Purely Fiction 1

Enter Penelope. First year in college, intimidated by large groups of overzealous ethnic pride advocates. Misdirected, alone, losing ties with an old friend, but fairly willing to take the independence high road. Alas! there is no reason, for charlie stumbles to the stage with a sweeping sense of security. Why try, when the road's already paved, says she. And she runs with it. Two years of running with it. Building bonds, burning bridges, everything expected of a liberated college debutante. Hand in hand with her new friend charlie, she was able to explore and conquer the unchartered depths of collegiate isolation. For all know college is the transition from social security, to unforgiving chaos.

Granted, she never was the greatest friend. Yes, she played the most evil of games with the poor schizophrenic's already twisted mind. Fooled him into adoring trickery, playing manipulation. She did nothing characteristic of "good friend" on normal standards. The terms normal nor standards fell outside her radar, and her one sided musings provided entertainment for hours on end.

But a cruel storm dawned on the dynamic duo, a storm by the name of time. Inevitable and destructive in every sense, it was a disaster so tragically natural they could only look on as detached bystanders. Observing every thread of their former friendship brutally picked to shreds, she could only smile and crack a joke. Perhaps in the next life, we could do coffee?

Coffee did and undone (and with coffee comes the inside jokes, the meeting of parents, the sex, the inebriated adventures, naturally), the aftermath was humorous at best. Both discovered dry shelter relatively unscathed. Minus a best friend (which is worst than a limb), plus a pinch of embittered cynicism, all in all, it equated to your very standard postmodern cheese. Something blasted from the top 90's pop song playlist, or depicted on screen with awkward lighting and a putrid script directed by hollywood nobody #43.

and they linger. Not in hopes of a revival, but because time can only progress at such speeds. Never counting the lightning rods, or measuring the decibels the thunder produced, the technicalities from the past were never fully analyzed. The storm became yesterday's paper. Something to wipe away the paint from todays certifiably insane artistic endeavors.

End scene. Take a bow, baby. You've just been violated by my vanity.