#dirtiedhands

       “Hey, hey!” Salvatore entered the living room particularly feisty. Although the old man was prone to using gestures in the midst of his talking, never had he lifted his arms and waved them as if he was trying to gain the utmost important attention. “Stop shakin’ your ass!! We gotta go on a trip!” 

                      No matter what he did, what he wore, or where he went, Reaver commanded attention and never failed to make a scene. When he came to the strip, he always seemed to draw a small crowd. He was rich, good looking, and never seemed to lose at the games he frequented. He cheated in nearly every single one of them of course, but most were too daft to realize that fact.

                      Walking into the tops as though he owned the place, the high roller would toss a small bag of caps toward a chairman without so much as giving him a passing glance,

                            " --- so you see the kind of pressure i’m under! “    

     this little lady has a fair share of mental health issues, ranging, but not limited to: depression, anxiety, an eating disorder of sorts, and an array of self worth problem. unfortunately for stefani, her mother stopped paying for her therapy sometime between the cocaine binge of 2008 and her dropping out of college.  fortunately  she has discovered the untapped gold mine that is strangers on public transport!!! unloading all of your issues on someone you’ll probably never see again? ingenius, really. they should put her in charge of mental health for the country.  

💘― ​ @dirtiedhands​ said,   “ I’ve never met a mechanical man ! ”         starters for robots //  eagerly accepting !

          The comment’s a funny one,  in the way that someone blurting out a rude phrase in polite company is funny.  An ironic sort of funny,  the kind you don’t laugh at.  Suppose tact’s not one of this guy’s stronger suits.  Valentine shrugs nonetheless ;   rude or not,  it’s not untrue.  He is mechanical,  he owns that.  Besides,  the man ain’t exactly comparing him to a Protectron here   (  ah,  how he hates that  ).

          “Happy Birthday, Mr. President! I know I'm late, you don't wanna know why, but better late than never, right? Right. Just means you get two birthdays, daddy-o. So anyway you know, I was thinking, what do you get for the guy who has everything? Apart from malt liquor or BJ coupons. So uh… Ta-da."

           He yanks back the tarp like an exceptionally shitty magician. Huge, dented like a dumped fridge from the roadside, on its side like a stolen sarcophagus, stands an ATM machine in Trevor's garage. Vernon sits on it. He’s shit-eating pleased with himself.