Lost in the Story

Chocolate Drop

Now I love sappy love stories as much as the next lovesick teenage gal lost in this world, but let me tell you something I’m sure you already know. That shit? Doesn't exist. Before high school I was already obsessed with the idea of a picture perfect high school relationship. A guy who takes you out to fancy restaurants in his nice car, cuddles with you when you’re sad, brings you soup when you’re sick, or buys you chocolate when you’re on your period. But let’s get real, how many girls do you know that actually have perfect boyfriends? I'm guessing not many right? I know I’m not the only girl who thinks that one day a perfect guy will come along and just fix everything, be the glue for your broken heart. But it doesn’t work like that, and I can tell you first hand just how things go down. That perfect guy doesn’t exist nine times out of ten; and sometimes that guy isn’t a guy at all; if you know what I mean. I hate to be the bearer of bad news but let me tell you just how my high school experience went down, really.

Every morning I go through a roller-coaster of emotions before its even ten. I have to get up every morning to my mother shouting in her sleepy raspy voice, from my brother’s room.

“Lilyana get up and take your shower!”

Every morning she has to get up my little brother Bryan because for some reason a nine year old boy can’t manage to be at all functional in the morning. I don’t get it, I know he is young but he is almost ten and I’m sure at that age I was pretty self-sufficient. Well… at least more self-sufficient than him in the mornings.

I love to start my day with a shower. I always leave the light off in the bathroom and just turn on the small lamp so I can slowly adjust to the light. The shower always helps wake me up and get my thoughts together in the morning; with the occasional song and dance. Plus not to mention with a head full of frizzy curly hair you have to wash it often just to make it look decent. Thanks to my mom being Mexican and my biological dad being Jamaican I had the world frizziest thick curls, which were dying slowly from all the ombre hair die and constant abuse from my straighter.

And like clockwork by 7:25 my room floor was cluttered with a pile of rejected outfits. I had a bland style really. I hated how people always tried to categorize you by what you wore. I always just wear what I feels looks good to me. One day I could look super hipster, flower crown and all, but the next day you could most likely find me roaming the halls in my signature black hoodie and jeans. Today felt like a jeans and 5sos t-shirt day.

By the time I had given up on wrestling my hair and just put it in a braid it was 8:12. So began my walk to the bus stop. Gosh I hated the bus, not to mention the bus stop was on the complete opposite side of my apartment complex, so I had to allot extra time in the morning to walk there.

My bus stopped at all the apartment complexes between here and my school. Everyone on my bus fell into two social groups, stereotypical nerds, and wannabe ghetto kids. But let’s be honest we all lived in a nice middle class area so I don’t know what kind of show they were putting on. I mostly sat by myself and put my large colorguard duffle bag, along with my equally large backpack, in the seat next to me to avoid anyone trying to sit with there. It’s not that I’m a loner or anything, I just hate the long ride in silence, sitting next to some stranger pressed up against me as the bus makes its turns. I did know a few of the guys on the bus but I preferred not to talk to them because they always end up shamelessly flirting with me. I’m not at all attractive, they are just super sleazy and find it funny to make me uncomfortable.