Parlez moi d'Amour
To Call A Girl Ugly
Sappy romance novels are what I live for. It's not just a hobby to occupy my time; it runs much deeper than that. It has, in every aspect, become my way of life. Take Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy; despite their differences on their outlook in life, attitude and mutual hate for the other, they fall in love.
Sparks Fly.
Quoting a Taylor Swift song goes to show that I am in fact a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the keyword, I have never in my life experienced any sort of romanticism from someone of the opposite sex. Unless you can count the time in second grade when I had my first and only play date with Charles Kingston.
Charles, or Chuck as everyone in Mrs. Rhodes class called him, was infamous for making kids, especially girls, cry. He wasn't scared of being infected by cooties in the process. He wasn't scared of anything. He was fearless. His fearlessness of course led to teachers handing him detention slips as if he were a trick-or-treater and it was Halloween.
As the years passed by, Chuck grew more and more ruthless. He still made kids cry, but he also began breaking hearts as if it were a sport. In fourth grade he stuck gum in Joanna Pierces' hair, sixth grade asked Tiffany Hamilton to the dance and made out with Grace Fall— trust me she was not a graceful one, no pun intended— behind the snack bar, to name a couple.
In my world Chuck was merely a nuisance. Someone I heard about every once in a while and gave a few snide comments. He held no importance for me whatsoever. So when he disappeared on the summer of eighth grade — rumor has it he went to rehab, but his Dad says he sent him to military school — I didn't hold back my sigh of relief.
Charles "Chuck" Kingston, the boy who called me an ugly piece of trash in first grade, was off somewhere, doing God knows what, and was now the least of my problems.
Sparks Fly.
Quoting a Taylor Swift song goes to show that I am in fact a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the keyword, I have never in my life experienced any sort of romanticism from someone of the opposite sex. Unless you can count the time in second grade when I had my first and only play date with Charles Kingston.
Charles, or Chuck as everyone in Mrs. Rhodes class called him, was infamous for making kids, especially girls, cry. He wasn't scared of being infected by cooties in the process. He wasn't scared of anything. He was fearless. His fearlessness of course led to teachers handing him detention slips as if he were a trick-or-treater and it was Halloween.
As the years passed by, Chuck grew more and more ruthless. He still made kids cry, but he also began breaking hearts as if it were a sport. In fourth grade he stuck gum in Joanna Pierces' hair, sixth grade asked Tiffany Hamilton to the dance and made out with Grace Fall— trust me she was not a graceful one, no pun intended— behind the snack bar, to name a couple.
In my world Chuck was merely a nuisance. Someone I heard about every once in a while and gave a few snide comments. He held no importance for me whatsoever. So when he disappeared on the summer of eighth grade — rumor has it he went to rehab, but his Dad says he sent him to military school — I didn't hold back my sigh of relief.
Charles "Chuck" Kingston, the boy who called me an ugly piece of trash in first grade, was off somewhere, doing God knows what, and was now the least of my problems.
♠ ♠ ♠
Just an Idea. Comment if I should continue. :)