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Ch-ch-check Your Faboosh

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Petra West wasthecuteone
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Room 511, Saturday Evening
Today, Petra West turned eighteen. She should have been attending, or perhaps throwing herself, the biggest, most fantastic party this island had ever seen. Probably she would have been wearing a tiara, to go with her fabulous tinsel boa. But Petra had been approaching this date with a bit of foreboding, and didn't really feel like celebrating.

Today, she was eligible for her surgery, if she had a whole bunch more cash ready to hand and the medical system in this country wasn't completely fucked up.

So Petra was...not exactly sulking, but not in the mood to really celebrate, either. Her suitcase was open on her bed as she packed for her trip home for the holidays, but she'd gotten as far as piling clothes and wrapped presents around it to figure out how to jam in there later before she abandoned the endeavor in favor of going over her budget on her computer one more time, crunching the numbers on how far she had to go and how long it was going to take to get there.

Okay, maybe she was sort of sulking.

((I couldn't let Petra's eighteenth go completely unmarked, even if I'm not up to dealing with a party. Open door, open post!))