Waking up has got to be the worst thing ever invented in the history of ever. At least, according to you. Professional problem child and certified toughest Sophomore ever. (You got bumped up a grade, and it was one of them times your father admitted he was proud of you)

Waking up late, you panic, how are you gonna explain this to your mom? She had been making herself pretty scarce recently, either by hiding away in her office or scaring you away from the living room; but you imagined that could all change if you pissed her off to just the right extent. Your existence pissed her off.

Even though that seemed a little unfair. You didn't ask for your parents to fuck each other and get a child neither of them actually wanted- or maybe they did want you at first, and you were just so fucking annoying that they were unable to love you anyway. Both seemed credible.

Even though you tried to get dressed as fast as humanly possible, throwing on a seemingly random amount of layers despite the summer heat when you check the clock again- 8:29

You sprint downstairs, ignoring the mess of empty beer cans and unidentified mould, plucking your backpack off the floor where you had kicked it in frustration yesterday. Another mark for lateness was the last thing you needed right now.