Firstly, may I point out that people with the name ‘Alex’ have no superior right as to the rules of English Language and that the laws of punctuation apply to us all, no-matter your age, height, gender or race.
RUN! RUN! RUN! I trip for the tenth time when suddenly blue flashing lights fill the misty night sky. To say it was February and it was snowing a blizzard, the somewhat cold air brought an unusual warmth to the surreal situation – a sense of being, to know the ice meant I could still feel something. I see a skyscraper fall like collapsing cards behind me. The ground shudders like no earthquake created by a natural force. The tension reaches it’s climax when I hear a loud, booming voice echo from down a different ally.
‘WAKE UP YOU LAZY ARSE!’
Thanks Dad. I shoot him a look that could probably kill. Unfortunately looks can’t kill so I buried my head deep into my pillow and tried desperately to return to the work of fiction my head had been subconsciously creating. I fall back to (or should i say almost suffocate my self to the point of) sleep for a few more measly minutes until I realize that today is Tuesday and not Sunday. How very unfortunate.
I awaken to the sound of Paramore. God only knows what song as the muffled sound comes from a music making machine known as and iPod half connected to a wakey-upy machine commonly known as an alarm clock.
I lay in bed, motionless, playing dead. As only death its self could worsen this feeling. (Consider the irony, the fact that you can’t feel anything when dead, maybe the saying could refer to the dying process? idk) I stare at the point at which the sealing meets the walls. I notice every crack and every lump in the paint. I wonder how many millions of atoms it takes to hold the roof in place? Who put it there? Who even would have thought of putting paper on walls?
I try to stop thinking as thinking causes head aches and headaches cause days off and days off cause over indulgence and that generally leads to fatness. But i take the day off anyway and you could kind of call it self inflicted illness as it well… kind of is. If thinking is an illness? See I’m thinking too much again.
Mother calls me for breakfast. Of which I refuse to co-opperate with her force feeding programme as I’m a stubborn thing apparently. I roll over to find The Fault In Our Stars under my pillow. I sit and read for a long time until my eyes go all dodgey. I shout my Mum and inform her of my dodgey-eyed-ness. She tells me that it’s a side effect of dying. I tell her to stop reading my books and ruining my John Green centered dreams. She promptly apologizes then continues with ‘everything is a side effect of dying really.’
I sigh and log on to my computer where I say for several hours before getting annoyed by the baby dinosaur trying to escape from with-in me. I surrender to the hunger strike and make myself a bowl of melted cheese. Which was lovely may I tell you. I throw it down my jumper (unintentionally as that stuff is like edible gold) so I rush myself to the bathroom to clean it. Meanwhile my cheese was getting cold.
I run back to the kitchen so fast that I fall face first onto the tiles. It hurts for a while but then I remember that the thing about pain is that it demands to be felt. I shake it off and return to my room, where I listen to a playlist consisting of Demi Lovato and We Are The In Crowd. I listen to the point of more head-achely-ness and now a persistent ear-achely-ness.
I log onto Facebook, a rare thing now-a-days, and see who’s been @#!*% about who. I sigh and get several messages from Alex which takes alot of time to decode. (YAY A PARAMORE SONG) She eventually asks me what I’ve been doing, which to say ‘nm u?’ is so last year. So i’ll post her a link to this instead.
– Becky 🙂