talia
I thought this said runaway so I'm going to write about that word instead because I prefer it: A runaway is this little girl named Freya who likes strawberries more than anything. She has to be all dirty with torn up clothes and a curse because what else would she be running away from? Her self confidence is shit but a good love story will always fix her up. Unless she dies in the end.
I can't taste it - Only feel that smooth, slick, sleek, sliminess slurping down my throat. It only lives in textures and the mean things it inflicts on skin. It tastes like nothing, like lollipop wrapper skins, whatever those are.
I swallow it up, whole, like fucking onion paper. Mmm, there. I guess my duty is done. Onto the real food, that chewy, crispy, goddess goodness.
Lily of the valley is that beautiful flower, but it represents the more tragic side of life. Death is what it represents and we all think that is a tragedy. Yes, because you don't rise from it. Necessary but devastating. There is only so much readiness you can have and it will never fully predict what will come in the future.
This is what I tie around myself to contain that firm emotion of "I am not a home maker." I can't let it spill into my cookies or cupcakes because then they won't taste any good at all. I keep my feminist (human equalitist) ideals out of this and proceed with caution, mixing like this really is the biggest of my worries. They taste the best this way, you see? That's Martha Stewart's trick.
In the trunk of my car, that's where I keep the goods, girls. Bags of nailpolish, stacked up high and filled with Vogues. I'm like the Mary Kay lady because my car is so pink, bringing all of the little girls racing to me, fast on Cinderella heels. I fill with them with the lessons of my kind, that girls can like girls can like boys can like boys.
The bridge to terabithia was a terrrible book that i didn't feel that I could finish. It was incomplete - a childhood mess without the lessons that older literature often find within those black and white words. I preferred the one about the dog, Winn Dixie - he was more human to me in his doglike ways. Even so, we are all symbols, aren't we. We are the Jesuses and Mohammeds of this new society.
Hurry up. I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date. The date is: boom, the day I get my braces off. I rush into that busy, steaming office and get the metal yanked from teeth. "My baby's a woman," my mother croons (just kidding). But Mikayla really did squeal when she saw me. She was the only one who was excited. Was she more excited than i was?
the floodgates opened up and like a rushing, whirling, storm-filled eddy, his emotions came pouring out. my uncle was now the image of a broken man - one who had lost everything - wife, kids, dignity. what he did not know, though, was of our family's secret strength. It originated from his grandfather, a crusty man who was known to the whole family as Bumps.
Thunder and fire and rain and all of that divinity pouring down from Zeus' perch. He is the fire, the rain, the air. The only thing he lacks is Earth, held by sweet Demeter and Astarte and Persephone and Hera and Hestia. All of the women have it, because they are the body of us. That's right, they are the world's body.
The lion uncle from the Lion King. He was so evil and so bad because he was close to the family. He pulled Simba into his confidence - this was the way they always did it in the old world, you see. Brother killed brother and father killed son. Those wretched battles of land and power. This was the truest one of the Disney movies. The death of the father - that is a motif. The hero's journey.
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