For, Marley

Let's Begin

     There's a few things you should know before we get to the actual story.

1) My name is David Blake.

2) I am fifteen years old.

3) I am a Sophomore.

4) I am the head of the school newspaper.

5) I run the Journalism club.

6) Writing is fun.

     'Why is writing fun?', you may ask. The answer is simple. It is fun because I am in control. I can write whatever I want, from a chicken eating it's own foot to a man murdering his best friend for sleeping with his wife.

     Writing is a way to express how you feel. It's the power to express what's going on in your mind. Writing lead to stories that are straight from the minds of normal people. They can make their own kingdom, their own world, their own life... If that's not beautiful, I don't know what is.

     You can call me crazy as many times as you want. It's true. I am quite abnormal at times. However, this is my story. Well, our story. Marley and me. Not like the guy and the dog type thing, because that's really weird. I'm talking about Marley Summers. Though, we should get to her later.

     I will start here: December 12. The day I decided to write a psychological/scientific article for the school newspaper. It was the weirdest ideas I've ever had. Imagine me, the short kid with brown hair and grey eyes wearing a black North Face jacket and jeans, sitting in the cold outside waiting for the school bus.

     When I was younger, I always asked myself, "When do authors just randomly think, 'Hey! I'm gonna write a book that ruins lives!'?" It can happen literally anywhere. Like, they could be at a coffee shop, or in the shower, or at the park, amusement park, Chicago, Nevada, Vegas. They could even be sitting on the toilet while writing.

     So there I was at the bus stop. Then it hit me like a bat to a baseball. Why not write an article about human emotions? That would be very fun.

It really wasn't.

     Let me just say, I was pretty normal before I met Marley. I cannot tell a lie. Let's call the me who didn't meet Marley yet, Pre-Dave. The equivalent form can be "Stupid Dave" or "Dave Who Was the Lamest of the Lame".

     I will admit that I am a scatter brained kid with lots of emotional problems (me, me. Not Pre-Dave). And I will also admit that Pre-Dave is very lame and pretty uptight. Usually, it would be a lot more, "Oh, yeah. This kid lost his mom and/or dad and siblings and is an orphan". Yeah, no. I have a great family actually. They all just live in California. I live here in Chicago, Illinois where the winters are rough and the summers are even more so.

        Reasons why I'm living here:

1) School scholarship

2) My grandparents may need help with things so I'm here to help

3) I freaking hate really hot weather

         So yeah. It's nothing personal anyway. I call my parents everyday, they call me back. It's pretty simple. I'm totally fine with it. The only thing I'm not okay with is the fact that I'm in a high school that gives us fifty pounds of homework each night.

        Anyways, I was standing out in the snow waiting for the bus as my neighbor Jamie Patrick, the school's biggest failed flirt ever, ran up to me. He was quite the looker, I guess. Jamie had dark brown hair and a light complexion. He's very loud and crazy about almost every girl, ever.  "Davie, my good man!" He said, "I swear to God, I have found her!"
        "Found who?"
        "The one."
        "Again?"