Seventh grade has been hard. and like I mean- I have no idea how I have survived the year (so far). Yet it has vanished right before my eyes.
Like any first day at school- I was excited- yet still knowing in the back of my mind I’d have homework like no ones business. I also told myself I wouldn’t fall behind- like the year before- but again knowing in the back of my mind that two weeks in I’d have twelve bazillion million missing assignments.
I was soon greeted with my prediction- yet still passing the tests. (Still a mystery to me). But I do feel as if I have gotten progressively gotten better at keeping up with assignments- except English. I have got better at math- and even I am caught up completely with science but I still struggle with my English assignments.
through the ups and downs- every year has been an adventure- and I know every year in the future will be an adventure. Seventh grade has been the hardest grade by far- and it’s not even over. I know Eighth grade will be even harder: and I’m ready.
Just a nice little dance poem for y’all. I find it hard to explain just how much dance means to me… Sigh… Maybe one day I might be put it into suitable words. Until then this is all I can give you. Many people say dance isn’t hard. Well it is. People tell me that I spend “Too much time at dance,” or that “I never rest,” but you don’t understand is I feel when I dance. It’s what I love to do, and I won’t give that up for anything.
I am a dancer.
I twirl, leap, and spin.
I jump, pirouette, and tap.
I am a dancer.
I feel pain and fear.
I feel defeat and failure.
Yet, I keep going.
I smile, I practice, I perform.
I have grace and beauty.
I do not dance because I am happy,
I am happy because I dance.
I hear the applause.
I perform and do my best.
Sometimes I fail.
I don’t give up.
For I am a dancer.
I am brave and strong.
I dance not for fame and glory.
But for how I feel inside.
I am happiness, joy, love, and excitement.
Strife, talent, joy.
Determination and beauty.
I am a dancer.
So I posted part if this story a while ago. I’m writing on this app called Wattpad where you can write and publish your stories and read other people’s too. This part comes after the part I published earlier. So her you go…
“For the LAST time will you shut up!” My voice rang over the mindless chatter of my friends and family.
“But seriously, what would happen if he didn’t come back this time… What if he really stayed MIA forever?” Cece’s voice cut through the mindless chatter and giggles. Everyone stopped to look at me. All with the same question in their eyes.
“I’ve never thought about it,” I answered truthfully. “I’ve never pictured my life without him, simply because I would have no life. There would be no ‘Christina Rose’ with out my Chris. There just wouldn’t.”
My ominous words bounced around to each person in turn. My mother and father pursuing their lips. They don’t like the fact that their little girl is so emotionally dependent on a “boy.”
My brothers’ wives and girlfriends sighed at my seemingly romantic words. Not understanding the truth, and the weight that they held.
My words finally bounced to me.
“Is that really what would happen to me?” I thought. “Yes.”
Actually, the more I thought about it the more and more they bothered me. I had always been an independent girl before I met Chris. After I was different. I always needed him. Weather he had his arm around me, or he was waving excitedly through the computer screen. All the way from Afghanistan.
When I was little, I LOVED Strawberry Shortcake. Nowadays, I would hate it, but that didn’t stop me from watching every episode and having a doll that had every outfit.
I guess I just loved the way her hair smelled like strawberries and her red rosy cheeks, that gave her the look of a happy child. The freckles on her face and her hat were a certain shade of green that almost looked like watermelon. She was the most perfect doll I could ask for.
While I watched it, I was happy, she was like a inspiration to me and I looked up to her.
Strawberry shortcake was my favorite toy and show when I was little. I loved it so much that for my 5th birthday I had a Strawberry Shortcake themed party. There were green chairs, and pink table cloths everywhere
My childhood would not be the same if I never had that little doll in my life.
I even still have my old doll in my closet.
Chairs creaking and ovens “Dinging”. You can hear some good-old-fashioned folk-music playing in the background, almost drowned out by the lively chatter of adults to small children. Austin has so many great places to see, but my favorite, by far, is Pasha’s.
My favorite part, obviously , would have to be the food. It’s the kind that’s especially mouth-watering-finger-licking-good, you know, the kind that you can only get from homegrown cafes . The macaroons come in chocolate (my favorite) and vanilla , the homemade Italian Sodas melt into your mouth then hit you with a burning taste in your throat, even the ice-cream sundaes are all homemade and should ALWAYS be topped with extra-extra whip cream . Ugh, my mouth is watering just thinking about it!
To top it off, the rundown, broken down, mismatched decor is welcoming. Every time I walk in with my dad and my bother we’re greeted with shouts of, “The Womacks are here!” or perhaps, “The usual?” Now we go there every Friday 5:30 sharp ready to munch on delectable pecan drops, fluffy cupcakes, and sticky macaroons, but I know for a fact any newcomers will be greeted with warm welcomes and good afternoons. The place itself is like a home away from home.
So, if you are ever in need for new foods to try out, or have a craving for the best warm cookies in town, Pasha’s is always going to welcome you with open arms and a good latte.
She was sitting on an armchair in the dimly lit room. With her legs tucked under her. Wrapped in a warm, downy wool blanket which seemed to bring her no comfort at all. Most people would think she was relaxing but her ridged postured hinted something else, something darker. Her slim fingers clutched desperately to a cup of tea which she had yet to drink from. Her eyes gazed unblinkingly toward the window, her expression so empty, it seemed as though she had ceased breathing.
It was a truly lovely day. While nature always delighted her before, she couldn’t bring herself to appreciate the world after what the seemingly cruel universe had done. The sky was light blue, spotted with fluffy white clouds that slowly drifted across it, freely, without any worries. Blinding rays of sun shot through the rustling tree leaves casting shadows all over the yard. The warmth of the sun caressed the surface of the window, brightening her face but doing nothing to dull the ache inside her.
Sometimes, she contemplated running away, but always quickly chided herself for it.
Although a part of her acknowledged that life needed to go on, some of her just wanted to shout at the world until her voice was horse. Scream and scream and scream so the world would understand her pain, so she could pretend that it didn’t happen, so the world could understand that what it did was wrong, and she wasn’t going to take any of it. But then she would realize that screaming wouldn’t accomplish anything, shouting wouldn’t undo anything, all she could do was sit in that armchair, in the dimly lit room.
Once a month… Every-single-month I have a 6 hour rehearsal for my dance team. That’s right, SIX HOURS. Because I’m a Senior on my dance team, I have 3 different dances that we go over every rehearsal. One of them is “Boom”, a jazz dance. It was choreographed by a guest teacher which makes it very hard for us to truly understand the dance, and perform it well. The second dance my team struggles with is our Teen-Senior-Elite dance which is difficult because the choreography is super challenging due to it containing lots and lots of technique. The third is our Production dance. This dance is not only choreographed by our own choreographers, but has all 64 people on our team. From the Jump-starters (the youngest) to the Elite (the oldest/most advanced). We have three 7 foot tall props that are moved throughout the dance, only serving as to add to the complexity of the dance. Three dancers at the very beginning jump off the top and land in their splits (with some help from spotters). Unfortunately I’m one of them. In almost every rehearsal I’ve managed to face plant at least once resulting in almost-unbearable headaches…. Hopefully I won’t fall next time.
The room was shrouded in shadowy ray-less-light. As if you could sense the despair hanging in the air.
My knee bounced in worried anticipation. My fingernails well,they were-long-gone. My eyes had found the ticking clock yet agin. My body was rigid with fear. My ears were longing for the piercing sound of a ring. Distress was clearly written across my face.
I was worried.
Worried for what the call would bring… worried for what the call would mean.
And then the dreaded moment came “ring,ring…”
My shoes were satin
My shoes smelled of perspiration and determination
My shoes never failed me
My shoes keep me going
My shoes held memories
My shoes guided my
My shoes could fly and twirl
My shoes had bows and ribbons
My shoes were a pink-ish-brown
My shoes made piroettes and glisades
My shoes are placed next to trophies
My shoes could help her shine
My shoes protected her from fuetes
My shoes were less than comfortable
My shoes held secrets
My shoes were hugged, cherished
My shoes were toys of imagination
My shoes were delicate flowers
My shoes were made of fire
My shoes sang out
My shoes made her a warrior
My shoes are pointe shoes
You know the feeling,that you get,the one at the pit of your stomach,that never ending gnawing away. The one that’s always there.
For example worry effects your mood. If you’re worried about something that might happen later in the day ,you’ll be distracted and do things you wouldn’t normally do. One day I had a competition after school which effected my mood the ENTIRE morning. I was irritable and rude due to my nervousness about the upcoming competition and regretted every thing that spilled out of my mouth. I was so worried what would happen later that I wasn’t noticing what was happening right in front of me.
In addition you may get so caught up with being worried about what you’re doing that you don’t even pay attention to what you’re doing. For example whenever I have a test, I psych myself out so much that I don’t even pay attention to my questions and answers. Consequently, my grades never impress. You shouldn’t let fear distract you
In conclusion don’t psych yourself. Don’t let that feeling in the stomach defeat you. Don’t let worry effect you in this way. Worry can be helpful in that it gives you an edge, but the effects can be harmful. Don’t let it be too overwhelming.