@Robertopancake: A Story About a Boy

Chapter One

***This is a work of fiction. While there is a real, live person who tweets as "@Robertopancake" on Twitter, no portion of this story is based on his actual life, friends, or beliefs. We met on Twitter while chatting about music several years ago, and his funny, youthful, somewhat cynical outlook on life inspired me to create the main character of this story. Any portions of his tweets used in this story have been used entirely out of context, and are used with his permissio

Robertopancake I have a shitload of homework to do.

7:03 PM - 14 Dec 2014

Robertopancake #nowplaying Story of my life-Social Distortion

7:12 PM - 14 Dec 2014

Robertopancake OK starting my homework...soon.

7:15 PM - 14 Dec 2014

Robertopancake Spanish will be the death of me, I swear.

7:18 PM - 14 Dec 2014

Robertopancake Since when did a 62.32% = an F?! WTF?

7:28 PM - 14 Dec 2014

Robertopancake Yo profesor es un pene (penis)

7:29 PM - 14 Dec 2014

Robertopancake LOL. My favorite Spanish word is sacapuntas (pencil sharpener). It just sounds dirty. SACAPUNTAS MOTHERFUCKER!!!

7:31 PM - 14 Dec 2014

Robertopancake #nowplaying El Scorcho-Weezer #DopeAssSong

7:34 PM - 14 Dec 2014

"Robin! Robin!" Instead of just coming up here, my mother is yelling at me up the stairs. I'm sure it's incredibly taxing for a woman who spends half her life at the gym to climb twelve steps. Right now she is-no doubt-on her way to midnight yoga or something. Her summons is blatantly ignored both because I hate to be yelled at, and because my given name is an atrocity. It's not my fault that she deemed Robin a reasonable moniker for a newborn boy child, and I'll be damned if I answer to it now.

"Honey? Can you come down for a minute? Or can I come up?"

I ricochet around the small bedroom like a bullet fired from a cartoon character's gun. I toss clothes into my laundry basket and hide random things under my bedcovers. "Fine! You can come up!" I shout. Oddly, my room smells like hot salami. I yank open a desk drawer, looking for a half-eaten sandwich, or for an oily, long-forgotten piece of meat. Nothing. It remains a mystery, much like the success of Weird Al Yankovic.

My mom bursts into the room wearing her usual super-stretchy, way-too-tight workout clothes. The whole look screams: "Southern California MILF"-obviously, I hate it. In her case, this particular look translates loosely to fake-tanned abs peeking out between her sports bra-tank top thing and some yoga pants. Her her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her make-up is still on. I totally get women wanting to look good by putting on make-up in the first place, but I will never understand the need for them to wear make-up to a gym. It just doesn't compute.

In the mad sixty-second rush to get my room just clean enough to avoid a lecture, I've inexplicably shoved a cracked wooden baseball bat under the covers of my bed. It looks like an anaconda is hiding under there, ready to pounce. I wish I had a real pet snake. It just does not get any cooler than a dude with a pet snake, especially if he has a mustache and totally jacked biceps. And a girlfriend. Sadly, I have none of these things.

"I'm headed to the gym," my mother says, standing in my doorway. "Danica is watching the rest of The Little Mermaid, and then I want her in bed. Capiche?" One fist rests on her small hip, her chin is tucked under, and she has one eyebrow cocked like a dare.