P.O.W.

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Oct. 20, 2009. There are millions of trees doming the surface of earth. Spruce, aspen, pine- all different in one way or another. A chainsaw, a truck, men, machines, the beige Windows P.C., and the hands on the keyboard that nag my letters: T.A.N.N.E.R. They are all to blame for the situation in my hands. “U.S. Draft”: times new roman, font size thirty-six, black ink, single space. The sheet is thin and transparent. Oak, the cheap stuff. I can imagine it now: drill sergeant, sweaty armpit pools, grungy garb: “Happy eighteenth birthday Private Bowman, NOW DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!”

The first feature my peer’s eyes find is my hair. The mass of variegated curls that wince and flounce. The coils, the frizz, the knots define me. My outer perception. They would buzz it all off so “you do not look unkempt like a hobo.” The uniform, camouflage to the soul. They would take it all away- my personality, my style, my sanity. You become a number, not a name. A repetitive pattern of blobs that simulate nature. Blend in and hide. Desensitize you with crying women and bloodied babies. To be uniform.
Eighteen is a number, not a personality trait. You don’t even know me, sheet 723 out of 1000. You assume that I am your straight, video game playing, paintball splattering fantasy. Well 723, you are dead wrong. I plant flowers, 723. Hell, I even have my own garden. I can roll my tongue and have a widows peak. I drive an orange 2003 Honda Element. I show complete animosity towards all athletic activities, but I still play frisbee so I can bond with my dad and brother. Green is my favorite color. My weapon is a paintbrush. To dry my hair, I swivel my head rapidly and shake the water out. My smile is sometimes my façade. I believe that pink is the best otter pop flavor. My first kiss was to Morgan Frerichs in kindergarten. I cannot think of anything more enjoyable than shopping with my mother, picking out the outfit for her next luncheon or gala. I write because it is a passion, not because it is an assignment. I will not eat steak unless I have a sauce to dip it in. I secretly like the way my dog’s breath smells. I detest the word moist. Folding laundry is my favorite chore. I dream of designing furniture in Italy. And guess what 723; I am attracted to my own sex. I am not the way I am because anyone tells me to be. I was born this way. So do me a favor “U.S. Draft”, times new roman, font size thirty-six, black ink, single space on a thin and transparent sheet number 723, don’t ask and don’t tell.





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