writing

Journey of The Engagement Ring | #GetYourWriteOn Prompt

“What is happening? Why am I here?” I asked myself one night.

First I was chillaxin comfortably in a dark box, lined and cushioned with crushed, scarlet red velvet, and then the box opened.

I looked up, my multi-faceted face glistening in the light; a human looked down at me, tears welling in their eyes. They looked awfully… surprised. Then, I saw their face turn.

They looked… as if they weren’t really all that happy about seeing me. I mean, I’m sure they were fascinated by what they saw, but their face turned sour. Like a baby about to cry. Now I’ve seen that, as their parents holding them walked by the store-front. It’s not pretty, especially when they make that pouty face and all you wanna do is try to help not make them cry.

But it wasn’t even that. Babes don’t fully understand feelings like their grown-up counterparts, and this particular grown-up wasn’t feeling the situation.

The person behind the box, the “asker”, asked the age-old question: “Will you marry me?”

The person before me, the “askee”, had a not-so-surprising answer: “I… I can’t. I won’t.”

I was never sure of being capable of empathy, since I’m an inanimate object, but I felt the sadness of the person behind the box. They paid a lot of money for me; created a situation around me; worked up the courage to ask the person if  they’d be willing to spend the rest of their life with the asker.

And they’re repaid with, “I won’t.”

Did I mention I’ve been through this before? Seven times to be exact.

Event #1, the asker did their thing, and the askee said yes. Unfortunately, the engagement only lasted a good week, yet the askee was kind enough to give me back, and I ended up back to where I was purchased.

Event #2: similar situation, but the askee hid me under a napkin, still in the box. The hiding hadn’t stop there.

Event #3: I was hidden in a salad. When I was found, not only was I covered in slightly oily Caesar dressing, but I was too big for the askee’s ring finger. That lasted longer, about two months.

Event #4: After being purchased from a pawn shop (my status was downgraded after the salad incident; what jeweler would take me back after that?!), I was presented in a champagne flute, drowning in bubbly! The asker was a sugar something, and the askee a sugar baby, I think they call them? The askee kept calling their sugar parent “daddy”, which creeped me out a bit. That didn’t last more than three weeks. Thank god…

Event #5: This surprised, even saddened me. I was given to a survivor of cancer having just gone into remission. I lasted throughout the engagement, all the way to the wedding. Though I’d spent over a year on the person’s finger, I’d expected to go back to the box I came in once wedding day rolled around. But the recipient decided to keep me on their finger, pairing me with the wedding band! That’s an honor not many engagement rings can brag about. Unfortunately, the askee’s cancer came back; when the illness became terminal and suddenly took their life, I was removed and given to the asker. They were heartbroken, too much so to keep me around; I brought on too many memories, so I understood when I was sold to a different pawn shop.

Event #6: This was a doozy. A couple came in looking for a ring. When they saw me, they asked about my history. The owner, who personally knew my previous owner, told them, and through sentiment, the couple bought me. But they didn’t use me for my intended purpose. I became a good-luck gift for their granddaughter, who was graduating from high school and on her way to college. The parents beat them to the punch with the car gift, which was more sufficient for a prospective college student. Sadly, the new college dropout sold me to fund her drug addiction; she’d done the same with her lovely car.

Event #7: The event mentioned earlier. The asker was someone who worked extremely hard and saved up their money to buy me and present me in my glory, the way I’d been intended to. But the person they presented me to didn’t want me. Why? I’ll never know. But I don’t care. It’s not my business to care. I’m just a decoration.

No, wait. That’s not true. I’ve been a part of living history. I have stories to tell, beautiful memories to share with people. I’ve been hidden away and put on display, a piece of art, so to speak.

But that’s not to say I won’t share more and more memories with new owners; the same person that bought me decided to keep me for something and someone new. The “someone new” is who the askee has been seeing for over a year. Here’s to hoping all goes well!

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Lane Bryant, what the hell?

Originally posted on Julianne Q Johnson:

At some point in the not so distant future, I’m taking a trip with my sweetie out west. During said trip, we will be spending time with his lovely family, and going out to eat at a nice restaurant. Since I am a vagina owner, I thought that this would be a great excuse …er…perfect time to buy a new dress.

My heart filled with song and I joyfully began my search on both the internet and brick and mortar stores to look for a lovely dress, not too fancy, because it’s a nice dinner not a wedding.

By day three this was my face:

Behold my mad paint skills.

Behold my mad paint skills.

They have beaten me down and ripped the song from my heart. I’m a big girl. Not gigantic. Mostly I wear a size 18, though that means little in the days of vanity sizing where I can fit into anything…

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Photo Friday, Photography, Random

Photo Friday – March 28, 2014

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#PhotoFriday is a rainy one…

I don’t know that there’s a Photo Friday here on WordPress, but I’ll make it so, if only for myself. At least to take a photo once or twice a week and post them on Fridays. Hence, the nifty hashtag.

Sounds like something productive to do, and it fills in somewhat for when I don’t write.

Nothing much to taking photos on my phone…

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