Andrea Conner, Private Investigator

Fri, 26 Dec 2003 08:03:11 GMT

's chris'mas.

So what.

Who needs it.

What I need is whiskey.

'm dry.

an' lonely.

Tue, 23 Dec 2003 23:07:10 GMT

Christmas.

Yippee.

Not that I have anyone to buy presents FOR, except possibly my deadbeat ex-husband.

Not that I have anyone I'll be getting presents FROM...

So, I think I'll spend Christmas in my office, with a coffee mug and a bottle of rum, like last year.

Hum-fucking-bug.

Tue, 18 Nov 2003 23:49:05 GMT

I'm glad I still have a friend or two on the force. It isn't easy to sneak wooden stakes into the city morgue. Not anymore, anyway. Back in the days of Mayor Wilkins, it seemed like any one who wanted to could wander into the morgue whenever they wanted.

Now, the security there's gotten tight. They frisked me twice, but they conveniently didn't look into my purse. Missed the holy water and stakes.

I'll have to remember to put Murphy back on my Christmas card list.

God knows, cards are going to be all I'll be able to afford giving out if I keep living like this. That last case...they defaulted, and wouldn't pay me when I told them that their daughter was dead. Said they didn't believe me.

Look, I tried giving you closure, lady. You want to throw money at another detective, be my guest...they'll never find the dust.

With Willy's Place closed for repairs, I guess I'll hit O'Toole's. At least there I'll be able to get a few stiff drinks, and maybe some chicken wings to dilute the beer.

Tue, 18 Nov 2003 06:27:31 GMT

I really should've listened to my mother. Went into banking, instead of police work.

I'm turning 40 soon, and what do I have to show for it? A life of creeping in bushes, photographing cheating husbands and wives, and skulking around trying not to get myself bit by all the goddamned vampires.

But, I can't leave. They aren't going to win, dammit.

They won't. I won't let them.

Why aren't I very drunk yet?

Tue, 18 Nov 2003 05:25:35 GMT

How?

How do I tell Mrs. Gillespie that her only daughter, pretty little 15 year old Sandy, didn't really run away with her 25 year old boyfriend to get married?

How do I tell her the guy she met on the internet was the ULTIMATE predator, and now Sandy's a pile of dust because the stupid little dead bitch came for me, shrieking about how she wanted to taste my blood?

*sits down at her kitchen table, slipping off her boots, ignoring the new scar on her forearm, and the blood seeping from a shallow cut on her palm*

*pours herself a shot of bourbon, ignores it and drinks directly from the bottle*

I hate this fucking town sometimes.