Potato Balls Spill Everywhere "Aigoo, Such is Life..."
Dreams are high-flying, but reality's a total drag—that line popped into my head.
Deep down, I wanted to drop out and pour all my energy into recreating the songs from that guy's memories. But I'm not so airheaded that I'd quit school on a whim, so it all ends with me just whining about my pathetic life.
"Hmm... If I dropped out, would I become a high-school dropout who's basically a middle-school girl?"
Every time I try to focus on studying, random thoughts flood in. I bet everyone gets bombarded with distractions when they sit down to cram.
I pictured myself dropping out, but... sigh. I'd end up as a middle-school dropout in high school, which is just tragic. If it meant flipping my credentials to a high-school grad pretending to be middle-school age, maybe it'd be worth a shot?
I tore into the dorayaki I'd brought as a snack while pondering. Sure, Dad bought it for himself, but it's basically communal property, so I snagged it without guilt.
The craving hit out of nowhere—probably the prank function acting up—but it sure helped melt away my study stress.
"So good."
This must be why midnight munchies taste like heaven. It was so delicious, tears pricked my eyes.
The guy from my memories never got stress relief from sweets, but in Lee Haru's body, sugar hits different—it actually unwinds me.
"Ugyagyagyeok..."
I tried powering through my studies with a sugar boost, but focus? Zero. I chucked my pen onto the desk and flopped spread-eagle on the bed. They say you should count ceiling stains or dust bunnies when you're like this, but our place is so spotless, the ceiling's pristine.
From the living room came Mom's cackling laughter over NewTube, blissfully unaware of my inner turmoil. With sound leaking like this, firing up the prank function for a recording session right now—with her out there—would definitely earn me an earful.
'Should I rent a recording studio?'
A quick search showed rental rates that'd vaporize my entire monthly allowance in a couple hours. I burrowed under the covers, whimpering "Eeng! Eu-eung!" like a baby begging for more pocket money, but I knew it'd fall on deaf ears.
Making cash via NewTube was an option, but I hadn't hit the watch hours requirement. Monetization needs 1,000 subscribers and 4,000 watch hours minimum.
Vocals aside, song covers are just too short compared to regular videos. Plus, the HALU channel only has two tracks up right now.
Views were steadily climbing, sure, but qualifying for monetization? Still miles away. At this rate, maybe by the time I upload the farewell track or the one after.
No NewTube revenue yet, so all broke Lee Haru can do is nag for more allowance. But mine's already generous for my age, and with my angelic looks, I can't pull off the "Aww, Haru's face is pure angel, but her antics are straight-up Lucifer!" routine.
'Sigh... No choice. Back to studying.'
First revelation from grinding homework: the guy's memories gave me massive edges in history, English, science... especially chemistry. Still first-year high school with integrated science, but it's been a game-changer.
Even without science, history's a breeze—minus modern J-pop eras, it's identical. English feels effortless thanks to memorizing vocab scenes from his life.
And science... no more rote-memorizing complex formulas. His memory's element symbols make them pop into my head instantly: 'Oh, that's the one.'
'IQ 200 combined total for real?'
Anyway, not quite high-school-grad-middle-schooler material, but close enough to be adorably genius-level. Spot on.
Truth is, Korean and math are... rough. Total disaster zone. Math's salvageable with Jisu's help, but Korean? My nemesis.
Our king-god Sejong the Great made it easy to read and pronounce, but mastering it? Nightmare fuel.
The guy was a STEM major—engineering no less—so Korean and he were strangers. As Lee Haru, I'm no scholar either, so it reigns as problem child supreme.
Still, twirling my pen like a pro clears my head a bit. Sitting still feels like it'd turn half-plus-half studying into a joke—I half-believe that nonsense. Can't kick the prof's shin for an "Ow, class dismissed!" either, high school ain't college. Shame.
"Hiiing..."
History and science are pure freebies, English half-freebie, so no real complaints... but lazy's lazy.
Sudden urge: Some silver-haired girl pops up declaring "I'm a god," isekai-reincarnates me. That'd fix everything.
His memories feel like isekai perks—helpful but spotty. Over-relying blurs my Haru thoughts, shrinking them like before. Kinda iffy.
'Hmm... Wipe out everyone with better grades, and I'm top of the class, right?'
Studying till 1 a.m. must've fried my brain. I imagined ninjas massacring the student body... but fantasy stays fantasy.
Creeping into the living room, lights out, all quiet.
-Shhhk.
Like a sneaky stray cat, I cracked the fridge, chugged my hidden strawberry milk, and paused.
'Over six hours till my usual alarm?'
I need eight for peak refresh, but high-school stamina handles six fine. Perfect midnight snack o'clock. Prodded my belly—no pudge, so I earned this.
"Euheheh..."
Time for the next-gen hero(ine) to earn foreign yen via NewTube. Snacked on those oval peanut crackers from Japan, tiptoeing away.
Super crunchy, but oily—'Cola to wash it down~'—popped the cap, inching carefully...
'Hmm... Quick recording sesh?'
Too focused on stealth, missed the TV remote. Foot twisted—
-Thud crash!
Loud enough I cringed. Parents slept through it, thank god, but crackers everywhere, cola flooding the floor.
"Shiiit..."
Underwear soaked through. Crackers-in-cola mush: apocalypse cleanup. Panicking over how to fix it, then—familiar robot vac hum.
-Vreeeeeng.
"Eek! Robo-vac, st-stop!"
It sucking this mess? Disaster on steroids. Reflex-snatched it, killed power, yanked tissues to mop cracker-cola sludge, wipes for the floor. Decent job.
-Drip... drip...
'Oh right, clothes...'
Mopped everything, but absorbed cola leaked from my outfit. Sticky body cola: gross. Stripped bare, chucked into bathroom sink, filled with water, hopped in the shower.
No gallery-post shower tutorial needed—just normal routine. Twice daily, at dawn? Infuriating, but karma's a bitch. Washed up, out by 2 a.m. Swapped to spare undies and PJs, thinking:
'Should be fine, right?'
They slept through the crash. Locked door, towel-sealed gaps for safety. Now, covert PC boot for recording gamble while parents snoozed. Midway, froze.
'Wait, upstairs and downstairs neighbors?'
Thus, "freshly showered girl" me meekly hit the sack, fired up the Vocaloid Gallery for casual post-browsing...
"Kkya! Ack—"
First post pic: disgustingly gross. Clamped my mouth to stifle the scream, called it quits for sleep.
No vocal program tweaking needed—just sing a few takes, edit. Faster than software fiddling. So... I can take it slow. Probably.
'Phew... At least I didn't spill potato balls and fish cake broth at the rest stop.'
Imagining parents ditching me for "operation success," I'd fetch thousands—I conked out.
And so I dreamed weirdly: At a rest stop, lugging potato balls and fish cakes to parents' car, they abandon me with a sigh: "Phew... Mission accomplished. Thousands incoming."