Welcome to this book by @Bookfunreader123 and @riptide2406, also known as Amber and Selene. This is our special place where we roast every overused Riordanverse fanfiction trope available and write horrible cliché fanfiction to prove a point. If you...
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Note 1: So recently, we've been getting some comments claiming that we are hating on young/impressionable/both young and impressionable readers, so we just wanted to address this today.
We assure you, we are not hating on anyone. We are just here to inform all RR fans of what all is offensive and/or incorrect/overused while writing a story. We were young and impressionable once and we made our own set of mistakes, but that doesn't mean we're hating on you guys for that. We are not hating on any of you (we love you all so much) and we fully blame RR for his negative stereotypes and his lack of research. We are here to do the research for you (which doesn't mean you shouldn't do any yourself but you get our point).
We deeply apologise if anything we say sounds offensive and you have full rights to call us out on it so we can apologise.
(P.S. calling *our* younger selves cringe, which definitely does not include any other person but ourselves, is not counted as us generalising all 10-12 year olds as cringe, just so you know.)
Note 2: Whatever happens in this chapter isn't necessarily a "bad" thing, and we're not shaming anyone for their choice of clothing. We hope you guys know that. We're just, um, pointing out some stuff that you'll probably figure out from the chapter itself.
Annabae's POV
I woke up to my alarm clock literally flying off the table and wailing right inside my eardrum by squeezing itself inside my auditory canal, so I put it out of its misery by yanking it out of my ear and throwing it as hard as I could against the wall.
It broke and reformed itself as always. Stupid alarm clocks are a disgrace to humanity. Periodt.
I stared at the grey chandelier hanging from the grey ceiling with my stormy grey orbs that looked like stormy grey clouds. Then I slipped out of my grey bed and placed my feet on the grey carpeted floor. Then I changed my clothes. Then I went down to eat breakfast. Then I wore a grey tank top that complimented my eyes and shorts with grey high heels. I put my hair into two French braids and wore my favourite cherry lip gloss. Then I went down the stairs to go to school.
I sat in my grey convertible. I'd always wanted to design my own car but my mom, Athena Chase, gave me this stinky old car. Anyway, I drove down the stairs to Goode High School, the home to every fake person in existence.
In our not-Euphoria-High-School high school, I was never told off for my clothes even though they were against the school rules. Actually, the school rules don't exist until they're relevant to the plot.
Then I changed my clothes again for English class. This time I wore a baby blue shirt and a grey bandana with skinny jeans, because skinny jeans are apparently the only known jeans in existence. I girlbossed my way down the hallways, judo-flipping any girl who even dared to present herself in front of my stormy grey cloud orbs in "feminine" clothes, since, well, clothes now have gender, obviously.
