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."
"Nah."
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?
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