There was a certain challenge to living on your own when you were used to sterile walls and the constant company of nurses and doctors, or at the very least the caretaker your parents hired to make sure you didn’t pass out in the kitchen and crack your head open on the expensive tile floors (an act that might have seemed like an overreaction if it hadn’t actually happened once, to be fair to her parents). It came first in the form of overcompensating. Her apartment was a veritable explosion of colors and textures and patterns. It sort of glued together in the eclectic way only an artist can manage, but frankly any interior decorator worth their salt would flee screaming from the room whining about white space and opening up a small room with minimalistic décor.
Mina was about as minimalistic as that quilt your grandmother made you for your birthday out of about ninety seven different kinds of paisley, to be honest.
But she liked things to be her way- she liked her music volume to be set in intervals of five, she liked her colors to be on the warmer end of the spectrum with a fondness for reds and blues that were maroon or dusky in hue. She liked comfy huge sweaters and didn’t tend to wear pants all that frequently, preferring skirts or shorts or, if absolutely necessary, a pair of those leggings that could mostly pass for jeans. Maybe it came from years of the oh-so-chic billowy paper hospital gown, but she tended to enjoy loosefitting attire when it came to her torso.
Above all, however, she valued quiet control of her surroundings. So when she got herself a new and very loud neighbor, things went south in terms of her productivity and mood. The walls at the Blue Mansion were, as it turned out, quite thin. Thin enough that as she slaved over an animation project well into the wee hours of the night- or morning, depending on your perspective, as the clock ticked ever nearer to 3 am- she could distinctly and distractingly hear the video her neighbor was playing. She might have been able to put this to the side and focus despite that, perhaps with the help of headphones, if it wasn’t for the type of video in question.
To be blunt, it was porn. Loud, nasty, raunchy porn. There was nothing quite so distracting as knowing your neighbor was jacking off in the apartment next door, except perhaps knowing what he was jacking off too (information that had forcibly been made privy to her from the loudly screeched dialogue). This prompted an affronted huff as she stalked next door, clothed in an overlarge bright red sweater, fuzzy white house socks, and not much else. It hung to mid thigh so this was nearly acceptable, she felt, and anyway she was just on a quick mission to scold. A few quick raps against the door had a figure scrambling to unlock it, confronted with the stern slope of her brows as she trained her gaze on the other’s features. “You need to turn your goddamn porn down. I can hear everything short of your hand on your dick, and its creepy,” she announced, arms crossing over her chest as she regarded the other. He was kind of cute, in an annoying way, the sort where you could almost sense the smirk that was second nature to them. “Also welcome to the building, I guess,” she added begrudgingly, nose crinkling slightly.
germansingergirl
snowghoul
pixelskylines
discoholicmusic
ellievsbear
annaxmalina
