<div class="floatright">(http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/72/b8/d1/72b8d15e083e3b072de0066151588a2e.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: andale mono;"><em>What is your typical morning like? <br/><br/>Waking to the invigorating waft of coffee? Or perhaps your poison is the dull epithet of newsreaders on BBC? <br/><br/>What next? Do you groan when you realize it’s Monday? Maybe you are that most infuriating of breeds. A morning person. Worse, a Monday morning person.<br/><br/>After engaging the entirety of my will to refrain from spamming your inbox with elevator music, allow me to explain my typical morning. <br/><br/>Admittedly, I’ve had the benefit of not having to work a day of my life - except perhaps the odd hair-brained scheme to get girls – and have grown accustomed to having what I want when I want. I am 18 years old and I have a private plane, for fuck’s sake. Spoiled brat doesn’t even come close to describing me.  <br/><br/>Now, now. Calm down. Don’t waste your expletives before we get to the good part. One of your choicest words may have prefixed a guess that I lived in a mansion. Well done. I do. An art deco masterpiece with the ocean sprawled on one side, dense wood on the other and pure seclusion all around. Accessories include an Olympic-size pool, an in-house movie theatre and imperishable bars in each of the four wings.<br/><br/>I realize this is testing your patience, and your arsenal of swear words. But I haven’t yet got to the foremost reason why I deserve your envy. No, put down the priceless Ming dynasty vase. I know it look like someone’s already squished it, but it’s part of the charm. Or so my appraiser insisted. I wasn’t quite listening… <br/><br/>Because I was fucking my big sister. <br/><br/>And I believe I hear her getting into the shower. She’d get mad if I don’t join her right away…  <br/><br/>I am RS. Welcome to my world. Don’t touch my things and my girls. Yes, plural. I’ll tell you about mommy and her darling wife on the next post</em>.</span><br/><br/>My lips align in a vivid little grin. This probably wasn’t what Mrs Hansen had in mind when she had asked us to sire a blog. I click ‘Send’ and the page is created, my own depraved little corner of the internet, which would appear as an anonymous update on my English teacher’s inbox for assessment. My face wore a smirk now as I pictured her, stunned from the content yet unable to prise her eyes off of it.<br/><br/>“<strong>Let’s see if I can get some fodder for the next post</strong>”<br/><br/>Tipping the laptop closed, I lug myself out of bed and meander towards the sound of rushing water and a playful little melody.<br/><br/>Sis had chosen one of the common baths instead of the one adjoining her bedroom, which was a touch strange since it afforded lesser space and a slightly limited supply of product. However, it was a lot closer to my room and the lyrics of her song made me think that was the clinching factor.<br/><br/>“<strong>You know Rihanna wrote <em>Rude Boy (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e82VE8UtW8A)</em> cause she was angry at her wuss of a boyfriend, right</strong>?”