Starlet Chatter

Our title relates to the story for once! Wait, no it doesn't. Starlet Chatter was suppose to be yesterday's post. Fear not. I'm going to squeeze out a relevant tale, damn it.

Some gleeful Monday morning, many suns ago, I entered Web Design clam-happy; but seconds later I was oyster-sad! There Jen gleamed in her Blog Superstar blouse; my fellow students were crowded around her seat. Alison even troubled the starlet for an autograph. And, thus, the chatter of the day focused not on Flash teachings, nor New Moon, but Jen's annoying fame.

Oh, 'member that post from yestereve which said, like, I was leaving you guys, like, immediately. According to veteran Fictional Account brother Ryan A, I was "high as a [light framework covered with thin material at the end of a string to be flown in the wind]" when I said (you mean, "wrote") that. So, in brilliant sobriety, I pronounce my infestation of your petty existence to resume. Jen was "mad" scared that I was gone for good. She declared my blog an "epic win" of continuously "beastly" material. I said to her, confusedly, "Um, thank you dear madam." I later scribed, in my diary, that "the youth of today baffle me to pieces." That reminds me. Of what? I'll tell you, chill.

So, I was writer's blocked earlier today and needed inspiration . . . or better: students' text-based paraphernalia. In first period I tried to snatch Anthony C's notes on female reproduction but he slapped my intrusive wrist at once. In third period -- Algebra -- I slyly ran my fingers upon Marina's notebook. Then she detached my right arm and masticated it during the remaining class time. I'm forever a lefty!

Bloody, disillusioned, hallucinatory, throbbing, and gay, I crawled to Web Design. Agreeable period. Besides complaining about my phony post and communicating enthusiasm towards my prose, Jen piqued my attention: "Nah, I'm not having Thanksgiving with my parents. Actually they're in Peru -- yes Wilbur, I'm Peruvian." So, Jen's house is empty, thought a [see paragraph-opening adjectives] me. I resolved that I'd break into Jennifer's house and seize her diary.

But, Jen might go directly home after school! Good thing I'm a pioneer of forethought. "Jen, you know the first meeting of the Conceited Celebrities Club is in Room 301 at 2:38. I'll be there. Marina said that club has her name written on it, literally. She's wrong and worthless, but anyway, she and -- I guess Katie'll be there." Our heroine accepted my overtly-innocent invitation. Yay! The plan was thus: bell rings, go to Jen's house, then enter her dormitory, steal her diary, if there's time grab some perfume, leave her room, run out of her house and flee her street.

The last bit of Hawthorne will enter my prose quickly, just because I can't fucking be an amputee during all these forthcoming installments. So, um, since God hath love me, His endearing messenger, He let my right arm grow back. Sorry for the interruption! Proceed! Eth!

My plan succeeded -- not without its quirks, though. For one, the infirm leech Nick L attached himself to me during my quest. It did get creepy in Jen's bedroom -- him being the sexual predator he is; me being the driven-for-evidence, stern-countenanced man of social rank I am. To boot, while we -- the nitwit never left me! -- ran back to my house, your narrator tripped over a mass of pebbles. Predictably, Nick L laughed. Unpredictably, I sliced him. Yes! I have personal space!

I arrived home and threw Jen's journal on my desk. The Twilight-themed (apparently it's a twiary; vomit) personal account was decorated in Edward and Bella confetti, and lots of blood. Very romantic, Jen. I opened it to her most recent entry! Gold:

Scott♥♥♥oh, he is dee cuuuuutest. so, i saw new moon tonight!!!!! not as good as the book. so, me&dave = good friends, just like i wanted it. its a good time to be alive. oh, ill admit, math is hard. and web is hard. but molly and amy and zack and abby and amrou and porn basically friends are life♥♥ if its wasnt for friends well id be dead. well i mean its not so much im living for friends but that im complete with them. uggg and i wouldnt tell them about my addiction. only you can know that, diarieee!

Right now I'm a douche -- bottom of the barrel trash garbage. But a real Professor of Douchery would post the journal pages which pertain expressly to Jen's lamentable obsession with pornography.

(If your given first name isn't David, don't read this parenthetical notice. Dave: can you come to my house right now and deliver Jen's diary to her and take all the blame which is rightfully mine? Please! I've done things for you. Dave, remember when we saw that commercial for Extenze and you're like, "Looks good!" My scholarly response: "Dave, it's not a proven method for enhancement -- don't waste your green." Then you said, "Fine, babe." Maybe you said that. Doesn't matter what the exact quotation was. Point is: I saved your ass. Well, your genitals.)

Closing Pence. A new poll has been added to my blog! "You're probably joking around Nick, right?" In front of my youthful readership is New Moon, Dancing with the Stars (Season 57?), Grinding Emo (some of us follow the adult film industry; I won't name names, JEN) and now a brand new, plastic-wrapped Fictional Account poll! I give my butterflies a sextet of minor characters -- all have made a small, but individual mark in the Nick Rapper laminated glass window. Huh? I'm so tired. That was my Every Other High School Student impression. Abrupt departure!