Thursday, August 7, 2014

Bed of Sin

                I come home from class, slouching under the weight of my backpack, and waddle into my room. The light blinds me for a moment as I enter, and then, as I slide off the bulk from my back, I pause and stare at my stripped and open bed.

                 It’s simply sitting there, calmly, as if it was truly as innocent as its quiet state implies. But I know better. It’s been waiting for me, and now that I’ve arrived, it’s pulling no punches. It wants me, and I want it. There’s no hiding the truth; we can both feel the pull.

                I try to turn away from the three layers of blankets piled atop another, each lush and warm and soft, but the curves of the pillows and the eager stillness of the askew bedding already have me salivating. Carefully, I take a hard swallow, and allow myself a long look down at its sheets. It doesn’t say a word, but I can feel it calling for me. I can’t, I mustn’t, but still I hesitantly reach out and stroke my open hand down the microfibers of its pink blanket.

                A sudden ache fills my bones, and my joints creak and cry until I moving towards my bed, helpless to its siren’s call. I give in. I lay on it, wrap myself in it, and we are together once more in sinful bliss.

                A gasp jolts through my body. I wrench upwards, and suddenly, I’m fully upright in the middle of class.

                No one glances my way; they’ve gotten used to this wired behavior. Slowly, I wipe the corner of my mouth free from a light coating of drool and squint hard at the white board at the front of the class. It’s littered with conjunctions, semicolons, and sentence examples. No beds, blankets, or pillows.

                It’s study time.

                It’s always study time.

                I use my pencil to prop my head up and try not to let my brain melt out my ear.
                Somebody help me.

***Say yes to sleep, guys. It’s a beautiful thing. But utilize your nights for that sole purpose, and say nay to sleeping in class. It’s rude. And if you were a teacher, you would put shaving cream on you if you were sleeping too.

I am a future crazy English teacher (with shaving cream and onions at the ready) and despite being a hypocrite, I approve this message.  

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

A Day in the Life of my Laptop

So, dear readers, I was a part of a class that frequently gifted me with prompts and ample time to write. I was asked to write from an inanimate object's--the ultimate form of personification. Ah, English classes. 

So, here it is. A day in the life of my long-suffering, sweet, poor, wonderful (have you forgiven me yet?), laptop.

Dear Reader,

There’s one special girl in my life, and like most relationships where you know you need to leave and just can’t, she treats me like crap. 

She knocks me around, throws me in her backpack, jogs around, uses me up into the dead of night, and forgets my charger so I go into repeated emergency shut-downs. Not to mention she hammers on my keys like she’s trying to carve a stone fresco out of my plastic.

Sometimes she lets me sleep on her, but that’s more from passing out while surfacing my face for internships than actual affection. Plus she’s a messy sleeper, so she ends up throwing me off the bed somewhere around 3:00 in the morning, sleeping peacefully in her sheets while letting me crash face first onto her chair. 

She bought me a bed table to try and avoid that, but being who she is, she manages to knock us both off.

So why don’t I leave? Why don’t I just stand up, tell her I’m worth more than this, that I won’t take any more of her abuse, and walk out of her life forever?

Well, sometimes she treats me like gold. Holding me to her chest, clutching my sides with her soft hands. Sometimes, she’ll even encourage me when I’m having a rough time loading, or let me rest in her bed with her as she sleeps.

That, and I don’t have any legs. 

Honestly, I think my laptop's not being fair. I mean, I give it a home, and what does it want from me? Better treatment? Pssh!

So how about you guys? How do you think your laptop/iphone/table feels about you? 

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Yeah, My Pants Fell Down

Hey guys! It's been a while, so I thought I'd apologize with a self-depreciating, and generally hilarious, story about how I lost my pants one night at a park. 

Ready? Set, go!

So, My Pants Fell Down      

My roommates and I were swinging on swings. I was wearing sweatpants which, as I’ve now learned, are extremely slippery and should not, under any circumstances, be worn out on adventurous activities. Ever.

Don't let the comfy fabric fool you. Sweatpants are secretly plotting your demise.

This is a very important lesson, guys. You want to know how I learned it? Well, my friend B decided to tickle me. My tickle-sense works differently than most, though, so instead of a giggle, I basically exploded, slipped off my swing, and apparently, so did my pants.

My roommates immediately busted out laughing. My butt was cold, so I reached around and pulled my pants back up, but the fact that my booty had been exposed didn’t quite compute yet. Luckily, B hadn’t realized what had happened either (thank you, dimly lit parks, I’ll never complain about you again). Then, when I realized I was sitting on my neck, and my pants were finally back up around my waist where they should be, I paused. I looked at the stars. Considered life for a split second. 

Then I roared with laughter.

B helped me up, sniggering awkwardly and with a slightly confused expression. I, still laughing, slugged him straight in the ribs. He took it like a champ.

You’re a good man, B. But if you ever tickle me again, you’ll be a good, dead man. 

I reserve this face for the worst offenses: tickling, and the misuse of "their" and "they're"

What’s today’s moral of the story?

Don’t where sweatpants to parks.


What's the most embarrassing story you have? Does it involve sweatpants, strange guy-friends, or parks? I sincerely hope not, for you sake.
Unless it's this guy in a dimly lit park. Then I just envy you.