Recently in Fan Fiction!!1 Category

Today at Bumble and bumble, where I work, I saw Mandy Moore. I sidled up next to her, we made eye contact, and in that moment, we shared all of our secrets, we had pillow fights, we cried in each other's arms, we shopped, we fought, we talked on the phone for hours. We were BFFs.

Please Enjoy the following graphic novel about our friendship after the jump. Please. I worked on it all day.

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Her life has become a hard fiction: from the bits of string protruding from her skull to the mythical Greek luncheons (served with cynically cut golden apple slices, (can you believe perfect quarters?)) Impish delights and flutterings of the toungue had been put aside in the harsh Quebec winter to focus on a more important goal: being mean. See, now, despite the endless parades of hook nosed boys in impossible caridgans and pince nez specs (always, endlessly, debating the spread of the Forex,) and their willing desire to entertain, breadwin and speak the most laberous French, our starred lady had been taken in with repatriating herself through high cruelty.

With all the lethargy that comes with liberal airs, a bipolar lingu franca, and penny stock thermometers spins off a kinetic snowball of regret singed with the small atoms of longing. Her postpartum depression (through a tricky pregnancy lasting four years and yeilding a sickly 7 gram diploma) convalesced in this enviroment, seeking a
full recovery into proper intergration into her everyday fiber. Work was always steady and demanding. Satisfying may be pushing it, but the commuter smirk appeared on the AMT every day as sure as Lauds follows Matins. But she was not one to live for work. She was one to divorce cause from effect. (And as days became increasingly same-y she was able to repudiate her mind from her soul with marginal hardship.) Body was no longer a factor, nor a husk, an anchor or a vessle. Routine and age had conspired with sutch deft subterfugue that no amount of out right adventures could deshackle her brain.

Anger and bile were kept in staunt reserve under her palette. Wth it all so clear and set there was only the loosest cloud of confusion, cleared away with a lazy scratch. Mirrors set side by side, only dull fear steared. Cue the French.

Say what you will, but French wit is a horrible thunder lizard. Even a fossilized Oui with the right timing (or italics) echoes the regime of would-be rock'n'roll destroyer-kings. Din. But, however, and all that, the woman in question started an innocent fixation on French wit. Television had made her sensative to the sardonic, while base
sarcasm was the staple of things mundane and humerous. Overtime, she found herself less at libraries and more at bibliotecques....

I think it was inevitable. We were both from Connecticut. Her father had been a lawyer, mine a manager of Chuckie Cheese. Her mother is part of the local republican party. My mother is a redcoat; British with the teath to prove it, stretching back to England a long line of periwig makers, keep the heads of British lawyers warm and cozy. She's a head on polemic, myself a apologic.

I explained this all to her, apologizing if it was all to obvious. I'm the ying to her yang, the cliché to her tripe. We disrobed and took turns holding each other's frail frames up to the 100 watt bulb, placing us on a phantasmagoric state of human lightboard. I traced her fallopian tubes with my finger as she did the same to my vas deferens, with the skill of needleworker imbred and endowed with all the thimbles the Daughters of the American Revolution had to go without. Speaking of thimbles, monolopy and the like, Annie (as she lets me call her) allows me to remove my man thimble and we get to business.

I put on The National, the world's best highschool band. I hope their patriotic name and local venue/battle of the bands sound conjures up images of mincemeat pies. Slowly, our frail forms intertwine, like a metaphoric phrase repeated in sucession, resting on the brain of the reader like a pallid soup. We are a human sex pretzel, a bipartisian pretzel, a pretzel of sweat, smegma and scales. Ann's reptilian brain and dark iron cold blood are pulsating in full effect, as she uses her long narrow toungue to lick moisutre from her eyball and then the creviced dimple underneath my nose.

The power of the moment grinds me in reality. How am I fucking Ann Coulter while I'm bound to this wheelchair? thank god for this Space Station and its zero gravity.

Our fluid exchange complete, I inform Ann of her upcoming pregnancy and my planned compulsary third term abortion for our child. I take off my robe and wizard hat to comfort her, and ask her if tail will grow back.

Dear reader, please read on