PANDORA. Ic - Blog Posts

mandatory  (  take  with  a  grain  of  salt,  she's  prone  to  dramatics.  it  was  an  invite  from  an  irritatingly  perky  girl  she's  already  forgotten  the  name  of  )  trips  to  the  rabbithole   may  be  part  of  pandora's  personal  hell.  she's  only  ever  here  for  slam  poetry  nights,  which  are  considerably  more  quiet  than  …  whatever  is  going  on.  now  she's  stuck  with  two  losers  and  a  shitty  vodka  cran.  she's  got  a  stupid  note  on  her  head,  again  presented  to  her  by  that  annoyingly  kind  girl  (  marjorie?  miley?  maggie?  ),  and  her  eyes  fly  to  the  similar  one  on  patti's.  a  little  tug  at  the  corner  of  her  lips  as  she  inspects  them,  “  …  no.  but  it's  up  for  debate,  often.  ”  a  pause  before  she  points  to  her  own,  “  do  i  look  like  a  tory?  ” 

After a day submerged in the bloody hue of the dark room developing films, Patti had decided to switch things up for the evening; the neon red of The Rabbithole, instead, little pinprick strobes that scuttled the tops of her knuckles like ladybugs. For reasons unknown, they were also wearing red contacts as if mid demonic possession. They'd slot into a booth with Pandora and two random transfers that they'd never met. Upon each of their foreheads was a hastily licked rolling paper, all bearing a different name. When the strangers they'd collected to play with for the evening had gotten up to buy Patti and Pandora another round, Patti leaned across the table and perched their chin on their fist, squinted in concentration. She'd written 'Jason Statham' on Bambi's paper. Her own was still a mystery. "Do I have a limp wrist?" @mindfulls