Half-Empty-Glasser

When I was seven, I was diagnosed with emotions. "Poor girl." I heard them say. "She'll never survive this one." I laid with my face towards the ceiling on the cold examination table, listening to them discuss my fate. I felt something breaking in my chest and something burning inside my throat. A small tear slipped down my cheek. "Doctor! Look at this!" Shrieked my mother, "Something is coming out of her eye." The doctor rushed over to me and wiped the tear from my cheek. He touched the top of my head as he whispered, "I am so sorry." And then he turned to my mother. "It's a tear. It means that she is sad." "Sad?" My mother asked inquis

I'm a shut-in, an outcast, a freak. My only connection to the outside world is my computer and I almost never go on social networks. What do I do you may ask. I write. I write stories filled with twists and turns that lead you down a road I created. My stories are not only for you, however, they are for me as well. I escape my everyday boring life and become an adventurous, heroic, and brave heroine fighting dragons and kissing frogs. I could become a shy girl thrust into greatness, a princess who gets tired of waiting for the white horse an the handsome prince. My legs and feet could transform into a tail and gills and I could be a beautif

"¿La vida es justa?" Eso fue lo que dijo aquel hombre, aquel hombre que con tan poco tiempo de conocerlo me ha enseñado tanto, aquel que parece tener una armazón de piedra irrompible, aquel que nunca sabes cuando bromea y cuando no, aquel que nunca sabes que hará, aquel que cuestiona la vida de forma casi poética. "¿La vida es justa?" Resuena en mi cabeza, aquella conversación grupal que tuvimos, todos declaraban que sí lo era.. Él los debatía y callaba, mientras yo no sabía que pensar. "¿La vida es justa?" Sinceramente no sé la respuesta, nunca lo

sometimes I think I’m just a mess of badly drawn lines. I’m just scrawled veins beneath paper rough skin, I wear poorly sketched scars on my thighs [skin deep red pen lines] and even my smile is lop-sided- but he never seemed to notice. my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I can’t see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does. ‘why do you love me?’ ‘you make me happy.’ I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back wi

I remember the first time I met her a tower of books tucked under her chin glasses sliding down her nose that she wiggled like a hare's I helped her carry the tower to her brother's truck him ever so persistent to return home and her just happy to escape into literature she slumped into the seat the tower resting at her bare toes she stuck out her hand and told me her name and laughed at the common of it she would be a freshman after summer same as me her brother still urgent had the engine roar to life and drive away her hand waving at me with a broad smile bubbling over that danced for me and all I could think was

CHARACTERS: Crazy, psychopathic, murderer ladies Sexy, butt-kicking girls Crazy/random/hyper self-inserts Depressed emo/goth/always-dresses-in-black types Angsty/moody/hot teenagers The brown-haired girl with no personality The mean, popular, snobby girl Unreasonably cruel bullies out to make life harder for the main character The best friend (if they were a good character who *happened* to be a best friend they wouldn't have to be described as this) Fun fact: Making victim OCs is cliche Another fun fact: how someone dresses is NOT their personality Yet another fun fact: People who claim to be random really are not and they know it.