I have a confession to make: I’ve become a total idiot over French pastries.
They’re my new favorite food.
My new-found edible souvenir.
My new favorite sin.
Dunkin Donuts is so yesterday.
Simple and predictable seem pretty darn tantalizing when you’re a witch.
Lately, I’ve wished for a lot of things to be the way they were. Gone are my lust
for the macabre and the sweetly sinful fantasies of meeting a vampire. Something
about unconscious people slumped against the dark leather of the booths at
crimson made it less sexy.
I wanted to be his life preserver, the thing that would keep him afloat. Instead, he became my anchor. And I’m tired of drowning.
Sunstroke and frostbite.
It was all that I could ask for and completely unexpected.
I expected demands.
He gifted me with tenderness.
I expected ego.
He let me experiment.
I expected disrespect.
He called me beautiful.
I expected him to expect perfection.
He taught me all I needed to know.
The joy you find as a teen, however frivolous and dumb, is pure and meaningful.
On a nightstand in a teenager’s room, a glass vase filled with violets leans precariously against a wall. The only thing saving the vase from a thousand-piece death on the hardwood floor is the groove in the nightstand’s surface that catches the bottom of vase, and of course the wall itself. The violets, nearly a week old, droop in the light of a waning gibbous moon. Wrinkled petals are already piling up on the floor between the nightstand and the wall, and a girl only six days sixteen stares at the dying bouquet from her bed.
I think parks like these are the best places to people-watch. The diversity of people here is really cool and, again I find myself wondering what they’re doing and why they’re here and who they’re with. I’m far too curious for my own good.
My life is hard. No one would rob me of that. The clothes I am wearing came out of a knotted up black plastic trash bag from a resale shop downtown. And not the downtown where shiny cars wink at you in the sunlight. If a car winks at you in this area it’s being driven by a person you would be best to avoid.
My side of downtown is crumbling and skirted by chain link fences.
Words aren’t good enough for a lot of things, but we have to try.
In 1938, Louise Rosenblatt introduced reader response theory or the transactional view of reading. She asserted that what the reader brings to the reading act – his or her world of experiences, personality, and current frame of mind – is just as important in interpreting the text as what the author writes. According to this view, reading is a fusion of text and reader.