Just a note. Please read.

Don't kill me for this. I hope you're not offended. I don't want anyone to be. It's supposed to be funny. People are people, not labels. This is just me making fun of the emo stereotype, featuring some of our favorite & familiar characters. That and, I just get insanely cool ideas sometimes.

This idea in particular isn't supposed to be the most spectacular thing ever and is not to be taken too seriously. So I'm already aware that it's weird. I just felt like it. Ever have that happen: )

I wrote a lot of it between 1 and 3 in the morning. That might explain.

"Gabi, there is no way you're still getting ready," Mrs. Montez yelled up the stairs. "You do realize you have rehearsals with Kelsi and Troy in five minutes, right?"

Gabriella sighed and brought a frustrated fist down on her computer desk. "Yes, Mom," she replied, trying not to clench her teeth. "If freaking Myspace would upload my freaking pictures!"

"What?"

"Nothing. Gosh…"

Gabriella left her computer dejectedly and grabbed her backpack, which was pink but covered with black Sharpie scribbles and various pins declaring her love for punk bands and robots and her attitude towards stupid people, shoving her books inside. It was clearly an off day. Honestly, 7:30 a.m. and Myspace already malfunctioning on her? Purely idiotic.

"Snap it up, mija!"

"I AM SNAPPING." Gabriella grabbed her digital camera off of her desk, sighing in annoyance and holding the camera high up above her head. "…more pictures." She pouted her lip, stared off in the direction of her wall, and took her picture.

Holding the camera down in front of her, she flipped it around and checked to see how the image had turned out. "Oh, that's awesome," she commented with a grin. "Going on the Myspace right after school." She scowled at her computer. "IF IT WORKS! Idiot." She tossed her camera in her bag, slung it over her shoulder, hit her computer screen with the side of her fist, grabbed her eyeliner off her dresser, and left her bedroom in a hurry. Upon slamming the door, her black nail polish was knocked onto the floor and broken. Let's just say Myspace wouldn't be the only thing ticking her off later.

Troy worked to button the pants until they finally fastened. "About freaking time," he mumbled, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. "But… I do look awesome, I guess."

"Troy, who are you talking to?" Mrs. Bolton's curious voice came from the opposite side of the locked door.

"Myself," he admitted, grabbing a brush and a hairdryer.

"Okay…"

Troy sighed, gazing into his reflection at his wet hair, through which he could actually see his piercing blue eyes.

"We'll have to do something about this," he muttered, as the hairdryer roared on. For ten minutes, he brushed, flipped and dried, brushed, flipped and dried.

He shut off his hairdryer, staring at his reflection.

It wasn't right.

He grabbed the brush and carefully, painstakingly ran it through his hair.

"There," he announced finally, thoroughly proud of himself. "I can barely even see. Now…where's my camera?"

After spinning around in circles for several seconds, and feeling around the surface of the counter in front of him, he finally located it.

Looking as grim as possible, he held the camera up beside him, facing the mirror. With a flash, he had a new profile picture.

"Troy, honey, hurry it up a bit. You've got your rehearsals," his mom reminded him, showing up again out of nowhere.

"Yeah, okay."

In these pants, he would find it difficult to run, but he might just have to if he was going to get to those rehearsals on time. Stupid rehearsals. He'd rather sit in his room and play Hawthorne Heights on his guitar. Badly. But Hawthorne Heights nonetheless.

Throwing back his head to shake the hair from his eyes, which he didn't really want to do anyway, for only the first time that day, he threw open the bathroom door and ambled on downstairs. He tried to run. But how did they expect him to in these jeans?