Disclaimer: I do not have any legal claim over the characters of Gilmore Girls or the lyrics from Rilo Kiley's More Adventurous.

A/N: This album has always, always reminded me of Rory for some reason, and I finally decided to do something about it. This will be a series of ficlets structured non-chronologically around Rory's character. All the stories will exist within the same universe. Rory/Jess will be there, too, and with a strong supporting focus on Paris, Luke/Lorelai.


It's A Hit


Any chimp can play human for a day
And use his opposable thumbs to iron his uniform;
And run for office on election day;
And fancy himself a real decision maker,
Then deploy more troops than salt in a shaker.

It's a holiday for a hanging, yeah.


A bunch of pussies.

That's what they were. No guts, no brains, clearly no familiarity with Monty Python's Meaning of Life. (Comparing Bush's economy to Mr. Creosote? Right over their heads.)

They told her not to read the comments. The number one rule, they said, of online journalism. "Don't read the comments."

Pussies.

Rory had been scrolling through pages of comments all night long, clicking drop-downs, digging through forums, tracking down every last word printed about her most recent piece. Her colleagues thought she was playing with fire, that she'd get worn down by the crush of unrelenting idiocy, but for Rory, this was catharsis at its finest. A million Mitchum Huntzbergers couldn't hold her down. It was flattering, knowing that so many people were reading her stuff, responding to it, even if the feedback was written largely in moron. She was tickled. She was alive with the glory of intellectual superiority. A girl has got to get her kicks somehow.

She poured herself another glass of Franzia. It was 2am.

She had a deadline in two days, she knew, and probably shouldn't be up (and drinking) this late on a Wednesday, but she was confident in the piece so far. "The Truth About Truthers." (Working title.) She was killing the Obama beat and she knew it. For once in her life, she was in control. No Friday night dinners and dates with Dean commanding her weekends, no curfew, no school, no Life and Death Brigade, no drama. Every day she woke up with one goal in mind - to write compelling pieces with integrity and accuracy - and every day she went to bed knowing she had done so.

It was a fulfilling life. And no, she wasn't seeing anyone.

Those idiots in the comments, though. They provided her a healthy dose of adversity. Rory would write a piece on the Iowa straw poll, the commenters would call Obama a socialist and question Rory's intelligence. Rory would write a piece on the recession, and the commenters would call Obama a socialist and question Rory's intelligence. She had not yet stooped to creating a fake Disqus account in order to lambast them with her brilliance, but the thought had crossed her mind.

She woke up at 8 the next day, hangover free, though groggier than ideal. She pulled on the first shirt she could find ("Buck Fush"), brushed her teeth in a flash, and headed out the door. She was living on a budget and usually gave herself enough time to make coffee in her apartment, but this morning she'd have to grab a cup on the way to work. The cafe on the corner was no Luke's, but it was decent enough.

She liked the North Side of Chicago, she thought, and her cheap but cozy studio. It was temporary, but it felt enough like home. She liked everything about it. She liked the dive bar around the corner where her mom and she had ordered shots of Kahlua just after the move. She liked the commute to work - a walk past old churches, flower shops, that decent cafe, a train to the loop, an elevator to the 23rd floor, a stop in the breakroom for her second cup of the day.

She liked this newfound confidence, too, this sense of power - like she was on the road to something great. To Christiane Amanpour and beyond.

She liked being single.

How strange that this girl who had been given the nickname "Mary" on the first day of Chilton had straddled practically back-to-back relationships from ages 16 to 22. She lost her virginity in the ugliest way, in her childhood bedroom, to a married ex she'd forgotten how to love years before. She stayed with Logan Huntzberger long after his father had dared to crush her spirit, after the Yacht, the DAR. And what a shame, she thought. She did love Logan, and she doesn't regret her time with him for all that she learned about herself. But her mother had instilled in her a sense of independence so strong that it was like dying to feel herself losing it. She mourned the loss of that girl, the one who ate ice cream cones with a dark haired boy so many moons ago and dreamt of reporting from the trenches.

But she was free, now. She was Rory Gilmore. Completely.


A/N: Comments are mucho appreciated.