"We tried to be better, but we aren't. I don't think anyone could last more than a week here if they weren't willing to do bad things." - Alba Reyes

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Mimi
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I'm Miss sugar pink, liquor liquor lips
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Nancy 'Gracie' Wainright, Female student no. 081 Start

Gracie Call-Me-Nancy-And-I’ll-Piss-In-Your-Coffee Wainwright was an independent woman. Why, you might ask, was Gracie an independent woman? Gracie had been buying her own clothes since she was twelve and even before that, Gracie was buying her own lunch at school. Now, you might ask, why exactly did that make Gracie an independent woman? Because Gracie was resourceful. Those clothes had price tags, y’know. She, even at the tender age of twelve, knew full that money made the world go round. And in order to be high up in the world, what did you need? MONEY. So, how was Gracie resourceful? She found ways to get MONEY. Whether it was raiding her Aunt’s piggy-bank of a couch or showing a little skin to a few creeps on the internet, Gracie’s primary concern was MONEY.

But, you might say, why does this matter? Gracie IS on an island where MONEY has no value. Whatsoever. Now, you’d have to really know Gracie to realize what we’re getting at here. Gracie is greedy. Plain and simple. She’ll take as much of something as she can get and then go back for seconds. So even now, after being drugged, forced to watch the brutal deaths of her chaperones, and then being dropped onto an island without so much as a kiss goodbye, Gracie’s greed had managed to prevail in the end.

You know what sucked? Waking up on a deserted island where you expected to kill your closest friends, or enemies as it’d be in her case, with only a daypack full of gross as carb-y shit. You know what sucked worse? Waking up on a stupid island and seeing that your absolute FAVORITE pair of Raybans were laying a few feet away and BUSTED on a fudging rock. You know what made all, well most of it, of it better? Seeing a big ass stinkin’ rifle sticking out of your daypack once you’re done cradling your broken Raybans in your hands and sobbing.

And that’s how Gracie ended up hiding under some underbrush on a hill overlooking the fair like some kind of really fashionable tigress, watching dumbass Anna Chase crawl around on the ground like a retarded baby. Gracie wasn’t terribly sure what the fudge she was doing crawling around on the ground, figuring it was probably some creepy ass voodoo gothic ritual or some shit. She didn’t really care much either, honestly. All she wanted was that delicious looking daypack, which had been silently taunting retard-baby for awhile now. Oh GOD, what she wouldn’t give for Facebook, she could see it now.

GRACIE WAINRIGHT
Status: Robbing freakin’ Wednesday Addams, biiitcheeeees!!!

Exhilarated by the very thought, Gracie leapt up from the underbrush and quickly wiped the dirt off her shorts before making her way down the hill. Her stomach ad accumulated a few butterflies and she inwardly squealed, she was making freaking history. She had seen a few episodes of SOTF before, though it didn’t come near being as good as America’s Next Top Model, but whatever. It was cool in its own way, despite it being, y’know, REAL. But yeah, in all the episodes she had seen, never did she witness a fudgin’ SHAKE DOWN, she was so dang smart. And hey, at least she knew she wouldn’t die of starvation or for the next few days.

As Gracie walked nonchalantly through the gates of the fair, she could hear retard-baby’s stupid ass voice—talking to the dark demon servants of Satan or some shit, probably. It wasn’t until she heard another girl’s (even stupider)voice did she realize that her plan might be a little trickier than she thought. Edging up against one of the game booths, Gracie peaked her head around it to survey retard-baby’s area.

Are you kidding? Seriously? In the time it had taken her to make her way down to the fair, another less-whorey-but-still-whorey-enough Marge-Simpson-Wannabe-Bitch had joined the party. With a heavy sigh, Gracie swallowed the sudden lump forming in her throat and exposed herself to the girls, gun raised dangerously in her arms. Who freakin' says that TV didn’t teach you anything? All those hunting shows didn’t go to waste, nuh uh.

“Hands up, packs out, bitches,”



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the end is nigh


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