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The Bad Boy Syndrome

Everyday as you wake up in the morning, you promise yourself, to be good, to be nice, gracefully loyal and whatever. Before you know it, your rules are crushed by a huge lion walking around to beat your niceness all along.

Hate him, like you've hated sugarless cake or pepperless salads.

I walk down the road, watching him beat up innocent children. The smug smile, the rustic fervor that almost makes you drive him up the wall, the callous nature, and you just stare politely. you don't want to smile. You don't even want to look.

The second time I walked down the entrance, it was as if he knew I'd be there. I couldn't get pass it this time. "How can you?" I barfed at the thought of having to speak to this guy, who was now standing arrogantly after having taken the money from looney teenager.

"Don't pretend you're all that good. Nobody is."

I wanted to leave victorious, but now I was confused. "Yes, I am good" I reassured myself, holding my books closer now.

And that's when I made a mistake. With cars screeching up and down the street, all of them looking for the girl who stole their precious metal, I was now wishing the bad boy were here. The bad boy, who was walking on the other side of the bridge, probably listening to the music only to deafen himself from the city noise.

How did I get here? I wasn't the only one in the dark room filled with the metal. I wasn't the only one who was late to class? I wasn't the only one to hear the conversation between the masked guys. Or, was I?

That explains, the chasing cars, me hiding with some metal that could help thousands of poor people, and the bad guy.

I wished he would turn back. I wished he wouldn't walk away after seeing me in trouble. I wished, I had liked the bad boy.


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