My name is Anastasia Steele. Most people just call me Ana. I also have a middle name- Rose- which I don't usually acknowledge. My mother was drunk when she named me- and extremely so. I'm not sure why I'm even mentioning this now. Maybe it will come in handy later on.

I'm in my last year of university as a Literature student. I'm not a very hard-working person. I don't enjoy projects or incessant cramming, and I happen to like reading books and being just a little pretentious. It's fun. It really is, especially when people think you really have fallen in love with a poet's rhyme scheme so madly. Idiots…

At the moment, I'm stuck in some nonsensical task my friend and house mate cum-landlady chickened out of because she was sick. Her name is Katharine. You don't know this, but I'm standing in front of a mirror at the moment. Why am I introducing myself and my hot best friend now? I don't know. I just felt like it, I suppose. Anyway, Kate's a sensible child most of the time and very worldly. She understands people very easily, and she's harmless. Also, her illness is a lie. She does that every time she gets it on with a boy and gets hot and bothered and then gets cock blocked.

I'm sorry there isn't a more polite word for such a nasty feeling. She also has fabulously civilised hair. It's very nice and straight, even when she's been having hot, loud sex all night. I can hear her sometimes.

It's not that my hair isn't beautiful either. Oh, no. On the contrary, I think I have gorgeous hair. It's got a proper mahogany colour, as if I dyed it very carefully, and it is naturally slightly wavy and very well-mannered. This trait, unfortunately, is becoming my undoing now.

You see, invisible interlocutor of mine, this task that I have somehow gotten pulled into involves an interview with a school paper or magazine or something that my 'sick' friend started three years ago. Our university, although prestigious, is a shithole when it comes to savvy things like campus publications. Katharine, or Kate as she likes to be called, thought she should do a favour to the school and get one started. Now that we were about to graduate and pack off, she thought of ending her tenure as founder and editor with a bit of a limp bang.

Hah. Do you get it? Limp bang. I am such a laugh.

She arranged this interview, in any case, with a pompous young man who has been pouring money into the university's research funds for no reason and I thought it would be a great joke if I turned up at his office like an oblivious Mary Sue, unkempt and unaware of what cosmetics or even grooming means. I would, more importantly, also embarrass Kate this way. Apparently, she had taken six months to get this one and only day. Just imagine that. This exclusive interview turned into a farce by the sleek blonde lady replacing herself with a stupid, ugly wallflower. That should serve you right, I remark to myself, for making such a big deal out of it. The six-month excuse was definitely a lie. If he had agreed to a menial school publication interview, he must be very free, surely. Oh well…

I haven't washed my hair for two weeks in preparation. That's right. She has been crying in bed for her tease of a boyfriend for an entire fortnight. My clothes are clean, at least- but my hair just won't behave! I pull my brush upwards towards the roots, hoping for just a few more tangles here and there. Suddenly, I want to eat some fried chicken.

"Thank you so much, Annie."

Kate has emerged from her room, a tub of ice cream from her mini fridge in hand. I want to hold her against the wall and kiss her all of a sudden, but I'm still too annoyed to entertain this thought more. If you're well enough to walk around and eat ice cream, I want to snap back instead, you can just as well do your interview yourself.

But you don't do that, do you?

Then again, I wouldn't bother doing this for her if she wasn't nearly the uke to my seme.

As I leave the house, I wonder if I should add something else to my character. An overbite, perhaps, or an underbite... but that would make my jaws hurt. Of course, I could just bite my lip. Maybe I'll do that. I'll bite my lower lip once in a while.

The road to my interviewee's office is long and uneventful, and I almost fall asleep three times. I should have asked somebody else to drive me instead. I hate this man already. Half a day of my life is gone travelling across a good part of the country just to reach him. How about a little compromise and meet somewhere nice and quiet instead? Maybe somewhere nearer to my place!

When I reach the office building, however, I begin to appreciate the boredom of the journey immediately. It is ugly, to say the least. Everything is made of steel or iron and sandstone and marble and... oh, I would kill myself in a week if I had to work here. My respect for the employees of this company grew immensely in that instant I saw the structure. What a waste of good materials in so ugly a showpiece. The architect had either designed it this way as a joke because he hated his client, or because he was genuinely bad at his job. It had better be the first, I mutter in disgust as I enter the building. I am even more disgusted as I read the nameplate of the office.

Gray Enterprise Holdings Inc, I shite you not, my dear listener, is what the company is called. Now, Gray is fine. He has every right to name his business after himself. Enterprise is alright too. That's very typical of company names and I understand that. Put 'holdings' at the back and it starts to become silly. But I can still rationalise this. Hey, maybe Enterprise is actually a reference to the Enterprise of Star Trek fame. That would be nice. I would respect him for such dedication to such a good series- except it's in plural. And 'Inc'? He didn't even use the whole word; it was just an 'I' and then an 'N' and 'C'. You are trying too hard; I want to shout at him before throwing a good punch on his face.

As I receive my visitor's pass and travel up to the top floor, where his office is, I also notice that all of his female employees are blonde. Maybe it's a good thing Kate hadn't come after all. If anybody is going to force themselves on to her, it should be me because of my latent homosexual attraction towards her and for the favour I am in the midst of doing for her. I feel I should report him for workplace discrimination but I can't be bothered to do anything right now. The lift, by the way, or elevator as you may call it, is nothing more than a nicely padded metal box. However, it is also the best part of the place. At least it looks like a lift should, instead of an insult to steampunk.

It's a pity the staff is shallow and has no concept of service. I sit for about twenty minutes before somebody notices that I have been waiting my turn and offers me a drink. And here's the best part: when they ask what I want, I ask for some green tea... and they hear it as iced water. Cheap bitches...

I wait some more. The water comes, with a single miserable cube floating in tepid tap water. I wonder if I would have received Blue Mountain coffee instead if I had come in looking like myself. Some people go in and out of his office. I have half a mind to barge in and kick him in the ribs and demand my time back. I stand up to do so, when one of the blonde troopers tiptoes towards me and asks me to go in and be graced by his presence.

I am astounded. She really says that. He's not your king, he's your employer. There are other people to fund your bread and butter. Why are these women like this?

Dismissing the thought, I aim carefully for a bump I notice in the carpeting and brush one foot against it, leaning back to execute my somersault. Unfortunately, I don't manage to land as I desired. Instead, our dear Mister Gray manages to catch me halfway through the air and shakily lands me. I have no choice but to play by ear.