So I was sitting in my room "burritoed" in my bed quilt, wearing my green dinosaur onesie on my laptop watching YouTube videos about how many hidden Easter Eggs there are in "Toy Story 2". So, basically, your average Sunday afternoon. I was supposed to be writing my English essay on how different stories play with unfamiliar words or something, but I can just do that at around two thirty in the morning rushing myself to get it done when I wished I did it right then when I had a clear chance and could ACTUALLY get some sleep that night, but that was too much effort right then. The only effort I'm willing and dedicated to put in is me going all the way downstairs to the fridge to grab a slice of ham to eat and back up again.
Mum's downstairs talking to our landlord about the date we're moving. This is the third time this is happening in eight months. Why can't she just decide on a stupid little house? It's not difficult! On the bright side, all the houses we've moved into during these eight months are all close to school, so I haven't had to move to a new one or anything. I heard the door close, and around five minutes later, the sweet smell of bacon and eggs was elegantly drifting up the stairs, into my room and kindly travelled into my nose. Ten minutes had then gone and my stomach decided that I was starting to get hungry. So, after several attempts at trying to unwrap my sweaty yet comfortable blanket burrito and gracefully falling onto the floor (wasn't graceful, but keep trying Poppy), I went downstairs to see if mum needed any help (ha, funny joke). She looked at me in disappointment.
"Poppy, honey, are you still wearing that hideous T-Rex jumpsuit thingy? You've been wearing it all night and day, I'm sure your BO will be as bad a hobo's by now!"
"Mum! Hobos are amazing people. They're like Bear Grylls, they basically live in the wild, only their idea of "the wild" is the outside shelter by the trolleys at the local Co-op. They have to find shelter from the typical British weather, eat whatever they find, and they go without washing for weeks, months, years even! Now if you ask me, I think they all deserve a medal, a trophy, a large home a nice hot bubble bath. And by the way, mum, it's called a onesie. Personally, I think I look rather fabulous in it, no matter how unattractive my sweat stains are!"
She tutted at me before nodding her head toward my hair with yet another disgusted look on her face as if to say: "that bun on your head looks like an exploded tomato!" (I didn't know how else to explain, so just go with it, will you?).
"Ah, yes mother!" I explained in a rather posh yet sarcastic tone. "This is a new invention used by many, many teenagers of this era that would call it, the messy bun. Now, in case you misheard the name of this creation, the bun on the top of my head is supposed to be messy, you see."
She scowled at me with that motherly scowl, and I simply gave a sarcastic smile, a rolling of the eyes and a wave goodbye as I crawled up the stairs again on my hands and feet.
