YES I AM FRUSTRATED

Once upon a time on a cold, chilly day there was a boy named Max. He had lovely yellow, messy hair and freckles upon his face, above which were some wondrous blue eyes. He was hopping about on the sidewalk that day, taking such a path seeing as he was bordered on both sides by knee-height snow. His boots left jolly imprints on the mostly-shovelled sidewalk, appearing rather sporadically in time with his merry gait. He looked up and there appeared to be a large bridge going right over the four-lane road he was next to. He had been planning to visit the store across the street a few blocks from whence he stood, but this was the first he had seen of this bridge. Knowing he had never trekked onto such a marvel of architecture, and knowing it was far more convenient than to wait at yet another boring stop-light several metres down the street, Max took several steps up the stairway, advancing across the bridge.

He stopped at the middle to gawk at the cars zooming past underneath him, as if they had no qualms about the no-doubt icy surfaces they were rolling across. His thoughts were cut-short when one car had overestimated its own all-weather tires, skidding about until it had come to a roaring halt into the stairway Max had moments ago climbed. The hood of the poor sedan was crumpled up, and the woman in the driver's seat was shocked right out, having barely recovered from the air bag expanding in such speeds as to protect her pretty face from the unmerciful steering wheel. Max reacted as one would, quickly dashing across the bridge and rushing down the stairs. Unfortunately in his haste, he too had overestimated his boots' ability to grip on the icy surfaces and found himself not just descending, but tumbling down to the ground. With reflexes like that of a competitive sports participant, Max threw out his left arm to shield the rest of his body from the solid ground below. He fell with a heavy thud, though it was somewhat muffled by his heavy winter coat.

Alas, Max's clever ploy to protect the rest of his body was not a smart one for his arm, which had held out well in the nanoseconds it could to keep the rest of his body from contacting the unmoving sidewalk, but in doing so the elbow snapped right back, and a pain Max had not felt since he was a young child during a nasty bike crash rushed back into his memories as well as his nerves. His other arm grasped the elbow in an instant, and it took him great willpower, the same willpower he used to summon his God Turtle during spinning top battles, to keep from crying out.

And so the story ends with two accidents, damages on vehicles and limbs be damned. The synposis of a story that Spotto read has now come true, from the keyboard of Spotto as opposed to the fraudulent and untrue summary that was one she had read earlier. It had promised the reader, should they venture into such a tale, that Max would've broken his arm after falling down some stairs. Neither of which ever happened in such a story, and a girl, so unsatisfied was she, immediately loaded up Dreamwidth to write down an impromptu story.

None of which would have happened if a bloody antivirus had updated promptly, allowing her a night's rest during the late hours of 3:20AM. But since it took its sweet time thanks to her ISP's incompetence, she had to wait, and wait, and wait with droopy eyes and baited breath, until great rage urged her to express her emotions in that of a pointless drabble.

This has been Spotto and FUCK NOSTALGIA. WHY ARE ALL THESE OLD FANFICTIONS SO BAD!?!?!?