"Let there be light," I joked to myself, straightening up to look around the room.
This is not my room, I've never had spiderman bedsheets, and the walls are painted blue. It's also much cleaner than I remember my own room being at any age. There's a benefit to being fairly laid back about things, as well as having twenty something years of experience to draw from even if this is well out of my normal range of expertise.
Digging through the dresser proves that whoever I am, I apparently have no clue how to dress. On second thought, given the colors and patterns here, it's more likely it's the '90s. A look around the room reveals a calendar for the month of June, and confirms my guess, the year is 1995. Either that or this kid has parents that refuse to update their stuff, and crap it's supposed to be 2018, I'm supposed to be twenty-six and working a job, not here. The internet is barely getting started so I can't use that to check if I even exist. Whoever this kid is, he's a neat freak or something. There's these perfectly drawn x marks on the calendar and today if the crossed off days are to be believed, is the day circled and underlined with 'Dad's home' written on it.
Given the calendar, and the sounds of someone else moving around the house, I conclude that there's a reason my alarm was set for this early in the morning; Because, I refuse to believe that I would willingly choose to get up this early, every day. Also, I'm apparently the type to wear pajamas, at this age, if I recall correctly, I would have just fallen asleep in a T-shirt and underwear. I say now that there's no way I'd have ever willingly worn this outfit with printed cartoonish dinosaurs all over it, but I'd be lying, because any me under the age of ten would've been ecstatic to have these snazzy pajamas.
"I'm up, I might as well get ready for the day," I shrug to myself, still a bit weirded out by the higher pitch of my voice. It's a tough job finding something I consider acceptable amidst the crazy colors and styles of the 90s. but I manage to locate a clean pair of jeans and a solid blue shirt that looks like it might be a size or three bigger than I need just yet.
By the time I make it into the bathroom and see myself in the mirror I've somewhat come to terms with the idea that I'm not the old me anymore, so the cherubic face with thick dirty blond hair and eyes that I'm sure girls will probably swoon over in a couple years, while a surprise, isn't cause for drastic reactions like yelling, screaming, and other similar hysterics. Damn, I've got the type of perfect face I used to hate.
Return to: Self Insert KidPosted: 2018-10-19 22:47:20 -6 gmt
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