“It’s not stupid!” says a voice from behind the bed. It’s not exactly a whine but at a pitch that suggests a whine might follow if people don’t stop calling their ideas stupid.
“Oh really?” the same voice, it sounds skeptical; like its trying to mock something that isn’t really there.
“Yes, it’s not stupid,”
“How so?”
“Well it, it just sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?” the voice is unsure now, seeking reassurance.
“Do you have wax jammed up your ears? I said it was STUPID!”
Come full circle around the bed and you see brown hair, with heavy bangs and pieces in the front that are longer than the back. It is rumpled. Then there’s the pale skin, sprayed with a light smattering of freckles. There’s some nose, and eyes and brows that match the hair. A back leaning onto the bed and knees knocked together with feet splayed out awkwardly on the sides. If it were possible we’d skip over the too short blue and white Tigger pajama pants and the equally small camp T-shirt from years ago. But we can’t. This is the girl, arguing with her self; long legs and insanity. Unfortunately for our narrator she is the girl. I did forget to mention the green notebook, and the shinny blue pencil moving to the rhythm of these words.
I would say that a proper “Hello” was in order, but I fear that from this first paragraph you may know more than enough about me then I’d like you to. So we’ll skip the introductions for now.
The surroundings are typical; they contain a mess that looks a lot messier than it really is. In fact, said mess could be slain in a matter of minutes if a more applied person lived in the room, but they don’t. The occupant of the room sits off to the side of it in typical teenage defiance, scribbling away in a notebook. She procrastinates the best way she knows how. She writes about it. There’s a brief pause in the scratching of the pencil as the girl taps her toe on the wall opposite her. The girl is searching for the words, collecting them in a basket and arranging them into satisfactory patterns. As I’m sure you are aware, the occupant of “The Room That is Cleaner than it Looks” is a writer; or more accurately trying to be a writer. The sound of the eraser fills the small bubble of our scene, killing sentences that all most were. The scratching continues. Eyebrows knit, bottom lip sucked under braced teeth. How are you supposed to be a writer if you can’t even figure out how to use a semi-colon? She looks disgustedly down at the page full of grammatical errors and sniffs disdainfully. There’s the tapping of the pencil and a face turned towards a window. A desicion has been made. If only the narrator could remember how to spell decision. The pencil is set down, the notebook is closed and our scene goes dark. But I’m sure you can imagine the rest. The procrastinator gets to her feet and surveys the battlefield. From the dark void we hear the piercing war cry of unwanted work: the groan. The procrastinator charges into the fray, shrieking her defiance of the work that she is going to do anyway. Of course the battle doesn’t last long, and in the end her sword turns into a dustpan, and her shield, a garbage bag.
“Oh really?” the same voice, it sounds skeptical; like its trying to mock something that isn’t really there.
“Yes, it’s not stupid,”
“How so?”
“Well it, it just sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?” the voice is unsure now, seeking reassurance.
“Do you have wax jammed up your ears? I said it was STUPID!”
Come full circle around the bed and you see brown hair, with heavy bangs and pieces in the front that are longer than the back. It is rumpled. Then there’s the pale skin, sprayed with a light smattering of freckles. There’s some nose, and eyes and brows that match the hair. A back leaning onto the bed and knees knocked together with feet splayed out awkwardly on the sides. If it were possible we’d skip over the too short blue and white Tigger pajama pants and the equally small camp T-shirt from years ago. But we can’t. This is the girl, arguing with her self; long legs and insanity. Unfortunately for our narrator she is the girl. I did forget to mention the green notebook, and the shinny blue pencil moving to the rhythm of these words.
I would say that a proper “Hello” was in order, but I fear that from this first paragraph you may know more than enough about me then I’d like you to. So we’ll skip the introductions for now.
The surroundings are typical; they contain a mess that looks a lot messier than it really is. In fact, said mess could be slain in a matter of minutes if a more applied person lived in the room, but they don’t. The occupant of the room sits off to the side of it in typical teenage defiance, scribbling away in a notebook. She procrastinates the best way she knows how. She writes about it. There’s a brief pause in the scratching of the pencil as the girl taps her toe on the wall opposite her. The girl is searching for the words, collecting them in a basket and arranging them into satisfactory patterns. As I’m sure you are aware, the occupant of “The Room That is Cleaner than it Looks” is a writer; or more accurately trying to be a writer. The sound of the eraser fills the small bubble of our scene, killing sentences that all most were. The scratching continues. Eyebrows knit, bottom lip sucked under braced teeth. How are you supposed to be a writer if you can’t even figure out how to use a semi-colon? She looks disgustedly down at the page full of grammatical errors and sniffs disdainfully. There’s the tapping of the pencil and a face turned towards a window. A desicion has been made. If only the narrator could remember how to spell decision. The pencil is set down, the notebook is closed and our scene goes dark. But I’m sure you can imagine the rest. The procrastinator gets to her feet and surveys the battlefield. From the dark void we hear the piercing war cry of unwanted work: the groan. The procrastinator charges into the fray, shrieking her defiance of the work that she is going to do anyway. Of course the battle doesn’t last long, and in the end her sword turns into a dustpan, and her shield, a garbage bag.
spongebob98
readaholic
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