Biography of a Fictional Boy

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to people dead or living are still probably there because I wanted them to be. Accidentally.

You know this person, probably. Almost certainly. Luckily, it's an accident they're in this, because, otherwise, it wouldn't be fictitious. But I digress.
This person can't be labeled quickly, at least they can't be labeled quickly AND accurately.
Attempting to label them quickly would only waste time, as it would not bear any semblance to reality. Which this has no place in, being fictitious.
It is odd that I would avoid labeling them quickly, because that would waste time and that is obviously something I have a great knack for.
Any resemblance is accidental.

He exists in the same way that a massive tree does. It is there in the most obvious way it can; I am here! says he. The tree, that is. Phillip says things that contain long words. Some of which you know.
that's unfair, though, because you know most of them. And he really doesn't say that many overlong words except in class, and then occasionally.
But you, yeah YOU think he's a genius. In the way that Einstein isn't. He's not a genius genius, but he's smart. He's also obnoxious.
You think that what that other person I addressed thinks is obnoxious is witty. Because it is, of course. Mostly because you get it and that other person doesn't. Because you get that reference to Shakespeare or Victor Hugo or Orson Scott Card or an obscure movie about birds that the entire internet knows about but nobody else at school has ever heard of. Not that any of those things are really connected, except by him.
You mostly think of him as a friend out of enemies. Because while he isn't really overly nice to everyone, he's cordial and he doesn't let prejudice get in the way. Except when he gets prejiduced towards people who he isn't afraid to tell off. The people who are actually the ones society likes - he doesn't. Of course, he still likes society. Sometimes. But you - no, not you, but you; yeah, you in the short pants. With the glasses - you don't get society either.
But you - to you, he's awesome because he can talk for half an hour to you about Hit Points and Feats and Attributes, but he can also talk about Staccato and Crescendos and Accents.
You, though, you haven't heard him say more than three words about Constitution and Charisma, but you've heard plenty out of him about Enharmonics. Or maybe you've heard him talk about Blocking and Projection. Or both. Whenever he's talking to those people I addressed above about their thing, he stops when you show up. Maybe its because he thinks you'll label him as a nerd. Except he'd take that as a complement. Then he tosses out a vaguely related quote from an obscure song from the fifties, or laugh and follow it up with a "I just thought of something but you wouldn't get it."
You know him as a confidant, an ally, and a friend. When you broke up with your girlfriend he let you whine to him while he gave you snappy retorts and told you to do amazingly silly things. You run to him for advice, which is odd, because he never really bothers with any of that romance stuff, but he runs to you for advice that never gets followed through on on the same. You're also one of the ones from two paragraphs ago, but you go for the real competitions instead of the virtual ones.
You think he's really mature for his age, which isn't true, but he just doesn't know you well enough to be himself. Which isn't your fault, but he respects you, so he's well mannered.
You think he's handsome in a strange way in his collars and buttons and simple patterns, but that's not why you like him. You also appreciate his responsibility and his talent, and the fact that he also reads British comedy novels and he would know what you meant if you told him the rain that brought him there was heaven blessed. Which you never did, nor anything along those lines. Which is a shame, because he thinks you're pretty in a strange way. But that's not why he likes you. But how could you ever tell each other? There was no moment. No quiet night when you were alone amidst a crowd.
Within each of those perceptions, perhaps the real him could be distinguished. If you ever pooled your collection of knowledge.
Of course, though, he's fictional.
And any resemblance is accidental.





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