|Why City Boys Don't Wear Pink Mini Skirts
Author: Deaths Requiem PM
I’m cold. I’m cold and my boots are dirty. I’m cold and my boots are dirty and my socks are wet. I’m cold and my boots are dirty and my socks are wet and I’m going to start screaming and never stop." An unfortunate falling out with nature. MxMRated: Fiction M - English - Romance - Chapters: 26 - Words: 83,587 - Reviews: 202 - Favs: 149 - Follows: 43 - Updated: 10-13-08 - Published: 03-29-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2496804
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Okay. So, what am I doing here?
This was my first thought, it was a very simple thought and it was the last thought I had as I stepped onto a ruddy patch of grass. The rest was seething with spring water and oozing with mud. I had flashbacks to a simpler time where I had actually found mud fun and exciting. Not so much anymore. Now it was just dirty. Dirty and gross and trying to eat my gorgeous boots.
Great. I love spring. Do you love spring-'cause I totally love spring.
There were many times I carried on hypothetical conversations with myself. Not out loud of course, I learned my lesson about that a long time ago. People tend to stare at you, and not in a good way. A good way of staring would be when they're eyeing you up and you're just drinking it in-this was a more concerning stare where they're considering locking you away where they won't have to deal with your kind of crazy.
I'm cold. This sucks.
The bus had driven away ten minutes earlier and it was just getting to the point where it wasn't fun to be outside anymore. I had been dying for freedom ever since the novelty of the bus had worn off. That's basically how my entire life had gone so far-it's basically how every teenager's life goes. You move from event to event and you're happy until, as I said, the novelty of it wears off. Then you get bored. And you move on to the next thing, until the cycle repeats. You keep going and going and then you die. And then you're stuck dead. No moving on even when you're bored of being dead.
Ow… Ow-ety Ow, ow.
I adjusted the bag on my shoulder. It kept trying to escape and crawl away into the mud. It had the right idea. I don't exactly know why I was agreeing with my bag, it was an inanimate object after all, but it had a point. Why should it cling to me for support, it could obviously get along very well on its own. It could sit contently for hours without being disturbed or breaking into emo educed tears and poetry. Of course it still needs me in some way, I'm the one who stuffs it every day and cleans it when it's dirty. Why should it try to vouch for independence?
Oh God. I'm rationalizing with my bag.
You know it's gotten bad when it comes down to that. That being you pussy-footing around your ever shrinking patch of land as the dead grass tries to devour your platform boots. Not only were they doing this but now I was unable to move as the platforms had slowly but surely been sinking while I had been carrying on my inner monologue to myself.
My boots are dirty. My boots are dirty and waters getting into them and now my socks are wet. Fan. Freaking. Tastic.
I only have to wait a while longer. Maybe the mud will devour me whole and I won't have to think anymore. I won't have to think about the cold, and my muddy boots and how long it's going to take to clean them, and how if the mud does decide to eat me then it's going to mess up my hair and get all over my pants and my skirt. That's right. Skirt. It's manly and you know it. Like that t-shirt. Real men wear pink; only the shirt is black and has pink letters so it doesn't really count.
The wind keeps touching my hair.
I don't even like it when I touch my hair. I get it just right and it suddenly becomes this huge invitation for everyone to come and pat me. I'm not a lap dog, and it takes forever to get this blond mess to work with me. Like fighting a tidal wave of angry goldenrod-man that brings back bad Shakespeare references. Something about a golden rod of love and him plunging-yeah. I'm not even going to think about that right now. My face isn't red enough because of the cold to hide a blush.
Wet. Wet, wet, wet. Mushy and wet like oatmeal. Brown oatmeal.
The reason I was standing on an island of grass, in the middle of a lake of water was actually quite funny. Well, no. It wasn't. Never mind that. It was a tragedy, a travesty, a painful mind numbing jolt into-okay I'm being over dramatic. It's not all that bad. As my bag slips from my arms and lands in the mud, I am met with the cold, wet, and soggy reminder of what I've gotten myself into.
"Hi kids! And welcome to Camp Milowak!"
I'm cold. I'm cold and my boots are dirty. I'm cold and my boots are dirty and my socks are wet. I'm cold and my boots are dirty and my socks are wet and I'm going to start screaming and never stop.