Personal Narrative: Flashback

Flashback: Pearls and feathers, bobs and glamour! Reality: I was sitting at the very back of my poor excuse of a high school’s plain old, bland “English 4” class in Levi mom jeans, a cropped top, and Chuck Taylors; except I wasn’t. I wasn’t at all.
(Take One): Pouncing upon my sister’s Macbook Air, I was on a written escapade away from the Upper West Side’s public school nightmare and, instead, running up and down the catwalk at New York’s Couture’s 1956 Fashion Show! In a riveting, platinum blonde swirl-curled bob, a completely diamond coveted bodysuit, high black meshed stocking, and nothing more, yet nothing less, than Dior’s latest pumps with Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue” orchestrating the walk, I was strutting. (Close scene) Sophia Miy
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Yeah, that’s what I was doing senior year. Intrigued by my latest Netflix-Binges of “Gentleman Prefer Blondes,” “Monkey Business,” “How to Marry a Millionaire,” and “Burlesque” I had to revel in the ideologies behind classical film. Call it inspiration, but I had to create something glamorous; I had to make some kind of world, some kind of sense, of the fascinating eroticism coming out of the screen and gouging at my eyes through the cinema of the 50’s, rather, cinema reflecting on the sensational hemisphere of being a woman in New York back then. I got home that day and tried to be a girl. I lit my favorite jasmine candle, climbed into my oversized stolen Men’s hoodie, and knee high socks, and I leisurely wrote about the Monroe I aspired to be, the Moss I so deeply wished to associate myself with, and then some in order to create the substance of who I wanted Sophia to …show more content…
I had to make it so that there was a blatant contrast with who she was perceived to be and who she actually was. At this point I took a break from my romanticized reality, my sensationalized skew of glamor and luxury, and I hopped off my bed for a snack. I grabbed a box of Nilla wafers and my infamous jar of Nutella and in attempts to walk back to my room, I couldn 't help but overhear the controversy in my living room. Watching “E News” my superficial sister was praising Kim K; I observed the absolutely plastic figure in my screen in annoyance. Dressed in a simple tan tank top, with her nipples pointing out at us, low rise jeans hardly embracing the top of her absolutely injected bosom, and tied back hair, Kim was taken a picture coming out of her car. I watched my sister, Jessica, stare at her in awe and yearning. “She is so beautiful.” I disagreed immediately stuffing wafers in my mouth finding my way onto my chocolate leather couch. “That’s not even her anymore…” I managed to say through the dissolved crumbs in my mouth. “But it doesn 't matter. Cause she 's so beautiful, everything about her is so beautiful.” She argued

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