Our father who art in heaven, save me from the wreck I'm about to drown in
For my complit class tomorrow, we had to write 249 words (no more, no less) on the topic of "what's your story" and since I don't really have a story, I figured this was as good as any. Normally, I would realize that this is shitty writing and would never turn it in, especially since I haven't even re-read it, but since I grade myself,
…and it’s like I’m driving without really having any idea where I’m going, and there’s this girl with black hair and pale skin and she’s sitting next to me, saying “I love you” in eleven different languages, and I just need to figure out whether it’s Route 29 east or west that will take me to the ocean, because I’m always thinking about Ferris wheels with primary colors and chipped paint while eating cotton candy, trying to make out the moon through the neon lights of the boardwalk and that’s where I want to be, sitting on the sand sipping wine straight from the bottle, like when I was in Mexico and I couldn’t decide what drugs I wanted to do and it’s raining and I can see the lightning light up the mountains, and I kind of wish it snowed this far south because that might remind me of my childhood, with pictures of my parents decorating every Christmas card we ever sent, but that wasn’t what I wanted, so I just slept under the stars every summer, in a tree fort, or a tent, or in the basements of boys I didn’t really know the name of, but it’s okay, because the stars above their beds always glowed in the dark, and they were hip baby, yeah they were a fashion statement and they always skipped lunch to smoke cigarettes that were stuffed with cloves, and each day I said “yeah, that’s what I want to do.”
…and it’s like I’m driving without really having any idea where I’m going, and there’s this girl with black hair and pale skin and she’s sitting next to me, saying “I love you” in eleven different languages, and I just need to figure out whether it’s Route 29 east or west that will take me to the ocean, because I’m always thinking about Ferris wheels with primary colors and chipped paint while eating cotton candy, trying to make out the moon through the neon lights of the boardwalk and that’s where I want to be, sitting on the sand sipping wine straight from the bottle, like when I was in Mexico and I couldn’t decide what drugs I wanted to do and it’s raining and I can see the lightning light up the mountains, and I kind of wish it snowed this far south because that might remind me of my childhood, with pictures of my parents decorating every Christmas card we ever sent, but that wasn’t what I wanted, so I just slept under the stars every summer, in a tree fort, or a tent, or in the basements of boys I didn’t really know the name of, but it’s okay, because the stars above their beds always glowed in the dark, and they were hip baby, yeah they were a fashion statement and they always skipped lunch to smoke cigarettes that were stuffed with cloves, and each day I said “yeah, that’s what I want to do.”