If someone kicks you out of their house, should you consider it a nice thing if they pack for you?

We were instructed to write a character name at the top of a blank sheet of paper, which would be passed around the room in a circle. It's an exercise similar to creative writing material I've suffered through before, and knew that it would turn silly quite quickly. The professor knew this very well, too, and in fact chose the exercise just for that reason.

In honour of Chaos being in town, the name I wrote at the top of my paper was "William Andrews." Though we were supposed to read the descriptors students in front of us had written to avoid conflicting details, people stopped reading after the lists passed about five items.

The non-conflicting descriptions are:

short
fat
old
hairy
living in a one room apartment
has seven cats
is a vegetarian
has eleven fingers
has man breasts
wants to marry Orlando Bloom
has identity crisis frequently - likes to claim he's Napoleon.

Conflicting descriptions were:

has two sons
never married, but has many children
has a fat wife.

Though it's quite ridiculous, I only have to make one double-spaced page out of this character. I think it will be quite easy and that the only real difficulty will be in keeping it around one page.

"Who is the attractive female in the picture?" Chaos asks. I don't really have to look at the picture to know which he's pointing to, but I look anyway.

It made me feel good to look at for a while, but then I found that even on film I can see the same thing behind her eyes as I do when I'm with her.

I can see the pain. I can feel it through a photograph, despite the glowing smile and sunbeams pouring down on her. I can feel it corroding away.

"That is Alpha," I say, telling him her actual name as well. I don't know how to refer to her sometimes. Now and then she is the girl who's name she has, and other times she's that Alpha.

But when I said, "That is Alpha," what I was really thinking was, "That is the one who took my immortality and joy and made me love her for doing it."

That's not a fair thought, though. I gave everything away willingly.

Everything. I have nothing left to give, nothing left that she wants to take.

Well, there's ONE thing, but I'm asexual. So yeah.

I'm going to miss her when I finally die.

I wonder if she'll remember me when she's 6000 years old. Though, already, I know the earth has forgotten.