redfeatherz
There is a trophy sitting on my dresser. It's sat there for years, since I recieved it when I was only seven or eight years old. I won a pageant, and continued to the winner's pageant. I got second runner up, but they messed up the trophies. I got a huge one that was meant for first runner up, but I didn't care. Childlike narcissism allowed me to brag about it, rather than gracefully, patiently accept taking a late trophy, but a proper one for a third-place pageanteer.
I find it ironic that 'domestic' is today's word. At the eye doctor's, sitting in a sticky, humid waiting room with leather couches that glued themselves to my sweaty thighs, I opened a National Geographic or something of that ilk, one of those information magazines that are set out there, and it spoke of domesticating foxes, and them replacing dogs as man's best friends. National Geographic- you're way behind. I've known since I was six that I wanted either a skunk or a fox as a pet. (Another intriguing fact that I can't help but insert; cats are the only animal that domesticated themselves, adapting to live in such a way that benefited them, rather than being forced to live beneficial lives for humans.)
She walked down the hall, a spring in her step and a shine in her eyes. Her hips swung in accompaniment with her clicking heels, showing off her long, slender legs, and rippled her long, silk mane of hair. She was beautiful, and believed herself to be glowing. Too bad she wasn't actually glowing; she was just orange.
Her feet rested on the console, clad in loose high-top converse of a pale yellow hue. Dust whipped through her hair, sandblasting everything from her mind, exactly how she loved. Her two best friends sat in the front seats, one driving, one shotgun; and there was her, sprawled in the back. A hundred thousand miles an hour, a streak of light in the sandy savannah- trying to outpace the rotations of the world and fly through time.