started writing this personall narrative for a senior english assingment..feeling kinda stuck. please helppp
Laying my head back against the stiff leather chair, I breathe in. The smells of this room twist its way into my foggy brain. Stale smells of marijuana and cigarettes tango together to the left over mariachi music that leaks in through the cracked window, then rest themselves somewhere behind my eyes; causing my eyelids to be heavier than the tequila already made them. I'm dizzy, and tired; this room and this night have to much for me to think about all at once-I don't even really remember what lead up to me sitting in this chair. I try to close my eyes to steady myself against the steady, and supportive back of the chair. Laying back like this, with my head pressed for stability against the crinkled leather, and my fingers tightly grasping the padded arm of the chair, I am slightly reminiscent of visiting the dentist when I was younger; The giant chairs encasing my body, making sure I stay still for the adults with the sharp tools.
I'm sweating. Even though it's dark out, and it's noticeably cooler than the suffocating heat of the day. But this room doesn't have an AC, and I'm too deep into town for the ocean breath to reach. So I don't get to feel the fingers of the salty air dance across my skin and through my hair to cool me down. The sweat that is accumulating on the outside of my tanned skin is acting like a glue against the cracked brown skin of this giant chair, that through my drunkenness makes me feel calmer, safer. Protected.
For some reason I feel as if I am growing into the chair. My tequila filled mind feels the leather attaching itself to my skin. The chairs skin mixing in with mine. The hard leather cracked with age and use, blending and contrasting with my young skin, naive with only 14 years of history to speak of. This thought makes me happy, the idea that I am absorbing every story this chair has to offer me. But at the same time I know I'm just drunk and I don't deserve those stories.
My sense of time has left me somewhere around my 3rd shot back on the beach with Ryan and Colby. What time is it? It could be 10:30, or 5 in the morning. I really have no idea. I do know that we probably drank to much-I think that might be a given considering I'm pretty sure we're in a tattoo parlor. Ryan and Colby sit across the room, each laying in a different position then me. There chairs are the same as mine, except the backs have been fully reclined so It's more like a bed than a chair.
Ryan's laying on his stomach, his shirts been taken off and its laying crumpled on the floor next to an empty brown beer bottle. I honestly don't know if its his, or the owner of this place's. My best friends head is rested on the crease of his folded right arm, with his head facing away from me, and his other arm dangling heavily of the side of the bed/chair. His short brown hair is unusually disheveled. Brown tufts spiked up in all directions, with left over sand and salt water infused from playing in the warm pacific ocean earlier in the day. Colby's chair is above Ryan's, and he's positioned on his side with his arm, almost gracefully, laid above his head exposing his bare ribcage.
Maybe its because I'm drunk, or maybe it's because I wasn't looking before, but for the first time I'm noticing the two Hispanic men, each respectively positioned at the sides of my two best friends; and each respectively holding a dingy, metal tattoo gun. I don't know why this realization is such a shock to me, maybe its because my tequila stupor is starting to wane, and I can once again lift my head up with out the whole world turning up side down; but never the less the sight of these two boys I've known since I was 5 drunkenly laying on dingy chairs, in a dingy concrete room, in a small Mexican village, getting tattooed by two men who I wasn't sure could even speak English shocked me in a way that made a twang-y giggle rise up in my throat and escape through my closed mouth.
I sit and watch the scene in front of me. I can see Ryan's arm flexing and the tension in his neck. The man who is sitting next to him, with his snake like contraption moving across the soft skin of Ryan's back is tall; and his body is covered in dark caramel skin. His face is sharp, filled with hard angular features that make you want to stair and understand what he has to say. His skin sags on his bones, making him appear to be tired all the time. I can tell that this man has spent his life being beautiful, but hard times or a hard sun have greatly changed the type of beauty he possesses, and carry's in his eyes. Even from the other side of the room I'm struck by the color of his eyes. They're a weird kind of green. The green you find on the fresh leaves of oak trees, or fresh celery. A crisp kind of, alive green. That green is lined with dark, long, lashes.
He lets a long cigarette dangle from his lips. It's a bright white, it shines in the dingy room. A long stream of iridescent smoke falls out of the tip, like a waterfall flowing up. Every now and then he'll stop his share of the monotonous buzz that the machines sputters out, to flick the ash off the tip of that white stick into a glass ashtray that's positioned between the two men on its own steal stool.
Laying my head back against the stiff leather chair, I breathe in. The smells of this room twist its way into my foggy brain. Stale smells of marijuana and cigarettes tango together to the left over mariachi music that leaks in through the cracked window, then rest themselves somewhere behind my eyes; causing my eyelids to be heavier than the tequila already made them. I'm dizzy, and tired; this room and this night have to much for me to think about all at once-I don't even really remember what lead up to me sitting in this chair. I try to close my eyes to steady myself against the steady, and supportive back of the chair. Laying back like this, with my head pressed for stability against the crinkled leather, and my fingers tightly grasping the padded arm of the chair, I am slightly reminiscent of visiting the dentist when I was younger; The giant chairs encasing my body, making sure I stay still for the adults with the sharp tools.
I'm sweating. Even though it's dark out, and it's noticeably cooler than the suffocating heat of the day. But this room doesn't have an AC, and I'm too deep into town for the ocean breath to reach. So I don't get to feel the fingers of the salty air dance across my skin and through my hair to cool me down. The sweat that is accumulating on the outside of my tanned skin is acting like a glue against the cracked brown skin of this giant chair, that through my drunkenness makes me feel calmer, safer. Protected.
For some reason I feel as if I am growing into the chair. My tequila filled mind feels the leather attaching itself to my skin. The chairs skin mixing in with mine. The hard leather cracked with age and use, blending and contrasting with my young skin, naive with only 14 years of history to speak of. This thought makes me happy, the idea that I am absorbing every story this chair has to offer me. But at the same time I know I'm just drunk and I don't deserve those stories.
My sense of time has left me somewhere around my 3rd shot back on the beach with Ryan and Colby. What time is it? It could be 10:30, or 5 in the morning. I really have no idea. I do know that we probably drank to much-I think that might be a given considering I'm pretty sure we're in a tattoo parlor. Ryan and Colby sit across the room, each laying in a different position then me. There chairs are the same as mine, except the backs have been fully reclined so It's more like a bed than a chair.
Ryan's laying on his stomach, his shirts been taken off and its laying crumpled on the floor next to an empty brown beer bottle. I honestly don't know if its his, or the owner of this place's. My best friends head is rested on the crease of his folded right arm, with his head facing away from me, and his other arm dangling heavily of the side of the bed/chair. His short brown hair is unusually disheveled. Brown tufts spiked up in all directions, with left over sand and salt water infused from playing in the warm pacific ocean earlier in the day. Colby's chair is above Ryan's, and he's positioned on his side with his arm, almost gracefully, laid above his head exposing his bare ribcage.
Maybe its because I'm drunk, or maybe it's because I wasn't looking before, but for the first time I'm noticing the two Hispanic men, each respectively positioned at the sides of my two best friends; and each respectively holding a dingy, metal tattoo gun. I don't know why this realization is such a shock to me, maybe its because my tequila stupor is starting to wane, and I can once again lift my head up with out the whole world turning up side down; but never the less the sight of these two boys I've known since I was 5 drunkenly laying on dingy chairs, in a dingy concrete room, in a small Mexican village, getting tattooed by two men who I wasn't sure could even speak English shocked me in a way that made a twang-y giggle rise up in my throat and escape through my closed mouth.
I sit and watch the scene in front of me. I can see Ryan's arm flexing and the tension in his neck. The man who is sitting next to him, with his snake like contraption moving across the soft skin of Ryan's back is tall; and his body is covered in dark caramel skin. His face is sharp, filled with hard angular features that make you want to stair and understand what he has to say. His skin sags on his bones, making him appear to be tired all the time. I can tell that this man has spent his life being beautiful, but hard times or a hard sun have greatly changed the type of beauty he possesses, and carry's in his eyes. Even from the other side of the room I'm struck by the color of his eyes. They're a weird kind of green. The green you find on the fresh leaves of oak trees, or fresh celery. A crisp kind of, alive green. That green is lined with dark, long, lashes.
He lets a long cigarette dangle from his lips. It's a bright white, it shines in the dingy room. A long stream of iridescent smoke falls out of the tip, like a waterfall flowing up. Every now and then he'll stop his share of the monotonous buzz that the machines sputters out, to flick the ash off the tip of that white stick into a glass ashtray that's positioned between the two men on its own steal stool.