spazzycorn
July is my least favourite month. It's hot, and it's humid, and things always seem hotter than they really are.
Like us. I thought we were on fire. I thought we could go somewhere. I thought things would work out for us, that we could take what we had and make it into something lasting.
Instead, July was the beginning of the end.
I remind myself to do it daily, but I must be getting old because I always forget to recycle.
Paper. Glass. Aluminum. Plastic. You'd think I would remember considering that those brightly colored bins are all over the place, but apparently not.
The best part is that I don't forget to recycle emotions.Or memories for that matter. I wish I could just throw those away. Unfortunately, they just come right back.
Figures that I don't recycle the things that matter, and I recycle the things that don't.
She cowers in the corner, amidst the screaming and the flashes of light that are going off dangerously close to where she is. If she were older, she might cynically note that she can seen nothing but black spots, despite being in the face of so much light.
But she is only six, and so she is scared.
Celebrate. Parties, birthdays, festivals jump to mind. I've never been one for celebrations. I've always been one to stay out of the spotlight; I'd rather just sit in a corner and read a good book. Or go out for dinner with my friends and family. I don't like festive occasions save for the big ones- Christmas, Thanksgiving.
Maybe I just don't want to celebrate because it means being happy. I hate being happy.
I have one. It's small and it's leather- you'd think that I would feel weird about carrying something made out of a dead cow's skin- but it's really not if you don't think about it. A lot of things aren't what they are if you think about it- you're not who you are if you think about it. Why do we then impose our own thoughts onto our observations?
All these thoughts, from a small pouch.
I just started driving. And goodness me, it's hard. I guess maybe because it's I'm Asian, but drivers seem to automatically hate me when I get on the road. The good news is that after two weeks I seem to be a good driver. No accidents yet, knock on wood, but somehow I still feel like a terrible driver. Probably cause of Dad. Ah, but then this prompt isn't about driving then, is it?
She's always loved grand gestures. When she was fifteen, her first love gave her a bouquet of roses.. then gave her another bouquet... and another..until she had a total of nine hundred and ninety four, her favorite number. She conveniently forgot to tell him that she had only been joking when he had asked.
She is twenty nine noow, fourteen years after the fact. She still loves grand gestures. So when he picks up the megaphone and asks her, in front of the entire crowd in the At &T stadium: "Will you marry me?" she never hesitates.
They're fighting again.
Screams reverberate all around the hall, drifting up the hallway. I'm only eight, but I know what they are shouting about- alcohol or drugs or cheating, or all three. I try not to listen, but I am eight, and I don't know how to tune off just yet.
They're fighting again, and I don't know if this time will be the straw that breaks the camel's back.
A cast is a group of people in a production, preferably theater or film. A group of people, paid to put on makeup and pretend to be someone they are not. They're meant to be performers, actors in roles that they may not be naturally- they may pretend to love, when even it is not meant to be so.
In that case, we're all part of some sort of cast, aren't we?
"Your hair's so pretty," I commented, fingers twisting in and out as I deftly braided Katie's hair. "It's like golden brown goodness."
"Don't be silly," my sister said drily.
"Remember when we used to do this at night?"
Katie didn't answer, and I realized that I'd made the fatal mistake of reminding her that I had no more hair to braid; the sad realization that Death was in every aspect of me, even my hair, made me incredibly miserable.
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