So I finally got off my ass, or rather stayed on it long enough to write this long belated third chapter. Um, lol. Lol. Fuckdamnit, lol.

Dedication goes to everyone who reviewed, who obviously still care that this dead fic updated, for I am sick and reading your reviews opened up this new light in my brain somewhere, enabling my eyeballs not to water when opened for three seconds straight.

Worth a thousand (swear) words

I spent at least half and hour plastering layer upon layer of makeup onto my face. Too bad I couldn't put any on my eyes to hide the pronounced blood vessels.

I was beginning to think I had been the woman of the relationship all along. The man dumped the woman, not the other way around, she wouldn't dare—not a few generations ago, at least. The man definitely wouldn't spent his day crying over the loss of his wife, and definitely wouldn't apply makeup in an attempt to cover up his tear tracks…they wouldn't go out with it and let anyone know, anyway.

My manager was hopelessly honking at the general direction of my suite. When I said half an hour…I meant half an hour after the arranged time. I think I'll just pretend I can't hear him…the seventh floor is pretty high, what with those low ceilings…or I'll pretend he's gotten the wrong suite, because he obviously does not know exactly where I live by now.

A few slow minutes later, I made my way to the elevator. I stood there for some stupid moments before going to actually press the down button on the wall. My head raced with intellect as I stared at myself in the elevator mirror after it finally came about another half hour later—I was in a quasi get up of the badass, manly character I played in that movie where I pretended to break Yugi Yami's face…I hope he's at the show to take the blunt of my misery. Especially if he starts laughing at how I fail to represent my own role, because I look more like Mai's slutty French maid character in a suit and looking fat than a hot evil villain.

Apparently, during the time in which I was admiring my repulsiveness, my manager had for some reason gotten out of his car to wait at the single operational elevator door so that he could glare at me upon my arrival. As it was, the first thing I saw when the exit slid open was his scrunched up expression—as if he knew exactly what had happened, as if he was going to scold me for getting dumped and utterly humiliated.

So I stood there, not getting out, suddenly wanting to cry all over again. My manager continued glaring at me until the elevator door started closing.

I was definitely the girl of every relationship.


I was either going to sleep, or end up bawling in my manager's uninviting arms.

The darkness of the night was pretty boring, which in turn was calming (besides the occasional glare of the streetlamp). It was a nice atmosphere for sleep, but also a good one for reminiscence about stupid, upsetting things like your previous involvement in a gay relationship and how it sucked, besides the sex—but oh, that's gone now right? Haha. God fuck it all!

Every thought of Ryou made me want to cry or tear off the leather of the car's seats because I wasn't in immediate reach of Yami Yugi's face. I could not do either, though, so when the first drop made its way down my cheeks, my manager turned to me and said, "I will not pay for ruined makeup."

Cruel bastard.


I arrived at the party, and was somewhat glad to find that Yamgi was not there; I may not have been able to resist ruining his ugly face further. Not that it wouldn't feel incredibly amazing to kill him, just that my career would die completely in result. But if I didn't get caught…

Nothing really happened. I wanted to get drunk off my ass before going on stage, but all I got was a tiny glass of wine and a tight-ass dinner with all the ladies and gentlemen sluts of the film industry or the singing industry forced and wrongly forced into the film industry. I scribbled a small speech on my napkin (when no one was looking, because who know what that'd do to my reputation), rehearsed it silently, and promptly forgot all the fancy words I'd written when ushered under the glaring spotlight. In fact, to my horror, I'd forgotten the whole thing.

This is where adlibbing comes handy, like when I was spouting all that bullshit to Ryou…

I cleared my throat.

Fuck you, mom and dad, for giving birth to me. "I just want to say, thank you so much to my mom and dad…"


I managed to maintain a forcedly positive attitude until I got to my apartment. My manager took my shiny trophy away from me the moment we left the building—couldn't he have waited until we were in the car?—and now, with two loves lost, I collapsed on my naked bed and began the familiar process of upsetting myself again with the power of senseless thoughts.

Vaguely, I noticed an envelope on the bedside table. The fine print on it was typed; typical of Ryou. Maybe it was a letter from him—telling me how much I've sucked throughout our sucky relationship and that I should practice sucking my own dick when I'm placed in a sucky coffin because that's what I'll be doing to Satan, or…something. It's a letter from Ryou; what can I expect? I'll read it when I'm feeling better…so I can put myself down again…smart idea.

With much effort, I manage to pull myself up high enough to crawl over to the bedside table without creating too much friction on my bulging stomach. I reluctantly reached for the cursed envelope…

…And it's so much more cursed that I first thought because it was the fucking rent bill.



Day three after the horrifying incident. Ryou, Ryou, where's your number. I had it on my cell phone, but now it's gone along with my mind. Where's your email address, your home address, I need to spam you with letters of my desperation and fake love. Write back to me, Ryou, preferably with a cheque. I miss you, call back, I have your nude photos and I'll put them on the internet if you don't—no, please, I'll never, what do you take me for? I love you I love you I fucked you goddamnit, love me and call me back pretty please?

By the way, I paid my rent bill. So I'm not asking for money or anything, just, I want our amazing long-winded magical fling back.

Sincerely, Bakura.

"Sir, I'm afraid we can't send this." The man behind the counter of the postage store said. "This seems to contain...suspicious content."

I've been sending letters for three days straight, every ten minutes. I figured that writing said letters right in front of the cashier would be easier than going home and coming back out over and over again.

"Suspicious content?" I growled. Ohh, the poor guy's gulping. Take that, Ryou.

"Well first, there's false identity—" he pointed a grimy finger to my signed name at the very bottom of the lined paper—"secondly, this contains worrisome material. Sounds a bit...stalkerish?"

"And who are you to judge who I think I am and what I can or cannot write?" I snarled, getting closer and closer to his face. "Does it say anywhere I cannot send funny love letters to my bestest friend ever? I'm sure she misses me—that's supposed to explain the obsessive behaviour, by the way." I forcedly crumbled the paper into a cheap, small envelope, then crushed it to make it look relatively presentable. "Now get sending, mailboy."

Mailboy stared at me dumbly. Reminds me of Yamiyami and how I haven't punched his face in a while. Man, the good times, the good times.

Mailboy number two—some brown-black kid with platinum hair twice the size of mine before I cut it, which I found were very much to my tastes—walks out in all his unimportant glory, staring at the slightly puffy letter. The edges of the line paper had stuck itself out into the open, and conveniently it was where my signature was—great, another person to reprimand me for being delusional. Screw you, I know I am, don't judge. Must distract him somehow...

"Yo, mailboy, send my letter will you? Thanks." I push the envelope towards the bewildered kid, and after a second thought reluctantly slap some money onto the counter to pay for a stamp and the man power it takes to stick one on.

I head home for the day, momentarily satisfied. I can feel everyone's eyes watching the swish of my crappy old coat and my stylish 50's hat, following the sway of my arms and blackened attractive elbows as I walked out of glass doors that parted for me automatically. Yes, this is what it's supposed to be. Everyone staring and praising and loving me—hold on, my jacket just got caught in the door—see, Ryou, I'm amazing. I'm fucking amazing. Come get some, you undeserving bitch.

Little did I know that tomorrow, more than one person would come get some, and it would not be of my ass of eternal love. Little did I know that today would be my last a free man.


I just realized that I lied. Marik didn't get in here yet...he will in the next chapter, I promise, for real this time because I've actually written it in.

Review subject: has my writing gone to hell or is it still tolerable?