To my fine feathered readers:
Alas, I have learned first hand what it means to be flamed. I now know why people ask for constructive criticism or none at all. I read the reviews today. If you were to read the reviews now, you would not see any evil ones. Reason: I deleted them. I know it wasn't the wisest thing to do, but after being told repeatedly that my story sucked, what choice did I have? Reviews serve two purposes. The first is to let the author know what the readers like/dislike about the story. Using this information, the author makes what changes and additions are necessary to the story. The second is to let the author know if the readers like the story, and whether or not to continue. Sadly, when I read anonymous reviews saying 'this story sucks…' 'Don't use fanfic's as inspiration…' and 'your humor is stupid' my reaction is to delete them. I almost stopped writing this satire altogether. Then I read the rest of the reviews. So many of you said you loved it and wanted it to be continued, how could I refuse? I did get some reviews about spelling, and I will do my best to fix it. I have re-uploaded every chapter with the correct spelling. I use word pad to type the stories and there is no spell check. It might take longer to upload new chapters, but it's worth it…right? To the flamers (you know who you are) if you don't like it, don't read it. It's a satire for a reason. If it sucks, why? It is really helpful if you say "the story sucked, stop writing" (notice my sarcasm). All you have to do is press the little back button at the top of your screen to exit the Gilmore insanity. That simple.
Don't sue, don't be angry, and don't flame. Now that I have gotten everything out of my system, let us get on with the story.
So, without further ado: Chapter 7
--authors_anonymous
Rory was putting an excessive amount of books in her bag when Tristan walked up. As usual, he was looking pretty good. He had just gotten his hair trimmed, and the ¼ inch missing did much for his sultry good looks. He leaned against his locker and looked at Rory, wishing for the thousandth time that she was his woman. Unfortunately, her views didn't seem to compromise his at all. He banished the unpleasant thought from his mind and focused his attention on memorizing Rory's locker combination (solely for the purpose of stuffing her locker with coffee and other trinkets to show her he cared, but without the pesky act of breaking and entering). Rory was so involved in packing her books snuggly that she didn't notice she was being watched. Tristan reflected that she was likely to be kidnapped before the age of 25.
"Tristan!" said Rory when she finally noticed the sex god standing next to her.
"Ready to go?" he asked, admiring her eyes and how they sparkled in the florescent hallway light.
"Definitely" she said, and stood up. From a distance, she noticed Paris glowering. The two walked in silence to the student parking lot where a shiny black BMW was parked.
"Do you have a music preference?" asked Tristan as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Not really" she replied. "I don't like Rap or R&B. I don't really like hip hop either…Keke Wyatt annoys me. I dislike Aretha Franklin and Zero, but The Strokes are all right I suppose. Chris Isaak, Toby Keith, Barbra Steisand and John Fogery are sorry excuses for singers!"
"I totally agree," said Tristan amused.
"I mean, what's up with Beverly Hills Cop and Eddie Kendricks? And Faith Evans? Craig David seriously needs to shave. Michael Jackson is so old it's not even funny. Garth Brooks? Outkast? Sade? How did they even get CD contracts? Shakira is up there too. And Mystikal? I honestly tried to understand, but I didn't. Mobb Deep? What kind of name is that? Jamiroquai? Kool and the Band? Pete Yorn is such a hick! All he's missing is overalls and a pitchfork! Tarry Jacks? It sounds like some sort of beverage!"
"I know!" said Tristan, agreeing full heartedly. "And Carly Simon! What's up with her?"
"Exactly! And all those boy bands!"
"But you must admit, the Backstreet Boys are pretty good."
"No way. N'Sync is so much better!" said Rory.
Tristan lay his head on the headrest of his car. Every syllable the girl uttered he fell more and more in love with her. "So, basically you like soundtracks, Britney Spears and Cher?" Rory laughed and looked out the window. She was thinking of a witty retort when music started playing. She looked over at Tristan and smiled. It was P.G. Harvey.
"Finally learned she was a woman, huh?"
Tristan looked at Rory and smiled. "I went to the concert and…well I liked her."
Rory smiled back, saying nothing.
The ride to Tristan's house seemed to be over before it had even begun. [Perhaps it was because he only lived about ten minutes away, but perhaps not. One of life's unanswered questions.]
Rory gaped at the hideousness of the house. It was enormous and cold inside. The marble floors were covered with furs and the walls were hung with moose and deer heads. "My Father is friends with a taxidermist" said Tristan, and dismissed the butler with a flick of his wrist. "Don't worry, my parents aren't going to be home for the next week or so. If they are, you probably won't meet them anyway. Sometimes I don't see them myself for months on end. They leave messages with the butler and he relays them to me." Tristan looked down at Rory in time to see the confused look on her face. "The house has eight floors. Thirty-one bedrooms. Thirty-nine bathrooms. Over three hundred staff. It's easy to miss one another."
"Is it all like…this?" asked Rory, waving her hand around at the dead animals and gold chandeliers.
"This floor is. My Mother is into themes. I'll never know what she was thinking when she chose the last one. An underwater theme. Plastic fish everywhere. Thank god it's gone." Tristan said dismissively. Rory was surprised at his conceit. She had almost forgotten that he was just another rich boy. The amount of fur in his house could have clothed, fed and sheltered a large community of cave men for over a year.
"Do you want anything? Cheese and crackers? Caviar? Coffee?"
Dear readers, you can guess the answer.
Tristan led Rory up six flights of marble stairs and down a long passage way to his bedroom. Rory was panting by the time she got there. Surprisingly, it didn't match the rest of the floor in the least (which had a barn yard theme at the moment). In fact, Rory was amazed when she walked inside. It was nearly the size of her entire house with a walk in closet and a bathroom that consisted of a large bathtub, a two-person shower, a Jacuzzi, a fireplace, and two couches. There was also a telephone next to the toilet, which was behind a small curtain. Rory didn't notice the latter until she had to use it about an hour later.
Rory put down her bag on a large armchair and Tristan did the same.
"So…do you want to change?" he asked, suddenly aware that the girl of his dreams was standing two feet away from him in his bedroom.
"Yeah, I think I will." She said, and looked around for her suitcase.
The two Chiltonites were sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. They had mutually agreed to work solo on their homework until it was time to tackle the project. Rory had drunk more than a few cups of coffee, Tristan sorely behind with only two. He hadn't said anything, but secretly he was in awe of the girl studying next to him. She had done six pages of advanced trigonometry, read an entire novel, studied a page of Latin proverbs, finished a lab on bio-chemistry and learnt the formula for compound interest, all in an hour.
Rory closed her history book with a satisfying thump. Tristan looked up from the poem he was analyzing. Truly amazing. She wanted more coffee. When he got back, Rory was sprawled on the floor reading a book. Her shirt had ridden slightly up her back, exposing a strip of smooth skin. Tristan cleared his throat.
"Coffee!" said Rory joyfully. "You're my hero!"
"How can you drink so much?" he queried.
"Practice" she said smiling.
"So…should we undertake the project?"
"I suppose," said Rory unwillingly. They both settled down to divide the work.
Rory's skin tingled. This was the fifth time that Tristan's arm had 'casually' brushed against hers. She glanced at him furtively. He didn't seem to notice the effect he was having on her. Rory sighed, content. Perhaps she had been wrong about Tristan all along. He hadn't tried to get in her pants all afternoon. He seemed to care about school. He wasn't 'evil Tristan' or 'Bible Boy". He never called her Mary. Maybe he really was a nice guy deep down. Maybe.
Rory excused herself and went to the bathroom to phone Lorelai.
"Hello?"
"Mom, it's me."
"Hey kiddo. How's hell?"
"Not as bad as I thought. The project is going pretty well."
"Aww, that's great kid! Has he put any moves on you yet?"
"Mom!"
"Just asking. Ahh. Sookie just set fire to Michel's feet. Must go. Phone me if you need anything."
"Definitely."
"Bye."
The line went dead.
Alas, I have learned first hand what it means to be flamed. I now know why people ask for constructive criticism or none at all. I read the reviews today. If you were to read the reviews now, you would not see any evil ones. Reason: I deleted them. I know it wasn't the wisest thing to do, but after being told repeatedly that my story sucked, what choice did I have? Reviews serve two purposes. The first is to let the author know what the readers like/dislike about the story. Using this information, the author makes what changes and additions are necessary to the story. The second is to let the author know if the readers like the story, and whether or not to continue. Sadly, when I read anonymous reviews saying 'this story sucks…' 'Don't use fanfic's as inspiration…' and 'your humor is stupid' my reaction is to delete them. I almost stopped writing this satire altogether. Then I read the rest of the reviews. So many of you said you loved it and wanted it to be continued, how could I refuse? I did get some reviews about spelling, and I will do my best to fix it. I have re-uploaded every chapter with the correct spelling. I use word pad to type the stories and there is no spell check. It might take longer to upload new chapters, but it's worth it…right? To the flamers (you know who you are) if you don't like it, don't read it. It's a satire for a reason. If it sucks, why? It is really helpful if you say "the story sucked, stop writing" (notice my sarcasm). All you have to do is press the little back button at the top of your screen to exit the Gilmore insanity. That simple.
Don't sue, don't be angry, and don't flame. Now that I have gotten everything out of my system, let us get on with the story.
So, without further ado: Chapter 7
--authors_anonymous
Rory was putting an excessive amount of books in her bag when Tristan walked up. As usual, he was looking pretty good. He had just gotten his hair trimmed, and the ¼ inch missing did much for his sultry good looks. He leaned against his locker and looked at Rory, wishing for the thousandth time that she was his woman. Unfortunately, her views didn't seem to compromise his at all. He banished the unpleasant thought from his mind and focused his attention on memorizing Rory's locker combination (solely for the purpose of stuffing her locker with coffee and other trinkets to show her he cared, but without the pesky act of breaking and entering). Rory was so involved in packing her books snuggly that she didn't notice she was being watched. Tristan reflected that she was likely to be kidnapped before the age of 25.
"Tristan!" said Rory when she finally noticed the sex god standing next to her.
"Ready to go?" he asked, admiring her eyes and how they sparkled in the florescent hallway light.
"Definitely" she said, and stood up. From a distance, she noticed Paris glowering. The two walked in silence to the student parking lot where a shiny black BMW was parked.
"Do you have a music preference?" asked Tristan as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Not really" she replied. "I don't like Rap or R&B. I don't really like hip hop either…Keke Wyatt annoys me. I dislike Aretha Franklin and Zero, but The Strokes are all right I suppose. Chris Isaak, Toby Keith, Barbra Steisand and John Fogery are sorry excuses for singers!"
"I totally agree," said Tristan amused.
"I mean, what's up with Beverly Hills Cop and Eddie Kendricks? And Faith Evans? Craig David seriously needs to shave. Michael Jackson is so old it's not even funny. Garth Brooks? Outkast? Sade? How did they even get CD contracts? Shakira is up there too. And Mystikal? I honestly tried to understand, but I didn't. Mobb Deep? What kind of name is that? Jamiroquai? Kool and the Band? Pete Yorn is such a hick! All he's missing is overalls and a pitchfork! Tarry Jacks? It sounds like some sort of beverage!"
"I know!" said Tristan, agreeing full heartedly. "And Carly Simon! What's up with her?"
"Exactly! And all those boy bands!"
"But you must admit, the Backstreet Boys are pretty good."
"No way. N'Sync is so much better!" said Rory.
Tristan lay his head on the headrest of his car. Every syllable the girl uttered he fell more and more in love with her. "So, basically you like soundtracks, Britney Spears and Cher?" Rory laughed and looked out the window. She was thinking of a witty retort when music started playing. She looked over at Tristan and smiled. It was P.G. Harvey.
"Finally learned she was a woman, huh?"
Tristan looked at Rory and smiled. "I went to the concert and…well I liked her."
Rory smiled back, saying nothing.
The ride to Tristan's house seemed to be over before it had even begun. [Perhaps it was because he only lived about ten minutes away, but perhaps not. One of life's unanswered questions.]
Rory gaped at the hideousness of the house. It was enormous and cold inside. The marble floors were covered with furs and the walls were hung with moose and deer heads. "My Father is friends with a taxidermist" said Tristan, and dismissed the butler with a flick of his wrist. "Don't worry, my parents aren't going to be home for the next week or so. If they are, you probably won't meet them anyway. Sometimes I don't see them myself for months on end. They leave messages with the butler and he relays them to me." Tristan looked down at Rory in time to see the confused look on her face. "The house has eight floors. Thirty-one bedrooms. Thirty-nine bathrooms. Over three hundred staff. It's easy to miss one another."
"Is it all like…this?" asked Rory, waving her hand around at the dead animals and gold chandeliers.
"This floor is. My Mother is into themes. I'll never know what she was thinking when she chose the last one. An underwater theme. Plastic fish everywhere. Thank god it's gone." Tristan said dismissively. Rory was surprised at his conceit. She had almost forgotten that he was just another rich boy. The amount of fur in his house could have clothed, fed and sheltered a large community of cave men for over a year.
"Do you want anything? Cheese and crackers? Caviar? Coffee?"
Dear readers, you can guess the answer.
Tristan led Rory up six flights of marble stairs and down a long passage way to his bedroom. Rory was panting by the time she got there. Surprisingly, it didn't match the rest of the floor in the least (which had a barn yard theme at the moment). In fact, Rory was amazed when she walked inside. It was nearly the size of her entire house with a walk in closet and a bathroom that consisted of a large bathtub, a two-person shower, a Jacuzzi, a fireplace, and two couches. There was also a telephone next to the toilet, which was behind a small curtain. Rory didn't notice the latter until she had to use it about an hour later.
Rory put down her bag on a large armchair and Tristan did the same.
"So…do you want to change?" he asked, suddenly aware that the girl of his dreams was standing two feet away from him in his bedroom.
"Yeah, I think I will." She said, and looked around for her suitcase.
The two Chiltonites were sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed. They had mutually agreed to work solo on their homework until it was time to tackle the project. Rory had drunk more than a few cups of coffee, Tristan sorely behind with only two. He hadn't said anything, but secretly he was in awe of the girl studying next to him. She had done six pages of advanced trigonometry, read an entire novel, studied a page of Latin proverbs, finished a lab on bio-chemistry and learnt the formula for compound interest, all in an hour.
Rory closed her history book with a satisfying thump. Tristan looked up from the poem he was analyzing. Truly amazing. She wanted more coffee. When he got back, Rory was sprawled on the floor reading a book. Her shirt had ridden slightly up her back, exposing a strip of smooth skin. Tristan cleared his throat.
"Coffee!" said Rory joyfully. "You're my hero!"
"How can you drink so much?" he queried.
"Practice" she said smiling.
"So…should we undertake the project?"
"I suppose," said Rory unwillingly. They both settled down to divide the work.
Rory's skin tingled. This was the fifth time that Tristan's arm had 'casually' brushed against hers. She glanced at him furtively. He didn't seem to notice the effect he was having on her. Rory sighed, content. Perhaps she had been wrong about Tristan all along. He hadn't tried to get in her pants all afternoon. He seemed to care about school. He wasn't 'evil Tristan' or 'Bible Boy". He never called her Mary. Maybe he really was a nice guy deep down. Maybe.
Rory excused herself and went to the bathroom to phone Lorelai.
"Hello?"
"Mom, it's me."
"Hey kiddo. How's hell?"
"Not as bad as I thought. The project is going pretty well."
"Aww, that's great kid! Has he put any moves on you yet?"
"Mom!"
"Just asking. Ahh. Sookie just set fire to Michel's feet. Must go. Phone me if you need anything."
"Definitely."
"Bye."
The line went dead.