Stealthily again, I took a swift glimpse. The frequency of this which increases exponentially really scares me.
I convince myself not to do so, fearing that this once in a while honey sweet will end up bitter gout sour. Worse still, scar-forming pain.
My logic brain asks me to not jump into thinking that the bed of roses is silky smooth.
What if thorns were cleverly hidden?
Yet my emotional mind directs me to just flow with my feelings.
There I am, tugging the coarse rope, just to ensure that I shall not fall uglily.
Two quizzes down, one english test checked.
We 'huh?-ed' at Mr Sufwan when he mysteriously reveals the title of our narrative which is 'Woman'.
Now this is interesting.
I should have guessed this by the hint given by sir whom mentioned 'manless society' repeatingly.
I'm full of my masterpiece.
But yet the beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder.
Please please dear fairygod mother, please flake some silver dust on my essay so that it appeals to Mr Sufwan's taste.
And I was describing roti canai in case u're wondering.
Why is magnet that sticky? help!
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