“Now, really?” I flicked off the radio. It’s not like it bothered my concentration or anything, I don’t like my favourite songs on the radio. Why? It makes me eccentric. I mean imagine driving and then seeing a guy with his hand in the air and mouthing lyrics and with the occasional bobbing of the head uncontrollably. The clock precisely shows 8.00 a.m. I make my way to McDonalds, just like any other normal citizen. I park my car beside the entrance. I order my McMuffin, sit down and observe everyone around me. From parents with children whose mouth is smeared with ketchup, college students alone or with peers on their laptops with a few books beside them to office people casually on their smartphones and PDA’s arranging meetings and such. It’s amazing to know that every normal human being has their own unique story to tell. No matter how boring a person may look, he or she may have their own plot or synopsis of life that is far more amazing. I finished my breakfast and head to the parking lot. I drive straight to a place where teenagers who proclaim themselves as the ‘high and mighty’ hipsters – a somewhat trend amongst them. Yes, Starbucks. Acknowledging the fact that I sometimes despise their prominent and immature behaviour, I am a teenager too. I turned 20 years old to be exact and currently attending Stanford University.I approach the barista, “May I help you?” she’s got a nice set of sparkling whites and a strand of purple streak in her blonde hair. “I’ll have one Caramel Frappuccino.” I smiled. “Your name?” “Lucas” In a few a minutes, my order arrives and I notice a bunch of numbers on my cup. I quickly realise that it was her number. Typical. I caught a glimpse of her on the way out, she gives a wink. No, not my type of dream girl.

Arriving in campus, I see a big banner hanged in front of the hall. ‘ HAPPY NEW YEAR! WELCOME FRESHMAN!’ oh yes, new year, new goals, new people and new crap to handle with. Don’t get me wrong I ‘m not depressed or gothic or anything. I’m just the type of guy who couldn’t care less about petty things. I still remember my first day at Stanford and leaving home and my parents. Leaving feels good and pure only when you leave something important. Pulling life out by the roots.

“ Hey Lucas! What’s up bro!” Ashton shouts from way across the hallway. I tell him about my utterly horrific experience working at Panda Express and he laughs at me. “What’s your first class?” “Pre-Calculus.” I check my schedule. “Same. By the way, did you go to Sean Hitchock’s party last night? Let me guess, no? Well, let me tell you it was CRAZY.”

I picked a seat in the fourth row, out of Dr. Beverly’s range of view but, close enough to hear her bragging away about her beach house in Miami to some students whom were sitting in the front row. Five minutes before class starts, a petite girl wearing a hijab walks into the lecture hall while carrying a few books. Whilst greeting Dr. Beverly with a smile, she accidentally trips and drops her books. I can hear a few people sniggering at the back. But, in ((should i continue?))