If there is a god, he has an ugly grudge against his shitty ass.

Alexander Peirce, a.k.a Alex, ran wildly in plaid PJ bottoms, a pair of cackling white sandles, and a loose purple jacket that hung over a blue tee. He didn't want to admit it but today isn't his day.
Today, he was the prime definition of [u]shit[/u]. "Crap." A swift gaze of his watch made him take quicker and sharper swerves through the maze-like hallways. Screw Math. Damn Ms. Fletcher. Damn everything. "God, I'm so late."  Why even bother running? Big deal, you'll just get a tardy slip, right? Yah, but this is Ms. Fletcher, she is something else. That woman is not human, she is the spawn of satan. As he skidded on and about, he nearly collided with a girl around the corner, "Shit! Sorry!" He yelled. Without looking back, he continued running. 
With Ms. Fletcher, you'll think twice about being tardy. (I didn't get the memo, apparently.) With every frackin minute that passes, she adds an assignment. And another, until you have arrived. He has enough homework to deal with already, there's no need to make a replica of Mount. Everest back at home. Ugh. A mountain of paper work. Of [u]math[/u].

[i]Ugh, just no.[/i]

Freakin' cannibalistic witch is gonna have a go with him. With one final turn, he had found his class. "Room 667." He gripped onto the handle and tore the door.