I always loved hoodies. Big sweaters that engulfed my body in their warm hug or even just a zip-up jacket, as long as it had a hood. Flip it up and hide from the world. It wasn’t about body image. I just felt safe, like I carried my own little private room around me. A comfy suit of armor.
A hood is something that goes on the back of the sweater that covers you head and keeps you from getting cold or wet. Or a hood can be something that goes on the front of your car, so your engine wont get wet (or any other stuff that cant get wet).
Grew up in the hood but her soul sang of shining lights and fine dining. Hollow hearts with silver lining. No shining, a dull star in the sky.
Rachelle
theives and contemporary weirdos. Steal from the rich give to the poor. Im in the hood with a pund of the good.
Brenna
when i think of the word hood, it reminds me of the slang term “hood” which has a meaning that i am not completely aware of. it seems as though there is a completely different language being spoken when people use slang terms. i cannot speak that language.
Kate
everyone has a hood that they grew up in. a neiborhood. a place where they had a fisrt kiss. a first crush. you hood is also on your head. and it can hide your hair on a bad hair day. and a hood covers the engine and mechanic stuff in your car so that it does not get wet or hurt.
the mask of the hooded girl was painted with invisibility. only she knew it was there, day or night. it concealed her of her worries, her insecurities, most importantly her guilt. sometimes she would forget to take it off before she fell asleep; it became a part of her. the hood was for show; it let strangers know she had been smashed into a million pieces. it let them know she could not be toyed with.
so that was that. the mask was for her own self-pitying pleasures. to hide her from herself. the hood, well, she hated the hood. but she must keep in, to hide herself from the world.
“here’s to the someday”, she would say. vowing to rid of both before it was too late. before she was hidden forever.
hood on the jacket of a black teenage guy. comes close and tries to mug you off your money and you start running…though he looks cool but you are scared to death.
chirag
robin in the wood Marion castle torunament sword little john fire trees jacket
Marianne Johansson-ståhl
Jesse put on her hooded cloak and stiffly walked through the room, ignoring the strange looks from the men. She had to do this on her own, and she knew it. Not that she wanted to, of course, but no one else could make this change. She could not go back to that life. Ever.
A tiny man had fallen from the sky. He must have died on impact, I thought, or before impact from fright — I am no expert on tiny men, as I am a gynecologist — but his small broken body lay twisted near the hood ornament of my car, maybe a foot or so from where he’d landed and left a dent, an unsubstantial dent, as though I’d driven through a storm and been hit by a single piece of hail. Under the hippocratic oath, it is my duty to administer medical treatment whenever necessary, and so I leaned close to the motionless tiny man, the same size as one of the plastic army soliders I’d had as a child, and said, “Sir, can you hear me? Can you give me any indication that you can hear me?” And the tiny man did not stir, did not make a sound, and so I leaned closer, and took great care to place my finger on his chest to check for any sort of pulse, but instead I heard a pop and figured I’d broken one of his ribs. I stepped back to look at the little man. His head faced me and his eyes were closed, his arms and legs bent so that it looked like he was running toward something. The clouds overhead seemed to pass under his body as they reflected in the hood of my car, and it gave me the impression he was falling again, that he looked like this as he hurtled through the air and probably died of fright, but not before he’d smacked my hood, not before he thought something we’ve all thought before, that is: “This world is much too big for me; I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
He pulled his hood up, and beneath its shadow his face turned into a skull. His father’s scythe materialized in his hand and raven-dark wings spread briefly before folding comfortably behind his back. He looked down on the old man, his feelings dampened by his transformation.
wearing a hood does not make you a social activist, it makes you a putz. do something, make a petition, form a rally, march on something, but retweeting pictures of fucking celebrities in hoods is not going to bring about change.
“Yeah, and they all look like suspicious little ninjas.”
“Ted, if you continue to try to justify this boy’s death because of one article of clothing, I will justify your death because you pissed me off with your stupidity.”
Belinda Roddie
The dark fabric pulled up around my head gives me a feeling of warmth, and security as I move through the night shrouded in secrecy.
It wasn’t as hood as I imagined she was going for. But then again, I’ve never had expectations for anyone, why start with her? Why am I so used to disappointment? I wonder if this is how we grow senile. We just lose hope in human beings. Let down too many times to aim high.
Darkness shrouded the figure in the corner, brooding over a large book almost consumed by his concentration on the words. Hood pulled low over his face, the skeletal man ran a bony finger across the pages as if to write something there, mumbling to himself all the while. Finally, his head snaps up, eyes glowing red for a moment as his gaze came to rest on the girl sleeping soundly on the bed across from him.
I twisted my hair into a bun and clipped it in place. I pulled the hood over my head and looked in the mirror to make sure there was no hair showing. The baggy hoodie made me look like a boy, which in this case was what I wanted.
Was it to hide herself from the world, or the world from her? No one who saw the outlandish oversized hood the tiny girl always wore could but wonder. Those more discerning observers turned the question around and wondered whether that garish, unsettling red was not instead to draw something towards her, to satiate the curiosity: who was behind the hood?
skids
Opening up the hood of the broken-down sedan, Daniel was met with a cloud of steam. “This car’s junk, Melanie!”
“Let’s have a baby.” she replied.
“I’ll take a little look under the hood,” he said. As he was bent over I could see his ass and thought, this is the last time, the last time he talks down to me, the last time he hits me, shames me. I slammed down the hood so he couldn’t quite move, turned on the key and the wipers as they smeared red over everything.
Der Robin, der hieß mit Familiennamen Hood. Der saß immer in der letzten Reihe. Dahin hatte ihn Madame Bruillot verbannt, damit er uns alle nicht andauernd ablenkt. Aber das machte der trotzdem. Er zog zum Beispiel geräuschvoll die Nase hoch. Manche lachten und manche drehten sich angewidert um.
I can’t decide what I want more. For the world to see me as I really am or for the world to quit trying to see me because I don’t like who I really am. I’ve asked myself over and over again, can I change? Will I change? Should I change? I wear hoodies to hide what I don’t like, some days that even includes pulling up the hood. There is comfort in anonymity and security in invisibility. Maybe someday that will change and I will be proud of all that is me. For now, I’ll stay in my hood.
A simple hood has come to symbolize so much in just a few weeks. And why is that? We’ve had hoods associated with racism in this country for many years. People afraid – or hesitant – to show their faces. Why? And why do we worry when we can’t see them? Are we really that afraid?
A hood is like a hat that can be attached to your jacket. Oh and yes like Blazing_Angle decided to point out vampires, like us do were hooded capes.
I always loved hoodies. Big sweaters that engulfed my body in their warm hug or even just a zip-up jacket, as long as it had a hood. Flip it up and hide from the world. It wasn’t about body image. I just felt safe, like I carried my own little private room around me. A comfy suit of armor.
like a hood on a truck…….. or like a sun roof thing……..
A hood is something that goes on the back of the sweater that covers you head and keeps you from getting cold or wet. Or a hood can be something that goes on the front of your car, so your engine wont get wet (or any other stuff that cant get wet).
i have a hood on my hoodie….. :l
Hoodie,sweater,and,jacket.
A hood is something you can put on your head. or it could be something on the front of your car. It can protect your head and hair.
A hood is a hat type thing that is attached to your jacket , and is something you wear when it’s raining or snowing out side and you don’t have a hat.
Hoodie,sweater,and jacket.
a hood is something that is usually on the back of your jacket. it is made to cover your head.
A hood is something vampires like me wear outside. Yes i am a vampire haters stay quiet!!!!!!!!
Hoodies and other stuff like that. Yes, I like hoodies ’cause they are comfortable.
hoods are things on jackets that come over your head to make your ears warm or keep the rain of your head like little red riding hood
Grew up in the hood but her soul sang of shining lights and fine dining. Hollow hearts with silver lining. No shining, a dull star in the sky.
theives and contemporary weirdos. Steal from the rich give to the poor. Im in the hood with a pund of the good.
when i think of the word hood, it reminds me of the slang term “hood” which has a meaning that i am not completely aware of. it seems as though there is a completely different language being spoken when people use slang terms. i cannot speak that language.
everyone has a hood that they grew up in. a neiborhood. a place where they had a fisrt kiss. a first crush. you hood is also on your head. and it can hide your hair on a bad hair day. and a hood covers the engine and mechanic stuff in your car so that it does not get wet or hurt.
The mechanic popped open the hood of my ruined car and took a look through the smoke. I frowned as he turned around with a pitiful look on his face.
I used to know the story of Robin Hood. The one who stole from the rich and gave to the poor.
A hood is on a jacket or a sweater. Hood is like another word for neighborhood.
the mask of the hooded girl was painted with invisibility. only she knew it was there, day or night. it concealed her of her worries, her insecurities, most importantly her guilt. sometimes she would forget to take it off before she fell asleep; it became a part of her. the hood was for show; it let strangers know she had been smashed into a million pieces. it let them know she could not be toyed with.
so that was that. the mask was for her own self-pitying pleasures. to hide her from herself. the hood, well, she hated the hood. but she must keep in, to hide herself from the world.
“here’s to the someday”, she would say. vowing to rid of both before it was too late. before she was hidden forever.
hood on the jacket of a black teenage guy. comes close and tries to mug you off your money and you start running…though he looks cool but you are scared to death.
robin in the wood Marion castle torunament sword little john fire trees jacket
Jesse put on her hooded cloak and stiffly walked through the room, ignoring the strange looks from the men. She had to do this on her own, and she knew it. Not that she wanted to, of course, but no one else could make this change. She could not go back to that life. Ever.
A tiny man had fallen from the sky. He must have died on impact, I thought, or before impact from fright — I am no expert on tiny men, as I am a gynecologist — but his small broken body lay twisted near the hood ornament of my car, maybe a foot or so from where he’d landed and left a dent, an unsubstantial dent, as though I’d driven through a storm and been hit by a single piece of hail. Under the hippocratic oath, it is my duty to administer medical treatment whenever necessary, and so I leaned close to the motionless tiny man, the same size as one of the plastic army soliders I’d had as a child, and said, “Sir, can you hear me? Can you give me any indication that you can hear me?” And the tiny man did not stir, did not make a sound, and so I leaned closer, and took great care to place my finger on his chest to check for any sort of pulse, but instead I heard a pop and figured I’d broken one of his ribs. I stepped back to look at the little man. His head faced me and his eyes were closed, his arms and legs bent so that it looked like he was running toward something. The clouds overhead seemed to pass under his body as they reflected in the hood of my car, and it gave me the impression he was falling again, that he looked like this as he hurtled through the air and probably died of fright, but not before he’d smacked my hood, not before he thought something we’ve all thought before, that is: “This world is much too big for me; I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
He pulled his hood up, and beneath its shadow his face turned into a skull. His father’s scythe materialized in his hand and raven-dark wings spread briefly before folding comfortably behind his back. He looked down on the old man, his feelings dampened by his transformation.
“It’s time to go.”
wearing a hood does not make you a social activist, it makes you a putz. do something, make a petition, form a rally, march on something, but retweeting pictures of fucking celebrities in hoods is not going to bring about change.
Hiding under his hood, he heard the hooligans hoot.
“Was he wearing a hood?”
“What?”
“Was he wearing a hood?”
“Yeah.”
“He was wearing a hood.”
“So.”
“So he looked suspicious.”
“No, he was just wearing a hood.”
“But hoods are suspicious looking.”
“It was raining.”
“So?”
“Everyone wears hoods when it’s raining.”
“Yeah, and they all look like suspicious little ninjas.”
“Ted, if you continue to try to justify this boy’s death because of one article of clothing, I will justify your death because you pissed me off with your stupidity.”
The dark fabric pulled up around my head gives me a feeling of warmth, and security as I move through the night shrouded in secrecy.
It wasn’t as hood as I imagined she was going for. But then again, I’ve never had expectations for anyone, why start with her? Why am I so used to disappointment? I wonder if this is how we grow senile. We just lose hope in human beings. Let down too many times to aim high.
Darkness shrouded the figure in the corner, brooding over a large book almost consumed by his concentration on the words. Hood pulled low over his face, the skeletal man ran a bony finger across the pages as if to write something there, mumbling to himself all the while. Finally, his head snaps up, eyes glowing red for a moment as his gaze came to rest on the girl sleeping soundly on the bed across from him.
I twisted my hair into a bun and clipped it in place. I pulled the hood over my head and looked in the mirror to make sure there was no hair showing. The baggy hoodie made me look like a boy, which in this case was what I wanted.
Was it to hide herself from the world, or the world from her? No one who saw the outlandish oversized hood the tiny girl always wore could but wonder. Those more discerning observers turned the question around and wondered whether that garish, unsettling red was not instead to draw something towards her, to satiate the curiosity: who was behind the hood?
Opening up the hood of the broken-down sedan, Daniel was met with a cloud of steam. “This car’s junk, Melanie!”
“Let’s have a baby.” she replied.
“I’ll take a little look under the hood,” he said. As he was bent over I could see his ass and thought, this is the last time, the last time he talks down to me, the last time he hits me, shames me. I slammed down the hood so he couldn’t quite move, turned on the key and the wipers as they smeared red over everything.
I wear my hood in solidarity. Fear not what lies beneath, inside. But the color of my skin. you do.
Der Robin, der hieß mit Familiennamen Hood. Der saß immer in der letzten Reihe. Dahin hatte ihn Madame Bruillot verbannt, damit er uns alle nicht andauernd ablenkt. Aber das machte der trotzdem. Er zog zum Beispiel geräuschvoll die Nase hoch. Manche lachten und manche drehten sich angewidert um.
I can’t decide what I want more. For the world to see me as I really am or for the world to quit trying to see me because I don’t like who I really am. I’ve asked myself over and over again, can I change? Will I change? Should I change? I wear hoodies to hide what I don’t like, some days that even includes pulling up the hood. There is comfort in anonymity and security in invisibility. Maybe someday that will change and I will be proud of all that is me. For now, I’ll stay in my hood.
A simple hood has come to symbolize so much in just a few weeks. And why is that? We’ve had hoods associated with racism in this country for many years. People afraid – or hesitant – to show their faces. Why? And why do we worry when we can’t see them? Are we really that afraid?