Rock my Socks
A/N: So, I'm going through this time period wherein plot bunnies are, like, running rampant in my brain and procreating with my writing genius and creating story blurbs. Then they just leave me with a half finished blurb that I'm supposed to turn into magnificence. Gosh, feel my pain, bros.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto!
Hey BITCHES! I'm BAAACK,
(and on the freaking move)
According to the tally system that's been enlisted since three years ago, this would be the thirty first official moving day. Honestly, I don't understand it at all. Of course partially—in that back corner of my brain, way in the back with the dusty stuff and mold and spiders that people would rather not touch and otherwise associate themselves with (read: me)—I see why it is we must move so very much.
You see, Daddy is a lawyer. But not some lawyer that anybody can drop a few Benjamin dollars on and call it a day. He's, like, an important people lawyer. For celebrities and junk. I'm sure you don't care. But I do. These rich snobs are the reason why I've moved away from a home that I just started getting used to for the thirty first time.
For reals, though, I should just give up the dream that I can stay in a place long enough to make friends. It's like, not going to happen. Just saying.
(Not that I need friends, anyway. I have my fingers and markers, and we can totally get ourselves a little one-on-one deep heart-to-heart convo going on here, Thumb. You know you want to get to know me better. I'm that shit and, yes, now that you mention it, I do attract fleas.)
With much love for my thugs,
SOCKYbaby3-28
Chapter One:
I Swear I'm Listening.
(Now, what were you saying about the blah blah blah boring; OMG you're so atrocious; what's wrong your face; your female-stache, please meet a freaking razor; can you please invest in deodorant it smells like rat, again?)
:)
I have a sister and her name is Peach Tree.
Just kidding, we don't live in a freaking tribe. STEREOTYPE
But, no offense to all of those people out there that I've probably offended, but, whatever; I know I've offended you and because I am too prideful and awesomely to offer an apology, you should just take what I offer and know that I'm deeply apologetic. You know. Deep down in there. Somewhere. Like in the basement beneath the basement where gremlins live. Yep. There is where you will find my apology.
I digress, however, for I must return to the tale of which I was beginning to tell that was of my sister.
Her name is Momoko, which translates to Peach Tree or Peach Child or something to do with those furry little juicy round fruits. She's like three years older than me, being nineteen and whatnot, totally relishing in the adulthood life of partying at clubs but not legally being allowed to drink alcohol—which she really does anyway, truth be announced to my parents one of these days—and having sex whenever she wants and whatnot. Despite her new found ideas on growing up and freedom, she still lives with us.
Us being those born of normal circumstances and not out of eggs.
Like spawn.
Momoko doesn't seem to understand that I, the ever-awesomesauce-amazing-goddess-rock starlet Sakura that I so humbly am, don't like people barging into my room at four in the morning after a rushed Sunday afternoon of packing and listening to stupid movers ask where the refrigerator goes when it so obviously belongs in the kitchen. I hate this place already, like, where else would a refrigerator go?
(In my pants.)
When I heard the loud blowing sound of my—brand new, salon-certified, sleek and sophisticated, IDK expensive that I bought with my own money—blow dryer blaring from what I assumed was my new bathroom, my eyes cranked open. Stupid bitch doing loud things while her angel of a sister is trying to get her sleep in before she has to go to school in a few hours. I bundled my thin sheets around my body in a sort of mummy sort of gorgeous (psh, I am all the way gorgeous, I am working it) wrap and stomp toward the noise.
"Oh, dear, darling sister, what are you busying yourself with in my inhabitance at such an early hour?" I say, though it really comes out like, "Ugh, you're such a ho, why are you blow drying your stupid coral colored hair in my fucking bathroom; turn your fat ass around and let the doorknob hit you where my fist will split you."
…ahem. Dear, golly, gee, it seems I have unleashed the beast that is my temper. Darn. I really must change that lock.
Momoko stares at me incredulously through her icy blue eyes, pausing in the drying process only to shut off the machine. She wraps the cord around the handle of the sleek blow dryer at a painstakingly slow pace, watching each coil with concentrated precision, making sure every row lined up, perfectly parallel with the last. I find myself drawn into the process hypnotically. When she juts it into my chest, I jump back instinctively.
I hesitantly reach for the thing and growl when it's ripped away quickly.
"Bitch," I bite out, narrowing my eyes.
She shrugs, "Whore."
My mouth tightens into a line because I am really trying to hold it all in. I mean, how am I the whore? Let's be honest here, people. I don't walk out my house in a denim miniskirt, stilettos, and a thong. I don't wear a cheetah print bra as a shirt and pull it off as such, saying that it's okay to wear out as long as you have a sheer cover up on top. Nope. I must have it twisted and should schedule an appointment with my eye doctor immediately. I look her over one final time, watching as she fiddles with her blown straight hair, pursing her lips. She's probably trying to make her fat face look less disgusting.
Boom. Explosion. Firework in your pants.
"At least people come to my corner," I mutter quickly, slamming the bathroom door as soon as the words leave my mouth. I then sprint for a mountain of boxes and push them quickly toward the closed door, blocking the exit of the (now screaming) banshee. She pounds on the door and screams death threats as I slide into my bed, snuggling into the comfort.
Pissed off, trapped Momoko. Just what I like to hear in the wee hours of daylight. Suck on that cherry flavored victory, Peach Tree.
"I found your sister in the most interesting of places this morning."
Thanks so much for the neutral, non-accusing conversation starter, Mom.
I shake the last of the Lucky Charms in my bowl and groan when all I see left are those gross little cardboard flavored booger shaped non-sugary cereal bits. You'd think manufacturers would realize that nobody eats those things and just jam-pack the red box of deliciousness with seventy-five percent marshmallows and twenty-five percent gross cardboard. I mean, the idea of fifty-fifty is so off that you actually have to dig for the good stuff and they always run out first. That ends the box, like, five bowls earlier than it would've lived if there were more charms mixed in there.
My face darkens further when four marshmallows tumble out. How wonderful. These four charms are definitely going to put me on the lucky radar. Gawd, is the world out to get me, or is it just the leprechauns hating meg hard on me? I think that would be the second, bitches!
I plop down across my mother and bite the inside of my mouth, pouring in some two percent fat milk. Sometimes I wonder how in the world the people know how much fat is in liquid—like seriously—but then I realize that I really don't care.
"Really now, Kaa-san? Where did you find it?"
Both my sarcasm and reference to my sister are done daily and purposefully. It'll become cheery sarcasm once the day progresses for right now I am just like BLAH. Pre-coffee morning and whatnot.
My mother furrows her brows. "Sakura! She is your elder sister and you will treat her as such."
I nod, murmuring some sounds that sound understanding and reassuring as I spoon some cereal into my mouth. For the record, it's gross. Just in case you didn't read that one part explaining the booger shaped cardboard. You are so welcome.
"I found her in your bathroom, door blockaded by moving boxes."
"That would be correct," I agree, chewing the cereal. I lay my head on my hand and stare at my birth giver blankly.
She turns all red like old people do when they're upset and I swear, I see her mouth moving, but, really, the words aren't reaching my ears so I enact the 'Nod Every Few Seconds and Mumble a Couple Uh huhs' propaganda.
You know you're jealous that it works when I do it and it ultimately fails whenever you do it. But, you know, it's okay. Everybody is good at what they do and it just so happens that I'm fantastic at acting like I care in a way that shows that I really don't care, but, since I'm acting like I do care, people don't say anything. It is an art form, and practice does make perfect in the end.
Don't give up. I believe that one day, you'll get there. Sincerely.
I sip the Frappuccino, enjoying thecocoa flavor slipping down my throat. The cold coffee bean sends shivers down my spine and I sigh happily, kicking my legs on the ledge of the school's balcony edge, stairs next to me. It's been too long since I enjoyed the true delicacy that is coffee, too long since chocolate lit my taste buds in ecstasy. I feel the need to blog.
…
Shut the fuck up, it's a problem, I know; I've been pretending to go to therapy for the past three months. GAWD. Would you mind your own business? Oh, I forgot. You don't have any.
Yes, that is I distinguishing the fire on your arm for you were just burned.
…
But, anyway, as I was saying, I need to blog.
You see, I haven't blogged since we left America. And, psh, the airplane we were in didn't have any Wi-Fi—dear god, somebody tell them to fly into the 21st century, please—so that was like a whole IDK 18 hours without blogging rights.
Eighteen hours with Peach Tree, without blogs, texts, or anything that has to do with my ever-wonderful iPhone is pure torture. Plus I had the middle seat in coach—since a-pair-rent-lee my super douche bag father (otherwise known as the reason we were even on the freaking plane in the freaking first place) isn't good enough for 1st class—between Momoko and this fat woman who took up half my seat anyway.
So. Even though my pretend therapist has been telling me that I should pretend stop blogging to get over my pretend problem (since we all know that doesn't exist) I'm going to for real blog.
About this crappy school.
It's called Konoha Preparatory Academy. Or KPA. Which is really stupid. I mean, the first thing I thought of was CPA—from Zoey 101, you know, with Britney Spears's sister—and I was like, oh, okay, this place could be cool if they have motorized scooters and a beach right off campus.
BUT NO.
We're in the middle of mainland freaking Japan and the only thing semi-interesting/distracting about the scenery—that is nothing but a forest of trees—is the really hot Japanese guys. But half of them sorta look like those androgynous females, so, I'm here like, OMG, so can you help me around? Eyelash bat.
And then they're like: "I'm not gay."
So then I'm like: "Ohhhhh…."
That has happened like fourteen times already and, even though I know I prefer dicks, I'm starting to question my ability to differentiate them from chicks.
But I digress.
KPA isn't really that bad. I mean, everyone speaks really good Japanese and I'm here barely knowing the basics and my accent sucks. I sound stupid and so stereotypical and like I should be in some remedial class. I'm smart, I swear, I'm just from America and think that everyone should speak English!
…
"Yes?" I ask, barely looking up from my phone screen. My thumb movement to text speed ratio slowed greatly, much thanks to the giant standing over me and totally blocking all of my sunlight. I begin to think that this person is deaf and socially stupid. Who doesn't understand the personal bubble theory? He's totally popping my bubble.
The ho.
I push POST on my blog page, standing up simultaneously. I dust off the atrocious uniform skirt as I quarry my battle tactic. Should I let it slide?
I have half of a mind to let it all loose, since I was blogging and all, but, I must make friends. I clear my throat, and, with as much dignity as I can manage, I reach in my backpack and pull out an English to Japanese dictionary.
My face scrunches together in concentration. "Ohayo," I blurt out, eyes narrowing. Okay, that means good morning…I glance toward the barely risen sun. So far so good. I flip through some more pages, biting my bottom lip. "Amerika kara kimashita..."
Just as I begin sifting through more pages, therefore proving that I really am from America, the dictionary is snatched from my hands.
"I speak English."
My face folds into a grimace before falling flat.
I'm so happy that he—super hot McStudMuffin—speaks my language.
(This Japan thing is seriously not working out.)
((But it's obvious that he is. :DDDDD))
A/N: Review!
~hotoffthefryer