Prepped for Nothing.

What the f*** was Ulysses about anyways. I opened the deep aquamarine and antiquated cover, and after reading the first page, I had only a flirtation with understanding it. The introduction only muddled me further, since it didn’t particularly explain the contents whatsoever. I flipped through the pages-that were so yellowed they were what I imagined archaic parchment was like-and I choked back on the smell of what I can only describe as stagnant age. So, being the impatient bloke I am, I plopped it back on to the small tower of library books with an unsatisfying thud. After, of course, I had inserted my dignified bookmark, which was really a paint sample from Lowe’s (Simply Aqua, which to my surprised satisfaction just so happened to almost exactly match the color of the font on the front of the perplexer). Even not knowing what it was about, I was still intrigued. I would store a supply of patience to open it up again. Eventually.
Here I was, alone, and now bookless, propped up in a corner of my bed. The glow of the setting sun seeped through my open window onto my awaiting deep golden skin. My feet were still a bit numbly cold from standing on a vent with AC on full blast a few minutes ago, and I crinkled my opal –polished toes at myself, like they were waving hello or dancing in the rejuvenating sunlight.
I got up and looked in the decorated mirror that hung on my bedroom wall at myself. What did they used to call it, a looking glass? Almond shaped Coca-cola eyes peered back at me, sparse freckles sprinkled across the bridge of my nose and the top of my cheeks like an arrangement of stars that were not enough to form a constellation, the curved cupids’ bow of my lips vacant, neither holding a smile or a frown. I could spend hours just inspecting myself in the mirror. Not in a vain way, but I just had a fascination with that sort of thing, and since it would be awkward and impossible to do it to anyone else, my face was always there and open for analysis.
I focused back onto my reflection again, and I wondered if a stranger could tell what kind of a person I was just by the curves of my face. Just another naïve, sixteen year old girl with a mongrel heart and a summer skin that would molt with the change of the season, not yet faceted or polished as a human diamond should be, daydreaming of a boy with a fantastical brain and kaleidoscope eyes. I turned away from my mirror and out of my humid and tropical smelling room. I doubted it.
Just another day du du du du du just another daaaaay





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