The Hello Arithmetic stands as an (in-the-works) novel that illuminates the life of artist, loner, social-derelict, and protagonist, Warren Audley. The plot centers around Warren's junior year of high school as he performs his caustic chores of attending high school, parlays the puzzles and paradoxes of the female gender, and negotiates with death; all of which are recorded his journal.
I came into purchasing this particular posse of papers in hopes that I may unlock the gateway to some sort of magical teenage epiphany. In truth, my mom said it would "help." She seems to carry the presumption that my pretentious narration of the status quo precludes me from drawing out worthwhile relationships. I guess she's right.
Despite being originally suggested by my mother, it is most auspicious I came into ownership of you today. If I hadn't, I don't suspect I would believe myself at a later date to take note of what I stumbled into this morning. See, I had a chat with someone I didn't know today. Female, too. Shocking, yes, but it is my Junior year. The hiatus between myself and the opposite sex has been staggering on for far too long.
This pseudo-romantic rendezvous unfolded in Choir early this morning. I was out of breath, so I turned to inhale, then, I blinked. I saw her. She was short, with cute rose cheeks, golden blond hair, soft hazelnut eyes, and wore a carefree expression as she painted melodies with her vocal chords. A fox. I let out a lightly gripped glimpse gifted across the teeming teen tempers, past pale peering personalities, in order to alight an affably amiable, alluring, and angelic air (i.e. smiled and looked at the girl.) Surprisingly enough, she giggled. I assumed that was a good thing. Consequently, a bundle of questions began to jolt onto the forefront of my mind. "I guess I should say something? Maybe not?"
Let's be frank here, I’m a tries-to-be romantic of the bashful artifice Gestapo. Vis-à-vis any Romeo that ever happened upon a Juliet. Typically, I lack proper on-your-feet planning. Yet, at this moment, I thought I had it. The plan was simple. I would jaunt beside her elbowroom, then, slyly spout to someone else, making me seem “cool.” It turned out awfully. The fact that I pretentiously sounded off the ploy psychologically ought to have been an obvious symptom it wouldn't be up to snuff.
"What now?" I asked myself. I thought about cookies for a little to stall while my mind set to work. It was no use. I just had to spit it out.
“Hey.” I had caught her eyes,
“Hey, what’s up?” she tossed back.
Now, I wasn’t expecting such an engaging conversation such as this, but I had to be able to handle it. I knew I had to say something appealing, something remarkable, something attention grabbing.
“Not much" I said.
It was awesome. I could probably do that all day.