I’m too distraught over the Olympics cutting wrestling to write a funny post. Instead, I’ll give you an excerpt from my magnum opus, my ninth symphony (you’re writing a song? [no, it’s a….nevermind]).
I mean, if we can’t through our writing out into the ether and let it get judged by nameless faces, what good is the internet?
Though, I suppose I could’ve written this just for this post and you’d be none the wiser (that’d be cheating). Let’s say I didn’t (is this a first write, a rough draft, or a polished piece? [you tell me]).
Annie Pritchard slid along the railing beside me. Her uniform matched mine: a dark red jacket with a silver lion on the left collar and black breeches. Her dark hair was longer than the last time I saw her, hanging just past her shoulders. With her grey eyes focused on the city, I studied her face. Her short, slightly upturned nose. The way her face tapered into a soft point. The light freckles on her cheeks. The gentle oval of her lips.
“Something on my face?” Annie asked. She wiped a hand across her face, from forehead to jaw.
I blinked. “N-nothing,” I stammered.
She twisted her lips to the left, “Okay…”
You’re welcome. If you’re anything like me,
you have a short attention span you’ve stared at a girl until your eyes have gone numb. Next time, try saying “Hi.” It’s Valentine’s Day, take a chance.
Or stay home, I don’t judge.