Alone on Cloud 9 (13)

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So inspiration finally struck in the form of my dream car, the beautiful 2010 Camero, which everyone seems to have since I've seen at least one driving past for the last three days, though my love lies in the synergy green version.

PS. Just so I don't confuse anyone later, the legal drinking age in Alberta is 18. 

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Cheers,

xo.

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"With everything so perfect, reality seemed somehow fragile, as if the slightest interruption could imperil her pretty future... all of it felt as tenuous as a soap bubble, shivering and empty."

-Pretties

Chapter 13                  Grade 10

April 21

 


There's something I find so calming about a new book, more specifically, the new book smell.

I just have to hold it up to my face and let the pages flip through my hands for that fresh, hot-off-the-press aroma, and suddenly nothing seems so bad. For weeks after I'd be too afraid to let so much as a scratch mar the surface. No bent corners, no fraying edges, pages perfectly flat against each other, and a completely straight spine. I'd treat that new book like some kind of antique, like if I handled it too roughly it would fall apart in my hands.

I'd wince at the first inevitable crease down the spine; mourn the first watery brown drop of a coffee stain on the pristine surface. And the rule was no hardcover books ever, I hated those dust jackets and how easily and quickly they got torn and bent out of shape, destroying the whole beauty of the cover page until you were forced to take it off and be left with a bland solid casing.

Books weren't just something to be read and tossed aside; they made up a work of art on a bookshelf, a window into the life of a stranger, a friend who was always there for you. Some people might call it weird, crazy, obsessive… but I called it comfort.

While I was reading I could be anywhere and anyone. While reading I always got the guy, saved the day, or beat all the odds. I'd cringe at the dramatic irony that foiled the characters I held so dear, and barely held back the tears when things didn’t go just right. I’d rage and fume at the arrogant jerk who always made things worse and then turn around and love him just as much as the character I always pretended to be.

And those little moments, the ones that never failed to make you sigh into a pillow every time you read them, they felt like they were mine, my own piece of magic locked up in a chest that I could go back to whenever I wanted. Sometimes the 'me' I pretended to be felt more real than my actual life.

With great reluctance I gently closed the book held so reverently in front of me and found it a place of honor on my bookshelf among the other jewel toned and loud graphic covers with their sultry black and shiny metallic titles.

Like turning off the mute button on the TV and having the volume abruptly blare out, the argument downstairs filtered through my hazy state in suddenly sharp focus, and it was obvious my parents had been working up to that pitch for a while. Just like that the magic was gone, like a quivering soap bubble being popped.

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