Normally, to spare you all the drama, I would skip over the next five hours of so. But I'm not very normal, that much is dangerously obvious.

But to 'sum it up,' I would first groan as Leslie picked out a dress, complete with ribbons, sequins, layers and all, she would shove me in a dressing room to try it on, I wouldn't come out for twenty minutes screaming something about cleavage measurment, she would PULL me out- some grip that girl has- spin me around a couple of times, and the cycle would then repeat.

Give or take a few exaggerated, "Ooh's and aah's," here or there.

It was a very painful process. Very. I believe I'm now traumatized for life, my dear.

And weirdly enough, here's the part that freaked me out, three different guys came up to me and handed me their numbers.

Of course, one was blushing like crazy, and one looked a decade older than me, but all of them seemed sane.

Do you know how hard it is to find sane people in New York City?

Just look at me.

Actually, on second thought, think of my parents.

My mother, who was my oldest best friend, sold herself every night to pay the rent to the place people dared call an apartment. My father, well him I barely saw once a month, and when I did, it was late in the evening or early in the morning, and he was always drunk.

When I say drunk, I mean drunk.

Great dad. Ja.

But during the whole 'mall-crap-experience,' I got a puppy.

Isn't that great?

I told myself that Marshmallow would die in the next week.

If he was lucky, of course.

Jerry, the poor mousie, was suffocated in on of my father's beer bottles. A very sad sight to witness at seven years of age.

He was a cute thing, though, Marshmallow was. And he certainly knew how to growl at strange people staring at my ass.

But then now, whenever I call my dog's name, I have a really, really, strong urge to digest sugar.

Have you seen me hyper? It's not a pretty sight, sweetie.

I'm practically bursting, though.

Guess.

Why.

I have a stalker.

Okay, not really.

But some guy- who I knew- was at the mall, and I SAW him.

…Stop looking at me like that, damn it. Fine. So it wasn't likely that he was stalking me. But still, I hate that bastard.

Remember that one? The asshole that told me I was crazy?

That one. What the hell was his name, again?

Ty Ross? Something like that.

Hey- me and people just don't mesh, okay?

Why do you think every sentence with 'Bella Davidson' also has 'bitch' included?

But our "conversation?" Went something a bit along the lines of this:

"Hello."

"Are you the reincarnation of Satan?" I couldn't help it.

"Are you mentally disabled?"

"If I tell you, will you take away my teddy bear?"

"You have a teddy bear?"

"Of course. His name is Mr. Giggles, and I've had him for forever and a day. Don't you know that no crazy person is complete without a stuffed animal?"

He'd nodded, and mocked backing away slowly.

I knew he was teasing the way he was smiling.

Admittedly, his face looked at lot better than the tiki mask I'd imagined in its place after I would behead him.

I already had plans to mount him up on a wall and use it to scare small children.

"You realize that you have this look on your face that tells me I'm not going to live to see another sunrise?"

"Am I that obviously violent?"

He took a slow breath. "Yeah."

Making a face, I replied, "you just ruined my plan for world domination, you loser."

The asshole then did this- this- dance, as if he'd won something.

That was when I'd muttered, "Weird-oh." And walked away.

Tyler Rosse?

Scary.

Sadly enough, I'd walked towards Leslie, who had seemed to have pulled half the store off its shelves.

That was probably why I'd run with my truffles into a dressing room, and locked myself in.

Fun.


A/N: Hullo my dears. Now who's ready to kill me? I should start running. But anyway, I'm sorry for the lateness and the shortness, but Bella won't talk.

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