In Which We Meet Our Dainty, Elegant Heroine

It was a dark and stormy night.
Like, excuse me, am I supposed to appear yet? 
I am the author here, you are a character. You appear when I say so. Sheesh!
Where was I? Oh... It was a dark and stormy night, and a lone wolf howled a love song to the moon, and mothers began the slow task of tucking in their children.
"Like, excuse me, but, like, catering is like totally sucking here."
Like, excuse me, diva, but like, this isn't a movie. There is no catering.
Where was I? It was a dark and sto----screw it.
And Lo! But what to my wondering eyes doth appear? (Don't say it, I hold your fate in my two little hands.) 

Why, the lovely Lady Slutskaya, all five foot nine and 160 pounds of pure daintiness.
Humph!

Her raven black roots gleamed in the moonlight atop crimson tresses, and upon her dainty Hobbit feet  little hooves  absolutely delicate and tiny, flat, wide size 11 feet, she stomped- tiptoed to the window, and dramatically placed a hand over her forehead.
"Such tragedy! Such pain!" She proclaimed,  in a voice like a dying cow  angel. "I am like, lost in this world, and forever, like, meant to be alone. I am like, my father's maid, and like, totally lost. Like, I like totally missed the Semi-Annual Sale at Victoria's Secret, too." (Madam, need I remind you who is the author, here? You say what I tell you to say!) (At this point, the author bangs her head upon her desk with a loud, alarming slamming sound. Lady Slutskaya is giving her a look that she thinks is cute, but would be better on a misbehaving child, not a woman of her, albeit youthful 50  38 years. The author sips more coffee and sighs.)
"Ahem," the author clears her throat. "Lady Slutskaya, I can scrap this right now. Sir Pratty-Pants really isn't keen on this project..." 

At this point, the author's loyal, kindly, 90 year old secretary, Brunhilda, refills her coffee cup and passes her a note. Brunhilda leaves after affectionately telling the author she is too thin, needs to eat, and should be in bed by now.
"Ok," says the author, with a sigh, rubbing her temple with one finger, "Let's start..."
"Like, totally, like, Sir Pratty-Pants of Pratty-Pants Manor, like, is like totally late now. It's like, all your fault."
As the thunder booms, Lady Slutskaya is heard to scream shrilly, as the author lunges for her.