Unfortunately, G doesn’t seem to have that level of interest imbued in her writing, so we’re stuck here again for another episode of From The OTHER archives.
“Why, hello, Yasmin.”
“Hello, random stranger.”
So it’s our rude bloggy friend Yasmin here again. Maybe she’s starting drama for views? I mean, it’s not like the internet has enough petty arguments on it. Let’s start a few more.
“Is there a reason you were laying down in the middle of my front yard without your sweatshirt on?”
“I was tired from flying and I simply didn’t want to put the sweatshirt on.”
“Did you know that the most commonly used letter in the English language as of June 13, 2013 was the letter E?”
I’ve done some pretty weird redirections in the conversation before, but never that blatant and shameless. Show yourself, stranger!
“You sure have a talent for going off-subject.”
“Random things pop up in my head.”
“Emma, can I come inside? We need to talk.”
Ah, so it’s my self-insert Emma. Oh joy. Yasmin should have a field day with this one.
“Sure, whatever. But be quiet until we get into my room. My mom might get weird if she hears a voice coming in that she doesn’t recognize.”
Yasmin and Emma walked into Emma’s room, closing the door behind them. They plopped onto Emma’s bed.
“What are you going to talk about, Yasmin? Please tell me this has nothing to do with computers or turkeys that like chicken wings.”
Story time- around the time I was writing this, my cousin and I had a band referencing basketballs and fried chicken. We had a song about those two objects, which is why the band was named the way that it was. I don’t want to link to the cringe as I’d like to leave that part of my life behind me… and my cousin quite wants it to die as well.
“So… I wanted to talk about this strange premonition I had.”
“Oh gosh, not this cream pie again!”
Yasmin just gave her a glare. “A couple of days ago, I had this strange feeling that-”
“Someone was stalking you!”
“No! Pay attention!”
“I am. That’s how I’m able to interject such good comments!”
Everything is relative and I want to die. What is the meaning of life? Banana.
“Oh! My little brother thinks that ‘shush’ is a bad word! Now you have to go on a timeout!”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“So what were you going to say?”
Maybe if you had been listening, you uncaged screech monkey, you would know.
“I WAS going to say that a couple of days ago I had this strange feeling that Max-”
“The one who shall not be named or the one that I had to save a couple of months ago?”
Even back then, being sued wasn’t on my list of things to do.
“I’m going to guess the second one.”
“Okay, then, you do that. And I saw her in this big crystal that looked like a diamond. And for a second, I could hear her thoughts- or at least I thought they were her thoughts- and she sounded like she was slowly fading away and giving up on life.”
Like I am right now from reading this? Like my blog stats have been since allowing this cancer to fester on my blog? Please go on. I’m actually genuinely interested now.
Yasmin gave her another glare. “Maybe.”
Only if it results in a sequel and can make G profit. Otherwise, leave it to the shoddy fanfictions.
“Well,” Emma was quickly saying as she pushed Yasmin toward the front door, “it’s been nice talking to you, and I hope to see you tonight when I dream, and I wonder how you got into the real world, and I have to go now and so do you, and bye!”
Emma closed the front door.
If only I could do that with all my problems. I’d start with this book, then go on to its sequels and maybe third-wave feminists if I could even fit them through the slender door.
What’s going on? I can’t feel where anybody is. I’m all alone again.
I wish I could get out of whatever this is. I’ve been in here for, what, a week? My sense of time is screwed up.
Where is everybody?
Maybe you could use your telepathy again, Algeria. That seems to work well… unless you’re dead, in which case you can float up and check yourself.
Can you hear that, Algeria? That’s the sad music playing as I end another post. The only sadness I feel is that we haven’t been able to part ways permanently. Why is it always about your happiness, Algeria? Why is it never about mine? Why do I always have to suffer for you?
Because I’m a writer, that’s why.