annieli
Sometimes I wish I could record these memories on little cards, written in perfectly even script. So that I could put them in my pocket and keep them forever, put them in a little box to look at some day far from now. My little cardbox of memories, for when I cannot play anymore.
His lips tasted like chocolate.
Every time she kissed him, she savored the sweetness, even though she knew that he was no good for her. She felt the thrill of a forbidden pleasure, of the electric shock every time she tasted those sweet lips.
And later, when it was all over, she couldn't shake off the guilt of having indulged.
When I was six years old, my mother tried to teach me how to use a needle and thread. It was clear from the start that I was terrible at it. The thread slipped through my fingers, and once I managed to thread the needle, the needle was a different story. Instead of puncturing the fabric, it would almost always puncture my skin instead, so that I would be decorating with blood instead of thread.
When I was older I picked up the needle again, but I still couldn't stitch anything together. Not even my life, which was breaking at the seams.
She gazed at the world with innocent wide eyes and a perfect haircut, wearing those frilly clothes that her mother picked out for her.
She said the right things, did the right things. But she never forgot.
And one day she came home with those pretty eyes lined in black and leather and holes everywhere.
We all have the ability to revolt.
I can't write this without thinking about that scene in Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, as Snape is fleeing from the Astronomy tower. "Coward," Harry screams at Snape. How little did he know.
I suppose it just goes to show that you can't jump to conclusions. You can't call somebody a coward without considering how much they've been through.
I wish I could be one of those pretty girls from a magazine.
You know the types. Perfectly curled hair, flawless skin, stylish clothes. And sometimes they get classy with their red lipstick and rouged cheeks and perfume. Oh, you can't forget the fragrance, that lures in many a hapless male.
But I'm just a nerdy little schoolgirl and the only fragrance I give off is that of pencil lead and old books. Such is life.
Ring, ring, ring goes the alarm. I reach over and groggily fumble for the snooze button. Ring, ring. I angrily smash the button again.
Sometimes I just don't want to wake up, because life is hard and I want to keep dreaming. Please keep me from this nightmare.
I remember once upon a time when I thought it would be freaking awesome if we could take pills instead of eating. It just seemed more convenient- rather than sitting down to eat a meal three times a day (or, if you're a poor under-rested high schooler like me, twice a day), we could just grab a glass of water and a breakfast pill.
But now I see that eating is a wonderful experience. If we just took pills, we wouldn't be able to go out to lunch with friends or dinner with a date.
Another reason why it's not good to pop pills.
Video game controllers always confuse me. I've never been much of a gamer; my parents didn't allow me to play video games when I was younger. Nowadays, whenever I go to a friend's house and find a video game controller in my hand, I have no idea what to do but to randomly mash buttons and hope something works.
I suppose that's a fair enough representation of my life. I don't know what to do most of the time. The problem is, in life, I don't even have a controller to direct where I'm going.
I remember when I was a little girl and too short to see over anything. Crowds and tables alike were enemies to my vertically challenged-self. My father would sometimes pick me up and put me on his shoulders to see over the crowds, and my mother would always make sure I had a booster seat ready at whichever restaurant we ventured to.
Today, I am tall, and I am able to stand on my own feet. But I'm still thankful to my parents for the boost.
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