AN: Yes I know these are short chapters, its just that I can't write more than a few hundred words at a time and i frequently undergo writer's block.
Chapter 2:I, Lorelei Leigh Gilmore III, am a nerd. There's no getting around it. Here I am on a Saturday night a week after finals reading a book – in my ratty old pajamas – waiting for the laundry to finish. How un-hip is that? And another thing, why the hell am I using words like "un-hip"? The former-roomate-known-as-Paris was having more fun than I! There is no justice in this world. Or if there is, it has a sick sense of humor.
As fun as Andrei Codrescu's short essays are, there's no getting away from the fact that I'm reading a text assigned in class three whole years ago. Well okay, so I'm not really reading that. High school yearbooks should count as literature too! I mean, with all the end of the year messages people write and various artistic impressions doodled on the pictures, there's loads of material to write essays about. Think about it. With all the double entendres in the farewells and the drawings up for art interpretation, all the words and lines are laced with meaning. My favorite parts are the pictures with little horns and pitchforks drawn over the shots.
Some deserved the graffiti more than others but I am determined to preserve it in its imperfection. I guess I was feeling a little more nostalgic than usual because now I've opened up my sophomore yearbook. Ah, now there were some happenin' times. Ooohhh, there's Paris with a beard and mustache that's surprisingly an uncanny impersonation of Hitler. And one of my personal favorites: Tristan with a uni-brow, lots of acne, and buckteeth. That was one that I had a lot of fun doing.
Come to think of it, I wonder where he's at now? I mean military school can't have been fun and his parents have enough money to get him into any college he would like. I bet he's knocked up a girl or two and must now live in shame without mommy and daddy's money to support him and his cocaine habit working at a gas station in the middle of nowhere with only two years to live because he's contracted syphilis from one of the many whores he has serviced. Serves him right, that bastard.
But it was just a tiny bit exciting to fight with him. Just a smidgen of fun. I mean, not even visible to the naked eye; like on the nanoscale type fun. Okay, I'm dropping that train of thought.
"Rory, what are doing on the floor with that pen?" Wait a sec, when did Paris get here? She continued, "It is 9 pm on a Saturday night and you're defacing an old yearbook? You, my hermit of a friend, need to get out more. As in now."
"I am very content in my existing condition, thank you very much." I replied with just a hint of annoyance. I can just imagine a pillow being thrown at her face right about now.
"Hey! What was that for? I was just stating a fact. No need to get all violent about it!" Whoops! So I guess it wasn't just my imagination.
"Paris, is there a purpose to you existing in that space at this time?" So I'm a little saucy today, so sue me.
"I was just going to tell you not to wait up since I'm spending the night with Jess. Jeez, who peed in your coffee this morning, miss snippy?" God, I have to love the girl. Who else could both insult me and the love of my life in 9 words or less?
"Like you two do anything else –"
"We do too!"
"Fine, Paris. Just leave. Go have fun like the two crazy kids you are."
And the one high point in my night left the room. Woooo, better stop this crazy whirligig of fun that is Rory Gilmore's night in. Huh.