"Chey, dearest friend of mine," I murmured, my voice calmer than I would have expected, considering the circumstances. "Would you kindly refrain from poking me while I'm trying to write?" I had been putting up with repetitive jabs in the side by a certain redhead for the past five or so minutes, and the incessant prodding was distracting me from the task at hand: attempting, futilely of course, to get over the massive writer's block I'd been suffering from for the duration of the summer.
"Thorry," came the instant response, and the single finger that had been being repeatedly thrust against my ribcage for the longest time suddenly disappeared. However, my friend's head was now blocking my laptop screen, her pale, freckled face about an inch and a half from mine. "Whatcha doin'?" If Cheyenna's head hadn't been in the way, the question probably would have made me facepalm.
"Writing," I stated bluntly, giving her a blank stare.
"I see," she responded, and seemed to ponder my response for a short while, adopting a grave expression as though she were taking it very seriously. This went on for a full thirty seconds (the longest I'd ever seen Cheyenna sit still without having her nose in a book) before she dropped the serious face and stared at me with sparkly eyes—the gaze of a truly ADHD child. "Whatcha writin' about?" One of my facial muscles twitched—at this point, the earlier-thought-of facepalm was going to become necessary.
"Absolutely nothing," I deadpanned back, gesturing to the blank Word document on my laptop screen, irritation coloring my voice. "But that could be because of a certain redhead that won't leave me alone long enough to type a single word." I waved my hand dismissively, as though shooing away a bothersome insect. "But that's just a theory."
Green eyes, depicting all the innocence of an excited puppy and then some, stared back into mine, and I felt a stab of guilt. "Or," I amended, suddenly getting an idea. "It could be because of that bug over there." I pointed to a small black spot on the wall opposite where the two of us were sitting. In truth, it wasn't a bug, but the head of a small nail that had been driven into the wall at one point or another. "Be a dear and go kill it for me?" I figured that the task of going homicidal-ginger on a non-existent bug would keep my friend busy, if only for a few moments.
"But bugs have feelings!" Cheyenna protested, her lower lip jutting out in a full-on pout. "Bugs are people too!"
I could only stare at her then, dumbstruck by the stupidity of her last statement and also somewhat impressed—that needed to be printed on a T-shirt. While I gawked at my friend for a moment longer, the part of my mind that was amused by stupid things conjured up a strange mental image of Cheyenna wearing a "bugs are people too!" T-shirt. This time I could resist the urge no longer—I facepalmed, effectively snapping myself out of it.
My sudden moment of self-abuse must have scared Cheyenna, because she stood up without another word and crossed the room, picking up a random flip-flop. Somewhat relieved, I turned my attention back to my computer screen, ignoring the dull throbbing that had started in my head; whether the cause of the pain was the impact of the facepalm or just my friend's lunacy remained unknown. However, it was soon amplified by the sudden loud, repetitive impact of a flip-flop on drywall. Once again, my attention was drawn away from the computer screen as I watched Cheyenna brutally massacre the nail-bug, brandishing the shoe as though it were the most powerful of weapons.
I watched the scene quietly for a little over two minutes before calling out to her; part of me (the part that was amused by stupid things) was curious to see how long my friend could pummel the wall. However, the rational part of me knew that the odds of Cheyenna's energy supply dwindling before the drywall gave way weren't in my favor.
"Cheyenna," I called, just loudly enough to be heard over the thundering of flip-flop-powered fury. Any louder and my head might have exploded.
The redhead stopped her assault on the nail-bug for an instant, turning her attention to me and tilting her head to the side like a curious anime character.
"The bug is dead," I informed her, but she seemed skeptical, glancing at the black spot as though she expected it to get up and do a little dance.
"But it's still—"
"DEAD."
Casting a glance at the head of the nail, Cheyenna reluctantly dropped her weapon—but not before giving the iron-insect one last harsh thwack! in a final act of defiance.Abandoning the discarded flip-flop, she returned to her spot next to me, a somewhat smug look on her face; I could tell that her brutal assassination of the nail-bug had made her feel very accomplished.
"Whatcha doin'?" she inquired again, peeking over my shoulder at the still-blank Word document. I bit down hard on my lower lip, resisting the urge to go and find something heavy to hit her with. After three seconds of silence from me, the redhead realized that she wasn't going to receive a reply, and decided to end the short silence. Her method of doing so turned out to be a loudly announced "I'm boooo-oored!" She actually broke the word into two separate syllables to make a point.
At this rate, I knew I wasn't going to breaking through the writer's block anytime soon. I needed a way to distract my highly-ADHD friend; a task that was easier said than done.
"Cheyenna," I said quietly, looking up at the girl next to me while simultaneously stuffing my hand into my pocket to retrieve my iPod. I handed the electronic device to her. "Entertain yourself."
Perplexed by the piece of technology that had been placed in her hand, Cheyenna pressed the button on the top of the iPod and the device sparkled to life, displaying an array of apps and games that I hoped would keep my friend occupied for a while. I averted my gaze back to my laptop screen, closing my eyes and attempting to find a way to convert my thoughts to words.
They snapped back open a moment later as my iPod's speaker began to blare the most annoying song I had ever heard in my life—a song so maddening that I immediately cursed the day I'd decided that it would be a good idea to download the horrid thing.
Cheyenna, however, seemed to be very entertained by the dreadful beat and horribly screwed up lyrics. She bobbed her head, giggling like a lunatic. To my utter horror and dismay, she picked up on the repetitive lyrics rather quickly and began to sing along.
"I like German sparkle party. I like German sparkle party. Very German sparkle party. German German sparkle party." She seemed to be greatly enjoying herself, and I could only stare, my mouth hanging open the slightest bit. "Do you like to party party? Yes, I like to party party. Do you like to dancy dance? Yes, I wore my party pants!"
"Cheyenna…?" I murmured, trying to catch her attention—she was sort of freaking me out at this point. She ignored my attempts, only turning the volume of the highly unpleasant song up to a maximum.
"I like German sparkle party. Very hardcore sparkle party. German German sparkle party. Hardcore sparkle party."
I could only watch, transfixed by the stupidity, as the redhead bounced in her seat, grinning as she continued to sing the song. She'd actually adopted a terrible German accent to match the song. "Yes, I wore my rubber boots! Yes, I wore my rubber boots! Rubber boots to dancy dance, rubber boots and party pants!" She then imitated the very intoxicated-sounding high-pitched giggle of the male singer and stood up, showing off a few unrelated and uncoordinated dance moves. "Feels good to dance!" she crowed, and I twitched. "Very nice to dance! Hardcore dance!"
Unable to bear the horrid scene any longer, I snatched the iPod out of her hand, turning off the song and handing the device back to her. "No more German sparkle party," I begged, and she gave me a dirty look before plopping back down onto the couch. Praying that she didn't go back to my playlists, I peeked at the screen and let out a relieved sigh when she opened the video list instead. There wasn't much there—a few music videos and comical clips; surely nothing that my friend could use to continue the torment that she was unwittingly putting me through.
I realized then that I was wrong. Dead wrong. So dead wrong, in fact, that the very concept of correctness was lying in a corner somewhere by itself, dying of some horrible disease that was the very manifestation of wrongness, brought into being by stupidity.
Cheyenna, being the person she was (that is, being drawn to anything and everything that oozed some form of idiocy or another), had managed to find the one video on the list that was capable of causing brain damage and/or internal bleeding. Any sane person would have given me a strange look and questioned why I had a video on my iPod that depicted a Poptart-cat hybrid shooting rainbows from its back end and singing as it flew through space at high speeds. Cheyenna simply sat and stared at the screen, eyes sparkling as she hummed along to the painfully-repetitive song that continued on for an extent of about six minutes or so.
My laptop let out a beep of protest as my face met the keyboard.