From the day
Perspective: The Teenager · Tactile
The scratchy wool of my plaid miniskirt chafes against my thighs as I adjust my tiny satin backpack, wishing I’d just worn my silk slip dress instead. I’m aggressively slamming my heavy brass slammer onto a stack of Pogs, the cardboard clicking sharply against the pavement while Michael Jackson croons from someone’s passing car. Dad's grumbling over the morning paper, muttering how *Being Biggest Is No Big Deal For Citicorp*, but like, whatever, big banks don't help me win "poison" rounds. I’m just trying to smooth out my knee-high socks and ignore the world until the next round starts.