THIS IS A STORY, NOT MYSELF, ILL ADD MORE PIECES IN DIFFERENT BLOGS AS I GO

           

            The weak light of morning shone through the cracks of my blinds. The cold of morning sent shudders through my body. Winter air seeped through my window; I had forgotten to close it last night. I tossed and turned, stretching my arms above my head as far as possible. I guess I looked like hell. Flannel pajamas, smeared makeup, and bed hair was morning for me. Not exactly the latest fashion. The alarm still bellowing away at me as if it’s in pain and the snooze was its only morphine. Ahh, the first procrastination of the morning. I was going to be late for school.

            I slopped out of bed, my blankets coming with me halfway across my small room. It was filled with junk that I never used. A mother could assume a war had happened overnight and the debris were casualties of cleanliness. Although the room was filled with possessions, it just felt empty. I made my way to the bathroom, the wood floor creaking underneath my feet. Pale yellow walls led me to the mirror. Oh the mirror. How much I despise you. You were never a pleasant site to me. Everyone sees themselves differently but I’m sure I’m nothing special. My eyebrows are too thick, my eye lashes were to thin and short, nose to flat, lips too thin. I tell myself I’m ugly enough everyday, occasionally boys will point it out to.

            I dread the entire public school population. I have few friends, Ashley and Beryl, they are nothing special ether. Ashley is not ugly or chubby like me anyways, she has gorgeous eyes and lips and long blond hair that shimmers at the faintest of light. The problem about her is, I think she’s slightly retarded. Beryl is quiet. Not the quiet type that gets good grades and gets recognized by NASA for her science fair project, the type that keeps to themselves and fork out average grades. My friends are outcasts. I take what I get. I’m an outcast so what really makes the difference.

            I have lived with my mom since I can remember. We live on settlement money that was provided by my dad’s death. She never really told me how he died; she drinks vodka like its water and gets all emotional when the topic comes around. She attempted a few times but was more like guttural sobs and high pitch whales. Kids ask me how he died every once in awhile. It embarrasses me how I don’t know what happened. I always make up some quick freak accident on the spot. Everything from tangled into a parachute, ripped to shreds by a bear, fell off the Grand Canyon, dissolved in acid. Anything that I think will surprise them.

            I was on the school bus now. I hate everyone on the bus, and they don’t think much of me ether. I think the bus driver doesn’t even like me. He has often tried to keep his lips over his teeth when someone throws a book or spit paper into my hair. I always sit alone.

            Today the windows are fogged over. The heater underneath me is too hot. The rush of blood to my fingers sends prickles through my arms. No matter how much it happens, being uncomfortable is something you never get used to. It’s somewhere around 7:30. I don’t have a cell phone or a watch, I just ride the bus everyday and school is not far away.

Curtis:

You've got a great faculty with language. Keep playing around with unexpected ways of saying things, but be careful not to over-do it either or you end up with too much of a good thing. This feels like it has the potential to be a good character-driven story, and I was right there with you until the last paragraph. Not sure what happened there. Keep writing.