Despite the fact you've bought a cushy apartment on the woodsy side of Central park, you can still hear cars and beeping when you finally deign to open your eyes and stare at the wall behind your bed. There are times you still miss the estate, the soft burbling of the river under the house, the sounds of nature echoing down the hallways. The empty hallways.
No. Nope. Not thinking about that rn. Groan and roll out of bed, disheveled hair sticking out at wild angles. Shuffle out of your room in a pair of panties and nothing else. By the lack of debris on the floor, you can deduce the maid's been by on her weekly trip. Good for her, hope she liked the puke in the tub. Hateful bitch. Still swear she stole your Gucci bag. Tho it's not like you're going to hire anyone else. Talking to people other than her and the cashier at the local L.store isn't really on the agenda.
The hallway to the liquor cabinet muffles the din from outside. You've yet to explain to yourself why you bought out an entire floor of an apartment complex in the middle of NYC. It felt right. Maybe you were being foolishly hopeful. Who knows.
The door opens with a hhfff of air, letting you into the inner sanctum of your self loathing. Bottles line against the walls as armor against the things that battle inside your head. Hmmm. Grey Goose. Yes. Martini and Rossi, check. Ingredients to cure any ailment, for sure.
The kitchen, which you never use, is a dream for anyone who would actually know how to cook. Ramen and Mountain Dew is more your speed. Your shaker clanks against the black marble counter as you search out your measuring shot-glass. For being a drunk, you're still meticulous about how said drinks for the drunk are made. No point in indulging if it isn't well done. Snag olives from the pantry, blue cheese this time. Gotta get in your protein, anyway. Sometimes you wonder how you're still living and breathing. You blame it on being God-Tier.
Pour out the entirety of the shaker in your extra large martini glass. No point in lying to yourself, you're totes gonna drink the whole thing anyway. (No point in anything. Omg stfu brain) Consider putting clothes on. Hahaha, nope. Strolling down the hallway to the office, you pat the head of a passing Mutini with your foot. He purrs and nips at your heels, batting them for attention. Cute lil bugger.
You roll a ball of yarn for him while your work station boots up. There's still a matter of explaining *very directly* to a certain multimedia company why they needed your services. Have fun trying to get rid of the screamer flash on your front page until you give in, suckas. A chime alerts you to the computer's readiness. Sigh. Put mutie to the side. Sign in for the day.
