(They won't be all the same. But there will be reoccurring projects. This is the first one. Consider these NaPoWriMo I and II. Even though they're stories. Remember: can't stop a playa, bitches.)
THE MOST INTERESTING THINGS ALWAYS HAPPEN IN RACHEL AND MIKE'S PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP
Rachel and Mike sat in the Urgent Care. Sabertooth tigers had invaded Mike's upper left gut. Left is good: not appendicitis. "But what about atypical appendicitis?" said the internet. So Rachel drove Mike to the University. "Infirmary way," said Mike. "One time, my mom," said Rachel, "thought she had a heart attack, but it was just she'd never drank root beer before." Inside of Urgent Care, a television played gameshows about fear, including snakes. Mike wore a blue parka. Rachel worked on an essay about Jesus, fellatio, and Kylie Minogue. A girl screamed. She put a binder over her face. "I have a phobia about snakes," she said believably. The TV! Mike didn't know her but thought she was cute in a "Rule 1: Don't Sleep With Girls Who Look Like Your Students" kind of way, or "Ugg boots." "There are still a lot of snakes," said Rachel helpfully. "Don't look." Mike didn't either. It was a kind of flirting. "You have anxiety of the stomach," said Urgent Care. "Oh," said Mike. "What can I eat?" "Anything you want," said Urgent Care philosophically. Then Urgent Care said "I wouldn't eat a pizza." Mike and Rachel left. "You have nervous fuck-up disease," said Urgent Care, who then copy and pasted the medical history of the entire University community onto a SETI@Home message board.
Rachel and Mike stood in line at CVS. Rachel was buying condoms and a Whiffle Bat. "Stephen Malkmus is playing at Mass Mocha," said Rachel. "Really?" said Mike. "He's playing at a coffeeshop?" He was confused because Stephen Malkmus was famous and had even appeared recently on FOX News making bad jokes about security at art museums. "Mass MOCA," said Rachel cleverly. "It does sound like a coffeeshop," said the teller girl. "Excuse me," said the tired Russian. "Can I leave my bag here?" It was a large piece of brown luggage with wheels. "No!" said the teller girl happily. "You can shop with it. I don't care." "Oh. Are you sure?" said the tired Russian. "Sure!" said the teller girl. "Wow," said the tired Russian tiredly. He began to wheel his bag into the aisles. "Um," said Mike. In 10th grade, he'd been the only one who understood how much the Brazilian exchange student hated everyone. "You can leave your bag there," said Mike. "He doesn't have to!" said the teller girl. "He's just tired," said Mike. "Oh!" said the teller girl. "Then you can leave it there. It's not hurting anyone." The tired Russian smiled and said "Yes yes yes. I appreciate this." Outside, Rachel said "Kaboom!" "What?" "We're lucky to be alive!" "What?" "What if he had a bomb." "Oh. You're just saying that because you're Jewish," said Mike helpfully. Rachel's face surged. "Your people," said Mike. "They get bombed a lot." "That's true," said Rachel, with a normal face now, but a voice that was like a very small paper crane made out of tinfoil instead.