So, What Pick-Up Line Actually Works On You?

Chapter Six - Good Morning Star Shine, The World Says Hello!

This is dedicated to hippiestar, for being one of the first few to read, comment and vote for this piece of drivel that I wrote. :D

Also, I added Culture Club's Karma Chameleon because I'm doing an art project on Boy George as I like his old hair and have the strongest urge to make a Boy George shaped tea pot. Expect photographs within the next week. :D

Chapter Six – Good Morning Star Shine, The World Says Hello!

I stared into the darkness as I thought, with Tyson sat slumped beside me. The cold breeze bit into me, and I now know not to sit outside a French hotel at four-thirty in the morning because it’s cold. Very, very cold, it was unbelievable how much my teeth were chattering.

How could one brilliant day be ruined so fast?

The French toast, the zoo, the concert, the gay bar, the finger painting, it was all wonderful. Then he blasted it to smithereens. And he called me fat, which is a lie. I have quite nice thighs, in my opinion.

“Is Rhys bipolar?” I asked Tyson, who was munching on some skittles he found in his pocket.

“Nope, I don’t think so. Stupid, maybe. But not bipolar.” Tyson retorted, spraying specks of saliva on my face. I wiped it off disgustedly, Tyson sniggering at my glare.

“I want to go lamp him one. Smack his pretty face in.” I murmured murderously.

“You just admitted that you think his face is pretty.”

“He called my lovely thighs wobbly. My thighs are quite nice.” I sniffed, defending my thighs.

“Yes, yes they are. Even if I don’t find them particularly attractive. I prefer men’s thighs.”

“Are you gay?” I floundered, mouth gaping.

“No, but Rhys does have quite shapely thighs. His are better than yours.” Tyson laughed, looking at me like I was an idiot.

Wait. So he denies being gay, but thinks that Rhys’s thighs are nicer than mine? And people wonder why I’m so messed up in the head. I blame Tyson for my supposed mental problems.

“Is Rhys gay?” I pondered out loud, resting my chin on my folded knees.

“He’s as straight as they get, I’m his best friend, and I know this kind of stuff.” Tyson snorted.

Right then, I felt something snap inside me, the fury bubble.

I pushed myself up off of the footpath, and stormed back into the hotel’s lobby. French people were staring at me, but what the heck; I was an angry teenage girl. They must know better than to stop me. I launched myself through the carpeted hallways until I was finally outside the room all three of us were sharing. I swung the door open, the fury practically rolling off from me.

The moment my eyes rested on Rhys, who was unenthusiastically dabbing paint onto his picture with his toes, I let rip. 

My legs seemed to get a mind of their own as I marched right up in front of him and lamped him. Rhys’s nose made a satisfying crunch as my fist collided with it. He released a high-pitched yelp, and he staggered backwards slightly.

Damn, that felt good.

I worry for myself sometimes.

Then I realised that I had just whacked Rhys in the nose. He’s got leukaemia, which means that he’ll bleed excessively. Oh shit. I’m so dumb, but it still felt so great.

Immediately, I straightened up, and approached Rhys who was bleeding profusely. The scarlet liquid pumping from his nose was starting to splatter on the cream carpet of the hotel room. I hope carpet cleaner gets blood out. Right, I have to get him sitting down.