tragic_mask: (frustrated)
[personal profile] tragic_mask
Melpomene sits in her room, cursing men, women, gods, mortals, Greeks, Americans, Mexicans and the world in general.

She has a bottle of tequila by her bed, and she's seeing how many cards out of 52 she can flip into a hat-- not because this relieves any of the stress, but because it's something to do. A force of habit.

Mel wonders, for the thousandth time  in this century alone, what is wrong with mortals. Why they always have to misinterpret things, skew things so that it's the fault of the  person who has to deal with it for a thousand years. It's no stone on their back. She growls, trying to ignore the pressing voice in her head that's going it wasn't his fault, you're the one that sounds like a whiny child. Continues flipping cards and sipping tequila.

After about a half an hour of this, she slams down the half-empty bottle and storms over to her desk. No choice.

Parker-- she begins to write, pen smudging on the page.


... then she goes down to the bar, hoping he won't be there.

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