Urge…to…upate…rising. Okay, so I haven't updated in like a bazillion years but suddenly, like a heavenly light from on high, inspiration struck. So here I am. Updating.

Awesome.

Don't own. Phantom. Closet. Chocolate sauce. Whipped cream.

I hoped I died. Every little piece of me wanted to curl up into a ball and die.

I was even starting to throw the plot utterly off track. He'd disappeared, as Erik always did, because he was smooth like that, and I'd had to be taken to bed. They'd asked me if I drank too much.

Politely, and dizzily, I said I'd never drank a drop of alcohol in my life.

I was just dying of misery, no big deal.

MegMichele (who seemed to be playing paramedic a lot lately) was dragging me back to the room by the arm, forcefully, snapping and snarling the whole way. That stupid ring was in her pocket, now, it pulsated with a heat I could feel through her outfit. It made me terrified.

I hated commitment. A ton.

"Masquerade," I went on, drunk though sober, slurring badly, "Man am I a fucking idiot. Someone please, oh, have mercy, please, just kill me…"

What? Singing to the tune of masquerade now, eh? Perhaps this place had sucked me in deeper than I thought.

I felt funny, too, like something was off. Or maybe it was just my painful, esophagus-eroding nausea. I felt like an anorexic, I swear.

"Masquerade—suicide is not an option. Homicide sounds much, much, much less painful…"

"Kat. Shut—" WHOA! Thanks Meg! Right into the bed I was flung, roughly pushed down, too, "—UP!"

I blinked my irritatingly chocolate eyes, my nose scrunching. There were about three different Megs, though they all looked alarmingly alike. Did Meg have identical twin sisters? I couldn't rightly distinguish.

I happened to think that I was pathetic. Looking back on it now, my inebriated slurring was a wild hilarity. The saddest part was that I was not, in fact, intoxicated at all. I was a girl with a badly broken heart…and expensive jewelry that ailed me.

Nice going. What next, Cartier diamonds are going to give me cancer?

In a hasty, annoyed voice, I told Meg to kindly shift, please, before I knocked her head off. The ring was ever present, though I could not see it.

So, my motives when I was first stuck here were my own version of pure. Where had the good intention for the down-and-out disfigured guy gone? Where was my deep devotion?

It might just be in the glob of bile threatening its' way past my lips that refuses to dislodge from my throat.

Throw-up bucket, ho!

Short, but just me getting back 'into the swing of things'. Reviews will be accepted with love, warmth and cookies. Will I ever stop puking? Will Meg ever care? Why does life suck?

No. Meg's cold-hearted. It just does.