Saying that Tiffany never finished anything would be an overstatement, but in the case of her writing, it was a simple truth. Saying that she finished most things would also be an overstatement, but saying that Tiffany finished little would hit the Goldilocks zone.  

She was an awful writer. Not because she was talentless; not because she wasn't creative- let's put it into simple terms. She was unimaginative, but that was because Tiffany started many things; only to drop all of them without fail. She never found the motivation or creativity to finish any one of her projects, despite how fantastic the bits she did complete turned out to be. Perhaps she was painstakingly close to finishing, or had just started, but she simply never finished one of her works. This rendered her an awful writer in a way most wouldn't expect- her prose was infallible, and the complex stories she wound from simple themes were charming and unique, but it was useless, all because of her larger talent for never-finishing-anything.

Perhaps it was Tiffany's erratic nature that made her favour starting things over finishing them that gave her the idea to start yet another something, or maybe it was a part of her that longed to finally type the words “The End”, but either way, she started The Procrastination Club, and hence something crazier than any of her tangled plot lines was born. 

The "Genesis" was on a cloudy day. As Tiffany's English teacher droned on, she found himself staring out the window as an alternative to looking at the failed paper she had just received.

The sky was scratchy-looking and although summer had just ended, the sky had melded into a mellow gray colour. 

She sighed. 

For weeks and weeks, it would be rain, rain, rain and more rain, just like last year and the countless others before. Tiffany would have nothing to do, but this year, her last  year (in high school,at least), it was her deepest desire to finally make something of herself and her talents. 

It was a form of mid-life-crisis; or rather a crisis adults are allowed to call a mid-life one. The kind where you question just about everything; especially why you aren’t working harder. So Tiffany found himself thinking back to the previous October- not because she remembered anything special happening in that month, but rather because she didn’t. She had no idea why in that month she hadn’t committed time to write when she had done nothing else worth remembering in the end. It was thoughts like this that haunted her, but even more haunting was the thought that the October to come was going to bring nothing more memorable than the previous, and yet she would still not find herself writing. 

Tiffany found herself stretching out her legs under the desk. She peered over it, avoiding letting her eyes meet the failed paper. 

Upon her examination, the girl found that a pair of messily bunched up, mismatched socks occupied the space between her perfectly matched skinny jeans and sneakers. One rode up on her foot.

Perhaps, if I were a more pretentious person, she twisted her foot to the side to examine the extent to which the socks did not match, I would take this as a painful reminder of the wavering nature of life. 

Tiffany, as she usually did, was purposefully avoiding the point, even in her idlest thoughts. The point being that that she had not finished her job of neatly putting his outfit together. Of course she had started- her jeans,cardigan, and shoes all complimented each other and herself in a proper ensemble, but the socks- they were not an atrocious ending to a novel job, they were simply blank space in the picture an outfit is meant to create (for a generally well-dressed person, that is). In short, Tiffany had not finished dressing herself; that's how she looked at it.

As she wallowed in her thoughts, the school bell rang, signaling the end of the day. She scratched at her ill-fitting sock and peeked at the clock tacked to the wall. She had plenty of time; the buses left seven minutes after the final bell. She heaved herself out of her desk and swooped down to grab her book bag. She idly packed her things into it, simultaneously grabbing a fistful of tattered papers from the desk corner opposite her failed assignment. She trotted over to the recycling bin; throwing all of them out without a second glance, let alone a second thought. 

However the lack of second thoughts only lead to more complexities building up in her mind. Not about school work. That couldn't matter less when she was doing this type of pondering. 

I never finish anything, an unbridled voice in her mind spoke up. 

I finish things, the conscious part of her mind thought back. 

It was too late. Whatever had unleashed the secret she had been keeping from herself allowed a stream of worried additions to tumble in afterwards. 

You’ve never finished anything. You’re lazy, which is why your essay is in the bin covered in the red bloody failure rather than in your hand, covered in green ticks and the stamp that Miss Manstroni keeps in her pencil pot that prints a tiny pair of socks and the slogan “you worked your socks off”. You haven't been stamped because you didn’t. You didn’t work your socks off. You didn’t even work to put matching socks on. 

As Tiffany made her way down the stairwell and out the door, she could see the tail of her school bus just exiting the school parking lot.

Great. 

As rain started to fall, shuddering rolls of thunder rattled off in the distance. What had started as sprinkling turned into a consistent rain. Huddled underneath her backpack to keep her clothes from getting wet, Tiffany made a dash for the public bus stop across the street. 

Beside it, many students were huddled beneath a huge gnarled tree. She wasn't sure whether it was because these kids were waiting for the bus too and wanted to keep dry or because it was the student body's self-proclaimed "Smoking Tree". 

For the first time in her life, Tiffany was going to take the public bus, and she had little to no idea about how to do it. 

"Never take the forty six," rang a scrap of a memory from one of her father's lectures from her freshman year. 

Tiffany waited for thirty seconds before she pulled her phone out of her pocket and stared at the lockscreen. Two thick raindrops landed on the glass, blurring her background image (a tasteful picture of two girls kissing, both covered in a veil of their own hair. It had vaguely reminded her of two celebrities she liked, so she had saved it), rendering it impossible to unlock without drying first. She wiped the screen on her thigh before bringing the screen back up to a comfortable position. As soon as she did, three more thick drops landed on it. 

Typical. 

She was forced to place the device back inside her backpack, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She was instantly reminded of a scientific study her father had told her about over dinner: when placed in a room, and told to spend fifteen minutes with their thoughts, seventy percent of those tested reported that they would rather be electrocuted than have to wait out the full time. 

When she had heard this, she thought of it as stupid, but without her portable distraction to keep her thoughts on shallow topics, she couldn’t help but wish a bolt of lightning would hit her. If it did, an ambulance would come for her and therefore she wouldn’t need to continue waiting for the bus, and her father would probably make macaroni for dinner to make her feel better, like he did when he was ill. 

In the distance, through the curtain of rain, she saw not one, but two buses approaching. For a moment, a small sense of satisfaction washed over her, but it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Both were the number forty six.  

With a sigh, Tiffany stepped back and let a hoard of damp teenagers push past her onto the bus. 

With a second sigh she watched the first bus leave. 

With a third, she watched the second go. 

With a fourth, she realised she was utterly alone.  

Why didn’t I charge my phone this morning? Tiffany thought bitterly to herself. 

She had almost put it on to charge the night before, but then she had decided to open an old yet untouched Lego set and build it all instead.

See,Tiff? You finish things!

The self praise did little to lift her mood. 

With all of the teenagers and commuters gone, the bus bench was free for her to sit on. Slowly sauntering over to it, Tiffany plopped herself onto the damp wood, shooting right back up again. The seat of her jeans were soaking wet, and dirt clung onto the fabric. She groaned in frustration. Whirling around, she glared at the inanimate object as if to reprimand it.

The socks and now this. I must look like a basic slob. 

Tiffany paused as she considered if trying to find a public phone to call her father was worth it. As she did I so, his gaze fell onto the bench.

Tigerinakage. Is that a rapper name or something?

Different colors and carvings were strewn across the wood like stamps; the kind that always look the same.

Tick marks, names, vulgarities...heh.

As the rain became a full on storm ready to turn her cashmere sweater into a sea of gray bobbles, she decided to bite the bullet. Across the street from the bus stop was a recreational centre; one rumoured to be haunted, but that was a different story which Tiffany didn’t believe in. However, if there was one thing that made her not want to set foot in it, even to use the public phone; it was that it smelled really funky. 

With her love for cashmere outweighing her sense of smell, she mustered up a newfound energy and found herself leaving the bus stand (wrinkling her nose at the stench of the wet Smoking Tree as she did so) and brusquely crossing the street to the recreational centre. 

She plodded up the steps and swung the door open, entering with an air of purpose.

Refusing to let herself look curious to any standerby, she examined the facility with a blank face, only looking through the corners of her eyes. The walls were white-washed; the fluorescent lighting only making them look even harsher. She made her way to the information desk which had been left unoccupied, thrumming her fingers on the surface of the counter. 

The telephone was in clear sight; it was a corded one. Not the fancy 1970s type that gets printed on t-shirts, but an ugly off-white 1990s corded phone. As the funky rec centre smell invaded her nostrils, Tiffany felt the urge to just lean over grab it, but her moral conscious stopped her.

With the damp fabric of her jeans clinging to her relentlessly, she found himself in search of a temporary distraction. Her eyes skirted over a display behind the information desk; equal parts fliers and pamphlets. 

The damp girl's lips twitched up at one pamphlet- So you got online?

She strained her eyes to read the smaller print, amused at what could possibly help you if you had in fact gotten “ online”. 

Step 1, start a blog to help recreate a positive online image. 

Tiffany lost all restraint and let out a loud laugh.

A blog, that’s a professional’s serious piece of advice! A BLOG. 

As she laughed heartily to herself, her eyes darted around the display for more ridiculous pamphlets. But something else caught her eye- a flyer. 

Main event room available for hire Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings for $5 an hour. 

Five dollars an hour, that’s a stupidly low amount. There’s so much you can do with an empty room...I could start a dance club, a cooking club, a PINK LOVERS CLUB…But I never finish anything.

"But why not try to make this the first thing I finally finish..?" Tiffany spoke out loud without meaning to.

"Miss? Can I help you?"

Tiffany found herself face to face with a bored-looking receptionist. Her left brow was quirked, and it wasn’t raised either- she was suffering from a common disease known to people who draw in their eyebrows as "unevenness".  

Tiffany felt her cheeks tinge pink while the receptionist looked at her suspiciously. 

Well, I was talking to myself.

"Yes, I'd like to use the phone."

"Only those involved at the centre may use the phone," she gazed at her listlessly. 

Tiffany scoffed, "are you kidding me? It's a public phone just like this is a public facility."

"Only those involved at the centre may use it."

"It has a coin slot, if I just pay-"

"Miss, if you keep arguing with policy, I will have to call security. Only those involved at the-"

A spark.

"Oh, only those involved? Silly me, I came here to become involved," she slapped herforehead for good measure,  "I want to rent out the main event room for an hour,"

Her gaze was unchanged.

"An hour a week." 

She still looked suspicious, “What day?”

“Fridays,” Tiffany responded with a sickeningly sweet smile.

Her quick answer seemed to annoy the receptionist. 

“What time slot?"

"Four to five."

“Fine, hand over the twenty dollar down payment for the first month, and then you can use our phone."

It seemed that yet again she hadn’t believed Tiffany was serious, because she looked a mix of displeased and caustic as the girl pressed a crumpled bill down onto the counter. 

“Phone now, please,” Tiffany  stuck out her hand. 

With a clenched jaw, the receptionist grabbed the twenty and forced the corded phone down into her open palm. 

She started to clamber her way around the corner to reach the dialer, but the receptionist stuck out a palm and told her to stop.

"Only authorized personnel can pass beyond this point," she gestured to the counter.

Tiffany clicked her tongue and raised her eyebrows ( which were perfectly groomed, by the way), "Would you dial the number for me, then?"

"Go."

"Two, four, o'-"

The woman pursed her lips with a squelch, "You need a nine first." 

Tiffany snorted, but kept a pleasant face.

"You know what," she glanced out the window, nodding towards it, "I think I'll walk. The rain's lighter now."

No, it's not. 

"Suit yourself."

The receptionist crouched beneath the counter and sorted through a drawer to look for something. She came back up with a small packet in her hands and flicked it down onto the counter below Tiffany's nose. 

"Here are some papers you'll need to fill out." 

"Thank you," carefully placing the papers into his bag, Tiffany her heel with a tight-lipped smile. 

“Wait!” The receptionist called after Tiffany in her nasally voice, “what kind of club are you starting?” 

Tiffany  paused. She hadn’t thought this all the way through. 

“Um,” she started dumbly, “ahh…” her eyes flickered to the pamphlets behind the receptionist on the wall in search of help, and suddenly her eyes landed on one that seemed to fit her life all too well.

 Stop procrastinating! Get help now! 

With a smile twitching at her lips at the sheer irony of it, she cleared .

"A procrastination club,” she paused, “an anti-procrastination help group…like...procrastinators anonymous”.

The receptionist shot her a look, but it seemed she had given up. Tiffany almost felt like she could read her mind- ‘they don’t pay me enough to care this much’ was what the woman was thinking. Whether or not that was indeed what she was thinking, she just waved her hand at Tiffany carelessly, telling her to go.

When she got home that night, Tiffany rushed to her room and meticulously filled out each form from the rec centre and printed out some fliers of her own to advertise her brilliant new project. 

Tiffany neatly packed them into a file and tucked it into her book bag.

Turning off her desk lamp, Tiffany rolled her shoulders and idly spun about in her chair. She grinned in the darkness, blindly rising from her seat and flopping onto her bed a few feet away.

Staring at the ceiling, she peeled off her damp socks and let them land on the floor with a plop.

I'm going to finish this.

--

Aaaaand that's the first chapter of this cray cray at-times-crackish OT9! Tiffany is going through a crisis, eh? So is everyone else, do not fear.

Next chapter is Sooyoung \o/

-One of your authors