Disclaimer: I do not own Slam Dunk; Takehiko Inoue does.

I'm always on the safe side of things, for some reason other than the obvious truth.

Nah.

We all know I hate moving around unless, of course, on a basketball court. So. What now? Tell you what; you're a lazy-ass, and I happen to be one too. What happens next, you ask? Nothing, duh. But for a show, I'll let you in the nasty side of me, simply because I suspect it's time for a quicksilver change of mood, if not for a life makeover or so. Yeah. But, first and foremost, be informed of my working habits. When I say I'll get on the act now, I'll do it tomorrow, which will be the now some twenty-four hours later. If not, then, rely on me to have it done the day after that. Or not at all. Now, don't go asking me what the hell is wrong with me because, as I see it, you yourself have got a lot going on under there, mister.

And, for your own good, stop staring, goddammit. Life's bad enough without you batting an eye on me. Wait, are you crying? No? Well, it must have been a drop of sweat, in which case you should perhaps stop sweating.

Sweating or crying aside, you know, you and your ball can go on a separate vacation-get some time apart. You ain't sick of it, I know, but how the hell are you able to tell it ain't sick of you? You friggin' drag it anywhere you go, for cryin' out loud! With all its newness and shininess and rubbery-ness and bounciness you can't help but look past the fact that, for one thing, it has friggin' leather for friggin' skin, not to mention air for fucking insides. Thus, here I rest my case. Whatever it is which you may have been gaining from your stupid ball exists only in your imagination and nowhere else. And that's not mentioning your imagination is, forgive me, limited in an unlimited sense.

And I tell you, "Dammit, Kaede, fucking lay off the goddamn ball already."

You say, "Do aho."

"What's with that shit anyway? You kiss it goodnight or something?"

"It's new, sempai."

I'm only eighteen years old.

"Oh yeah? If I rubbed it against the asphalt outside, would it still look new?"

"It would still be bouncy."

I can jump high.

"Really? I'll fetch a frickin' ice-pick from the cafeteria, poke the shit out of it, and what becomes of it? Limping rubbish, that's what."

"Ice-pick can't tear through its leather, do'aho."

I have lean skin.

"Bullshit. How about I fucking toss it up the goddamn roof? It won't come back down; it doesn't have a friggin' mind."

"What goes up must come down."

I can do that.

"Lemme dunk it ten thousand times, and if it still hasn't worn out after that, I'll drop dead."

"Drop dead, sempai."

If I try to drop dead, will you stop me?

I can't really talk this much when you're within earshot, I mean, honestly. But hey, I've just done so. And you're at it again; making miracles with your goddamn ball.

Well, nothing left to do here except for one thing. I'm rehearsing my act now, so be ready. But before I start, mind if you stop looking at me with that crazy-quick temper of yours, for Christ's sake? It's not like I'm gonna nick your ball or something. Geez, it's just a friggin' lump of bouncy, smelly leather anyway. What makes you think I'm interested in shit like that? But I ain't getting an answer because, presently, you're still gunning the rim down with your stupid Leather of Love. And strictly out of curiosity I just have to ask, Don't you even get bored? If a non-boring life ever makes it way to your life, man oh man, inform me, will you?

But you seem happy with this. So it's like the blanker the days are the happier you become. I get that. Man, do something for a change. Let me. Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe you shouldn't. Well, fuck this.

Here goes,

"…"

"…"

Man, you look surprised I kissed you. Anyway, I scored. See you later, Kaede.

END