Angel headed hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night. They say imitation is always step one. Imitate good code, imitate good writing, imitate good people. It never comes out looking quite right, though. This is supposed to be storywriting.
Continuing our female POV challenge, the story of the girl on the bus.
The bus lurches right and my stomach growls. I wonder if they're related - acids pulled across body cavities by the artificial bus-lurch-gravity, air gurgling as it's compressed through some digestive gasket. I should have eaten breakfast.
There's something uncomfortable about sitting with my feet up on the seat like this. I don't like having so much skin-to-unhygienic-bus-seat contact, but unfolding myself means risking even more uncomfortable foot-to-foot contact with a fellow commuter. My leg is falling asleep and I switch songs to ignore it.
Working on an empty stomach is unpleasant. The first coffee hits too hard, and I can feel it corroding my insides. No wonder my gaskets are leaky. When I skip breakfast like this, I like to pretend I'm fasting or something. My girl friends always hate me for not dieting. In college, it got to the point where I would bring food back to my room rather than plop my tray of pizza slices down next to everyone else's mini portion of cantaloupe and yogurt. I'm sorry that I don't care if my ribs are individually distinguishable through my skin. Bitch.
Continuing our female POV challenge, the story of the girl on the bus.
The bus lurches right and my stomach growls. I wonder if they're related - acids pulled across body cavities by the artificial bus-lurch-gravity, air gurgling as it's compressed through some digestive gasket. I should have eaten breakfast.
There's something uncomfortable about sitting with my feet up on the seat like this. I don't like having so much skin-to-unhygienic-bus-seat contact, but unfolding myself means risking even more uncomfortable foot-to-foot contact with a fellow commuter. My leg is falling asleep and I switch songs to ignore it.
Working on an empty stomach is unpleasant. The first coffee hits too hard, and I can feel it corroding my insides. No wonder my gaskets are leaky. When I skip breakfast like this, I like to pretend I'm fasting or something. My girl friends always hate me for not dieting. In college, it got to the point where I would bring food back to my room rather than plop my tray of pizza slices down next to everyone else's mini portion of cantaloupe and yogurt. I'm sorry that I don't care if my ribs are individually distinguishable through my skin. Bitch.
