☤ the boss lady.

legend has it that if you ever vote against lgbtqa interests, this is what you see right before you die

       ❝ YES, me too ! they’re good, lisa. ❞ she’s smiling too, though she’s still shaking her head in that southern ‘im disappointed in you’ way. ❝ maybe you should try branching out a little. you’re a good doctor, i promise you you do not need another read through of grey’s anatomy. you’ve got that COVERED. ❞ she pauses, taking a step back and tilting her head, examining her. ❝ stay there for a sec. i’m trying to figure out which house to put you in. ❞

218.  @drliscuddy​  +  send  me  ‘  🛋  ’  and  i’ll  use  a  number   generator  to  generate  a  sentence   /   accepting.

      what is the worth of a meeting if not met with the forefront face of the woman who called to arms & looks as though she handled her weight in jose cuervo ? if only the surgeon could say the same… ❝  did you have fun last night ?  ❞

@drliscuddy

you don’t know how to talk about this. or anything. all of this settles around you like snow, except it’s falling ash, dotting your skin black, smearing unkindly on porcelain. sometimes you almost see it. sometimes you almost look down and there are the smudges of red, all over you. you hate this wheelchair, frankly, and your jaw works with a resounding click. the television’s soft glow illuminates the room– your photosensitvity hasn’t been stricken yet, that chord unplayed, and there’s a sound in the background you can’t distinguish. you put the sound on to drown out the silence. sometimes, the quiet is laced with what sounds like voices, like a snake slithering through your ears, between them.

there’s a pot on the floor between you. it’s full of the only thing you can eat, now– glue-looking, fake macaroni and cheese. it feels like a slap in han– dr. lecter’s face. it’s disgusting and generic and comforting. it’s just oozing orange. you can eat maybe three forkfuls before you can only consider it. your legs aren’t useless– but they’d said you wouldn’t walk ever again. fuck them. they thought you were dead, too, so.

“do you ever wonder what would have been different?”

your head, still fuzzy, almost always, still foggy, makes you feel like you explained this whole trajectory of thought. (you did not.)

Lisa’s  words  are  blurring  together  before  her,  now,  in  the  thin  scrawl  from  her  fountain  pen’s  ink.  It’s  late.  She  is  sitting  on  her  couch,  her  black,  leather - bound  notebook  resting  upon  her  lap  as  she  writes,  notating,  annotating  --  marking  down  practicality  after  practicality  --  as  was  her  duty.  Things  like  medical  procedure  market  costs,  competitive  insurance  negotiations,  and  insurance  policies  lay  before  her  in  a  neat  comfort;  evidence  that  she  is,  in  fact,  in  charge;  she  is  the  first  gear,  the  top.  She  is  the  foundation  of  this  hospital. 

And  yet,  this  evening  is  different.  The  energy  of  her  home’s  living  room  is  heavier  with  the  vibration  of  company;  of  someone’s  presence.  This  is  not  usual.  And  it  is  someone  Lisa  knows  well  --  Alana  Bloom  --  an  old  flame,  a  past  girlfriend  --   an  even  older  friend.  She  feels  warmer,  somehow;  she  always  does  with  someone  here.  Especially  when  it  is  someone  she  can  ensure  is  safe.   But  Alana  is  not  really  okay;  not  yet.  She  is  safe  and  here,  with  Lisa,  and  that  is  comfort  enough  --  the  least  she  can  do. But  she  is  not  okay.  Her  energy  is  not  warm.   But  it  is  here,  and  that  is  enough  for  now.

                         “ do you ever wonder what would have been different? ”