You like to think of yourself as Fred.
Fred and his unsociable personality. Fred and his lesbian school teachers stories. Fred and his not-so-full wallet. You imagine yourself living an insignificant life with a failed literary career until a girl like Holly, in her true hurricane-like fashion, sweeps into your life.
The countdown of you falling in love with her starts. It wouldn't really take long for it to happen, and maybe after a few parties, a few trips to Sing Sing, and an incident which will involve her saving your life, you tell her. You know very well how she'll respond.
("Damn fool." She kissed me on the cheek. Then there were four of her, and I fainted dead away.)
It doesn't really in matter in what context you will fall in love with this modern-day Holly, but you'll love her enough to hate the Sid Arbucks, Rusty Trawlers and other rats and super-rats that will come to her life. You'll love her enough to want to make her stay and wreak havoc in your world. You'll love her enough to write a story about her years later, and the only reason you didn't start earlier is because your version of Hurricane Holly will also leave nothing too pleasant for you.
You like to think of yourself as Fred. (Not Paul Varjak from the movie—because she won't find that damned cat herself.)
On some days, you think of yourself as Joe Bell; always looking for her, but only finding pieces.
Actually, you'll be just like everyone else who found themselves sucked into this wreck of a girl.
Holly Golightly.
You poor sap.