Serial Girl-Personal Narrative

It is full summer and upon the horizon, I see soldiers coming, they are forever coming, it seems. Though they will soon leave us alone. For some insane reason, crazy people, scare them away. This place, has become my haven. You would think, after a hundred and forty years, I would have grown tired of this place and moved on; but when my Henry, was killed at Vicksburg, I completely lost my mind.

It was a beautiful day on Lake Erie with the lake’s misty wind sprinkling on my face as we drove out to the middle of the water to anchor. I was with my immediate family, my Aunt Ronni, Uncle Tim, and cousins from both sides of the family. All 10 of us were on my mom and dad’s boat, having fun swimming in the cool water and having the sun’s rays make our skin have a sun-kissed glow. All of the cousins were divided into two groups: the younger kid including my sister Josie and my two cousins Sadie and Hailey, and the older kids consisting of me and my cousins Kendall and Casey. Both groups were jumping in three at a time until we noticed Hailey, the youngest out of all the cousins, was refusing to jump in.

It wasn’t like any other swim practice, no, not like any other I’d ever gone to. No one usually moved to Minot, North Dakota that was also in swimming, so when Emily Pitcher and her family moved to town and came to practice, it was quite a shock for everyone on the team. She moved from Colorado and she had 2 younger brothers and a younger sister as well. They seemed nice enough but there was something about Emily, who was my age, which seemed a bit off.

Painted Girl put her bags down on the counter, tired from a long day at work. Tizio was great. He’d taken her to his uncles place and they’d spent a wonderful day ordering things from his antique store. She looked around the kitchen. Chinese takeout littered the countertop but no one had cleaned up. She picked up a note.

My grandma always told me to act like a lady. She would put into my mind that I should always sit with my legs crossed and never talk with food in my mouth. My grandma was the ultimate lady. Maybe I didn’t know what being a lady was all about back then, but I assure you that I know now.

" Who the hell let these damn rookies into my crime scene," I demanded in an annoyed tone while striding through the bedroom door of the crime scene.

At the age of four I was absolutely positive that in the future my career was to be the real world Kim Possible. Yet, the next year something in me clicked; my mind had been set on becoming a singer, and ever since that moment twelve years ago it has been my path. I had convinced myself that I would stand on a stage, and every time I opened my mouth the notes would just flow out; gliding gracefully through the air, dancing to the music among one another, descending upon the audience in powerful crescendos. However, as I aged, my confidence in this vision would begin to sway.

I walked to my house soaked, crying, and my nose dripping blood. This is why: When I got on the loud, stinky bus, 2 girls were waiting for me At my seat. After I sat down to do my homework, they distracted me by pouring some water on my head. After that they grabbed my homework and ripped it up into a million pieces.

Hi could I please have an iced skinny cinnamon dolce latte with coconut milk please? My name is Courtney Travaglini, currently I'm in my cold home state of Maine. However you are about to learn is not my "home" anymore. My husband and I are stationed in North Carolina and have been there for the past two years. Thanks to Starbucks transfer program and love of the military I was able to transfer back to Maine during my husbands deployment.

When I was in my sophomore year of high school, I had a music teacher named Ms. Valentine who taught vocal and piano classes. Ms. Valentine was known as the “mean dad” of the vocal department, because she oddly reminded everyone of a dad instead of a mother, I know it’s weird. She never took the phrase I can’t from a student, and she would never put up with anyone’s bullshit. She believed there was no such thing as “I can’t”. I had the pleasure of having Ms. Valentine as my choir director, sadly. Ms. Valentine was known for assigning students to critique boring plays and concerts.

“Well I'm leaving now and how'd you know I just got here, we're you stalking me?” I

Constitution and declares, “Now, no talking, no cheating, no breathing, I better not see a muscle move in your body other than your hand to write on your test!”

Four years ago I met a girl! That is what a teenage guy is supposed to do, right? Kelly (not her real name) and I have been friends for several years now, and I am proud of the relationship we have built. However, when I first met her, she was not in high school. Her mother had taken her out of high school for a year, because she was being severely bullied by other girls at school. When Kelly first shared her bullying experience with me I felt her pain deeply. I told her that I had been bullied too, when I was ten-years-old. Though Kelly never divulged to me the actual details of her experience, I was nonetheless willing to try and help her by sharing what I went through. I relived for her, my days in fifth grade, as I waited in line for recess. Two of my classmates made it their daily ritual to pull my hoodie off as proof that they could do whatever they wanted to me. Their intimidation tactics were regularly followed up with promises of things they might do to me once we reached the playground. Unobservable by teachers and staff at that point, I believed them.

I remember that it hurt, looking at her hurt. A beautiful line, no doubt, but I mustn’t take credit. I remember seeing her at her best. I remember telling myself that she would get better. I remember seeing what she would post on Facebook and pretending that I thought she wasn’t slowly killing herself. I remember seeing the blades sitting on her desk and throwing them in the trashcan and acting like they didn’t hold any significance, only to repeat the process the next weekend. I remember hearing her stories about falling out of that damned tree and telling myself, “Oh yeah. Those scars could totally be scrapes from the tree bark.” I remember ignoring the brokenness of her smile. I remember not doing anything about it, and I remember foolishly telling myself that it was all in my head.

The film version of Diary of a Teenage Girl, rather than condemning patriarchal privilege and its attendant exploitations as the book does, is instead a very careful take on a young 's girl 's exploration of her sexuality. The film and the book share the same premise but ultimately differ on delivery due to their inherently different approaches to capturing Minnie’s life as her and the other characters are portrayed differently, so much so that is a cautious take on an otherwise un-barred novel. Rather than touching upon patriarchal privilege and its exploitations, the film smooths over many of the more intense aspects in order to create a happy ending for itself, which is fundamentally different than what the book intended.