Post by Layne F. Larkin on May 20, 2013 20:00:55 GMT -5
Layne Olivia Larkin was not a very patient person. Actually, forget that understatement shit. She was a selfish, impatient bitch, thank you very much.
She was proud as fuck about it too.
Layne Fucking Larking didn't put up with any of that shaming shit, where she's supposed to feel bad because she's fucking awesome and you're just some jealous asshole who can't deal with real shit. Get the fuck out. Just go. Don't let the door hit you on the ass as you leave. Take your fuckery elsewhere. Etc.
So, you know, not having shit to do for months, Layne was not going to just sit around doing jack shit forever. She had fucking plans. For one thing, she was a goddamn prodigy at potions. There wasn't any bitch-ass in all of fucking Spain, she bet, who could tell her something about potion-making she didn't already know. She was that goddamn good.
But fuck it if she knew what else to do. She was tired of picking fights with little bitches, she didn't have time to waste on shit like that. Besides, the fucking pansy-ass bitches and faggots around here were giving her plenty of space. Fuckers were doing the smart thing for once, but this just made Layne's listlessness even worse. Hell, when she went to dinner, she didn't even have to give anyone a dirty look anymore. Could it be that Layne was growing the fuck up? Maybe she just wasn't the badass bitch she'd been before? When was the last time she'd stolen anything? Drank under the noses of the teachers? Hexed anyone?
Hell, when the fuck was the last time she'd let loose and spewed some nasty goddamn shit (verbally, of course) at some little bitch that'd pissed her off?
She couldn't even fucking remember. Ah well, there was bound to be some asshole who showed up and pissed her off sooner or later. Then she would get her swag back. Fuck yes. Layne Larkin was the kind of asshole that used words like 'swag' un-fucking-ironically. Deal with it.
Right, so anyway, she was sick as fuck of all this waiting around bullshit. And she was also sick as fuck of her room. She'd been working on shit down there, and now it was finally ready. It was kind of lucky that no one had played quidditch here since forever ago, when Headmistress Prissy Stick-up-her-ass had been like the fucking badass quidditch goddess or some shit like that. It was amazing how totes uncool someone like that could be. Like, weren't jocks supposed to be concerned with being popular and shit. Anyway, the pitch was empty and shit, which was good.
See, Layne hated being the only one around here who just did whatever the fuck she wanted. The potion was more or less ready. She had dragged a portable burner and a bunch of potions shit up here at fuckall o'clock in the morning. She lit the burner and put her cauldron over it, letting it get warm before she continued. She tied a scarf over her face as she worked, as much to avoid the fumes as to avoid recognition. she'd even tucked her crazy rainbow hair under a hat so it wouldn't get in the way.
The way this shit worked, if she'd done it right (which you'd better bet she fucking had) was to lower inhibitions. It wouldn't make you do anything you didn't want to do, it would just make your own resistance to what you wanted less. Everyone would be more like her now, and just get out of their own fucking way. The silvery incandescent cloud of fumes dispersed on the warm summer winds, some of them even heading in the direction of town. Nice.
She was proud as fuck about it too.
Layne Fucking Larking didn't put up with any of that shaming shit, where she's supposed to feel bad because she's fucking awesome and you're just some jealous asshole who can't deal with real shit. Get the fuck out. Just go. Don't let the door hit you on the ass as you leave. Take your fuckery elsewhere. Etc.
So, you know, not having shit to do for months, Layne was not going to just sit around doing jack shit forever. She had fucking plans. For one thing, she was a goddamn prodigy at potions. There wasn't any bitch-ass in all of fucking Spain, she bet, who could tell her something about potion-making she didn't already know. She was that goddamn good.
But fuck it if she knew what else to do. She was tired of picking fights with little bitches, she didn't have time to waste on shit like that. Besides, the fucking pansy-ass bitches and faggots around here were giving her plenty of space. Fuckers were doing the smart thing for once, but this just made Layne's listlessness even worse. Hell, when she went to dinner, she didn't even have to give anyone a dirty look anymore. Could it be that Layne was growing the fuck up? Maybe she just wasn't the badass bitch she'd been before? When was the last time she'd stolen anything? Drank under the noses of the teachers? Hexed anyone?
Hell, when the fuck was the last time she'd let loose and spewed some nasty goddamn shit (verbally, of course) at some little bitch that'd pissed her off?
She couldn't even fucking remember. Ah well, there was bound to be some asshole who showed up and pissed her off sooner or later. Then she would get her swag back. Fuck yes. Layne Larkin was the kind of asshole that used words like 'swag' un-fucking-ironically. Deal with it.
Right, so anyway, she was sick as fuck of all this waiting around bullshit. And she was also sick as fuck of her room. She'd been working on shit down there, and now it was finally ready. It was kind of lucky that no one had played quidditch here since forever ago, when Headmistress Prissy Stick-up-her-ass had been like the fucking badass quidditch goddess or some shit like that. It was amazing how totes uncool someone like that could be. Like, weren't jocks supposed to be concerned with being popular and shit. Anyway, the pitch was empty and shit, which was good.
See, Layne hated being the only one around here who just did whatever the fuck she wanted. The potion was more or less ready. She had dragged a portable burner and a bunch of potions shit up here at fuckall o'clock in the morning. She lit the burner and put her cauldron over it, letting it get warm before she continued. She tied a scarf over her face as she worked, as much to avoid the fumes as to avoid recognition. she'd even tucked her crazy rainbow hair under a hat so it wouldn't get in the way.
The way this shit worked, if she'd done it right (which you'd better bet she fucking had) was to lower inhibitions. It wouldn't make you do anything you didn't want to do, it would just make your own resistance to what you wanted less. Everyone would be more like her now, and just get out of their own fucking way. The silvery incandescent cloud of fumes dispersed on the warm summer winds, some of them even heading in the direction of town. Nice.