This story is fictional. Any resemblance to real life may be a coincidence. Except, in this case, it isn't.

My boss caught me reading FictionPress. He did. And he thought I was reading his emails. But that's not the worst.

The problematic bit of the deal is I thought I wouldn't get caught. I wasn't planning on it, either. You see, it was not my first time.

Yes, my name's Luisa and I'm addicted to teenage fiction. Teenage fiction, for crying out loud! At least my boss wasn't angry. In fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even remember the incident. I'm just lucky to have an insane wretch for a boss.

Actually, I'm lucky to even have a boss. It is indeed beyond me being a lousy employee; no, no, you should hear my boss going on about me, he is such an ass kisser. The truth is, this job came looking for me, not I for it. I always knew it would. That just shows my dad; he was always teasing me about my job hunting policy, because he knew that, in fact, since I might just be the laziest person on Earth, I would rather just stay home and read stupid stories online.

Okay, so maybe I did a few things. But I'll elaborate on that later. Now let's just go back to that fateful day.

It was just an ordinary day. The heroine's skirt had flown to her neck in the subway and there was absolutely nothing to do at work. The walls were too tired of being stared at. I couldn't help it; I'd done it before. An absolutely innocent "Just in" peek. But I had to read all the summaries, I always do that. One of them happened to be really interesting and… well, you all know what happens next.

At that moment, I could see right through all the souls of all drunkards, and also a friend of mine's really weird addiction of squeezing out ingrown hair. A friend of mine's, yes, that's right. Anyways… I wasn't really thinking then, I was so excited. FictionPress at work just had to be something good.

Then he walked in. My boss; and his girlfriend followed. She's around all the time, I like her. They're both old enough to be my parents, that is, unless they were rebellious teens. My boss is not rebellious. He's just gross sometimes, but all men are. I just don't know how she puts up with him. Well, I'm about half their age but they treat me like a grown woman. I love that. I get to be really honest all the time. The reason why I talk to myself is that I love saying what's on my mind all the time. Except when I hesitate, blame it on the stupid planetary complexion at the time of my birth. Hesitation doesn't happen when I'm about to say really stupid things that make me want to hit myself. In the back of my mind, I know it'll be stupid and I know I'll hate myself for it later, but I still say them. I have an attitude problem. My brain hates me.

Back to when they entered the room; I don't even remember what followed. All I know, for I have racked my memory one too many times for these recollections, is this. There was awkwardness. The internet connection was immediately cut. I never finished reading that story.

I guess it would be pretty pointless for me to look for it now. Like I said, my memory fails to satisfactorily support the recollections. Besides, there're plenty of sources to feed my addiction. The sad part is, I don't think I'll ever grow tired of FictionPress. I'm going to end up as a cat-loving spinster who still flushes upon reading some of the most exciting scenes and daydreams about each story she adds to her Alert lists. Yes, my last days will be spent as yet another cliché. What did you expect?

It's pathetic, I've already realized it. I've seen it all. I'll be seen searching for familiar faces in the subway forever more. Familiar faces I once read about. Familiar faces which were described in a moment, only to be forgotten a little while later. And it'll be an endless search. Because real life is nothing like FictionPress. Maybe it is, sometimes. Maybe things sound different when they're put down to words. Maybe life isn't what it seems to us, the ones living it. Life's just a trick. It wants to see us fucked up our necks with all these annoyances. Only to be rid of us immediately after the rush of feelings is over. Like men. They tend to do it to girls, but I know why that is. Because we spend too much fucking time on FictionPress.

Nonetheless, I still wait for him. Him, the one. Who? He, who sends butterflies up my neck. Or was it down my throat? I've never felt it before.

It's not like I'm a virgin. Although once doesn't really count, does it? I haven't been touched by a man since October. This is May. I am bordering on psycho-nymphomaniac. Okay. Too much information. I'm blurting out my deepest impressions. I can't not say it. I love being honest, remember? If anything exciting happens to come up, I'll get back to you. You just wait.