1. I am a fan of my friends.
2. I meant to write a fanfiction about a band at first, but I wrote a story about myself instead and called it a fanfiction.
Clickity, clickity, clickity, click click click. That's the sound of a typo being corrected. Julia's room was being bombarded with that sound. Julia was having a bad typing day.
A bad typing day is like a bad hair day. You don't know when you will have them, and you don't know that you are having one until BOOM; you look in the mirror and your cowlick has pushed all of your hair to one side of your head. Or in the case of bad typing days, you type 'cilkc' instead of 'click' four times before you get it corrected and can't seem to get any word typed correctly on the first go.
So Julia was having one of these days. Her friends complained that she typed too slowly on instant messenger and also complained that the messages were too mangled to read when she tried to obey their internet shouts of, "TYPE FASTER, DAMMIT, I HAVE OTHER THINGS TO DO!"
Julia, too, was growing angry at her bad typing day. She was angrier than her friends. Actually, her friends were only impatient, not angry. They angriest of all, though, were her walls. You see, walls actually have very sensitive ears. That phrase about 'If only walls could hear' is pretty incorrect because walls actually can hear. They hear a lot better than humans do.
Julia's walls didn't mind the 'clickity, clickity, clickity' of normal typing, but they couldn't take the constant pause and then pounding of the backspace button that all of these typos were causing. Julia's walls grew so angry, that opened their giant wall-mouths and shouted, "TYPE MORE CAREFULLY OR DON'T TYPE AT ALL. WE HAVE SENSITIVE EARS AND WE DON'T WANT TO GO DEAF."
Julia stared at her walls blankly.
The walls closed their mouths.
Julia slowly turned off her computer.
The walls were still.
Julia read a book instead of typing.
Cindy was sitting in her computer chair in her bedroom. She was actually sitting inside the chair. With the stuffing.
She was listening to music and singing at the top of her lungs and trying not to get polyester fluff in her throat when there was a horrible banging on her door. Not sex-banging; sound-banging.
Cindy crawled out of her chair and cautiously opened the door a little bit. Just a crack. Not like cocaine; like a slight opening. There was no person standing there, however, there was a giant bottle of apple-scented lotion.
Cindy was sort of scared, but mostly excited; she loved apple-scented lotion.
The lotion befriended Cindy and they went out for brunch every Sunday for three years.
After three years, the giant bottle of lotion ran out and died. Cindy was very sad, but only for a small while.