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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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Porcelain Dolls

A short story surrounding dialogue that I wrote freshman year in creative writing. The first line had to be the title of a random song, the first song that came up in a google search.

Porcelain Dolls

“Love is a mutt from hell.” “Come on, George.” “What, Wes? What do you mean, ‘come on’?” “Don’t talk like that.” “Talk like what? You mean, don’t speak the truth?” “You’re just upset.” “Upset? Me? No!” “Cut the bullshit.” I finally gave in. “What do you want me to say, Wes?” “Say you don’t mean it. Say you don’t really think love is something out of the pits of hell.” “I can’t. I really can’t describe it as anything else.” I threw my hand in the air in defeat. “Where’s my friend from high school? The George who planned months in advance, just to ask a girl to prom? Or the guy who quit basketball, as a starting point guard may I add, just to be with a girl?”  “Clearly he’s back in fantasy land.” “What do you mean? He’s right in front of me. He’s just a little sad because the ‘love of his life’,” Wes said, using air quotes, “Was being an idiot and left him for another guy?” “He’s gone. I’ve grown. I know it’s just a stupid thing that Disney made up.” “Where’s my best friend who made playlists, who serenaded her in the middle of lunch, despite the principal shouting over the whole performance, just because he wanted to let her know how much he cared about her?” “He was delusional. That’s where he is. He’s in some state of mild insanity.” “Exactly. I think he’s still in there somewhere, probably fighting against a bunch of nasty thoughts trying to crush him. He’s somewhere.” “Is he though? I don’t think so.” “He’s right here.” Wesley reached in his back pocket and pulled something out. He kept in clenched in his fist until his hand was right in front of my face. He let his fingers flatten out, revealing a crumpled piece of notebook paper, words scribbled across the lines. “What even is that, Wes?” I sighed. I settled onto the park bench behind me as Wesley started to unfold the paper, standing before me. “It’s you. Maybe three months ago. Probably less.” “How did you get that?” I whispered, knowing exactly what it was. “You left it in my car after practice the other day. About a week after she left.” “Lies. I haven’t seen that since I gave it to her last month.” “What about when she gave it back to you, in the middle of the court on Friday? I’m pretty sure you saw it then, Georgie.” “Tried not to.” I admitted. “You make me smile.” Wes read aloud. “You make me want to be the best I can be-“  “Stop.” “You make my stomach twist into knots when I see your face, and you give me butterflies when you speak.”   “Wes. You have no right.” I said, sitting up a little straighter, wondering how far he would go. “How could someone, who I’ve known for less than a year, have such an impact?” Wes easily dodged my hand in it’s attempt to swipe the paper from his grasp. “You make me insane, but I’d prefer to be psychotic if it meant that I have you.” “Wes, stop this.” I stood up to him, trying to block the words with my hands. “We’re shielded. Something is there, that protects us from everything. Nothing can hurt us. We’re invincible, baby. Everything you do makes me fall a little harder. Nothing you can do will make me not love you. I don’t care if you’re dragging me to my death, because it means that I get to hold your hand. If you held me at gun point, I wouldn’t shy away, because I’d rather die at your hands than anyone else.” “Wes, you’re done.” I grabbed the paper, finally stopping his momentum, so I thought. “I’d follow you anywhere, woman.” He recited from memory, pushing me back forcefully. “You…memorized what I wrote?” “You’re eyes are my favorite color. The grey blue is the most hypnotizing, enchanting, captivating color I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. And when your eyes turn that shade of brown? My heart. I die a little inside. Every time you say my name, I think that my heart stops for a second.” I slumped onto the bench in defeat, trying to cover my ears. My own words clocked me in the face like a world class boxer, not even giving me a chance. “Wes, you don’t have to be so mean.” “I know you love to straighten your hair, but my favorite is when its curly and wild. When you just let it down from the pony tail after practice, and your face is a little red, it’s my favorite. I love when you walk down the hall, you have a quiet confidence. You know who you are, and no one else can tell you different. I love the small dots all over, no matter what they are. You think they’re blemishes, trying to cover them up. I think they’re stars. They’re the small bit of heaven on you, invisibly connected like constellations placed by the gods of who knows what. I say I’m a Christian, because that’s what my parents say I am. I’m not. I’m whatever you want me to be. I don’t believe in God, or any god, for that matter. People say that God creates all humans equal, but I know that’s not true. God doesn’t exist, because if he did, why would he-“ “Make someone so perfect, even though everyone is supposed to have imperfections?” I finished for Wes, gingerly holding the rumpled paper. Wes looked at me, sad. “Next time, man.” “No next time. It’s only Sophia.” “Don’t say that.” “Why not? Why can’t I want her?” “Because she’s a stupid girl!” Wes yelled. I shoved him back. He stumbled over his feet, toppling to the rough concrete. “Don’t you ever say that.” I growled at my friend laying on the ground. “She’s not stupid. She’s not a girl. She’s the most perfect thing in the world, human or not. She’s my girl.” “She doesn’t deserve you.” Wes said quietly. “She doesn’t deserve me? Me? I’m the one. I still can’t believe that I was able to get her, that I was able to be the one to call her mine, and have her be okay with that. Anyone would be more than lucky to have her look their way, and she chose me. She came to me.” “Bad choice by her.” Wes grumbled. “Bad choice? Bad choice?” I roared, stepping closer to him. “It wasn’t even a bad choice. It was a fatal flaw. It killed me. Her games ended up being my death.” “Let her go. All she’s doing is hurting you. You can’t see it. You’re just a love-––“ Push. “sick––“ Push. “puppy.“ Push. Wes shoved me back to the bench. “You follow her like a dog. And she treats you like one. She only pets you when she feels like it.” “Don’t you dare. She loves me.” I shouted. “Not enough.” “AN ounce is enough, Wesley. A fraction of an ounce is a godsend.” “Someone can love you more. Someone can and will give you more than an ounce. Someone will give you their whole heart.” “Yeah? Who? Who could have the same effect?” “Me.” Wes shouted. “I will. I do. You don’t see it. You’re too busy diving headfirst into her fiery pits of hell disguised with a smile and her enticing voice, and you get burned every time. Every. Fucking. Time.” “You? You want me? What?” I was stunned. “Yes. And you’re too blind to see it. You’re too busy nursing your burns, with my help, so you can just jump back into the fire!” “No. Don’t do that, Wes.” “Don’t do what? I can’t not do it anymore. I watch you crash and burn every time she leaves, like clockwork. She comes back, and you’re higher than the moon. She leaves and you come crashing back to earth faster and harder than the time before! And I’m the one who helps pull you back together. I keep the endless supply of crazy glue in the back of my truck, ready to pull it out and glue you back together, piecing you back into a fraction of the man you were before she came along.”  “Wes, what are you saying?” “You’re broken. You may think you’re fixed, and every time you crash again. You’re like a porcelain doll. When it breaks, you can fix it, but you can still the the cracks in that motherfucker. And guess what, George?” “What, Wes?” I asked slowly. “I’m the only one who will play with the doll. I see the cracks. I see the missing shards and the warped glass, and I still love it. She didn’t. She doesn’t. But I do. Every time, I love it. And if you can’t see that, then you do deserve her.” “What does that even mean?” I whispered. “I deserve her?” “Yeah. You’re both too fucked up to notice that you’re hurting each other, and you’re hurting those around you, more than you know. You can’t even see the damage you’ve done. You’re ceramic body is cracked, and so is hers. You two had some twisted agreement to punch out each other’s chests, smashing your bodies and hearts at the same time. I stand in the middle, waiting for you to notice me, and you don’t. You’d prefer her smashed surface, to my porcelain one. You’d prefer her broken frame to my reinforced one. I’d never break you. I put you back together.” “Wes. Stop.” I stood up to leave the park, slinging my jacket over my shoulder. “George.” He called. “Georgie.” “Wes. It’s still her.” “George. No, it’s not. It won’t work. You’re killing each other.” Wes pleaded. “I’d die for her.” I left that park and never returned.

#creative writing 1 #november 2015 #assignment #flash fiction #dialogue

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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The Diner

A short story I wrote for creative writing 1 in freshman year, I believe. The story was based off of flash fiction, but there were no restrictions on the piece other than a word limit. Again, because of tumblr’s format, all spacing and correct format for dialogue and paragraphs has gone askew.

The Diner I pulled up to the parking spot and killed the engine but didn’t exit the car. The stench from the car was soaked into my clothes and hung around me like a cloud. I turned off the radio and leaned my forehead on the steering wheel. Country music wafted out of my car and into the lot and my eyes closed for a minute. “I’m here. R U?” My phone screen read. I pulled my sunglasses from atop my curls and placed them on nose and picked up my jacket. I stepped out onto the pavement and started the trek from the end of the parking lot to the restaurant entrance. As I walked, I scoffed at the sign in front of the door trying to attract customers that had faded years ago and was not readable. I removed my sunglasses and hooked them in my white t-shirt pocket that was all too bright for the grimy parking lot. I kicked a soda can with the toe of my boot and entered the diner. Dirtied windows looked out into an even dirtier parking lot and the glass panel that separated the diner from the rest of the world hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned in years. Booths were crammed along the walls with the material of every seat worn and cracked. Seat stuffing and bent springs were poking through the surface and the blue grey linoleum floor oddly complimented the wallpaper peeling off of the panel. Sunlight reflected off of the divots in the tables and the light fixtures. Rusty hinges rendered dying doors almost unusable and the kitchen sink was piled high with dishes. I locked eyes with Christopher as he motioned for me to join him. I settled into the booth and laid my jacket across my lap, finally looking at him. “How are you?” I asked. “I’m fine. Menu?” Christopher held out the pamphlet. I took the leaflet and scanned my options and settled on a sandwich. Christopher’s shirt cuffs were buttoned and he toyed with them in his hand as he looked at me over the table shining in the electric light. The people of the diner must have known a nice tip was coming in his arrival in his nice shoes and neatly pressed shirt—all nicer and neater than this diner put together. His shoes were new which I noticed and they tapped against the root of the table, but he made sure they didn’t get scuffed. His hair was cut and shone under the bright light. It seemed less perfect than it did under the natural light outside, and his teeth didn’t shine as he smiled like they might outside. This diner took away the color from the people and everything seemed duller and more desperate. His crisp blazer draped across the back of the booth was out of place and was easily more expensive than the table before him. Christopher poked at his French Onion soup, stirring the dish and avoiding eye contact. “What’s wrong?” I said. “You’re quiet. And your fists are clenched.” I pointed out. “What? Oh.” Christopher massaged his hands while looking up at me. “Why is it like this? The same thing every time we need to meet.” He put his spoon down on the saucer beside him, giving off a clang from the metal hitting porcelain. “You’ve never complained, so what’s changed? I think this place is fine, and it’s not to far from my work.” I spoke slowly like I was talking to a child. “Then why are we here, and not closer to the city? I-“ “You know why we’re here. This is what I can afford.” “I told you, I’ll pay for you. Splitting the check always complicated.” “Not this again. I will pay for myself. I can do it.” “We’re so far from everything, and frankly, I’m tired of soup every week.” “Then order something else.” I retorted. I looked him square in the eyes before taking a sip of my soda. I sighed and continued. “Why are we meeting again? Who died?” “I just wanted to check up on you, is that wrong?” Christopher countered. He reached into his bag and started sifting through papers. I nodded my head. “I’ll be back.” I said curtly before sliding out of the booth. Christopher kept his head down, not bothering to ask where I was going. I grabbed my jacket and put it on before heading towards the back exit of the restaurant. I leaned against the brick building and pulled a stray cigarette and a lighter out of my jacket. The bricks had been heating in the sun and were warming my back as I put the cigarette in between my teeth and tried to ignite the dying lighter. I puffed on the cigarette and reveled in the calming feeling of the smoke filling my lungs. I let out another mouthful of smoke and watched as the wind carried away the cloud instead of leaving it to hang over me. Picking up a stone, I weighed it in my hand before hurling it across the abandoned back lot. “You’re killing yourself. I always tell you to stop.” Christopher says when he sees burned out butt in between my fingers. “They literally suck the life out of you.” “Jesus, you scared me.” I told him as I snuffed out the cigarette on the wall. “And who cares what you think?” “I care.” He snatched the butt from my hand and threw it on the ground and then proceeded to dust off his hands like he had dirt on his palms. “I’ve told you. This is how it started for him, too.” “Oh stop it. You know I’m not like him, Chris.” I scoffed and popped a stick of gum in my mouth. I tossed the silver wrapper into a patch of sunlight on the ground and continued. “Is that what this is about? I thought we were done with that!” “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Matty.” I looked at my younger brother in disbelief before pushing my way past him and re-entering the diner. I ran my hands along the walls of the hall as I walked back in doors. I stopped to admire a photograph on the wall of a waiter holding a pitcher in an attempt to ignore my brother. Christopher followed closely and tried to reason with me. “You were blind to everything, but I saw it!” “What did you see Christopher?” I asked him sarcastically. I already knew every detail to the speech that I had heard for years. “Him! Going downhill! And I saw you, growing up without direction! You can’t turn out like him!” I sat down in the booth and picked up my sandwich and took a bite. “Have you seen him recently, Chris?” I asked as ham scraps fell out of my mouth. “He showed up to my house a while ago. Asked for a second chance, he wanted to meet my kids. He said he wanted to catch up, a whole bunch of bullshit if you ask me. He then asked me for money. The nerve.” “Why didn’t he ask me? He’s visited me before, never asked me for money.” I leaned in towards my younger brother and waited for his answer. “You know why, Matty.” Christopher sighed and rolled up the sleeves of his all too fancy button-down. “Do I? Christopher?” I challenged him. “Do I know why he asks you and not me?” “It’s because you have no money! You’re barely scraping by with your studio that’s falling apart in your hands! Your income is based off of late shifts at Gelson’s and handyman jobs from Craigslist! That jacket is 12 years old and you only come here because it’s the only food that you can afford that doesn’t come from a drive in, served to you by a high schooler who has a piggybank on his desk holding more money than your bank account, Matthew!” Christopher shouted. I stood up and walked over to Christopher and glared at him, but he kept yelling. “He came to me, Matty! He came to me because he knows that, with me, he has a shot at getting some real cash! He wants to hold a check in his hand, not a roll of quarters!”  I reached out and punched my brother in the face. Christopher looked at me in shock and reached up to feel his nose, which was bleeding at the bridge. He stood up and roughly pushed me back. I stumbled into a metal chair before righting myself. Christopher stepped out into the open center of the diner, drawing even more attention to us. He stood in a sun spot, lighting up my brother like a god. I pulled off my jacket and tossed it back to the table and walked towards my brother. “He went to you, only because he thinks he still has a chance! He thinks he hasn’t messed up with you yet!” I growled. I ran my fingers through my hair in anger. “He’s screwed with both of us, only you’ve never been able to deal with the fact that he is gone.” Christopher spat. “I moved on! I knew he wasn’t coming back! I knew that the only father figure I’d have was going to be my slacker older brother who couldn’t even maintain straight Cs in his sophomore year of high school!” I shook my head to myself slowly before turning on my heel and kicking over a aluminum chair. Christopher laughed to himself and leisurely walked over to the diner counter and leaned against the cold metal surface. I took a quick glance around the room and finally noticed all the people watching the family feud that was nothing close to the television show. Christopher looked at me again, but only this time his eyes weren’t as bright, his smirk had been wiped off his face. “Why do you defend him?” Christopher chuckled. “You didn’t see him. You were too caught up in the novelty of high school, and the memories of dad that you didn’t see it. You only saw the family portraits, not the cracked frame that held the photograph. You only saw Christmas presents being handed out, not the gifts wrapped in old newspaper, instead of papers adorned with red nosed reindeer and striped candy canes!” Christopher grabbed my elbow and held it while his voice bounced off of the walls of the diner. “The only family photo I remember is the one with a tear down the middle! The gifts I remember are cheap toys handed to me in a stained paper bag in passing! You remember sitting in the shot gun seat of that god awful Range Rover, but the only thing I remember sitting in the passenger seat was a box crammed with belongings as he drove off!” “Chris, you’re exaggerating it! This is all in your head, it’s-” “Stop defending him, Matty!” Christopher smashed his fist into the table that he stood by and then slumped into a chair, defeated. I looked up from my crunched position, leaning over the back of a chair. I made eye contact with my brother, our cold lunches forgotten. By now, the diner had started to move again. Women with messy buns and lipstick bustled about, taking orders and talking in overly sweet southern accents through clenched teeth. The sun had set and the restaurant was half empty. Sounds of clanking dishes and muted shouts of “Order up!” were wafting through the rusty doors of the kitchen. I motioned for my brother to sit with me and put the fight in the past. Christopher was hesitant but soon joined me in the booth to finish our lunch. He straightened his tie and brushed off the seat before sitting down. We sat and ate in silence and listened to the wind pick up outside that rattled the thin windows of the diner. “You know, I’m not mad anymore. He’s gone.” I said while I pushed my sandwich pieces around my plate. Christopher nodded at me and raised his cup in agreement. We sat in silence for a while. “I’m done, are you?” Christopher tossed some dollar bills on the table and stood up. “Let’s go.” I stood up and put on my jacket. Christopher took a final sip of his drink and turned towards the door. Suddenly, a man put his hand on Christopher’s shoulder. Christopher turned to face the man and see what he wanted. “Christopher?” The man asked. I took a small step closer to my younger brother as he addressed the man who had touched him. The man wore a sweater that was two sizes too big and ridden with stains. His jeans were ripped in more places than one and his shoes were holding together by a thread. The only out of place thing in the diner infested with dirt was the young child in the man’s arms. She couldn’t have been older than two by the looks of her chubby cheeks and pigtails in her hair. “How do you know my name…Sir?” Christopher said and took a step backwards. “Do you not recognize your own father, boys?” The man asked with a hopeful smile. Christopher reached out and grabbed my elbow and squeezed it with all his strength. I tensed and my breath sped up. I stepped in front of my younger brother and looked down on the man that used to be my father. “Norman.” I addressed him. I tried to even my breath, but failed. “How did you find us?” “I saw you here when you pulled up.” He confessed. “I live around here.” “You found a home?” Christopher asked with a raised eyebrow. “I live around here. In the homeless shelter down the street.” My jaw dropped. The man I knew when he was my father was tall and built with muscle. He was short-haired and blue eyed. The man in front of me was the complete opposite. His back was curved and his skin was hanging off of his body. His veins were showing through his skin and his chin was covered in stubble. The eyes that looked at me were glazed over and dead. “This,” Norman smiled when he finally noticed the child in his arms. “Is Emily.” “Daughter?” I asked sadly. “But not for long.” Norman responded. He placed the girl on her two feet and then he put his hands in his pockets. “I can’t take care of her. She’s getting older and hard to take care of.” “Put her up for adoption. Problem solved. We need to go.” Christopher answered and turned to pull open the door. I nodded and followed my brother toward the exit. “I can’t. I already have a family for her.” Norman explained. He grabbed the little girl’s hand and helped her into a chair facing the window. “Great. Go find them. I don’t want to look at you anymore.” Christopher said and turned his back to me. He rubbed his eyes and tried to hide the sniffling from his crying. “Good luck with her…sir.” I nodded and led my brother out of the diner and down the parking lot. Christopher kicked a rock in front of him and kept his head down. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and stared at the little moon reflection in his polished shoes. I kept my hand on his shoulder and turned him in the right direction. I opened the door to his car and waited for him to get into the seat. The wind blew my hair into my face and whipped the back of my legs. The sun had disappeared and the moonlight failed to illuminate the parking lot. The diner’s neon sign had all but died and left only three glowing letters. My boot print created a path in the layer of dirt covering the parking lot from the diner to my brother’s car. “Hey! Wait!” I turned to see who was running towards us and Christopher leaned his head out of the car door. Norman jogged to us while holding his child on his hip. She played with her father’s hair as he came to a stop in front of the car and shifted her to his other hip. My brother looked at Norman and waited for an explanation. “You-you’re the family.” Norman said as he tried to catch his breath. “You’ll take her, right?” I backed up a couple of steps and opened my mouth to speak. I stood with my jaw to the floor but didn’t say anything. The wind dried out my mouth and made it taste like sandpaper. “You’ll keep her, Matty?” Norman asked me. I shook my head slowly and headed to my car, not looking back at Norman or my brother. I sat in my car and watched the man turn to my brother who still sat in his car with the door open. I saw him mouth the same words as his hair whipped him in the face. I noticed Norman eying the car seat in the back of Christopher’s car as he spoke to my brother and tried to persuade him. Christopher looked at Norman as he held out the young girl who had no idea what was happening and reached into his pocket to pull out something. My brother handed our father a crumpled handful of what seemed to be dollar bills and slowly shut the door of his car. Christopher started his engine and I started to back out of the parking spot. I drove past the man cradling the young girl with the pig tails in the middle of the parking lot and I watched as he made no attempt to stop my brother as he drove off. I kept an eye on my rear view mirror as the man holding the child became smaller and smaller and was finally swallowed by dust and night. I turned the wheel of my car and sped off in an opposite direction.

#creative writing 1 #assignment #april 2015 #flash fiction

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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Hands

A poem I wrote for creative writing 1 in sophomore year inspired by a photo taken by an anonymous student. This poem was published in the school magazine, “Dark As Day”.

Hands It’s an animalistic hand, stronger than your pride Gripping your stomach in an iron fist, tying it in knots It’s your big brother walking behind you, slapping your head as a punishment You were too optimistic to think what would happen after you let go But you let go anyway, and when you tried to grab it before it slips away completely Your hand reaches out to catch it, catching nothing but the fatal virus called jealousy Staring at the hand, but not being the holder of the soft flesh The hand is being held by another, while yours sit in a deep pocket The hand is running through someone’s hair, but the hair is not your own It was once your hand to hold, but somehow you managed to let it go It was once your hair, but you succeeded in ripping the fingers from your thick curls Or even worse, it used to be yours to hold You used to hold that hand, and you pulled your hand away Now when you reach out to grasp it, all you can feel is cold air running on your palm But they get to hold that hand, and that is a blow to your head They get to tangle their fingers together and drag them on adventures All you can do is close your hand around the cold fabric of your sweater

#poetry #creative writing 1 #December 2015 #assignment

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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Rant

An assignment from sophomore year: Write a rant poem, freezers, inspired by “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg

Dear parents of Generation Z, You’re trying your hardest, but you’re so unaware of your children. So unaware of how hard we’re trying to get through the day, of how hard it is for us to put a smile on our faces, of how hard we work, only to be told to try harder, of how hard we try to hide our problems, of how hard we laugh off your mistakes while they slowly kill us, of how hard it is for us to let your generation use outdated terminology, of how hard it is for us to willingly go to school, knowing what’s to come, of how patient we’re trying to be while you all try to catch up with us, of how hard we want to come to our parents for help, but we just can’t. You’re trying, but you’re so oblivious to what’s happening. So oblivious to the boy trying to explain his gender, to the girl who’s trying to call for help, but doesn’t know how. to the son who locks himself in his room so you don’t see his blood, to the daughter who spends hours online, allowing herself to be destroyed by anonymous accounts, to the seven-year-old who just knows that he’s a Jessica instead of a Jesse, but you don’t believe her, to the teenage girl who breaks a little more each time you call her a “he”, to the bruises on the boy’s back that aren’t from football, to the small gashes on your daughter’s wrists that aren’t accidental, to the girl who wants to be Prince Charming instead of Cinderella, to the stench of puke surrounding the toilet in the kids’ bathroom after dinner, to the daughter who needs the size zero jeans or else she’ll die, to the boy who cringes when you ask about a girlfriend, to the child who hides cigarette burns on his calves with khaki pants, to the bloodshot eyes of the sixteen-year old girl as she stumbles home at half-past three a.m. You try to understand, and try to help. You try to understand, and try to give advice. You can’t try until you understand, and you can’t understand until we show you. You can’t understand until you know what we are. We are bisexual, We are pansexual, We are more than straight or gay, We are transgender, allies of friends, We are fluid, Female to Male We are demi boys, We are demi girls, We are androgynous, We are aromantic, asexual, agender We are identified as the unidentified. Your passable parenting is scraping by, just barely keeping up with the changing times, Your passable parenting is based on books from Barnes and Noble written in 1992, Your passable parenting is acceptable, but not really. Your passable parenting is trying to be there for your crying child, but you don’t know how, Your passable parenting is spending hours on Facebook, trying to get on our level, Your passable parenting is going off of what you know from when you were kids, Your passable parenting is trying to help, trying in vain to figure us out. I know it’s hard, I get it. I’ll help you out, and I’ll tell you who we are. We are the kids who bond over text, as well as face to face, who form friendships through URLs and across countries, who relate to Kanye more than Springsteen. who understand love, who crave it, who are the whole LGBTQ+ acronym, who believe in the Kinsey scale, who stand with Mohammad, who want Justin and Selena not Joanie and Chachi, who reach for Santana and Brittany not Luke and Laura, who remember Leelah Alcorn and respect gender pronouns, who celebrate June 26th, 2015, who are more than just a kid, we are functioning beings, who have gone through more than the average adult, who look up to people you find silly or not worth it, who use drugs as an escape, not a joke who want Yeezys not Keds, who help each other because only we can understand, who bond over viral videos and internet sensations, who believe in ships and OTPs, fanfiction, AU stories and treat fictional characters as our own children, who look up to Laverne Cox but question Caitlyn Jenner, who vow to be good parents, because we know how hard it is, who want to be accepted by adults, who want to feel like our problems are valid, who struggle from more than just teenage angst, who surround ourselves with fictional worlds, because we can’t stand our own. I know it’s a lot, trust me. I know you think it’s a phase, that you think we’re just speaking to hear our own voices, I know there’s. new information that you’ve never heard of, that you refuse to acknowledge. I know that you’ll instantly discount us, because we’re not old enough to be taken seriously, I know you think that we’re in over our heads, that we’re not thinking it through, I know that after you hear this, you’ll walk away and shake your head, forgetting it all. I know its hard, but I promise that in a few years, it’ll all make sense. Bear with us, and I swear, It’ll be worth it. Sincerely, Generation Z

#january 2016 #creative writing 1 #assignment #poetry

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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Samuel

a short story i wrote for Creative Writing 1 in sophomore year. (The format is off due to the copy and pasting)

Thick smoke strangled Samuel’s mud-splattered neck with its spindly grey fingers. Playground toys were recklessly strewn across the luscious grass illuminated by smiling sunrays, a shriek of excitement came from a child. Bodies scattered haphazardly across the muddy field shrouded by grey clouds above head, a howl of pain that meant another casualty. “Leave him, Sam! He’s dead! Abort mission, now!” A beady eyed man roared. Samuel whipped around, trying to locate the sound. Through the haze, it was hard to determine which voice belonged to who. “Help him sit down, calm Samuel down.” A baby-faced woman whispered. Though the battlefield was excruciatingly loud, Samuel heard the woman as clear as if she was right next to him, whispering only to him. Smoke and guns. Smiles and sunshine. Smoke. Smiles. Smoke. Smiles. Nothing.

“That’s aunt Claire’s car!” a nephew shrieked, sprinting out to the gravel driveway. “Come on guys!” My lanky daughter pulled into the driveway in her rusty pick-up truck and exited ungracefully, the ancient truck still running. She grabbed her worn leather backpack and ratty school pullover out of the backseat, then jogged back to the driver’s side to grab her keys. Suddenly, a loud bang resounded throughout the woods ricocheting off of the white shutters on the farmhouse. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stop high-pitched ringing. “Move!” a thick Boston accent hollered from behind me. “Why did you stop running?” someone questioned me with a Texan twang. My eyes swept across the muddy landscape, making eye contact with those before me. I stared at no one in particular, but they all focused on me. “Leave me alone!” I pleaded to the unrecognizable people. Some eyes were filled with shock, some with confusion, even pure hatred. “Hey, just breathe.” A barefoot man in a muddy white shirt and loose tattered pants slowly approached me, hands raised in a cautious gesture. “Just take a few breaths.” The man took one step too close and I grabbed him in a chokehold before he could attack me. People around us screeched in horror, telling me to stop. I shook my head forcefully, pulling my right arm tighter around his neck. As the man’s face turned a shade closer to blue, I looked at him. He clawed at my forearm helplessly, his strangely familiar eyes pleading for me to let go. His loafer-clad feet were trying to find purchase on the ground so he could stand up to release himself from my grip. I added more pressure on his windpipe for a moment before releasing him, flinging him off of my body and into the dirt, dirtying his salmon colored button down. I ran my fingers through my already tousled black hair, trying to calm myself. The continuous feeling of greasy and unkempt hair between muddy and calloused fingers brought me a strange calm feeling. The feeling came from not the actual hair, but the fact that something was real, consistent. My once steady heartbeat became erratic. Faces blurred, the sky ran into the ocean and the horizon disappeared. A dark tint crept into my vision, slowly invading my eyes. It was slow at first, but in an instant all became black. “Are you alright?” A woman said nervously, pacing at the foot of my bed. I blinked a few times before looking at the woman. The steely grey eyes and auburn hair were foreign to me. I shook my head slightly, before glancing at the woman again. This time, the face possessed green eyes flecked with gold, and soot-black hair that I would recognize anywhere. I smiled slightly at my youngest daughter as she patted my arm. I went to answer her question, but when I made eye contact, she was gone. My daughter sat down in a rocking chair beside the bed. She rocked slowly, and I stared at her intently. Each time I looked at her, her features would change. One moment she has green eyes, grey the next. When she rocked forward, her hair would be black like ink, but the moment the chair would settle back towards the wall, the messy auburn hairdo would reappear. “What’s your name?” I croaked timidly, addressing the woman. “My name? Dad, it’s Claire.” She responded softly, but a hint of sadness was apparent. Claire? Who’s Claire? I asked myself. I was just recruited into the army. I couldn’t possibly have a daughter, especially of that age. I looked at her again, before exhaling. “Excuse me, miss?” I got her attention after she had turned her back to me. “Could I use your bathroom, please?” “Yeah.” She responded slowly “Down the hall, second door to the left.” I nodded, not that she noticed, and uneasily lifted myself out of bed. I found the door jerking it open before entering and slamming it shut, leaning my back on the door. As I tried to slow my heartbeat, I observed the room I had locked myself in. Two sinks sat side by side, with bathroom cabinets mounted on the walls. The sink on the left was neat and clean, with two toothbrushes lining the sink’s edge. A tube of toothpaste was placed precisely next to a glass and a bottle of green mouthwash. The marble counter holding the sinks was pristine white on the left half. The right half was flecked with dried toothpaste and spilled lotions. The right sink was crusty from lack of cleaning and messy occupiers. I walked over to the left sink, eyeing the untidy sink to my right. I turned the tap, starting a thin stream of water. Gripping the sides of the sink, I staring at my reflection in the mirror. At first glance, I saw myself. A young man, clean-shaven with a sharp, wide jaw and thick eyebrows. My green eyes flecked with blue and gold stared at the reflection, memorizing the face. My bushy eyebrows curved perfectly above my eyelids, forehead creased in concentration. The jet-black hair atop of my head stood stiff with gel, slightly slicked back. A stray curl stuck out from behind my ear, which I quickly patted back into place. I ran my strong fingers through the gelled hair, mussing it a bit, but not enough to ruin it’s shape. I gave myself a last glance before I splashd my face with water, and then drying it with a fluffy towel from a rack below the light switch. As I put the towel down, I caught my reflection’s eye, and stopped. The man staring back at me had aged sixty years. His white eyebrows were thick as ever. The hair atop his head was scruffy but still slicked back with gel. As I lifted my hand to run my fingers through the hair, the hand that was raised wasn’t mine. It was covered in leathery skin; the fingers were slightly curled in, and hard to move. The joints stuck. The same green eyes were there, but the skin around the eyes was crinkled. On second thought, all of the skin was crinkled. Worn. The man was the same, but aged. The man in the mirror had lived a long life. I turned my back to the mirror, but peaked over my shoulder to check my reflection. I sighed in relief when I saw the shiny Elvis Presley hair and smooth olive skin. I smoothed my hair once more, before settling on the tile floor. I slid my hands over the cool surface, taking in every detail. I looked for anything to distract me from what I had just seen in the mirror. Looking at my outstretched legs, the crisp grey material was tucked into steel-toed boots that were a size too big. I rubbed my eyes with the backs of my hands, and inhaled quickly. On my legs was a pair of worn slacks paired with leather loafers. The worn slacks were soft to the touch, like they had been worn and washed for years, and the loafers had creases made by the owner from decades of use. Who’s shoes were on my feet? I quickly ripped the foreign objects off my feet and threw them against the wall, not able to get rid of them fast enough. I did the same with the pants. The slacks that had never been on my body were soon in a crumpled mess atop the shoes. I was left in a pair of briefs, my dark green shirt, and a pair of generic black socks that came halfway up my calf. “Samuel?” I heard a voice call. “Are you okay in there?” the voice belonged to a woman. I had definitely heard the voice. It was engrained in my head, The voice of my wife. “I-I’m alright, dear.” I hollered, finally speaking after hours of silence. “Come out when you’re ready.” Her voice sounded older, more mature. Her speech was slightly garbled, harder to decipher. I slowly stood up and pulled the wooden door open, forgetting about the miscellaneous pieces of clothing on the floor rather than on my body. “Samuel, are you-your pants, Sam.” My wife finally spoke, looking up at me. I nodded slightly and went to retrieve the discarded trousers before pulling them on again. As I redid the leather belt, I took a closer look at my wife. Her hair was no longer the brown curls that reached her shoulder blades that I knew so well. Her hair was slightly thinner and grey, cropped to her shoulders. Her face had aged 40 years, creases at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Veins were more prominent on her hands, and the skin on her neck was speckled with more spots than I remember. As I went to make eye contact with my wife, her face became smoother, her hair darker, her smile wider. She looked exactly the same as when I met her, that day in the diner. I reached up and brushed her shoulder with my hand, trying to take in every single detail. Her eyes, however, had not changed. The orbs were still the grey and blue marbles that I saw the first time I met her. They were still flecked with gold in the light, and they were vibrant as ever. I slowly raised my other hand out in front of me, first with my palm up, and then I twisted it, palms down. The hands, my hands, looked elderly, crooked and worn out. I slowly turned to the mirror, and I was no longer myself. I was an old man. The worn slacks were back, and the outfit was complete with a light blue long sleeve button down. “You.. you look older.” I told my wife. “Older than when we first met.” “Of course I do,” My wife replied, acting like I was absurd. “It’s been 30 years.” “Thirty?” I said shakily. “What about the war?”  “The war ended decades ago. You fought in it.” My wife responded. She gave me a sideways look, thoroughly confused. “But I was just… I was just there. I was just in the battlefield. And then I was brought inside by a young woman.” I spoke firmly, slightly addled. “You’ve been here all day.” My wife whispered. “All…day?” I repeated. “All. Day.” “What happened … outside… earlier?” “You fainted. You started to talk to no one, and then all at once you lost it. You grabbed Daniel. By the neck.” She explained. “Just minutes ago, I was … young. And then I saw you, and I’m old?” I was thoroughly unable to grasp what was happening. “You must’ve had a flashback. The car backfiring must have set it off.” My wife said to herself. “A car? No that was a gunshot.” I reassured my wife. “No, look at me, Samuel.” My wife gripped my arm. “Sam. I took a deep breath. Memories and flashbacks shot across my vision, twisting, turning, entwining within each other, making it harder and harder to see my wife. She kept talking but I was underwater, everything muffled. The house. The boots. My uniform. My grandchildren. My boots. My daughter. My wife. My field. My hands. My family. My war. My eyes. Nothing.

#creative writing 1 #february 2015 #2015 #assignment

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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5 adjectives

This is a quick blurb I wrote for a creative writing 1 exercise, we were given 5 adjectives: 2 physical based, 3 character based, and were told to write.

I had been sitting at the bar for the past few hours. Drinks were slowly being downed, one after another. I sat on the leather barstool that i occupied every Wednesday, unmoving. I hadn't had the motivation to go to the bathroom. "another please." I said, raising his hand. "are you sure?" the bar tender asked skeptically "you've had quite a few. i don't think it's real good for your weight either." he finished as he glanced at my stomach spilling over my belt. "I know what i'm doing." i snapped, looking up at the man. "leave me alone, and get me a drink." the bartender nodded and quickly turned around, shooting a scared, sideways glance at me as he mixed another drink. He whipped around, handing me the drink while towering above me. As i slowly sipped at the beverage, i could feel the eyes on my back. they felt cautious, like they were worried i would do something unexpected and dangerous. I motioned for the bartender to turn up the volume on the TV, but he didn't see me. I motioned again, hoping he'd catch the idea and allow me to stay seated while he did the dirty work. After a few more unsuccessful attempts at grabbing his attention, i decided to take matters into my own hands. I heaved myself off of the barstool, and waddled my way over to the ancient TV. I reached for the volume button, standing on my tip toes to reach the silver button covered in dust. I barely brushed the button with my grimy fingertips before giving up and hobbling back to the barstool. I didn't really need to see the game anyway. As i made my way back to the stool, i could feel everyone's eyes on my back once more. I slowly turned around to face the rest of the musty room, furnished like an old ski lodge, and stared at the scattered eyes avoiding mine. heads shrunk mack into shadows and people lowered their gazes as i looked at each one in turn. I recognized a few faces, and they definitely recognized mine. I nodded to myself, as i was hoping for the exact reaction that i got. I sat back in my familiar leather seat, and resumed picking up my drink. I swallowed the last few drops and signaled for another. The bartender glanced at the scattered glasses around my placemat, and shook his head. I picked up the empty glass and slowly turned it upside down, signifying that it was indeed empty. The young bartender shook his head slowly and gave me an apologetic look. I slowly turned away, looking at the vintage decorations in the walls, and the neon sign lighting up the bar's window. I swiveled back to the man, facing him one more, motioning to my empty cups. I picked them up and shook them upside down in turn, not a drop of alcohol hitting the placemat. The bartender watched my display before firmly shaking his head for the last time and turning back to the other customers. I took a deep breath before choosing a small glass from the assortment atop the bar. I held it in my palm for a minute, and then threw it on the wooden floor. It shattered on the hard ground and glass flew in every direction. The sound resounded throughout the room, calling attention to myself, as if i wasn't already the object of everyone's curiosity or in some cases, fear. I let out at short frustrating breath, signifying defeat, and grabbed my tattered coat. I walked to the door, not worrying about the ever-growing tab, and left the bar. The door slammed on my heels as I brought it to a firm close behind me.

#creative writing 1 #2015 #december 2015 #assignment

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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Headlights

“What is it this time?” I sighed to myself. Looking over at the alarm clock, I internally groaned as “3:27” shone on the clock’s digital face. I dragged myself down the carpeted hall, my mind instantly jumping to the worst possible scenario. Slowly, I scanned each of the darkened rooms. My heart smashed against my ribcage as I continued through the house. The soft carpet turned to cold, hard wood under my calloused feet as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I sweep my eyes over the living room, the kitchen, and my daughter’s room. I turned the corner and shuffled down the hall, noticing a faint glow coming from my son’s room, casting a beam of light on the opposite wall as it streamed through the window. As I pull the knot on my worn bathrobe a little tighter, I came to a full stop in front of his door. I came face to face with a silhouette, illuminated the headlights of a beat up car.

I can already smell mild alcohol and nicotine as I climb out of my window and scramble down the drainage pipe lining the side of my house. My friend’s stolen car is already running, and AC/DC wafts quietly through the air. As I climb into my reserved shotgun seat of the beat up Vista Cruiser with the worn leather seats, the comforting haze of cigarette smoke envelopes me and I am ready for whatever the night holds. We scaled the rusty chain link fence that was deformed from years of abuse. An endless forest lay behind the “Do Not Enter” sign, begging to be explored. Secrets of every caliber hung in that mess of trees and wild animals as we sat on the damp dirt floor, engaged in deep conversations filled with cigarettes and laughter. I always made it back in time to narrowly escape being caught by my snooping parents, but that was part of the fun. How close could we get to being caught without being busted? How many nights would our ongoing rendezvous last before someone shut it down? It had become a game. One more act of rebellion before going back to being role model children.

The unmistakable sounds of the Runaways seeped out from the poorly closed car door car as I sprinted to the side of my house, a path created by the dirt-speckled headlights of the stolen car. I let the cigarette butt fall out the corner of my mouth and ground it into the dirt with my heel, crushing dainty purple flowers in the process. I hoisted my body up and through the window, slowly squeezing myself through the gap between my windowsill and the glass panel. I silently tumbled onto my faded shag carpet. I brushed stray leaves from my jeans and tried to air out the stench of nicotine from my long sleeve shirt as I sat on the floor, wrestling off my muddy leather boots. I pulled myself up to my full height and came face to face with my mother, the wrinkles in her forehead and fury in her eyes highlighted by the bright light provided by the Vista Cruiser.

#creative writing 1 #assignment #december 2015

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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Six Unsent Letters

This is a project I did for an English 3 class in sophomore year. After reading “Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992″ by Anne Deavere Smith, I responded to the written play in a series of letters that I wish I could send to the characters in the play or to the world.

Dear Latasha, You were too young. Just like that, your life were cut short by Soon Ja Du with to a single bullet. Du was found guilty of voluntary manslaughter, which has a maximum sentence of 16 years in prison. That’s some consolation, right? The judge gave Du probation, 400 hours of community service and a $500 dollar fine. Apparently your life is worth 16 days of community service and a couple hundred dollars. This horrific injustice did not go unnoticed. Your murder, along with Rodney King’s beating sparked outrage in Los Angeles that eventually turned into riots in 1992. You are not forgotten. I’m assuming you like Harry Potter, because you were 15 and what teenager doesn’t like Harry Potter, or at least heard of him? One of my favorite moments comes in the last book, when Harry is speaking to his parents and those who have guided him, and given their lives for him. “‘Dying? Not at all,’ said Sirius. ‘Quicker and easier than falling asleep’ ”. I hope this is how it was for you. I know that your family tries to take comfort in the fact that you did not suffer, nor did you have a single moment to feel the pain caused by that woman. No one has forgotten you, even now. Even after all these years, you are still as relevant as ever. On the 25th anniversary of your death, your family and community gathered where you died. They held candles and exchanged memories of your life cut short. The late rapper 2Pac referenced you in his posthumous 2002 hit, “Thugz Mansion”. Shakur raps, “Little LaTasha sho' grown/Tell the lady in the liquor store that she's forgiven, so come home”. The song talks about how he would rest in peace and find happiness when he is in a place where all the troubles and pains of his life come to an end. 2Pac also dropped names of African American icons, including Marvin Gaye, Billie Holiday, Sam Cooke, and Malcolm X. You are referenced among those who made an impact on the world and the African American community, because you’ve done exactly that. You have not been forgotten, and you have pushed your people to begin the contemporary fight for equality and justice in the eyes of the government. Latasha, you have done more for your people than you will ever know, and I hope that you, wherever you are, can realize that. You have not, and will never be forgotten.

Rest In Paradise Latasha. Sincerely,

Perry Mayo

Dear Mr. King, You are a legend. After your infamous beating from the LAPD, you became the face of your people. They fought, and are still fighting, in your name among others for justice. Your excessive beating stemmed from a high speed chase that ended with you on the ground. Although only two of the four attacking police officers were indicted for your attack, it lit the fuse on a deadly civil bomb. On May 1, 1992, you came forward with a plea for peace. You requested, "People, I just want to say, can we all get along? Can we get along? Can we stop making it horrible for the older people and the kids?" You are exactly correct. There’s nothing standing in the way of justice except insane bigotry, groundbreaking excuses, and white privilege that goes back for generations. You were not the first to experience unfair treatment from those who believe themselves to be better than you, and you won’t be the last. There were the jews, the Hispanics, the African Americans, and people of color in general. Now, a new group that just has to be oppressed, the LGBTQ+ community, with a special bright red target on those who identify as transgender. Your bravery and resilience empowered those who were too afraid to stand up to their oppressors, and has inspired the silent to voice their opinions. You know what I find almost laughable? The blatant double standard for blacks versus the whites. You’ve experienced this first hand, and you won’t be the last person to do so. You were caught in a high speed chase, and then beat within minutes of death, while in 2012, Dylann Roof was captured by the police after killing nine African Americans in a church in Charleston, North Carolina. You were nearly killed for driving 110 miles per hour, while Roof was taken into custody and given a bulletproof vest during transportation. Why protect the life of a homicidal maniac, while endangering that of a speedy driver? Thank you for your fighting spirit. I’m glad that your people have such a strong sense of unity and fight, because your uphill battle for justice is long from over. History will inevitably repeat itself, but I know that you are ready for the fight, and you will overcome whatever obstacles are thrown in your path. I can only hope that you are proud of yourself for sparking this revolution, and that you realize how many doors you opened for your people. Rest in peace, Rodney.

Sincerely, Perry Mayo

Dear Miss Rae, or Queen Malkah, Author Ralph Ellison wrote that as an African American “I am invisible... simply because people refuse to see me...When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed everything and anything except me.” You can relate and absolutely agree, I’m sure. After the murder of Latasha Harlins, you spoke out about the unity of the African Americans, and your opinion on Charles Lloyd, a wellknown black attorney, and how he represented and defended Soon Ja Du, who had killed one of his fellow African Americans. You’re right. He sold his card. He’s a sellout, trading in the pride of his ethnicity and the history for a fat paycheck. He doesn’t deserve to stand by you, if you thought for one second that he was a loss, you are sorely mistaken. He is as useless as a bicycle to a fish in my eyes. It’s people like you who will keep the fight alive, and keep spirits high. You value unity and standing together, especially in times of oppression and opposition. You recognize the disparity of justice between the African Americans, or people of color for that matter, and the white community. Not only do you recognize it, you speak out against it, something many would not do in the 1990s. You see beyond the fake promises of the Pledge of Allegiance for God’s sake. Liberty and justice for all, as long as you’re white, cisgendered, and heterosexual. What a great country we live in. You told Anna Deavere Smith, “ifthewhitemediadoesnotdecidetoprintsomethingthathappenstous,wewon’tknow/ ... Because justice denied Latasha Harlins/Is justice denied every American citizen.” Once again, your majesty, you’ve hit the nail right on it’s pretty little head. Skin tone doesn’t determine what someone deserves, in any circumstance. As soon as people see things from your point of view, the world will be infinitely better. You’d be proud, I think. With all of the movements that have sprung from your injustice, from chanting “Hands up, don’t shoot”, to staging “dieins” based on the times that the victims cried for help or lay slain on the sidewalk, I’d imagine that you’re pretty proud. You’ve always been aware of the fact that based on the amount of melanin in your skin, you will have higher, harsher, and millions more hurdles than any of us out here, any of us trying to get by. But you, my dear, have navigated those roadblocks with ease and the grace of a golden pheasant. Your people need someone like you.

Here are my instructions for you, Queen Malkah: When times get tough, and big, bad history rears it’s head and tries to trample you and your spirits, you be there to lead your people. You hold your head high, raise your sword to the sky, unleash a battle cry more chilling than death itself, and run. Sprint headfirst into injustice, slashing anything in your way and reduce it to a dust. You charge, and you fight, and fight, and fight until you can’t fight anymore. Even then, you push through, until you’ve made it to the other side with your people close behind. Once you are in the beautiful forest clearing with your warriors surrounding you, only then, can you relax and celebrate your victory as equals of those who have pushed you down. But until then, rally your troops, and continue your battle for equality. We’ll be behind you, waiting for your cues. Thank you, your highness, I applaud you for your bravery.

Sincerely, Perry Mayo, a willing warrior at your service.

Mr. Zimmerman, I will not start this letter with “dear”, because that word implies adoration. You murdered an innocent man. It doesn’t matter if Trayvon Martin seemed “suspicious”. You were told, by the authorities, to star in your SUV and to not approach the teenager. Even if it was self defense, you went against the orders of police and instigated a fight with Trayvon, which ended with the teenager dead in the street. That’s not the worst part, I believe. In my eyes, the most sadistic part of the situation came after you murdered a 17yearold boy. You put the gun used to kill Trayvon online, and tried to auction it off. Bidding in an online auction for the gun reached $65 million at one point as people on the Internet drove the offers to astronomic levels. Many of those were sarcastic, George, I can assure you that. A top bidder whose account has been since deleted, at one point used the name “Racist McShootface”. Another bidder competed for the weapon under the name Tamir Rice, another victim of police brutality. Tamir was killed by police while carrying a toy gun. He was 12. I just want to make it known that people are against you. I also hope that you know that by murdering Trayvon, you added about a thousand gallons of fuel to the fire that is propelling the black community. So, in a dark, twisted sense of the phrase, thank you, George. Thank you for showing adults that they can’t trust the police or neighborhood watch to keep their community safe or their children alive. Thank you for teaching teenagers that they should stay clear of the police instead of going to them for help. Thank you for teaching kids that the police are more dangerous than criminals themselves, and that you won’t protect them, you’ll kill them. Thank you for giving the next generation and the generations to come a precautionary tale about what happens when white privilege is added to racism, and multiplied by an accessible deadly weapon. So thank you, again really, thank you George, for opening our eyes to more horrors, and teaching us that monsters aren’t just in closets or under beds, on wanted posters or in jail. They’re on our streets, wearing government uniforms, and are trusted with the responsibility protecting the community. Thank you, George Zimmerman, for pushing the black community to fight that much harder for themselves, against people like you.

Sincerely, Perry Mayo

Dear Mr. Garner, You did not die in vain. After being choked to death for selling loose cigarettes, you became one of the faces that headed the “Black Lives Matter” movement. Your plea for help. “I can’t breathe!”, is being used as a battle cry for those fighting for justice. It’s not just in your city, or just those who know you. For two days in a row, a group of white collar professionals staged “dieins” in support of calls for increased police accountability following the deaths of unarmed black men. Also, dozens African American men gathered on the front steps of the courthouse in downtown L.A. and held a silent vigil for those who have died in police confrontations. At about the same time in Oakland, protesters chained themselves to the city Police Department's headquarters. You helped fuel a movement that is sweeping this nation. Don’t you ever doubt for a second that you died for nothing. Something I find sick is that media has tried to humanize your killer. Daniel Pantaleo, the NYPD officer who choked you, has received so many death threats that a police detail guards his Staten Island home around the clock. People want to avenge you. The media has tried to cover up the crime of Pantaleo, by telling us about his childhood, his achievements, his innocence. They tell us about his teachers glowing comments, and that he received awards as an honorable Eagle Scout. We see past that. We know that the media is whitewashing your death, and making it seem like you asked for it. They say, “well, he was a threat who needed to be subdued”. It’s all bullshit. We know, and we are fighting for others to join us. Your untimely death has helped millions realize the type of false reality that we live in, and you’ve opened people’s eyes to the fact that the police aren’t always the good guys, and that black men aren’t always the bad guys. You’ve given people another reason to fight, and one more name to drop when the topic of injustice is breached. With three words, you’ve dumped gallons of butane on the roaring wildfire of black rage, and for good reason. “I can’t breathe”, and the entire black community is suffocating. You’ve given everyone, black or not, stranger or family member, one more thing to fight for. You should be proud of yourself, even if it doesn’t feel that way. Just know that you’ve done well by yourself and your community. I hope that you can finally breathe. Rest In Paradise, Eric.

Sincerely, Perry Mayo

Dear World That I Live In, These past two years, I’ve had my eyes opened to the world around me, and the world within myself. I have not yet fully come to consciousness, for that takes hundreds of years. I personally believe that no one has ever completely come to consciousness. What even is consciousness in the first place? Who am I to determine when or how one has their eyes opened to everything and anything, to the core of what holds our thoughts together, and what keeps us from literally going insane? I’ll tell you what consciousness is. Consciousness is everything and nothing. It is the balance between finding codependence and self love. It is realizing why we’re here and what we’re doing, while also not questioning why or how or what, and just being. You don’t need answers.

Consciousness is. How do we come to consciousness? How does one begin to become aware, while remaining in their personal matrix? We don’t. Here’s the only thing that we can do. Fall back into your beingness, let it catch you, and you are at home. There is nothing to do, nothing to change, nothing to fix. Just be. History repeats itself. The same ideas circle around every hundred years, and every hundred years, those same ideas drag the human race to the lowest of low,, to the depths of rock bottom. We sit, and wallow, and fight, until finally, one or two sensible people realize what humans have done to each other, and they pull us back up to a point where we can once again be proud of ourselves. When any given group oppresses another, the oppressed will soon enough turn around and take down another group. The vicious cycle has killed billions and will continue to kill until the world is reduced to a devastatingly singular and lonely person who has no one left, for everyone else was killed by the cyclical hate. One will remain, after the rest of the world has committed global suicide.

You, my dear, are sailing on the widespread and glistening wings of pure imagination if you think, for a single second, that the human race can go forth without destroying itself through a made up hierarchy based on one’s skin tone or who they fall in love with, how much they earn or what lies between their legs.

Here’s my two cents, coming from a teenager who’s seen more than they need to see to make a decision. I call my theory “The Fiji Complex”. I’ve been to Fiji twice, and I came to one

of the biggest realizations of my life during my second trip. I experienced an epiphany, if you will. I realized that the community had a completely different outlook on life, one that seems foreign and possibly laughable to anyone else. The way that Fiji operates is simple, with every citizen living their lives almost identically to their neighbors, whether they realized it or not. They put others before themselves. This is how I see it. Whoever it is, their needs, preferences, assurances or fears come before yours. When you are with someone else, they are top of mind.

Now, it may seem stupid and unrealistic, but it’s not. By putting someone before yourself, you don’t have to ignore your needs, you don’t have to sacrifice yourself for them to live. It’s not, and will never be, a winlose situation. It’s a mindset. The way that they operate on the islands resonates with me, because it’s one of the most simple theories I’ve ever come across. When you help someone, they’ll turn around and help you. That’s what it comes down to. If you go out of your way to make someone comfortable, sooner than later, they’ll return the favor when you’re in need. If you put ten people before yourself, when the time comes, and you need help, there are ten people on hand who will be at your side at the drop of a hat, simply because you were there for them however long ago. It’s stupidly simple. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. In Fiji, there was no moral hierarchy. People were classified by clan and bloodline, income and gender, but inside, everyone was the same. No one was better or worse, morally or in terms of their mindset. They all had the same core value: the comfort of others. Whoever you are, foreigner, local, man, woman, child, gay, straight, whatever. If you are there, they will make you comfortable, and you will inevitably return the favor.

Now, you may not think, “because they helped me, I have to help them”. As a matter of fact, that thought won’t ever cross your mind. Something from inside will spark, and you will want to help. You’ll long for the feeling of being able to help someone, purely because you want to and you know it’s the right thing to do. With their comfort, yours will come. If you touch 100 people, just by doing small things like opening a door for them, giving up your seat, or even greeting them and acknowledging their existence, you have made 100 allies. You will have 100 people who will stand behind you and push you forward, and 100 people who will be ready to catch you if you fall, and help you back to the place you were at before you fell. Now, imagine if you did this with every person you met, every person you’ve interacted with. When the time

comes, you will have an army bigger than the Romans, stronger than the Spartans, all fighting for you. We need to remember who we really are. There is one earth but a million worlds, and no world is more important than another.

Behind race, income, orientation, gender, we are all humans. We all live together, and we’re all going to end up six feet under sooner or later. There’s not a single reason as to why you wouldn’t help someone. Social norms be damned. I can assure you, with 100% confidence, that helping that man on the street carry his bag is a million times more important than making your subway ride. I can say, without a doubt in my mind, that stepping in front of a child harassing another kid is a billion times more noble and touching than donating a fat check to a charity. The Fiji Complex takes everyone’s fears and social biases, innate or taught discriminations, and throws them out the window. Nothing is more important than a human life, and the value of the person, no matter who they are. A “lowly” beggar is worth just as much as a king adorned in jewels. Both have a heartbeat, a brain, and a conscious. Those are all the similarities you need to treat someone well and with respect.

Once people realize this, everything will be fine. Once people decide that your neighbor is more important than yourself, even just for a second, the world will be one step closer to living in peace, without fear of obliterating the human race. Police will be heroes again, black people will just be people, wars will be a thing of the past. Now, I can’t say how long this will take. Thousands of years. Maybe millions. We may even kill ourselves with pollution before this idea fully circulates the globe, but as long as people begin to realize what they’re doing, progress will be made. As long as two people have their eyes opened to reality, and what we can do as a human race to turn it around, I will feel satisfied. As long as one kid becomes aware of himself and those around him, I’ve done my job. But, until then, we won’t stop fighting. Queen Malkah, myself, and any other person who sees how pure this world can become will continue to preach and spread our message until the day we die. I hope that this idea of a united world isn’t just a dream.

For the last time, Sincerely,

Perry Mayo

#2016 #march 2016 #assignment #english 2

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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Escaping Pages

A found poem I wrote for English class sophomore year. The poem draws lines and phrases from “The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” by Junot Diaz.

You can never run away ever. The only way out is in.

He arrived in Baní with a stack of notebooks and a plan to fill them all To him they were the beginning and end

Curlyhaired, big bodied girls who wouldn’t say boo to a loser like him. You won’t be the first

you’d be the best Alpha and Omega, the DC and the Marvel. he was beginning to scribble Penthouse and self pity In his composition books, on the backs of his hands The fat! The miles of stretch marks! In his dreams he was saving them from aliens almost 300 pages. returning rich and famous. The tumescent horribleness of his proportions Twenty seven days. Wrote on each and every one of them

Now, he’ll probably write a book about you.

#poetry #february 2016 #assignment #english 2

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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That Backwards Hat

This is a small personal essay I wrote about one of my most profound moments in my life. I was only 16 when this happened, and it changed my life. It changed how I viewed the world, others, myself, and it’s the moment I truly realized the impact one can have on someone else.

It had been a long week. A week filled with tears, scrapes and bruises, and far too many reprimanding talks for the amount of girls in the cabin. For two years now, I’ve worked at a week-long, sleep-away summer camp as a counselor. Each session is the most grueling, emotional, hard-hitting, amazing experience of my life. Each week that I spend in those conjoined cabins, two weeks in the summer and one long weekend in the winter, my life is changed. This past summer, however, I realized something that I never thought I would experience, especially not at the ripe, young age of 16.

Every morning at camp, we have to wake up around 7:30 to make it down to breakfast in time. As a teenager, I can barely drag myself out of bed in a timely fashion, forget rallying eight pre-pubescent girls changing their outfits three times before deciding on the first outfit they tried on, fighting over who gets to hold who’s hand on the walk, all while collecting the daily necessities: sunscreen, band aids, spare jackets and the occasional security stuffed animal. The simple quarter mile hike down to the dining hall can be easily mistaken as a three day trek. Keeping track of kids trying to run ahead, pulling girls off of slippery rocks even though they “need to show you their newest gymnastic trick”, chasing down whichever giggling child grabbed my hat and snatching it back before they put on their own head. By the time we actually settle in for breakfast, every counselor is exhausted, and the kids are completely energized. On this one particular morning, no one was in a good mood. Halfway through the week, everything deflates. Patience gets shorter, the tension between co-counselors is more obvious than a chin zit the night before an actor’s debut performance. The entire cabin, the eight girls, my three co-counselors, and I, had been through enough. We woke up late, scrambling out of bed not long after the alarm had gone off. Everything that went wrong, could have. We couldn’t find a favorite jacket, someone had a tummy ache, another refused to put on her pants, the toothpaste was all gone, smeared across the sink counter rather than the toothbrushes it was intended for. The counselors decided to split the group in half, with the six already dressed girls getting a head start down to breakfast, while the remaining two girls and I stayed back until the campers deemed themselves “presentable for Benny in the B7 cabin”. The three of us finally made it out of the door, and began down the hill to the road leading to the dining hall. Up ahead, we could see the rest of our cabin as they met up with another group of girls also heading to breakfast. The camper on my left, Sarah, took off before my hoarse voice could instruct otherwise, barely making it down the hill without face planting before she caught up with her friends. Then it was down to two. The remaining camper, Jenny, held tight to me as she rambled on about her favorite foods and how she hoped breakfast would be pancakes. I selfishly tuned out her voice as I ran through the days schedule silently while trying to locate a desperately needed stray can of RedBull from the depths of my backpack.

Suddenly, I was jerked back by my hand as Jenny stopped in her tracks, gasping. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “We need to meet up with the rest of your friends.” “We can’t!” She protested. “Why not?” A little agitated, I lightly tugged her arm, but she stayed firm. “I forgot something in the cabin. We need to get it.” The fuse to my mental bomb shortened with every word. I could feel my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands, and to this day I’m surprised I didn’t draw blood. “Go get it!” Through clenched teeth, I used my patient, overenthusiastic voice as Jenny skipped back up the hill, clearly not detecting my irritation. I impatiently popped the tab on my lukewarm blue and silver can as Jenny came back down the hill, her smile ever present while mine had long gone. She skidded to a stop and beamed up at me, showing off her toothy smile that was missing a couple of teeth. A blindingly bright, neon pink trucker hat sat atop her head.

“I got my hat. Now we can go.” Jenny stated, matter-of-factly. We ambled down the hill, taking our time. I knew it was past the point of making it to breakfast on time, and decided to ease up on myself before I short-circuited due to stress. We stayed silent for a while, Jenny and I. She seemed content with humming to herself, and I welcomed the moment of peace before I had to deal with the rest of the seven preteens who had left us behind. “You know how I went and got my hat?” Jenny asked. I nodded. “I decided to start wearing hats now.” I nodded again. “You wanna know why?” “Why?” I responded, deciding to indulge my camper. “Because you wear hats.” She stated simply. “You wear a hat now, because I wear a hat?” I confirmed. “Yep. We can be twins.” She smiled. I squeezed her hand in agreement. We walked quietly for a few hundred yards before Jenny spoke up again, this time more timid than before.

“I wear my hat, because you wear a hat. And because I want to be like you.” I stopped in my tracks for just a beat before continuing, not wanting to let her know that her confession had struck me. At first, I was confused about why she wanted to be like me, why she chose to wear her hat the way I wore mine. Sun protection? I wear a hat for no other reason than I like the feel of it pressed against my forehead. Some people have a favorite necklace or a lucky pair of shoes, I wear my hat.

We made it down to breakfast, and that morning I ate quietly. Jenny’s declaration played in my head as I filled my stomach with hard boiled eggs and another classic RedBull. Right as the breakfast bell sounded, I realized what Jenny had really said. She looked up to me. I realized that by trying to dress how I dress, she tried to emulate me. When people look up to a someone, they wear the brands that the person wears or endorses, listen to the music the person listens to. Jenny saw something in me, something that she wanted to be.

Before that day, I had no idea the impact that I had on people. Parents had told me that “I was a unique kid” or that “I had something special” but I think that’s because parents have to say that to prove that they can be civil to children other than their own. I didn’t realize that I was someone worth following, worth looking up to.

For the rest of the week, I started to notice little things that Jenny would do to match me. If I crossed my arms, hers somehow twisted themselves into the exact same position seconds later. The colors I used on my lanyard somehow ended up in hers in the exact same order. Never before had I realized how, by just being themselves, one person could touch someone else. I was unaware of how by just being the one person who encourages a kid to take a chance they were scared to take, by applauding them for the small, trivial victories, one could give that child the support that they may not have ever had before. I have so many role models that I look up to. Soccer stars, celebrities, my ninth grade english teacher. I never thought that I would be in that position of wonder for someone else. I never thought someone would want to wear their hat the way I did, because I did. In one week, I influenced the life of a girl who needed someone to look up to, and that nine-year-old girl opened my eyes to the impact that one can have on anything by just being supportive and open-minded, by being themselves.

#personal article #article #january 2017 #camp

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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In Between Seasonal Television Programs, Actors Take Side Job Playing Professional Soccer

This is an article I wrote for a creative writing 2 assignment. We were told to choose an issue and write a satirical article (like The Onion) and express our opinions within it, sarcastically.

Soccer’s popularity has undoubtedly skyrocketed in North America since the United States hosted the World Cup in 1994. The men’s national team has gone on to introduce some of the biggest names to the game including Landon Donovan and Clint Dempsey. Recently, men’s soccer has come under fire as critics and fans accuse players of faking injuries on the pitch to add more time to the clock. A little known fact, however, has been hidden from the public: men playing for the national team are not only professional athletes, they are also telenovela actors on Spanish daytime television.

Following the 2015 Women’s World Cup, the U.S. Soccer Federation has been pushed to equalize the men’s and women’s salaries. Five female players– including America’s sweetheart Alex Morgan and controversial goalkeeper Hope Solo– filed a wage discrimination complaint against the U.S. Soccer Federation in May of 2016, and the issue is still in question.

For making the World Cup roster, each male player receives $76,000 while each female player receives $15,000. For an exhibition game, the men are paid a minimum of $5,000 regardless of the game’s outcome, with a $8,000 bonus for a win. The women, on the other hand, are paid $3,600 per game, with a $1,350 bonus in the off chance that they secure a win.

The part-time-actor-part-time-athletes’ salaries appear exponentially larger than the women’ salaries because the men are being paid for two jobs, rather than one. Being an actor and an athlete requires emotional as well as physical exhaustion on a daily basis, hence the heightened monetary compensation.

The doubled salary includes payment for field time, the outcome of the game, and the player’s dramatic performance. In order to receive full compensation, the men must convincingly portray an athlete with the glamorous touch of being an actor. Most of the “players” are small-time actors to reduce the risk of recognition while traveling with the team. Actors play soccer during the hiatuses of their telenovelas, joining the national or a team in the club league, the MLS (Major League Soccer). They train with the team, and play games when their filming schedule allows time.

“The men auditioning the team attend a live audition and a screen test with already-cast members of the team,” former National Team coach Bob Bradley once revealed in an interview. “They are judged in areas such pain authenticity, how quickly they can cry on command, and their ability to understand stage fighting and camera blocking.” With acting, vocal, and athletic coaches on hand, the actors are intensely trained to reach their highest potential in required skills.

The “players” must meet certain requirements in order to join the “team”: they must have one of five approved haircuts, participated in a junior high-level team sport, and at minimum, a high school level theater background. The U.S.S.F.-approved haircuts include a man bun, an undercut, and the “Caesar” cut. The team also aims to keep a somewhat balanced race ratio, highlighting diversity and representation.

On and off the field, the men face challenges that other athletes could never dream of facing. The actors, on top of memorizing plays and dialogue, are expected to be able to improvise lines and bring spontaneity to each performance. Sometimes, actors from opposing teams sometimes meet up to run lines and rehearse certain plays to maximise authenticity during their games.

In 2010, MLS team Salt Lake Real won big at the 64th Annual Tony Awards. Head coach Jason Kreis took home the award for “Best Direction of a Play”, while the whole team scored the lesser known “Best Special Theatrical Event” for their league championship match. The two award announcements and acceptance speeches were cut from the show due to the television network’s programming schedule, hence the lack of awareness and recognition from the public eye. In a run down of a daily practice, an anonymous actor dishes on the activities that fill their four hour training sessions. “First, we do a vocal warm up and then right into improv games. We barely get breaks because our director–Coach, sorry,” he laughs, “says that we need to build stamina. Finally, we spend the rest of the time camera blocking, making sure the plays flow nicely.”

News of players’ dual careers rattled their fan base, leaving supporters confused and second guessing their loyalty to the team. Recently, some men’s soccer enthusiasts have come forward with their opinions. “I have noticed that the men always seem more dramatic than the women,” an anonymous fan states. “The men take every opportunity to flop on the floor, while the women actually play. Although, I must say, the men are very entertaining to watch during the games. It’s always good to have some comic relief.”

Supporters had speculations as to why the players preferred to get hurt than to play the game, and a few very dedicated fans even noticed the similarities between players and the telenovela casts. “My abuela [grandmother] watches these absurd shows in spanish when she’s home alone,” a young supporter told a reporter early last week. “When I stay with her, I watch television with her in between soccer games. I noticed that some of the players looked similar to the guys in my grandma’s shows, but I never made the connection.”

The men’s games appeal to those who long for the entertaining game that has since been lost under the tactics and smart play demonstrated by the women. Since soccer has become a prominent sport in the United States, the men have taken it upon themselves to provide entertainment to the public, not just a simple sporting event. “If you want to see a fun game, if you want to see tears, come see us!” Boasts the men’s followers. “ We’re just here to have fun, winning isn’t always the goal. If you want to see girls pass the ball and score boring goals for an hour and a half, go watch the women.”

#creative writing 2 #january 2017 #article #satire

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mayoperry-blog · 7 years

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At 16, I’m Practically the Newest Kardashian.

Another article that I wrote. Ever since I was young, I dealt with medical issued that lead to appearance and self confidence issues. A decade later, I was able to look back and reflect on what I thought was the worst thing in my life.

Rascal Flatts calmly croons through my phone speakers as I lounge on the couch with a bag of frozen peas sitting on my face. Three days ago, I had a procedure on both eyes to raise the lids and turn the eyelashes upwards, giving my eyes the illusion of being open and symmetrically aligned. On April 1st of this year, I opted to have my left eye surgically centered, so that my pupils point forwards and my left eye doesn't turn in.

As a child, I had more medical issues than you could count on both hands, feet, and ears. Being too young to participate, my parents made the decision to focus on my breathing and vision issues before the cosmetic issues. Until I was in middle school, everything was always up in the air. My airway was, and still is, a jigsaw puzzle for every doctor we've seen. Throw in a dozen ocular problems, and I'm a medical Rubik's cube. When I was 13, my parents sat me down, and told me what I thought was the best news of my life. "For now, no more procedures. The next time that you have a surgery, it will be on your terms, totally your decision." To me, that read as "no more surgeries. Woohoo!"

Fast forward two more years, and I wasn't so sure. Freshman year of high school, and everything changes. Middle school is awkward, and almost everyone has either braces or glasses. Lucky me, I had both. Everyone knows that middle school is a bumbling mess of acne and bad decisions, and it's okay to screw up once, twice, or 30 times in those three years of school. High school, though, that's when everything should be in your favor, right? All the boys lengthened out, and some even became “cute,” according to my straight and boy-crazy friends. The girls grew and became bustier, makeup and Lululemon leggings became essential. Personally, I wasn't so sure about my transition. Still riddled with glasses and a full mouth of braces, I accepted those.

Something I couldn't get over was my eyes. No matter how much I grew, or how much I changed my style or my interests, my eye still turned in, drooped, and became a magnet for wandering eyes and curious questions. Whenever a little kid was around, I dreaded hearing the question that I know is inevitable: "Why's your eye like that?" Or for the bolder children, there's the statement: "your eye is funny." I respond the same way every time, "I was born like that." I give them the answer that their mother would give them. The answer that they get in order to avoid telling their kids the truth, "I don't know honey. I'm wondering the same exact thing, only I have a social filter.”

I spent years feeling different, and not knowing why or how I could change that. I have a whole different set of problems compared to a normal teenager girl when it comes to body image. In eighth grade, we had to submit baby photos for the yearbook for a special segment about "how much we've grown" or some shit like that. Going through photos with my mother, I was hoping for one thing- a normal photo. We sifted through maybe hundreds of images, from being a newborn until preschool. In each photo, front and center, stands my droopy and swollen eyelids, like I was in a messy bar fight that went too far. I finally decided on one that seemed normal enough, after many hours of deliberation and considering submitting a baby picture of my younger sister to avoid all of the questions. Looking through the yearbook with friends months later, I sat awkwardly as they all cooed over each other's photos. "Look how cute he was!...aw, baby!...So small!...Perry, this is...cute? ...Oh my gosh, the next one is adorable!" Giving a tight-lipped smile, I quickly turned the page to get as far away from my photo as possible.

In the modern world, image is everything. Instagram, Tumblr, magazines and film all push images of what people “should be” or what the ideal American human should “look like.” On one hand, as a female-identifying person, you’re supposed to be this hyper-contradictory perfect image: small waist, petite body, flat stomach, long hair, et cetera. Yet changing yourself to fit into those molds is simultaneously frowned upon. It’s the double edged sword of the modern day. Be skinny, but naturally, because dieting for a body is desperate. Have the perfect face, but don’t use too much makeup or plastic surgery, because that is fake. Be yourself and be an individual, but be an acceptable individual. There’s only so much wiggle room in this iron cast mold of beauty. People break themselves, bruise themselves, kill themselves trying to squeeze into the unattainable template.

I know that plastic surgery is a taboo, and yet a sign of elitism and the finishing touch on the “perfect Los Angeles Woman.” Kim Kardashian’s plastic surgery has brought her millions of fans, tens of millions of haters, but nonetheless, more social media follows and publicity than virtually any other contemporary celebrity. I’ve realized that plastic surgery is something that no one wants to have, but something that everyone secretly wants to say they have. For me, it was never a sign of wealth, or something that I did to turn heads. It was, and will remain as, something that I had to do for myself. When I first heard that celebrities get fake breasts or new noses because they wanted to, I would think what everyone else generally thinks- “Just because there’s the technology to change your face 40 different ways, doesn’t mean you should”. Us normal folk have to deal with the faces and bodies we were dealt, right? I’ve come to realize that it’s not about the money, and it’s not about status. It’s all for me. I did it because I want to feel and know that I look how I want to look. I could not care less if you think it looks nice, or if you think it’s “morally acceptable” to willingly put silicone in my face, because it is not your face. It doesn’t affect you in any way what I do with my body.

This year, I gained a whole new perspective on the world, and on Hollywood beauty culture (more like a cult) through my own experiences. Maybe not a respect for the celebrities that I used to judge for being “fake” or “plastic,” but rather, an understanding. I can now clearly see why they get breast augmentations, or facial reconstructions, and I feel for them. So, with that in mind and my experiences to back my decisions, I am ready. Someone call Kris Jenner and tell her to adopt me, because I’ve had enough plastic surgery to qualify as the newest Kardashian sister. That’s how this works, right?

#article #personal article #2016 #april 2016

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