Glitteroid
Chapter One
It’s the unexpected stutter between the lines of a rap song; a electric guitar riff in a glazed symphony. It is, depression. And it can be spiraled towards your tender heart within seconds; No mercy I tell ‘ya. NO MERCY, GODAMMIT!
The guns can be locked by simply hearing a song you hate on a day where you’re hair looks like it’s been slathered in dog shit and smells of pool water, or the horse can stumble by seeing some someone particularly dumpy wander through the mall with the exact same flats you just sported last week. Really, it’s not easy to rock the boat sometimes.
And before you know it, you’re under your bed, sobbing as you realize that there are kid prostitutes, AIDS, Wal* Mart, 50 Cent, aborted babies and the Ozone layer, and you’re only contributing to all the world’s perils. And with that thought, you cry more. It’s just a matter of time until you start to recite lyrics that belong to bands you make fun of, and if you walked out of the house at that moment, ninety nine point nine percent of anyone who saw you would say you were ‘emo’.
That’s exactly what I’m doing now. Moping about the world and it’s contents. Jesus. I could probably write a extremely long list of things and people I would like to axe-murder, publish it and make a hell of a lot of money. Damn that sounds stupid.
I want to get out from under this godforsaken bed - but I can’t. Nu uh. Honestly, you should see how horrid I am. Revolting is a better word, really. It would be fitting for me to have a long, good cry right about now - but again, I can’t.
My eyes sting like nobody’s business, my cheeks burn like I have no idea, and my forehead just plain out hurts from my stupidity. Yes, I know. I’m disappointing. If I could hang my head, I’d do it now. Trust me. I would.
A faint tapping ricochets from the door adjacent to were I’m hiding under.
Oh, no, no, no! I’m caught with blood on my hands.
It’s Perdue, obviously. Who else would be floating around the flat at this hour like a lost sock? “Tabbi, you’re going to ruin your face with all that dust. Scoot as best as you can out of that lint trap, Now.” She pauses. “Or I’m coming in.” Perdue adds, giving the door a sharper, more of a SLAP! - compared to the previous, dainty “tap’.
Scowling, I sigh rather loudly. Perdue hears me, and mutters something unbearable behind the safe barrier wedged between my haven and Perdue’s wonderland.
But I’m obedient. The space between my body and the bed frame is hardly anything - a inch or two would be stretching it big time. Centimeters, maybe. However, I still manage to push my elbows into the carpet, grinding them into the weeds of polyester for support. My mouth contorts into a grimace as the familiar sensation of pins-and-needles shoot up the bones of my arms. I forgot how strangely uplifting they were.
There, I’m out. Ta-da! Tabbi Paige isn’t a wimp. Nor will she be pulled into the sea of sadness.
“TABBI! OUT, NOW!”
I roll my caramel eyes to my overhanging celiling at Perdue’s impatience. I’d say I was under there for a good day or two, even. And it wasn’t even a week. She needs a open mind. [Or maybe none at all]
The door handle jiggles a little, twisting around like a metal scowl. It reminds me all - too much of Alice and Wonderland, when poor, naïve Alice is trapped in that large, rather tacky and tiled room, and no where to get out. And that stupid door handle, mocking her about it. You know what?
I can really relate to her. Alice, I mean, not the door handle. More than once she’s bawled her pretty little blue eyes about the simplest of things; Like we all do, aye? Tough crowd.
What to do, what to do. OOH! OOH! I know. I’m going to get dressed, just like everybody else. I fling open my closet doors, revealing the essence of my existence. Outfit after outfit; A cornucopia of possibilities. And OHMYGAH. I know what to do know.
I’mma be a prep, ‘fo sho. (Isn’t that the way they talk? I’m pretty sure; The little Aberzombies love to act all ghetto and such)
I’ll be Muffy McLetterSweater! Heather LaHollister! Farah Fitch! Eugene Eagle!
ALRIGHT, so maybe not that preppy. But you all get the picture.
The guns can be locked by simply hearing a song you hate on a day where you’re hair looks like it’s been slathered in dog shit and smells of pool water, or the horse can stumble by seeing some someone particularly dumpy wander through the mall with the exact same flats you just sported last week. Really, it’s not easy to rock the boat sometimes.
And before you know it, you’re under your bed, sobbing as you realize that there are kid prostitutes, AIDS, Wal* Mart, 50 Cent, aborted babies and the Ozone layer, and you’re only contributing to all the world’s perils. And with that thought, you cry more. It’s just a matter of time until you start to recite lyrics that belong to bands you make fun of, and if you walked out of the house at that moment, ninety nine point nine percent of anyone who saw you would say you were ‘emo’.
That’s exactly what I’m doing now. Moping about the world and it’s contents. Jesus. I could probably write a extremely long list of things and people I would like to axe-murder, publish it and make a hell of a lot of money. Damn that sounds stupid.
I want to get out from under this godforsaken bed - but I can’t. Nu uh. Honestly, you should see how horrid I am. Revolting is a better word, really. It would be fitting for me to have a long, good cry right about now - but again, I can’t.
My eyes sting like nobody’s business, my cheeks burn like I have no idea, and my forehead just plain out hurts from my stupidity. Yes, I know. I’m disappointing. If I could hang my head, I’d do it now. Trust me. I would.
A faint tapping ricochets from the door adjacent to were I’m hiding under.
Oh, no, no, no! I’m caught with blood on my hands.
It’s Perdue, obviously. Who else would be floating around the flat at this hour like a lost sock? “Tabbi, you’re going to ruin your face with all that dust. Scoot as best as you can out of that lint trap, Now.” She pauses. “Or I’m coming in.” Perdue adds, giving the door a sharper, more of a SLAP! - compared to the previous, dainty “tap’.
Scowling, I sigh rather loudly. Perdue hears me, and mutters something unbearable behind the safe barrier wedged between my haven and Perdue’s wonderland.
But I’m obedient. The space between my body and the bed frame is hardly anything - a inch or two would be stretching it big time. Centimeters, maybe. However, I still manage to push my elbows into the carpet, grinding them into the weeds of polyester for support. My mouth contorts into a grimace as the familiar sensation of pins-and-needles shoot up the bones of my arms. I forgot how strangely uplifting they were.
There, I’m out. Ta-da! Tabbi Paige isn’t a wimp. Nor will she be pulled into the sea of sadness.
“TABBI! OUT, NOW!”
I roll my caramel eyes to my overhanging celiling at Perdue’s impatience. I’d say I was under there for a good day or two, even. And it wasn’t even a week. She needs a open mind. [Or maybe none at all]
The door handle jiggles a little, twisting around like a metal scowl. It reminds me all - too much of Alice and Wonderland, when poor, naïve Alice is trapped in that large, rather tacky and tiled room, and no where to get out. And that stupid door handle, mocking her about it. You know what?
I can really relate to her. Alice, I mean, not the door handle. More than once she’s bawled her pretty little blue eyes about the simplest of things; Like we all do, aye? Tough crowd.
What to do, what to do. OOH! OOH! I know. I’m going to get dressed, just like everybody else. I fling open my closet doors, revealing the essence of my existence. Outfit after outfit; A cornucopia of possibilities. And OHMYGAH. I know what to do know.
I’mma be a prep, ‘fo sho. (Isn’t that the way they talk? I’m pretty sure; The little Aberzombies love to act all ghetto and such)
I’ll be Muffy McLetterSweater! Heather LaHollister! Farah Fitch! Eugene Eagle!
ALRIGHT, so maybe not that preppy. But you all get the picture.