Doors

[Text to Theo]

Fed decorative fish today in lobby.

Got rabbit for dinner tonight.

[Tony Stark from Bruce Banner]

How are you feeling?

[Peter Parker from Bruce Banner]

Hey Peter. How are you?

Does temporarily moving back in with my dad at age 24 make me a cliché? I don't even have grad school as an excuse (although to be fair, my suite at the Bellagio did get crushed to bits). What say you, journalwebs of infinite knowledge?

[Locked to Maddie Kate R.]

I'm back in town. Got back right in time for the dragon chaos (woo timing). What else did I miss?

[As Christine D]

[Locked to Nadir]
Monsieur, I have not heard of you. Are you well after the occurrences of last week?

[Locked to Raoul]
Raoul Vicomte, I have a request, Monsieur, if I might impose.

[Locked to the Phantom]
We have not spoken since Are you aware of what Monsieur, I wished to inquire after your health.

[Locked: Jules S/Bailey T]

It's gotten worse. How much of a bad idea would it be to tell someone from her door that she's not limited to Gotham?

[Note left for Nikolai next to his pillow.]

At work for a double shift. I might be late tonight.

Love you

I think it's probably fucked up that I enjoy living in my shitty studio apartment more than the high roller suites they comp me at Caesar's and the Bellagio. Is that fucked up? I vote yes. But there's something about the grotesque opulence of a hotel suite that would normally cost about a kajillion dollars per night that just makes my skin crawl. There's the way that the plush carpeting matches the velvet drapes which match the color scheme of the dust ruffle on the bed - ugh. What exactly is a dust ruffle for, exactly? How does one ruffle dust? Anyway, I digress.

It's the whole package that just creeps me out. There's something much more soothing about coming home to a mattress on the floor, a stack of books instead of a giant headboard made out of teak or mahogany or something other fancy kind of wood that I wouldn't be able to identify if my life depended on it. I like my bare white walls. They're simple. Easy to understand. No fuss.

I prefer my tiny little kitchen, even if the last occupants chose to paint it the most truly awful shade of pink that has ever existed. At least it's functional. Practical. I've got everything I need, I know where everything is without having to fumble through a dozen dimmer-fader-clapper light switch settings before I can just turn the fucking lights on to take a piss at night. No fancy claw-foot tubs to stub my toes on, or chrome bathroom fixtures polished to a blinding sheen and reflecting my pores to the size of dinner plates. No nosy maids rap-tap-tapping at ten in the fucking morning despite the very obvious 'DO NOT DISTURB FOR THE LOVE OF GOD' sign swinging from the door handle. Just peace. My space. My stuff.

And my cat. She's the best part of coming home to that shitty hole in the wall on Fremont Street. So maybe it is fucked up, but I'll take my cat and my own boring life over the five stars of the Strip pretty much any day of the week.

[Locked to Jules S]

Sober.

[Public]

Show on Tuesday at the jazz club over on [address]. Cover's free until 9pm. Stop in.

[Public]

If anyone has a few hours to spare, we could really use volunteers at the Soup Kitchen and the Homeless shelter.  There's been an influx of people thanks to the damage from the other week and we're a bit short staffed. 

[Public]

Anyone from Harley Quinn's door have a minute?