“Together we could have some great years… books,” whispered the Thistle in the ear of the Tartan, as readme watched on intextly, feeling its news was breaking. For years readme had been kerning after the Tartan. The newspaper looked good on paper, and in paper. readme got hardcopy just seeing her, but the Tartan was only ever borderline interested.
“I bet she’ll offer to show him her whoroscopes,” muttered readme darkly, as it watched the papers dance a rag at the CMU Halloween Party. Barely resisting the urge to slugline the Thistle, readme stalked off.
After the Tartan yelled at if for showing up outside her house dog-eared and crying, readme had made sure to arrive looking fresh off the press. But it didn’t seem to make an imprint.
“Don’t be such a pillbox,” said The Cut, appearing at readme’s side, dressed as a sexy rabbi. “You have to change your tune about all this. I know it’s not music to your ears, but you and the Tartan just march to a different drummer.”
readme, who has always believe The Cut was a Jewish porn magazine, had no idea why it kept going on about music.
“You’re right,” readme said, “Tartan thinks she’s entitled to my love. I’m not that spineless.”
readme had always judged The Cut by its cover, but looking at it now, realized it had been too hasty.
“You know, I am bitextual,” readme said, fluttering its pages. This was the perfect way to make the Tartan jealous. “Want a printjob?” The two slipped into the backroom, for a hook up, nothing binding.