charlene 'charlie' roseanne was not the most ardent endorser of social contexts; if she had it her way, she'd just brood in her self-proclaimed bachelor's pad (it looked like a tornado had been through it without mercy) with an order of wingstop and a litre of coke.

but charlie was an unfortunate sucker for movie nights, which was why you could lure her out to the more tolerable location of your apartment with a few mutual friends to watch a twilight marathon. not for the narrative, mind you, but rather to take a shot every time an actor made a questionable performance choice.

because, watching twilight sober could be classed as emotional torture.

"i brought a pack of beer." the saccharine voice of valentina dior, and the tinkling of keys disengaging the lock, were telltale. the ensemble for the evening consisted of charlie, you, her friend (ex) valentina, and valentina's permanent escort, sandra fischer.

"cool." charlie yawned, stretching languorously and reclining on your couch, kicking her feet up on the coffee table that was laden with cups and the stack of every single dvd they'd be putting to use. sandra made a light snort of acknowledgement, her blue eyes fixed on her phone, presumably engaged in a textual altercation with her boyfriend, emilio gray, who had, predictably, cancelled at the last minute.

"did you have to invite that bitch?" charlie murmured to you, slumping against your shoulder with an air of mock melodrama as she reached for a can. her curls were not tied back, and she'd donned an oversized spiderman t-shirt that had gone through one too many washes; so despite her protests, she seemed rather at home.

"she's just going to prattle on about how she'd leave her boyfriend for edward cullen." she added, cocking a blatantly judgemental eyebrow at you. "bid your sanity adieu."