Aftermaths

So the asshole artist is dead, and she is dead too. It's all his fault.

His friend has apparently written a book on them. Cristina emailed me about that-- she told me she'd read the story, the story of Palpasa and the asshole artist, and that Palpasa was actually, really, very much dead. Her parents were still hoping to find her -- maybe wandering around in the forests-- after all this time.

We went to college together. I had emailed her before the freshman fall and she had not replied. I assumed then it was our differences-- I was a nepali Nepali, and she was a notverynepali American. She was out in Latin America, Guatemala I think, on some service trip, without computers. Which was why she never received my emails on time. By the end, she was a lot more Nepali than I ever was.

You know me. You have read the story. I am an unnamed character in the story. I am the friend who pulls Palpasa away from the asshole artist the first time they met. I don't claim I knew where this was going and how it would end, but I never liked the likes of him.