The morning of the Health Fair dawned, and Shahar Montague groaned; and with one long, muscular arm, pressed a pillow to her slightly puffy face, attempting to no avail to cover the light and blot out the sound. How a pillow to her face was supposed to help prevent sound from reaching her ears was a question yet to be determined, and better left to rocket scientists and sober people. All things considered, she was not even sure where she was, or who she had ended up having the privilege of going home with after the Gala last night- it was somebody? Like, a person. With.... a face. And arms. And she suspected breasts, but she could not remember, and the Uber had brought her to her own home at some point, or... she had gotten here some other way. Theoretically she might have teleported back home after she made her way (or got kicked) out of the home of her very energetic entertainment from last night; but that sounded dangerous. Shahar never did such dangerous stunts, unless it was one of the seven weekdays that ended in 'day'. Or unless she was being well paid. Or unless... ugh, she was thinking, and it was both far too loud, and far too early, for that s**t.
Regardless of how she had gotten from one bed to the other bed, the most important thing that the watery-haired young Captain knew at the moment? It was that her cell phone alarm was buzzing at an unholy hour, and that there were gods of about 8 different religions that she was hoping and almost praying would descend from the sky and strike the gods-damned thing down. She wheezed unhappily as she rolled in her bed, long, muscled limbs tightening and drawing in on her core until she was slowly become bundled into what her little siblings and her older nieces and nephews seemed to call an 'a** ball,' and stuffed her entire body as tightly under a blanket and pillow as she could get. The result of her attempt was nothing near perfection, but at the same time, it was the closest that any person would be able to obtain from her at the 'a** of the clock' in the morning. No one was here to help her nurse her headache, and that displeased her. The light was too bright; she did not want to open her eyes to someone who would not appreciate her effort. She unfurled after a moment, long enough to kick her nightstand so hard that the sadistic cellular torture device fell off of the wooden dresser and between it and the wall.
There it lay, the chirpy hell-tune resounding an echo between wood and wall, growing and expanding until Shahar made a sad, pitiful little noise of despair and stuffed first one leg out of her cocoon and then next the other, wriggling toes and ankles and knees and legs and hips and spine and shoulders and arms; Eventually one of them would respond in the fashion which she was prepared to handle. Alas, that determination quickly failed as the alarm continued to go off, and Shahar continued to want to do more than lay her head under her pillow and cry. But no one was coming to her rescue. Shahar was alone. Her limp slide off the bed and wriggle across the floor was a pitiful sight, all told, and if asked, she would say it was merely because she had no audience. There was nothing for her to play to. No one here to enjoy the display of her weeping and wailing and figurative gnashing of teeth. There was no reason for her sad little display. There was no audience to pat her on the a** and tell her that everything was going to be okay. It was the greatest tragedy in her young life.
Her face smashed into the nightstand; her head followed. Her arm flopped uselessly about behind her, trapped by body, wall, and her shoulder joint. Her wail of despair (which was not actually a wail so much as a very long, and surprisingly quiet grunt that only seemed louder because of her raging hangover) echoed into the space where her phone lay, and poured into her own ears. Everything sucked. So, so badly sucked. As the Captain pressed her tanned hand over the screen, which she could not see through her closed eyes, she half-hoped that she was pushing the Dismiss button instead of the Snooze button. Unfortunately, at first, she was not hitting any button, but with the brief crack of her eye and a whispered oath, she managed to get her hands in the right position to presumably Dismiss. Alas, five minutes later, Shahar Montague learned that Dismiss was actually the big red button on her phone, and that Snooze was the little, unobtrusive bar below it. That made absolutely no sense. Whoever created this phone- they were stupid. And whoever had decided that Snooze would only be for five minutes deserved every inch of punishment they were being given in their special little place in hell.
This time, the hand that smacked into the phone knew what it was doing, even if the brain which powered that hand was a little less well-informed. A lot less well-informed. Semantics. Shahar cracked her eye open, glaring around her bedroom, lit only by the suggested hint of Saturday dawn. Her alarm was set for 6:30 so that she could be there at open to offer to donate blood, and then make it to the CPR class that was being held at 9. Shahar was distinctly less than certain she would be able to donate blood at all; she had read over the rules, but there were so many little persnickety items which she had in doubt. Or rather, not quite in doubt, but in want of wriggling to please her own agenda. The rules still sat on her nightstand, and she stretched out one hangover-numbed limb and lifted the list again, debating if it was worth it as she glared at the paper with blurry vision. The list of rules was not illogical, precisely. It was just... it remained not what she wanted to see.
We Ask You Not to Donate if You: Have cold or flu symptoms or do not feel well on the day of donation. Have lived with a person with clinical hepatitis B or hepatitis C. Have a history of cancer in the past year (except some skin or in situ cancers). Had a blood transfusion, ear/skin piercing, accidental needle stick, or come in contact with someone else’s blood in the past 12 months. (Ear/skin piercing procedures may be acceptable depending on the technique used.) Had malaria in the past or traveled to a malarial risk area in the past 12 months. Are or have been pregnant in the past 6 weeks. Have been treated for syphilis or gonorrhea in the past 12 months. Have used a needle to inject drugs not prescribed for you (including steroids). Are at risk for exposure to HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. Tattoos may be acceptable if done at a regulated business in an approved state. Contact your local center for a list of approved states.
This list of irritants was followed up for the captain by a long list of medications that in all truth she had little idea of if she had ever taken. Whatever the ******** such things as Vismodegib and Dutasteride were used for, or some kind of cow insulin? Something about Hep B, but she did not even know if she had ever suffered from the disease, much less been treated for it. There were no rules on sobriety, either; she was fairly certain that they would prefer her with a low blood alcohol content if she was going to donate, however. With another low groan, Shahar pressed her face to the carpet, grunting as her head beat into the wooden edge of her nightstand. She could so very easily just crawl back into her bed and say damn it all to all of her plans for the day. Tell the hospital tour where to shove it, tell the CPR people to shove it. Tell the blood donor people to shove it, since she could not donate no matter how intense her desire to do so. (The town was dying, one would think that their blood-deprived medical professionals would be able to find the ability to make some exceptions for people who were properly tested; unfortunately, that did not yet seem the be the way that things worked. Which got her back to the point of...
Do I even bother to get up? She really was not feeling the desire to get off the floor and back into her bed, much less anything else, but a promise was a promise, and she did want the CPR certification, even if she could not go by the blood drive... Perhaps she could peek in a window, or admire the bus from a distance? Or, perhaps, she could enjoy the extra thirty minutes of sleep which not having to go donate any blood would afford her, and she could just.... close her eyes...
For a minute...Or... two...
[WC: 1558 - 3 solos]
Regardless of how she had gotten from one bed to the other bed, the most important thing that the watery-haired young Captain knew at the moment? It was that her cell phone alarm was buzzing at an unholy hour, and that there were gods of about 8 different religions that she was hoping and almost praying would descend from the sky and strike the gods-damned thing down. She wheezed unhappily as she rolled in her bed, long, muscled limbs tightening and drawing in on her core until she was slowly become bundled into what her little siblings and her older nieces and nephews seemed to call an 'a** ball,' and stuffed her entire body as tightly under a blanket and pillow as she could get. The result of her attempt was nothing near perfection, but at the same time, it was the closest that any person would be able to obtain from her at the 'a** of the clock' in the morning. No one was here to help her nurse her headache, and that displeased her. The light was too bright; she did not want to open her eyes to someone who would not appreciate her effort. She unfurled after a moment, long enough to kick her nightstand so hard that the sadistic cellular torture device fell off of the wooden dresser and between it and the wall.
There it lay, the chirpy hell-tune resounding an echo between wood and wall, growing and expanding until Shahar made a sad, pitiful little noise of despair and stuffed first one leg out of her cocoon and then next the other, wriggling toes and ankles and knees and legs and hips and spine and shoulders and arms; Eventually one of them would respond in the fashion which she was prepared to handle. Alas, that determination quickly failed as the alarm continued to go off, and Shahar continued to want to do more than lay her head under her pillow and cry. But no one was coming to her rescue. Shahar was alone. Her limp slide off the bed and wriggle across the floor was a pitiful sight, all told, and if asked, she would say it was merely because she had no audience. There was nothing for her to play to. No one here to enjoy the display of her weeping and wailing and figurative gnashing of teeth. There was no reason for her sad little display. There was no audience to pat her on the a** and tell her that everything was going to be okay. It was the greatest tragedy in her young life.
Her face smashed into the nightstand; her head followed. Her arm flopped uselessly about behind her, trapped by body, wall, and her shoulder joint. Her wail of despair (which was not actually a wail so much as a very long, and surprisingly quiet grunt that only seemed louder because of her raging hangover) echoed into the space where her phone lay, and poured into her own ears. Everything sucked. So, so badly sucked. As the Captain pressed her tanned hand over the screen, which she could not see through her closed eyes, she half-hoped that she was pushing the Dismiss button instead of the Snooze button. Unfortunately, at first, she was not hitting any button, but with the brief crack of her eye and a whispered oath, she managed to get her hands in the right position to presumably Dismiss. Alas, five minutes later, Shahar Montague learned that Dismiss was actually the big red button on her phone, and that Snooze was the little, unobtrusive bar below it. That made absolutely no sense. Whoever created this phone- they were stupid. And whoever had decided that Snooze would only be for five minutes deserved every inch of punishment they were being given in their special little place in hell.
This time, the hand that smacked into the phone knew what it was doing, even if the brain which powered that hand was a little less well-informed. A lot less well-informed. Semantics. Shahar cracked her eye open, glaring around her bedroom, lit only by the suggested hint of Saturday dawn. Her alarm was set for 6:30 so that she could be there at open to offer to donate blood, and then make it to the CPR class that was being held at 9. Shahar was distinctly less than certain she would be able to donate blood at all; she had read over the rules, but there were so many little persnickety items which she had in doubt. Or rather, not quite in doubt, but in want of wriggling to please her own agenda. The rules still sat on her nightstand, and she stretched out one hangover-numbed limb and lifted the list again, debating if it was worth it as she glared at the paper with blurry vision. The list of rules was not illogical, precisely. It was just... it remained not what she wanted to see.
We Ask You Not to Donate if You: Have cold or flu symptoms or do not feel well on the day of donation. Have lived with a person with clinical hepatitis B or hepatitis C. Have a history of cancer in the past year (except some skin or in situ cancers). Had a blood transfusion, ear/skin piercing, accidental needle stick, or come in contact with someone else’s blood in the past 12 months. (Ear/skin piercing procedures may be acceptable depending on the technique used.) Had malaria in the past or traveled to a malarial risk area in the past 12 months. Are or have been pregnant in the past 6 weeks. Have been treated for syphilis or gonorrhea in the past 12 months. Have used a needle to inject drugs not prescribed for you (including steroids). Are at risk for exposure to HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. Tattoos may be acceptable if done at a regulated business in an approved state. Contact your local center for a list of approved states.
This list of irritants was followed up for the captain by a long list of medications that in all truth she had little idea of if she had ever taken. Whatever the ******** such things as Vismodegib and Dutasteride were used for, or some kind of cow insulin? Something about Hep B, but she did not even know if she had ever suffered from the disease, much less been treated for it. There were no rules on sobriety, either; she was fairly certain that they would prefer her with a low blood alcohol content if she was going to donate, however. With another low groan, Shahar pressed her face to the carpet, grunting as her head beat into the wooden edge of her nightstand. She could so very easily just crawl back into her bed and say damn it all to all of her plans for the day. Tell the hospital tour where to shove it, tell the CPR people to shove it. Tell the blood donor people to shove it, since she could not donate no matter how intense her desire to do so. (The town was dying, one would think that their blood-deprived medical professionals would be able to find the ability to make some exceptions for people who were properly tested; unfortunately, that did not yet seem the be the way that things worked. Which got her back to the point of...
Do I even bother to get up? She really was not feeling the desire to get off the floor and back into her bed, much less anything else, but a promise was a promise, and she did want the CPR certification, even if she could not go by the blood drive... Perhaps she could peek in a window, or admire the bus from a distance? Or, perhaps, she could enjoy the extra thirty minutes of sleep which not having to go donate any blood would afford her, and she could just.... close her eyes...
For a minute...Or... two...
[WC: 1558 - 3 solos]
