Katina Choovanski

The last time Katchoo had stayed in any one place long enough to acquire this much stuff, she'd ended up running away to leave it all behind, and not regretting it.

Mostly.

Well, she did somewhat miss the stuff; the people she'd left behind, who had caught up to her once already, were a different story.

Anyway, the point was that this was a #($!ton of stuff to go through, packing was a daunting prospect, throwing any of it out was more difficult in practice than in theory, and mostly Katchoo just looked at all of it and wondered if she could just leave the room for five minutes and come back to find it all packed away thanks to some convenient and well-timed quirk of Fandom.

. . . her cigarette breaks weren't an attempt to test that theory, just long bad habit, but she was curious anyway, every time she got back.

God. How was she supposed to get all of this packed up and shipped off in the next day or so, anyway? Clocky, wheeling around the piles of things and occasionally letting out a scolding beep, wasn't a damn bit of help that way.

[OOC: Not her last post in Fandom, but I feel like doing something with her today. Open door, open post, may be slowish but SP is nommable, right? Right.]

It was not a morning in which waking up, much less getting out of bed, held any appeal whatsoever for Katchoo. Neither was about to happen at the moment, not when staying curled up with Francine was an option.

Which is what she was, lost in a pleasant sleepy haze completely free of dreams -- no clocks, no crazy cartoon versions of herself, no inexplicably hostile chipmunks, no fog, no storms in Hawaii. It was rare, and it was nice, and she was going to enjoy the hell out of it while it lasted.

[OOC: For that girl in bed with her, and NFB.]

So one minute there'd been an attempt at actually, finally sucking it up, saying 'the hell with it,' and kissing Francine until she couldn't breathe as a prelude to other things that . . . would have a definite impact on breathing.

And then she'd been small, and fuzzy, with floppy ears, and NOT ADORABLE, DAMMIT.

Katchoo had been keeping up quite the mental rant about this in her head ever since it had happened, but being a bunny she couldn't exactly express it in her usual oh-so-charming way. Chewing on things, maybe, vented some of the frustration but she had a lot more of that built up than this tiny lapine form should have room to hold.

. . . that rant was still going, no matter how comfortable she was at the particular moment.

[OOC: For that girl. NOT YOU, RAVEN. ETA: This post might be kinda NWS now. WHAT?]

Katchoo had slept in late and then spent the rest of her day painting, smoking, and brooding about her past.

. . . whether or not she'd been affected by the island's latest fit of wacky could not be determined from this, by the way. Because her life was soap opera enough as it was. That aside, it was, if you were Katchoo, a very time-consuming way to spend the day. By the time she finally wound down (hours and hours and don't ask how many cigarettes later, so now she was a bare notch above being a Katchoocicle because she'd had the window open all day, this the winding down before hypothermia set in and she died a melodramatic sweeps-week death) it was . . . pretty damn late, actually.

Freshly showered and dressed in sweats, she sprawled out onto her bed and continued brooding, this time without the multitasking.

[OOC: For certain Clusterfsckians and the inevitable SP.]

Raven had managed to elude her for most of the party after Francine had run off, and, well, Katchoo being Katchoo had spent the rest of the night in a fine fit of moping.

That moping finally, eventually brought her back to the dorms, where she was trudging along the hallway back up to her room slowly.

She'd get there eventually. Honest.

[OOC: For the roomie, the Ears, and FUNDRAMATIEMZ or something.]

This was the first time since she'd gotten back from the trip, barring a furtive minute or two to drop off her bags, that Katchoo had set foot in her own damn room out of a notion that Francine needed some space after the whole kissing-and-then-freaking-out-and-fleeing incident from Saturday night. Francine always needed space after those incidents, and it made Katchoo want to beat her head into the wall a little that there had been enough incidents for her to see a pattern.

There was a certain farcical element to this, if you were far enough removed from the situation to see it from that angle, but at point-blank face-smooshed-up-against-the-problem range Katchoo was really only inclined to be frustrated, hurt, and pretty damned worn out from it all. Too damned worn out to keep giving space, actually, which didn't mean she wasn't relieved that the room was empty when she walked in and dropped to sit on the edge of her bed.

Clocky wheeled out from under her desk with a scolding beep-whir.

"Yeah. Missed you too," she told the clock, reaching down to give it a grudging pat.

[OOC: For that girl who also lives here and constantly has these Incidents with her. Look, don't blame us, blame the Cartoonist. HE IS WAY WORSE.]

When the phone rang, Katchoo nearly smashed it for having the audacity to wake her. Clocky sympathized with the phone, which was saved by virtue of Katchoo's fist missing and sending it skidding off the nightstand and onto the bed instead, where it bounced off her forehead.

"Ow! Sonofa --" she started to growl when she saw the caller ID and snapped the slider open, all thoughts of being relieved about being herself again on hold. "Hello?"

The woman on the other end of the line spoke in a soft French-Canadian accent. "This is Sister Jordan at Saint Mary's Hospice in Toronto. I'm looking for Katina Choovanski."

Shit. "Yeah, this is she," Katchoo answered with none of her usual gruffness, and fell silent, listening to what the woman had to say. The details of it weren't important the way the strangled sob Katchoo let out in response was. "Okay. I understand," she said, her fist half jammed into her mouth to keep from crying. "Okay. Please tell her I'm on my way. I'll be there as soon as I can."

She snapped the phone shut and rolled over long enough to let out a muffled, frustrated yell into her pillow, then got up to throw on some clothes and pull the suitcase, already packed, from its place under the bed behind the pile of empty liquor bottles. She'd told Arthur she'd try to tell Francine the truth, just yesterday. Hard to do that now, wherever the hell Francine had gone after their fight (over not telling the truth, funny, that) last night, and now this. Thanks, universe, best timing ever.

Katchoo ripped a page out of her sketchbook and started to scribble a ( quick note: )

Tossing the note onto Francine's bed, she headed out the door, already on the phone and mentally cursing out hold music.

[OOC: Establishy. NFI unless the roomie wants to react to the note.]

So Katchoo wasn't in the mood to go to Fight Club tonight.

Funny, that; apparently she'd gotten a good chunk of her Need To Hit Things out of her system this week. Okay, maybe not, but somehow it just didn't have its usual appeal tonight.

She was sprawled on her bed instead, a sketchbook open in front of her to a page that was blank and had been blank for the past several hours, Ani DiFranco on the tape player stereo and a bottle of Jack Daniels on the nightstand. Pretty comfortable setup for a good, sullen brood.

Good times -- she didn't even notice when Clocky wheeled over to the slightly ajar door and nudged it open a few inches further.

[OOC: Door and post open, should you wish to poke the Happy Fun Chewieball. May be patches of SP because my headache won't go away.]

Francine hadn't come home yesterday. Katchoo had assumed she'd spent the night with Merlin, and that was a line of thought not worth dwelling on for too long.

Which meant she'd spent all night up in front of an easel, slapping haphazard brushfuls of paint onto canvas with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth 99% of the time, stewing. She hadn't bothered listening to the radio, or she'd have been more worried to hear that they'd been spotted in the preserve.

She hadn't slept, either, although now she was sprawled out on her bed with a cigarette dangling from her fingers, staring at the phone on her bedside table. Francine wasn't around; the newbie picnic could go screw itself.

"Ring, dammit," she muttered, and it hit her that when she'd taken off for Toronto Francine must've freaked just as bad. "Where the hell are you, Francie?"

Karma, she'd just decided, was an utter and complete bitch.

[OOC: Establishy, but open if you want to drop in on an edgy and even more snappish than usual Chewie. If you dare.]

It had been several hours since she'd left Francine that voicemail about being on her way home, but Katchoo hadn't been counting on getting stuck in portal transit for several hours. As luck would have it, she made it back to Fandom and back to her room . . . oh, just in time to make it down to Mythbusting if she dumped her bag on the floor and hurried.

Which she wasn't really feeling much like doing at the moment, go figure. She rifled through the pile of clothes on her bed to find a clean-ish, if ripped all to hell, pair of jeans, a t-shirt, underwear, yadda yadda, then headed for the bathroom. She'd be late to class, or whatever, but the longer she went without washing off the travel grime the worse her mood was going to be.

And she was going to be in enough trouble with Francine for taking off as it was.

[OOC: Estaaaaaaaaaaablishy.]