Tonight I’m going to go on a date with Mochizuki Tomo, and nothing had better fuck it up. There won’t be Demon Invasion 2: Electric Bugaloo. I don’t care if I’m the Last Starfighter of Rylos, or if the Principality of Zeon wants to sodomize our collective asses with Mobile Suits. If my father suddenly appears and tells me to Get in the Robot I’m going to kick him in the balls. War Never Changes, but the communist invaders had better hold off their Red Dawn until after I’m satisfied. If ET wants to phone home I’ll flip him a coin but I sure as hell ain’t giving him a lift on my bike.
I lean in until I can see every oozing pore on my face in the mirror and scrunch my brow. Those stupid strips never actually work, even though it’s awesome to see the little forest that your nose leaves on the sticky side afterwards. I’ve never had perfect skin—mine manages to be perpetually oily and dry at the same time, but that’s what foundation is for. Time to move on to more important things, like my bushy eyebrows. If the internet is to be believed, 2D girls with caterpillars crawling above their eyes are the hottest thing since the underboob ribbon, but unfortunately the rule doesn’t apply in 3D, where I live. Threading is surprisingly expensive, and it’s easy to do something stupid like seal your own eyes shut while waxing, so plucking it is. It’s cheap and all it requires from you is some true cowboy grit.
After a lot of cursing and only-halfway-joking contemplation of blowing my brains out all over the sink, I complete the odious task and I’m done with my face-prep. Now, it’s time to select something to wear. I remember when I first went out with Jo I’d spend an hour fretting over color coordination and whether going Gothic Lolita would weird him out or not, but now that I’m older, wiser, and care less, I simply toss on what’s at hand. Most writers make the rookie mistake of describing in epic detail every single bangle, stitch, and bauble on their characters, but I’m not exactly a rookie anymore. Suffice it to say, I’m sure it’ll appeal to Tomo.
Finally, I spritz a few jets of cologne onto my wrists and the nape of my neck, with one between the thighs for good measure. You never know, right? I’ve actually chosen one of my father’s preferred scents, as opposed to some floral bullshit that smells like old ladies dealing with urge incontinence. It smells like a handsome man should: calfskin, unprocessed tobacco, and cordite tempered with jasmine and lavender. Wearing it, I feel like the most interesting ninja in the world; I don’t always date boys, but when I do, I end up banging their sisters instead. Okay, actually, I’d prefer not to end up in the sack with Tama for any reason. She’s cute, but my biology just doesn’t work that way. No, the point of all of this is to con Tomo into overlooking my flaws until I’ve got him hook, line, and sinker. Then I can show him what a shitter I really am!
I got word of his success on the Chuunin exam a little while back. Apparently he got shot in the head. That’s fine, because every woman likes a bit of a fixer-upper. Mostly, though, I just want to see him and talk with him again. The rest is mere gravy, though gravy is nigh irresistible in any form. We’ve agreed to meet in the square, where I’ll take him to this restaurant I’d planned on long before going to Roenesia.
I look over my form in the mirror—satisfactory enough. With that, I grab my handbag (with a change of clothes and basic necessities that a bachelor pad won’t have) and holster my pistol against my thigh. You never know when ruffians might show up and I’ll need to rescue him, after all. I step out of the apartment and start to skip. Nothing’s gonna fuck this up.
I lean in until I can see every oozing pore on my face in the mirror and scrunch my brow. Those stupid strips never actually work, even though it’s awesome to see the little forest that your nose leaves on the sticky side afterwards. I’ve never had perfect skin—mine manages to be perpetually oily and dry at the same time, but that’s what foundation is for. Time to move on to more important things, like my bushy eyebrows. If the internet is to be believed, 2D girls with caterpillars crawling above their eyes are the hottest thing since the underboob ribbon, but unfortunately the rule doesn’t apply in 3D, where I live. Threading is surprisingly expensive, and it’s easy to do something stupid like seal your own eyes shut while waxing, so plucking it is. It’s cheap and all it requires from you is some true cowboy grit.
After a lot of cursing and only-halfway-joking contemplation of blowing my brains out all over the sink, I complete the odious task and I’m done with my face-prep. Now, it’s time to select something to wear. I remember when I first went out with Jo I’d spend an hour fretting over color coordination and whether going Gothic Lolita would weird him out or not, but now that I’m older, wiser, and care less, I simply toss on what’s at hand. Most writers make the rookie mistake of describing in epic detail every single bangle, stitch, and bauble on their characters, but I’m not exactly a rookie anymore. Suffice it to say, I’m sure it’ll appeal to Tomo.
Finally, I spritz a few jets of cologne onto my wrists and the nape of my neck, with one between the thighs for good measure. You never know, right? I’ve actually chosen one of my father’s preferred scents, as opposed to some floral bullshit that smells like old ladies dealing with urge incontinence. It smells like a handsome man should: calfskin, unprocessed tobacco, and cordite tempered with jasmine and lavender. Wearing it, I feel like the most interesting ninja in the world; I don’t always date boys, but when I do, I end up banging their sisters instead. Okay, actually, I’d prefer not to end up in the sack with Tama for any reason. She’s cute, but my biology just doesn’t work that way. No, the point of all of this is to con Tomo into overlooking my flaws until I’ve got him hook, line, and sinker. Then I can show him what a shitter I really am!
I got word of his success on the Chuunin exam a little while back. Apparently he got shot in the head. That’s fine, because every woman likes a bit of a fixer-upper. Mostly, though, I just want to see him and talk with him again. The rest is mere gravy, though gravy is nigh irresistible in any form. We’ve agreed to meet in the square, where I’ll take him to this restaurant I’d planned on long before going to Roenesia.
I look over my form in the mirror—satisfactory enough. With that, I grab my handbag (with a change of clothes and basic necessities that a bachelor pad won’t have) and holster my pistol against my thigh. You never know when ruffians might show up and I’ll need to rescue him, after all. I step out of the apartment and start to skip. Nothing’s gonna fuck this up.