Why not to drink and type.

This is a short fragment I wrote (while slightly inebriated) in response to a request for a 'romantic novelisation of a friend's life'. It's not good, but then again, it was never meant to be.

Striding down from the podium she looked like sex on stilts would look if it were possible. Her heels were high to the point of obscenity, which was just how she liked it: obscene. She had been good. Damn good. She always was. If you weren't good, you didn't win, and if you didn't win, well, that was something she had never considered.

She took her seat next to her simpering team mate. He was infatuated with her, which was his loss. His pimpled face, and greasy hair was not something that would ever whet her appetite. He was wasting his time, but she didn't mind. It kept him working, and his research was very helpful when it came to winning.

“Oh gosh, you were so amazing,” he wheezed, his chubby red cheeks puffing up as he spoke. He was revolting, but she rewarded him with a little smile. Even though he was pathetic, he certainly could debate.

Debate. It sounded just as lame as it had the first time she had heard about it. Self-important nerds pretending that their insights were original and their opinions important. Sometimes she wondered why she even bothered, but she'd always look around the room and remember exactly why. If you wanted to meet old money, the wealthy sons and daughters of Karori and the up and coming ministers of future government, they were all here, ready to be flirted with, and romanced, and connected to. It was the aspiring woman's paradise. She was a black widow, and the sport gave her all the little insects she needed.