Hello and welcome to the— Yeah, yeah, let’s get on with this. I got a nail appointment.
<sigh> Please introduce yourself. Jesus, you know my name is Bree. Two e’s, not like the gross cheese.
I’m obviously more interested in your last name. I think a lot of us are. You would think to register at a school I’d have to give one, but McKinley has disgustingly bad security. No wonder there was a school shooting.
That’s a terrible thing to say. You’re not allowed to interrupt.
Anyways, I just strolled in at the beginning of the year and started sitting in classes. I added my name to the bottom of the teachers’ roll sheet, and suddenly I was enrolled. Seeing that the Cheerios were large and in charge, I strolled into practice, demanded to try out. First Coach Washington slapped me across the face, which is supes illegal, but she was just like, “I admire your moxy, child. Because I feel a strong solidarity with my fellow sisters, Imma let you try out.” Boom, Queen Bee. Wasn’t hard since glee stripped Kitty of her ovaries.
As engaging as this is, I’m interested in your parentage. Don’t sass me! Whatever. The last name’s Rutherford. My dad’s name is Matt.
Oh, yeah, that makes... less than no sense. Do I look Korean or something?
I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole. What about your mom? Don’t got one.
You’re the child of a handsome, genial single father? You’re basically an 80’s sitcom cliché, except no warm fuzzy moments. I’m not a sociopath, asshole. Yes, in fact, my dad is pretty Danny Tanner. And we didn’t go around strangling kittens, okay? I’ve actually got a Boston Terrier named Aaliyah that I spoil like an heiress. I just act like I have to to keep my place at school.
Do you know who your mother is? Are you asking because I’m black?
I’m asking because sometimes it’s pertinent. Just yanking your hoohah. I’m not supposed to know, but it’s Santana Lopez.
Huh. Don’t read into it. Legally speaking, she’s not my mother; she’s my “maternal contributor”. She sold some eggs in college during one of her “Whoa is me. I’m so frickin’ gay that I’ll never use my frickin’ lady tubes, and I am so frickin’ vain that I never want to wreck my frickin’ perfect plastic body, and I am so frickin’ shallow that I never want to wreck the undoubtably frickin’ perfect body of my future wife-slash-life-partner-slash-vagina-slave” phases. Pops thought she had good genes so he had her omelets fertilized and surrogated.
How did you even find out? Daddy thinks that hiding her profile packet in his safe coded to my birthday would keep them secret.
Is obtaining extracted ova and implanting them in a surrogate expensive? Daddy’s done well for himself. He works in the record producing business. He’s not like gang war famous, but we get by.
So he never got married? Not yet. I’m pretty sure he gets play, though. He goes out with some backup dancer or backup singer or some up-and-coming R&B star every few months, but they don’t stick.
At this point, don’t need a mama. My nanny Giselle taught me everything a girl’s gotta know.
Does Santana know about you? Hell nah. This shizzle ain’t her business.
You apparently inherited some of her sass. I guess. I’m not related to Kitty or her mom, but the HBIC gene flows through their veins.
You’d be Kitty’s stepsister or something? I’m not playing this game. We’ll let the dweebs at Harvard figure it out.
You know for someone who hates the glee club, you’re related to some of them. Yeah, yeah, whatever. Singing and dancing isn’t dumb; being a loser is. I go out of my way not to grind on Sam (“Grandpa”) during Schuester’s impromptu music numbers. Back in my time, he’s a hilarious crotchety old man. Unique would be my half-aunt-cle or something.
Most important question: Why’d you come back in time? Rite of passage at this point. Dad’s settled in his time, so there’s no need to make sure Sam and Mercedes end up together in this branch of the timeline.
So, in the past I asked others about their romantic life— Just... stop wasting my time stepping on eggshells. Am I gay? Nopers. Am I straight? In the sense that peen is easier to deal with vage, I imagine. Am I in love? Hell no. Am I going to start letting Jake slam me against lockers again? Not given the disturbing prodigiousness of his father’s swimmers. I just want to be, and I’m really tired of having to frickin’ examine it. You’re the worst of all.
...
Sorry.
...
It’s fine. Look, I gotta go.