Pigs Roasting

I hate this stupid desk. I feel like I’m stuck in the eighties. Oh, wait, there’s the proof! My mom and dad’s initials, etched inside a heart, in the seat in front of me. Now that’s just creepy. You don’t want to in vision your parent’s going through the same things you are. Chilling with there so called “Bros” and “Girlfriends”. Ugh the thought just… ewww.


Finally, I can get out of this sweat box, that’s been accumulating for decades. It’s sickening. All the air freshener in the world couldn’t mask the stink of this place.

“Hey, loser.”, says Devon.

“Hey, pigs for brain, how’s it roasting?”

“It’s getting pretty heated up there.”

Oh, Devon. Devon, Devon. The only person who truly understands me. Considering, I’ve known her for my whole life, well let’s hope so anyway.

“Hey did you hear?”

What’s the point of even asking this question? Seriously, wouldn’t I be telling you, if I knew?

“Hear what?”

“Milo is going to the prom with Kirsten Frankinston.”


“Yeah, I thought-”

“Uh, yeah no.”

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