Carl

„I wonder where this disappearing act is from. It started long time ago, when lights went out, when freezing time was on, when only bad stuff could happen. Under the rocks of incredible cold, there was nothing, and under that big pile of nothing, there was me. And I was young, and scared, and now I’m old and scared, and who the fuck cares, right?!

Right!

All those bitches, all those fuckers, they mean nothing. A little more nothing than me, to be honest, but still nothing. Words fall in and out of me, everything cuts like a knife, and this radio is zooming me out.”

Carl’s book was of great misunderstanding. His 16 years meant nothing for all that hate and bitterness, and he couldn’t understand why he had to read this shitty text for school, when girls were in order. Like, girls with pink panties, and thigh-high boots, even if they weren’t allowed. Girls with ponytails and girls that rocked the goth trend with such an ease.

Mostly, girls with boobs.

Carl wasn’t stupid. He knew that most of the girls had boobs, and even some of the boys. He didn’t have a type yet, he usually liked the perky and alive variety, so anything that walked on their own two feet was deemed to be at least acceptable.

Carl, however, was no prince. He wasn’t even a frog. He was short and stout, with yellow, crooked teeth, and ginger hair. He could’ve been the Ron at his school, but there was no Harry cleaning his glasses. As for Hermione, let’s just say she was busy doing someone else.

But Carl wasn’t phased out by this. No, au contraire, my friend. He was just as obnoxious and boring as before, albeit a little bit more smug and, under that mask, a little more scared. Carl was just asking for it, but he didn’t knew it at the moment. Cue evil laughter.

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