Author's Note: Daily events. I don't know whether or not I'm going to write all of these from Skeeter's hand. It may be a scattered thing. Each chapter will vary in length, but I don't think any one will be particularly long. This one will be far shorter than the rest.

This story supports relationship between one "Skeeter" Phelan and a Miss Hillary Walters. Both girls are young and in college. This will be a bit AU, because I don't think I'm going to have them going to Ole Miss. It's just my thoughts on their relationship. I'll try my best to keep all characters the same as in the film (and or book). If you don't like it, scat cat. We don't need your negativity here.

When I was younger, my mother always told me that I was like a masterpiece; every new adventure was another lick of paint to be added to the rough canvas. Throughout your life you have certain things that happen, nights you regret, months, years, time wasted that you wish you could take back. All the mistakes you make are a reflection on who you are. You need to hide the brushstrokes. Paint a masterpiece, but blend it together because nobody likes to see how fucked up it is underneath it all.

This isn't a story about how love is bad, or about how girls are evil. It's something that happened to me, my life with her. Not with her, with her, just the time I spent being in her presence. The things I felt, the shit that pissed me off, the jokes that made me laugh.

Nobodies life is all thrills. Most days, as you probably know, are spent inside. And that was how it was throughout high school. Nothing too farfetched ever happened. The people were laid back and fine, but no significant friendships were made. I passed easy enough and my parents always congratulated be on my outstanding marks. Mostly, I devoted my time to reading. I made a game out of finding ways to entertain myself, but nothing really worked. I dabbled in art and rode bicycles. But no matter how hard I tried, there always seemed to be something missing.

In college I stopped trying to define happiness because I finally knew what it was. And it wasn't the jolt of writing (which is what I went to college to become, a writer) and it wasn't drugs (which all my friends were usually wasted on). It was one girl and one girl only.

She changed my world for the better, well, I suppose she did. I still don't even know what we are. The definition of our relationship is lost somewhere out there. She probably wouldn't want me to put a label on it. If I did, it probably wouldn't satisfy her. Confused lovers? Misguided girls?

I'll let you choose, Hillary. You usually take control of everything, anyway.