Who am I? What am I all about? What is the meaning of life?

Does it matter?

You probably just came across this somewhere and read the description and then decided, ‘Hey! I’ll read this!’

Why? Did something in the description written by the wonderful author catch your eye? Was it just because you were bored? Did you need something to do? Do you love this author’s work and have decided to read every single one of her stories?

Wow, you’re weird.

Does is matter who I am? You probably are looking for something particular in this story. You have some sort of fetish, perhaps? Or maybe, just maybe, you’re looking for something new? Am I right?

Are you interested yet? Have I caught your attention? Or am I only succeeding in pissing you off?

Who am I? I’m Fadge Clarens, and I’m yet another creation of this author. No, I’m not real. Well, I’m only made out of pixels on here.

But that’s not the point, is it? The point is to amuse you with a story.

So let’s put aside the fact that I’m not a real person. But then again, you never know. I could be. What makes you so sure that I’m not? Geez.

As previously stated, my name is Fadge Clarens. I have seen sixteen summers. I am a boy. I am gay.

Oh yes, don’t you love our lovely author’s imagination?

Anyway. Moving on.

My appearance? I suppose that this does matter a bit.

I’m a whopping 5’9”, lean if not skinny, pale, dark eyes and hair, and a strange sense of fashion. I find enjoyment in my wardrobe. I like scaring people with wearing pink bondage pants with a lime green wife beater one day, and then cross-dressing in all black the next. Don’t ask me why.

My personality? Fine. Though personally, I think that it’s already pretty obvious.

I’m sarcastic, masochistic, slightly sadistic, the only person my humor is funny to is myself, and I hate most human life. I don’t like smiling and I don’t like talking. I’m intelligent with a high IQ, I have weird taste in music, and I don’t like people. Did I already say that? Oh, by the way, I don’t like people.

Ok, enough info yet? Better be, because our wonderful author wants to move along with the story. So please stop asking questions. Geez.

My story starts at the first day of my single year to be sixteen. And it just so happens that my birthday is also the first day of school.

If there are Gods, they hate me.

Let’s get this straight; I hate school. This coincides with the fact that I absolutely hate people. Schoolpeople. Ick. I hate classes, I hate lunch, I hate assignments, I hate homework. I hate everything that has to do with school. The bathrooms are a deathtrap. The locker rooms are an ambush. The halls are corrals.

It’s Hell.

And so, I find myself in Hell. At my locker, number 67 in Hell. That’s way too close to be a coincidence. Putting books away. I hate books. Well, actually, I like fiction books. I hate nonfiction and text books. Ew.

Going back to the point that the Gods hate me, they decide to rain down upon my horrible birthday with something horrible happening.

I suddenly hear some loud yelling and footsteps down the hall. I slam my eyes and locker shut, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and attempt to avoid the chaos.

No such luck.

Before I can even get in my third step, I’m crashed into from behind.

“Shit!” I curse as I fall flat on my face.

“FADGE! WATCH YOUR LANGUAGE!” I hear Ms. Hack scream at me. I ignore her, then attempt to shove the person on top of me...Off of me.

“Oh, man, I’m sorry!” I hear the telltale voice of a jock say as he gets off me. He springs up faster than I would have thought possible. I scowl at him, pulling myself up and ignoring the proffered hand, then dust my green and black bondage pants off, the chains clanging together.

“Yeah, sure, it’s ok,” I say, still scowling with my dark brown eyes. I then turn on my hell and attempt to make it to my next class.

“Hey! Hold up!” I hear the jock behind me yell. He puts a hand on my shoulder and I’m very tempted to bite it. I stop anyway and turn to face the jock who I didn’t bother to look at before.

Ooh boy, am I glad I turned. (Um, not sarcasm.) He was tall, around 6’1”, the perfect way of muscular that fit perfectly with his tan skin. Pretty blue eyes sparkled from underneath dark lashes to match his dark brown hair. And he had a very hot face. Very hot. But, being the dignified gay man that I am, I held back my blush. It was for his sake, not mine! I swear!

I shoved the thoughts of how I wanted to just snog him right that moment out of my mind and paid attention to what he was saying.

“What the heck, man? I said sorry, didn’t I?”

I sigh lightly, looking to the side.

“Look,” I say as convincingly as I can, “sorry that I’m acting like I have a stick shoved up my ass. I’m having a bad day.”

“But, first period hasn’t even started.”

I looked at him quizzically. “Since when is that an excuse?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “First period doesn’t have to pass for it to be a bad day. It’s a bad day for only one reason already, and that’s all that’s needed, though more has happened already and is bound to happen later.”

“Uhh, what’s so bad about today, then?” he asked, mirroring my look.

“It’s my birthday,” I stated dryly before turning to leave him with his thoughts.

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“HOOOOME!” I screamed at the top of my lungs to let my mother know that I hadn’t died in school or on the way back.

“OKAY!” she screamed back from somewhere upstairs. I sighed again, walking over to the door to the basement and making my way down.

No matter how much it sounds like I’m a troll, I do live in the basement. My room is the basement. I love my room. One of the few things that I actually like in this world. Let me describe it to let you know just WHY I like it so much.

I’ll start at the top and work my way down. (That sounds so wrong in my mind.) The ceiling has lots of posters. Bands, actors, actresses, movies, shows, etc. It’s also white and has a very boring light fixture with a nice spinning fan. My walls are dark green, and are also plastered with numerous posters. My carpet is a matching dark green, and it’s reaaaally soft and plushy. In one corner of my room is a set of painted black wooden crates, with a white skull painted on the side that face the room. There are three boxes. On top of these boxes are a TV, DVD player, tape player, PS2, XBOX, and a Wii. To the side of these boxes is a very tall cabinet that is packed with DVD’s and tapes. Next to that are two black bookshelves packed with books. There are small speakers in each corner of my basement (Haha, that’s fun to say!) that play my music from a large boom box sitting on a shelf next to my desk, which has a laptop and art stuff on it. I have an easel next to the desk and that currently has a WIP painting on it. In front of my TV are two beanbag chairs. I have a futon bed on the floor. It has a black comforter and matching black pillows and sheets. My music collection is stored on two shelves below the one that has the boom box.

Oh God, do I love my room. And yes, my family has quite a bit of money, and it helps that my mom and I are the only ones here.

I settle down on my bed and work on the horrendous homework quickly, getting it finished as soon as possible. I put in a Boys Like Girls CD and play it semi-loud. (Ironic, it says Boys like GIRLS, and I’m a boy who likes boys.)

After sneaking upstairs and grabbing an apple for my small dinner, I settle down and crash early at nine.

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Some more things I hate: Breakfast foods, politics, pens that don’t work, and people. (Did I already mention that?)

And so, I hate morning in general. Or this one at least. The only upside to my day is that my mom left me a present on the table for my birthday, because she was really busy working yesterday. She’s an artist. (That’s who I get it from.)

I tear it open and find an iPod. Suddenly in a great mood, I run to my mom’s art studio and give her a huge hug before disappearing again.

I’m weird like that.

After spending a good ten minutes putting music on my new iPod from my computer, I go back upstairs. I skip breakfast, turn off the news, and attempt to write a note to my mom with a pen that doesn’t work. I eventually have to dig out a pencil and write the note, then take off to school.

I arrive at my old 67 and dump my currently unneeded textbooks in there. Before I can close the locker, I hear a voice and freeze.

“Hey.”

I turn slowly, looking at the beautiful jock boy through my hair. I turn back cooly, closing my locker, and turn around to look at him while crossing my arms over my low-cut (doesn’t have quite the same effect with boys than it does with girls) tight black gothic mid-length sleeves (I like describing my clothing.). While I’m at it, I might as well tell you I am wearing very tight faded girls’ jeans with a studded belt. I’m also wearing an Invader Zim choker and two spiky bracelets.

“I never caught your name,” he said, smiling lightly. I notice that one of his arms is leaning against the locker, blocking one way of escape. I gulp lightly.

“Didn’t you hear Ms. Hack scream at me yesterday when I cussed after you knocked me over?” comes my sarcastic reply.

“No, I was too preoccupied wondering who I’d just totaled.”

I laughed lightly, a rare thing. Because I don’t like smiling. Unless it’s sarcastic. Right.

“It’s Fadge,” I said.

“That’s an interesting name,” he said, blinking.

“Yeah, well, my mother is weird. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I slowly sneak under his arm and take off down the hall.

“Hey!” he yells but this time I don’t turn around.

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I’ve been cornered after school. I was just walking to my locker when an arm suddenly grabbed mine and dragged me into an empty classroom.

“You need to learn to listen,” the jock boy said while nursing his hand which had appeared over my mouth and had then somehow been bitten.

“Listening? What’s that?” I asked, turning my head to the side in mock innocence.

“Oh, shut up, Fadge,” he said.

“Aww! You remembered my name!” I squealed sarcastically.

“That’s why I’m here; names. I wanted to tell you mine.”

“Eh? Why?” I asked, curious as to why this jock wanted to know me...At all.

“Uh...I don’t know. I just want you to,” he said.

I waved a hand to tell him to move along.

“I’m Will,” he said, smiling and offering a hand. I slowly shook it with my own pale hand with purple nails and a plastic skull ring. (You know, those ones you find in your Halloween candy when you’re little.)

He smiled again, his eyes sparkling. I nodded, then jumped off the desk I had been sitting on.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” I said, “I really must be off to get back to my lovely lady.”

“Eh? Who?” he asked.

“Madam Playstation two,” I said, batting my eyelashes.

He laughed a cute laugh. I grinned (Lots of that lately. Creepy.) and then waved, taking off down the hall.