Wednesday, October 10, 2012


Equal parts women scorned, and running, and a kind of formulaic, conversational writing I've never tried before.
Happy Halloween.

It was his fault, you know.

Imagine how amazing, how fantastic it feels when the guy of your dreams finally, finally notices that you're more than that gray-and-blue hoodie and a pair of Converse. He walks right up to you, comments on the purple streak in your hair, and then just like that, you're holding hands in the hallways and the pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs you hang on your rearview mirror actually mean something, you know?

That was me. But not anymore.