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Life. What is life? A series of tortures? A game, as some treat it? To me, as a girl still in school, it's smiling at what some idiot boy decides to do. Sometimes smirking at the girl who put on a little too much makeup on. Finding it difficult to beleive that here could actually be sluts at this age. But more than anything, as my chipper, loving, and impossible to hate friend has, 42mermaid, often stated, life is worthwhile because of friends. Personally, I would like to revise that as to mean family. My friends are family. They make up a very large chunk of it. Of course, I have over 50 blood family members that I currently know of, so that tells you something.
I find it difficult to beleive that school is most of my life. Computer-time, although only allowed on weekends or holidays by my annoying, yet well meaning, parents, makes up a whole heck of a lot of it. In computer-time, I do most of my writing, like as such I display here. This writing includes roleplaying, doing of which you will find me on Runescape (in-game or in the forums) here, on google-groups, and yes, even my own little website, bushytailsdomain.webs.com. One thing in commen with all my usernames: Rose. It's my favorite flower, along with the poppie, but poppie just doesn't flow as well across the tounge. In fact, my brother used to joke about how similar it sounds to poopie, of which he stopped when he read my favorite poem of all time, In Flanders Feild. If you are curious as to what it is, and wish to read it, I display it now, below.
In Flanders Field
In Flanders Fields In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders Fields.
- Poem by John McCrae, writing by Rose Bushytail
LittleMissMurdered · Thu Mar 18, 2010 @ 05:22am · 0 Comments |
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