Lukeman Exercise One | Katrina Cox
This is from the exercise where I'm supposed to think of a character who thinks in long sentences. That said, here is how I've decided to portray her:
Look at her, that smug little brat who stares at me behind bushy bangs with the scowl across her face. Who does she think she is, openly mocking and judging me every chance she gets. How dare she have such audacity as to scrutinize me every morning, every afternoon, every evening, every time I walk by her, every time I think of her, and every time she wants to see me. Look at her with her hands at her hips, pulling down the horribly plain, gray sweater over her midrift--as if that will save her from everyone knowing that she's a whore! Anyone can tell she's a whore just by the way she slumps as she walks from class to class, holding her binders up close to her flat chest with her chin resting atop, her eyes avidly averting to the floor.
She disgusts me with her plaid skirt that reaches past her ankles and drags on the floor due to her vertically-challenged height. Her baggy, ugly sweater that hangs limply from her child-like shoulders droops down past her waist and hips, hiding any chance of her to prove she's older than a thirteen-year-old via curves.
I don't know why she bothers plastering her ashen-white skin with makeup by CoverGirl or Mary Kay. Go ahead, girly, wipe that eyeshadow across your eyelids and draw eyeliner on both top and bottom of those same eyelids. Plump up your already full crimson lips with lip liner and lip stick while making them shine with lip gloss.
Run your fingers through your long, thick, coarse mane of hair. Uh, Rapunzel called; she'd like her rug back, please. Another bad hair day it seems, you're pulling the scrunchy from your wrist and flicking your head down and up, holding that mane in your hands. One, two, three times wrapped around that hair, tighten ever so slightly, and now you're wearing a ponytail.
I can't stand seeing that girl every morning, every evening, and every chance she gets to find me. I hate watching her fake a smile and pretend she's an accepted one; someone popular and loved. She makes my stomach twist up in knots when I think of her walking out into the REAL world, where she'd have to face the reality of who she really is and how she REALLY doesn't belong anywhere.
I can't stand it anymore!
Girl in my mirror...who are you kidding?
Look at her, that smug little brat who stares at me behind bushy bangs with the scowl across her face. Who does she think she is, openly mocking and judging me every chance she gets. How dare she have such audacity as to scrutinize me every morning, every afternoon, every evening, every time I walk by her, every time I think of her, and every time she wants to see me. Look at her with her hands at her hips, pulling down the horribly plain, gray sweater over her midrift--as if that will save her from everyone knowing that she's a whore! Anyone can tell she's a whore just by the way she slumps as she walks from class to class, holding her binders up close to her flat chest with her chin resting atop, her eyes avidly averting to the floor.
She disgusts me with her plaid skirt that reaches past her ankles and drags on the floor due to her vertically-challenged height. Her baggy, ugly sweater that hangs limply from her child-like shoulders droops down past her waist and hips, hiding any chance of her to prove she's older than a thirteen-year-old via curves.
I don't know why she bothers plastering her ashen-white skin with makeup by CoverGirl or Mary Kay. Go ahead, girly, wipe that eyeshadow across your eyelids and draw eyeliner on both top and bottom of those same eyelids. Plump up your already full crimson lips with lip liner and lip stick while making them shine with lip gloss.
Run your fingers through your long, thick, coarse mane of hair. Uh, Rapunzel called; she'd like her rug back, please. Another bad hair day it seems, you're pulling the scrunchy from your wrist and flicking your head down and up, holding that mane in your hands. One, two, three times wrapped around that hair, tighten ever so slightly, and now you're wearing a ponytail.
I can't stand seeing that girl every morning, every evening, and every chance she gets to find me. I hate watching her fake a smile and pretend she's an accepted one; someone popular and loved. She makes my stomach twist up in knots when I think of her walking out into the REAL world, where she'd have to face the reality of who she really is and how she REALLY doesn't belong anywhere.
I can't stand it anymore!
Girl in my mirror...who are you kidding?
Labels: Katrina Cox, Lukeman Exercise One, punctuation
posted by Anonymous | 10:29 PM
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