There was a girl named Sam

There was a girl named Sam and she was beautiful. She was all the zestfulness of the sun and the mysterious beauty of the rain. Her hair casually flipping over her shoulder, the sound of her gentle muffled laughter. She lived “the” life – carefree, fun, free. She seldom talked about herself and that vagueness added a bit of a thrill to those who seek to know her more. She was mysterious, and beautiful. She had friends and family who all loved her. She got all the things she wanted — after all, she deserved everything.

How she gently pressed her napkin onto her lips, the tinkles of her porcelain cup clinking against the saucer as she set them down, and how she crooked her little finger while sipping her tea. Oh the elegance and the glamour. She exuded purity. She was perfect.

Except that she never really was.

Let me tell you the real story…

There was a girl named Sam and she tried to look beautiful. She was the nasty heat of the sun and the icky wetness of the rain. Her recently made-up hair which she could just have possibly precisely placed over her shoulder, the sound of her evil, loud laughter. She failed at life – always anxious, ever ignorant. She seldom talked about herself and she stayed vague because the last thing she wanted to happen is for people to discover that she was not who she claimed she was. She was vile and manipulative and pretentious and shameless. She had no friends who truly loved her. She got everything she wanted (to show off) — after all, that’s what she lived for.

How she tried to get to the top of the tree, even if all the branches and twigs broke as she climbed. How she claimed all her glory through secrets and lies. Oh the glitz and the pretentiousness. She was fake. She was a mess.

She died miserable.

The end.