OCD, the Dude, and Me - By Lauren Roedy Vaughn Page 0,2

that I will be alone for. 2. Just like every other year, I hate that Heather cuts in front of me in the lunch line and whips out her phone and starts talking so I can’t say anything. 3. I keep thinking about that day in PE last year, where I was the only person who couldn’t run the mile without taking breaks. My classmates, possessed of personal trainers, low heart rates, and taut physiques finished the run in like two seconds. By the second lap, I was gasping for air and so sweaty that they probably took bets on whether or not I’d die of a heart attack right before their eyes. I had hoped I would.

I have reordered the snow globes on my dresser about a hundred times. They are very calming. Nearly all of them depict life’s perfect moments, and when I give myself time to stare at them, they offer hope of a better world. Now they are in proper clusters. Farmhouses, landscapes, and historic monuments on the left, playful girls in the center, and couples in love on the right.

Next I’m going to try on all my hats and then stare at the postcards on my headboard to lose myself in a fantasy, where I convince myself that someday I will be somewhere other than right here.

*CLASS ASSIGNMENT* 9/16

Essay #2: That’s Wonderful

(I love this essay even though Ms. Harrison did not because it was not organized and the tone was too informal, which Ms. Harrison is obsessed with. B- from Ms. Harrison but A+ from my aunt Joyce who read the essay and loved it.)

Danielle Levine

English 12

Ms. Harrison

Period 4

It was really wonderful to think about something wonderful. The sun was coming in through my bedroom window as I sat at my desk to write, so I put on my bright yellow Chucks and yellow sunhat and tried to let their happy color and the sun’s warmth sink into me in order to come up with a good topic. It worked! I have decided to write this essay about my aunt Joyce.

My aunt Joyce is forty-two years old, single, and has no kids. Now, before you get any prejudicial ideas about what she is like, let me tell you. My aunt Joyce is spectacular. She is beautiful: blond hair, thin thighs, smooth voice, perfect fingernails, great clothes—which she looks great in because she is a size two and a fashion designer. She gets me the most amazing hats and cool clothes, reflecting a time before sewing machines (lots of ribbons and laces), that we pull out of my closet and try on when we’re together. My mom has very short brown hair that highlights her bone structure but which does not lend itself to petticoats and flowery bonnets; however, sometimes she joins us for our costume parties anyway. Like the time we all tied ourselves into these elaborate corsets and pretended we lived the lives of the women I only read about. So fun. (However, I do worry those women were never able to take a deep breath while dressed. Terrible.) Besides classic and stylish clothing, Joyce has turned me on to some old music like Tom Petty, and I’ve turned her on to The Romantic Era, which is an awesome band (all six of the guys are so cute it’s unbelievable; you should check out their album. They have one song about Juliet . . . as in Romeo and . . . I think it’s right up your alley).

My aunt Joyce is not what your mind might jump to when you think single white female. Anyway, she and a friend did this WONDERFUL thing. They threw a shower for themselves! It was tight.

My aunt Joyce told me that over the course of her life she went to so many baby showers and wedding showers that she couldn’t keep track of them all. So one day, she and her friend Karen were talking about all the time, attention, and money they spent on going to their girlfriends’ showers and how that time, attention, and money was probably never going to be reciprocated because they were destined to be single and childless for the rest of their lives, and while that is a fine thing to be, they would never have the fun of registering for gifts and having people celebrate them in a way that was not about their age. So they decided to “f*** social constraints” as my aunt put it and throw themselves