January 14, 2013 by first50
My typical day as a child was rather uncommon. I was an only child: uncommon. My mom worked: uncommon. I spent a good deal of my time hunting and fishing with my dad: uncommon. When I wasn’t doing that I was reading or riding my bike or peeling potatoes for dinner. Potatoes for dinner were typical, as well as gravy with lots of salt. It’s . . .
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “typical.”
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Typically every day was almost identical to the one before. When I was a child I knew what I could count on. My shoelaces and hairbrushes were washed, my clothing was starched and pressed and my homework was done, perfectly. My mother alphabetized our soups and spices. One day Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup somehow discovered itself in front of the Cream of Asparagus, dangerously atypical.
That was just his typical way. He listened to everyone’s sad story with kindness. Maybe that’s why they heaped their broken promises and future regrets on him, thinking that he just let it slide off. He didn’t. He kept it all in his mind until that was full and he swallowed. He swallowed until his chest was full. He swallowed until his stomach was full. When he was finally sated with sadness and could swallow no more, everyone wondered how he became so indifferent. Typical.
With every strand of fiber and minerals the flesh is weak you know. As I proceed to enter the door, I see some shoes I really want. Even though I ask for a 12, cash will fit the sale. Glanced at a few shirts as I proceed to leave. I hit the door going left, 3 girls in front of me pass, but I don’t speak. I had to look back at the ass to see…Typical