the life of TRISTEN. an original story.

Tristenville.

A new town. It's stupid, I think, but mom and daad insist it's not. They're not stupid though. I know they care about me a lot and all, but I didn't want to move. I had to leave my girlfriend, Kristen, and she's gonna miss me a whole lot. She already texted me three times in this entire week of us moving.

My poor babe.

We're moving to Tristenville, a town inside of America, thank God. It's a town of mystery. Nobody really knows where it came from, or how it got here. But it's here. 

We drive pass the Tristenville border sign, saying that we're "NOW ENTERING TRISTENVILLE, A TOPIA FOR TRISTENS." Basically, the law says that only people named Tristen are allowed in this city. My dad got transferred to a law firm in Tristenville. Only one problem, obvi, none of our names are really Tristen.

My daad is Brad Man, my mom's Thad Wo-Man, and I'm Chad Man. But we legally changed our names to Tristen. Now we're all Tristen Man. At least it's a hot name, belonging to hot people. I miss being called Chad, but it's all good in the hotbourhood, bro. At least we look hot and sound hot and feel hot.

Daad swung the car over and almost flipped us all. It was cool. "Tristen, bro, can you help me?"

"UGHHHHHHHHH DAAD." I say, but whatever I listen because I'm a good son with GOOD responsibilities. One week I helped some old hoe mow her lawn because she couldn't. It was cool and I got buff for the summer. ;).

I hold my singular suitcase. I only had an endless supply of t-shirts with the faded hems and shark tooth necklaces. And my guitar. I played a little song on it, and daad almost punched me in the crotch with his fist. He's such a lame-o sometimes. Whatever, he's a whore. But he's not. I'm a good boy with a good, broken, misunderstood soul. Just like my boots. The sole has a hole through the middle of it, but I duct-taped it. Daad said it was cool. It was cool.

"Yo, mom, where's your other bag?"

"It's in my other bag."

"Goddammit Tristen, I can't do that." Daad said. Ugh, it was totally stupid.

"Can't do what, Tristen? Be a RESPONSIBLE FATHER??????" Mom yelled.

"Ya."

"Ok."

It was cool. We moved our four suitcases into our new house. It was blue. Like my eyes. Like my t(for Tristen)-shirt. I looked at the big house. I changed my mind. It wasn't stupid. It was really hot. Like me. Okay, maybe like not as hot but still pretty hot. It was cool. 

I looked at my parents. Daad took off his shirt. 

"Daad wtf"

He giggled. "Nah. Go out, son, get yourself a hoe."

"Daad"

"Tristen i stg if u dont"

"ok I'll do it." I went up to my room, which was fully unpacked, and smeared black lipstick on my cheeks like war paint. Like bro-war paint. This was now a bro-war. I rolled down the stairs and posed in a stance with my hands out. Daad just gasped, before telling me to go get a hoe. He was a hoe. A man-hoe. Whatever I loved him. I ain't gonna break any rules. I'm a simple misunderstood hot boy. Sorry Daad.

I left the house, hotly, my hair was all flowy in the wind. I knew it smelled like autumn. Like a hot autumn breeze, in the summer. I knew it was good. I'm gonna have all the hoes at my door. It's cool. I'm cool.

The city was hot, I guess. Not as hot as me but like.. Pretty cool. I guess. It was cool. cool. cool.cool...coool. I see a hot chick, she's hot. Like me. Only... more. Woman. I can't believe the hotness. I like her hot outfit. Shirts are chill. It's cool. She has the same outfit choices as me. Blue faded shirts, only hers are tucked into her skirt. She's hot. We should be hot together. 

I wonder what her name is...

I lay on the pavement in front of her feet. She trips, she didn't see me. Silly goose. The heels of her feet dug into my ribs, the other in my gut. It was cool though. She's hot. 

"I'm sorry." The hot chick gasped.

"Bro," I stood up, fast. I'm cool like that. "it's all good in the hotbourhood."

"I'm a hoe... Not a bro."

"Sorry fam..." I sighed, looking at my feet. "That was totally offensive."

"It's chill..." She held out her hot hand, her nails were like daggers that I wanted to shove into my eyes, only coolly. "My name is Tristen."

"WOAH." I yelped, shaking her hand quickly, then almost accidentally-- hotly-- throwing her to the ground with the power of my extreme hand shake. "MY NAME IS TRISTEN TOO."

"We're... we're all Tristen. It's what puts the Tristen in Tristenville."

"Oh, yeah, that's cool." It was obvious. OBVIOUSLY COOL HAHAHA nice. "Wanna date?"

"Yeah, I love you."

"Woah." I held up my hands, near my impressive man-pecs. "That's a li'l soon don't you think, hoe?"

"Yeah.. Sorry."

"Stop apologizing wtf." We held hands like a hot couple. "Whateve, let's go get coffee."

"Yeah." Brunette-Tristen, my hella cool nickname for her, said. She's hella cute, if you know what I'm saying. "What kind of cof--"

"Starbucks dont u fight me on this hoe" 

She nods. Cool.

We go to Starbucks. I get my Triple Mocha Frap with Double Cream, Less Steam Triple Shot of Tequila. I call it the Chacho. Because there's a layer of Chacho at the bottom. Yum. She had a stupid latte that looked like a yam. I hate yams.

"What are you drinking, babe?" Brunette-Tristen asked, looking at her yam smoothie. 

"The Chacho." I wiggle my eyebrows. It's hot. She temporarily mentally faints I know.

"wtf is a Chacho." 

S"WHAT THE Fheck for the young viewers :)" I giggle, then man up and step on her toes.

"Ooch."

"Stfu idc im a man."

"Oh."

I drink my super hot Chacho. I look hot too. But I hate lipstick stains ugh. She just drinks her stupid yam milkshake. Whatever yams are growing on me the color of yams are like her eyes. I love yams.