If you were to look through the window of this particular house, you would see something rather beautiful.You would be watching a couple dancing around a phone in the middle of the floor. It seems to be playing 'The girl from Ipanema.'They seem quite oblivious to our prying eyes. The music starts to fade out. The dancing stops. An passionless voice explains that the call is important, and could they please wait.A waltz starts playing. They start laughing and, taking each other in hold, they glide around the house to the metalic tune of the 'Blue danube'.
To...well, they don't like to be mentioned, but you know how you are. I hope.Sorry. I'm so sorry. You have absolutly no idea how sorry I am. I completely disregarded your feelings, which was wrong and horrible and I feel horrible and I wil not even demean this apology by trying to beg for forgivness, I won't, promise, I'm sorry so so so so sorry.I feel terrible. Awful. Like a devil, sick of sin. I feel like my soul has been dipped in oil, all slick and sticky and disgusting. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.
He was sitting in the maths challenge. Apparently, he was doing this because he had a love of anything mathematical. Had he been asked, he would have said that he was doing it because he would be missing the chemistry test.
One of the questions involved finding the side length of a triangle in a circle. He drew it out, hoping that, by doing this, the question would make sense.
It didn’t, but unbeknownst to him, he had drawn the diagram perfectly. The angles, sides, shapes were beautifully correct.
He didn’t know this, and threw it away after the exam.
Pudsy sat in the corner of the bar, cradling his whisky bottle like a child.He remembered the last time he had been in here. It was when he had lost his eye in a bar fight. Sure, it had hurt, but you should have seen the Easter Bunny. It took the police 8 days to find his two front teeth. A grim smile wormed its way across Pudsy's face, as he reminiced. Soon, he would have to shed this image, and become the lovable, huggable bear that everyone 'knew'.For now, he simply drank the whisky, being only himself.
'So, did you hear the news?''No.''Prince William's getting married.''Is he? That's nice.''It is.''Why are you grinning?''Well, I had an idea.''Which is?''You should ask her out when they get married.''What are you talking about?''Well, it would be really romantic and stuff, and, and, and, I could be there and take pictures of you smiling and stuff.''Maybe YOU want to ask her out?''What?''Yeh, YOU want to ask her out, but are too scared and pathetic to do so.''I think you might b reflecting...''Maybe YOUR reflecting Mrs reflector!'
I always feel sorry for the minesweeper man.The yellow happy face that stares at you with such hope and trust as you begin a new game. His eyes seem to say 'I know you can do this.'You start clicking, and his eyes widen, as if he is suddenly worried by the faith he placed in you. When he realises it's all fine, he's smiling again, sorry that he ever doubted you.But when you hit a bomb...The eyes cross, he frowns, child-like, being dead. 'Why did you let this happen, how could you be so careless!'
One of my friends recently expounded the theory that, instead of molten iron in the core of the earth, there is a large brain.He then went on to say that it is this brain that controls the warmth of the planet. Therefore, he argued, in order to stop global warming, all we have to do is appease the brain.Possibly with a human sacrifice. Another of my friends is on a quest to become more manly.I sing show-tunes in chemistry with another.With others, we debate the courting positions of ducks in biology. I love my friends.
Thoughts...Tomorrow could be a turning point. Unexplicable happiness or utter depression co-exist, side by side, both realities running parallel until the verdict is announced. Apparently, you can get an A* in AS levels. Why does it annoy me so much that I have yet to achieve this grade? Why do I feel I have to achieve it?I want to sleep, from now until Christmas. I can do without the stuff in the middle.Courage is key, according to literature, but what do writers know?Love. Possibly.Two tests. Chemsitry and biology. Why have I stopped being creative?