Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson; the wonderful Rick Riordan does.
First, let's get something straight: I am not, nor will I ever be Hades's Boy.
Second, life is a bitch. It's as simple as that. All you get from it is a few happy moments at best and then the rest is shit. After that, you eventually die, maybe young if you're lucky. Then your soul goes somewhere, the Underworld according to myth and my father, who is a pain in the ass anyway. Yeah, he thinks he's all that just because he runs the world of the dead. Well, whoop-de-do for him.
In all honesty, I'd love to die and get life over with. But, two things stop me. Daddy dearest runs Hell, and suicide doesn't get a good punishment. Really I'm a glutton for punishment, so I would deal with it in the long run. But spending eternity with my father would be the worst torture available. Yet, I still hate life. The only reason I put up with it is because of the alternative.
Now, I do so hate to be stereotypical, but yes, I am emo…gothic…whatever you want to label me as. I cut myself, have shaggy black hair, wear all black and charcoal nail polish, but you know what? I. Don't. Care. If a stereotype is all I am to this world, so be it. I'd rather be known as that than a son of Hades who looks a hell of a lot like his brother Nico but has a worse attitude. Yes, obviously camp has done nothing for my anger and war against the world. And no matter how much Chiron wants me to try venting to someone or even by training, I won't. I'm that rebel. Yes, I am predictable, damn it.
So, you want to read about me? Go on, be my guest. But what you'll read here is the cold ugly truth. Is my life pretty? Gods, no. Am I a drunk? An addict? Everything a parent hates in a potential boyfriend for their child? You bet. Would I change a thing if I could? No. Not on my life.