There was once this girl that loved to bake.
And like any other girl that loved to bake, she made pretzels that looked like half-open bananas, donuts that were half ring, half full, if that makes any sense.
But most of all, she enjoyed making scones. Dinky ones, plump ones, oddly-shaped ones, burnt ones-
"Hey, you're making me look bad."
"It's not my problem that you have a weird sense."
"You can omit stuff, you know. You're the narrator."
After hearing that, she stormed off, slamming the kitchen door after her.
"I'll make something even you'll enjoy."
"Like I care what you make. I'm just telling the story."
Time passed, two days to be precise, and she wounded up curled on the sofa, under a blanket, TV set to white fuzz as she forgot to pay the cable.
I should feel guilty for how I told her story, yet I'm not. Does that make me, the narrator, a bad guy?