The Story of Her; a Random Memoir

    She walks into the room, pushing the door close as her eyes wander to a comfy spot on the bed. Her body then follows to the spot where her eyes had previously been. As the bed's shape expands to satisfy the foriegn pressure suddenly pressed apon it, the location of the remote becomes her priority. Moving herself, she raids the covers hoping to find her nesscity, the one link that will disconnect her plug of boredom. Alas, the blackness of the remote oddly stands out against the brightness of the bed spread. So strange how something that is now so vivid was obilivous only moments ago. Her ears become attentive to the sound of the tv saying hello. Nothing was on, as she had thought that was just a waste of time.
    She stands up and her mind moves on to her next pandamonious event. While thinking, her unresponsive eye becomes aware of a reflective movment. She first looks at the condition of her hair, and decides that it will do considering the audience that awaits her outside of this room; an empty house. Tentively she starts to study the way god made her, trying to find a pose that will make her outside image match that of a dream.
    Reaching her hand down she relieved an itch that interupted her daydream with the mirror. Surprisingly a chuckle escapes from the closure of her slightly peeling lips. How funny, why should she have to conform to the dream? Shouldn't the dream conform to her, and implant itself into her soul? Sure a beautiful soul, hidden away from those close to her and annouced ignorantly to strangers. But without the perfection of a wordly image how far would this take her before she's reminded of her inablilities or not good enoughs? Perfection is only as broad as the explanation of the unniverse, varing along with each person's theory and statement.
                                  THE END. :~)