I do, maybe

He got down on one knee and held up an onion ring, asking, "Tori, will you marry me?". Everyone around us laughed, but I felt like he was serious.

It's been four years since then. Now we barely know each other.

Over

Please don't break our window again. I'm going crazy, expecting it, fearing it.

I must confess

that I fall in love with my imagination.

Pessimism for a Bit

Afraid, afraid for what's coming. Eighteen, when did I get so old? Those are big numbers, but surely I don't feel like I look the part. I don't look old enough to be feared or respected, yet I don't look young enough to be spoiled and favored. I look like a punch bag. And I've really come to hate my wardrobe. I hate the large-sized, ketchup-stained t-shirts I got from volunteering, I hate the rugged, mud-stained sweat pants I  always sport. I hate the think glasses that I always drop and break and mend and drop. I hate the hair that needs full-blown maintenance just to look damaged and greasy. I hate the pores that never seem to shut or close for business. I hate the nails that chip and break like no mercy. But I'll chose to look ugly now. I let my hair split, let the color die. I'll wear the large shirts and gross pants. I'll wear the thick and heavy glasses. I'll let the nails break. I'll chose  to look ugly now. But someday, I hope I can feel beautiful again. I hate sweat pants.