thesunshotme

(This will almost certainly contain heavy profanity and the usernames used in this were pulled out of my own head and aren't any real people that I know of but if someone has usernames matching them then it's probably coincidental). SamusFan20 in the video description: This is my Metroid compilation of pictures in a slideshow featuring Samus set to Queen's "We Will Rock You." I hope you guys enjoy. DisgruntledAsswipe87: Jesus Christ you're such a faggot. Why the hell would you post pics of a fictional girl and set it to Queen? Do yourself a favor and go get a REAL GIRLFRIEND, loser. Oh, and stop shaming such a great band with such a shitty

I remember, when I was very young, my mother and I lived in a trailer. It was a tin shoebox, a house on wheels, but I didn't understand that then. I didn't understand that it was a sign of how low we were in the great wide world. I didn't know that it was second hand, and I wouldn't've cared if I had. It was home. And I remember sitting on the deck out back, laughing, and being held tight. I remember the smells of breakfast in the morning after my single mom had worked all night. I remember friendly shadows and lush carpets and a plastic sandbox where dreams were built, crushed, and recycled ceaselessly. I remember running my

I make it into the dressing room before I break down between the lockers and the quiet, dripping taps. I cry so hard I taste blood and my throat is as raw and red as freshly sewn flesh. A nameless stranger touches my shoulder. she smells like cigarettes. "are you ok darling? you haven't hurt yourself have you? are you ok?" and I want to ask if she can see it in my eyes; if it's written on my face. "do you want to talk?" she moves to go and I want to scream DON'T LEAVE ME but I watch her turn and disappear; holding tight to the threads of my shirt in despair. A trainer sits with me for an hour. she tells me her name is

There's an anorexic patient with me in the mental health ward. I've never heard her speak or touch her lips to the plastic hospital food. Her skull is wrapped in the alien fingers of a pale feeding tube. And I wonder if she's still the keeper of her soul. Her wrists are as frail as the silver threads of delicate spider webs. Her skin is fragile and paper-soft. I've never heard her speak or touch her lips. She's just another patient (without a name). Her eyes are lifeless, lost. And I wonder what that makes me; another patient who sees only her disease.

Writing about myself has always been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I can whip well-developed characters out of my mind, put them in tough situations and write a good-length story or series of short stories about them. But I just can’t seem to write a narrative essay that makes me proud. I think this stems from the fact that I feel like my life isn’t exciting enough to write about. I haven’t had any traumatic childhood experiences; I didn’t drop out of school; I’ve never done anything illegal. I’m just a ‘normal’ teenager with a happy childhood and we all know that ‘normal’ never

I remember the day the Aleut ship came to our island. At first it seemed like a small shell afloat on the sea. “Kitz.” Then it grew larger and was a gull with folded wings. “Kitz.” At last in the rising sun it became what it really was – a red ship with two red sails. “Kitz!” I jump from the narrative startled. My fourth grade class is looking on amused, some snickering among them at my absentmindedness. I focus on the face of my language arts teacher, Ms. Coppey, who had called my name so insistently. “Glad you could join the class. You know that we start the book tomorrow, right?” I nod