Mood Ring
She asked if the ring was hers. The ring on my right index finger. I liked it. The way it changed colors. The way it looked on my finger. The way it was so shiny. I looked her in the eyes and lied. I had told her I bought it at the dollar store. She claimed to have lost it during class and dropped it on the floor. Her friend had given it to her as a gift. I still looked at her and stated the ring was mine. I saw the disappointment in her face. I heard the way she reacted by saying only one word, "Oh." I felt this sudden guilt rise. I tried thinking about something else, but my conscious wouldn't let me. I felt the wrong I had done. I not only let her down, but myself too. I still have that ring. It's on my right index finger. I look at it, and the same feeling of guilt rushes through my system even after awhile ago.

My father's hair is like a rock, hard from all that hairspray he puts on everyday before he goes to work. My mother's hair is an ocean, with waves of hair that seem endlessly long. My sister's hair is like angel hair pasta, thin, as if I can slip my fingers like a fork right through her hair. The hair I choose to show to the world is as straight as paper, because I hate my natural hair. My natural hair, my natural hair, is like a wild beast with curls out of control. I hide my natural hair by using chemicals, chemicals, and chemicals. Why? Because I hate how it looks on me. For some reason I feel much more confident when my hair is straightened, maybe because I get complimented more. I know they say I should love me for myself, but how I have my hair is how I present myself to the world. It defines who I am.

Saturday Mornings
I remember clearly the year of 1999. Kindergarden, I was obsessed with Pokemon. I would wake up on saturday mornings eager to watch it at about 7 am. I watched the show before even touching my breakfast because it was just that important to me. I'd still be in my favorite barbie pajamas with my eyes stuck...