So. My name's Arika Kokoro.

Now, I know what you're thinking.

'Why is your name so girly sounding?'

Well, that's not what I thought you were thinking, but I'll answer your question regardless.

When I was born, my parents (and somehow, the doctors) were completely convinced I was a girl. How this situation played out, I honestly have no desire to know. This marks the beginning of my strange and somewhat unfortunate life.

Needless to say, the whole squad was not laughing when they found out the truth directly after submitting all of the documents.

...Actually, my mom probably was. She's like that.

Basically, while they managed to correct my gender on the oh-so-important birth certificate, somehow they couldn't change my name to whatever my parents had planned for me if I was a boy. Which I was.

Fast forward to the latter half of middle school, and it becomes evident that I've stumbled upon yet another 'somehow'.

As it turns out, my appearance is incredibly androgynous. And not the cool androgynous, no. I'm talking about the kind that, despite looking really nice, is just feminine enough that these hormonal freaks will get a hard on looking at me. Nobody ever seems to realize that I'm a guy until it's too late, regardless of whether or not I tell them. It doesn't really help that I had grew out my hair to hide my face from people looking at me from the side. Now all any of these idiots ever see is the 'cute quiet girl with red hair and blue eyes' sitting in the back of the class trying to avoid eye contact. Speaking of my appearance, of course I'd end up with the rarest combination of natural hair and eye colors. I would have thought it was cool if it wasn't attracting even more retards that are running solely on hormones.

And now, we've made it to my most recent predicament.

Here I was, taking a supplementary class because I hadn't performed well enough in my writing skills. I mean, CLEARLY I need to know how to write about the effects a snowstorm had on a place I don't even live in or give a fuck about to survive as an adult, CLEARLY.

I was walking up to the teacher, ready to hand in the completely pointless essay I had just masterfully crafted, but whoops!

Turns out some asshat broke one of the seats- typical highschooler behavior, I know- and the floor next to aforementioned seat was waxed recently, and there wasn't a sign to indicate this- typical high school behavior, I know. Add these two blatant safety hazards together, and you get one Arika shishkebab, cold on the floor.

And that's what happened.

So. That's pretty much my life story.