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Santana Lopez: uno + video
Attention, attention, all Yodas and crackwhores.
[ Santana smiles, sickeningly sweetly - or venomously, it honestly is hard to tell on her - as she scoots down with the device in her lap. She's thankfully showered since the whole goo incident the other day, and so her hair hangs a bit loosely around her face. Not her usual degree of styling but, well, she's missing a few things. ]
I got the deal that you're all fetishy weirdos with nothing better to do than kidnap some high school girls and lock them in a Kool-Aid pit for a while until your strange sexual perversions have been attended to. That's totally fine. Everyone has something they don't wanna talk about. I listen to that Rebecca Black song when I'm upset about something, for example. It makes me feel better knowing with factual evidence that there is someone out in the world who legitimately sucks on such a level that words can't describe. In fact, it makes me laugh just thinking about it, sometimes. I also own a bra from a thrift store. It was super comfy and only cost me four bucks, and after I put it through the spin cycle ten times and it stopped smelling like old people and meth addicts, it was acceptable enough to wear. Those are my things.
But what I'm not gonna be cool with is chuckin' me in this no-class room without any of my necessary shit. Okay? Miss Lopez needs herself a hair straightener, and also her curling iron. She's gonna be running low on mascara in a couple of weeks, and that's so not gonna fly.
[ Santana leans forward, holding up a finger to the camera. ] For the record, whoever was the one who tailored that jumpsuit, you better not show your lily-white ass anywhere in my presence. I can practically feel your creepoid hands still measuring me out, and, no, they're still not in fashion. The eighties want their one-pieces back. Also, prison. Prison without me being some bull dyke with a shaved head's play thing.
Let's hook a sister up. She needs wardrobe and she needs beauty supplies. [ She tosses her hair, and her jumpsuit IS on, but it's been zipped low to show an ample amount of cleavage, and her collar bones. ] I'm sure we can find some way to make it worth your while.
[ Santana smiles, sickeningly sweetly - or venomously, it honestly is hard to tell on her - as she scoots down with the device in her lap. She's thankfully showered since the whole goo incident the other day, and so her hair hangs a bit loosely around her face. Not her usual degree of styling but, well, she's missing a few things. ]
I got the deal that you're all fetishy weirdos with nothing better to do than kidnap some high school girls and lock them in a Kool-Aid pit for a while until your strange sexual perversions have been attended to. That's totally fine. Everyone has something they don't wanna talk about. I listen to that Rebecca Black song when I'm upset about something, for example. It makes me feel better knowing with factual evidence that there is someone out in the world who legitimately sucks on such a level that words can't describe. In fact, it makes me laugh just thinking about it, sometimes. I also own a bra from a thrift store. It was super comfy and only cost me four bucks, and after I put it through the spin cycle ten times and it stopped smelling like old people and meth addicts, it was acceptable enough to wear. Those are my things.
But what I'm not gonna be cool with is chuckin' me in this no-class room without any of my necessary shit. Okay? Miss Lopez needs herself a hair straightener, and also her curling iron. She's gonna be running low on mascara in a couple of weeks, and that's so not gonna fly.
[ Santana leans forward, holding up a finger to the camera. ] For the record, whoever was the one who tailored that jumpsuit, you better not show your lily-white ass anywhere in my presence. I can practically feel your creepoid hands still measuring me out, and, no, they're still not in fashion. The eighties want their one-pieces back. Also, prison. Prison without me being some bull dyke with a shaved head's play thing.
Let's hook a sister up. She needs wardrobe and she needs beauty supplies. [ She tosses her hair, and her jumpsuit IS on, but it's been zipped low to show an ample amount of cleavage, and her collar bones. ] I'm sure we can find some way to make it worth your while.
video;
[ As a resident mean girl and, well, as a tentative closet lesbian covering her actions with the guise of judging Wichita for her everything, Santana gives her an appraising once over that looks more like her mouth is contorted into a grimace. ]
They've got an entire space ship here, they can afford to kidnap a buttload of people and shove them in Jell-O pits, but they can't afford one little straightener? [ And she ticks a finger side to side, shaking her head. ] Nuh uh. That's not gonna work for me. Where's the creepazoid in charge? I'm lodging a complaint.
And maybe cracking one of those shriveled olives he likes to think of as balls.
video;
-- Alright, crap analogy, but seriously I have no clue how to get in touch with the captain.