Mar 2013
Pretty Princess, primped in pink, never really stops to think about the idiocy she spews on a daily basis. The dog cowers in the corner, afraid to be faced with her scarily unchaste, omniscient hands. She certainly possesses a vast knowledge of the canine race QUICK, before the vet arrives, act in haste, lest the dog be victim to her knowledgeless, black-hold gaze!
Pretty Princess, never faulting, ever daunting, continues the endless flaunting of her limitless skill. Planar geometry and collegiate calc are no problem for the persistent resident Isaac Newton, who scribbles phony calculations and bogus numerations on a Hello Kitty scratch pad.
Pretty Princess works by the candlelight of her over-bright, tower-tall, double-wide lamp and paces across her pink and purple flower-*** rug as she fantasizes about the greasy local pint-size **** who’s oh-so dreamy in his Nike cut-off dishrag. From her desk, she scrawls the inane on a beat up, college ruled, blue-green, hand-painted notebook, for all to see, but none to name.
Pretty Princess is unstoppable, tearing through the grocery aisle where Earl Grey and Einstein fall into place betwixt bacon, sausage, and salmon paste, and then for show, she takes the liberty of becoming the resident nutritionist, which here means “amateur ‘botchulist’”, as she tells us what we’re doing wrong.
Pretty Princess keeps a hidden diary wherein are written all her fiery rants and new to-hit lists, saving space for all the boys she wants to kiss and yes, even room a tear stain or six BUT, she claims, it doesn’t exist.
Pretty Princess is afraid of her secrets, afraid of leaking them to the outside world where that entire girl would become just another whirl in the machine of elementary girls’ gossip. That unrelenting pack of wolfish half-wit rug-rats, teeth bared and armed with magic hands, would seize the Princess in their dastardly plans BUT, they say, it’s only for a single day that Pretty Princess is robbed of her dramatic time at play.
Pretty Princess is unheard outside her environment, her voice never reaches above the casement of the teacher’s oblivious predicament because she’s completely preoccupied with the class’s rampant evil stride of impending doom. The classroom bully sits, high atop his throne, and from his face is evil shown only to those who know how to see it.
Pretty Princess knows how to see it.
Pretty Princess comes home crying more often than not, misunderstood by her snotty, hot-headed teacher or “witchess”, and storms to her room in haste, leaving Mother to pick up the pace, lest the wrath of a pre-teen girl blow up in her face BUT, much to her disbelief and in some sense a strange relief, the truth comes out.
Pretty Princess just wants to be heard.
Pretty Princess, never faulting, ever daunting, continues the endless flaunting of her limitless skill. Planar geometry and collegiate calc are no problem for the persistent resident Isaac Newton, who scribbles phony calculations and bogus numerations on a Hello Kitty scratch pad.
Pretty Princess works by the candlelight of her over-bright, tower-tall, double-wide lamp and paces across her pink and purple flower-*** rug as she fantasizes about the greasy local pint-size **** who’s oh-so dreamy in his Nike cut-off dishrag. From her desk, she scrawls the inane on a beat up, college ruled, blue-green, hand-painted notebook, for all to see, but none to name.
Pretty Princess is unstoppable, tearing through the grocery aisle where Earl Grey and Einstein fall into place betwixt bacon, sausage, and salmon paste, and then for show, she takes the liberty of becoming the resident nutritionist, which here means “amateur ‘botchulist’”, as she tells us what we’re doing wrong.
Pretty Princess keeps a hidden diary wherein are written all her fiery rants and new to-hit lists, saving space for all the boys she wants to kiss and yes, even room a tear stain or six BUT, she claims, it doesn’t exist.
Pretty Princess is afraid of her secrets, afraid of leaking them to the outside world where that entire girl would become just another whirl in the machine of elementary girls’ gossip. That unrelenting pack of wolfish half-wit rug-rats, teeth bared and armed with magic hands, would seize the Princess in their dastardly plans BUT, they say, it’s only for a single day that Pretty Princess is robbed of her dramatic time at play.
Pretty Princess is unheard outside her environment, her voice never reaches above the casement of the teacher’s oblivious predicament because she’s completely preoccupied with the class’s rampant evil stride of impending doom. The classroom bully sits, high atop his throne, and from his face is evil shown only to those who know how to see it.
Pretty Princess knows how to see it.
Pretty Princess comes home crying more often than not, misunderstood by her snotty, hot-headed teacher or “witchess”, and storms to her room in haste, leaving Mother to pick up the pace, lest the wrath of a pre-teen girl blow up in her face BUT, much to her disbelief and in some sense a strange relief, the truth comes out.
Pretty Princess just wants to be heard.
