who we arnt

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
this shows how sometimes we gwt so cought up in fashion and looks that we become someone were not.

Submitted: July 23, 2011

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Submitted: July 23, 2011

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The party is in an hour, so your making sure you look hot for anyone who my look your way.

First you check your cloths, the foundation of your style. Your wardrobe consists of nothing brighter than red (anymore). You notice how well your gray, faded jeans compliment your black "Lamb of God” shirt, it’s a simple outfit but stylish none the less. Not to mention how much it just screams punk, a label in which you have rightfully earned.

Next is your hair, some call it an "emo cut," which you just LOVE when they do. Short and spiked in the back with long thick bangs beautifully brushed over (but not fully covering) your right eye. The black hair dye has settled in nicely, replacing your naturally light brown hair. It was an amazing hair day.

You then slip on your brothers old dog tags, which were presented to you and your family along with an American flag after learning of his death. Finally the wrist band with a guitar pick hole-punched onto it, the same pick that was given to you by your best friend the night before she ended her own life. You say you wear these accessories in remembrance of their deaths, which is sort of true, but there also VERY stylish. So you always wear them.

Lastly is the accessory that pulls the whole outfit all together, the set of markings that openly express the true origin of your style. These are the immovable bracelets. They are the scars on your wrist, which you wear proudly. For they will forever tell your story well before anyone even asks.

Just as you finish gawking at your own reflection, your phone rings. It’s your friend asking if you’re still going to the party, even though he says it’s a bad idea. Beer, drugs, GIRLS, what else could a teenage boy want, no da your still going, nothing anyone says can change your mind.

As you rush out the door you happen to catch a glimpse of your reflection, but the only thing you can see is your eyes... YOUR EYES, of course. How could you forget the one natural thing about yourself that all the girls just can’t seem to resist? Oh yes, your eyes have gotten you into more bedrooms then you could count on one hand. All you ever had to do is have the girl gaze into your eyes, and you could be to third base in a matter of minutes.

Except now you look into those traumatizing eyes and realize something, something you should have seen a while ago. You don’t even recognize the person that is staring back.

.

The party is in an hour, so your making sure you look hot for anyone who my look your way.

First you check your cloths, the foundation of your style. Your wardrobe consists of nothing brighter than red (anymore). You notice how well your gray, faded jeans compliment your black "Lamb of God” shirt, it’s a simple outfit but stylish none the less. Not to mention how much it just screams punk, a label in which you have rightfully earned.

Next is your hair, some call it an "emo cut," which you just LOVE when they do. Short and spiked in the back with long thick bangs beautifully brushed over (but not fully covering) your rightfully earned. The black hair dye has settled in nicely, replacing your naturally light brown hair. It was an amazing hair day.

You then slip on your brothers old dog tags, which were presented to you and your family along with an American flag after learning of his death. Finally the wrist band with a guitar pick hole-punched onto it, the same pick that was given to you by your best friend the night before she ended her own life. You say you wear these accessories in remembrance of their deaths, which is sort of true, but there also VERY stylish. So you always wear them.

Lastly is the accessory that pulls the whole outfit all together, the set of markings that openly express the true origin of your style. These are the immovable bracelets. They are the scars on your wrist, which you wear proudly. For they will forever tell your story well before anyone even asks.

Just as you finish gawking at your own reflection, your phone rings. It’s your friend asking if you’re still going to the party, even though he says it’s a bad idea. Beer, drugs, GIRLS, what else could a teenage boy want, no da your still going, nothing anyone says can change your mind.

As you rush out the door you happen to catch a glimpse of your reflection, but the only thing you can see is your eyes... YOUR EYES, of course. How could you forget the one natural thing about yourself that all the girls just can’t seem to resist? Oh yes, your eyes have gotten you into more bedrooms then you could count on one hand. All you ever had to do is have the girl gaze into your eyes, and you could be to third base in a matter of minutes.

Except now you look into those traumatizing eyes and realize something, something you should have seen a while ago. You don’t even recognize the person that is staring back.


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