Undefined

Predictability

My life had fallen into this comforting routine filled with repetition , boredom and never ending predictability . Everyday was the same colors of black and white . At first I had hated the constant cycle of my tragically similar days , but I had grown to tolerate the everyday nuisance that was myself .

My teenage years were turning out to be a disaster . Most kids my age are swept up into a whirlwind of friends , social activity , and constant stress about social adversity . I however , did not fall into this densely populated category . I was a dreadful introvert , to lost in the colorless world that I had grown so accustomed to . I found comfort in colorless skies and predictability .

My family is hardly a splash of color compared to me . My mother drowns herself in her work as a therapist to avoid the pain of dealing with pent up emotions due to her and my father's divorce . How ironic it seems that a therapist needs therapy . My sister decided at the age of eighteen that it was the best for her to run away with the wind and her tattooed boyfriend straight into oblivion . She found work as a nurse , and her boyfriend is a mechanic who spends his nights drunkenly singing along to his old collection of records that he holds so dear to his heart .

My father also decided to float away with the autumn breeze as soon as the paperwork was dealt with . He now lives in sunny Florida chasing waves and drinking mimosas while the rest of us were left to pick up the pieces . I hold no resentment for the man , but it'd be nice to get more than a postcard with a monument and too many smiley faces on it every year for my birthday and every holiday in between .

And at the center of this colorless cyclone is me . The disaster of a teenager , the bland introvert , the painting with no meaning . At the age of 16 , already in the midst of a mid life crisis . The name given to me at birth was River Myron Mateo . I had recently developed a hankering for cigarettes , much to the dismay of my overly religious neighbors . They silently judged me every time I had a cancer stick in between my fingers .

When I was 9 , I liked to think of myself as an adventurer . And after an incident that I call the Lemon Tree Escapade , I now have a smallish ragged scar tracing right under my chin . But that's when I was at the tender age of 9 , I figured that if 9 year old me could look into the future and see me now , he'd probably try to go about business carefully and see where things started to take a turn for the worse .

Now , I'm not all cigarettes and dry humor . I'm actually a human being . I have friends , not many , but friends . I have a record collection that I value more than myself , and a terrible addiction to sour skittles .

My day started off like all the others , rolling over and trying to resist the urge of throwing my phone at the wall , trying to hold off school for as long as possible . Dragging myself to the bathroom in a zombie-like fog and standing in the shower for 20 minutes to long and proceeding to get ready like hell because I refuse to get another Saturday school for as long as I live . ( story for another day . )

I throw on the nearest pair of jeans and whatever shirt was on top of the unfolded clothes that adorned my desk chair , ran my hands through my hair , put on deodorant because I actually do not enjoy smelling like roadkill ( unlike most teenage boys ) , and grab my backpack and run downstairs where my mother is waiting with her usual morning trivia .

" How'd you sleep ? " "Are you hungry ? " " Do you have any plans today ? " " Coffee ? "  , all while carrying on making toast , or with a phone tucked in between her ear and her shoulder .

My usual answers are : " Not enough . " " Starving . " " You have to have a life to have plans . " and " Yes , it's the only thing that keeps me alive . "
I may or may not also have a slight caffeine addiction . I've come to terms with the fact that I just might have an addiction to getting addictions . Oh well . With my already made coffee in my hand courtesy of my mother , I rush out the door to my 2 door , rusty red pickup truck that used to belong to my father . Some people call it outdated , but I like to think of it as vintage .

After proceeding to speed only slightly on my lovely town's side streets and roads , I finally arrive in hell . Otherwise known as school . After hastily throwing my empty coffee cup in a bush , ( sorry Mother Nature . ) , I grab my backpack and half jog to my first class , with only 3 minutes before the tardy bell .