[hr][center][h3][url=https://www.roleplayerguild.com/posts/4430140]Paulie Cooper[/url][/h3]
[hr]Date: 2nd August 2017
Location: Streets of Manhattan, NYC
Time: 1:30 AM
[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dmSp4KX7MoM][img]http://i.imgur.com/KdzywDR.png[/img][/url]
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The first drag always felt like the first time to Paulie. Every one after felt forced, a fling accidentally turned relationship because it was the thing to do. This is why she preferred to smoke with friends, passing rolled tobacco or pot around like a shared experience. It was just another example of community working itself into something to be wanted if you were looking. Alone, she had all of these singular instances where engaging felt like the first time every time. The next man she pulled into her van felt like the first man pulled into her van... and then he was every other man she'd pulled into her van.

The next friend she'd abducted at the end of a burn to take on an interstate journey for comfort felt like the first friend she'd abducted at the end of a burn to take on an interstate journey for comfort. Then, they were every other friend she'd abducted at the end of a burn to take on an interstate journey for comfort.

Paulie was sitting cross-legged on a street bench, laptop in front of her, her expression sleepy and pensive. She had a cigaratte in one hand and a homemade mug in the other, coffee from a vending machine, irish from a bottle in the backpack at her side. She was wearing some of Rozzle's clothes; a kaleidoscopic, baggy tie-dye t-shirt, manycolored patchwork baggy pants, and a pair of Simon's boots that fit her giantess feet. Music played faintly from a usb speaker plugged into her phone. Ms. John Soda, part of a playlist of their complete discography a friend had sent her some time ago.

On her screen was a blog post. It was the first one she'd written in over six years. When she'd been more active on this site these posts had a strong following, mostly from people who seemed to have no concept of the nomadic lifestyle she was living or how to make it work. They expressed envy, mistrust, revulsion... but always a sense of wonder about her pros. She'd stopped posting because of how unhealthy the process made her feel when she wanted to talk about it with other people. For them, she could write music. This writing space was all about her. Masturbatory. Jubilant.

It reminded her of being too stoned to stop.

But here she was, her cursor over 'send'. She reread the piece a fourth time, looking for things to change.


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[indent][indent]Now that she's here I can't go unseen. I'm practicing it now. I'm here with my coffee stealing wi-fi from a bar across the street just to post this. People noticed me subconsciously and moved around me. I didn't have to be careful. But I still remember what it feels like.

I did that thing I do where I have to leave when I get somewhere. I want to sleep, I want to close my eyes and be with people and be present. But I'm still feeling the momentum of moving and have to get up and leave. So I told them I needed some air. Then I ran to a bus and now they don't know where I am. I left my phone. But I can't bring myself to be unseen.

I don't want them to find me. I don't want anyone in that place to see me. But I want to be found.

So come find me. I'm around. Tens of millions, but I bet you know who to look for.[/indent][/indent]
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Everyone on The Guildserv had a blog space. Some people posted every day, some posted yearly. Some were careful, some treated it like a full case study of their abilities and how magic shaped their lives. Poet used it as a space to express her passions. Love-sick. Fuck-sick. It was cathartic. One person knew who Poet was as far as Paulie knew. They never posted, never shared, never looked for who was sharing. They didn't know her wanderlust.

She clicked send and then closed her laptop, stowing it in her sack and then setting it up as a pillow to sit against as she just sat and took in the place. People strolled past and spoke. Paulie had a sip of her coffee and another drag of smoke, looking at the matching blue patches of corduroy on the tops of her knees and thinking.

It wasn't a good night. She didn't want to stay. Simon was getting worse. The pattern was thicker--every few minutes the conversation would flow one way and Simon was stone. It made her sick to think about now. Rozzle shouldn't be here. Paulie shouldn't be here. But they both needed money, and Paulie owed Rozzle her time and protection. Her companionship.

That was how you kept the community running. You did right by your friends, even the ones you hated. And Paulie didn't hate Rozzle.

Paulie looked up at the bar across the street again, taking a noisy sip of her coffee. She wasn't waiting for anything in particular. It was just what she'd written. She wanted to be seen. She just didn't know whom she wanted to be seen by.