Ronny

The air in your room is stagnant. Outside, it's a glorious July day. There are no clouds, happy people are outside with their friends and family... It's almost too perfect. It's the kind of day that makes you want to cruise down the highway with the top down and Mungo Jerry blasting as loud as your stereo would allow.

 

Of course, you wouldn't know anything about that, given the fact that you don’t actually own a car. It doesn’t exactly help that you haven't actually left your room in about two days time with the curtains drawn and the windows shut, either. No, the bathroom doesn't count. Presently, you have you head slung back over your chair, a mop of black hair idly hanging down, accented by two streaks of white bleached into the left side of your head. You're not asleep, but damn, do you ever wish you were. This script is taking FOREVER to run, and you're a man with quite a bit of shit to get done in a short time. So many appointments to keep, bills to pay, mouths to feed... Oh, fuck, it looks like something's up on your box.

 

You toss yourself forward, staring blankly at the computer screen; your greasy face supported by a pair of hands which, in all honesty, are probably not the cleanest at the moment themselves. You decide that while your totally legit hacking does have its place, right now is probably not the best time for you to deal with this bullshit. As of the past couple of hours, you were in the middle of some serious fucking business with one of your friends. You've got so many friends that it's hard to keep track of most of the time. I mean, sure, you know that you're a pretty big deal and all, but the least they could do is give you some breathing space.

 

A jarring cough reminds you that you should probably crack a window or something. You've been breathing the same stale air for the past forty-eight hours and it’s probably safe to say that doing so is not in the best interest of your health. You’ve recently started to develop acne, which seems almost insulting when combined with your pale, stringy body. Which is totally ripped, obviously. I mean, come on, why would it not be? You do, like, so many squats every day. It's almost unreal. You'd go outside and start benching your dad's motorcycle or something, but as you said before, you're awaiting an important message from a friend of yours. Though it seems that he's got no idea what punctuality is, the lazy douchebag.

 

You spin around in your chair and heave a sigh, looking up at your ceiling. You can only stare into the blacklights for so long before thinking that you should probably get out of your room, at least to let your mom know that you're out of hot pockets or something. You crack your gangly fingers in anticipation. Indeed, today’s your day, and nothing’s going to change that.

 

Your name is RONNY MCMANN, and in a couple of months, you will be fifteen years old. What will you do?