Five-hundred twenty-five thousand six-hundred minutes...

How do you measure the life of a woman or man?

I slammed my hand on my alarm clock, groaning as I saw its early time. I was half-tempted to roll back over and pretend I wasn't sixteen and didn't have to go to school, but we all know how those episodes end.

Slowly, I emerged from the mass of comforter and sheets that I was drowning in. Rubbing out my eyes, I realized that it was at least three minutes before Steven was going to wake up. Just as planned.

This woke me up, and I hopped off my bed. Grabbing a random pair of clothes, I ran across the hall, snagging the bathroom just as Steven walked out of his door.

He snapped out of his groggy state and started yelling.

"Hey! Fishy, get out of there! I was going to take a shower!" Steven began pounding on the door, yelling more insults at me. It was a small pleasure, knowing I was irritating him. He took 1 hour and twenty-two minutes in the bathroom, as opposed to my 6.34 minutes.

Yes, I had timed.

I ignored him, trying to ignore my reflection in the mirror I would be perpetually cursed to break. In other words: I was hideous. And not that whole modest thing where girls always say "Oh, yeah. I'm sooo not cute." When in fact, they just want people to tell them they are. And anyone compared to me was pretty. My hair was a limp blond. Not the white-blond, but a darker shade that couldn't decide between a rich gold and deep brown. So, NATURALLY, it chose the ugliest possible mix of the two. My eyes were a dull green that gave you de-ja-vu of what frosted flakes would look like after being thrown by a dog that's also eaten eggs that morning. I rubbed them, in attempt to wake myself up more. I puckered my lips, but they were no fuller than a marker.

I looked nothing like my parents.

My brother was the perfect mix of the two- my mother's Indian heritage and my father's deep build. What was I? The leftovers? The platypus of human kind?

That seemed just about right.

My skin had those frequent moments -- by 'frequent moment' I mean 24/7-- where the huge zits and pimples marred my already-unattractive face. But on good days, it was just the blue-white sickly color that made people wonder if I was deathly sick. I splashed water on my face, hoping it would wash away the pasty skin that never left me. I scratched at a piece of dry skin, a first for my usually oily skin.

I sometimes wished I could be like the Aeropostale girls who always had the perfect sense of fashion that never failed, the perfect skin that never blemished, the hair that must have taken an hour and a greatly increased carbon footprint to make.

It had always made me wonder- What came first? Were they pretty because they were preppy, or were they preppy because they were pretty?

But, the other part of me knew the curse of these seemingly perfect girls. They had an image to maintain. If they came into school everyday looking wonderful, assuming they had a delightful morning, then people would come to expect this of them. But if they were having a bad cramp, or maybe woke up late, possibly even a 'terrible' break-up with their 'future husband', then BAM!

Everyone could tell.

Not to mention that crazy list of people you had to keep track of, constantly texting, inviting over, making dinner-dates.

I was the tomboy. A slight-outcast. And I didn't care.

After finishing my business, I opened the door, sprinting before Steven could hit me. Making my way to the kitchen, I rifled through the cupboards, asking, "Do we have any Lucky Charms?"

"I don't know your fending for yourself." Said my mom, despite the fact that she was making omelets at the stove, my dad reading the paper.

Alas, the average family--

-- if I weren't in it. My mom wasn't making those omelets for me, nope. There were for her gorgeous, 4.0 G.P.A., boy Steven. No eggs were ever left for that weird, 3.1, daughter Fisher. You think she could at least make orange juice for me, considering she named me after slimy, scaly, water-dwelling creatures.

After finding myself the holy box of marshmallow-y cereal, I poured the last of the milk in to the bowl, ignoring my father's mumble, "Save some for Steven," He sounded irritable. As always.

My father wasn't reading about that fireman who's saved Mrs. Levington and her four cats from an apartment fire, nope. He was reading about his strong, sporty, football captain of a son, Steven. Who'd scored five touchdowns -believe it, I have to- at the game last night. He didn't care about my eight-page report on the slow decline of jungles in Southern Hemispheres that I'd spent four hours completing and earned me one of the few A's. But, then again, who would when they could read about that amazing dodge Steven Keller made that scored the game winning point?

Answer: Nobody.

I munched grudgingly on my cereal, admiring the sweetening boost I'd given it. My brother, Steven, always claimed it was the extra sugar I always spooned into my cereal that did in my weight. I'd learned not to let his words get to me. But I could never quite master ignoring his popularity. Steven was always the most gorgeous -yes, I know he's my brother and a jackass to the bone, but he was- person in school.

I spooned for the marshmallow particles in my bowl. He had that olive skin I was never able to attain, those blue eyes that every girl got lost in, and the inky hair that always adjusted to his will. The body that most guys worked five hours a day for, and as much as I didn't want to admit it- he could be charming and funny if he found a girl attractive.

Just thinking of this brought a sour taste to my sugar-steroid meal.

But all this only attributed to his already too-big ego. Once he'd had his fun with said girl, he became the asshole of all ex's who would break up by text, treat you like you cheated on him, and then continue to hook up with your best friend.

Rinse, repeat.

But of course, he was the perfect child. Steven's perfection made up for any bad he did. His charm and kiss-ass behavior earned him the right to his own car, the biggest bedroom in the house, and the doting parents who would drop anything they were doing and take out the credit cards to make him happy again. Except, he had his own. And I may sound like that bratty, spiteful little sister who wants everything, but I was strangely content with my parents behavior to me because it allowed them to overlook my too-often mistakes.

"Where's Steven?" My mom asked, flipping the omelet.

Finished off my last bite, I answered, "Where else?" I observed the bowl, noticing that some of the little, colored marshmallows were still treading milk. I began chasing them with my spoon.

My mom threw me a glare, "Why are you always picking on him?"

I choked on my food, sputtering out, "Me picking on him? You're kidding me, right?" My father lowered his paper, staring disgustedly at the half-eaten cereal I'd just regurgitated on the counter. I hopped off my stool, the food suddenly unappetizing. Strange, I was always ready to eat.

My mom turned around again, pointing her spatula at me. "Yes, you're always mocking him about football, and how he actually cares about he looks." She tossed another omelet on a plate stacked with the yellow, cooked eggs. "It's the least you could do is let him know your proud of how well he played." She shrieked, burning herself on the pan.

I snorted, dumping my remaining food down the drain. "Maybe that's because I don't care. And what are you implying about 'he cares about his looks'? That I'm ugly and should listen to all the student of Valdez High?" You know how every parent thinks their child is beautiful? Yeah, my mom only says what tones of make-up would fix my bad case of what seemed to be albinism. Never once have I heard her-- or anyone in the family, for that matter-- compliment me. And believe me- I have filed through all of my memories.

She narrowed her blue eyes, but said nothing. Fisher: 1, Laurie: 0. I began walking slightly pleased out of the room just as Steven was entering, wearing only a towel. Steam was drifting out of the bathroom.

"We're out of soap," Steven said, making his way to a bag of groceries. My mother immediately stopped her cooking, muttering something about how she had just bought some.

I covered my eyes, "Ew! Stevie-Pooh, get some clothes on! Before the image is burned into my brain, please!" I knew that if our parent weren't watching, he would have slammed me in the gut. He hated Stevie-Pooh. It 'demeaned his masculine identity'.

Instead, he and my mother spoke in perfect sync, "Grow up, Fisher." It wasn't hard to guess where he got that tone from.

"Someone in this house needs to," I muttered, Steven shooting me a threatening look as he headed back to his sauna with his desired soap, letting me know I would pay later.

Slipping back into my bedroom, I landed on my bed, re-set my alarm clock to wake me up again in an hour. My daily morning schedule.

Five-hundred twenty-five thousand six-hundred minutes...

How do you measure the life of-

I slammed the button on my alarm, groaning. Sliding my backpack over my shoulder, I walked out of my bedroom just in time.

Steven had just pulled out of the driveway, my mom shrugging on her name-brand coat that did pretty much nothing for insulation. I slipped on my tennis shoes, my mother practically screaming into her cell phone.

"-did I tell you? They can't do it that day because of some transportation issue! We live in Alaska, Greg! You should have thought about it even if you didn't hear me! What-? No, that won't-" She looked over at me, gesturing to move out of the way. "-work. Dammit, Greg! I've told you, I do not care if it's your cousin's birthday!" My mother was some big Real-Estate agent whose life revolved around dates and her God-Like child.

I tried to be graceful, but her overly-helpful hand shoving me through the doorway didn't exactly help. I toppled over, bringing a crystal vase down with me. My mother screamed into the poor hand held device, and at the even more unfortunate man she was talking to, "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD- NOT THAT! I have to call you later, this klutz of a girl just- Never mind. You know what she's like." She snapped her phone shut.

I didn't even want to know what I was like. "Sorry! Sorry! I didn't mean to-"

My mother held up her hand, massaging the bridge of her nose. "I don't want to hear it, Fisher. My day is already starting out like shit and we both know you're never going to help. Just... Just get in the damn car..."

Scrambling to my feet, I flew out the door. It was colder inside my mother than it was outside, but I suppose that could still mean it was below freezing.

It was a couple minutes before my mother came stomping out of the house, chattering into her phone, again. She must not have noticed my rolled down window. "-no, no. It's fine, but watch your step when you come in. There could still be some in the carpet. God, why is this girl such a little-" Her sentence remained unfinished when the car door opened. Nothing like a fresh breeze of ice queen to wake you up in the morning, hm? Notice how I was 'this girl', not 'our daughter'?

Yup. My life story in about, three sentences.

Alright, so this is gonna be a little different from my other stories, but it will have some definite fictional qualities. And hot guys. I know, my third story-in-progress, but whatever. I hope you like the first chapter, cause the others will be like this for a little bit, at least. Please comment, cause i like to know what i can do better.

Oh, and if you're even playing with the idea that Fisher will become some freakishly-hot-megan-fox-look-alike-babe-guy-magnet-sexy-ho, then you are sadly MISTAKEN. I'm rather sick of those things, so I promise Fisher will not become that very long phrase typed above. I do promise her life will be better, though. She deserves that. Thank you for reading. ^^