Disclaimer: I don't own Pepsi. (Sometimes I wish I do.)

She discovers it in the garbage. That's where all the cans go, she realises later. They call it trash.

They call it rubbish.

She doesn't think so. This can, it's just like her. She doesn't think she can ever, ever part with it.

And just to emphasise the point, and to do something random (she likes random things, they're just like her), she adds another 'ever' to that sentence. Although it isn't a sentence anymore. It's been separated by that full stop.

Pesky full stops (in America they call it periods. But she thinks that's pretty random. Because they can mean a whole lot of things. You know, like that thing. But now that she realises it's pretty random, she decides she likes it just a bit.)

Fine. She hates full stops and loves periods.

… Only not, you know, that kind.

Back to the can. It's silver but also slightly blue. She tries to chip the slightly-blue paint off but she has never really met with success. It stays there, glaring at her defiantly.

Oh no. Now she's associating them with eyes. She's screwed up, but this is taking things a bit too far.

But she thinks she likes that about herself. She's always been one to take things a bit too far. The others walked with her up till the very edge of the mountain but she was always the one who, immersed in her surroundings, took that last step.

That crucial step.

That fatal step.

(So, Miss Heathers, you were caught (doing something random), weren't you?

The others were there too!

Yes, but did they (do something you hate them for not doing)?

No, but-

Then there's no argument. This was entirely, completely your fault and you know it.

I don't! Stop twisting my words into something-

DON'T YOU DARE BE INSOLENT TO A TEACHER!)

Maybe she doesn't really like it. But it was there and she couldn't do anything about it but be happy.

They reminded her, they did. Again and again, the message was rubbed into her- wherever. She isn't good at this phrase thing.

It's a bit dented, slightly random and mad. There are words on it but most of them have been erased. Most of the information that was actually valuable to society is gone.

(A bit like her, don't you think?)

She can make out some letters, though. There's a big P there, then an E. She can't see any others. Maybe it spells out 'pesky'.

She likes this pesky, dented, silver-but-slightly-blue can.

She thinks maybe they are a bit like eyes (a bit like his).

He was the best thing that happened to her, really. He wasn't the smartest or most athletic (not that many of that type came to her) but he understood.

He didn't understand everything but he understood that he couldn't.

He rejected her, though, even though she wasn't surprised. The first few times, it hurt, but she's grown to be pretty accustomed to being her.

He rejected her, like people rejected the can.

She looks at the can again, its sliver part reflecting the yellowish orange of the lamp above. Perhaps it is too much like her for her to handle.

She throws it in the bin without a second glance (although she does think about it from time to time) and smiles a fake, porcelain smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

Because she knows if she doesn't do that, she'll be crying.