look at my range, part 2.

Emaline sat outside on the front door step of the entry way to her house, intermittently sipping Earl Gray between watching the typically torrential, "fuck you for suggesting that summer is on it's way after one blue-skied weekend" rain force leaves and bits of garbage on a fish killing mission, via the stormwater drain. She felt that, had an artistic photographer been present, her lonely door-step dwelling figure in this miserable weather would make a lovely and timeless piece of photography. This was contemplated for a few seconds, and accompanied with a feeling of stoic pride, the same kind she imagined, that depressed songwriters feel when their heartbreak and chemical addiction is harnessed via accoustic guitar for the enjoyment of drunk, happy 20somethings at music festivals in coastal towns. Emaline was certain that she must be suffering for someone, maybe a dirty, old man is undressing her with his eyes from the second floor of one of the terrace houses across the street? She checked. He wasn't. Anyway, comparisons to rock stars were almost completely beside the point, as aside from a strange name, there was nothing particularly wrong with Emaline. Except that she attracted wankers of the opposite sex, almost exclusively. This had not particularly bothered her until the previous day, when a typically drunken and obnoxious male friend had given her some typically drunk, and obnoxious advice. The main concern, aside from the angle of the rain, which was reaching under the cover that normally protected the door-step and surrounding area, was that this particular piece of advice, rather unlike most drunk and obnoxious advice, reeked of something, that smelt like beer and smoke, but was probably truth. When Emaline had explained her relevations re attracting wankers, almost exclusively. Her friend looked at her sideways with a cocky gaze that six beers and no dinner usually blessed him with, and turned around in his stool to face her, reslishing the chance to talk at someone, uninterrupted. "In fact Emaline," he said (this friend didn't care for shortened versions or nicknames). "You don't attract wankers, rather, being an attractive young female, you attract straight males... The problem you have is that the straight males you choose to acknowledge for this, are the wankers. There-fore, rather than wankers being attracted to you, I reckon it is YOU that is attracted to wankers, as they are the people you show initial interest im... Sorted? Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go and flick Matt in the junk while he's talking to that girl, because if she won't go home with me, she's sure as fuck not going home with Matt."
The friend then wondered off to cruelly sabotage his supposed best friend's chances at love, in the name of jealously, truth, justice and the Australian way. Emaline felt comfort that her friend Jeremy's drunken insight could be legally vetoed after his highly hypocritical actions and more disturbingly, use of the word "junk". Unsure of the meaning of the term, "subpoeana", she decided that it would be best not to use it in her next thought. While Jeremy typically had the emotional maturity of a very emotionally immature man, he could be painfully good at analysing the problems of others in a similar field. He has always claimed that he knew J-Lo and Ben Affleck were doomed before they had even got together. If Jeremy could be right about Bennifer, he could potentially be right about Emaline, or was his advice just as stupid as he dressed, acted, and was? Emaline frowned at the remaining ring of residue in the bottom of her tea-cup. She could be such a wanker sometimes.