(DISCONTINUED)

● 0.1 :: Gangster McShades ●

DEDICATED TO @This_is_me411 BC SHE WAS THE V. FIRST PERSON TO EVER VOTE ON THIS STORY *SQUEALS MANLY...LY*

***

Day one of college.

My heart is pounding uncontrollably in my chest, every beat like a renewed attempt to escape my ribcage. When I first got my schedule from the grumpy old woman at administration a week ago, I'd been grateful that my classes on Monday started in the afternoon. The idea was that I would have more time to prepare myself and keep calm — but standing here, in the middle of my small dorm room, with trembling hands and the increasing feeling that I'm going to throw up, it's clear that that is not the case.

All morning I've been doing nothing but preparing and preparing and pacing and pacing and thinking and thinking — over thinking. I've successfully thought up every worst case scenario that could occur today, whether it be that somebody jumps into my little dorm room and murders me, or that I trip when I enter the lecture hall and crack my skull on the ground. A lot of my morbid fantasies end in death actually — either mine or somebody else's, or a group of people that sometimes does and sometimes doesn't include me.

I stop my pacing and shake my head slightly to rid myself of the vivid images of blood, guts and gore, walking over to my bed where today's outfit awaits. After checking that the curtains were drawn (a frequent habit that was useless seeing as my room was on the second floor), I remove the towel I'm wearing and slip on some underwear that has the cookie monster on it, seeing as my roommate is in class already. I mean, I love Frida, but in my present state I don't need her teasing about my favourite underwear (that I had two sets of) or about the fact that I'm a hot mess right now — minus the hot, of course. And triple the mess.

I jump and wiggle around in an attempt to tug on the black skinny jeans I swear weren't this tight a couple weeks ago, huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf. Finally I manage to force the button to fasten and I breathe a sigh of relief, moving to my fluffy woollen jumper. It's orange, yes, but it's a pale orange, which is by far better. Plus, it has a little mint green collar, and I had found it so goddamn cute that I couldn't not buy it when I saw it hanging on the clearance rail in a shop I can't remember the name of. Never in my life have I ever liked orange, but I pride myself on being an optimist; you always have to find the good in the bad, right? I find that keeping that in mind helps me hold on, and it works pretty well considering that I'm here, starting college and my life in the real world.

I plunk myself down on the end of my bed, my hand automatically coming up to my mouth. Biting my nails is a terrible nervous habit that I have, and now that I'm pretty much done getting ready I have all the time in the world left to freak myself out again. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, mentally reciting the plan for today as I try to return my heart to its normal pace. The class is about a ten minute walk across campus so I have about fifteen minutes until I have to leave.

Well, technically I have twenty, but I want to get to class early and leave time for all the mishaps that are sure to happen with my horrible luck.

Deciding that I need to distract myself before I give myself a panic attack, I turn my attention to my still slightly damp hair, seeing as I might as well brush it while until it became an impossible ball of frizz. My hair is actually a lot thicker than it looks. My mum always used to say that she should check if dad was secretly black, since my hair was so thick and difficult to handle. Then she always used to mutter something about how she 'wishes he were black' and how that would make their time more 'enjoyable'. When I was around thirteen she started omitting the last part, but I didn't think back enough to realize what she meant until about three years after that. Even now, I cringe every time the memory attacks me whenever I tear a brush through my wavy brunette locks. No seven year old— scratch that, no any year old — should ever have to hear about their dad's 'size' and 'skill', no matter how subtly it's brought up.