Continuing the supra-teen-angsty adventures of Whatserella and that demon guy! Featuring: Random Zombie Guy!
Ever since she saw the flicker of jealousy in Johan’s black eyes (they were black like a piece of coal that had been mined from the blackest pit in the blackest part of hell, and also, there were no lights there, so everything looked black), Whatserella’s heart had been racing. Like the hare racing the tortoise. Like the lion racing the mouse. Like some other fable and running or something.
He still cares, she thought. He still loves me.
Just the thought alone made her heart pound, pound, pound, like the heart of that guy in the story about the one guy who murders the other guy and then sticks him under the floorboards and then says “It’s the beating of his hideous heart!” Except his heart probably wasn’t actually pounding, what with the whole being murdered and all, but Whatserella wasn’t too good with symbolism and stuff.
So: He still loves me, she thought and boom went her heart.
With these thoughts in her head (you know, just the two of them: He still cares and he still loves me), she sat down to have lunch in the cafeteria with her rebound boyfriend.
She was going to have to break up with him. It helped a bit that she had been calling him her “rebound boyfriend” to his face for a couple of months now.
“Random zombie guy,” she said to him, because the author can’t be arsed to give anyone in this teen romance a proper name. “You’ve been there for me and I want you to know I appreciate it. So much. You don’t even know. But I want you to know.”
“Argh,” said Random zombie guy. It was all he ever said and frankly, Whatserella wanted to have a decent conversation with someone.
“Frankly,” she said. “I want to have a decent conversation with someone.”
“Argh,” Random zombie guy agreed sadly.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done,” Whatserella went on. “The way you avoided eating my brains. That other stuff you did. Mostly the brain-not-eating, though.”
As she spoke, the cafeteria meatloaf in front of her seemed to look more and more like brains. Eventually, she shook off the image and her inhibitions.
“We have to break up,” said Whatserella firmly, but femininely, exactly the way a heroine of a supernatual teen romance would do.
“Argh,” said Random zombie guy. A single tear fell, gleaming, from his eye.
So it’s been more than a month since I’d written an excerpt from my supra-awesome supra-natural (I’ve decided I like the nonword “supra” lately) teen romance, and I’ll bet you all thought I’d given up on it. But giving up on things isn’t like me. Not. At. All.
On to the hilarity!
After having been so brutally dumped by her mysterious Bulgarian demon boyfriend (though it was for her own good, Whatserella reflected, and she had probably done something to deserve it anyway, like not loving him hard enough or whatever), Whatserella turned to her best friend, Random Guy, for support. She would have turned to her female best friend who is a little pudgy, but not too pudgy, but then we wouldn’t have a love triangle, because every supra-natural teen romance needs a love triangle. Unless I made it some sort of bisexual love triangle, I guess, but I think I’d start losing my target audience there.
“Thanks for being there for me,” Whatserella said to Random Guy.
“Arrrgh,” said Random Guy, because he was a zombie.
(Don’t forget, the school is full of them.)
“You’ve been such a great comfort,” said Whatserella.
“Aargh,” Random Guy agreed.
“If only we could be more than friends,” said Whatserella. If only, she thought, I didn’t still long for my darling Bulgarian demon lover guy, except he’s not actually my lover because TARGET AUDIENCE.
Random Guy said something. It may have been “braaaaains,” or he might have just been spitting out the quarterback’s finger, I don’t know. That’s the thing about zombies, the eating people thing.
Suddenly, Whatserella sensed a foreboding presence behind her.
“Jordan?” she said, or maybe his name was Jack?
“I’m glad to see you’re happy,” he said, and he tried to pretend like he really was glad, except he kind of ruined it by saying that sentence in, like, this really sarcastic voice, and also he rolled his eyes while he did it and punched zombie Random Guy in the face.
“You don’t understand!” she cried, but he had already stalked off or, perhaps, more dramatically disappeared in a cloud of smoke, like Nightcrawler from X-Men. Yeah, let’s go with the teleportation thing. Sweet.
It has recently come to my attention that teenage girls love nothing more than getting dumped for their own good. I thank the author of Twilight for this brilliant insight. I will now co-opt that idea for my own, superior supernatural teenage romance/dump drama!
Josiah (or something), the Bulgarian Demon, and Whatserella were enjoying their twentieth date or something (note: I may or may not get around to writing about their previous dates, but rest assured, they were filled with dialogue like: “You make me glad I left the fiery pits of the Bulgarian hell to experience suburban dating,” and “I’m nothing without you,” and “My entire existence is meaningless if I’m not in a relationship! Errrr…with you.”) when suddenly Joseph (or something) looked seriously at Whatserella. You might even call it gazing. Yeah, yeah, he gazed seriously at Whatserella, whose cheeks flushed red under his insightful eyes.
“You’re looking at me so intently,” she said, because you might not have gotten it just from reading it the first time.
“I just … I don’t want to ever hurt you,” he said.
“Oh, Jeffrey (or something),” she sighed, and leaned against him on the ferris wheel. (Did I not mention their 20th date or something is at the fairgrounds and they’re riding the ferris wheel? Because I totally meant to, I swear.)
He pushed her away determinedly.
“Why have you pushed me away so determinedly?” she asked.
“Because,” he said. “This. Has. To. End.”
Whatserella sniffled a bit. “But why?”
“The thing I said earlier. You know, not wanting to hurt you.”
“But how could you hurt me?! We love each other!”
“Well, I have a barbed –” and he leaned over and whispered a word in her ear. That word rhymed with “weenus.”
“Oh,” she said solemnly. “Yes. That would hurt indeed.”
Furthering the romantic supernaturality … ness, it’s time for more adventures with Whatserella and that Bulgarian Demon guy!!
Because it was Whatserella’s birthday, she was feeling a little down.
“Why are you feeling a little down?” asked that Bulgarian Demon guy.
“It’s my birthday,” said Whatserella.
“I’m … sorry?” said that Bulgarian Demon guy, who, even with all his Bulgarian Demon powers at his disposal and his at least 39 years of life experience, still could not comprehend the mind of a teenage girl. But who can, you know? I mean, I was a teenage girl once, and I made no sense whatsoever. Looking back, I’m like, really? What was I thinking? Was I thinking? Anyway, that’s where Whatserella is right now, all teenage-y and angst-y and shit.
“No one remembered!” sobbed Whatserella. She was even more upset than that time she had to talk about the origin of her (craptacular) name. “Even my dad forgot!”
“I remembered,” said the Bulgarian demon guy and handed her a package.
“Thanks!” she chirped, instantly happy, because who cares if your dad remembers your birthday as long as that mysterious hot guy with the demon-like symptoms does, you know? “Why does the bottom feel wet?”
The mysterious demon Bulgarian whatever guy smiled. She noticed he looked even more mysterious than usual, what with the dark sunglasses he was wearing. “Open it,” he urged.
Inside was a note that said, “I only have eyes for you.” The note didn’t say that aloud, but Whatserella read it aloud. Underneath the note were his eyeballs.
“You’re really milking that thing for all it’s worth, aren’t you?” said Whatserella.
“Do you mean me or the author?”
“Anyway, happy birthday!!”
Continuing the adventures of Whatserella, mysterious Bulgarian demon guy, the haunted school, and all those other things that I can’t remember right now, etc., etc.
“How long do Bulgarian demons live, anyway?” asked Whatserella, gazing into that guy’s eyes, which were like limpid pools. Limpid pools of demonic awesomeness.
“Long,” he said, which wasn’t a very specific answer, but it didn’t matter, because she was drowning in his eyes. Figuratively.
“Like, how long?” she asked after a few minutes of gazing. She might have been drooling too. Possibly in a comatose state. Limpid pools of demonic awesomeness, people. Deadly demonic awesomeness.
“Really long,” he said, emphasizing the “really,” which you could probably tell from the italics I used, but if you couldn’t, perhaps you need to take a high school English class or something, jeez.
“So you’re not, like, still a teenager or anything, are you?”
“I’ve lived many of your teenage lifetimes,” he said in a deeply mysterious voice, so he could have been, like, 39 or something, because thats three times 13, which is many, right? Whatever.
“So what brings you to high school?”
“Er. I mean, a love of learning.
“Er, I mean … ummm … I’m called here by the voices of the dead.” He said “voices of the dead” in one of those fake-spooky voices, where people’s voices get all high and kind of ooooh-wheeeeee-oooooh, you know what I mean.
“Oh, yeah,” said Whatserella. “The voices of the dead. I hear those too.”
The continuing of Whatserella, that Bulgarian demon guy, the other chick and possibly more people if I get around to writing them, like a football player who also likes Whatserella and is a convenient foil to the Bulgarian demon guy and has an all-American name, like Hank All-American or something.
“There’s something strange about this school,” Whatserella said to her friend, the big-boned chick, as they walked down the hallway past the orange lockers, because I remembered that bit.
“What’s so strange about it?” said the big-boned girl, taking a bite out of an apple, because I guess she’s the sort of person who carries apples around with her. In fact, I think she has a bag of apples and she takes a bite out of one occasionally and then throws it away.
“Well, it’s hard to put my finger on it,” said Whatserella, possibly because her fingers were attached to her hands, which were carrying a stack of books for her classes.
“But if you could?” said (insert Friend’s Name Here), and took another bite of a different apple. I kind of see her as a person who takes a bite of an apple and then throws it on the floor, so she’s got this trail of once-bitten apples behind her.
“Well, there’s more zombies here than at my last school,” said Whatserella.
“That’s just ’cause the author has a total hard-on for zombies,” sighed the apple-eater, and rolled her eyes so hard they nearly came out of her sockets, but they didn’t, because only the mysterious Bulgarian demon guy can do that.
“Oh,” said Whatserella. “That doesn’t explain the poltergeists and various other phenomena, though.”
“Oh, that?” said her friend, and laughed, a deep, throaty laugh that sounded like if The Count (yes, the one from Sesame Street) was choking on an apple that he had only taken one bite of, if he could take a bite out of an apple, if he wasn’t a muppet. Anyway, that’s what her laugh sounded like, or maybe she was choking on an apple. After Whatserella pounded her on the back a few times, she continued: “Well, this school was built on an ancient Bulgarian burial ground, after all.”
“Well, that explains it!” said Whatserella brightly, and they stepped over the zombified near-corpse of one of their classmates and headed to American Lit.
I’m not sure if anyone is actually reading these things, but I vow to continue writing my supernatural teen romance until I lose interest in it.
On to the merriment.
“Your name is Whatserella, huh?” said the mysterious boy from her calculus class, who had done that cool thing with his eyes and she was still wiping off the whatever-eyeball-goop is called from her sweater. I don’t know why she was wearing a sweater her first day of school, since it was probably still August or something.
“Yeah,” said Whatserella softly and a little bit ashamedly.
“It’s — ahhhhhhhh — interesting,” said the mysterious guy, who actually said the word ahhhhhhh and didn’t just make an exhaling sound or something. “How’d you get it?”
“The author named me.”
“And she couldn’t come up with something better?”
“It’s because she doesn’t care,” sniffed Whatserella pathetically. “She doesn’t live vicariously through me like some other authors whom she has too much pride to link to now.” (Not now, though.)
“Well, at least you have a name,” said the guy who was mysterious and also a delicious Bulgarian demon.
“Yeah,” sniffed Whatserella. “That’s something.”
“I mean, and you have this interesting story to tell people about it.”
Whatserella sniffed again. She was openly crying or something, because she was a sensitive teenager, and really, the name Whatserella does suck big dong, and I should feel bad about doing this to her, but I don’t.
Go to hell, Whatserella. Go to hell and live there with your nameless Bulgarian demon boyfriend.
Crap! Teens are a superstitious and cowardly lot, or perhaps that’s criminals. In any case, delve deep into the teenagely mind of Whatserella as you read this entry from her journal (or facebook page, whatever teens are using nowadays).
Dear Journal (or Facebook page, whichever teens are using nowadays),
Today is another beautiful day, with blue skies and bright sunshine, which reminds me of the futility of life. I was listening to my favorite band (insert emo-, goth-, whatever-the-hell-teens-listen-to-nowadays- band name here), and their lyrics really struck me to the core of my soul. There’s so much meaning in that line they have, about the futility of life, it makes me feel really (insert the word emo-, goth-, etc.- here).
Also, I was reading my favorite book (insert tragic romance here), and I really related to the main characters, because I have no real personality of my own, as the heroine of a teen romance. Which leads me back to the futility of life! There is so much pain and suffering in the world, like when I got that hangnail and I had a zit on my forehead, I mean, how could God be so cruel, you know? I just wish I could help the orphans, as long as they don’t smell too bad. I hate smelly orphans. But who doesn’t, am I right?
A butterfly just flew past my bedroom window, which reminds me of the futility of life.
And don’t get me started on my new school (author’s note: It is a new school, right? I said that at some point, right?). The kids are so shallow and selfish, and they don’t even care about the orphans, smelly or otherwise, and they’ve never even volunteered in a soup kitchen, like I did that day my parents made me! They just don’t see the bigger picture, you know? They just don’t see the futility of their lives.
Speaking of which, I hear the laughter of children from the house next door. It reminds me of the futility of life.
I’ve been thinking, when I graduate from college, I’ll take a year off and do a backpack tour of Europe. That would be a sensitive thing to do. There’s orphans in Europe. There’s orphans everywhere! And no one notices them (unless they are smelly, because you can’t miss a smelly orphan, I mean, seriously, some of those kids reek). People just need to stop and take a look at the plight of the world. And recycle.
Because I can’t stand having the horrible, horrible snail with teeth (GAAAAAAAHHHHH) at the top of the page, here’s an excerpt from Chapter 4 of my soon-to-be bestselling novel, “This book isn’t like Twilight at all.”
So there was Whatserella, right, and she was totally in the hallway with her bag of books, ’cause teenagers nowadays, they carry bookbags, right? Anyway, she was, all, like, totally there, and her big-boned friend (or fat or whatever floats your boat, anyway, she’s not as pretty as Whatserella or as skinny, or whatever, and she doesn’t have some special quality that attracts all the mysterious boys or even the regular boys, like Whatserella does, that’s the point here) is all like thus:
“Hey,” said her friend, who I’m not even going to pretend like I’m going to bother to give a name as she’s only in this thing to move the plot along.
“Hey,” said Whatserella, because that is how teenagers say hi. (Hey, look! I mentioned that band I like!)
“I saw you walked home with Jonas or whatever it was the writer was calling him.”
“We didn’t actually walk … home,” said Whatserella, because the writer hasn’t decided where they walked and will go back to that chapter at some point.
Her big-boned friend elbowed her in the side and gave her a knowing wink, which is a totally natural way for teenage girls to act. “Soooooo?”
“So, what’s he like?”
“Well,” sighed Whatserella. “He’s totally mysterious, just like we all thought.”
“I know, right!”
Look, people, it just gets worse from here on out. You don’t want to be there for that, all the y’knows and likes and groovies and whatever. You just don’t.
My continuing attempts to exploit the supernatural teen romance genre for my own nefarious purposes (Harleqin Teen Romance Dept., call me!):
“Soooo, what’s it like being a Bulgarian demon?” said Whatsername, whom I will come up with a real name for later, I promise, Harlequin Teen Romance Dept., and it will be something romantic, yet that all girls can relate to, like Cinderella, only with more modernity (moderninity?), and less “ella,” ’cause that sounds suspiciously close to the chick those other novels that I am totally not … please don’t sue me!
“Well,” said Jonas-Claude Van Damn, which is possibly what I will call that mysterious guy what everyone says how mysterious he is, except us, because we know he’s a Bulgarian demon. He seemed to be thinking about it. Hard. “I’ve never really thought about it,” he finally said. “Especially not hard.”
“Oh,” said Whatserella. (Don’t sue me!) She might have been disappointed or she might not have been disappointed, or perhaps she was hungry.
“Um, I have all these magical powers.”
“Cool,” she said. Like ice cream, and you thought I’d given up on that simile several posts back, but ice cream is too delicious to give up on, people. Too. Delicious.
“Yeah, it’s cool.” He smiled his mysterious boy smile at her, the one that made the girls melt and ice cream also, etc., etc., but then his face suddenly grew deeply serious, like a city where it had been sunny and all of a sudden there were dark storm clouds and the weatherman didn’t even tell anyone. “Except…”
“Except?” And her voice squeaked a little, like a mouse or a door in need of oiling. (Let’s call this “The Simile Chapter.”)
“Sometimes I feel …” and he paused for effect, like an actor on a stage, pausing for effect. “Very lonely.”
“You don’t have to feel lonely,” Whatserella said.
“Anymore,” Whatserella quickly inserted. “I meant to say: ‘You don’t have to feel lonely anymore.'”
Whatserella sighed deeply, like one of those things that you use to stoke your campfire being compressed. “Because now you have me.”
And suddenly birds came out of the air and sang a happy song. Or other signs of romance. I’ll work on that.