grab a mostly full bottle of whiskey and lock yourself in the bathroom. Turning on some nice cold water to chill out your singed hands, you take a big swig.
And another.
And another.
The blood from your skin runs in little rivulets towards the drain.
As you sit there in your bathtub, you find yourself wishing that your phone worked so that you could call daddy to wire you some money for a new wardrobe.
Another swig. A little image of that man lying there with his head smashed open flashes before your eyes.
Another swig.
And another.
You giggle ecstatically. As that dude with the dreadlocks said, "Don't worry, be happy!"
