Every tweenage girl in America
The streaming sun makes lazy swirls in air freshener haze as every teenage girl in America stretches out on her bed. She is on her stomach, a small portion of which is revealed by her too small tank top emblazoned with princess, hot stuff, I make boys cry or some similar slogan meant to defend her against accusations of uncool innocence. Next to her is a stuffed animal, a rabbit, a horse or perhaps a bear, its worn face a testament to the times when innocence was niether cool nor un, only assumed. The sweet flavored gloss shining on her lips bridges the gap between virtue and vice, its packaging and marketing speaks of pure youth, its effect appeals to the purience in every sensualist. Her boy-short (emphasis on short) underwear is the only other thing between the stiff sheets and her lonely flesh. Her unclean hair is pulled into a tight elastic. She sprawls, swinging legs crossed at the ankles, focused intently on her cell phone, simultaneously text messaging her best friend and willing her crush to write her back. That same streaming sun warms the ripe backside, curves suggesting capabilities which she has yet to consider. Today she will be dissappointed. As time goes forward she will be celebrated, corrupted, instructed, exhausted, more -eds than one could possibly fit on a single sheet of paper regardless of the point size. She is not entirely unaware of this now, but she is entirely unconcerned. This being, both chaste and dirty, brimming with potential which, as most potential does, shall go either unappreciated or unused, turns over on her back and touches her smooth stomach. She pinches at skin mistaken for fat, sighs audibly, and stares directly into the empty electronic face of a phone which will not give in to her will.