Being a double-major was hard. Especially when you were kind of an asshole student that waited until the last minute to do your bookwork, and nearly flunked out every grade but somehow managed to bat your precious baby blues at your professors to get extra time to hand in your shit.

Life had pretty much always been easy for John Egbert. He had an adoring (over-loving, suffocating, completely nerdy) father that provided him with everything he needed and thensome, he had a pretty cool half-sister that he hung out with in the summers, he'd pretty much always been liked. He was a mean (totally amateur) prankster, and had a decent amount of friends he'd made throughout the years. He drove a cerulean blue Toyota Prius (his father wanted to reduce their carbon footprint to the best of his ability-- both of their cars were Hybrids) with the license plate PCHOOOO on it, and today was the first day of his first sophomore semester. He was twenty-one, slowly growing out of his baby fat into a budding career in the music industry (really the business degree was just a backup and to please daddy), and was about to meet his roommate for the semester. A one "Dave Strider", according to the paperwork he'd been given.

So with a bright-ass green backpack with a nerdy slime ghost logo on the back of it over his shoulder and a black rollerboard in his other hand, he reached out and knocked on the door to apartment B413.