Original. One.

In the corner. By the atrocious plant. That's me. The short, easily forgettable one. The one with the oversized cardigan and the messy hair-do. Or, as my best friend Amy calls it, a hair-don't. I don't know why I put up with her. Maybe it's because she won't let me divorce her. Friends.

I don't know why I feel the need to describe myself. I'm clearly the only one in the corner next to the atrocious plant. But I feel the need to clue you into me. The shaking, stuttering, hiccupping mess who is trying very hard not to cry and also trying very hard to not look entirely pathetic. I'm succeeding in the former, if you were wondering. But you probably aren't. Actually, right about… now… you're probably wondering, "What in the heck am I doing?" or "Why did I pick up this book?" or my favorite, "Is this girl sane?"

Not certifiably, no. Being certified requires time committed to something. And I'm committed to myself. My family. My dog. And my writing. So now you're wondering, "What does she write?" Or maybe you're not. But if you are, this is what I'm writing. This, right here. This little schmuck of a story that other authors (and novels) would turn their noses (or pages) up at and shun. Like the geek in high school. And that's because this isn't a book written in the science of how to write books. I didn't attend college to learn how to write. My second grade teacher told us all to write a short story and I ended up writing a piece about people stranded on a desert island that was twenty-five hand-written pages long.

Yes. I was born this crazy.

The novels and authors also dislike this story, novella, random collection of words, because it's not a normal story. There is no good guy who triumphs in the end. No femme fatale. No Bond. No flashy sports car. There is no stubborn girl whose heart is melted by the bad boy. Nor does the aforementioned girl turn the aforementioned bad boy into someone you take home to meet your mother. Because I don't have the time and patience to change someone's mind. I'm also too cowardly. And too respectful.

This is a story about me. The girl who decided when she was sixteen, that she would never date, never marry, and never have kids because it was far too complicated. Because it wasn't worth it. Because she's never been a fan of pain.

This is the story of me. The anti-personal-relationship-matchmaker-extraordinaire. And it's about Arthur. The strict-no-nonsense-not-a-hair-out-of-place-stick-in-the-mud who came included with a rather-private-and-rarely-seen-sense-of-humor-and-love-for-life.

It's about us. Me, the stubborn girl and Arthur, the guy who learned to put up with me. Us.

And there's nothing quite like us.

A/N: My friend calls this a "part biographical, part wishful thinking short story on crack." What do you think? I agree with the short part… and maybe the crack part.

So, review?