The Dog Days of Summer

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Welcome to my high school story, even spicier than my middle school story. Middle school was a bell pepper. High school was a jalapeño pepper. Does that make college a habanero pepper?

What? Ever. 

I cringe at the thought of ever writing the Dead of Winter. How pathetic of me to have a 7th grade boy the focal point of my onset years. I had no pimp game.

I've thought about completely rewriting my middle school story, but that would take away from my innocence. It would conceal the way I perceived the world when I was just a wee bit preteen. It's funny to think how when I was 12, I was writing about my stupid little love life on my family's desktop computer. Now here I am, at an immortal age, still writing about my stupid little love life on my very own MacBook.

I can't really tell you what was going through my head during my early teen years, except maybe severe ADHD. I had it bad growing up, which is why I hurtfully agree with anyone who tells me I was annoying as a kid. But writing was my only escape, I'll write about your catty comments and make money off of it. Loser.

So if you go back and read The Dead of Winter you'll notice my selective attention, lack of emphasis, my rush through certain descriptions. My style of writing was undoubtedly mediocre. You may even say it still is. But this is my book, my story. So fuck off.   

But who knows? Maybe in a few years from now, I'll cringe at the thought of ever writing The Dog Days of Summer. The sweet years of transforming from purity into immorality. The joys of being a daisy fresh 14-year-old to a sinfully malicious 18-year-old. 

These 4 years of life speed by like a runaway train. You step into your first seminar 101 class and now you're stepping out of your Gov and Econ class. 

Alter egos? Cue the curtains.

Lesson 1: Laugh at your quirky years.