Finish the sentence: The day after my eighth birthday....
The day after my eighth birthday, my father told me how sorry he was that he had forgotten about my birthday yesterday.
I forgot to brush my teeth this morning. After my bowl of cereal and the cigarette I am about to be finished with, my mouth feels disgusting. Well, I guess not too disgusting, but the sound of the above statement, and the more I run my tongue over my front teeth the more aware I am of the gross state of my mouth.
I just put the cigarette out on the concrete, and am watching to see if the few ants that are lingering around will investigate it. They seem uninterested. Whatever mission they are on must not leave time for distractions, or maybe... they truly just don't care.
I'm looking down on them from a bench I'm sitting on. A very blue bench, secluded, and perfect for a very blue girl to sit and dwell on what she is about to do.
This bench is on my college campus. The college I am about to unenroll myself from, once my academic advisor gets back from her lunch break at 1:30. It's now 1:04.
I'm squeazing a note in my hand as I wait. It's been folded a few times so I could fit it in my back pocket. The bottom half has been wrinkled and dented, most likely from where I must have rolled over on it in my sleep. For when I wrote it last night it was in perfect condition.
I hope when he get's it his response to my lunch proposal will be "What are you in the mood for?", or something along those lines...