4 Guys Stole My Flat

The Biology of Idiots - Part 1

Do you know that you can't change the volume of your voice in you head? Like, if you were to think "Wow this is a really good book" and then think "WOW! THIS IS A REALLY GOOD BOOK" the volume doesn't change and it just alters the aggressiveness of which you say it...

I bet you just tried that, didn't you? Aha.

Anyway.

It's Ari Fisher, always been since I was born, haven't changed it since. I moved to a lovely city in in the rainy country of England after Dad forced me to go to a 'good' University - I could've stayed in Canada, but he thought it wouldn't be beneficial to my studies (whatever the hell that means).

So here I am, a student who lives on their own in the top flat of a simple two-story town house. In addition to that, the only items have to my name are multiple study books and crippling student debt, but I get by.

And by that I mean I'm dreading every living minute in this hell hole.

More so right now when I'm sitting in a biology lecture half an hour before the lecturer usually even attempts to show up. There's no one here except from myself and a few loitering teenagers, who I don't even think go to this school. A spotty prepubescent kid walks in every now and again to check if the lecturer is here yet, then he disappears again - probably to do some pot or some dodgy shit like that. Nasty people, there are here.

I pull my phone out and type in my password under my desk - yeah, I know I just said there's no one here, but that group of skinheads swearing like a sailor behind me could jump me any second, and what would happen to my beloved phone if they caught the password? That's right, they'd be scrolling through my camera roll of awkward selfies while I'm knocked out on the floor. It's better being safe than sorry.

The phone screen morphs into my home wallpaper; a photo of the Empire State building I took when my high school went on an 'educational' trip many years ago.

God, I'm old.

There's a text message, and, when I open it, I realise it's from my dad. First of all, I'm impressed he was actually able to access his phone since he's as old as Pablo Picasso by now. Second of all, I'm absolutely revolted by what I'm reading. Revolted as if I'm reading a Donald Trump tweet.

To You
From Dearest Father
Hey, I just needed to know how many beds you have in your house. Love you lots x
Received 13:45 pm

I have no clue why he wants to know the amount of beds I have. That's a really weird question, as if an author is trying to foreshadow what is going to happen in a book that you can clearly tell what the plot line will be because of the cleverly picked title.

To Dearest Father
From You
I've only got one bed, why do you need to know? Xx
Sent 13:46 pm

He's so awkward. Like, seriously! Who under the sun actually asks their child how many beds they have?!

To You
From Dearest Father
It's because I've let you have some new roommates - don't worry, I'm getting a lot of money from rent Xx
Received 13:46 pm

...you're kidding me...

To Dearest Father
From You
Oh, okay, and you didn't even think to ask me for permission? Thanks Dad, but I've got a lecture now. Have fun ruining my life! Xx
Sent 13:47 pm