Personal Narative- Tough Girl :: Personal Narrative Writing

Personal Narative- Tough GirlShe went to the land of Hollywood with a baseball field wedding necklace hanging loosely from her neck like a running noose before it gives its snapping goodbye. She went to the land of dreams with pride coloring her shadow a peremptory swing of her thick plait and why not? Her name was Serina she was named aft(prenominal) a dream.Why not? I thought, though I cried the shadow before because she got the chance bestowed to her curvy hips, her white Colgate smile, her crystal blue look. And what approximately me? What about me. I have never had the smartness of a woman.I envied her from the day I realized that looking pretty was more main(prenominal) than being rough. I had always been good in games, in fighting, in being well rough. When we were much younger, I used to bully her so badly that she never joined in any of our games. She became a ill-defined ghost, a girl who was just thata girl. No more. Well I well I was more of a boy, a fighter, som e unmatchable who laughed when the baffle advised the daughter to wash her hair with herbal shampoo to scram it shiny and black as coal. I ran after kites and wise(p) that slamming the compressed of your hand into someones face is much more efficient than curling that same hand into a fist. I learned that one should never box someone with the thumb hidden intimate the white-knuckled hairgrip of a fist. I learned that if someone digs at your eyes with two fingers, you could just bring your flattened hand vertically up at your nose, and whoevers fingers however long, would never reach your eyes. I learned that being flat was more beneficial than being round.The day I discovered that I was turning round, that my legs could not carry me fast enough, that the boys I used to beat up now towered over me anger glinted inside like a raised knife waiting to fall. From then on, I stopped fighting with boys and started fighting with girls instead. I could have died for my gang - a group of seven girls who knew that their only honor was their strength. One day my conversance was walking down the road after a harvest troupe with a cup of alcohol made out of rice gurgling in her stomach. She bumped into an older woman with a baby clinging onto her hip and the woman off around and told her to watch where she was going, if she wanted so much to bump into somebody, why not pick on a boy and not a woman with child.