Seiraid Eripmav
An officious parody
Part 1: Saved by a Salvatore

Summary: To them, saying it backwards means they're absolutely, fantastically normal. A parody in ten wholesome counts.

First time Elena and Stefan meet
Through the eyes of one Miss Gilbert

I hate speaking to Jeremy.

Speaking to Jeremy is like talking to a dead fish that insists that it's still alive. When you can obviously tell from the fact that its gills are feebly moving and its mouth is bubbling forth complete nonsensical nonsense that it isn't.

After being rudely abandoned by Jeremy (the absolute nerve of him!), I stand still for a couple of seconds, pursing my lips for comedic effect for the camera. Even though I'm just a normal average teenager in a town rumoured to be a hotspot for vampires, werewolves and the occasional unicorn, I have insisted since the age of three, when all my leftover Huggies merchandise was given away against my will to my little brotherly dweeb (gawd, I had such a soulful attachment to my diapers!), that I am the star of a hit sci-fi series. Hence, I always smile, even when I'm in utter pain. My audience of three million thanks me for the good acting, I'm sure.

Turning slowly, I take a look at myself in the mirror. Gawd, I look remarkably stunning! I think as I make weird googly faces to myself. A guy emerges from the cubicle behind me just then, shoving me aside to wash his hands. He stares at me from the corner of his eyes, giving me a weird look. I assume it's because he's afraid I'll suddenly go ballistic and pee myself in front of him. Please, I stopped giving free shows in the eighth grade, after some jerk paid me five bucks to get him a soda. I mean, come on! Do I really look that easy?

Snorting prettily, I turn on my heels and march right out of the bathroom. If throwing me weird looks in return for allowing him to bask in my glorious presence is all I'm getting from him, he's totally on my revenge list. Slamming open the door in the hopes of making a big scene, I turn right, nearly splaying myself against a member of the opposite gender. How generous of me! Never under any other circumstance would a guy ever have the privilege of feeling my hair against his cheek.

Except, I guess, for the past twenty six boyfriends I've had in my seventeen years of life.

Sighing, I take a step back, raising my doe-like eyes to settle on the bumped. (Bumped is what I call the person I bump into. Isn't that original? I could be the next J. K. Rowling at this rate! Matt Donovan has been the Bumped for seven years, incidentally.)

Man, I stay on point too often. I should put more of an effort into digressing, so that Neil Armstrong will offer me an arm to step onto Mars. He is still alive, right? I'll call the President later on today to find out, since Wikipedia is almost never accurate and written for two year olds.

Bumped is currently giving me an awed stare, his eyes rolling from side to side to study my face. I know I'm gorgeous but could he not be so obvious? Doesn't he realise girls like it when guys ignore them because it makes them feel in total control and really special?

Then, a disturbing thought dawns on me.

Maybe he's a dinosaur in disguise.

But then, I shake my head in morbid fright at my lapse in intellectual brilliance. The more likely, more logical answer would be that his lack of understanding of the opposite sex is attributed to the fact that he has an IQ of 600. Too brilliant to pay attention to the rest of the world, perhaps. I nod, appeased by my stunning, and correct, revelation.

Albert Einstein, you've got some mean competition!

Because his staring (no, GAZING; staring is too mundane and totally unromantic) is starting to freak the bananas out of the banana salad I have right now in my Hello Kitty bag, I decide to tolerate him and engage in an epically epic staring contest to prove how much of a feminist I am. The world is sadly disillusioned if they think guys always win at staring contests. It has always been my dream, as a female rights activist, to enlighten the world on how many unnecessary working hours have been endowed to us (we asked to work; we didn't say anything about working 8 hours a day and overtime pay! What's wrong with the government?) as a result of our annoying protesting by winning every staring contest I engage in.

I blink a couple of times but point in Mr. Tanner's direction to distract the guy so he won't notice. I think I'm winning.

Finally, intimidated by my awesomeness, the guy looks away bashfully, as bashfully as Scandinavian sorcerers can, away, towards the sign on the door I just walked out of. Something catches his eyes, the colour of that Gatorade bottle in aisle four of the Town Market I saw the other day, and he coughs politely to gain my attention before asking, "Um… is this the men's room?"

Um, no, Santa Claus, it's not! I think, extra sardonically. To be sure, I add in another bucket of sarcasm.

But, something in his eyes catches my attention and I swallow the sugar-coated remark. It's a look that says I-know-what-you-did-last-summer and she's-the-man. Instantly, I know what his crazy mind is up to. He's trying to seduce me! After being in my presence for a mere ten minutes, the fluttering of his dead heart (isn't it obvious he's a vampire?) and the electricity causing his brain of IQ 600 to implode have allowed him to deduce that I am the love of his eternally undead life. I feel accomplished; now, I no longer have to win a Pulitzer Prize to feel confident. Take that Edith Wharton!

This makes me feel unsettled. After learning the names of all the winners of the Pulitzer Prize by rote memorization a mere twenty two hours ago, I had been so certain I was going to join the rank of intimidating names (why must there be so many syllables? I curse the heavens!). Looks as if all that easy work is not going to pay off.

Resigned, I delete the information from my megawegategasuperhawt brain.

Refusing to give him the satisfaction of answering the way he wants me to (when someone asks the obvious, they're just plainly begging for a pinch to the butt cheek, honestly), I let an innocent look slide neatly onto my face and stammer for a good thirty five point three seconds. Stammering lets him know I'm uneasy about answering, and hopefully encourages him to change the subject.

It's also good for strong bones and teeth. Not like what that crappy advertisement says about milk and calcium.

The media is replete with lies! Don't listen to it child!

Finally, irritated that he is continuing to stare at me with unmasked patience (gawd, man up! Interrupt me please! What do I have to do – paint 'change the topic' in scarlet letters on my forehead and sing The Rain in Spain?), I turn around to blatantly roll my eyes before turning back to him, smiling saccharinely and saying, "It's a long story."

He stares at me, confused. So cute. Pretending like he doesn't know what long story I'm talking about.

Beauty and the Beast, of course! Gawd, you'd think that IQ of 600 would do him some good, wouldn't you?

Wanting terribly to get out of his presence (I think I will puke if I have to look at his face for more than three consecutive seconds), I widen my smile, hurting my cheek bones in the process (maybe I can sue him for collateral damage…), and try to side-step him. At the exact same moment, he moves to the side to let me pass. Stumped, I look at him in awe.

Never have I found myself in such a situation before. It is weirdly invigorating! I smile devilishly to myself, thinking of all the blue balloons I could buy to celebrate the monumental moment. I move to step in the other direction, but he follows me and I end up blocked again.

I think this is the beginning of infatuation. Is it kind of too realistic of me to think of him bringing me flowers at midnight and draining the blood out of me as a kind of thirteen hour anniversary gift?

Maybe this is how Ron and Hermione feel when they look at each other.

But, suddenly, all I can think of is how great a Salsa partner he would be, if the school ever had a Salsa dance. Now I'll have to suggest it in an aggressive and violent manner to the board so that I can see how great of a match we are on the dance floor. Me and my flawless plans! No wonder no one can resist me.

Finally he moves aside, too bored with me to continue our little game. I feel a spark of hurt zip through me. Seconds later, I'm plotting his death. Death by skunk would be too obvious.

But if I killed him with a knife and left my fingerprints all over it, I'd totally save my botox-covered ass!

Again, no wonder no one can resist me…

Trying to cover up my evil intentions, I smile nicely at him, mouthing a sweet 'thank you' before walking past him. At the corner, I turn to look back at him, only to find him doing the Chicken Waddle. As everyone pounces on him to get a strand of hair to sell on ebay, due to his rising celebrity-ness written foggily in the stars and moon (easy, petty cash, people!), I sigh exaggeratedly for the camera.

I suppose I shouldn't kill him as a thank you gift from saving me from all the unwanted attention I'm constantly getting. I blow him a kiss as he shouts for me to help him.

But, since he's a vampire and has amazing supernatural strength and all, I think I'll just leave the touching of sweaty bodies to him.

a/n: i do love vamp d, i seriously do. i even like elena and stefan even though many are convinced they're dull. but the chance to do a parody was too much to resist. blame the sugar rush!