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Slipping

“How about a shot for the pretty girl in the corner?” the boy sitting across the room yells. Everyone chants in agreement.

Lights fade as I find myself engulfed by smoke; the haze sifts through my hair. Virgin lungs cough as the foreign chemicals begin to fill in the room. A quick glance around the room confirms my creeping fear -- I am not somewhere I should be. The people surrounding me are not my close friends, but are strangers with blank faces, showing nothing but the brand of alcohol they are downing.

It is the typical high school scene, and I can feel myself slipping. The words are flowing out of my mouth, my hands stressing every syllable. My powerful voice and gregarious nature has led me to become the girl with many friends. My blonde hair brushes against my back; I am slipping. The shot is poured and is being passed around as if it is as pure as water. It enters my hand and I rub it against my fingers; the clear liquid is beginning to look enticing.

I am slipping.

“You are gonna have the time of your life!” they all shout in encouragement.

The doubts that I have pushed back are resurfacing though: this is not honorable; this is not the time of my life. My heart is not beating with delight and I am not proud of myself. I throw the small glass cup away from me with disgust, realizing that this party scene will never be me. The others’ mouths part in surprise, them too questioning their judgement. In that moment, I felt more like a leader than I ever have before.

In analyzing those few seconds, I envisioned myself on two different paths. My first path was as a typical teenager, living a life of short-lived pleasure. The second path was of me using my assertive and amiable nature to lead others to impact the world in a positive way. One engulfed my body in disgust; the other made my heart beat with passion.




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anonymous said...
Sep. 19 at 12:30 am:
You have no idea how much I love your writing. The way you use words and the ideas you have are really amazing. Please keep writing, never stop.
 
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