Email to Kitty, from Illyana
Oct. 30th, 2004 01:22 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
x-snowflake.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
xp_communicationTo: [Pryde, Kitty]
From: [Rasputin, Illyana]
Yeah, well. I guess I could do some honesty.
I've got a headache all the time from the bloody concussion and believe me, washing oatmeal off my shoes close to midnight with one hand (making sure not to get the other one wet, so that the doctors don't shout at me) was not the fun task it sounds like. And you know, I'm bloody tired and I hate how that godawful addict girl can sit there having put a love potion into an idiot's hands and accuse me of having demon subjects, and I'm kind of tired of her being right in a skewed, biased way. I hate how Paige decided that putting oatmeal in my shoes was her best option, and then couldn't even take what she dished out (literally).
I wish I had put all of her shoes in Madagascar. I wish I'd given them to poor Madagascarian children who would use them to walk in Madagascarian swamps where crocodiles lived, and then the crocodiles ate their feet and Paige's shoes too. It's scary, because I also wish I could just make her shut up, and then I think, Oh, I can, and of course I feel guilty that I can and that I remembered I could.
Of course I'm bloody petty. Why is this always such a goddamn surprise to people? Like I haven't been petty a thousand times before. But it's not like I've destroyed Amanda's precious wards or thrown anyone into the depths of hell or even touched anyone else here. So why is it my problem that all these people can think about is words. Like they mean anything anyway.
And I am never going to catch up in my classes, because I barely understood in the first place and I can't even bring myself to ask for help -- and you know, I'd almost rather fail, because to be honest at least failing school is something I'm supposed to be doing. And maybe after that I will finally have the good conscience to just get out of here, having thoroughly abused all opportunities offered to me and alienated at least half the population. Which I do on purpose, don't think I'm asking for sympathy.
But then I ask myself where I'm supposed to go and there's pretty much nowhere, just a world full of people like Clarice and Amanda and my patience is wearing very thin. And Limbo. Fantastic.
It's stupid.
I'm not making any sense, am I. I'm tired and you listen to me complain enough, so I'm also sorry. You should just forget you read this. Here, I'll give you space for that:
There. Your memory should be properly erased. I'll see you in a few minutes anyway, you probably won't even get this until tomorrow.
Illyana
From: [Rasputin, Illyana]
Yeah, well. I guess I could do some honesty.
I've got a headache all the time from the bloody concussion and believe me, washing oatmeal off my shoes close to midnight with one hand (making sure not to get the other one wet, so that the doctors don't shout at me) was not the fun task it sounds like. And you know, I'm bloody tired and I hate how that godawful addict girl can sit there having put a love potion into an idiot's hands and accuse me of having demon subjects, and I'm kind of tired of her being right in a skewed, biased way. I hate how Paige decided that putting oatmeal in my shoes was her best option, and then couldn't even take what she dished out (literally).
I wish I had put all of her shoes in Madagascar. I wish I'd given them to poor Madagascarian children who would use them to walk in Madagascarian swamps where crocodiles lived, and then the crocodiles ate their feet and Paige's shoes too. It's scary, because I also wish I could just make her shut up, and then I think, Oh, I can, and of course I feel guilty that I can and that I remembered I could.
Of course I'm bloody petty. Why is this always such a goddamn surprise to people? Like I haven't been petty a thousand times before. But it's not like I've destroyed Amanda's precious wards or thrown anyone into the depths of hell or even touched anyone else here. So why is it my problem that all these people can think about is words. Like they mean anything anyway.
And I am never going to catch up in my classes, because I barely understood in the first place and I can't even bring myself to ask for help -- and you know, I'd almost rather fail, because to be honest at least failing school is something I'm supposed to be doing. And maybe after that I will finally have the good conscience to just get out of here, having thoroughly abused all opportunities offered to me and alienated at least half the population. Which I do on purpose, don't think I'm asking for sympathy.
But then I ask myself where I'm supposed to go and there's pretty much nowhere, just a world full of people like Clarice and Amanda and my patience is wearing very thin. And Limbo. Fantastic.
It's stupid.
I'm not making any sense, am I. I'm tired and you listen to me complain enough, so I'm also sorry. You should just forget you read this. Here, I'll give you space for that:
There. Your memory should be properly erased. I'll see you in a few minutes anyway, you probably won't even get this until tomorrow.
Illyana
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no subject
Date: 2004-10-31 08:52 pm (UTC)From: [disobeying the doctors' orders]
Subject: You're cooking for me now?
They told you to watch me? Jeez. I can take care of myself, you know. The painkillers just make me overly given to emotion, which irritates me more than headaches or a sore arm or whatever. Don't you dare put them in my food, because that is sneaky and you're supposed to be the good half of the room, aren't you? To keep up the mystery about why you like me for all the people who don't.
It was hardly bitter sarcasm. I save that for the idiots. To be honest, I haven't even thought about college. I mean, I don't even know if I'm going to be alive in two years or not. One of the consequences of getting only halfway sacrificed.
Maybe I'll become an X-Man.
(That was a joke.)
The South Americans may be argumentative now, but just you wait. Anyway, yes, do forget, and don't worry about me. I'm good at surviving, remember? It's what I do.
Illyana
no subject
Date: 2004-10-31 10:13 pm (UTC)From: [Hewlett-Packard HP, Obsession for geeks]
Subject: If you want. I do a mean pancake. :)
Well, I won't drug you if I believe you're not in too much pain. Promise me you will take them if it gets to be too much pain and then I won't drug you. And it's the being sneaky that keeps people thinking I'm the good one - they just don't notice when I go around doing bad stuff. I'm sneaky like that.
Well, why not think about it? We could all be killed tomorrow, but that doesn't stop us from planning what we want to do, even if we're not going to get to do it. So, what would you want to do?
There's surviving and then there's being happy.
-Kit