Sitting on my second-hand springy bed which used to belong to my (I guess you could call) step-sister, I stared at the white paint chippings on my blood red wall and the black hair-dye marks tattooed to the used-to-be golden coloured carpet. I am perched thinking about what to write here on ficly. I can’t seem to concentrate and the Lionel Richie that is currently playing is not helping me one bit. But you see, I cannot concentrate without music nor concentrate with it. I’m in a hot fluster as my ignorant yet glum father has ignited the heating that has rushed through the pail radiator that resides on my wall just millimetres behind my arched back. I’m thinking of changing my top attire into something thinner. I am however finding my chilled Dr Pepper, which I stole from the fridge that became anchored to the ancient carpet in the study when we re-decorated our kitchen last Christmas, extremely soothing and tranquillizing. I’m going to leave now as I have an idea about what to write next. I bid you all adieu.