Who: Lois Lane Where: Her apartment in Metropolis When: This morning What: No Pants Saturday at Lois Lane's pad. Warnings: None! Just Jeannie doing MOAR SPAMMING WITH NARRATIVES
There was something to be said about being back in your own apartment, let alone back in your own skin. She'd spent the necessary time in Las Vegas, gotten some good stories, been terrified of the dark in the hotel and spent the evening huddled in a corner biting all of her fingernails off. Lois Lane had had enough. So she was back in her own apartment, no missed calls, no messages, not sure where to find anyone she knew.
She fought the urge to bother Clark, fought the stomach cramps when it came to trying to track down Selina, sure something terrible was going to happen to her. Instead she grabbed a bottle of wine, a straw, turned up her stereo, put Whitney Houston on repeat and got into her bed and made herself a cocoon. A cocoon that allowed her to drink her wine from the bottle (with her straw!) of course. She'd spent so much time wondering how to make things feel right, how to make things seem normal. Nothing felt right and there sure as hell was nothing that felt normal about her life. Moreso than usual. She didn't belong here, not in this world, not in this time, whatever it was. She was convinced she'd wandered behind the wrong door and now she was stuck in this prehistoric time loop that she'd never get out of.
Her only option for getting out was going back to Las Vegas and letting Brian take over and he drove her up the wall. It was an unfortunate side effect apparently. So she sat there, in her cocoon, having a pout and getting a buzz. A damn good buzz. Her apartment was cold, her bed was empty, her heart was confused, and her job was just weird. What.The.Fuck.Ever. The more she sipped the more annoyed she got, then she'd laugh and roll her eyes at herself. She felt slightly crazy, but not crazy enough to consider that she actually was losing her marbles. That would be a cold day in hell. It would take more than a baby Superman, a friend like Catwoman, and a strange week in Vegas to make Lois Lane lose her marbles.
She felt ridiculous having a mope the way she was. Honestly, she was Lois Lane. She could do whatever she pleased. Therein was the problem. If she could do what she wanted then she was more than entitled to spend a Saturday afternoon half drunk off of wine of questionable quality (at least it wasn't from a box) in bed listening to Whitney Houston feeling sorry for herself she absolutely could. But what kind of Lois Lane would she be if that's what she actually did?
She turned her head and looked over at herself in the mirror hanging on the door of her closet. "Bitch." She said to herself and grinned. As if by divine intervention the decades old cd she was listening to switched to the next song and she flopped back on her bed and started singing along with 'I'm Every Woman.' She didn't care how loud she was. Or how ridiculous. This was punctuated by the fact that she was soon up and dancing around her apartment, wine bottle in hand (it also doubled as a microphone) and she didn't care about a damn thing. She was dancing around her apartment in fluffy slippers and no pants singing into a wine bottle. And for four minutes and forty-six seconds life made perfect sense.