Nobody puts baillee in the corner

To break up the monotony and avoid this become a string of blog posts with the long-lasting impression of me asking “What’s up with that?” in the voice of a comic from the late 80s, I’ve decided to break my own rule and test my boundaries by randomly sharing my own pieces. I wrote this particular piece for my Creative Writing class last spring and really like it. My disclaimer is while it is inspired by true events, remember it is a creative non fiction work. The details are almost entirely accurate, but obviously, some of the quotes are paraphrases or aren’t word for word. Don’t read it for fact finding. Read it as yet another fun and cheeky installment of my blog describing yet another crazy and quirky glimpse into my life. I’ve edited a couple of typos here and there, but this is almost entirely the original piece I submitted for a grade. I hope you enjoy it.

My day was finally done. I let out a cacophonous sigh as my torso hit the bed with my head not far behind. The low hum of my TV seemed to mimic a chorus of whispers, each promising never to reveal I was watching the Lizzie Borden Lifetime movie. Christina Ricci appeared on the screen to deliver another calculated yet dramatic line, but instead of words, sirens emerged from her mouth. High on sheer adrenaline, I bolted from my bed with nothing but my phone in hand. The sounds of deep knocks and my high-pitched Texas twang were accompanied by a slew of apprehensive stares and pajama-clad freshmen. Retrieving them gave me a godlike complex Yeezus himself would envy.

The cold slapped each of us in the face, creating a chain of yelps and twitches as we opened the doors. The smokers instantaneously lit up, and after my sarcastic inquiries replied, “Well, the building is already on fire.”

Upon doing my rounds, a group of girls who had previously attempted to set me up with the winners of such dating meccas like Craigslist and Match.com pleaded for me to go talk to the “super hot” firemen because my love life was something sacred and intimate and only to be shared with the 153 people I lived with. After several attempts of fluffing my hair and choruses of, “But Bailleeeeeee,” I left my future bridesmaids. Relaying this conversation proved naïve, as one of my boys then proclaimed, “These are actually the strippers we hired for your birthday!”

My naivety had once again proved to be my fatal flaw. Stripper dude instructed a giant circle of sleep-deprived teanyboppers to trap me in. I was the Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the famous scene of the special, stationary and vulnerable. Instead of a delightful Christmas melody, I was met with a botched version of “Happy Birthday,” which was seven months premature, and which the Peanuts gang all knew.
Finally, the culprit was apprehended and the bacon extinguished. I found solace for approximately three seconds. I then had to fend-off my band of loveable stoners, who were now claiming they were scared and needed to have a sleepover in my room. After much debate, I convinced all of them I did not need a “big spoon” nor did I endorse the “sleepover in Baillee’s room” they were orchestrating.

As I reentered my room, I once again let out a cacophonous sigh. My torso once again hit with my bed not far behind. The low hum of my TV seemed to mimic a chorus of whispers, each promising to never reveal I was watching Kim of Queens.