Conversations With Sebastian

"Eighty-three. Eighty-three eighty-three eighty-three is a B and so I got a B in Cheeee-miiiii-stryyyyyy!"
"And?"
"And so now I don't have to take the final!"
"Precisely how did you come to that conclusion?"
"...because I...got....a B?"
"And you could...have gotten.....an A?"
"..."
"Go on, do the math."
"...I could get an A."
"You could, indeed, get an A."
"Are you going to make me take the final."
"You realize that this is one of those conversations that doesn't actually need to happen?"
"...god DAMMIT, Sebastian."

Conversations With Sebastian

He catches me dancing about the house, Jane Eyre in hand.The comings and goings of Sebastian are the color of inspiration, the sound of ideas being born, and yet he's such a dour thing. "You're a bloody romantic," he states with hefty incredulity, as though that were a mystery that nobody had discovered before him.
"I am." It is an accusation worthy of conviction.
"Mad as a hatter."
"That, too."
"Mad as a hatter with work to do, which she is ignoring."
"I," I state, coming to rest, "have been reading nothing but James Joyce for days and much as I love Joyce, had Eveline met Edward Rochester she'd have left Ireland without a backwards glance and I deserve some candy, Sebastian, some high-fructose corn syrup for the soul. Besides, there's a movie out and I need to refamiliarize myself with the text if I'm to do a proper comparison."
He's not having a word of it. "Bloody romantic."
I glance at him. "I'm going to write you into a grand romance someday, you know."
"You will do nothing of the sort."
This deserves sitting down for, and I match action to situational propriety. "I will."
The problem with Sebastian is he doesn't want to be written into anything. The problem with Sebastian is that writing him into anything would be tantamount to forcing him out of my brain and into the world, never to return, and I've put so much subconscious effort into his creation that he has gathered enough reality to himself that he can argue with me. The problem with Sebastian is he has no intention of going out into the world. He wants to stay where he is.
"You won't. You'll never do it justice."
"I might."
"Who, then, would my lady-love be? Describe the woman. Jane Eyre solemn, Elizabeth Bennett fiery, Beatrice stubborn? Would she have a measure of Skidge's insanity, a drop of Sarah's insecurity, a handful of Deek's Zen strangeness, or would you actually be capable of thinking up something new?"
"There's no such thing as new." I study him.. "It would have to be epic."
"I deserve epic, do I." The tone is scathing.
"I think so."
"I don't." He stretches, and the movement serves to take the fight out of the moment. "Leave me be, creator-mine. I do more good where I am."
It is a long pause before I say what I'm thinking, what we're both thinking, what has to be said. "I could write a story about a figment who refuses to leave the mind of his creator, for fear of what reality may do to him."
His stance shows something of the weary melancholy that has nothing to do with me; my creation has taken to becoming, and the separation is as eerie as it is inevitable. "My dear, you are already doing that."
He knows writing will come of this. It's only a matter of time.

That's about as metaphysical as I'm willing to get today.

Conversations with Sebastian

"Hundred and three."
"Whoopee."
"Highest grade in the class."
"Wondrous."
"...TELL ME HOW AWESOME I AM, YOU INCREDIBLE PRICK."
"I will tell you how big a fish you are in this puddle of a college."
"Pshaw. Wasn't too long ago I wasn't a fish at all, just at thing flopping on the shore gasping for breath."
"Yes, very lyrical, we're all quite impressed. Except you've been rehearsing that."
"Saving it in case of critics, yes." It should be noted that I am unashamed to admit to commentary rehearsal. It's the only reason I get even half the zingers in that I want to.
"Speaking of which..."
"Shit, yes, the story. I'll work on it."
"Get to it."
"...You sound like Jasper Fforde now, Seb."
"I noticed."
"If Jasper Fforde was an asshole." Let it also be noted that Jasper Fforde is as far away from an asshole as it is possible to be.
"Meet an author, steal his accent and delivery. Derivative to the last, dear girl."
"I steal from the best."

Conversations with Sebastian

"They hate me," I said dazedly to Sebastian as we wandered our merry way out of English Composition.
"Not here to make friends," he replied absently. "Have you ever read anything by Kafka?"
"Just The Trial, and I didn't finish it. Did you hear them? Every time I talked, there were whispers."
"Nineteen-year-old monkeypeople, who cares. I thought you'd read Metamorphosis?"
"I lie a lot about things."
"Ah."
"I'm not sure why."
"'As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect.' What's not to like, really. Why would you lie about that?"
"Everyone's read Metamorphosis. I'm not done caring about the nineteen-year-old monkeypeople."
"Maybe they don't like you because you lie about things you've read in order to cover up the holes in your literaturical credibility."
"Yeah, but I never lied to them about it."
"In that case, they don't like you because of the things you've actually read, where are we going?"
"We're breaking into the horticultural lab."
He accepted this with remarkable aplomb, as one who will never have to face consequences will do. "Why not just read it?"
"I'm a bit busy at current." Was there an open window? There usually was.
"Not too busy to break into the horticultural lab, I can't help but notice-"
"It doesn't count as wasting time if it's time that would otherwise be spent waiting for the bus-"
"There are those Camus essays, too. And the Irishman is going to be giving you back those William Trevor short stories."
"Why the tone?" There, there was the open window.
"Tone, what tone." He was already inside, peering around, ignoring my levering shenanigans.
"The tone of aggrieved put-uponedness that is ordinarily adopted by my husband whenever he has to do the-ouf-dishes."
"The dishes are your agreed-upon job."
"That tone."
"I just would like to know why you're spending so much spare time playing video games and being randomly social."
"Am I getting my homework done? Am I doing it on time?"
"Are you doing the bare minimum? Is that the beginning of a repetition of old patterns? When did you get your critiquing done? When did you finish the essay? Was it ten minutes before class started?"
"Auuugh."
"I'm just saying. It's my job, to just say. What do you suppose this is."
"It is," I stared at it wisely, "a plant. You're also for advice, and someone to talk to."
"When you're being illicit."
"Or when I'm shelving," I replied agreeably. "Because of the monkeypeople."
"Becuase they don't like you."
"Becuase I'm a liar."
"Probably. Security."
"...Shit."