A/N: It's good to see me, isn't it? (No need to respond; that was rhetorical.)

Anyway… hello, faithful readers old and new! It's been forever since I've posted anything, and it's great to be back! Don't expect much in the way of updates from me; I'm still consumed by real life as usual. But I've been working on a project about fan fiction, and it's made me think a lot about how much I miss you all. So, with Thanksgiving just around the corner for those living in America, I thought the most appropriate expression of my love and gratitude would be to give you all a present.

This was an idea I started toying with some time ago, very loosely inspired by the song "That Guy" from the musical Blood Brothers, and recently I found inspiration to drag it out of mothballs and finish it. And naturally, now that it's finished, it demands to be shared. It should be obvious who is speaking in each section. Enjoy!

Also, bonus points to anyone who finds the Beauty and the Beast reference I snuck in.

Disclaimer: You would think that in all the time since I last posted anything, I would have found a way to make it mine. But I'm still not that girl.

I've never met anyone like her before. I've certainly known my fair share of people, but none of them have prepared me to deal with her. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if we're even the same species - we could be cats and dogs (or Cats and Dogs, as she'd probably correct me) for all we have in common. The other day she picked up my eyelash curler and looked at it the way I might look at an especially hideodeous bug, and she said, with a straight face, "What is this thing? It looks like some kind of torture device!" Can you believe that? I mean, really, who doesn't know what an eyelash curler is?

The girl has no friends – well, unless you count that sister of hers in the wheelchair, and sometimes I don't think she even likes Elphaba very much – and her social life could best be described as nonexistent. Every minute she isn't in class, she's got that pointy nose of hers stuck in a book - apparently the reading they make us do for classes isn't enough for her, can you imagine? Doesn't she know that reading strains your eyes, and eye strain gives you wrinkles? Momsie always told me I should be careful never to read too much, but of course, Elphaba hasn't got a mother, so I guess no one told her. I tried to, once – for some reason I felt like being helpful that day – and she just gave me this... look, like I was a giant mud stain on her favorite frock and she was trying to figure out the best way to get rid of me for good, and then went back to her book. I'm sure I don't need to tell you, I never tried that again – I know when I'm not wanted.

And speaking of frocks, I cannot for the life of me understand how anyone can take as little of an interest in their appearance as she does! I can count on one hand the number of dresses she owns – why, I could go through that many frocks in a single day, depending on my schedule! And even her limited wardrobe wouldn't be quite so shocking if any of them were the least bit pretty. But they're not. In fact, they are the plainest, dullest, most depressing collection of clothing I think I've ever seen in my life. I know she prefers dark colors because they don't clash quite so horribly with her green skin, but would it kill her to put forth a little effort to look nice? It wouldn't be so difficult to come up with some more colors she could wear, and I'm sure we could find some styles that would flatter her. I just know I could help her so much if she'd only let me!

I'll say this much for her, though: the girl's got more nerve than anyone I've ever known. She's never afraid to voice an unpopular opinion in class, even though she knows everyone will tear her idea to pieces the moment it leaves her mouth. And it never seems to get under her skin when people are mean to her. When someone says something nasty to her (which is about ten times a day at least), she either just ignores them, or else she turns around and comes back with something even meaner. I'm sure their comments must hurt her, but she never shows it. I don't think I could stand it if people said half the things to me that they say to her and about her. Really, I'm surprised she doesn't come back to our room and cry every night. Doesn't she know or care at all that so much can depend on peoples' opinions of you? Sometimes, though, I wonder what it would be like to live for a day genuinely not caring what other people think of me. The thought is terrifying... and yet, I have to admit, there are days when I think there might be something to it.

And she is smart. Unbelievably smart. The kind of smart that makes everyone else want to throttle her out of sheer annoyance. She could probably teach most of our classes herself. I don't know what she's even doing here at Shiz, since the purpose of university is (supposedly) to make you smarter, and she knows more than just about anyone else here, I think. Her work is always turned in on time, if not early, and of course, it's always perfect. It's so rude of her – she doesn't stop for a single clock-tick to consider how bad she makes the rest of us look in comparison! The professors may like me – at least enough to let it go when I accidentally oversleep and miss class or I forget to hand in an assignment – but they respect Elphaba. I can see it. They always have a smile for me, or a minute to listen to my latest excuse and assure me that I don't have anything to worry about, but they see her as an equal, or at least as something more than the average student. She stays after class and talks with them about things that would go completely over the heads of the rest of us, things that normal people couldn't be bothered to pay any attention to. I try to tell myself I don't care, that it doesn't matter that the professors take Elphaba seriously in a way I don't think they could ever do with me. But just once, I'd like to know what it feels like to have someone look at me and see past the surface deep enough to realize that I do actually have a brain in my head. You shouldn't judge a book by its cover, even if that cover happens to be exceptionally beautiful and stylish.

And as if being brave and smart wasn't enough, she's also got magic! Isn't that just the most unfair thing you've ever heard? I could hardly believe my eyes that first day when I saw what she could do. And then Madame Morrible invited her to take private sorcery classes - the same classes that she had just told me not five minutes before that she only taught if someone special came along. I ask you, who could possibly be more special than me? And what really just kills me is that up until she came here and met Madame Morrible, she didn't even realize what a gift her powers are; in fact, she'd spent all of her life trying to hide them! If you'd asked her before that moment, I think she would have been glad to be rid of them. I just can't understand how she could possibly think that way. If I had magic like hers, no one in the world would be able to make me keep it hidden. I could just scream sometimes, thinking of all the things I could do if I only had half the natural talent that girl has for sorcery. Ugh, life is so unfair!

So you can see why I hate her so much. I'm young and beautiful, I have so many friends I can hardly keep them all straight, and my wardrobe and all its related accessories are the envy of every girl I know. I have everything anyone could ever want. But when I'm around her, I can't seem to remember any of that. She makes me feel childish and shallow and stupid. She's always so condescending, like she knows everything. She absolutely refuses to give other peoples' opinions of her the importance she should. And the sorcery class that I would give my second-best gown to get into gets handed to her on a silver platter without her even asking.

That just makes it all the more irritating that I've come to wish I was more like her.

Although I had never seen her in my life before Madame Morrible made the horrific mistake of sticking us together as roommates, I have known far too many people like her. She is the epitome of every obnoxious, air-headed, self-absorbed teenaged girl I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad if I were more like a typical teenaged girl myself, but she and I are as different as night and day. Why, just the other day, she picked up one of my books and, after rifling through it for a minute with a frown, she asked me how I could read such an awful, boring thing when there were no pictures to go along with it! And when I replied, with only the mildest hint of sarcasm, that some people use their imaginations when they read, she just scoffed at the notion and tossed the volume in question back onto my desk. Clearly, there is not the slightest chance of us ever finding anything in common over which we can bond the way one might hope to with a roommate.

Judging from Doctor Dillamond's pointed remarks in class and samples of her writing I've seen left out on her desk, the girl has trouble maintaining an original, coherent line of thought in any kind of academic assignment for longer than a page at most. She couldn't tell you the causes, history, or after-effects of the Vinko-Munchkin war if her life depended on it. However, she seems to have no difficulty at all remembering every one of the many events on her full social calendar. And I have yet to see her forget the name or pedigree of any of the seemingly endless stream of people that hang around her. Admittedly, this feat is more impressive than it sounds. Galinda has so many friends that I'm honestly not sure how she manages to keep all of their names straight in that blissful blonde brain of hers. I can't help but wonder, though, how many of these people that fawn over her are truly her friends. They are the cattiest bunch of girls you could imagine: sticky-sweet as wildflower honey to your face while they plot your downfall behind your back, all apparently intent on outdoing each other in the thousand and one petty cruelties that young women are such experts at inflicting on one another. I'm sure that the vast majority of them only try to earn her favor because they can see the advantages of getting in good with the girl who will one day be the most influential woman in Gillikin. This is perfectly obvious to me, as plain as the nose on my face, but I don't think it has ever struck her as a possibility. In her naïveté – not to say downright ignorance – she accepts their adoration as nothing more than her due, blithely choosing to believe that they love her for herself, rather than for the future benefits they might gain from knowing her now. Maybe it's just as well – I imagine her life would be very lonely if she actually acknowledged the truth about her so-called friends.

Of course, in order to maintain her status as goddess of beauty and charm in the eyes of her worshippers, she is obliged to spend hours every day at her dressing table, working with various lotions, creams, powders, and cosmetics in every conceivable hue to ensure that no one ever sees anything other than the flawless mask of herself she has created. This laborious process also involves any number of implements that any sane observer would expect to be used as part of some horrifying and grotesque form of torture. And this is before she even starts in with all of the sprays and creams and tools that she deems necessary to style her trademark golden tresses. I've lost count of the number of times I've heard her give a little yelp and hiss a most unladylike word or two under her breath when the curling iron came too close to her scalp. I find it difficult to understand how getting perfect spiral curls is worth the time and trouble it takes to wind each section of your hair individually around a searing hot metal rod. I wish that just once, all of her followers could see how much effort her apparently effortless glamor requires. All of these ridiculous beauty rituals waste incalculable hours that could surely be better spent, time she could be spending with her friends, or even, Oz forbid, doing something that might actually improve her mind, like reading a book.

And all of this is completely aside from the all-important choice of which frocks she'll wear on a given day, not to mention the shoes, handbags, and other accessories that will complement those frocks best. I mean, honestly, how many dresses does one person really need? She can only wear one at a time, for Oz's sake! I suppose I could understand it if she had some simpler frocks for everyday and some fancier ones for more special occasions, but as far as I can tell, they're all equally bedecked with ruffles and lace and bows. If you glanced too quickly into her armoire, you might be left wondering whether you were looking at someone's wardrobe or at the display window of a high-end bakery. And on any given day, she may go through anywhere between three and six of these confections of silk and satin and chiffon, lace and ribbon and tulle. Then there are the shoes. The shoes! Open-toed and closed, slip-ons and shoes with normal backs and shoes with straps to hold them on around her ankles, high heels and low heels and no heels at all! Surely some of those seemingly infinite pairs of shoes could coordinate with more than one dress? Not to mention her equally infinite collection of bags. I am absolutely positive that carrying the same handbag with more than one outfit will not cause a person to drop dead – I can speak from experience, as I get by perfectly well with just my trusty boots and my satchel. I am also absolutely positive that there are far better ways she could spend the time it takes her to decide on an ensemble, to say nothing of the money that all of these unnecessary clothes and accessories cost. But the logic of having one pair of shoes and one bag that you can use with everything in your closet seems to have escaped her.

Ironically enough, as the one and only person who ever gets to see her without her meticulously-applied makeup and painstakingly-created hairstyles and the elaborate frocks that she dons every day like suits of armor, I could assure her (if she would ever listen to me) that they aren't the least bit necessary. I'll say this much for her: Galinda is one of those few girls fortunate enough to have been born naturally beautiful, and try as I might, I cannot comprehend what she thinks she can – or needs to – improve about herself. Her features and figure would be the envy of every last one of her friends even if she threw out all of her cosmetics and dressed in rags. Sometimes I almost pity her, really – what do they do to these Gillikinese girls growing up that has made her genuinely believe that her perfect golden curls, cornflower-blue eyes, flawless complexion, and petite but perfectly-proportioned frame aren't good enough? Does she truly not realize what other girls – like me, for instance – would give to have even a fraction of the natural beauty that she takes such pains to cover up every day?

And the girl has an uncanny knack for charming nearly everyone she meets. It's really not fair the way she has all of our professors wrapped around her perfectly-manicured little finger with, as far as I can tell, next to no effort on her part. All she has to do is smile at them and her unexplained absence from class yesterday is nothing to be concerned about; a pout of her lips combined with an artfully-timed glance up through her eyelashes, and they're more than happy to give her that extension she doesn't really need on her latest overdue assignment. They are all content to let her skate by on her beauty and vivacious personality, as I'm sure everyone else she meets in the future will be. I would never be able to get half the concessions she has masterfully manipulated out of our professors. She can persuade with nothing more than a smile or a look. If I hope to earn the professors' respect and prove that I have a right to be here, I have to arrive to every class ten minutes early, read and remember every word of every class period's assigned reading, force myself to speak up as often as I can when they want responses from us, make sure that every word of every assignment I hand in is perfect. It's enough to drive a person mad with frustration – no one should be allowed to have such an unfair advantage.

And what really just kills me is that she could put this talent to such good use! With the way she can rally people to her side, the girl could be a formidable leader if she put her mind to it; she could persuade warring factions to stop fighting or get two sides to agree to necessary compromises that they would never reach on their own. I may have a talent for sorcery, but the kind of influence she wields can be every bit as powerful. In a way, it's almost a kind of magic of its own. I could just scream sometimes, thinking of what I could do if I only had even a fraction of her skills at dealing with people! Just imagine all the things I could change if people listened to me and respected my opinion the way they do hers – and I wouldn't even need a spell to do it!

Except, if she continues down the path she's on now, all her beauty and people skills will never do her or anyone else a bit of good. The Galinda I know today will never be the leader of anything more impressive or significant than these girls who are the flowers of Gillikinese society, because she doesn't take anything seriously. Certainly not her classes or schoolwork, and probably not even her relationships with her friends, except to the extent that they make it possible for her to maintain her social status as the uncrowned queen of Shiz. What good are all of her gifts and talents if she can't be bothered to care about things outside herself, if she refuses to pay attention to the wider world and acknowledge that there are problems out there that she could play a role in solving? If I'm being completely honest, though, I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live for a day without having to worry about caring for my sister, or earning my place here at Shiz, or proving myself to Madame Morrible so she'll tell the Wizard about me like she promised. The thought is terrifying; I can't even begin to imagine abandoning all of these responsibilities that form the backbone of my day-to-day life... and yet, I have to admit, there are days when I think it might be an immense relief.

So you can see why I hate her so much. I am perfectly competent, more than capable of caring for both myself and Nessa. I am intelligent enough to have earned a place at Shiz solely on the basis of my own intellectual merits. And I possess a talent for magic that may one day earn me a position working with the Wizard of Oz himself. I have nothing at all to be ashamed of about myself as a person – in fact, I think all of these are things a person could reasonably be proud to say about herself. But when I'm around her, I can't seem to remember any of that. She makes me feel unbearably awkward and hopelessly unattractive, as ostracized and excluded as I've ever been, not to mention a downright fool for ever daring to hope that things might be different here at Shiz. She wastes countless hours on people who aren't worth a single clock-tick of her time. Any other girl in Oz would kill to be half as beautiful as she is, but she takes it completely for granted. And never once has it occurred to her what good she could do with all the talents and opportunities and resources she's been blessed with.

So I will never admit to anyone how much I wish I could be more like her.