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LOOKBOOK.nu: collective fashion consciousness.

Floorset




Clothes magically appear on shelves, folded to perfection with the details crisp and precise. Jeans are neatly placed, each size represented. Hoodies are folded in half, the hood hidden. All of this happens during the night by the elves that helped the shoemaker. Only they do it in clothing stores too.

Only I lied. It doesn't happen that way at all. In fact, what happens to set out the clothing occurs all by the same people who set everything up during the day. Except all the new clothes show up at night. All night. From 9:00 PM until 4:40 AM. That's an extraordinarily long time.

Last night, the Store underwent a complete change. Everything was taken down and everything new was put up, at least on the women's side. I folded seventy (70!!!) pairs of jeans, countless pairs of khakis, and don't even get me started on the hoodies.

Second night? Men's side. How long did that take me? 9:00 PM until 5:00 AM. Everyone was extraordinarily angry at the fact that we had so much to do. And it was all Slow Girl's fault, and she had the audacity to blame others for not completing her wall.
Me at 4:00 AM. I look far too happy up there.

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Writing is like...



Forrest Gump once said, "Life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you're going to get." What is writing like? Write a simile that starts with the phrase, "Writing is like ... ."

Please limit your response to 500 words or fewer.


Writing is like drinking a bottle of water on a hot summery day where the humidity causes the buildings around to sweat. The sun beats down upon the dirt, sucking each particle of water. Heat is inevitable, thirst insatiable. The initial sip of the icy coolness flowing into the mouth, the cool of the glass connecting with the lips, calms the heat. The smooth liquid sliding down the throat, easing the tension caused by the humidity. Sip after sip, gulp after gulp. Each tasting better, more satisfying, than the first. The pauses between drinks slip away, meshing into a single action. No longer do thoughts focus upon the pain of thirst. Instead, they simply cease to exist, subsiding into the realm of unconsciousness as water pours into the deprived mouth.

All too soon is the bottle finished, the glass no longer cool against the now-wet lips. The thirst has passed, though certain to return.

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Passed

I passed my IB exams.

I got the diploma.

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