Undecided.

This is just the start of the first story I have ever written. The plot isn't properly developed yet, because i'm still introducing the characters, but I just need to know how i'm doing so far. Thanks!

Amy opened her eyes, and stared up at her ceiling. She rubbed her face and stretched, then glanced over to her right. Her laptop was open on a chair next to her bed, and she opened up the Word file containing her timetable. She noticed with relief that her only lecture of the day started in 10 minutes, clearly not enough time to make it, and lay back on her bed. Amy didn’t believe in alarms, the logic being that her biological clock was far more reliable than any timekeeping device. She justified this to herself by explaining in her own head that clocks and alarms were just based on some kind of internal timekeeping ability anyway, so why not cut out the middle man? She didn’t actually believe this, of course, but it allowed her to miss a good number of lectures guilt free. She gazed up at her ceiling, and allowed her eyes to absently follow the swirly patterns. She had done this most days since she moved in, the year previously, and she thought she probably had most of the patterns committed to memory by now. She decided, as she did most mornings, that she would get up when one of the lines she was following hit the corner between wall and ceiling, and her eyes lazily trekked back and forth for 5 minutes or so, until the line finally came to a halt off to the left. She half smiled, satisfied with her work, and sat up in bed. As she glanced around her room, she felt what she always felt when she was confronted by all of her belongings in one room. Very little. She had an acoustic guitar that she never played, and a record player that she never listened to. She had bought them both because she thought that that is what students did, played guitar and listening to vinyl. It had never entered her head that the guitar was hard to learn, and that records were obsolete for a reason, so now they just sat there, a testament to her lack of actual interests. She had posters on her wall, Bon Dylan with a bass guitar and that picture of Che Guevara that everyone had. If she was being truthful, she didn’t know much of Bob Dylans music, and what she did know was less than inspiring, but she felt that it was important that she gave the impression to others that she knew what the big deal was. Che Guevara baffled her even more. She knew he was Cuban (was he Cuban?) and that he apparently fought fascism, which is undeniably cool, but she also felt slightly weird about the concept that such a revolutionary figure had become a consumerist commodity. She felt comfortable with her discomfort, however. If everyone else was going to bastardise his memory then she may as well join the fun, and anyway, having the poster meant that she didn’t have to actually fight any fascists or anything, she could relax, content in the knowledge that she had a picture of a bloke with a beard that she didn’t really know anything about.
She swung her legs out of bed and pushed her hair out of her eyes. She remembered, with some annoyance, that she had spilt food on her last pair of jeans the night before, but had neglected to put a wash on nonetheless. She padded over to her laundry basket and dug through the contents until she found some jeans that weren’t marked too badly, and pulled them on. They didn’t smell too fresh, but that could be covered up fairly easily. She clipped back her hair and wandered out into the hall, still wearing the t shirt she had slept in. She wasn’t going out, she reasoned, so why should she make the effort? She reached the kitchen and flicked on the kettle. She didn’t like tea much, if she thought about it, but this is what you did in the morning, you had a cup of tea. There weren’t any clean mugs, so she made her tea in the mug she had used the previous day, after tipping out the cold, almost untouched, remains. She glanced at the clock, and realised that her lecture would be starting about now. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be diligent, to turn up to lectures, on time and raring to go, to make notes and listen intently, then head to the library to catch up on some reading for seminars. She had honestly tried, and she had managed it for a while in her first year. She had gone to most of her lectures, and she had worked hard, but this quickly became a thing of the past when she realised that since she was at university, and since she was studying a social science, that no one much cared what her attendance rate was. It was all downhill from there. She had once heard that in order to succeed, you had to give 110% in everything you did. This seemed impossible to Amy. Aside from being actually, mathematically impossible, the figure seemed so far beyond what she was currently giving that it was almost too abstract to consider. She thought that she was probably giving 20% at the moment, and that with a real stretch she might be able to bump that up to 30, 35 at the most, but 110%? Lunacy.
She took her tea and walked down the hall into the living room. The curtains were drawn, but the TV and lights were on, and her roommate, Chris, was asleep on the sofa. She looked at him for a second, then took the remote from the arm of the chair and flicked off the TV. He woke with a start and blinked.
“Alright Amy”, he said, wincing against the stark light in the room.
Chris made Amy feel better about herself. Maybe that wasn’t the best basis for a friendship, but it was the truth. She liked him and everything, they had fun together, but when she thought about him it was usually just to convince herself that her life wasn’t going too badly after all. This morning was a perfect example. Sure, she was wearing dirty jeans, and no, maybe she didn’t know who Che Guevara was, but Chris was waking up on the sofa, fully clothed, having gotten stupidly stoned the night before and passing out to late night TV. Well, Fully Clothed might be a bit of a stretch. Fully Clothed conjured up images of attire that wouldn’t look out of place in public. While Chris could have left the house, it probably wouldn’t have done him any favours. He was dressed in what he always wore, grey tracksuit bottoms, the kind that had elastic around the ankles, and a plain white t shirt. His ginger hair was springy, and had lost any sense of discipline. She was sure that it had been styled, once upon a time, but those days were long gone, and his head seemed resigned to this fact. His sideburns were becoming pretty menacing, they almost stood out at right angles, which was in fairly stark contrast to the rest of his face, which was completely hairless. It seemed that he had only started puberty on 2 rectangular strips on the side of his face. He wasn’t fat, per se, but he certainly wasn’t slim. His body just seemed to be a little wider than you would expect around the hip area. Amy couldn’t remember the last time he had had a wash, and the faint smell of body odour and smoke seemed to follow him wherever he went.
They had met in first year, just after Amy had moved in. They were put into the same flat in halls of residence, along with 4 others. They had quickly bonded, not because they had a lot in common, but more because neither of them had anything in common with anyone else they had met. Freshers week had been a nightmare for both of them; they reluctantly dragged themselves out with their flatmates, because that was what you did when you went to uni, and had quickly discovered their disdain for it. Amy found clubs almost unbearable, the crowds made her feel claustrophobic, the music and flashing lights gave her a headache, and she found drunk people puerile. Chris would make the effort (for Chris, Making the Effort meant a shower and a shirt), and invariably his advances would be rejected, even by the drunkest of girls, which he would react to by going into a sulk. They quickly realised that this was a very expensive way to feel uncomfortable and out of place, and packed it in, choosing instead to spend their evenings eating pizza and watching Family Guy DVDs. Oh, and smoking, but that was mainly Chris.
As Amy expected, no sooner had his eyes adjusted to the light, he was leaning over to his tin and starting to skin up. Amy looked on, bemused. Sure, she enjoyed the occasional smoke, it was part of the reason they got on so well, and some of their best times had been spent getting stoned together, but 30 seconds after waking up? It made her stomach turn.
He finished rolling, and sat back, lighting the spliff with his zippo lighter. He inhaled, then blew smoke into the already stuffy room. Amy waved her hand in front of her face and grimaced, but Chris didn’t notice.
“No lectures today then?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“I did have one, it started a few minutes ago. I didn’t sleep very well, so I’m going to give this one a miss I think”.
This was a lie, she had slept fine. They both knew this, but they both pretended to believe it anyway. Chris nodded and grinned, and flicked the TV back on.

Michael was having a Bad Day. He rubbed his temples, because he had seen people in films doing it, and he wanted everyone to know that he was having a Bad Day. He ran his hand through his hair, and realised grimly that his hairline was too far back on his head and that soon the ponytail would look ridiculous. He knew it already looked ridiculous; it didn’t take a genius to work that out. A ponytail on a man over 25 was almost as bad as socks and sandals, wasn’t it? And he wasn’t even close to 25; he was a long way past 25. He couldn’t just shave it off though, oh no, he had gone way beyond that. As a defence mechanism, he had adopted a stubborn, rebellious attitude, and among his friends he would proudly boast that he didn’t care what Trinny and Susannah thought, he would have his hair how he wanted. He was a maverick, a fashion revolutionary. He was taking the rule book and tearing it to shreds, playing with fire. All bollocks, of course. What he was, was a 41 year old man with a fucking ponytail, which he couldn’t get rid of because that would be admitting defeat, and it just wasn’t worth it. He would press on regardless. Hell, might as well grow a soul patch, go the whole hog. He sighed, and stared down into his coffee. It was Venti. Michael hated that word. What was wrong with large? Large worked perfectly well for everyone, everyone except Starbucks that is. When Michael ordered his coffee, he always made a point of asking for the sizes in normal person language. Today, he had asked for a large coffee, and had been greeted by blank stares, as if he had asked for something ludicrous, like a prune in a shoe or something. It was bad enough having to deal with companies using strange lingo to identify the sizes of their cups, but why did everyone else have to adopt it too? Couldn’t they just let us get on with our lives?