Take the quiz: "Which American City Are You?"
San Francisco
Liberal and proud, you'll live your lifestyle however you choose in the face of all that would suppress you.
I started cleaning out this enormous dresser drawer that I call my shit space. I've been dumping crap, photo albums, nail polish, art supplies, into that drawer for years and the time had come for me to go through it all. It was the pictures that struck me. I had to look through them. Had to. I found pictures of me in high school and remembered that that was when I had started dying my hair red on a regular basis. Then I remembered why I did it. I wanted to be sick. One of the first times that I ever died my hair was when I was 16. That was when I worked at the gift shop at the hospital. My first job. There was a man who worked maintenance for the hospital that would come into the shop often and make me feel not so pretty. I hated him. One day I showed up to work, not as the blonde that I should have been, but as a new vixen red head. He walked in as usual but took one look at me and seemed slightly distraught. He actually asked me when my hair would be blonde again. His name was Raul and after that day he didn't bother me very much but that may have had something to do with me quitting shortly there after. I kept my hair red for years after that but eventually I let myself forget and my blonde crept back.
There was also a box in the drawer that I had forgotten about. I guess I could call it my "boy box" because inside it holds tokens of things to be expected in a box as such: flowers from dances that I went to in high school, letters, drawings, ticket stubs, jewelry that I can't throw away but I probably won't ever wear... A little time capsule. I should bury it.
I'm sick with nostalgia now. I think I'll go smoke away these memories and fall asleep.
Before I go I'd like to mention to Margot that I love her and that I'll always be there for her, in good times and bad. It's funny how sometimes life can be both at the same time.
San Francisco
Liberal and proud, you'll live your lifestyle however you choose in the face of all that would suppress you.
I started cleaning out this enormous dresser drawer that I call my shit space. I've been dumping crap, photo albums, nail polish, art supplies, into that drawer for years and the time had come for me to go through it all. It was the pictures that struck me. I had to look through them. Had to. I found pictures of me in high school and remembered that that was when I had started dying my hair red on a regular basis. Then I remembered why I did it. I wanted to be sick. One of the first times that I ever died my hair was when I was 16. That was when I worked at the gift shop at the hospital. My first job. There was a man who worked maintenance for the hospital that would come into the shop often and make me feel not so pretty. I hated him. One day I showed up to work, not as the blonde that I should have been, but as a new vixen red head. He walked in as usual but took one look at me and seemed slightly distraught. He actually asked me when my hair would be blonde again. His name was Raul and after that day he didn't bother me very much but that may have had something to do with me quitting shortly there after. I kept my hair red for years after that but eventually I let myself forget and my blonde crept back.
There was also a box in the drawer that I had forgotten about. I guess I could call it my "boy box" because inside it holds tokens of things to be expected in a box as such: flowers from dances that I went to in high school, letters, drawings, ticket stubs, jewelry that I can't throw away but I probably won't ever wear... A little time capsule. I should bury it.
I'm sick with nostalgia now. I think I'll go smoke away these memories and fall asleep.
Before I go I'd like to mention to Margot that I love her and that I'll always be there for her, in good times and bad. It's funny how sometimes life can be both at the same time.
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