A/N: Hospital again…sorry people.

Most of this I had it done before I went into the hospital, and was finally able to add a bit today. I know it's not up to your standards in length, and maybe not even in quality, but I wanted to let my readers know I haven't abandoned it even if life is enjoying trolling me. XD!

That said, and because of it, I will add that the format of this story has changed. The chapters will probably be shorter, but maybe you can send tributes to your gods/goddesses and they'll allow the muses to inspire me for faster updates XD; since being sealed away in your house until who knows when is not very good for inspiration :(.

Also, and I'll say this once so please stop whining about it in your reviews? Because of the shorter chapters you will feel like the story is dragging on forever! Hopefully, Anna will be only 50% obnoxious/annoying/unbearable and 50% stubbornly amusing! So have patience. I promise all of it (Anna's personality, the long wait, the slow born) will be worth just half way through.

Okay I'm done. Now read the five-second chapter and leave a review if you feel it deserves it! ^-^

For the Growth of the Flower of Love: You must sow the seed

Episode seven:

"You may call me Nuisance…Anna Nuisance Callaghan"

As if the meaning of life has been displayed before us, Elsa stares about the boringly white walls of the Boca Raton Art Museum in wondrous enthrallment. She slides along the floor tiles like a swan glides through a lake, whereas I drag my feet like Godzilla in the middle of Tokyo.

I initially wanted to be positive, since I consider it a win that no more first-date fun activities will be spoiled by Elsa's presence, but this is just too much of a bore!

And a misuse of space!

Four copies of my room could fit in this room alone; with all of my furniture and probably an added walk-in closet. Yet, the immense space houses only a small and extremely uncomfortable looking wooden bench, right in the center of the floor, while the walls hold what seems to be a piece of art, one on each of the four walls; purportedly humongous paintings that consists on rather extensive portions of paper with points and lines of vibrant colors and…what the hell am I looking at?

Elsa continues to move from one wall to the other, and the other, and back again, seemingly to compare and contrast one whatever-the-hell-it-is to the other whatever-the-hell-it-is. I have no idea what she's seeing, if she's even seeing anything at all, but she appears to be in deep philosophical thought about it which only just re-confirms my suspicion that she's cuckoo.

After she rounds the room for the third time we finally move to the next, only to find more of the same with the little variant that in these paintings the 'artist' uses black! I stare pointedly at the first painting to my left – it covers most of the wall, from side to side and top to bottom – because I think that I can finally discern something here. The black lines look almost like letters, though I don't know which language they belong to. I squint my eyes. Maybe they are symbols? Hieroglyphs? Cavemen drawings?

Nope! NFI! No fucking idea!

"That's one of Jackson Pollock's Murals." I jump, her usually soft voice almost giving me a heart attack in the vast silence. "I'm sorry." Her mouth apologizes, but her eyes are twinkling with mirth, which makes me grumble, "Whatever."

I return my gaze to the enormous doodle, "Was he painting for the Wall of China?"

I hear her frown, "What do you mean?"

"I mean it's huge!" I expand my arms to the sides, in case my words aren't explicit enough.

"Oh, yes well, that's his style." She replies.

I nod, in an 'I see' type of fashion. It's blatantly sarcastic. At least to me.

"Was his style to also paint like a five year old?" I inquire, only half mockingly because really, if you were looking at what I'm looking at, you would be wondering the same thing.

But of course Elsa is not of like mind.

"Excuse me?" She shrills. Almost. As much as Miss Politeness can raise her voice to sound indignant. There's that high eyebrow to go along with her tone and I can only wonder if I've offended her ancestors. Maybe Po-Pa…Paul Walker? Wait no, I think that's a different kind of dead artist. Anyway, maybe this dude is her great-great-great-great grandfather or something.

Most people would backtrack at that possibility, but my mother taught me to stick to my opinions.

"Oh come on! A child could have done this!" I say with the certainty of a corrupt lawyer.

"No he couldn't have." She disagrees. I raise my own eyebrow because I can't believe she actually said that with a straight face.

I give another glance at the 'painting'. Then send her a glare with my argument, "It's made of whips and splashes of random colors!"

"They are color strokes! With symmetry and regularity consciously achieved by the artist. No child could have preemptively thought of this composition!" Such vehemence. Who would have thought messing with her art crushes was what would get the Princess riled up.

I tsk, "Well I could have done it."

She huffs. Seriously. And profoundly. I must be getting rather deep under her skin… Hehe.

"I doubt it, since it's evident you lack such…depth." And she turns, fuming and walking away briskly like I'm most unworthy of her time and breath.

"Whatever." I grumble, and move in the opposite direction of her Highness. Far, far away from her. This place is huge, surely we can spend the next few hours together but apart, no?

Well let's, find out!

A/N: Omg, I hadn't noticed before, but this story just reached its 100th review! That's amazing! It's the first time that a story of mine has reached such a number, and so I want to thank all of you for making it possible. To celebrate, Doesn't Matter4, if you desire, you may think of an Elsanna prompt to send my way! I hear that's the custom around this parts! Anyway, thanks again for all the support! ^-^