One day they will even leave this planet alone, but never my cheeks.
Today is another day of me being restraining myself from kicking everyone, everything in the arse. Not that I've ever did it before though, except when one time I was dressed to portray a donkey in kindergarten and I actually had immense freedom to do so. Many kids couldn't sit in the room the other day.
Quite chubby I was then, always dressed in shirts and shorts which made me look plumper. People's hands craved for my cheeks, which were synonymous to two large cotton balls, they'd say. I used to think that cheek pinching was some sort of tradition in America and only cute people like me were rewarded with it. I started living with all these kind of traditions pretty enjoyably- no next day would rise without at least five people gripping my lovely fluffs for several seconds, squeaking diabetic words in my face.
But as I observed myself growing throughout the years and grew out a badass in me when at highschool, I realised that. At first, I couldn't take a clue when the schoolgirls kept giggling whenever a person would entertained himself by moulding my cheeks like play dough. But, as my low grades in academics kept hitting me during those teen years, so did puberty, and so did the fact that this cheek pinching ceremonies are the main reason I was not categorised in the badass club already. I was 'too cute' to be a statue of intimidation in school, on which even the teachers would agree. "Don't even try, that's...um...bad, obviously, and you shouldn't. You can't actually, you're too chubby, cute," one discouraged me the other day, and that's the only day I remember I went through without having a sumptuous lunch.
And as stereotypical as it sounds, boys my age were getting in their perfect shape with gym and jawline and all that jazz; except for me, looking not so different from the fifteenth meatball I popped into my mouth.
I never considered exercising as I crucial part to get rid of my cheeks which grew redder each day as I completed my senior year, I rather had a superstitious faith in my puberty. It, of course, deceived me bitterly. Never sprouted out a bloody pimple even. I still wonder why God ever really thought that I'd love to have this extra fat on my face all my life. Maybe He mistook 'extra cheeks' for 'extra cheese' and if it is that so, no human is to be blamed.
Fun fact: I'm British, pure blood. Moved in along with my parents to New York City when I was ten, ish. My thick accent was the second on the list of interest of people of America, always amused with the way I pronounce each word. A master of Shakespeare's babies, I was. Am. Did have some difficulty getting used to American phrases and slangs, but today I know them all like the back of my hand.
I have a habit. Bad one. I can't stick to one topic. If I begin narrating a tale of how I unintentionally captured a picture of Cat, my he-cat, while he was in midway of sharting, I'd out of nowhere start babbling about my Aunt Louisa's awkward encounter with her ex husband on a date with her sister (crazy, crazy family that I have) and end up with a melancholy of how my asshole of a boss deliberately locked me in the office restroom to keep me from flying paper planes and poking their noses with them. Eyes even, if this champion was having a bad day.
See? I was talking about cheeks, and now we're here. Both of them so random. I'd like you to consider me as a hilarious person, don't mind the other traits. I'm almost thirty now, about to blow candles, mind you, just five minutes to go to the time I was welcomed in this world weighing a tad extra than usual, and I still have those baby cheeks. Bit redder than they used to, but now I love how I look no different from an apple. I never even got skinnier, did lose some weight to stay out of obesity, that shit is so messed up.
Okay, I may not be funny enough for you to agree and stick it to my personality, but this tiny part inside me can be bloody serious if it is taken to heart, by heart. I was lying about blowing candles- I am not even wearing anything besides boxers, let alone be with people. I really don't need any candles to make a wish, I can do without them- it's my birthday after all and I'll do whatever I want. I wish my cheeks to get plumper, my boss being more mean to me, and Americans still laugh at or mock my constant accent. It's all harmless. If you don't have spice in life, you'd regret doing a lot of things later, which can't be done then. I've already experienced it, two time divorcee with a two year old kid sleeping comfortably in my hands right now, I really wish I had mended things right away at that time. Too late for it, I must say, and I promise myself I won't commit that mistake again. I'm craving for a breather now, as well end the story of...
Well, a lot many things that came out. Habit. Goodbye, then.
By the way, my son just screamed 'piggy belly' in his sleep.
He might as well be eating it.
Just tell me I'm funny, ain't I?
END.
