Possibly Punk

Prologue

Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I died. Then I remember that I've already thought that through. My friends would cry, my boss would get mad, my parents would completely fuck up my funeral by making it all pink or something. And my baby brother would laugh and ask if he can use my room for a toy space. And then I think 'Jesus Christ, Beck. Stop being so depressing.' Because I refuse to be one of those depressing girls that says she's punk but is actually more goth or dark grunge.

I'm Beck. Or Becca. Or B. Or whatever you wanna call me. My official birth name is Becca Catherine Diana Sonberg. But everything about that god-forsaken name is lame. So I go by Beck.

I'd like to describe myself as a punk. Or a loser with good music taste. But nothing about my (natural) platinum blonde hair screams punk. Except for the fact that it's shorter than my younger brother's hair. And usually extremely messy, or covered by a beanie. Sure, maybe my nine ear piercings and nose ring say I'm punk, but God, my hair just ruins it. Eh, I make up for it with eyeliner and a wardrobe full of black and red. Aaaand now I seem like a total poser.

I probably have anger management issues. I play bass. I like to cook, but I only eat pizza, canned soup, and coffee. And cereal. I have issues with most of the people at my school. I only have two friends. I like any music in the punk genre. Some of my favorite bands are the Sex Pistols, the Ramones, the Misfits, Flogging Molly, the Dropkick Murphys... Okay I seem like a complete poser. I'll just shut up now.

Basically. I'm Beck. I'm 15 years old, I live in the hills of San Francisco, and I use the word radical too much. And this is the story of how I accidentally got expelled, ran away, lived in a warehouse, and joined a band. And other stupid stuff.

Authors note yo - hi there. this is supposed to have important notifications or something in it. it won't. aaaaanyways. beck sounds completely cliche, ik. just bear with me. kthnxbye.