Specifically, the most frustrating sport talk. If it keeps going the way it's going I'll end up in the hospital in about a week. Have you watched any matches?
France and Honduras are playing and yet, here I am sitting at work on a rainy day with people who care nothing for soccer. This is gonna be a long day.
The opposite is worse in my opinion. On Saturday I got dozens of calls from family after Côte d'ivoire won. Stayed up all night trying to console them.
Alex lets his eyes wander around her office as she greets him without an ounce of emotion, something she’d seemed very skilled at doing. He turns his gaze back to her when she starts to speak, challenging him in quite possibly the politest way he’d ever been challenged, and he just smiles at her, head nodding slowly as he leans forward. “I have no doubt you’ll be earning all of those things, you’re very good at what you do.” He admits, gesturing towards her, and the few awards the woman already had, “But I do not really care, make all the honorary bullshit you’d like mami, have your cases put into law books, but at the end of the day it’s really all about money.”
He leans back in the couch once again, crossing his leg over the other, arm stretching out over the back of the couch, “While you’re getting cases in books I see myself on the television, defending some whack job who shot up a movie set, something big and well paying.” He chuckles, head shaking, “I’ll me the next Melvin Belli, have my very own Zodiac killer sending me Christmas cards.”
Alex smiles at her, “Stealthy killers take too long to commit the crime chica, always planning everything out to such extreme detail,” Alex sighs looking over at her little smug smile, “while us banditos are ruthless, impulsive, and we do not need any stealth.” He shrugs, “I’ll sleep just fine, maybe even better knowing I only have to worry about you.”
Imogen's smile disintegrated quickly, her eyes narrowing like the chances of him leaving the office alive. "I'm not your chica." She said, teeth gritting. She glared at him for a while, before taking a deep sigh and telling herself to let it go. It was better to come off as the bigger person in the situation. "You're not a bad lawyer, Reyes, but you could do a hell of a lot better if you simply stuck to professionalism. Sure, you can sweetalk the judge into letting you win case after case -which I'm sure you've tried- but where's the prestige in that? Where's the effort, the art?" She started to rant as she dug through her desk to take out to glasses. Without a break in speech, she placed one glass near him, and one in front of herself.
"Now, ninjas know how to make a performance out of their profession. Sure, they take a while, but at the end of the day, they do a good, clean job. Meanwhile, banditos just shoot wildly at whoever stands before them and slaughter indiscriminately. I think I speak for a lot of your potential clients in your methods when I say that the Pulp Fiction-vibes are a turn-off." She continued, not even noticing that she had overflowed her own glass until the water started to drip down to the seat. Dammit. Whatever mutter was able to be heard just consisted of stunted curses, indistinct in tone or sound. The only thing that was completely audible was a vague "excuse me", and even that was distorted by the acoustics provided by an annoyed smile.
She cleaned up in circular motions, counterclockwise, not taking her eyes off of what she was doing. Eye contact had never been her strong suit, partly because she was convinced that if she gave it indiscriminately, it would lose its value. So she oftentimes preoccupied herself while talking, doing her best to keep the innards of her mind unobtainable. While cleaning she couldn't help but let out a chuckle. 'I have no desire to be the next Melvi. Quite the contrary, I don't want to be anyone. I plan to be the first, and the last, Imogen Morse. If I had to pick a lawyer though, I'd aim a bit higher. Like say, Luckhoo, from Guyana? 245 successful cases sounds like a lot out of context, but I'm sure that I can reach that before hitting fifty."
Reminiscing has never been a strong suit of mine. Remembering, yes. Reminiscing, no. I know a lot of people will think that it's the same concept, but to me, that's far from the truth. Reminiscing implies that you were trying to recall something.
Still, some memories will sneak up on you without you noticing. The type of memory required for law work is a very specific one. It's the type that will lunge at you at two in the morning, scratching at the nape of your neck, asking - no, demanding - you to answer why you didn't point out the glaring flaws in the prosecutor's alibi, or why you didn't ask why the supposedly tear-stricken ex-wife why she wore her marital ring on her index finger. Then you wonder whether the jewel in the ring was always red, or if it was stained metaphorically by the blood spilt that night...For some reason, your memory always takes episodes of Law & Order far too seriously for comfort. Your eyes end up staring off into the wall, trembling because they also know that that's too rookie of a mistake to be a coincidence. The memory soon starts a revolt through your body. Every cell in your being needs to know how the protagonists could overlook that.
Luckily, that type of memory tends to override any useless memories, like when is your parents' anniversary or when was the last time you ate. The type of memory required for law work is effective, it's systematic, it's efficient and most importantly, is detached.
So when an emotion accompanies the memory, it's always a storm for me. I'd like to think that for every emotion, every person has a memory. For me, they were simple. Anger was the day I was told no choice but to go to Harvard. Sadness was the day I thought I didn't get in. Following this pattern, happiness should be the day I received my acceptance letter, or the day I graduated.
Happiness is a distinct emotion. Happiness isn't an instinct, like anger. It's not fueled by any reason, like sadness. No, happiness is a completely different weakness of the mind because it means wrestling down anger and sadness and taking the active decision not to think. I spend my days thinking. I spend weeks and months thinking. The memory I associate with happiness happened shortly afterwards one of these long bouts of thinking.
January 2nd, 2008. I woke up lightheaded that day. My vision was blurred and distorted. I remember that the snow outside the window looked like baby powder. The bed was cold, but under the sheets I was sweating. My eyes were sweating too. Or more accurately, I was crying. In retrospect, it was a poor decision of me to visit my parents at their home when I could have been catching up on study work in Massachusetts, but that's what happens when you let your mind shut off for one hour when you have enough money for transcontinental flight. To this day, I have no idea what prompted me to buy the ticket. I'm secretly glad I did though.
You see, after I spent New Year's drinking to drown out the sound of my parents parading me around like a trophy, I was satisfied in my stupor to know that it was all going to be over soon. I remember I threw myself in the bed laughing, and after about half an hour when the laughter turned into tears, sleep took me faster than it ever had before. The morning was cold, as should be obvious since it was snowing, but at the same time, I didn't feel freezing, so I woke up as early as I could move my legs and started walking. I didn't bring much with me, just my wallet, and even that wasn't planned. It just happened to be in my coat when I started walking. I walked, hoping to be hit with some spontaneous courage to call my parents and tell them I was dropping out. It never happened though. During the entire walk, I remained immune to any sudden burst of bravery. Needless to say I was disappointed.
People were most likely staring at me. I'd have stared at me too. My hair was a rat's nest and I probably had the stench of liquor trailing faithfully behind me. I must have looked like I had crawled out of the deepest depths of hell. Yet, I didn't care. I dedicated my mind to counting my steps in the snow.
I made it to two hundred by the time I made it to Vinyl Souls. It's amusing how you can live somewhere you're entire life and not notice shops that have been there for years- When I think of happiness, I think of that precise moment in which I took my first step inside. When I was younger, I never really figured out what je ne sais quoi meant, or why people said that some things had a certain je ne sais quoi...The definition of it dripped from my lips as I walked in; the home I had been thirsting for was before me. And like all drugs, ever since then, I haven't been able to keep myself away. Days later, when I got on a plane back to Massachusetts, I told myself I was going to return, not for myself, not for my family, not for my old friends or for my old anything. I was going to return solely to walk through those doors again and feel h a p p y.
give us a kiss and maybe we can go out
it’s hard to miss you when you follow us about
buy us some shoes and maybe take us for cola
we’ll get you there in some filthy big gondola
And sounds like you need to think before you speak.
I'm just trying to assist you. The best suggestion any other person would give you is door hinge. At least my suggestion can be bullshitted into a metaphor. Meanwhile, door hinge can only be used in a theme song for House Hunters International.
It's actually a hill in Wales. Not a lot of people know about it. Hell, I wouldn't know about it if it weren't for having spent nights palming enciclopedias for things to rhyme with orange. It's handy, but it's hard to work it into any song that isn't about Welsh nationalism.
"Geez,—.." Alexander said, grinding his teeth together. "I will pay you double what that album is for?" Alexander questioned, more on his own morals than her saying yes. Something inside him said that this might be the last time he would actually see this album in a long time.
Imogen nodded, continuing to rummage through the stacks of albums and thinking nothing of the man's dampening humor. She stopped for a second, looking down at the album and then back at him. She took a deep breath and stood her ground, like a dog guarding a bone. She eyed him from head to toe, looking for flaws. There had to be a condition, otherwise he wouldn't make such an offer. As for as she knew, the album wasn't limited edition or something spectacular. There was something she didn't know, and when she didn't know something, her natural reaction was defensive. She held the album close to her chest.
He couldn’t hold back his grin as he pushes his way through the crowd of people exiting the office building. He’d just returned from the court house, where he’d fought with the prosecutor, and had managed to sway the jury to find his client, a man who Alex knew was very guilty of the crimes he had been accused of, innocent. There was no better feeling in the world than winning a case, especially one that seemed as pointless that one. He had almost passed the case up, but he let his ambition get to him and took it anyways, and now he was glad he had.
Alex sighs, loosening his tie some as he exited the elevator, and made his way towards his office, being greeted by his boss who held his arms out, “Nice work Reyes,” He said grinning at the younger man, and Alex smiles right back moving to shake the man’s hand, “You’ve come along way son, keep at it.” He congratulates, Alex nodding and thanking him before going on his way. Alex had no original intention to stop by Imogen Morse’s office, but as he saw the woman sitting in her desk he couldn’t help but gloat. She’d been at the firm longer than he had, she was there when he had first arrived, and they had the same profession… so a little office rivalry may have been sparked over the years. But while Alex was set on doing better than her, and getting more cases than her, he really didn’t have a problem with her, though he wasn’t sure if it was the same on her end.
"Hey," He greets quickly moving into her office to get her attention, "Guess where I just came from," He starts setting his briefcase down, and flopping down on the couch, "You know the Martin case? The one that everyone in this damn firm said was a lost cause? This bandito just won it.”He practically cheers, drumming his hands on the table in front of him before leaning back, arms stretching out over the back of the couch, “How’s your case going?”
Imogen was knee deep in paperwork; the stench of pen ink floating throughout her desk. She'd sat at her desk so long that she hadn't notice that the sunlight had started to fade, and was working exclusively on the corner of her study that still had natural lighting. As soon as she heard someone come in, she looked up with a smile, ready to greet them, but it dropped to apathy as soon as he sat on the couch. And while she searched for a drop of perkiness, she came up empty and all that came out of her mouth was a tired monotone. "Swimmingly, Reyes. How nice of you to drop by unannounced."
She was prepared to just ignore him, but hearing his comment, she couldn't help but chuckle. She stopped writing for a second, putting a hand on her cheek, as if watching a puppy. "I'll have you know that this current case could easily be one for future law books, and soon you'll have to eat your tongue while I sit at home, fanning myself with honorary doctorates. With how I'm going, I'll have plenty of more cases like that too in the future. Trust me on this, years know more than books, and in this business, experience beats looks."
She went back to her work, smug smile and tongue firmly in cheek. She made a few chicken scratch-like notes in her itinerary before leaning back and letting herself relax, eyes rolling like marbles in a washing machine. "And you know what? I'll let the "bandito" take this point. Ninjas are stealth killers anyway. I wouldn't sleep a wink if I were you."
The woman who was sitting nearby had not gone unnoticed by Arabella, instead her senses being acutely aware of the other person’s presence. She noticed as the woman slowly began to fall into a sleep next to her. The cigarette had been plucked from her soft pink lips, held between two finger as she flicked the ashes to the ground before stomping on them for good measure. The young woman’s cool blue stare looked up from the pad of paper currently occupying her lap as she heard a the stranger’s voice. Upon seeing the woman’s face, Arabella noticed the remains of tension that was usually what was left behind after anger. Though, she didn’t comment on her theory; she always found it best to let sleeping dogs lie. A soft smile pulled at the corners of her lips as her delicate hands coyly closed the sketchbook. “Oh, thanks. It’s nothing, really. Just a quick doodle.”
Imogen smiled slightly at the other woman's quick movement, amused by her reaction. She shrugged and crossed her arms. "It's fine; I don't really place modesty very high in my value scale. Talent like that has a right to boast, in my opinion." She muttered, into the summer air, not minding that the wind had muddled the tone of her voice. Imogen glanced quickly at where she felt the burn and rubbed it calmly, getting rid of whatever ash still remained. She tried to be as nonchalant about it as possible, keeping a lax expression on her face while thinking up a way to deter conversation from it. She chuckled and looked over to her side. "If that's nothing, I'd really like to see what you call something. Do you draw as a profession?"
Wow… Sounds like I’ll be ignoring mother chatter, then.
I guess for me it’s not a matter of not wanting to move, but the fact that I couldn’t stay up that long- honestly couldn’t. Health things. Really now? That’s insane- it sounds like a night to experience though! An old employee at Vinyl Souls came in one time talking about how he got trapped in a death wall at one point- he was completely bruised up when he got to work. He didn’t get much punching it, but he said it was damn fun.
I just think too much for my own good about everyone else. Well, Patrick from Porcelain Silhouettes and the rest of the band has been dropping by recently- maybe you can humor them.
Oh, I see. I started going because I couldn't sleep at night in college. I would stay awake all night and every once in a while a band would come and I'd show up. No particular reason, just to pass the time. Time passes very slowly in a crowd of unwashed armpits, I can tell you that. Eventually I grew attached to the idea of them. Concerts, not the armpits, I mean. And Christ, I've been lucky enough to never encounter a death wall, but they're honestly one of my worst nightmares. Didn't one guy once break both of his arms in one last year?
Hmm. I picked up their album when it was on sale but I haven't gotten around to listening to it yet. Are they any good? What type of music do they play?
"And I'm not trying to be rude, but I'm fairly sure that I got to it first." Imogen said, barely lifting up her gaze from the lines of albums before her. "If you want I can help you find another copy, but I've been waiting for this album for months now."
The soft chatter around Arabella kept her mind focused. She had always found the silence too distracting since she was a little girl. Her knees were curled in to her chest on the bench, sketch book resting on her thighs as the piece of charcoal in hand swept across the page forming the images that were in her mind. The lit cigarette dangled from her lips, and the ashes fell onto the paper. “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath. Her fingers moved to brush the fiery bits away with no harm to the drawing, but ended up a lost cause as smudges appeared. To her surprise, however, those little imperfections enhanced the piece.
Imogen had been sitting quietly next to her, drifting peacefully to sleep before being awoken by the sudden sting of the ashes. She shook them away without a second thought and turned, enraged and ready to eat the other person alive, before spotting the drawing. Her temper cooled down, and she couldn't help but let her appreciation for art surface from the depths where she had buried it. She stared at it silently, then straightened her back and directed her gaze at the artist. "Looks lovely so far."
turnnoffyourmind
romaincrisis
dailybridgerton
