Remember how I told you before that my family was moving to the city? Well, here we fast forward three months to the day of the big move; in other words: The Worst Day of My Life! All that strength needed to move those grievous boxes, which caused me so much pain... Hey, just because I only had to carry the tiny boxes, doesn't mean they weren't overweight for a six year old. Like, I swear, one of them weighed as much as my puppy at the time. And he weighed a whole 6 lbs! Though I seem like the lazy and listless type, I was quite very energetic back then... key word: WAS. Now I'm literally too lazy to even get up and grab the remote... But anyway, back to the flashback of the day I moved to the city.
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It was a bright and warm September day. Ah yes, I distinctly remember it being VERY warm that day. And humid. Which only made the day much more dreadful then it already was. You see, I wasn't too enthusiastic about moving in the first place, but my father made it clear that we were going to move, and that was that. Oh how I dread his decision now. And on top of that, they chose the hottest and most humid day to move. I was completely drenched in sweat by the time we had packed everything up and loaded into the carriage. And, guess what? It was only 10:00 AM! How I loathed that day, and how I swore I would seek vengeance on my father for putting me through such a dreadful morning. I hadn't even been able to eat my breakfast fully, for he forced me to scarf down as much as I could in five minutes, which, in fact, almost caused me to choke. What an imbecile my father was! First he chooses the hottest day to move, then he doesn't let me eat my delightful breakfast, and to top it all off: We had to round up all the farm animals, and lead them into the woods, where my father would let them all be free. All except for my puppy, Pip, of course. Don't ask.
You know what else pissed me off? The fact that I, MYSELF, had to pack all my boxes on my own. And since we had very few boxes, I had to dispose of some of my most prized possessions. It made me bawl my eyes out when I had to choose between taking Wyatt, my stuffed sheep, or Bambi, my stuffed dear, with me. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THAT WAS FOR ME?! Those stuffed animals were my life... and having to choose which one to take and which one to disown... it tore me limb from limb. Also, I was forced to only take ONE of my sketchbooks... I had five different ones, all filled with drawings and sketches of various things that my mind came up with on it's own. Then came the choosing of which books to take with me. Hey, just because I was a farm girl, didn't mean I couldn't read or write. In fact, I could read Classics by age ten. So, suck on that, bitch! Oh lord, my inner city girl is breaking loose... Just, just disregard what I just stated, okay? Good.
Anyway, after I had chosen all the things I would take, I had yet to do the worst part: transferring the six boxes of items down the stairs and out into the backyard. Yay, so much fun! Not. Like, my six year old self could barely carry two books at once, so imagine two notebooks times, about, 5 pounds. Yeah, that's heavy for a six year old. Don't give me that look; I will make a city girl threat if I need too...
After almost face-planted four times, transporting boxes up and down that dreadfully tall flight of stares, I could finally sit on the cushioned chair in the parlor, where I could rest for a few moments. Sadly, my short little nap didn't last more then a minute, for my puppy saw me and immediately ran towards me, barking his wee little head off, and irritating the living shit out of me. God damn you, Pip! Oh how I wish I could've strangled that dog... But that would be animal abuse. Plus, my parents would probably kill me if I strangled the dog to death. Joy.
After screaming at that damn dog for god knows how long, I gave up on trying to get some shut-eye and just walked outside. As I slowly traipsed out the door, I overheard my mother and father talking about something that I could vaguely understand. Let me try to see if I can remember the conversation properly:
YOU ARE READING
Hope
Teen Fiction"If my cup won't hold but a pint, and yours holds a quart, wouldn't you be mean not to let me have my little half measure full?" "...Hi. I'm Hope, and I'm sorta in between a rock in a hard place at the moment. I've done something I shouldn't have do...