“What do you want?!” I snap, slamming my hands down onto my keyboard, a little harder than I intended. I turned to watch my roommate inch away as she rolled her eyes. “Never mind,” she said, with an inflection on the “mind” part of the word. I let out a breath. Half of my body wants to call after her and say “I’m sorry,” but I plop to the ground instead. Eight hours, I think to myself. Eight hours and what do I have to show for it? A crappy opening sentence and a little over half a page. Great. Why is it that 90% of my work gets done when only 10% of my time is left? It’s funnny how exams can force you to rethink life. On the ground, my carpet feels softer than I imagined it, but
First try to become anything else. Seriously. Try random jobs in sales, customer service, and the government. Try being self employed, work from home, sell handmade knits on Etsy. Only after you’ve exhausted all other possible avenues should you even think about becoming a chef. When you’re ready to start, go to school and begin studying for your bachelor’s degree. If you can afford it, graduate. If you can’t stomach going to school or paying the exorbitant fees, get a job as a waiter, or as a bus boy. If you’re a woman,
Lipstick not ChapStick. You need blush and foundation. That doesn’t look right. Your face is a little chubby. You need to try this brand, it’s better for your skin. Don’t you see? They all look beautiful. Don’t cry. It doesn’t look flattering. Buy that shirt, that dress, that mascara, and it’ll be better. Fix your hair. It’s not that you’re ugly, you just need work. Some girls need more work.
Originally posted on The Waterhole:
Like many other fours, when I was created I was dropped from the sky. The clouds curled my hair, the sun kissed my skin, and the wind tugged at my sides as I fell. Then I landed on Earth into my parents hands. There my name was clapped into existence. GA-BRI-E-LA, four syllables. Fours are supposed to be balanced, stable, whole, and full of order. They symbolize the four directions and the four elements. I guess God got somewhat creative when he made me because my edges came out a little fuzzy. God made my edges like the edges on an impressionist painting. He gave me layers of color that blend together. He made me like a Van Gogh, with paint caked on the canvas, jumping out at you like a bright light. He gave me swirly lines and royal blues. Colors that screamed out loud. God made me like a Valery Rybakow, with scattered paint strokes and seas of golden light. With texture and depth, smoothness and coarseness. Yes, God…