"Rebecca, can you please stop rehearsing?" Mrs. Black poured some cereal for her daughter. She noticed that the milk was expired but she wasn't one to waste.
"And Rebecca, you've got to wash your greasy hair. I can' smell your scalp all the way here."
Rebecca nodded, then suddenly began convulsing. Her arms went rigid and she gripped onto the edges of the table. She was having some kind of seizure.
"Rebecca?"
The milk had poisoned her daughter! Mrs.Black yanked open a drawer and pulled out a defibrillator. She placed it on Rebecca's chest. The giant lightbulb overhead cast a harsh neon glow on her daughter's face, which was quickly turning the color of red pulp.
"Rebecca!"
Mrs. Black grabbed the nearest object, a graphing calculator on the kitchen table, and whacked her daughter's chest.
"Breathe, baby, breathe! Oh I'll never give you grief about your voice again. I'll help you become a celebrity, I promise!"
Rebecca coughed and sat up weakly.
"Really? You'll help me become famous? Even if that means quitting your job?"
"Yes. I've always wanted to be an artist myself. A dancer. A ballerina. But I guess if I help you become a singer then I'll be living my dream too."
And so it was on that fateful Friday that a decision was made. A month later, Rebecca Black's song, titled "Friday," went viral.
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I laugh every time I read this awful story. The constraints were: write it under 3 minutes, and include the following...
Rebecca Black, defibrillator, graphing calculator, expired milk, lightbulb, ballerina.
