What is irritating about love is that it is a crime that requires an accomplice. - Charles Baudelaire

~lalaLAlala~

"Feeling bad about not feeling worse equals good," Trent read from one of Daria's notebooks when they were giving their fingers a break.

"Brittany," Daria supplied.

"Death moves people to action," Trent continued, reading another note.

"Quinn."

"How are you going to put all this stuff together?" Trent asked, and passed back the notebook.

"Not sure," Daria admitted as she accepted the book back. Still, she picked up a pen and stared thoughtfully at the page for a moment, tapping the pen on her chin as she thought. "She's a nice girl/ feels bad about not feeling worse/ when she thinks she isn't feeling/ as bad as she should/ wants to be happy again/ so she talks to the Misery Chick."

Trent raised an eyebrow at that. "Where did that come from?" he asked seriously.

"Sherman called me a 'Misery Chick' just before he died," Daria answered, a frown on her face. "I know I'm not miserable, but that seems to have been the perception all over the place today."

Trent nodded in acceptance. "Just so long as you know you're not a 'Misery Chick'," he said firmly.

Daria nodded. "I know," she agreed, and then continued with the composition. "She's a shallow girl/ still affected by things that are deep/ needs a shallow answer/ to resolve what she's feeling/ wants to be happy again/ so she goes to the Misery Chick."

Trent raised an eyebrow. "You're not rhyming at all," he noted.

"Poetry doesn't have to rhyme," Daria dismissed. "And it's not like I sing when I'm playing, so nobody's going to know anyway."

"Think you need another verse though," Trent suggested.

Daria nodded. "Well, I've covered Brittany and Quinn, I refuse to write poetry about Kevin or O'Neill, so... She's a quiet girl/ keeps her feelings to herself/ doesn't let people see/ what's going on in her head/ but she's a happy girl/ sick of being called a Misery Chick. Hmm..." Daria hummed to herself, not quite satisfied. "Hmm... maybe 'upbeat', rather than 'happy' in the last verse. No, that doesn't work. It pulls the tying word and it's not true. I'm happy, but I'm not upbeat, so I'll stick with the way it is."

Daria copied out the finished poem into a different notebook, under the title 'Misery Chick', nodded to herself, and closed that notebook again before she turned back to Trent.

He had his own notebook out, pale blue-grey and with "Private! Do Not Read!" scrawled in large letters on the front in black marker.

"How's it going over there Trent?" Daria asked.

"My heart is like an open wound/ that reads the tea-leaves of its doom/ soothe me with redemption's love/ like a heat-proof kitchen glove," Trent read out.

Daria blinked. Twice. "Trent, that makes almost no sense," she informed him plainly, though not unfeelingly.

"Damn."

"I'll tell you what," Daria offered. "If you want, the Spiral can have 'Misery Chick'. You just have to come up with the music for it."

"That's cool of you Daria, but I do need to work on being able to write my own lyrics," Trent pointed out, simultaneously grateful and realistic.

"I know," Daria agreed with a nod. "But it might be an interesting experiment for the Spiral to come up with music to something that someone else wrote the words for."

"Hmm... it has potential," Trent agreed. "But what about this song?" he asked, gesturing back to his notebook.

"What's it supposed to be about?" Daria asked.

Trent's shoulders slumped. "A relationship that feels like it's doomed, and won't ever even start, but there's still some hope, if..." Trent stopped himself and shook his head. "Forget it. It's a bad premise anyway. The guys hate playing Icebox Woman as it is, because they think it's a ballad. Well, Jesse doesn't mind it, but he helped me out when I was writing it."

Daria lay a hand on Trent's shoulder in a rare moment of offering the human contact variety of comfort. "If your band isn't into the songs that you want to write, then keep back some for yourself," Daria suggested. "Prepare for your solo career," she offered with a gentle smile.

Trent chuckled. "Yeah," he agreed, a hint of disbelief in his voice at the very idea. "A solo career. I dunno, but alright," he allowed. After all, it couldn't hurt.

"So, do you want to work on this song about pre-emptive heartbreak? Or do you want to get back to wordless jamming?" Daria offered.

"I think I'll set that song on the shelf for a while," Trent decided with a frustrated sigh, and closed his notebook. "Maybe come back to it when I've got a better idea of what I'm trying to say with it. Jamming would be good."

"Thanks for teaching me how to strum chords, by the way."

"No problem."