Introduction-- Enter Overdramatic Teenager Author's note: Hello FanFictioners I hail from Kingdoms at War, the land of violence and nonromantics. It's an uber sexy land of awesome, but not for the delicate minded, nor the sensitive. Since several PIMD stories have been migrating to Kingdoms at War, I'm shoving my story in here as well. See how you like my making fun of cliché. Hah. This story is poking fun at teenage romances and stereotypes in general. It's oh so fun to write, but most people hate it. I honestly don't give two shits whether you like it or not, it's supposed to be mindblowingly ridiculous. This is just a test to see PIMD's reaction to what is essentially a bashing of some of of their stories. So without further ado, I give you Curse of the Missing Cursor. }*{ Brittany Princesca rolled her eyes at her screen and giggled at the not-even humorous email she had just opened. Her irritatingly flawless, sparkly pink manicured hand was placed delicately over her mouth to hide her also perfect teeth as she resisted ungirlish chuckles. A single gorgeously done finger came down onto the sleek screen of her newest toy, the newest iPod touch model. She smiled slinkily and began to type a not-so witty reply before she dropped the iPod in horror. Her hand flew up again, this time covering her raw shock and horror. Her cursor, the blinking blue light, was gone. "What... I don't..." She squeaked. The dramatic blonde was overcome by a fresh wave of hysteria, panic sending her in a frenzy to her phone. She tapped out a quick text, outlining her predicament and only slightly exaggerating. Sending it to her gorgeous, popular boyfriend, she sat back and waited. Thirty seconds passed, and hysteria peaked and crested. She was then in a trance of extreme fear, gaze darting up at every second. Five seconds afterwards, she was scrambling to her phone to see if her boyfriend, Aiden, had responded. When she saw that she hadn't, her expression of fear quickly turned to a hybrid of a scowl and a pout, a very sulky expression. Boyfriends were supposed to respond to their girlfriend's texts in a maximum of thirty seconds, in Brittany's opinion. Even twenty-five was pushing it. She scowled again, but quickly resumed what she thought to be an adorable pout. Forty-five seconds, and Brittany became extremely pissed off. She still patiently waited for his text, a (fake) cute pout still plastered onto her face. A minute, and she was seething with fury. Just as she was about to slam the phone down, dial his number, and actually talk to him, she felt the vibration of her phone, alerting her to a new text message. She smiled. She had him hook, line, and sinker, and the school's golden boy made for a damn good connection. She glanced at the screen of her phone, and slowly both her anger and joy melted away. The only thing she could feel was hatred. The text message came from the smartest girl in Brittany's grade, and possibly even the school. Brittany frowned. What did she want? It dawned upon her. The previous week, she and Aiden had threatened to shove Ms. Nerdy Natalia into the pool, along with her homework and textbooks, if she didn't do Aiden, Brittany, and a few other thugs' homework. The text read, "Hi Bratney, your homework is finished and Aiden is picking it up for you. Have a most delightful day. Cheers, Brat!" Fake joy and sarcasm dripped from every letter of the text message, fake joy and sarcasm that Brittany was totally oblivious to. Brittany still didn't know why Aiden wasn't responding to her. She smoldered slowly, and began to vent her anger on a fluffy pillow. Afterwards, she furiously sent him several panicky texts, exaggerating again. The last read, "Please hel-" And nothing more. Hopefully, Aiden would think her to be dying. She sighed, and smiled in a dreamlike state, fantasizing about being rescued by her prince charming. Her wandering mind snapped back to attention. Aiden. She texted him again, enraged. He sent her one reply. One short reply, barely even twenty words! Or maybe fifteen, Brittany thought as she suspiciously eyed the word count. She didn't trust numbers, she couldn't count to eleven. Her maid usually did all the counting for her. Lounging on her plush white couch, Brittany slowly read the text. "Sry hun cant rite now dealing wit hax0rs on vid bbl ily" Brittany's feeble mind slowly picked through the text, deciphering the sloppily thrown together abbreviations and reassembling it into something even she could understand. From what she understood, he was saying no. And that infuriated her. Pacing back and forth, throwing her phone back onto the feathery couch cushions, she decided what to do. She would save her cursor herself. What did one do to save their cursor...? Brittany mused as she meandered through her closet (it happened to be the size of a large master bedroom). Oh, that was right. When you rescued something, you took things to hit people with. Frowning, Brittany scoured her closet for weapons. As she scrounged around, she came up with a single vacant coat hanger and an unmatched, teal, extremely large stiletto. "No... I need better weapons. Weapons with... What are they called... Oh, yes, blades!" Brittany muttered to herself. Smiling triumphantly, she tucked a fake I.D. and a few thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills into her hand. She wondered to herself what one wore to go weapons shopping. More importantly, how did one seduce a weapons store owner? Her eyes turned to a long shelf full of various wallets. What kind of wallet did you take to a weapons store?
I love you. . Romance stories are shit. I hate them, but PIMD seems to love 'em. They're like an invasive species meant to help but only hurt. (I'm being a hypocrite because I have a story with the basis of some sort of affection, but my point still stands.) Thank you, for this.
Thank you, thank you oh so very much, Qinny. Glad you feel the same way I do, lol. Fallen- A healthy mix is always nice. I mean, you can't just love this, you have to acheive doublethink and hate it at the same time.
How's it going bros? My name… Is -P-, evidently. This here is my cruel dragon mistress/author/cool person/that person that all my friends think is my girlfriend >.< She has already introduced herself to you crazy people.
Oh yeah. I have a chapter, don't I? Now, to be cruel or not to be... To post or not to post... Since my chapters are generally longer, I tend to try to stockpile them and wait
I tend to think along the lines of severely overdone Mary Sue. You know, the point where perfect turns to horrible. But thanks I think anyone crazy enough to click on a thread with this title deserves personal thanks and a reccomendation to the crazy house
LIVE, THREAD! LIVE! Chapter One-- Of Skimpy Dresses and Makeup Author's note: This part introduces the reader to the wonderful overly exaggerated world of a brat. At some point in this chapter, if you find yourself extremely irritated, that was somewhat the goal. I'll get back to bashing romance soon, I promise. For now I'm beating up on appearance obsessiveness. Derp. }*{ Brittany rifled through her rack of dresses, frowning. She was pleased with her choice of Gucci wallet, but... She had already worn all of her Gwen Stefani dresses once! She dove back into the sea of clothes hangers. When she came back up for air, she held a small, black, and lacy Christian Dior dress [Apologies. I don't know clothes.] in one hand and a skimpy blue cocktail dress in the other. She scrutinized each piece of small, tight clothing. She ran her fingernails against the fabric, pulled at the straps to see if they adjusted, and ended up ripping the black dress. She ended up wearing the blue dress, claiming the other to be, "of unsuperior quality." She sniffed. Somewhere in her clouded mind, a small, puzzled voice wondered if it had something to do with Brittany's long, fake nails snagging on the fabric. Brittany ignored the voice and continued smoothing out the blue dress, forgetting that once she moved again it would wrinkle. After the smooth, blue-green fabric reached an 'acceptable' amount of creases, Brittany took a single step. The brat then shrieked in disgust. "Ohmigosh! It, like, got a line in it! When I took a step! How is that, like, even possible?" Her shrieking brought her maid into her closet, saying, "Let me help, miss—" "NO! Get out, get out! I look horrible! This dress has a line in it!" Sighing, and trying not to roll her eyes, the maid attempted to explain to the brat what folds in fabric were. After an hour of explaining, the Brat still refused to take another step. Giving up, the maid uttered the only line she had left, a type of last resort. "Creases are the new in, Miss." Instantly the dumb blonde perked up. "Really? Ohmigosh!" Silently, the maid escaped the closet in which Brittany was obsessing over every little crease. Her cries could be heard from outside of the closet. "Ohmigosh, I have another one! I have, like, ten! And when I walk, I get another one!" After a while, the maid tuned her out. Approximately twenty-five minutes of idiotic obsessions over creases later, Brittany began to search her piles of shoes. She practically swam through the mountains of heels, and the occasional pair of sandals. After a few worrisome, silent minutes, the maid (who was named Aubrey, in case you were wondering) peeked into the closet. Brittany was sitting in a pile of shoes about four feet high, sorting through them. Sorting wasn't exactly the word for it. She was throwing the shoes that she 'couldn't wear with her precious new dress' across the closet. Aubrey winced. She'd be the one cleaning up the closet and repairing the several new dents in the purple and pink walls. Who painted their closets, anyways? Brittany was on the brink of a tantrum. Aubrey rushed to help, knowing she'd be fired if Brittany had another. "Miss, what about—" Almost calmly, the brat slapped Aubrey. "You have no sense of style." Aubrey wondered what was going on with Brittany— she wasn't nearly that nice. "Yes, miss." Aubrey withdrew from the bedroom sized closet. Brittany continued to throw shoes every which way. Hundreds of dents in the walls later, she came up with a single pair of black heels. They were, of course, Dior, nearly every piece of clothing she owned was. It took her a total of about fifteen minutes to strap on the heels that made her almost bump her head on the not-so low ceiling. Outfit picked out, the brat began to do her shiny blonde hair. The entire routine was a painfully long forty-five minutes. Painful for anyone, except… You guessed it. The brat. Brittany emerged from the closet/dressing room without makeup on. "Miss, your make-" "I'M NOT WEARING MAKEUP!" In a frenzy, Brittany flew back into the closet, slamming the door. She brushed her hair again, for no purpose other than to stroke her own ego, and began applying her makeup. For the fun of it, Aubrey actually timed Brittany while she caked her face in makeup. Exactly twenty-one minutes, fifty-eight seconds, and about a thousandth of a second later, the Brat emerged, face now completely covered with a disgustingly thick layer of makeup. Her eyelashes looked to be about the length of her heels, and her lips were an oddly bloody shade of red. Aubrey watched as the result of around three hours and ten minute's worth of work strutted out her bedroom door. Shaking her head, Aubrey began to clean up Brittany's mess.
Amazing! Bump! This is so good! I love the description and your ability to bring us to the brat's and maid's mind! Update!
I feel like a hypocrite since I specialize in writing romance, but you are my hero. The copious amount of shitty, unoriginal and crappy, idiotic less than half-decent stories with numerous grammatical, punctuation and spelling errors appall me. Most of the time they're typical, cliched, blonde eyed goddesses that are super rich with good grades high school romances. Blah. I enjoyed reading this. :>
It's breathing! Thanks for the positive feedback guys. In all honesty, I'd love a bit more criticism. I can take it, I promise lol On a less-than-relevant note, Anyone got any hate for me? My jar of noob tears awaits.