They see each other frequently. In fact, between college students, politicians, and Hollywood, they have a near perpetual relationship. But even the most desperate, coked-up agent chained to a peeling Formica desk on the edge of West Hollywood can't compare to this. The heady rush of nearly two thousand people losing their minds in near synchronous is something that only comes around once a year. An electric explosion of anxiety which fuses the two of them together in a glorious metamorphosis, and for a time, they are perfect.
They are flanick.
But all too soon it's the 25th, and the anxiety slowly dissipates. It leaves a limp sag where once was glory, and two verbs who must face the melancholy music: the sad reality of nearly a whole year of knowing what they could be, and knowing they can't have it.
Until December rolls round again, and that static-y tingle sparks through the air once more. Flanick.