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YOU PEICES OF SHIT FORCED THIS OUTTA ME, K? BE READY FO' SHIT

Logan's eyes glared down at his brown-stained schedule, grimacing slightly. He let out a defeated sigh, biting the inside of his lip forcefully. His paper smelled slightly of a snickers bar, which was the cause of the aforementioned stain. Logan tasted the almost too familiar taste of metal. Blood. He'd bitten so hard he'd taken his own blood. He winced slightly, licking the wound with his dry tongue. Logan continued to drag his feet across the linoleum flooring with a regained sense of humiliation and regret. Having turned in his recommendations late, he was given no choice in the matter of his electoral classes, causing the unfortunate circumstances of him being sorted into not only the infamous "Creative Writing" class, also known as "Cry Yourself to Sleep", he was also put in, of all the fucking classes, Ballet. WHO MADE THAT SHITTY DECISION? He almost burst into uncontrollable weeping when he first spotted it on his schedule. Logan's eyes drifted in the direction of ballet classroom