11-30-2013, 06:56 PM
November 28th, 2013
I had to start a new journal. It seemed appropriate, since I'm in a new place now. Even though I bought this a week ago, I've only just gotten the chance to sit down and write in it. I brought home a desk and chair today. This shithole of an apartment is starting to come together piece by piece. The leg fell off of the desk an hour after I'd put it together and almost cause the lamp to break, but the lamp is fine and I managed to fix the leg. I guess that construction job is paying off.
Construction. Holy shit, what a terrible profession. I guess it's what I'm reduced to, though, since I've already proven to myself that I can't be in offices anymore. Not after what happened in Las Vegas. I got an attorney's letter the other day-- the fuckers found me. I suppose I'll need to start making payments toward that woman's medical bills now. Maybe the ones in the woods had it right and I should just fall off the map. Is keeping my name and record and life really worth it when all that I can have anymore is a studio apartment and a job that I hate?
I haven't found anyone out here yet, but I haven't been looking much either. I've just been settling in. I went on that networking website and read some updates left by kin. Apparently I just missed a big shit storm. That's a shame. I could have totally come in and played the newcomer hero if I were just two months sooner.
Who am I kidding. Lawmakers are built for the aftermath anyways.
Speaking of aftermath, I still need to patch up that hole left in the wall. If I don't remember why I put that hole there to begin with, then I'm more fortunate in the future than I am right now. I'll just leave that off these pages.
-----------------
The moleskin journal is put into the single drawer of the flimsy desk that looks too small for David to be sitting at. He didn't get up at first, but stayed there in the wooden chair that went along with the desk, leaned forward to prop his elbows up on the piece of furniture and rest his forehead against the heels of his hands.
Things haven't been that easy for David in the past year since he left the Sept out in rural Minnesota, where the Get of Fenris plucked him from his life much earlier even than that and shaped him into something that would suit their Tribe and the Wolf God's purposes. Then they let him free.
It was a mistake to try and return to the life he had before, to try and puppet out some semblance of living like a human. He thought that going across the country would help, but after eight months of working in a finances office he'd flipped his desk onto a woman's lap when the moon was halved and his temper had flared. Now he was going to be paying her medical bills.
Go to Denver, some Glasswalker Kinfolk had told him at a club that he'd gone to, a place he knew to be owned and operated by Kinfolk, somewhere that he could have a drink and maybe find some woman stupid and drunk enough to come home with him. There's trouble with a Sept up there, I heard. But there's Garou and Kinfolk, they'll help you out. You need a pack, that's why you're here drinking after all.
David had told him to shut up, but he couldn't deny the truth in that Kinsman's words. He did need a pack, and he'd just need to break his old reclusive habits and set out to either join one or forge one if there were none that would have him.
He took his face away from his hands and looked about the cramped studio apartment that he'd been laying his head in for the past few weeks. The place was sparse, he was piecing it together paycheck by paycheck as he could afford to do so. The most interesting thing so far was the basketball sized hole in the wall above his headboard.
Oh, right. That.
With a small sigh, the man pushed himself away from his desk and stood. Spackle and repair supplies were sitting on his small kitchen counter, and it was time to get to work.
First, he'd mend the wall.
Then he'd have to mend his place in the Nation.
I had to start a new journal. It seemed appropriate, since I'm in a new place now. Even though I bought this a week ago, I've only just gotten the chance to sit down and write in it. I brought home a desk and chair today. This shithole of an apartment is starting to come together piece by piece. The leg fell off of the desk an hour after I'd put it together and almost cause the lamp to break, but the lamp is fine and I managed to fix the leg. I guess that construction job is paying off.
Construction. Holy shit, what a terrible profession. I guess it's what I'm reduced to, though, since I've already proven to myself that I can't be in offices anymore. Not after what happened in Las Vegas. I got an attorney's letter the other day-- the fuckers found me. I suppose I'll need to start making payments toward that woman's medical bills now. Maybe the ones in the woods had it right and I should just fall off the map. Is keeping my name and record and life really worth it when all that I can have anymore is a studio apartment and a job that I hate?
I haven't found anyone out here yet, but I haven't been looking much either. I've just been settling in. I went on that networking website and read some updates left by kin. Apparently I just missed a big shit storm. That's a shame. I could have totally come in and played the newcomer hero if I were just two months sooner.
Who am I kidding. Lawmakers are built for the aftermath anyways.
Speaking of aftermath, I still need to patch up that hole left in the wall. If I don't remember why I put that hole there to begin with, then I'm more fortunate in the future than I am right now. I'll just leave that off these pages.
-----------------
The moleskin journal is put into the single drawer of the flimsy desk that looks too small for David to be sitting at. He didn't get up at first, but stayed there in the wooden chair that went along with the desk, leaned forward to prop his elbows up on the piece of furniture and rest his forehead against the heels of his hands.
Things haven't been that easy for David in the past year since he left the Sept out in rural Minnesota, where the Get of Fenris plucked him from his life much earlier even than that and shaped him into something that would suit their Tribe and the Wolf God's purposes. Then they let him free.
It was a mistake to try and return to the life he had before, to try and puppet out some semblance of living like a human. He thought that going across the country would help, but after eight months of working in a finances office he'd flipped his desk onto a woman's lap when the moon was halved and his temper had flared. Now he was going to be paying her medical bills.
Go to Denver, some Glasswalker Kinfolk had told him at a club that he'd gone to, a place he knew to be owned and operated by Kinfolk, somewhere that he could have a drink and maybe find some woman stupid and drunk enough to come home with him. There's trouble with a Sept up there, I heard. But there's Garou and Kinfolk, they'll help you out. You need a pack, that's why you're here drinking after all.
David had told him to shut up, but he couldn't deny the truth in that Kinsman's words. He did need a pack, and he'd just need to break his old reclusive habits and set out to either join one or forge one if there were none that would have him.
He took his face away from his hands and looked about the cramped studio apartment that he'd been laying his head in for the past few weeks. The place was sparse, he was piecing it together paycheck by paycheck as he could afford to do so. The most interesting thing so far was the basketball sized hole in the wall above his headboard.
Oh, right. That.
With a small sigh, the man pushed himself away from his desk and stood. Spackle and repair supplies were sitting on his small kitchen counter, and it was time to get to work.
First, he'd mend the wall.
Then he'd have to mend his place in the Nation.