This is a new story I decided to write. Please vote and leave feedback on each chapter if you enjoy my story! I'd really appreciate it. And most of all, ENJOY! ;) xx

Update: 10/25/13 This story is not edited and is a first rough draft. Therefore, it should not reflect my full writing potential! :)

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Clichés.

We love them, we hate them. Mainly, we beat our society over the head with them with pale vampires (who obviously are playing for the other team), and handsome British exchange students with abs down to their toes. Let's not forget that sleek Harley Davidson conveniently between their legs. Alpha wolves who have searched since the dino years for their mate, and are accepted by the readers alike, even though the Alpha is thousands and thousands of years old, and...well, flirting with an immature teenager. Not to mention, these Alphas grow hair on their chest and back every full moon.

I don't know about you, but I'm not brushing my boyfriends back once a month. I have enough problems with my own hair as it is.

My personal favorite was and always will be nerdy girl clichés. They always somehow end up getting the hottest guy in school and somehow outsmart the guy's ditsy, hot supermodel girlfriend, after a sudden realization (that came after over three-hundred and fifty-nine pages of them whining and crying over their best friendfalling in love with them, who was clearly the better option from the beginning), that they are in fact not ugly and fat as they originally thought they were, but drop-dead gorgeous and just what the arrogant son-of-a-bee jock wanted since birth.

Spare. Me.

Let me break this down. Our world is an endless vortex of idealism and actors that end up feigning happiness with their "perfectly hot wives and husbands" that they marry simply because it just goes with society's "Cinderella fantasy" of finding their "One True Love". Here's the thing, can one honestly assume who their One True Love is in Hollywood? Where a bunch of actors live, who play the part of someone's One True Love on television all the time? If I were a famous woman, I wouldn't stick with my own species of Margarita's and $2,800 dollar Wagyu Steaks, aka Hollywood actors. I know I'd just be looking for trouble. I, for one, would go for a cheeseburger and french-fry kind of guy, someone real.

If he happened to be rich and hot, that would just be a plus...

Unfortunately, our world continues to be backhanded and force-fed these clichés that marrying someone for looks and money, or fitness and occupation, and after a while, these clichés start to...make sense.

Women.

Women are from Venus and men are from Mars. Right on, sista'! Surprisingly, women are bombarded by cliché's only slightly more than men. Women are taught to pluck, brush, shave, tan, and lift parts of their body that years and years ago men found appealing no matter what they did with them. Most models are thinner and frailer than they ever were before, leading to beautiful, average and voluptuous women having a negative body image and undergoing surgeries to have bigger breasts and higher cheek bones, just to have "that look". Or even more devastating, they become bulimic or anorexic because they feel the pressure of perfection in the world around them.

What most people don't understand is that men have so, so many dang issues. Men are exposed to the outdated standard that they must supply their woman food and drink, be the dominant one in the relationship (oooh, eee, ah-ah!), and if they're successful in life, advertisements in magazines and on the television tell male's they can have the hottest women and nicest cars in the world, just by being a jackass billionaire. (Please!) These days, if men can't provide money, a yacht, and a 1000 watt smile, plus look good in a suit these, they whileswell drive one of those little kid toy cars where you have to move your feet along the ground to get the car places.

Not to mention, men are increasingly pressured to drink, stay in shape, and abuse drugs-- which is a absolutely dangerous mix, and sports that were once considered a game just for fun, are now at the peak of competitiveness for men and highly stress-inducing.

Still jealous that guys don't get their period?

Children.

Children are honestly not the blame for these revolting clichés. As a little squirt, I watched plenty of cartoons and films about princesses meeting a perfectly handsome prince with no daddy issues, acne, beer bellies, or secret sweaty backs and feet that are sprinkled with a little bit too much hair... ( Which make you begin calling them Chewbacca and Mr. Snuffleupagus behind their back once you've broken up.) (Not that I'm speaking from personal experience...)

Now please don't get me wrong, all women want their prince charming, even me. I went to stores and brought princess outfits and made daddy be my prince and marry me. I've read plenty of books about vampires kidnapping innocent girls, turned them into their queens, then reread it a second time, filling in my name every time the hot lead male said her name. Regrettably, I even went to the park one time, debating for a solid hour and a half whether or not I should kiss a frog sunbathing on a rock, as if would honestly turn into a six-foot five sex god and whisk me off of my feet.

Did I actually kiss the dang thing? Yes. Did it work? Technically, yes, since the frog leaped into my tank top, I freaked out, fell straight into the pond, and I was saved by a super sexy Greek guy that just happened to be jogging along the pond. Seriously, his abs reached his toes, I could have sworn was sent from Zeus in the clouds himself. Too bad I was too young to understand that his boyfriend was who offered me their dry sweatshirt...

Hmm, maybe that was when I metaphorically drowned in the cliché world...

As I was saying, there comes a time where a girl begins sobbing over the harsh reality life: a majority of guys are attracted to girls that look a lot like me. What I look like now, at least. You could say that I conformed to the cliché of world, with my straight blonde hair and self-tanning glorious bod. But then again, you clearly don't know me because I was born this perfect. Sigh. Being me is so wonderful.

I'm completely joking.

My name is Pepper Ballard and I hate people. People who say they know me don't know me because I have a total of zero friends. (If I don't include my new puppy, Salt. I know, I'm so darn creative at naming things.) I'm not very selective with who I hate. Blondies, brunettes, whites, blacks, asians, tall people, short people, skinny and fat people, funny people.... I hate you all pretty equally no matter your race, color, personality, or gender, so don't flatter yourself for looking a bit different from the guy next to you.

Everyone's the same in my book. We all came from the same dark and tiny place, which I won't get into detail with, we all dribbled and spit up the first time we were fed green pea baby food, and all of us have had our moments where we locked ourselves in our rooms and wanted to be alone for a few hours.

Most importantly, we all talk smack about each other.

Don't even say it, I don't want to hear it. We've all talked about someone behind their back, whether it was intentional or not. We've all said things that we would never say the person's face. All of you have started rumors without even knowing it just by speaking your minds, and all of you have made others cry without them ever telling you.

We victimize innocent people every single day, people just like us; who breath the same air and worry about the same exact things as we do. We put down the people who sometimes idolize us. The people who secretly force themselves to throw up after eating to have our bodies? They're victimized all the time. We even put down people that we don't know cry at night because their father beats on their entire family. We even put down the people that are already on the verge of suicide.

Don't be angry at the little Devil on your shoulder, he wasn't the one who made you say those things about that girl that had love handles. And yes, you should feel bad for what you've said because you were the one that shouldn't have said it in the first place.

My new method is to just say what's on my mind right to the person's face.

I don't have any social issues or disorders, although I've been taken to a therapist many times because of my parent's concerns. I can talk to people pretty easily and I consider myself very outgoing, but I chose not to converse with the overly hormonal age group of seventeen to eighteen year olds (who I am unfortunately a part of) because they sicken me with their alcohol abuse and idiotic activities.

I know what you're thinking.

No, I'm not a pale, overly-obsessive Twilight geek that hangs out in my cove drinking chocolate milk and eating Hot Pockets. I have been exposed to the sun during many occasions and hold a slight pale-tan, as I call it, thank you very much. Do I shave my armpits? Of course! Do I wash my hair? Every day! Do I have late night food cravings when I'm on my period where I eat the entire house? Duh! Have I had a boyfriend? Yes!

In fact, had a few boyfriends. I've gotten pretty close to a homerun too... (If you know what I mean.) I'm definitely no prude in the boy department. I just don't "flaunt my stuff" as much as most girls. I have many values that have kept me nice and virgin-ified. Apparently, a "killer personality" such as my own, the fact that I don't take crap from anyone, is the reason why I haven't had a long-term relationship. Or so my week-long therapist Jane Lane told me, before she cried hysterically and kicked me out of her office.

Maybe I shouldn't have said the photo of her dead dog on the desk reminded me of a over-stuffed burrito with ears....

Did I mention I speak my mind on everything?

I don't have any friends because of my witty mouth and relentless ability to scare people off, as my mother continues to remind me, which prevents me from being anyone in particular. I'm not in band, the best drawing I've ever done consisted of two stick figures with spines that went a tad lower than their legs than they should have, I couldn't hold a tune if you held an auto tune microphone down my throat, and the closest I've been to being to a fashionista is taking my father's oversized red t-shirt and making it into a cute little dress.

What can I do, you ask?

I can run and I can kick ass, in that particular order. I've been running competitively on the track team since seventh grade. If I do say so myself, I'm pretty damn good at it. Last Summer, I got up in the wee hours of the morning, slipped on my favorite pair of purple running shoes that have a hole on the side, and ran around my normal, bland neighborhood until my calves felt like they were going to explode. As for the kick ass part, I'm a third degree black belt. I've already flipped three guys in the parking lot since I graduated at Mr. P's Kicking Team, just for looking at me funny.

As I said before, I'm a fairly normal person. Fairly. I've got very boring light brown eyes and curly brown hair, fair skin, and a set of boobs that aren't exactly flat and aren't exactly Beverly Hills Mom material. I've refused to wear a push-up bra ever since I could crawl because honestly, what's the point of adding a little lift to your humps to impress the guys, if they're just going to sag like two limp beanie bags when you really have that "intimate moment" with one. Exactly.

Perhaps I'm curvy, if you're looking at me in one of those fun house mirrors that distorts your actual body type, but my ass and height, which I get from my mother, is something I do believe I have bragging rights on. I'm 5'10 and all muscle, I ain't no shrimp.

My family.

Now here's when things start to get really nauseatingly cliché. My mom and dad work for absolute white trash, snobby, selfish family that lives in a housing area called Orange Gate County. Because their women's fashion corporation has skyrocketed in sales, the family selected the best advertisers in the state and decided to invest in them, which included my mother and father because they've been working as a partnership for 25 years.

Mom and Dad are known for their advertising with The Twin Terminator. It's the #1 vacuum in America with two duel action suction heads that get dirt in every crevice imaginable. Almost every family has in their home to this day, and so many big companies want my parent's advertising services. Now, the deal with this one pair of CEO's involves this snobby family that lives in Orange Gate County. Apparently, the wife and husband owned this huge corporation that wanted my mother and father, and would give us this vacant home across from their house--excuse me, I meant castle, as well enroll me into school, if my mother and father did well in the first few months of advertising for their business. They did very well, so the white trash couple enrolled me into their children's high school, Mortimer High before my parents even said yes. Apparently, as the snobby, white trash wife told my mother, the school is primarily rich kids.

"Worry not," she said, "there are a few "Average Joes" like you guys in an underprivilaged school a few towns over." The wife was very happy to enroll me there.

Ha!

Needless to say, I refused to go to the underprivilaged school. Also needless to say, I was not a happy camper when we moved to Orange Gate County, which, let me just add, has an fence all the way around the entire county that blocks everyone in. I mean really. Prison much?!

I loved my normal neighborhood. I sure as hell let my parents know that I hated that we were moving by not speaking to them and wearing my hoody backwards so that it covered my face.

My tiny bedroom back home had provided just the right amount of comfort and privacy for me to read and relax. Now--now it was like I was in a whole different world and I had to start my live over entirely.

It started at the front gate. Curious, I pulled down my hood and lowered my headphones as the car rolled to a stop and my father opened his car door. The dude in the booth at the entrance of the enclosed town was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, which made his wiry frame look long and fashionable. He didn't have a greasy t-shirt and neon vest like most state workers -- the kind of uniform I actually liked because it reminded me of home. What really bothered me was that the booth dude gave my father this look. You know, the one that snooty popular girls give all the less popular girls from over the bridge of their nose as if they're so much better than everyone else.

Coming into the rich-kids neighborhood was seriously going to suck.

Everything was just so...perfect. The lawns were perfectly cut, slightly wet, and a healthy emerald. Each house was significantly spaced, the beautiful pine and maple trees along the freshly paved sidewalks and tall black-iron gates provided privacy on each and every property. The houses were perfectly structured and had an older, yet refined look to them, each one a bit different from the other in color and shape. Still, these houses didn't have the same uniqueness and homeliness as the typical middle-class house, and to be quite frank, the size of them had my neck stretching painfully out of the car window to see the roofs.

I flipped my hood back over my face, raising my screamo, angry music until we pulled into our new driveway.

Good news was, Junior year didn't start for a couple more weeks, so I had time to relax and get settled in my new room--which was about the size of my old house and an Olympic pool combined. I wasn't planning on navigating around the entire house and looking at the different rooms. I already knew what the white trash family had offered my mom and dad, a luxurious house with a pool, movie theater, and a personal butler named Bernard who has a black squiggly mustache under his nose (which is extremely hard not to stare at without touching your own upper lip), and who smells like Pledge, Windex, and... promise.

I was angry. I was angry, uncomfortable, and just flat-out nauseated by our new neighborhood. I just couldn't see the real value in moving to such a secluded area. I mean, I was happy for my mom and dad for landing such an awesome job, but did they even think about how I would feel? Did anyone here enjoy the neighborhood basketball games, barbeques, and rollerblading? Or were they all too occupied with wine tasting gatherings and "Lets All Get Together and Admire How Fabulous Our Lamborghini's Are" and "Let's Celebrate How Perfect We Are" parties?

God, please restrain me from punching someone in the face.

I was the last person that wanted this, believe me. And most importantly, I knew what that I wasn't going to blend in like I did in my last school. Oh no. I was going to stick out like a freshly slammed in the door, throbbing sore thumb. Not that I even cared. In fact, I was just itching to see how many fur coats and overly-tanned faces really were in this high-status "Mortimire High School". I had even bought a little chalk board to hang in my locker so I could make tally marks of all the little brats I met.

Boxes were stacked up pretty high in my room. I had already unpacked a third of them and I was already thinking about having a bed made out of cardboard boxes with lamps and my grandma's hand-knit sweaters that I never wore in my life, just so I could stop unpacking and do something that didn't make me so depressed.

And that was when I found the magazine.

It had been at the bottom of the last box that I was going to unpack before I would take a break. I wanted to go for a little run around White Trash Lane. On the cover of the magazine was a girl with long blonde hair, pouty lips, and a dress that rode up a little too high. She stood powerfully, with her heeled feet spread our and her hands on her hips. She looked out into the distance as if she was a pirate discovering new land. Lying on the ground, underneath the woman's heeled foot, was a devastatingly handsome, rugged man, who was so exotic looking that I knew he definitely didn't speak an ounce English. He grinned widely at the camera with massive fake fangs in his mouth.

How to be Cliché pg 14. Curious, I turned the pages of the magazine until I came to a page with the man from the cover with obviously fake claws stretching towards a pale looking guy with fangs and a bag of O negative in his hand. Both of them wore suits. Both of them made me sick to my stomach.

Werewolves, Vampires, and Crazy Submissive Princes that Abuse Their Captives, oh my! Submit your story to us and you could win $1,000,000 dollars, a new sports car, and a movie deal!!

Someone make me a time machine so I can go back and take those three seconds of my life back I spent reading this, I told myself silently, then threw the magazine straight out my bedroom window. There. That settles that.

Actually, it didn't. It just made me hate clichés even more. Furious, I kicked one of my full packing boxes. I was so heated that I managed to knock everything in it out onto the floor.

"I need to release some anger," I said to my puppy Salt, who immediately sprinted out of the room. He was a pretty smart pup, that's for sure.

Sighing, I slipped on my purple running shoes with the hole on the side of them, got on a tight pair of spandex to motivate myself to run longer, and a cute rainbow tie-dye sports bra that I received in the mail at the beginning of the Summer.

Yes, my entire wardrobe basically consisted of workout clothes.

Outside the air was sticky and just plain hot. After stretching out my legs, I descended the steps of my new house, turned, and spit straight on the stupid overpriced stairs.

Ha! Take that!

I was done. I was done feeling bad for myself. I couldn't wait until high school was over, and I had to accept that the fictional clichés in life, in books, and in high school would suffocate me to no end if I let them. So as I ran down White Trash Lane, I thought of all the ways I could maybe try and fit in somewhere in Mortimer High. I could obviously join the track team, that was one solution, but how would I make friends when all of my life I hated the type of people I expected to see at this school. All the phoniness, drama, and fake people that sought attention at every waking moment.

I was so deep in thought, so frustrated, that I hadn't seen the monster truck of a male that had been running right beside me. "You have great form, New Girl," Gorgeous said, flashing me a sideways smirk. "Especially from behind. Did you know that you talk to yourself?"

I stopped in my tracks, blew my rape whistle until Gorgeous covered his ears in agony, then roundhouse kicked him right in his flawlessly straight nose.

His face smacked against the pavement.

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Thank you so much for reading! Please take an extremely short moment to vote for each chapter as you read! It helps me out! :)))

What clichés have gotten on your last nerve? All of mine will be in this story. I promise that things are about to get a lot more crazy!! ;)

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