wonderwall.

chapter one.

My name is Davy Clapton Willow. Well, according to my birth certificate my name is Davis, but no one ever calls me Davis. Expect for my teachers on the first day of classes. My parents don't even call me that when I'm in trouble. I don't understand why parents would give their beloved child a name they don't even use.

Yes, despite the typically male name, I am a girl. Vagina, boobs, and all. Well, not really boobs. I mean, I have them they're just quite small. Like, 32 A small. Now that I've lost all the guys reading this book us girls can have our lady talk. 

I'm joking, so totally joking. Lady talk makes me want to be sick. Just the thought of bunch of girls lying round on someone's basement floor moaning, "Oh my stomach cramping is so bad" or "I NEED chocolate. Now." Makes me vomit in my mouth a little bit. And don't get me started about the chills that run down my spine whenever I hear the term "lady talk" or just "lady" in general. Ew.

I'm a fifteen-year-old freshman at Macasona Centennial High School, hereby now noted as MCHS.

I have one seventeen-year-old brother, his name is Sam. Sam is my best friend and together we have some pretty rock n' rollin' adventures and I know I can tell him anything. I'm just going to tell you right now that Sam is gay. Hella gay. So don't become attracted to him because he won't be attracted to you and that just saves us all from a  lot of heartbreak and awkward conversations. I don't know why people make such a big deal about being gay. I'm not talking about the whole "It's a sin" thing because while that is wrong and I consider myself a kind of a Jesus-freak I don't understand their reasoning I'm talking about how the majority of people act like you need to come out and say to everyone you meet "HEY EVERYONE I AM GAY!" because society functions in a way that you are straight until proven gay when in reality your just born that way and it's weird and don't like it. Then again, I don't like a lot of things. But there are tons more things that I like than things I don't. I don't do hate well, I don't do mad well. It makes me feel bad, that I'm hurting someone. Sometimes I think I'm too nice. But being a cold-hearted bitch isn't going to get me anywhere. Being a warm-hearted-boss-ass-bitch is what will get me far.   

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wake up to a smack on the ass and Queen's "I Want It All" blaring from Sam's iPhone decorated with cracks and scratches from the many tumbles out of his pocket.

"What do you want, bitch?" I mumble into my ladybug pillow pet Mr. Smiley.

"You coming with me or not, ya little whoreface?" Sam shouts over the music.

"Give me ten minutes," I moan.

"If you say so, but if we miss the sun it's your fault, if we're late for school it's also you fault, actually if anything goes wrong at all, it's your fault. I'll be in the kitchen," Sam walks out of my room leaving me to search for the motivation to get up and join him on his run.

Sam and I have three things in common, 1) we both like guys 2) we like the same music 3) we both love running. Thanks to those beautiful hormones known as endorphins we can't get enough of it. Well, once we start going that is. I'm still in bed wearing my big fuzzy "sleeping socks", pink and teal pajamie shorts that should be classified as underwear because they aren't covering anything and one of my middle school track t-shirt that is still at least one size too big.

"Davy I can just feel your laziness sliding down the stairs like a snail. Get up, child!" Sam yells.

"Don't call me child, Sam! I'm the only one who gets to address people as child."

"Whatever, just get up! We're going to be late!" I fling my unnaturally-pale leg over the side of my bed and  practically fall out of bed, crawl over to my dresser and pull one of my tank tops from cross country camp and a matching pair of shorts out of my fourth dresser drawer. Well, close enough to matching that is. I yank the Nike sports bra hanging out of my underwear drawer and hastily dress myself and whip my hair into a pretty damn ugly, bumpy, ponytail. I pull my phone off its charger, swipe the white earbuds off my desk and march downstairs to Sam.