There is a certain thrill to be had in being a fan. The hordes of people, screaming, and you with them. There's a unity one finds in that mass of mindlessness. There's always a place.

For example, look only as far as the Uchiha mansion, a hotspot of fan activity. The beautiful, talented family there are well-acquainted with us fans.

In a gory, yeah-that's-fangirl-blood-on-my-begonias -type way.

Think of the mansion as a fort, held by the Uchihas. Think of us fans as the invaders, intent on pillaging the home for souvenirs and raping the- well, everyone. Think of the ancient Troy and the invading Greeks.

Only the Trojans are celebrities. And their 'supplies' require them to leave and return every day, in increasingly creative ways to avoid the gauntlet of their admirers.

Or something.

Back to the begonias. As with most things compared with the Trojan war, there's blood. Every day.

The first wave of offense in the morning is hit the hardest. I think it's to attempt to inspire fear in the following reinforcements, but we've learned to ignore the scantily-clad bodies beneath our high-heels. We've also learned that stiletto-style heels are the way to go. They come out from the bodies easier anyway, and that makes it easier to balance while charging.

There are always guards. We may not see them (ever), because seeing them is a triumph in itself for fans. But when you step over the invisible boundary, fans fall, weapons in their necks, or hell in their eyes.

So we charge in. If we're not the first group, the guards are routing the stragglers of the last wave, and you have a better chance of survival.

I left the door with a lipstick mark once. It had been meticulously scrubbed off the next day.

Although, I'm not a true fan. If I were, I wouldn't be writing this. I would be drooling, screeching, or drawing up battle plans that work only in my twisted, fantastical mind.

I just run with them, like a stray wolf among an adopted pack. We hunt, and their victory is contagious. Even for the silliest of reasons, even on a field of blood, a crowd of joy deludes them, and I indulge it.

I am not a true fan, because I see the anger and indignance that fuels the vicious defense of the manor. And in some still-sane corner of my mind, I'm scared and guilty for intruding.

But the rush! The tidal-wave of power you get as you surge forward, one more hand helping the great machine.

And so I run. One day, I'll be unlucky. One day, I won't get just booted away or knocked out. One day, I'll die, and fans or not-fans will stomp over me.

But there's a certain thrill to being a fan.