For your fifteenth birthday, you get: One (1) bedazzled breathalyzer. Three (3) marine biology books, all of them for children 5+ and possibly bought at the Seaworld gift shop. One (1) copy of Computers For Dummies, courtesy of Strider (the douchenozzle). One (1) black cat who is, quite possibly, the cutest cat on the planet, you love him so much and you’ve only had him for 4 hours, goddamn. Five (5) shrinkwrapped DVDs that you would suspect Jake of scrounging up from the bottom of the bargain bin at Walmart if he lived anywhere near a Walmart. He apparently thinks shit like “Men in Black 2” and “Tomb Raider” are quality cinema when in fact they resemble nothing more than that gunk you scrape off the bottom of your shoe. But that’s okay. It’s, like, totally endearing. One (1) invitation to join BettyBother. Jane. Jane, no.

She's silhouetted in the bright morning light; a shining angel that sets off your headache almost immediately and proclaims Hark ye, maiden of the grain and grapes, today will be a Day Moste Shittey.

A histrionic history.

Tonight she keeps a close eye on him. His face is bright with an harsh kind of mania. "Go to sleep, Eren," she says, after a while. There are smears of sleepless black beneath his eyes. He shakes his head, a book in his hands.