Amber Kipp

I’ve always hated the bus stops.
The early day, I rush to get ready,
feeling the deadline hanging over head.

there are a few peppered instances in my life that can only be a hint that I will, later in life, be a very bad influence, or at least a very bad person in general.

Anyone knows that you cannot be the best at something, but I was hellbent on proving that wrong.

As I assume, you’ve begun to notice that I house quite a bit of wrath, or hatred, toward most of the people I’ve come across in my life.

I was born and implanted with a very prominent case of Narcissism. I may have been an ugly and over weight child, but where my looks lacked I could always make up for it in talent.

I do not enjoy the idea of cherishing one person for a long time. I want to have whatever I can get, and I want it quickly.

Anytime I went into a convenience store or gas station I’d pay for that soda. But I wouldn’t pay for the pack of skittles tucked away in my pocket.

That was the day I started my trend of taking the wrong lessons from situations where I should learn from other people’s mistakes.

Forget D.A.R.E. Forget the anti-drug associations of the states. Say yes. Say Please. You won’t regret it. I know I didn’t.

Patiently, carefully, it wasn’t easy to pick the right target for his sort of thing. If he chose wrong, he’d look like a fool. If he chose right, he’d be hero for a day in his own eyes.

Remember what you did an hour ago? Two days ago? A week ago? Consider yourself lucky.

"Really?" a melodic voice was released into the air as the woman traced a red shape with the tip of her cigarette. The blue-eyed male gave her a simple nod in reply.

"No," his dark eyebrows …

The thick sans-serif letters seemed to tower over the room, casting a slight shadow as if in an attempt to darken what spirits had remained high back when this facility was built.

It seemed as if his bone structure was eating away at itself. Slowly crushing together till it became nothing.

He hadn’t called home in six months.

The circles of cheap white plastic rolled till the images blurred, bony fingers still holding down the raven colored handle.

“Take me back!” she’d say her voice hoarse from the shouting prior; and I would. I always did.

I haven’t slept in four months.