Dawn. Light shone through my window, though its power was weak. Thick, dense clouds had been surrounding the metropolitan area for several weeks now, breaking up only when big corporations needed solar energy to fuel something big. My room was painted black, yet it never heated to an uncomfortable point. Thank God for air conditioning. As my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the light, my room came fully into view. Posters of old metal bands. Random bullshit. Books galore, from Lovecraft to Vasquez to LaVey. Vintage tech, ancient even. My GE alarm clock was nearly a relic by some standards, sitting there on my desk. Alongside it sat my mincemeat rendition of a desktop computer, monitor stolen directly from my old laptop, with the tower I welded myself resting underneath the desk, held together with duct tape and just enough luck to keep it from spontaneously combusting when I was at school. Mansta energy drink cans flowed freely from the area behind my monitor, covering what little desk space I already had. My bed was a shitshow. I had no sheets, a single blanket I got last Christmas to replace the only other blanket I have, which now sits in a storage container beneath my bed, and clothes to fill in the rest of the space not filled by my sleeping body. Above my head, a string is hung with pictures and illustrations done by my girlfriend, Laura Grey, along with pictures of us together from various occasions, from the state fair to some random day we were hanging out a month or so back. Next to that was a large cluster of spiderwebs that I’d neglected to destroy. As I finished taking in all the glory that was my shitter of a bedroom, I rolled out of bed and took my first tumble of the day. Landing on the hardwood floor with a thud, I quickly got up and got dressed. I never had much to choose from when it came to clothing, so I donned my usual attire of a black shirt with a large ghost graphic on top. I’d been drawn to this shirt 4 years ago for whatever reason, and I now wear it nearly every day. It was in shockingly good condition considering its usage, and my pants, which I got around the same time as the shirt, weren't looking so good. I owned 3 pairs of pants, 3 pairs of shorts. Considering it was late September, I wasn’t going to wear shorts, which left me with my baggy jeans I was talking about earlier, my “communist pants” as my “adoring and loving” parents described them, or just some shitty jeans that make me look like I have chicken legs. Considering having chicken legs suck ass, I picked the dirty commie pants. I fumbled my shitty school-issue laptop into my backpack along with a textbook that had fallen out. Zipping it up, I proceeded to unlock my door and enter the rest of my home. In comparison to my own room, the house was pristine, some may say. The burgundy walls that looked straight out a 70’s porno were polished and sparkling, the stair banisters were waxed, the linoleum flooring was freshly mopped, as it was everywhere in the house. Personnaly, I find linoleum disgusting as a flooring material,but nevertheless, every square inch of this damn place was floored exclusively with shitty fucking linolium. Except in my room. I threatened to engulf the whole house in flames if they even touched my hardwood with their dirty linoleum. Worked like a fucking charm. I smiled to myself as I remembered that little victory from about 2 years ago. God, 15 year old me could cook some shit up. Course, he would've never acted on it. 17 year old me would burn this place down in a heartbeat, even without reason. The only reason I haven’t is because I only have a few more months left here, and for that reason alone, I have decided to spare this domicile. As I came down the stairs, I looked to the kitchen to see my parents sitting there, my father reading the Times, my mother to his left, reading some dirty novel about college girls seducing the football captain or some shit like that. She always read that shit and it gave me the creeps. In fact, that was one of the only things she gave me in general. I’d been paying rent since I was 12. Sometimes I’ve been forced to do morally reprehensible things to make that money, but I’d never missed a payment so I must be doing something right. “Simon, rent is due Tuesday. Not like it fucking matters, your ass is on the street the second you turn 18,” my mother called to me without looking up from her book. Not giving her the satisfaction of a reply, I went out the front door, making sure to slam it. They could ground me if they wanted but it’s not like it mattered. My door only had one key that I kept on me at all times, and the hinges were on the inside, so they couldn’t take any of my stuff, and they didn’t even know Laura existed, and she was my only friend so they couldn’t really take away the privilege of going to see her. My window was close enough to the ground a leap from there doesn’t hurt that bad. Putting my amazing parents out of my mind, I took my way down the street. Living in suburbia kinda sucks, but at least it has its advantages, like the fact the corner store was a mere 6 minute walk from my place of residence. Walking down the street, the fall breeze brushed my face, reminding me that the most horrifying time of the year was nigh upon us. It made me smile a bit. Halloween was my favorite time of year. It made my every day reality feel normal when I watched horror movies, with crazy fucking lunatics trying to cannabalize the population of whatever shitville said crazy fucking lunatic currently occupied. Unfortunately, many of those real life loons wandered the streets of this seemingly peaceful neverending suburban dream wasteland. I swear, the HOA had more power here then the Feds or the state government combined. In fact, the HOA even had police-esque personnel roaming the streets. A lot of them get killed. As I walk past a storm drain, I notice a finger and some strange chunks of flesh in the flow of the  murky street water. Wonder what the fatality count for yesterday rounded out to. I make a lot of my money gambling, and one of my finest games is the body count lottery. In fact, I was the reigning champ 6 weeks in a row. My violence guesswork is pretty spot on usually, and it has paid me well. Other than that, my main source of income is working at the aforementioned corner store, to which I had just arrived. I used my staff key to get in and saw the morning shift guy there. He was pugnacious, short, and butt ugly. He had a strange tumor on his head that had Band-Aids in an X shape on it. I never asked about it, because his personality was as ugly as his face and his ego was fatter than he was. “Ayo Stinkman! Comin’ in hot for your complimentary smokes and coffee, eh? Well fuggetaboutit! Bossman says you’ve been cut off, DOUCHEBAG!” Calling me Stinkman instead of Simon was one of his little “quirks” that made his already punchable face even more punchable. He was already a good foot and a half shorter than me, so looking down at him while he said all this reminded me of how elementary school teachers must feel while dealing with a particularly unruly child. With disregard for his instructions, I grabbed a pack of Newports from the cigarette shelf, and helped myself to an empty plastic coffee cup. He tried to throw a fit about it, insisting that the “man in charge” gave him these instructions directly and that he was going straight to him after his shift about my lack of obedience but I didn’t care. I knew he was blowing smoke because this was an automated store and the “man in charge” was a dopey looking robot with a painted on face. Of course, he could spit out orders like that if he so pleased, but they only came from corporate about marketing and sales and shit. Besides, I had the robot hooked up to my personal intranet system, so all messages came through me before the rest of the employees, and I could in fact, make my own messages. With my coffee brewing and the little twerp ending his long rant, I began to enjoy my morning. I heard distant gunfire and screeching tires, letting me know that life still existed out there. Intelligent life, perhaps not, but life nevertheless. To confirm my thoughts, morning shift guy began to stare at the giant plastic monkey across the street and laugh to himself. Jesus fucking Christ, what an absolute idiot. Everyone in this city was an idiot. Well nearly everyone. Me, obviously. And Laura. And no, when I say I’m not an idiot, I just mean I’m smarter than everyone in the world. Just in this fucking dumbass city. I’m still pretty dumb, considering. The coffee machine blinked a sign of completion, signaling my coffee was ready. I grabbed the cup, and proceeded out the front door. “You better come back with your keys Stinkman, because you are FIRED!!”, fat ugly asshole yells at me. I give him the finger and head out. As I stand outside in the corner store parking lot, I open the pack of Newports, then produce a small electric lighter from my pants pocket. Lighting up a cig, I take a puff, exhale, then sip my coffee. The flavors perfectly match my surroundings; ashy, grey, dark, a sense of hopelessness and despair overwhelming me. I shake it off and take another puff. As I exhale, my pager beeps. Its little red display reads “OMW”, a message from Laura. Our school was a ways away from both our homes, her farther than mine, so since she was able to drive, she always picked me up in the morning. Beats the bus, and it sure as hell beats walking. Considering my girlfriend was showing up in about 10 minutes, I figured I should use the time to make myself less homely. Taking another puff, I turned to face the window of the store, so I could see my reflection. I was pretty tall, standing at about 6 foot 2. My greasy black hair was very well behaved, but I never bothered  styling, except for just running my fingers through my hair. My skin was a light peach shade, much darker for someone who spends 90% of their time indoors, playing video games, masturbating, and hanging out with their girlfriend. My eyes are a deep shade of blue, ocean colored even, as Laura says. My eyebrows are small but very defined, my eyelashes are very long for a guy. My face is strangely symmetrical, with the exception of my acne.  Symmetrical acne would be weird. Being fucked up on both sides exactly the same would be weird. My nose was sharp, my jawline defined. My girlfriend says I look like a supermodel. Nobody else had ever classified me as such, but whatever. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder I suppose. I’ve never thought much of my looks. Speaking of looks, a large sports car pulled up to the corner store. Inside, 3 blonde girls of rather questionable dress, listening to popular trash, park the car and get out. None of these women was Laura. This was unsettling to say the least. “Heeeyy, you got a bieeeg head!”, one of the women yelled at me. Yes, I know my head is big, but can you fuck off? “Yeaaa, his head is reeeel big.”, the second woman said. The third said nothing, but took a rock and threw it at me. She had a lousy shot, so it missed my “freakishly big” head, but it hit me square in the chest. It didn’t hurt much; the most amount of mass on their entire bodies was on their chest so the rock didn’t have much power behind it. I picked the rock up as they began to laugh manicaly. Fucking idiots. I lobbed the rock clean at one of the girls and hit her square in the tit. Apon impact, the thing popped like a ballon. Air and plastic gushed from her breast, along with blood. She screamed, while the other women laughed at her, her implants jettisoning her more then at least 100 feet into the air. Off like a rocket she soared, into the distance, most certainly doomed to die whenever her fake boob ran out of air and she hit the ground, but I didn't care. It would never get tied back to me. Hell, most people probably wouldn't even bother to investigate. The other two women still stood there, their massive breasts that must intimidate watermelons shaking like fishing lures, overflowing makeup coming off in a small, powdery cloud around them. God were they ugly. I didn’t notice earlier, but their license plate said “S3XH0L3”. It made me audibly gag. Tuning out their inane laughter, I took a puff from my still-lit Newport. Seconds after, a grey pickup truck pulled its way into the parking lot alongside the U.S.S Sexhole, as I’d dubbed the motorized go-cart the questionably moraled women rode, which is likely not the only thing they ride. Laura popped out the driver's side window and cried out, “Watch out, honey! A rabid band of dirty hookers is on your 10! Run like the wind!”, to which I chuckled and to which the dirty hookers in question ended their moronic laughter at their friend's untimely demise and glared at Laura. I crushed out my cigarette on a nearby concrete bollard and flicked it at the women. “Au revoir, sweettits!” Laura called from the truck as I clambered into the passenger seat. The woman who first cried at my head size suddenly rushed at our truck and achieved nothing as Laura pulled out with godlike speed and started speeding down the open road towards the freeway entrance ramp. Laura turned to me as we got on the overcrowded freeway and said, “Hey, pumpkin. You look adorable today!”, proceeding to kiss me and continue. “Soooo, how was your morning?” she asked me with a ridiculously cute smile on her face, overjoyed to see me. “The usual. Running out of the house, gettin’ bitched at by 'the man', having the morning shift asshole call me a douche. Hit some bitch in her titty with a rock though, so that was cool,” I replied, smiling. Jesus, who knew some random sweet girl could make my life less dogshit. “Pfft, was it one of those dumb bitches who were at the corner store? Dude, thier license plate litterly said sexhole. Like, tell me your a dirty slut without telling me your a dirty slut,” she replied, keeping her focus on the road as we began to move.