Vengeance

Chapter One: I Doubt Harry Styles Wants To Kiss a Girl Who...

Chapter 1: I Doubt Harry Styles Wants To Kiss a Girl Who Just Got Obliterated By a Toilet

8/16/2016
Entry: 1

WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, I was completely, incredibly, and desperately in love with a spaghetti stained One Direction sweatshirt.

Or perhaps it wasn't just the meal stains and polyester fabric that had seduced my heart into captivity. It might have also been the five British heartthrobs on the sweatshirt. And, boy, did they make leftovers look like Gucci.

I was in love with Harry Styles, but who wasn't?

Not much has changed since then in that area. I was completely, irrevocably in love with the curly haired, green eyed dolt with two left feet, and I'm still irreversibly in love with Harry Styles.

But I guess things have changed since the eighth grade to now. That's why I need to write in you (ew, that felt weird to write.)

When I was thirteen years old, I was completely, incredibly, and desperately in love with a spaghetti stained One Direction sweatshirt. I was also completely, incredibly, and infuriatingly in hate with Alex Xaviers.

Alex Xaviers.

The villain of my existence, and the hero of my high school hit list.

The one who had made middle school the equivalent of Hell for a thirteen year old trying to get through it, with her body in a spaghetti stained 1D sweatshirt, and her head up in the clouds, seeing stars as the voices of five guys diminished the feeling of solitude clouding over her.

Middle school is a major developmental stage. They say high school is where most of the legitimate material starts building up, but I don't feel that's the case. Middle school is where you somehow transition from a mindless, idealistic kid to someone who can see the world as it is, but also idealistically.

Suddenly and totally, you're in a world where colorful shirts and patterned dresses don't make the cut anymore, and Brandon isn't texting you to come along with the kids who have dilated eyes to just play anymore.

Middle school is intense, but it's developmental. And when something wrong happens then, it has the potential to mess you up beyond decibels fathomed before.

It was a moderately windy day, there were wispy clouds fading into the blue sky, and I was in my room throwing on that sweatshirt despite my mother's prior, well enunciated disapproval of the well worn fabric.

I ran a brush through my short hair a few times before calling it quits. It was always so hard to control, because of how quickly it tangled.

I had bounced my way down the stairs, probably looking like a beached whale.

My sweatshirt was a size XXXL and so was I.

But I didn't care what animals Alex Xaviers had labeled me as at school, because I was a stupidly happy, childish girl who hadn't gone through that intense but important transition middle school had to offer. I sort of didn't care.

"Good morning, munchkin," dad greeted, his voice muffled as his mouth was full of toast. I happily exchanged the greeting and sat myself down to a helping of Lucky Charms, no milk.

"Quick, London, you're going to be late for your bus," my mom urged hastily, clipping her strawberry blonde hair and hustling around the kitchen. This was her way of saying 'hi' in the morning, and it was probably because I spent way too much of my time lying in bed doing nothing instead of getting ready.

I just grumbled in response, contentedly munching on my cereal with full cheeks.

A few minutes into my cereal, I look up and find my parents and their lips locked to each other. Yeah, they were in love or whatever. Gross.