"I can't believe you!" Marja tossed her backpack on the floor and glared at me. I sighed, leaning against my locker; I really didn't want to have this argument again.
"M," I began wearily, "Why do you care what shows I like? It's not hurting you if I want to watch-"
"Don't say it!" she shrieked, clamping her red gloves over her ears.
I flung my locker door open. "What, does hearing the title burn your soul?"
The glare doubled in intensity. "Very nearly."
Though I just shrugged and set to stuffing my satchel with textbooks, Marta proved unwilling to let it go.
"The original is so much better, Christi," she said in an almost whining tone; "That remake has been dumbed down exponentially to pander to the lowest common denominator, and FURTHERMORE, every remotely scary element has been removed! I don't know how you can watch it without gagging!" With the air of one who is undeniably in the right, she unzipped her pack and began rooting around within.
After a moment, I replied, "So I'm the lowest common denominator?"
Marja swore, prompting me to glance down in alarm; it soon became apparent, however, that a broken pen had aroused her ire rather than my words. She scrubbed futilely with her sleeve at the dark stain on the pink polyester and said, "Now, hon, you know that's not what I meant. You just don't know any better."
I slammed my locker and turned to face her. "Well, what do you suggest I do, Doctor George?" It came out sharper than I'd intended, but I'd had just about enough of this from her.
Judging by the smile that immediately lit her face, the edge in my voice had been lost on my friend. "Come to my house on Friday," she breathed, clasping my hands in hers. "Once you've seen the original, there's no way you'll go back to that popular tripe!"
Oh, Merlin's trousers. Here she went again.
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