She could barely even remember what he looked like.
lie.
She'd forgotten all about him.
lie.
She was happy now.
lie.
That's all she has now. Just a string of lies she'd repeat to herself every night, over and over like it meant something. Like if she just keeps repeating the words like a prayer, a mantra, maybe someday it could finally make a difference and she'd finally be free of the cold pseudo-reality she's been living in for the past thousand years. Maybe it's better this way, she sometimes thinks. Maybe some people aren't meant to be truly happy. Those thoughts are usually immediately followed by a sudden rush of red swirling around her bathtub, a metaphor for the pain that has accompanied almost every beautiful thing in her life since she met him.
At least she thinks it's a metaphor. To be honest it's been a few years since her latest foray into post-secondary education and she's a little rusty on her english lit. Simile maybe? Like it even fucking matters.
She sits there for a moment.
Then suddenly wrenches herself out of her spot on the couch and races over to her bedroom, lunges for the box under her bed that holds some of her old college textbooks, and pulls out 'A Writer's Reference' because as it turns out, it actually does matter and she knows that if she doesn't figure out what the difference between a metaphor and a simile is right this second she's not going to be able to go to sleep tonight.
Not that she ever really sleeps, what with the depression and self-loathing and the fact that she's been living in Australia for the past four years and all the good blogs on Tumblr are in American time zones.
She's pleased to read that she was right the first time. She thinks. Actually the definitions in the book weren't really all that helpful and she's still not quite sure whether or not she was correct. But at this point she's exherted the necessary amount of energy trying to solve the problem and she's pretty much satisfied with going back into the living room and finishing her pizza pocket.
She eats it with a knife and fork. She was surprised to learn a while back that apparently that's not what people do. She tried just picking it up and eating it but for some reason it just didn't taste as good that way, as most foods don't. So she's resigned herself to being the weird one who brings her silver personal cutlery set pretty much everywhere she goes. As well as her lightsaber chopsticks. She really loves kung pao chicken.
It's actually really depressing that this is her life now. She ponders how boring her new life is and is bemused when she realizes that if someone were writing her life story they would probably only have to write a few paragraphs before running out of good things to say and mentioning her appreciation for asian cuisine. Pathetic.