Please tell me whether this seems to be an apt topic! This is still a rough draft! I know, it's the typical food vs. you comparison.
"You have a lack of talent, personality, and resourcefulness," my older sister declared. "You're just . . . a piece of toast."
I jerked my head up from the kitchen counter, gazing critically at her. "I'm sorry. Did you just call me toast?"
I'm not a prodigy and I haven't done anything incredibly exciting. My accomplishments aren't miraculous and my tastes are a little bland. Yet, to be called toast of all things? Now I seriously have to consider this.
I would have been a white toast years ago. Back then, I was faceless, a blank slate who would experience frequent shifts in personality. I'd let people smear me with jam and jelly I engaged in "I Spy" games every time I looked in the mirror. I was the shadow of the crowd, trying to find a place among the masses, struggling to make a big impression on those around me by expressing my "uniqueness." Was I enough for people? How much of an impact can I make when I led a mundane life?
It took me a while before I realized that I didn't have to be "big" to be substantial. I'm created by thousands of little crumbs that by themselves are insignificant. I find that I'm defined by what most would call trivialities. I have turned a Polly Pocket house into an exotic zoo of animal figurines where both domestic dogs and elephants could exist. Simple walks along the shore-side with my parents are more enjoyable to me than water-skiing. Finishing my poems and completing books over five hundred pages long are my Olympic feats. Little events, from wasabi-eating contests to waking up for the sunrise, are the things I most look forward to. Somehow, I've made the forgettable events into treasures.
With these crumbs, I've led Hansels and Gretels back home. Using my mundane experiences and the simple beliefs I derived from them, I have somehow led my self-abusive sister back to sanity and urged my friends to confront their problems instead of running away. I wasn't the best guide, but I did try my best. I suppose the fact that my sister is still talking with me and my friends are still laughing is a good indicator of success.
If I'm toast, I'm a multi-grain one, flecked and speckled with all kinds of perspectives and accomplishments that many can't see. I don't need jam or jelly, luxuries and awards, to be more appealing; I'm fine the way I am, even if I do appear boring. All the crumbs that make up my entire being, the little quirks and beliefs I have, are invaluable. I retain every fragment of my identity .
"You know, maybe I am toast," I finally responded to my sister.
"So you finally admit you're boring?" she snorted.
I grinned. "I wouldn't say that."
"You have a lack of talent, personality, and resourcefulness," my older sister declared. "You're just . . . a piece of toast."
I jerked my head up from the kitchen counter, gazing critically at her. "I'm sorry. Did you just call me toast?"
I'm not a prodigy and I haven't done anything incredibly exciting. My accomplishments aren't miraculous and my tastes are a little bland. Yet, to be called toast of all things? Now I seriously have to consider this.
I would have been a white toast years ago. Back then, I was faceless, a blank slate who would experience frequent shifts in personality. I'd let people smear me with jam and jelly I engaged in "I Spy" games every time I looked in the mirror. I was the shadow of the crowd, trying to find a place among the masses, struggling to make a big impression on those around me by expressing my "uniqueness." Was I enough for people? How much of an impact can I make when I led a mundane life?
It took me a while before I realized that I didn't have to be "big" to be substantial. I'm created by thousands of little crumbs that by themselves are insignificant. I find that I'm defined by what most would call trivialities. I have turned a Polly Pocket house into an exotic zoo of animal figurines where both domestic dogs and elephants could exist. Simple walks along the shore-side with my parents are more enjoyable to me than water-skiing. Finishing my poems and completing books over five hundred pages long are my Olympic feats. Little events, from wasabi-eating contests to waking up for the sunrise, are the things I most look forward to. Somehow, I've made the forgettable events into treasures.
With these crumbs, I've led Hansels and Gretels back home. Using my mundane experiences and the simple beliefs I derived from them, I have somehow led my self-abusive sister back to sanity and urged my friends to confront their problems instead of running away. I wasn't the best guide, but I did try my best. I suppose the fact that my sister is still talking with me and my friends are still laughing is a good indicator of success.
If I'm toast, I'm a multi-grain one, flecked and speckled with all kinds of perspectives and accomplishments that many can't see. I don't need jam or jelly, luxuries and awards, to be more appealing; I'm fine the way I am, even if I do appear boring. All the crumbs that make up my entire being, the little quirks and beliefs I have, are invaluable. I retain every fragment of my identity .
"You know, maybe I am toast," I finally responded to my sister.
"So you finally admit you're boring?" she snorted.
I grinned. "I wouldn't say that."