"Elizabeth," I said, taking a pull off my pint, "You know--for someone who's spent almost their entire life trapped in a giant statue's head, you're pretty well-adjusted."
"Well, I try," she said, adjusting her dress and staring at her white wine. Her eyes widened. "Say, is that a Chinaman?"
I inhaled through clenched teeth. "Pretty well-adjusted aside from the racism, anyway."
"It's not my fault!"
"You say that, but I'm almost sure that when you went off to the bathroom earlier you ripped open a rent in space and time and walked through it into a dimension where my mother wasn't Irish, because she isn't, now."
"I didn't do that. I love Irish people! Some of my best friends are Irish. I eat potatoes all the time. Love 'em."
"You did. You're doing it again, now! Under the table, where you think I can't see. I can hear a barbershop re imagining of Nine Inch Nails' Closer coming from down there! You can't just whitewash things when you're upset about them. Keep doing that and your fears will eventually power a people's revolution run by a cartoonishly evil woman!"
"God, you're being so Irish about this. I just want to make things better."
"You know, your version of 'better' seems to involve an awful lot of turrets that shoot autonomously at people you don't like. It's not one of those, is it?"
There was an awkward moment of silence, only broken by the distant crooning of 'I wanna fuck you like an animal' echoing from the barbershop quartet.
"Well... No," she said, sheepishly.
"Whatever, Elizabeth. We're done here. If you want to carry on, then go to an alternate universe where I give a shit."
Next up... Lydia, from Skyrim
Log in using Facebook to share comments, games, status update and other activity easily with your Facebook feed.