His "Sister"

Chapter 4: Poptarts & Popular girls

* Saturday morning*

SLAM!

I sit up in bed, startled. My breathing quickens, I look out the window to see the Porsche speeding away.

See ya, douchebag .  . . I mean "Daddy". That inconsiderate asshole could have AT LEAST left quitely. But no, he chose the dramatic "slammy" exit. I love how my dad doesn't feed me or even TALK to me, but can go out of his way to wake me up.

I check my clock, it reads "7:30".

"UGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGH!" I groan in frustration.

He's gonna pay for this.

BUZZ! I have one new message, and guess who it's from?

Ashton. "Remember, Skylar's coming over to my house today and . . . she thinks your my sister. So yeah. You can come over at 1;30.  I'll see you then, sis. ;)"

Wait what? OOH yeah, I did agree to that. I had completley forgotton.

I respond "I better check my schedule and see if my schedule is free, HAHAHA it's always free. :)"

It looks like I'm not the only one up early. I trudge down the stairs, loudly. To wake my self up I blast my music on my iHome. Screw it, I don't care if my neighbors are sleeping. Wow, I'm inconsiderate.

                                             Like father, like daughter, I guess.

I pull some poptarts out of the pantry and microwave them until they burn my hands and tongue, to perfection. That's how I always cook them. The poptart, burns my tongue, like expected. I sprint to the fridge and retrieve milk and chocolate syrup. Cause the only way to heal a poptart burn is with a glass of chocolate milk.

I know, since I have ninja doctor skills. If THAT'S even possible.

The silky, rich, chocolate milk is just amazing.

"MMMHMMMM, If I could marry a drink, it'd be YOU CHOCOLATE MILK!" I moan.

The chocolate poptart + the chocolate milk = A very hyper Emerson. "COME AT ME, WORLD! I'M READY!" I scream, and dance around the kitchen spastically.

Three hard knocks hit the door, so I go to answer.

"HEEEEEELLO!" I grin childishly.

"You're music is very loud, and it's pissing my wife off. Can you lower the the volume?" An irritated middle-aged man in a faded blue bathrobe asks.

"Hmm, let me think about that . . . NOOOOOO!" I shout in his face, I stick my tongue out at him.

It's not that I mind turning down the music, it's just I'm just chocolate milk wasted.

He looks surprised, "Young lady, I'm going to call the cops if you don't turn that shit down. And are you drunk?"

The cops, eh? I'm not afraid of any cops. . .  okay so maybe I am.

"Fine! And no, I am chocolate milk wasted." I huff in defeat.

"Thanks. The things kids do for fun these days." The man mutters under his breath.

I roll my eyes, old people think they're just SO amazing.

Reluctantly, I turn the music down a bit. But this neighbor of mine has been the second person this morning to piss me off. So I'm gonna fight my father with "love". I find 3 packets of sticky notes in his office and I write tons of cheesy messages on them.

A few messages include :

You can't buy happiness, but you can buy food. Which is like the exact same thing.