I love the first day of school. Especially when you're a senior. Teachers go easier, girls are less dramatic and guys are less...douche-bag like.
I took a final glance at the ensemble I had put together for the last first day of the best years of my life—a semi-cropped yellow bustier, a floral yellow and pink mini skirt and a pair of my favorite Jimmy Choo subtle pink heels. Well, as subtle as 5 inches can get—and finally, as I do before every day of my life for 17 years, I gave a mental kiss to the hair gods for my dark brown, messy, bed-head, beach waves. I walked to my desk and put in the most stunning pair of blue contacts I owned and a dab of my most absolute perfect MAC lip gloss. Now I was ready. Who am I kidding? I was born ready.
"Hey gorgeous!" My mom greeted as she placed two egg's on a plastic plate with a side of turkey bacon, my breakfast tradition for the first day of school. I checked the tips of my perfectly-manicured nails, making sure I could pick up my bacon without causing a disaster.
"Morning mother." I blew her an air kiss and swiftly slid into our little booth dining table that she picked up from a garage sale. Mom says it's vintage, I say it's old. Just like the coocoo clock hanging above our stove.
So, yeah. I just wanted to quickly do this because I am in a huuuuge rush. Bye, love you all!
Alright...so I am back in drafts because I'm not in a rush right now. So, yeah. Anyway, this book is going to be about three people. A girl named Aspyn, a girl named Heather and a guy named Hale. So I am just making this up on the spot, so if it sucks, whatever. Screw you. Who the fuck are you? Okay, let's fucking start this shit. Aspyn and Heather have been best friends forevs. And than Aspyn meets this guy, Hale. And he's so fucking perfect, blah blah blah. But he's Heather's ex-boyfriend. I don't know. That's all I got's. Uh-huh. Alright. Bye, I guess.
OHOHOH, I WROTE MORE! So here is what you just read and more:
I love the first day of school. Especially when you're a senior. Teachers go easier, girls are less dramatic and guys are less immature.
I took a final glance at the ensemble I had put together for the last first day of the best years of my life—a semi-cropped yellow bustier, a floral yellow and pink mini skirt and a pair of my favorite Jimmy Choo subtle pink heels. Well, as subtle as 5 inches can get—and finally, as I do before every day of my life for 17 years, I gave a mental kiss to the hair gods for my dark brown, messy, bed-head, beach waves. I walked to my desk and put in the most stunning pair of blue contacts I owned and a dab of my most absolute perfect MAC lip gloss. Now I was ready. Who am I kidding? I was born ready.
"Hey gorgeous!" My mom greeted as she placed two egg's on a plastic plate with a side of turkey bacon, my breakfast tradition for the first day of school. I checked the tips of my perfectly-manicured nails, making sure I could pick up my bacon without causing a disaster.
"Morning mother." I blew her an air kiss and swiftly slid into our little booth dining table that she picked up from a garage sale. Mom says it's vintage, I say it's old. Just like the coocoo clock hanging above our stove. After she handed me my breakfast plate, she took a seat next to me with a cup of steaming hot coffee and of course, a college brochure.
"Oh Mom, please. Not right now. It's September." She shrugged.
"Aspyn, you haven't sent one college application in yet, you need to get a move on it." I ignore my mother's watchful eyes and groan. She could've at least waited until the second day of school. But that's just like my mother. After my dad left, or took a little trip, as my mom calls it, she has been trying to start a new lfe. Trying to find more love, and trying to give me everything she never had and trying to get a promotion. Which was fine and all, but sometimes she went a little overboard with trying to help me. When she found out that I was serious about college, she jumped right on it. Just to calm her down a bit I told her that I might want to take a year off—which I would so never actually do—but that just kicked her motherly senses into overdrive.
I grab the brochure from her hand and flick the glossy trifold into the garbage can, scoring a beautiful 3-pointer as it lands with a swish.
I quickly finish my eggs and bacon just as Mom tries to start in on me, she's already fishing the brochure out of the can. I point to the clock and quickly grab the keys to my Vespa.
"Gotta go! Love you." I call as I practically run out of the door. As usual, my silver Vespa is sitting in the driveway parked behind Mom's car. My bestfriend, Heather, is already shutting the door to her red Chevy pick-up truck when I yell,
"Hey loser!" She playfully gives me the finger and than shuts the door. I can already hear her typical mainstream music blasting from the radio. That's Heather for you.
I'm ready for the race. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and here I am, taking my position, revving up the motor and hoping to not crash and burn on the last lap of adolescense.
"...Aspyn Hanover." I hear my name being called. I look up from the syllabus my homeroom teacher passed out and called, "Here.”
2nd period was probably my least favorite class, math. But who does like that? Mr. Plotkin was a short, bald, paunchy looking man and he sounded just as dreadful as his description. For some reason, he wasn’t happy. Ever. I heard a few rumors that his wife died 10 years ago today, but when he had our mandatory annual end-of-the-year party and she brought in cookies, I knew that was a bust. And than there was that he was getting fired. But he is still here. And the most outrageous was that he was a physcopathic serial killer and he was getting tired of being on the run from cops, so he was just never happy to be around children. There wasn’t a lulepole out of that one, but I highly doubt it’s true.
“Okay, class. Some of you gremlins are new and others are on your senior year of triginomitry. So, triginomitry. That would be shapes, correct?” I groaned and leaned back in the brown desk. This was going to be a looooong class.
I had exactly four periods with Heather. Period 3, period 4, period 7 and period 8.
Uh, huh. That's it. Bye-bye.
Alright...so I am back in drafts because I'm not in a rush right now. So, yeah. Anyway, this book is going to be about three people. A girl named Aspyn, a girl named Heather and a guy named Hale. So I am just making this up on the spot, so if it sucks, whatever. Screw you. Who the fuck are you? Okay, let's fucking start this shit. Aspyn and Heather have been best friends forevs. And than Aspyn meets this guy, Hale. And he's so fucking perfect, blah blah blah. But he's Heather's ex-boyfriend. I don't know. That's all I got's. Uh-huh. Alright. Bye, I guess.
OHOHOH, I WROTE MORE! So here is what you just read and more:
I love the first day of school. Especially when you're a senior. Teachers go easier, girls are less dramatic and guys are less immature.
I took a final glance at the ensemble I had put together for the last first day of the best years of my life—a semi-cropped yellow bustier, a floral yellow and pink mini skirt and a pair of my favorite Jimmy Choo subtle pink heels. Well, as subtle as 5 inches can get—and finally, as I do before every day of my life for 17 years, I gave a mental kiss to the hair gods for my dark brown, messy, bed-head, beach waves. I walked to my desk and put in the most stunning pair of blue contacts I owned and a dab of my most absolute perfect MAC lip gloss. Now I was ready. Who am I kidding? I was born ready.
"Hey gorgeous!" My mom greeted as she placed two egg's on a plastic plate with a side of turkey bacon, my breakfast tradition for the first day of school. I checked the tips of my perfectly-manicured nails, making sure I could pick up my bacon without causing a disaster.
"Morning mother." I blew her an air kiss and swiftly slid into our little booth dining table that she picked up from a garage sale. Mom says it's vintage, I say it's old. Just like the coocoo clock hanging above our stove. After she handed me my breakfast plate, she took a seat next to me with a cup of steaming hot coffee and of course, a college brochure.
"Oh Mom, please. Not right now. It's September." She shrugged.
"Aspyn, you haven't sent one college application in yet, you need to get a move on it." I ignore my mother's watchful eyes and groan. She could've at least waited until the second day of school. But that's just like my mother. After my dad left, or took a little trip, as my mom calls it, she has been trying to start a new lfe. Trying to find more love, and trying to give me everything she never had and trying to get a promotion. Which was fine and all, but sometimes she went a little overboard with trying to help me. When she found out that I was serious about college, she jumped right on it. Just to calm her down a bit I told her that I might want to take a year off—which I would so never actually do—but that just kicked her motherly senses into overdrive.
I grab the brochure from her hand and flick the glossy trifold into the garbage can, scoring a beautiful 3-pointer as it lands with a swish.
I quickly finish my eggs and bacon just as Mom tries to start in on me, she's already fishing the brochure out of the can. I point to the clock and quickly grab the keys to my Vespa.
"Gotta go! Love you." I call as I practically run out of the door. As usual, my silver Vespa is sitting in the driveway parked behind Mom's car. My bestfriend, Heather, is already shutting the door to her red Chevy pick-up truck when I yell,
"Hey loser!" She playfully gives me the finger and than shuts the door. I can already hear her typical mainstream music blasting from the radio. That's Heather for you.
I'm ready for the race. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and here I am, taking my position, revving up the motor and hoping to not crash and burn on the last lap of adolescense.
"...Aspyn Hanover." I hear my name being called. I look up from the syllabus my homeroom teacher passed out and called, "Here.”
2nd period was probably my least favorite class, math. But who does like that? Mr. Plotkin was a short, bald, paunchy looking man and he sounded just as dreadful as his description. For some reason, he wasn’t happy. Ever. I heard a few rumors that his wife died 10 years ago today, but when he had our mandatory annual end-of-the-year party and she brought in cookies, I knew that was a bust. And than there was that he was getting fired. But he is still here. And the most outrageous was that he was a physcopathic serial killer and he was getting tired of being on the run from cops, so he was just never happy to be around children. There wasn’t a lulepole out of that one, but I highly doubt it’s true.
“Okay, class. Some of you gremlins are new and others are on your senior year of triginomitry. So, triginomitry. That would be shapes, correct?” I groaned and leaned back in the brown desk. This was going to be a looooong class.
I had exactly four periods with Heather. Period 3, period 4, period 7 and period 8.
Uh, huh. That's it. Bye-bye.
Quote Of The Post: Inspiration. Bye.
XO, The Girl Behind The Laptop.
I love the name Aspyn! So pretty! And your description is very clear, I felt as if I was looking at her myself. Your off to a good start, I like it!!
ReplyDeletethank you.(:
DeleteOmg in total going to try this thx so much
ReplyDeleteIm going on a camping trip in 8 days with my family and my cousin who is only 8 months older already has hers so i realy want mine
If it works ill tell you
Oh sorry wrong post of urs
Delete