I might as well to kill myself.
Now, allow me to explain how I arrived at this conclusion, as I do not readily consider myself as the suicidal type. I confess that life treats me fairly well, and I have no immediate reason beyond the one I shall shortly provide; but bear with me, and I promise you will find yourself in the warmest realms of empathy.
The crisis befell me on the nineteenth of October, the date of my birth. The day had started out just fine—in fact, I was in a good mood—when I awoke to find a blue paper bag resting on my table along with a note that read, Happy Birthday. At the thought of my roommate surreptitiously sneaking into my room late at night to leave the gift, I felt a certain warmth swelling within the crevices of my chest, as if warm milk had begun to leak from my heart. I arose from the bed, made my way to the desk, and peered into the bag, smiling in juvenile bliss:
It Ends With Us, Colleen Hoover
It Starts With Us, Colleen Hoover
As I say, life is no longer worth living. Turns out, humanity is just another failed mutation, an evolutionary cul-de-sac: hopeless and far beyond salvation. There is no such thing as love, least of all among those who proclaim themselves the wiser societies—the sanctimonious nincompoops who scarcely deserve to breathe the same air. These are the thoughts that assail my depressed, wrinkled mind when faced with such vile forms of literature.
But I’m a mere mortal. I cannot start a revolution to rid the world of this incomprehensible degree of hopelessness. This leaves me one final option: to conform to propriety. If I cannot divorce myself from this dejected landscape, I must become a part of it. Though it pains me to the depths of my heart and soul, I must continue this journey. To live is to conform and endure. Hence, this marks the beginning of my career as a romance novelist—and the birth of Colleen Hoover’s rival. I cannot end things here.
Scene 1
Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny proceeds to makes some inappropriate move verging on sexual misconduct upon first meeting Destinee. He is bare-chested; he affects casual bravado. He pulls a freshly toasted baguette from his tote bag (god knows why he has a baguette), tucks it into the crook of his elbow, and pumps his French biceps, eliciting a resounding crackle from the crust. Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny smirks. Destinee is smitten.
DESTINEE DESTINY-FOREVER
Cluchtes her tight chest, eyes sparkling.
Oh my god! You’re the man of my dreams!
JEAN-BAPTISTE–PIERRE-MARIE DE LA ROCHEFOUCALD-D’AUBIGNY
Reveals that he’s a Vampire-Surgeon-Police-Officer-Werewolf, wearing a self-satisfied smirk.
You’re the butter to my baguette—let’s spread the love. Je t’aime.
DESTINEE DESTINY-FOREVER
Yaaasssss!!
Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny finishes his baguette in awkward silence while Destinee watches. He chokes on a piece and desperately reaches for the milk. Beads of the milk streak down his French cheeks. Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny smirks with his milk-stained lips. The two proceed to kiss deeply, described in at least fifty pages.
Scene 2
Destinee and Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny are seen in the kitchen quarrelling over a triviality. In a fit of rage, Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny slips the crispiest baguette out of his bag and beats Destinee with it. With each strike, a loud crunch echoes though the kitchen. Destinee screams. Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny realizes the weight of his mistake.
DESTINEE DESTINY-FOREVER
Sobbing with delicious crumbs in her hair
Why are you doing this to me! I was sure I made the right choice by loving you!
JEAN-BAPTISTE–PIERRE-MARIE DE LA ROCHEFOUCALD-D’AUBIGNY
His countenance betrays regret.
Je suis désolé. You’re the butter to my baguette, and I hate that I was the crumb on your day. Let me make it right?
DESTINEE DESTINY-FOREVER
Feeling slightly better
I suppose…
Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny finishes his bruised baguette, cramming it into his mouth and leaving crumbs across the tile. They decide to have pity sex lasting another fifty pages. A fragrant breeze carries the sweet smell of wheat.
Scene 3
His Serene Highness Prince Octavius-Maximilian XXVXIIIXVXIIVXIXIIVXI, a childhood friend of Destinee, gallops in upon a high horse adorned with golden armour. He unfurls a scroll.
PRINCE OCTAVIUS-MAXIMILIAN XXVXIIIXVXIIVXIXIIVXI
Dearest companion of impeccable taste, might you be amenable—purely as two fully consenting grown-ups of sound mind—to nearby realm of cushions for a civilised session of, well, in short—nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more—shall we enthusiastically and consensually engage in an evening of rah-rah rumpy, slap-and-tickle, snog-and-sconce, hanky-panky, and full-bodied British bedistry, after which we’ll toast our victory with a nice cuppa tea and perhaps some scones?
DESTINEE DESTINY-FOREVER
Wearing an expression of confusion and utter shock
Octavius??? Is that you??
PRINCE OCTAVIUS-MAXIMILIAN XXVXIIIXVXIIVXIXIIVXI
Yea, my beloved! ’Tis I, Prince Octavius-Maximilian XXVXIIIXVXIIVXIXIIVXI, witness to thy origins—the very man of thy dreams—upon whom it is laid to challenge thy present lover in an honourable duel, that a new bond be forged between thee and me, as is the trite romances such as this.
Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny and Prince Octavius-Maximilian XXVXIIIXVXIIVXIXIIVXI engage in a duel: baguette versus golden foil. Steel meets crust. Sparks. Crumbs. A cry. A parry. Silence. After a lengthy struggle, Prince Octavius-Maximilian XXVXIIIXVXIIVXIXIIVXI emerges victorious. Destinee is carried away on horse as Jean-Baptiste–Pierre-Marie de la Rochefoucauld-d’Aubigny dies a glorious death.
Cue My Ladye Nevells Booke, IWB 162: XV. The Galliarde to the Same
Last modified on 2025-10-29