001: Bitch Girl
May 1, 2019 16:49:38 GMT -5
Post by Admin on May 1, 2019 16:49:38 GMT -5
LOCATION: West Palm Beach, FL
DATE/TIME: January 12, 2019 || 02:17 AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The building had been vacant since the divorce had been finalized in 2005, renovation stopped before it had truly begun. She'd had plans for it once, a vision of something fresh and new that had fallen to the wayside. The elements had been less than kind to Jackson's former stomping grounds thanks to the broken skylight and vandals. The hardwood was buckled, crackling beneath her feet as she froze in the middle of the space, looking up. The railing was broken, rusted and falling, graffiti covering the unfinished wood that she'd once found rustic and endearing. She remembered standing in this very same spot, looking up to find she had an audience. She remembered a few months later, hearing his voice booming down from the second level, shouting for her to 'try harder' the moment she started to flag.
She wondered what he would think if he knew she'd held onto this place for purely sentimental reasons?
Where the floorboards weren't corrugated like a wash road, they were dull with dust and filth. The plastic covering the broken skylight flapped in the wind, making her flinch.
"Trying to tell me something?" She looked up, seeing stars above in the night sky where the opaque covering had ripped free. She stood there a moment longer in silence, head cocked as though listening for a reply that never came. Sighing, she let her shoulders drop, slowly picking her way to the stairs and the door set in the wall beneath them. It was blue-painted steel, chipped in places. For some reason, the taggers had left it alone and the lock she'd fastened so many years ago was still there, numbers rusted away but the hasp still turned. She twisted to the right places without looking: right to thirty-five, all the way back counter-clockwise to zero and back to twenty-five. She didn't have to think about it.
She'd had the lock since tenth grade.
The door opened outward and with it came rancid, musty air. She coughed in the dust and reached over to flip on the light, surprised when the tired old fluorescent strip came to life, flickering a few times before steadying. A broken treadmill and the old universal weight machine rose from the shadows like dinosaur bones and she felt tears prickling that weren't just from the smell.
"Should I stay?" The song lyrics flashed through her head and she whispered them aloud, "or should I go now?"
She rested her hand against the door, feeling paint flake off on her palm. Everything was ruined here, so old, so forgotten that it was completely useless. The last thing she wanted to do was go to a public gym, to push herself through the motions under scrutiny.
Somewhere in the distance a phone rang, repeatedly. It fell silent before it grew annoying, and for a moment she was reminded of Pink Floyd. The telephone, that hollow beeping as the operator tried to make that connection over the miles only for it to be denied over and over again. Maybe she'd imagined it. There wasn't any service connected here and there was nothing left in the office except rat droppings and roaches. Maybe it was that empty silence making her ears ring, the complete absence of sound worse than the cacophony at a construction site.
"Tell me what I need to do," she murmured, "I'm lost without you, Mik." The darkness didn't reply, leaving her wishing she'd had more time – wishing she had a way to go back and savor it better. Seeing this wreckage here, it drove the point home harder than ever: nothing lasts forever.
current mood:
current song: "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates
It's a bitch, girl. I'm sure you've heard the song. It's fitting, perhaps. I've seen you around. Like a bad penny (forgive the archaic saying, won't you), you have this nasty habit of showing up. The mean girl, cliché – the worst of the tropes in this business. Privileged bitch with a bursting wallet, the platinum American Express card, and the toy chihuahua in a Barbie pink purse as an accessory? How many of those boxes do you tick, Roni? All of them?
You're awful. You're insufferable. This song was written for you, and that's truly sad because it's awful. Let's consider that last line, shall we?
You can rely on the old man's money.
That's true, isn't it? That's all you have going for you. You're another thing I hate about this business, if I'm being honest. Another piece of trash, another waste of time. You're not a good wrestler. You're not bright or intelligent and your observations are superficial at best. There's no substance whatsoever.
You are, in the smallest words possible, the celery stick of pro wrestling.
Lean. Stringy. Watered-down and bland. Utterly tasteless.
Nobody likes celery. Anyone who says they do is lying. Much like your largely imaginary fan-base. Oh snap!
Hell yes, I went there. What are you going to do about it? Nothing. Yeah. I thought so.
The needle skips, here's the same record on repeat with the same shit over and over, like I'm trying to bludgeon it into my own head along with yours. Maybe I am, in a way. Maybe I'm just hoping that in tearing you down to size, I can immunize the company against the utter DISEASE that you are. A cancer, Veronica. That's the best description to apply to something as voraciously virulent as you are. Yes, sweetie, I realize that was oxy-moronic, perhaps a tad heavy-handed even when dealing with the mentally feeble like yourself.
It's hard being back here. Even harder finding the desire to light into you. You're not worth the time or the effort, yet here we are. I had to drink a few glasses of wine to get myself in the mood and now I just feel a headache looming and I want to go to bed.
I feel about the same way most people do after listening to your shrill voice, spewing nonsense, I'm sure. It must be hard being so absolutely awful. But then we all have our struggles.
Poor me. I still haven't found my balance. I feel wobbly, as though maybe taking those metaphorical training wheels off so soon was a bad idea. But I'm stubborn, Veronica. I plan to see it through and if I crash and burn, so be it. I'll get back up. I will continue to fight tooth and nail to prove I'm the best woman in this business. I did it once before. I can do it again.
We both know considering me losing this battle on any front is bullshit. I will walk out of that match under my own power after having my hand raised in victory. I will talk circles around you and I will certainly prove right now that I'm far more literate than you could ever dream of being. You can sprinkle glitter on dog shit, after all, but it will still stink up the place, no matter how pretty it looks. You're living proof.
I'll toss out whatever tired rhetoric you try and use on me – it's the same shit on a different day, after all. Nothing you say can move mountains. Your hair flips and cheap little one-liners do nothing in the grand scheme of things and we both know you're grossly outclassed here. Do your best to survive and when you realize you can't hack it, you'll move on to the next alphabet soup company on your Google list. You'll be in the best big thing, the next flash in the pan that disappears. Spout vapid bullshit. Waste a company's time. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I'm not like you.
You're not like me.
Don't even try to act like you know me. Don't come into MY RING and rip apart someone based on their looks, the way they dress, the colour of their hair or a million other superficial things. If you want to truly dazzle the masses, perhaps you should point out an actual flaw. Tell them how many places you've worked where you haven't won a single match. Tell them how you jerked the curtain a thousand times over while I was winning championships meant for men and proving myself over and over. See, Veronica, I know that I can do this. Easily and without breaking a sweat. I've already proved that I'm capable of that. I'm not here to be owned. Sorry, no. I'm here to make waves and I can't help obsessing over Paradise lost. Once upon a time I would have been confident in the outcome. It's funny, how sharply your perception can shift on things – how quickly your self-confidence can be dashed on the rocks of discontent. I think I get where Adam and Eve were when they stood outside those barred gates, looking back at the lush greenery within. I want to go back with every breath – to have everything at my fingertips again – to be the untouchable Queen I once was.
I beat thirty of the best women in the business in 2015.
True story.
There's no room in my world for regrets. I guess there never really was. See, I'm a 'take no prisoners' kinda girl. I do what I do, and I don't obsess over it. I don't turn it into a big production, either. As much as you want to pretend you don't care about others, that they're so far beneath you, it's all a show. You want to play Kim Kardashian. You want the audience and you want to act like my level of loathing is simply jealousy.
Absolutely not. I've got better aspirations than to be a cardboard cutout stereotype. Alpha Bitch. Mean Queen. Samantha Tolson. The Cool Kids. I've seen it done before. I've seen it done better.
Your fifteen minutes of fame are almost over, Veronica. You need a new hook. Maybe you should go marry a bigger celebrity. A rapper. A basketball player. Someone you can leech some fame from, perhaps? You'll get creative. Or desperate, I'm sure. Happy to knock some sense into you, sweetie. If all else fails, you can just try to be the Great Value version of me. Why not?
After I beat you, you're also free to move on and find something better to do than pollute this business. I encourage you to explore this option.
Go on, Veronica. Admit you hate me legitimately and actually own it. I know you do and I know that you'll be afraid to say it out loud. You'll roll your eyes and call me BASIC as though it isn't the most hypocritical slur ever, considering the source.
Hate is easy. It's great fuel. See, hatred was the first emotion I ever perfected. Hatred involves a level of passion and commitment that you have never understood – I can tell that just by looking at how many companies you've run through. Commitment? Oh please. You can't even spell, let alone define it.
I know hate intimately. I know that it's more lasting than that fleeting infatuation you truly believe these people feel for you. Nobody envies you.
I do, however, LOATHE you.
Hate is FOREVER. When you come right out and say you hate someone with conviction, that's when they actually start to listen to what you have to say. So lay it on the line. Tell me that you hate me. If you're honest, I'll be nice. What I did for John E Depth can be done for you as well. I will slap some sense into you, if that's what you really want.
If that's what you really need.
Just say the word.
DATE/TIME: January 12, 2019 || 02:17 AM EST
CAMERA STATUS: ON/OFF
The building had been vacant since the divorce had been finalized in 2005, renovation stopped before it had truly begun. She'd had plans for it once, a vision of something fresh and new that had fallen to the wayside. The elements had been less than kind to Jackson's former stomping grounds thanks to the broken skylight and vandals. The hardwood was buckled, crackling beneath her feet as she froze in the middle of the space, looking up. The railing was broken, rusted and falling, graffiti covering the unfinished wood that she'd once found rustic and endearing. She remembered standing in this very same spot, looking up to find she had an audience. She remembered a few months later, hearing his voice booming down from the second level, shouting for her to 'try harder' the moment she started to flag.
She wondered what he would think if he knew she'd held onto this place for purely sentimental reasons?
Where the floorboards weren't corrugated like a wash road, they were dull with dust and filth. The plastic covering the broken skylight flapped in the wind, making her flinch.
"Trying to tell me something?" She looked up, seeing stars above in the night sky where the opaque covering had ripped free. She stood there a moment longer in silence, head cocked as though listening for a reply that never came. Sighing, she let her shoulders drop, slowly picking her way to the stairs and the door set in the wall beneath them. It was blue-painted steel, chipped in places. For some reason, the taggers had left it alone and the lock she'd fastened so many years ago was still there, numbers rusted away but the hasp still turned. She twisted to the right places without looking: right to thirty-five, all the way back counter-clockwise to zero and back to twenty-five. She didn't have to think about it.
She'd had the lock since tenth grade.
The door opened outward and with it came rancid, musty air. She coughed in the dust and reached over to flip on the light, surprised when the tired old fluorescent strip came to life, flickering a few times before steadying. A broken treadmill and the old universal weight machine rose from the shadows like dinosaur bones and she felt tears prickling that weren't just from the smell.
"Should I stay?" The song lyrics flashed through her head and she whispered them aloud, "or should I go now?"
She rested her hand against the door, feeling paint flake off on her palm. Everything was ruined here, so old, so forgotten that it was completely useless. The last thing she wanted to do was go to a public gym, to push herself through the motions under scrutiny.
Somewhere in the distance a phone rang, repeatedly. It fell silent before it grew annoying, and for a moment she was reminded of Pink Floyd. The telephone, that hollow beeping as the operator tried to make that connection over the miles only for it to be denied over and over again. Maybe she'd imagined it. There wasn't any service connected here and there was nothing left in the office except rat droppings and roaches. Maybe it was that empty silence making her ears ring, the complete absence of sound worse than the cacophony at a construction site.
"Tell me what I need to do," she murmured, "I'm lost without you, Mik." The darkness didn't reply, leaving her wishing she'd had more time – wishing she had a way to go back and savor it better. Seeing this wreckage here, it drove the point home harder than ever: nothing lasts forever.
kittymacblog.wordpress.net posting
January 12, 2019 || 04:31AM
current mood:
current song: "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates
It's a bitch, girl. I'm sure you've heard the song. It's fitting, perhaps. I've seen you around. Like a bad penny (forgive the archaic saying, won't you), you have this nasty habit of showing up. The mean girl, cliché – the worst of the tropes in this business. Privileged bitch with a bursting wallet, the platinum American Express card, and the toy chihuahua in a Barbie pink purse as an accessory? How many of those boxes do you tick, Roni? All of them?
You're a rich girl, and you've gone too far
'Cause you know it don't matter anyway
You can rely on the old man's money
You're awful. You're insufferable. This song was written for you, and that's truly sad because it's awful. Let's consider that last line, shall we?
You can rely on the old man's money.
That's true, isn't it? That's all you have going for you. You're another thing I hate about this business, if I'm being honest. Another piece of trash, another waste of time. You're not a good wrestler. You're not bright or intelligent and your observations are superficial at best. There's no substance whatsoever.
You are, in the smallest words possible, the celery stick of pro wrestling.
Lean. Stringy. Watered-down and bland. Utterly tasteless.
Nobody likes celery. Anyone who says they do is lying. Much like your largely imaginary fan-base. Oh snap!
Hell yes, I went there. What are you going to do about it? Nothing. Yeah. I thought so.
The needle skips, here's the same record on repeat with the same shit over and over, like I'm trying to bludgeon it into my own head along with yours. Maybe I am, in a way. Maybe I'm just hoping that in tearing you down to size, I can immunize the company against the utter DISEASE that you are. A cancer, Veronica. That's the best description to apply to something as voraciously virulent as you are. Yes, sweetie, I realize that was oxy-moronic, perhaps a tad heavy-handed even when dealing with the mentally feeble like yourself.
It's hard being back here. Even harder finding the desire to light into you. You're not worth the time or the effort, yet here we are. I had to drink a few glasses of wine to get myself in the mood and now I just feel a headache looming and I want to go to bed.
I feel about the same way most people do after listening to your shrill voice, spewing nonsense, I'm sure. It must be hard being so absolutely awful. But then we all have our struggles.
Poor me. I still haven't found my balance. I feel wobbly, as though maybe taking those metaphorical training wheels off so soon was a bad idea. But I'm stubborn, Veronica. I plan to see it through and if I crash and burn, so be it. I'll get back up. I will continue to fight tooth and nail to prove I'm the best woman in this business. I did it once before. I can do it again.
We both know considering me losing this battle on any front is bullshit. I will walk out of that match under my own power after having my hand raised in victory. I will talk circles around you and I will certainly prove right now that I'm far more literate than you could ever dream of being. You can sprinkle glitter on dog shit, after all, but it will still stink up the place, no matter how pretty it looks. You're living proof.
I'll toss out whatever tired rhetoric you try and use on me – it's the same shit on a different day, after all. Nothing you say can move mountains. Your hair flips and cheap little one-liners do nothing in the grand scheme of things and we both know you're grossly outclassed here. Do your best to survive and when you realize you can't hack it, you'll move on to the next alphabet soup company on your Google list. You'll be in the best big thing, the next flash in the pan that disappears. Spout vapid bullshit. Waste a company's time. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
I'm not like you.
You're not like me.
Don't even try to act like you know me. Don't come into MY RING and rip apart someone based on their looks, the way they dress, the colour of their hair or a million other superficial things. If you want to truly dazzle the masses, perhaps you should point out an actual flaw. Tell them how many places you've worked where you haven't won a single match. Tell them how you jerked the curtain a thousand times over while I was winning championships meant for men and proving myself over and over. See, Veronica, I know that I can do this. Easily and without breaking a sweat. I've already proved that I'm capable of that. I'm not here to be owned. Sorry, no. I'm here to make waves and I can't help obsessing over Paradise lost. Once upon a time I would have been confident in the outcome. It's funny, how sharply your perception can shift on things – how quickly your self-confidence can be dashed on the rocks of discontent. I think I get where Adam and Eve were when they stood outside those barred gates, looking back at the lush greenery within. I want to go back with every breath – to have everything at my fingertips again – to be the untouchable Queen I once was.
I beat thirty of the best women in the business in 2015.
True story.
There's no room in my world for regrets. I guess there never really was. See, I'm a 'take no prisoners' kinda girl. I do what I do, and I don't obsess over it. I don't turn it into a big production, either. As much as you want to pretend you don't care about others, that they're so far beneath you, it's all a show. You want to play Kim Kardashian. You want the audience and you want to act like my level of loathing is simply jealousy.
Absolutely not. I've got better aspirations than to be a cardboard cutout stereotype. Alpha Bitch. Mean Queen. Samantha Tolson. The Cool Kids. I've seen it done before. I've seen it done better.
Your fifteen minutes of fame are almost over, Veronica. You need a new hook. Maybe you should go marry a bigger celebrity. A rapper. A basketball player. Someone you can leech some fame from, perhaps? You'll get creative. Or desperate, I'm sure. Happy to knock some sense into you, sweetie. If all else fails, you can just try to be the Great Value version of me. Why not?
After I beat you, you're also free to move on and find something better to do than pollute this business. I encourage you to explore this option.
Go on, Veronica. Admit you hate me legitimately and actually own it. I know you do and I know that you'll be afraid to say it out loud. You'll roll your eyes and call me BASIC as though it isn't the most hypocritical slur ever, considering the source.
Hate is easy. It's great fuel. See, hatred was the first emotion I ever perfected. Hatred involves a level of passion and commitment that you have never understood – I can tell that just by looking at how many companies you've run through. Commitment? Oh please. You can't even spell, let alone define it.
I know hate intimately. I know that it's more lasting than that fleeting infatuation you truly believe these people feel for you. Nobody envies you.
I do, however, LOATHE you.
Hate is FOREVER. When you come right out and say you hate someone with conviction, that's when they actually start to listen to what you have to say. So lay it on the line. Tell me that you hate me. If you're honest, I'll be nice. What I did for John E Depth can be done for you as well. I will slap some sense into you, if that's what you really want.
If that's what you really need.
Just say the word.
=^,,^=
