We got older, and I got meaner.
My childhood boyfriend asked if I could please hold onto the flimsy cardboard cutout of his WWE belt until he finished doing his chores inside. I flung the belt on the swing seat shortly after he walked inside and decided to talk to his little sister for a while. The belt blew off after one gust of the wind and fell immediately into the mud sitting below. My boyfriend walked out of the sliding door and his posture immediately sank. He ran towards the cardboard belt that took him hours to design and cut, and he held it close to his chest. He yelled at me for the first time that day. I was not who I used to be.
Pastel-colored butterfly clips littered my neighborhood where little black boys and girls played with …show more content…
Although, I do not recall if I truly hated the show or if I only hated it because I rejected everything that was popular (I was an underdog, and I fought for the underdogs). One day, he called me that name over and over again until I had had enough. I was going to teach him a lesson. I raced home on my bike, complete with ribbons and training wheels, and sat down at my desk to write Chancellor an angry complaint. I wrote that I did not in fact like to be called “Hannah Montana” and he should cease this funny business before I did something really crazy (These were far from the truthful words, but they symbolize the spirit in which I wrote the note). I sped back to his house as fast as my chubby legs could pedal. While he was still standing outside, still dazed from me leaving, most likely, I shoved the letter into his mailbox and turned around to go back home. He watched me the whole time.
Jaden, Yogi, and a girl flaunting black, skin tight sweatpants, with the word “PHAT” bedazzled on the side came with their frosties and fries to my backyard. We sat on my family’s fold-out, metal picnic bench, and I watched my friends down their Wendy’s. Mom came outside to call Sarah and me in for dinner, and we sauntered in for enchiladas. But we had wanted frosties too; enchiladas were so not in. When we came back outside, we sprinted to the picnic table to find our friends. But the only thing we found was melting chocolate icecream dripping through the holes of the picnic table like
My childhood boyfriend asked if I could please hold onto the flimsy cardboard cutout of his WWE belt until he finished doing his chores inside. I flung the belt on the swing seat shortly after he walked inside and decided to talk to his little sister for a while. The belt blew off after one gust of the wind and fell immediately into the mud sitting below. My boyfriend walked out of the sliding door and his posture immediately sank. He ran towards the cardboard belt that took him hours to design and cut, and he held it close to his chest. He yelled at me for the first time that day. I was not who I used to be.
Pastel-colored butterfly clips littered my neighborhood where little black boys and girls played with …show more content…
Although, I do not recall if I truly hated the show or if I only hated it because I rejected everything that was popular (I was an underdog, and I fought for the underdogs). One day, he called me that name over and over again until I had had enough. I was going to teach him a lesson. I raced home on my bike, complete with ribbons and training wheels, and sat down at my desk to write Chancellor an angry complaint. I wrote that I did not in fact like to be called “Hannah Montana” and he should cease this funny business before I did something really crazy (These were far from the truthful words, but they symbolize the spirit in which I wrote the note). I sped back to his house as fast as my chubby legs could pedal. While he was still standing outside, still dazed from me leaving, most likely, I shoved the letter into his mailbox and turned around to go back home. He watched me the whole time.
Jaden, Yogi, and a girl flaunting black, skin tight sweatpants, with the word “PHAT” bedazzled on the side came with their frosties and fries to my backyard. We sat on my family’s fold-out, metal picnic bench, and I watched my friends down their Wendy’s. Mom came outside to call Sarah and me in for dinner, and we sauntered in for enchiladas. But we had wanted frosties too; enchiladas were so not in. When we came back outside, we sprinted to the picnic table to find our friends. But the only thing we found was melting chocolate icecream dripping through the holes of the picnic table like