It was only 2 in the afternoon and Helga G. Pataki was already done with everything that was going on today. No, she wasn't done with her work like a productive employee. She was done with the people. Every. Single. One of them.

She slides her slightly too small heels off her feet under her desk and sighs, mainly from the relief of finally getting her toes to morph back to their normal positions and proceeds to curl into a ball in her office chair. Her knees almost touch her face as she pulls the rather large stack of papers from her desk, rifling through them and occasionally throwing papers on the ground. Her head eventually finds its way to her knees and she closes her eyes. For a moment, she relaxes, breathing slowly into her kneecaps and trying to imagine that she is not stuck in a crummy office on the 8h floor of a partially run-down building. No, she's on a beach, tiny pink bikini on, beer in hand, lounging with toes in the sand. The good life. The easy life. The anywhere but here life. She sighs contently, dreaming about her beach paradise and the feel of the water on her toes. Everything is quiet... until there is a loud ringing, causing her to fall out of her chair and onto the floor underneath her desk in a loud crash. A few people around her office turn to look into her office but they shrug it off. The ringing continues. She groans before quickly lifting her head, promptly banging it on the underside of the desk. She yelps in pain before rubbing one hand against her head and reaching for the phone with the other. It falls to the ground and she slides it across the floor. She answers in a bit of a high-pitched voice from the pain.

"Helga Pataki."

"Helga? It's Mr. Green."

She sits up, a bit startled but also bit more attentive as to why her boss is calling her, and why her boss is even still at work at... 2:15. He was usually out the door by at least 12:30.

"Hello Sir… I…" He interrupts her.

"Helga, as you know the newspaper isn't selling as well lately."

"Yes… I know sir…but…"

"And a lot of people have written in about your articles."

"Yes, I've seen the reviews but…"

"It just seems that they're not interested in your writing anymore. Saying you're not 'well-equipped' enough to write about sports."

Helga pulls the phone away from her ear and stares at the phone in her hand, completely dumbfounded. What the hell was "well-equipped" supposed to mean?

"I'm not sure I understand…"

"Helga, I know you're a great writer, been writing sports for the Bedford Journal three years before coming here. A real talent. But Hillwood, Hillwood isn't like Bedford."

"I get that…but…"

"People here just aren't interested in your writing here. Something's off and you gotta figure it out."

"I'll… figure something out right away sir."

"Good. Now I'll give you a week to find me something. And something good. Your job is on the line."

She doesn't get a chance to respond before the phone clicks off. Staring again at the phone, she tries not to slam the receiver down against the base multiple times in frustration. So instead, she sits under her desk, a knee curled back under her chin and pulls a hand through her hair.

"Son of a bitch."

After sitting under her desk for three hours attempting to figure out what exactly was wrong with her writing, Helga leaves the office and slumps into the elevator, alone. At least she could wallow a little more in self-pity without having to deal with other people crowding her.

Spoke too soon.

The elevator doors open again and several of her co-workers fill the elevator around her. She grumbles silently before leaning against the back wall of the elevator. She reaches into her bag for her headphones when a girl, probably in her late high school years, tiptoes beside her and taps her on the shoulder.

"Hi Miss Pataki, I'm Lisa, the new intern."

Too much of a bubbly personality for me to deal with right now. But I gotta be nice.

"Um. Hello." She replies awkwardly

Helga takes a good look at Lisa up and down.

Shiny blonde hair, big blue eyes, anxious but excited smile. Ah, I remember those intern days. There was one thing Lisa has me beat in though... those god damn tits trying to escape from their pink sweatery jail cell. Jesus girl, put those things away.

"I was wondering if I could ask you for a little advice."

Finally! Someone wants to ask about my writing!

"Sure Lisa, what's up?"

"I was wondering how you get your hair like that. It's so pretty."

Helga frowns.

Well, I mean a compliment is a compliment...so not what I needed right now.

"Biotin pills. They make your hair grow."

"Really? I never thought of that! Thanks!"

"Sure… no problem."

Lisa hums happily to herself while Helga looks at her in annoyance. She slips the headphones into her ears and exits the elevator.

Helga opens the front door to her apartment. It's a rather small apartment. The kitchen sits in one corner of the room, complete with a small stove, fridge and sink and two spaces for counters, maybe three if they didn't consider the microwave oven and the coffee maker that were currently occupying it. The sink is full of dishes, most of them were bowls from countless bowls of ice cream and the light above the sink is flickering. The living room is just as small, occupied only by an ugly green couch, wooden coffee table covered in papers and a television that sits on an old dining room chair. Through a small hallway sat three doors, two for each bedroom and a bathroom. All of the rooms are small. The entire apartment may be small, but had been incredibly cheap on her salary.

She throws her keys onto the already over-flowing counter of bills and empty bottles and flops onto the couch, resting her head on the seat back. It is quiet, finally, which is what she wanted and thought she needed after the way work had ended. But, of course, it would not stay quiet for long. The front door slams open against the wall behind her and a woman carrying multiple shopping bags crashes through the room and flops down beside her on the couch.

"Rough day?" The woman questions.

Helga shrugs.

"Isn't it always?"

The woman, Rhonda Wellington-Lloyd, eventual heir to the Lloyd fortune or for as long as she avoid it, is dressed to the nines. She is wearing something that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a Vogue magazine or from a fashion show in Paris at least to Helga, a long deep red sweater dress and black leggings. A thin red scarf delicately strung around her neck and a black beret tilted on the top of her head. She slides her black heels off her feet to show off her perfectly pedicured feet and bright red painted toes. Her fingernails also in a bright shade of red but her fingers are accented with the largest diamond ring Helga had ever seen in her life. She is wearing her dark hair long and curled slightly at the ends, past her shoulder blades and the smirk that she currently has on her face showed a hint of her perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. All in all, the woman is meant for the runway, meant to live like a queen. Helga had wondered at first why Rhonda had even asked her to be her roommate, when she could live a pampered lifestyle and never have to work a day in her life but every time the woman talked about her job, she would talk with such enthusiasm and amazement, Helga never seemed to question her again.

Rhonda had grown up a rich country club girl and embraced it. Hell, she still embraced it in some ways with the fabulous clothes, car and no student loans aspect of her life. But when she decided that she wanted to get a degree in psychology instead of going into business like her father wanted her to, or event planning like her mother wanted to, it crossed a line. Not a very big line, considering that Rhonda still took advantage of Daddy's credit card when she pleased. But enough that she wanted to make it out on her own and she succeeded...well with a little bit of help. Still, being somewhat independent was a big step for Rhonda.

"Not for me."

Rhonda flips her hair and giggles. Rhonda is a couples' therapist. How she had gotten so successful, Helga never really understood. But the people that went to see her and have their counseling sessions seemed to be generally happy walking out of there and continued to keep coming back. Helga, meanwhile, had known Rhonda since they were small, coming from the same town outside of Seattle and growing up together. Helga and Rhonda never really went in the same circles, in fact, she didn't even consider Rhonda to be her friend until recently. Rhonda flitted and floated as the queen bee of the school while Helga was sort of a bully growing up but quickly got out of the mold when she realized that being a bully wasn't really giving her the respect that she wanted. Helga had only reconnected with Rhonda after they were assigned to be each other's roommates at Hillwood College. And since then, they were inseparable.

"You know, couples therapy is SO much easier when you've got this bad boy on your finger. I swear to God."

Rhonda flashes the ring proudly into Helga's face. Helga attempts to push her away but Rhonda keeps shoving it further and further into her face. Rhonda laughs as Helga playfully shoves her.

"Of course it's easier when you're the one giving the advice and not receiving it."

"Your point?"

"Whatever."

Rhonda gets up from the couch and heads towards the coffee maker, throwing coffee beans into the grinder. She turns back to Helga after she turns it on, yelling over the loud noise.

"What's Green mad at you for now?"

"My articles… they're not as popular anymore…I guess… he said that people don't think I'm 'well-equipped' enough."

"What in the flying fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You know, I haven't figured it out."

The grinder stops running in the background but Rhonda continues to yell.

"I mean!"

She stops, noticing the silence of the apartment and lowers her voice.

"I mean, if you were on TV, it'd be like BOOM. Hey, look at that hot chick doing sports. I'd bang her… look at them… Ow!"

Helga throws a book at her and she rubs her arm.

"That hurt, you know."

"I know."

Rhonda sticks her tongue out her and turns to the coffee maker, throwing the grinds in.

"I'm not a TV girl, you know that… I'm…"

"A journalist. I know, I know…. But you know, I always think of journalists as those people who write about super sad depressing stuff. Like wars, crimes, bad haircuts, stuff like that."

Helga slaps her palm against her face as she lies down on the couch, looking up at the ceiling.

"You do realize that most of that stuff you call super sad depressing is actually important."

"Well, yeah. I usually gloss over it though. Usually I check the horoscopes. And whatever you write."

"What do you call the people who write those people who write the horoscopes every day. Technically, that's a form of journalism. Sorta."

Rhonda takes a sip of her coffee and sighs contently.

"Geniuses."

Helga shakes her head as Rhonda makes her way back into the living room and sits at the edge of the coffee table, crossing her ankles and places the cup on the coffee table.

"You wanna know what the most important thing is," Helga shrugs, "Love."

"Love?"

"Duh! Love sells! Come on, have you ever seen a bad romantic comedy?"

"Plenty of them."

"Name one."

"She's All Right, Gigli, Runaway Bride, Pretty Woman…"

"…You just have a bias against Julia Roberts…"

"I'm not done. Notting Hill, Eat Pray Love, You've got Mail…."

"Julia Roberts isn't in You've Got Mail. That's Meg Ryan."

"Sleepless in Seattle?"

"A classic. Also Meg Ryan."

"Son of a… Regarding that fact, romantic comedies, plenty of bad ones. And Julia Roberts? Queen of bad rom coms."

"Please Pataki, you wouldn't know romance if it stared you in the face, came up and bit you on the nose."

"Isn't the expression 'bite you in the ass'?"

"Lord only knows that even if it bit you in the face, you wouldn't notice."

Helga reaches for the coffee cup from the table.

"Hey!"

She grabs the cup and takes a sip. She cringes.

"Ugh. Your weird sweet crap."

"French Vanilla is not weird sweet crap. You just like your coffee black. Like your soul."

Helga sits up, holding a hand to her heart in mock offense.

"What I'm saying is that love sells, hardcore. Maybe you should take a break from the news, sports…that kind of stuff."

"I've been writing about sports since I was 15."

"It's only been three professional years. And you haven't been promoted in that time."

"But since I was 15…10 years of…"

"Come on! No one takes you super seriously in high school or college. That writing doesn't count."

"But I've won awards…"

"Doesn't count!"

Helga grumbles.

"Fine."

Rhonda sets the mug back on the coffee table and gets up, pacing the room.

"Hey! Remember that advice column you had in high school?"

"That really horrible Dear Geraldine one?"

"Yeah!"

"Did we mention how horrible it was? You publicly bashed it in high school. Saying it was like writing to an old lady."

"Well, Geraldine is an old lady name. I stand by that. Plus everyone knew it was you."

Helga sighs.

"What about it?"

"Last time, you were just approaching it wrong. I can totally help you."

This earns a laugh from Helga. She continues laughing until she notices the look on Rhonda's face.

"Wait, you're serious?"

"Completely, totally, 100% serious."

"You, the woman who hates doing most things with her hands, want to write an article?"

"Yes! It'll be fun!"

"You hate writing. You made that tiny sophomore girl write all your history papers in high school. And that one nerdy kid with the crush on you write all your papers in college."

"Not all of them…I love writing! I can write words and stuff… I'm good at the grammar and what nots."

Helga gives her a side-eye.

"That's really reassuring."

"Come on Helga, please, please, please, please?"

Helga lies back down on the couch.

What could really go wrong?

"Look Rhonda…"

"I can write the article! I'll just do one! It'll be that boost you need to get your boss off your back and I'll totally make it sound as sarcastic and snarky as you usually write."

"I still don't…wait, you think I write sarcastic and snarky?"

"Helga, darling, hate to break it to you, but you write like you talk. Stone. Cold. Beeyatch."

Helga looks at the paper in front of her and read some of her latest work over.

Do I really write like a horrible bitch? Huh.

She sighs.

"This isn't cheating, right?"

"Of course not! It's not like we're back in high school and you're talking about a final paper. This is real life! Cheating doesn't count after high school."

Helga still looks concerned.

"What about in relationships?"

"We're not talking about relationships, now are we?"

"Well, actually we…"

"IT. DOESN'T. COUNT."

Jesus Princess.

Rhonda glares at her and Helga gives another sigh and surrenders.

"Fine. You can write the article."

Rhonda squeals in excitement, skipping around the room and landing in a heap on top of Helga on the couch. She rubs Helga's hair and laughs as she leans against her shoulder. Helga grumbles as she fixes her hair.

God, what have I gotten myself into?

"This is…so…AWESOME. I'm not gonna let you down, I promise!"

"Rhonda…"

"…Now I just gotta figure out what to write about…."

Rhonda continues to ramble on as Helga attempts to get her attention.

"Rhonda…."

"…There's so much and this article just HAS to be good…I wonder maybe if…"

"RHONDA!" Helga screams.

"What?"

"Can you just…calm down a minute?"

Rhonda looks at her and takes a deep breath.

"I am calm."

Helga holds her temples.

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" Rhonda grins.

"It's too late now. "

Rhonda grabs the remote and turns on the TV as the opening credits to My Best Friend's Wedding starts.

"Yes! Look what's on Helga! AAAAAll you gotta do is hold him, and kiss him and love him and show him that you caaaare…"

"Motherfucking Julia Roberts."