Post by desiree jezebel de luca; on Nov 11, 2011 3:03:26 GMT -5
[/i] [/blockquote]There was a very thin, hardly perceptible line between business and personal affairs, and Desiree found that the problems she faced were often because of that one little fact. She wondered if her current conundrum could be categorized similarly. It felt like such a mistake to make friends with people that she would wind up having to write about at some point or another, and she couldn’t spit out compliments in every article she wrote just because she was afraid of offending a few of her friends with her subject matter. She was a professional, and professionals did not refrain from the truth because of some petty, personal reason (slander was a different matter altogether).
Rubbing her temples with her fingers, she wished she could return to high school where there were more people to write about. During those easy years, she was far crueler and stuck to slandering those whom her friends deemed to be below their popular clique. It was so silly and immature when she thought back on how her peers treated each other, but at the same time, they were simpler times. Here on the tour, she was surrounded by the same group of people all the time, giving her a very limited number of people to befriend and poke fun at. From her experience thus far, very few people took well to being bad mouthed and felt like slapping her if she attempted acting like nothing every happened by smiling sweetly. Something about how it felt mocking.
Making a face, Desiree turned away from her laptop for a moment to take a sip of the freshly brewed coffee in a paper cup resting across from her laptop. It gave her a small shot of energy though it did little to soothe her headache or resolve her dilemma. Her eyes flickered to the bottom right portion of the screen to look at the time, but it only prompted another sigh to escape from her lips. In the last half an hour since she sat down in a secluded corner of the coffee shop, she had only written two sentences. It wasn’t so much the writing that was giving her the issues; her conscience was forcing her to refrain from carelessly clacking away at the keys to produce a lovely article until she decided whether or not she could accept writing about the people who she would have to turn to for friendship whenever she was feeling particularly lonely.
Groaning in frustration, she dug her hand into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone, knowing exactly who to call on for company. She flicked her finger over the touch screen to the option to compose a message and tapped away quietly before sending one very simple text:
Come to the coffee shop and keep me company please? I need some intelligent conversation before writing this article turns my brain into pink, squishy mush.
tag;; Kingsley
word count;; 4 8 7
muse;; great~
notes;; Sorry, the post is sort of rambly, but I wasn't too sure what part of the plot you wanted to thread out first. Feel free to let me know if you'd like to change something about it!
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