I wouldn’t say I’ve become more of a bitch, I just refuse to fuck around. Actually scratch that, I’m definitely more of a bitch. A bold bitch to be exact. And that’s good you know, like taking charge, not putting up with bullshit. But prior to this transition, I was just a little bitch boy who was pretty damn pathetic, so much so I would’ve done anything for the one and only Jayden Tucker.
One day, someone from your past whom you most relied on, will re-enter your life at a time when you’re no longer a damsel in distress. And it will confuse the fuck out of that person. Especially when they’re used to being the one to save you.
The following is an excerpt from a book I’m writing called, “Skittles for Breakfast”. Chapter Four: Hot Pursuit “You have really pretty eyes. I like the way they look when the sun shines on your face,” he said with that cheesy Disney Channel movie smile. I swallowed my first bite of cafeteria chicken wrap as he waited for my response from across the lunch table. “Shut up, don’t talk to me.” I told him sassily. (Sassily. A word I didn’t think existed until my word processor granted me the right to use it by sparing the red squiggly line of failure).
The following is an excerpt from my book, “Skittles for Breakfast”… Preface Dear Jayden, Forgive me for the content of this memoir, for I am not one to misplace honesty in the dark. Yours Truly, Robert Losing friends and making enemies has turned out easier than I thought. I much prefer hating everyone while they continue to like and admire me, however, my acts of emotional destruction have brought me to where I am now… happy.
Flaunting a green sash around campus proved to be quite attention getting, something I endorsed to climb the ranks in the High School Hierarchy system. Throughout most of my childhood, I dreamed of one day being crowned Ms. America, but my dose of reality sunk in after my mother said it was inappropriate for an eight year old boy to be wearing high heeled shoes. I then told her that it was inappropriate to be wearing Mom Jeans at the age of twenty eight.
There is nothing more obnoxious than some attention loving drama queen walking around school on her birthday carrying fifteen hundred balloons (in various colors), a pink wand covered in glitter with a star attached to the top that reads “It’s My Birthday!”, while still managing to hold a pan of half eaten chocolate cake like the way a waitress would when bringing a platter to a table. Well, turns out this year, that bitch is me.