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escaping the real world to face reality
[ *  *  *  *  * ]
Asuka hated sweat. Fuck you, human body, for not developing a cleaner, less sticky cooling mechanism. Or fuck you, human mind, for finding stickiness and dirt uncomfortable.

Asuka groaned and snapped her sketchbook closed. So much for that idea. Her sweat-soaked shirt was practically melting onto her body, and she'd only been drawing out here for, what, ten minutes? Fuck that shit.

Asuka was all for romance, all for sitting outside all serene and zen with her pencil scratching out line art of whatever inspirational thing happened to be sitting in front of her, looking all enlightened and in one with her surroundings and all. Yeah, that would've been nice. But if Kingman insisted on being the place where romance goes to die, well, she could roll with that.

Yeah. That was just fine. Being the place where romance goes to die was, in its own way, kinda romantic. You could stick the phrase on a sign, hoist it into the air, and people would pour in to marvel at the place. Kingman was an ideal, of sorts. She just needed to fuck up her perspective a little. It's all a matter of perspective, romance is a social construct, everything is a social construct, hell could be heaven and heaven could be hell, so on and so forth, right? And lo and behold, everything's fine again. Everything's golden.

Like that one time Asuka had gone to a party-- booze, drugs, loud music, screaming, the works. Normally she hated parties, but she'd wanted to go that time-- remember? Yeah, remember that? She'd actually wanted to go that time, she'd wanted to feel overwhelmed and overimulated, alienated and melancholic, and, holy shit, it had worked. It was beautiful. It'd been heaven.

Not that Asuka had tried any of the booze or drugs. She hadn't quite reached that point yet.

So drawing out here was out of the question, but having a nice draw session wasn't. Sweat was disgusting-- objectively disgusting-- but Kingman was only subjectively unromantic.

Stand up, Asuka. Walk across the street. The museum let you sketch their stuff, right? That'll be nice. That'll be an alright consolation prize.

Bump the doors open. Oh, hell yes. A/C. All hail A/C. And fans. All hail fans. The door boomed behind her as she came in, her footsteps echoing up and down the building.

The museum was big and quiet and empty. Good. She wouldn't have to deal with feeling self-conscious while drawing, wouldn't have the words they're judging you, they're judging you echoing around inside her head and frying her brain.

Oh. So there are people here. That's fine, they're keeping to their own thing. Drawing, like she was. And one of them, now that she was looking a little more closely, was Jennifer Wallace. That was good. Of course the other guy smelled like fish-- didn't seem likely to be Jennifer, with that wrinkled nose-- but hey, don't judge a book by its cover, right? Asuka wouldn't. Asuka was a nice non-judgmental person who would never avoid a person just because they smelled like fish, right? No, she was going to go off to draw by herself regardless of who was there, because she was a shy quiet person who wanted to be alone with her thoughts and sketchpad. The fish smell was entirely incidental.

Asuka waved. Goddammit.

She'd meant that wave. She'd really really wanted to just be alone, but still, she'd meant that wave.

Hi and stuff.
Edited by Zetsumodernista, Aug 25 2016, 01:00 AM.
dear god dear god tinkle tinkle hoy

G056: Asuka Takahara: The one who can out-pretentious them all.
- Memories: 1
- Pregame: 1
- V6: 1-2
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It Belongs in a Museum · Kingman Museum of Art and History