For your fifteenth birthday, you get:
One (1) bedazzled breathalyzer.
Three (3) marine biology books, all of them for children 5+ and possibly bought at the Seaworld gift shop.
One (1) copy of Computers For Dummies, courtesy of Strider (the douchenozzle).
One (1) black cat who is, quite possibly, the cutest cat on the planet, you love him so much and you've only had him for 4 hours, goddamn.
Five (5) shrinkwrapped DVDs that you would suspect Jake of scrounging up from the bottom of the bargain bin at Walmart if he lived anywhere near a Walmart. He apparently thinks shit like "Men in Black 2" and "Tomb Raider" are quality cinema when in fact they resemble nothing more than that gunk you scrape off the bottom of your shoe. But that's okay. It's, like, totally endearing.
One (1) invitation to join BettyBother.
Jane. Jane, no.
All in all, it is a much better birthday than your 14th, a day Of Which You Not Speak because it involved a terrifying myriad of grody things, the most egregious being clowns and a dead pony. But this birthday! This. This is a fantastic one and totally makes up for all the bad things that have ever happened to you, ever. Because hey, a cat. You play with the breathalyzer for about a minute before getting bored.
So martini in hand, you take a hot pink Sharpie to the marine biology books in a noble quest to scribble moustaches on all the innocent sea creatures. You're halfway through the narwhal section when your phone rings.
"Sup."
"Hello, birthday girl! Did you happen to get my invitation?"
"What, you mean this, like, blinking piece of spam that's currently trashing my screen with ads for Fruit Gushers?"
"Hey, missy. I like Fruit Gushers."
"Yeah, but you also like eating raw pancake batter, so we can't really trust your judgment on anything, Jane. Sorry."
"That was only the one time! You are never going to let me live that down."
"Of course not. That totally made my year." You draw an eye patch on a sea turtle and take a sip of your drink. "Anyway, why we don't just stick to Pesterchum."
"Baloney. As the heiress, it's important that I show support for my company."
"Too bad your company is responsible for global warming."
"Goodness, I do hope you're being facetious."
"Nope. Serious as a heart attack. They kill whales and, like, put them in their brownie mix."
You're rewarded with the "hoo hoo hoo" of her laughter, and then, "Mm, whale blubber brownies."
"Heartless batterwitch."
"For the last time—"
"She exists and she is pulling your naive little strings."
"Oh, horsefeathers. I simply refuse to have this conversation with you again!"
"Fine, Jane, whatev." You idly turn the page, only to be greeted by a centerfold of elephant seals. "Damn you're ugly."
"Beg pardon?"
"Oh, whoops, not you, Janey, you're gorgeous. Talking about this elephant seal. Looks like his face got caught in a trash compactor. How do these things even reproduce?"
"In a—I'm sorry, it's as though your figurative language gets progressively worse as the alcohol level in your bloodstream rises. You are hopelessly inebriated."
"I'm not," you say, and take another drink, "inabrated. I am simply a classy young lady enjoying the spoils of war. Duhh."
"What war?"
"My mother's."
"You are so goshdarned paranoid."
"I am so goddamned realistic. I am the guy who knows the body snatchers are real from the beginning but no one believes me. And in the end, I am the only survivor."
"I'm not sure that's how the story went—"
"Shhh. Only elephant seals now." You draw a top hat and a monocle on one.
"So, how does it feel?"
"Vandalizing children's books? Uh, totally amazing. I am like those hilarious assholes who spraypaint buckteeth on the Mona Lisa."
"No, silly, being fifteen!"
"Oh." You look up and stare at the wall for a good fifteen seconds, consider your dramatically increased maturity levels, then drop your gaze back to the book and write 'dong' on one of the elephant seal's noses. "Like, totes different."
"Really?" Jane is obviously intrigued. As she should be. "How so?"
"Well," you say, scratching your chin with the end of the sharpie, "for one thing, when I woke up this morning, I was suddenly able to mix a perfect G&T."
"Darling, you've always been able to do that."
"Oh, you are so right. Nevermind."
"So… it's the same as being fourteen? Ho-hum."
"I am not a ho."
"It's a saying, silly."
"Sure, whatev. Save your flimsy excuses. I'm wise to your act, Janey."
"You are ridiculous."
"You flatter me."
"I'm going to hang up, okay? You had better join BettyBother this instant!"
"Oh, yeah, doing it right now. Here we go. Mouse. Clicking. Pchoo." You draw Jake's glasses on a particularly handsome seal. After a moment of deep inward reflection you draw Strider's glasses on a particularly ugly manatee.
"All righty! Have a wonderful birthday. I'll talk to you soon."
There's a dial tone, so you set the phone down.
Two hours later, you're at least 20% drunker and all the marine biology books have been sufficiently vandalized. You use your breathalyzer and are pleased with the result, or you would be, if you weren't holding it upside down. Your cat is nestled in the crook of your knees. You flip through your brand-spanking new copy of Computers For Dummies. Your phone rings.
"Sup."
"You floozy."
"That's adorable."
"You said you'd join Betty Bother! Lies! Lies and malarkey!"
"I'm getting on it," you say, turning to the chapter entitled How To Turn On Your Computer. You find, to your dismay, that Strider has already filled the margins with comments like Now, Lalonde, first and fucking foremost you will need to find the 'ON BUTTON,' a little piece of technology which enables shapes to appear on your monitor (that's the glowing magic box on your desk). Shown here is what I think you'll find a helpful diagram, seeing as how it was made specifically for the functionally retarded and/or people lacking basic motor skills. Many happy returns.
"You are not getting on it. I'll bet you are simply lying on your stomach, doing something ridiculous and time-wastey!"
You examine yourself. You're lying on your stomach reading derogatory comments about your technological capabilities in blindingly orange sharpie. Ridiculous? No. Time-wastey? Eh. Probably. You decide to defend yourself.
"Strider sent me a Computers for Dummies book," you say, trying to sound hurt.
"Oh my."
"He defaced it."
"I'm sorry."
"I was going to deface it."
"I suppose he foresaw this?"
"Guess so."
You hear some typing.
"I'm not seeing any new chat invites," she says accusingly.
"I just," you say, and stop to think, "need to find my computer."
"You lost your—"
"Jane," you say, holding up a hand to stop her, momentarily forgetting that you are in fact on the phone. "If you could see my house. You would totally understand."
"I will give you five minutes." Click. Dial tone. It's so cute when she tries to threaten you.
You reluctantly get up.
"C'mon, kitty, we got a mission from Headquarters. Objective: Retrieve laptop. Time limit: Five minutes."
"Meow."
"I'm really glad you, like, understand the gravity of the sitch."
"Meow."
"Haha, so right!" Your cat is fucking hilarious. You open the door and he follows, curling around your ankles.
You're on the third floor when you realize you have no idea where you are. Why is your house so big? This one time you were lost for, like, an hour. Scariest hour of your life. You contemplate for a brief moment upon the possiblity of getting a map drawn up, then realize your mother would probably switch everything around so that when you think you're going to the bar, you're actually going to the library.
"Laptop," you call softly. "Lappy lappy laptop." It does not answer your desperate cries. Laptops are inanimate objects.
Oh, hey, here it is. It was, interestingly enough, in a fridge, right underneath a glass of olives. You don't remember putting it there. You pull it out and set it on the counter, but not before putting the olives to good use.
"Spam, spam, porn spam, spam." You click away all the ads and, eventually, find the BettyBother userface buried underneath a flashing YOU ARE THE WINNER ad and a WHICH PICTURE IS TOTALLY PHOTOSHOPED quiz.
"Ugh," you say, and click the Create Account button with the apprehensive air of someone turning a key to launch a nuclear missile. Your cat chooses that exact moment to jump onto the counter and prance across your keyboard, smashing random keys and pressing enter. Your username is now ][]pooiewr.
You kind of stare at it for a moment, then shrug and add Jane as your first contact. Your phone rings almost instantaneously. You stir your drink idly before answering.
"Yellow."
"What the heck is your username supposed to be? Are you really that splifflicated?"
"Nah, my cat jumped on my laptop. Cute little guy."
"So change it!"
"I don't wanna, like, offend him or anything. He chose it."
"Oh my gosh. I am not interacting with someone named Pooiwer."
"It's Sanskrit, Jane."
"It is not Sanskrit, it is cat mush and nonsense."
"Has anyone told you that your bossiness is kind of hot?"
"I am not bossy!"
You laugh, delighted.
"Oh my god. I totally love how that's the part you take issue with."
"Please change your username."
"I'm gonna change it all right. I'm gonna change it to XxXsexylolitalover69XxX."
"My dad would never let me talk to you again."
"Does your dad have a BettyBother? Because I want it."
"Ugh."
"You know what, Jane, I'm going to pretend to be a smokin hot 30-year-old woman."
"UGH, STOP."
"And then I will cyber—"
"He is my dad! I do not want to hear this!"
"I was gonna say cyberbully, Jane, calm your shapely tits."
"Why are we still conversing via the old boring phone when we could be chatting on BettyBother?"
"Because I want to avoid the pain, Jane. Hey, that rhymed."
"Rather a lot of things rhyme with Jane."
You set the phone down and count, on your fingers, how many words rhyme with Jane. You pick the phone back up.
"My favorite's grain."
"Where the heck did you run off to?"
"Nowhere, just counting."
You hear a sigh, crackly with static.
"Your birthday present is on its way. I do hope you like it."
"What," you say, shocked, "what, I thought my present was this heartwarming invitation to jump right into the batterwitch's sticky batter of conspiracy and deceit."
"There is no such thing. And of course I got you a real present, silly goose. It should be there soon."
"Is it a cook book. Because I told you last time, cooking is to Ms. Lalonde as global warming is to the polar bears."
"What?"
"I can't cooooook."
"Oh, no, it's not a cookbook! What kind of wet blanket do you think I am? No, no, your present is absolutely spiffy."
"Is it a Jane-to-English dictionary 'cause I need one of those."
"Hush, you."
"Okay. Guess I'll drop you a line on BettyBatter."
"BettyBother."
"Yeah, yeah. See you, Jane."
"Goodbye!"
You hang up and click Jane's username and sip your drink and yeah, this is pretty much the best birthday ever.