I swear that the actual content of this story is over 500 words, and that my opinions, though obviously inserted, are not meant to offend likers of the book nor be shoved down the character's throat. It's not exactly joking, but it's not coming after anyone.

Unimportant

From the diary of Yawa, Misty:

Many things in this world are unimportant, I guess. I mean, the things I usually get mad at generally don't matter in the big scheme of things. The little bit of fury that I show when someone says the wrong thing, or acts just a little off, or does something that I really shouldn't be paying attention to shouldn't really get me quite as angry as it does. It's almost frustrating that I can get so furious so quickly, and getting frustrated over my temper is just another one of those unimportant things which, once again, sets off my temper.

I guess there are people who take it farther than me, especially in this crazy place. It tends to make you more wild, more animated, almost. A week ago I walked in on Natty burying something in her backyard, and the tombstone said teen literature. Then, a few days before that, she chained Twilight to a chair and began interrogating it, really working herself up when it didn't respond when she asked "who else was in on it? The Clique series? Who, dammit? Who?". And just yesterday she was stabbing a whole row of books she claimed to be horrible literature (I thought some of them were pretty good) then collapsed, as if she was actually mourning the loss of a friend. Pretty creepy.

What I mean to say is, there's just some things that don't need to be taken that far. There's some things that are unimportant that I should be smart enough to let go, but somehow, I just don't have it in me. It's all comes down to today and…I don't know. I guess I'll just write it story style. There's too much detail that I need to put in that I just can't get from summing it up. You have to read the whole thing if you want to get it.

"So, last time I asked you stuck my hand to a pole but this time…can we kiss? Please?" Ash danced his fingers across the back of my hand. "I think you're so pretty, and I saw you dance in your room today when you thought no one was watching. You were really pretty."

"You were watching me?" I said, narrowing my eyes. "That's kinda stalkerish. How didn't I see you? My door was closed."

"I was outside your window," he argued, smiling and continuing his finger dance.

"How? There's no tree, no pokémon you own can hover in place with you on its back, and I'm pretty sure I would have noticed you."

He chuckled. "Well, you'd think it was cool if I sparkled."

"Ha! Very funny! You boys just don't get romance!" I retaliated, glaring at him for mocking a favorite book of mine.

From the mind ramblings of alternate identity Baker, Natalia:

I don't get it. I don't! He sparkles and he's bi polar and angsty and freaky and watches her outside the window and the writing isn't even fantastic. People often hate her, but they often just want the Sparkler, they're after him, the imaginary one. How do they love it? How could they love it? Is it…is it possible I'm blaming the wrong creature? Is it possible that…it's not the fad's fault, not the literature, but the common teen that's destroying their own literature? That we're destroying our own future? When something the equivalent of a Mary-Sue badfic is published, and a best seller, isn't that our fault? Haven't we done the crime of supporting the bad and shunning anything that requires reading and thought? The absence of any metaphor that hasn't become so common it's merely a saying, and certainly not extended, have we created it?

Perhaps, though they say we're not supposed to, shouldn't it be the job of the parents, the teachers, the media, the intelligent to try and force people to think? To go back to a time when reading wasn't just a fad, equivalent to that of slinkies, but actually required thought and interpretation and a plot that starts somewhere before 3/5 through the book? To actually sit down and write, use words that make sense in the content instead of raping the thesaurus and describing the surroundings and building flaws into people? To shatter the ideal? Isn't that the point of the controversial literature, the thing that won't be read, to prove that the ideal or certain goals are incorrect or, in this scenario, cannot be achieved to hopefully redefine the goals of humanity?

…but, even if I share this, I'm merely a sixteen year old girl. If they don't believe their parents and teachers, and people older than me have fallen prey to such a dreadful curse upon society with our ungrateful attitudes towards the arts, and rarely even considering poetry and prose an art anymore, how could anyone ever possibly believe me?

One voice makes a difference my Cuban butt…

Continuation of the diary of Yawa, Misty:

"Well, I'm not forcing you but…why not?" he asked tentatively, beginning to swirl his finger around the back of my hand. "I'd like to, but if you're scared or something or if...if you don't want to because you don't feel like there's any...spark?"

No spark. No spark he says and him doodling on the back of my hand is driving me nuts! I had shivered a bit at the feeling because it was nice, very nice, too nice. Honestly, it's not like I wasn't ready, or I didn't want to. It's just…I've got this control issue. This is a huge thing, it's not OCD, at least, I don't think it is. It shouldn't be. I mean, there's nothing wrong when I want everything done my way in a certain order in a certain timeframe in a certain place and I want everyone to be happy that I'm in control because they should be because I'm doing it right, you know what I mean?

I took a deep breath and blurted. "Ash I…Ash, it's just that I want everything to be perfect!"

His nose wrinkled. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we have to go on a date on a certain date at a certain time, something easy to remember so you can remember it in the future if we actually make it. And after that date, which has to last a certain time, we have to get back to the house whosever it is and-"

His hand closed over mine, and it's then that I realized exactly what was going on. We were alone. On a walkway to the beach. Alone. During sunset. Alone. With me standing, and Ash sitting, and a yellow mouse perched on his shoulder who didn't really care to the point that we might as well be…alone.

His breath smelled like the cheeseburgers we had eaten earlier, not exactly heavenly, but not unpleasant either. I do like cheeseburgers, even if they aren't my favorite food. But his eyes were nice. And the hot flare in my gut when I realized exactly what he was about to do (and I really didn't want to stop him, even though half of my brain was on red alert and warning me that this was definitely not the way I was supposed to lose my first Ketchum Kiss) and how awesome it would be if we ventured further than just a peck on the lips.

"But there's you and me," he began.

"And all other people and I don't know why…" I sang quietly. "I can't take my eyes off of you."

He smirked. "The perfect kiss already has a soundtrack. You don't need anything like that, just the fact that we're together, it's romantic, and it's right. It's the right time."

"I'm not OCD," I informed him.

"Yes you are," he sniggered.

"Shut up."

And he did. And he kissed me. And, somehow, all the little details just seemed...unimportant.

On another subject entirely, do I mention cheeseburgers that much in my stories? Really? Because I'm starting to think it's becoming more and more consistant...Now I have a feeling that someone's gonna mock me in the review for this. It's okay, I'm not above a good tease, but this is starting to freak me out. I'm I the Hamburglar reincanated?

Disclaimer: I do not own "You and Me" by Lifehouse. I also do not own the Hambuglar. (I am the Hambuglar, and I do not own myself, my parents do...and apparently the other half of me is owned by a fast food franchise with golden arches and a clown as its symbols.)