I'd Marry You, Harry

Prologue:

Ah, Monday. I usually wouldn't be so happy-go-lucky but grumpy and miserably, but at days like this one who couldn't feel the joy in the air? I might be misleading, so I'll narrate it a little bit.

A marching band, all their glamurous outfits tored and dirty, were being chased by a class full of zombies. No, I didn't make it up, it's true. Although the 'zombies' clearly are terrible at doing their makeup, for sure.

Let's face it, even I would do a better job at it than them. I know I'm a girl and the talent's supposed to come 'naturally', but for a girl I'm as bad as it can get.

Anyways, back to the disaster.

Did I mention I was wearing a janitor's outfit? That was probably important to the story line. No one noticed it was me, though. I found yet another hidden talent among not setting fire to my house while making cereal for breakfast, not murdering anyone my whole life, not contracting herpes for a good 19 years, and it is hiding my face with a cleaning mop. I've got to admit, I do look good as a mop head. Get it? Mop head? Jeez, tough crowd.

Now there is a particular reason to why I'm hiding, and I would probably get to the point sooner or later. But first, take a look at what else is happening.

Shanna, the ying to my yang - literally - was casually running down the corridors wearing a lemon yellow duckling outfit. Don't get me started on the sound she made when ever she would try to talk - and she was screaming. Sounds like an original duck, if you'd ask me. Except this one had a pom pom hat stuck to her head.

Not far behind her was Matt, holding up a bullhorn yelling nonsense in and out of it so it wasn't that bearable at all. He did hold a few yellow feathers in his other hand, grasping them in hope they wouldn't fall.

And then there's Harold, in all his mightiness of Rolling Stone's black shirt, ever-so-tight skinny jeans, white converse and a dazzling American flag bandana wrapped onto his famously known shiny curls while he sashey'd his way over to me and carried in one hand

a plant.

Now this all might sound pretty reckless for a story beginning after all, but you'll get the idea if you knew what happened before.

No, not a day. More than that.

More than a week. Keep going, keep going...

Oh for fuck's sake, forget it. 

It all started with a boy named Harold.