A girl with costume dreadlocks, several piercings in her ears (and one on her lower lip), tattoos on her arms and shoulders, a bare midriff and a pair of very filthy jeans is framed in the doorway when our hero opens it. After he gives her the disapproving once-over, he speaks:
- Whoever you have come to see doesn’t live here any more.
- Hah hah. Still the same old Baz, putting up this front, pretending to be all caustic and inhospitable, just to mask your delight at seeing me.
- Sorry. Do I know you?
- Do you know me? Sheesh. A girl just goes to Stockholm to pursue a music career for a few years and she is totally forgotten? I thought we were friends, Baz.
- The only person I know who went to Sweden to pursue a music career is what the hell no it can’t be: Screaming Lizzie?!
- No way. You were just a tiny little kid last time I saw you.
- Oh, spare me. I have been hearing nothing else since I came back. I know, I know. How time flies and they grow up so fast and blah blah blah. Can I come in? Do you have a beer in your fridge?
- But I saw you just like the other day and you were three years old.
- …and it seems like it was just yesterday, doesn’t it? Blah blah, I said, I’ve heard it all before and it is boring. I’m all grown up now, Baz. Get over it.
- You’re not a kid anymore?
- Nope. Not any more. Can I get a Guinness? Don’t worry. I’ll help myself.
- Wait. What are those— those things there? Those things you’re carrying.
- These? They are called my boobs… They have been stared at a lot, but this is the first time it is happening in horror.
- Take them off this minute and return them to wherever you found them. I won’t stand for this!
Damn, homie, will you lighten up? I have boobs. I drink beer. I fucking cuss shit out like a crazy bitch, too, you know? Accept it and get me that Guinness, already. I just came back to say hi to my old buddy Baz, and to check in on my fans at his blog. Does that have to be such a big deal?
- Speaking of your fans, I think they will have a problem accepting you as being a punk rocker chick.
- Why would they? And why is your fridge empty?
- Because you are not cute any more. And that fridge is teeming with my leftovers and my cheese and my safis and stuff.
- What I mean is, there is no beer in it. And as for me being cute, there’s a whole biker gang in Stockholm that would disagree with you very vehemently on that…
- A biker gang?
- Yeah. I got it on with their leader, Sven, right. He was an animal! Oh my Gosh! He was sooo…
- SHUT UP! Stop that! Stop it. Who are you! That is not a question! Stop talking about sex and looking for beer and freaking me out. I demand that you return immediately to the state of extreme prepubescence from which you came!
- Is this waragi?
- It’s paraffin.
(wails, as blog post ends abruptly)