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It's been a while since my last fiction and truthfully, after the greatness of yesterday, this day? 80% of it sucks. I know it can't rain forever but seriously dude? If there's an award on sucky day, this day would be it. Anyway... I'm trying to put back pieces in fiction so... Here it goes.
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Love embellished, star crossed kisses.
I know I'm short and fat and half of the population don't get what I'm saying or even notice me. Yep, I'm really good at being invisible and truthfully, I like being invisible. I feel minuscule and it's a good feeling for someone with a bloated, shrunk to an inch body. One thing also, I'm a massive exaggerator and I hate changes. I've worn this stupid round, tinted with brown dye glasses since I was ten and it still fits me well so... No plan to substitute it with something Gucci or Versace. The only theory I believed is that humans are made out of two things: Insanity and madness, sometimes with a dash of gold glitter or a piece of Isaac Newton's brain. My parents said that I'm an idealist and I should keep it that way. I have no idea why, but there's no switching my handmade, beautiful studded jeans to a crappy new pair of Levi's that costs more than a third world labor would make a month.
I took the bus everyday, everywhere. My reason? It's practical. It's 24/7 and even though my house is located in an isolated, godforsaken location, it's the best place to run away and reassemble my thoughts and transferring them to the four walls of my room. Green, envious walls of mine. I've filled them with hundreds of words that run pretty much everywhere, making them my true enemy when I can't catch my sleep or I'm not tired enough to sleep. A yellow painted door and gold handle, covered with baby powder and bits of the glitz of Chanel no. 5 is the only door I leave unlocked. I repeat, the only door I leave unlocked.
One of my future plans is to never get married and to adopt some poor child from a third world country, who has starved long enough to fully appreciate the proper value of a plate of beef stew with heavy gravy and how extravagant bubbled water is. But I'm guessing that would be cliche and I'm going to re-do my family plan. I'm going to get married after college and have two girls. Or two boys. The word boys sounds better. Ok, two boys and an amazing bubbly husband. I want a big spacey house with four, no, make it five, huge bedrooms and a big kitchen. A pool, a rooftop bar. A wall filled with pricey artworks or my own personal shit. The most dreamiest house you've ever seen. I want a cradle of stuffed animals and a fridge full of lactose free products. A carriage of vodka and gin and vermouth and a royal whiskey to serve with an evil, hellish glass from heaven. A wine cellar, a telescope to gaze on the amazing sky and the dreamy constellation.
I've spent seventeen sappy summers and seventeen deathly winters. I think it's only a summer away for me to go pack my things into a very big portmanteau with bunch of stickers on it, throwing yesterday away and getting a label of my own. Filling my brand new pages with another hundred shades of black, getting more butterflies in my tummy and getting new tattoos in invisible ink. Starting new sounds good.
Two seasons to go, and I'm no longer Irina Smiths. I'm Abigail. Abigail Summer.
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That feels good. Gotta catch a nightie, packed schedule tomorrow.
---
Love embellished, star crossed kisses.
I know I'm short and fat and half of the population don't get what I'm saying or even notice me. Yep, I'm really good at being invisible and truthfully, I like being invisible. I feel minuscule and it's a good feeling for someone with a bloated, shrunk to an inch body. One thing also, I'm a massive exaggerator and I hate changes. I've worn this stupid round, tinted with brown dye glasses since I was ten and it still fits me well so... No plan to substitute it with something Gucci or Versace. The only theory I believed is that humans are made out of two things: Insanity and madness, sometimes with a dash of gold glitter or a piece of Isaac Newton's brain. My parents said that I'm an idealist and I should keep it that way. I have no idea why, but there's no switching my handmade, beautiful studded jeans to a crappy new pair of Levi's that costs more than a third world labor would make a month.
I took the bus everyday, everywhere. My reason? It's practical. It's 24/7 and even though my house is located in an isolated, godforsaken location, it's the best place to run away and reassemble my thoughts and transferring them to the four walls of my room. Green, envious walls of mine. I've filled them with hundreds of words that run pretty much everywhere, making them my true enemy when I can't catch my sleep or I'm not tired enough to sleep. A yellow painted door and gold handle, covered with baby powder and bits of the glitz of Chanel no. 5 is the only door I leave unlocked. I repeat, the only door I leave unlocked.
One of my future plans is to never get married and to adopt some poor child from a third world country, who has starved long enough to fully appreciate the proper value of a plate of beef stew with heavy gravy and how extravagant bubbled water is. But I'm guessing that would be cliche and I'm going to re-do my family plan. I'm going to get married after college and have two girls. Or two boys. The word boys sounds better. Ok, two boys and an amazing bubbly husband. I want a big spacey house with four, no, make it five, huge bedrooms and a big kitchen. A pool, a rooftop bar. A wall filled with pricey artworks or my own personal shit. The most dreamiest house you've ever seen. I want a cradle of stuffed animals and a fridge full of lactose free products. A carriage of vodka and gin and vermouth and a royal whiskey to serve with an evil, hellish glass from heaven. A wine cellar, a telescope to gaze on the amazing sky and the dreamy constellation.
I've spent seventeen sappy summers and seventeen deathly winters. I think it's only a summer away for me to go pack my things into a very big portmanteau with bunch of stickers on it, throwing yesterday away and getting a label of my own. Filling my brand new pages with another hundred shades of black, getting more butterflies in my tummy and getting new tattoos in invisible ink. Starting new sounds good.
Two seasons to go, and I'm no longer Irina Smiths. I'm Abigail. Abigail Summer.
---
That feels good. Gotta catch a nightie, packed schedule tomorrow.
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