We hear the sound of boots stomping around upstairs. I pop up from my loft. Mikaela has a smirk painted across her face. As our eyes meet, we know. She's up. The freaknut has awaken. For some reason, the longer she has been awake, she feels it necessary to make that much more noise. My alarm, set for an hour or two later this morning, has yet to ring. No snooze buttons for me today. The red-haired creature has made her presence known. At one point she decides to vacuum. It sounds as if a machine gun shoots incessantly at the ground. Her ground is my ceiling. So I begin to roll back and forth on my loft, mere inches from the tiles above, to avoid any wounds from her shots. Why must she insist upon waking me up when the sun still sleeps? She must. She gallops down the stairs and thrusts open the creaky front door. As she leaves for class she slams the door and cries "freedom."
"Freedom."
Her name? Jessica.
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