Argh
I hate it when people assume i cant do anything then i do somthing and their like "omg, u can do that?"
argh!
like i dunno, people call me a dumass and then their like "holyshit!! u can write really good!" i mean, yea its a compliment, but dont assume i dont know my head from my ass
should i really write a book on the rail trail?
IM me if u wanna know the story about the rail trail
ok, if u think im not a good writer, heres an example of my writing, u decide.
(this is a descriptive paragraph)
I continue to walk, and I find it. My favorite spot. I am few miles out from my little house atop Mt. Hope, a mountain in northern New York State. Trees, logs, and the wilderness surround me. No other houses are miles away I look in front of me, and I see the babbling brook lazily rolling along to its final destination. To my right, I can see a robin, singing a quiet tune atop a gigantic, moldy tree, thousands of years old, and continues to grow and house hundreds of birds, but most of them south for the winter at this time. I go over to feel it. It feels old, as though it has endured many a-winter. Further ahead amongst the trees, I see a deer, chewing on the leaves of a sprouting tree. I can smell no human impurity except for my own, just the pines, the river, and the purity of Mother Nature. It is a cloudy day, just moments before a drizzle begins. Although it is cold, I can feel the warmth of the wilderness keep me from shivering. Although there maybe no heaven on earth, this is pretty close.
argh!
like i dunno, people call me a dumass and then their like "holyshit!! u can write really good!" i mean, yea its a compliment, but dont assume i dont know my head from my ass
should i really write a book on the rail trail?
IM me if u wanna know the story about the rail trail
ok, if u think im not a good writer, heres an example of my writing, u decide.
(this is a descriptive paragraph)
I continue to walk, and I find it. My favorite spot. I am few miles out from my little house atop Mt. Hope, a mountain in northern New York State. Trees, logs, and the wilderness surround me. No other houses are miles away I look in front of me, and I see the babbling brook lazily rolling along to its final destination. To my right, I can see a robin, singing a quiet tune atop a gigantic, moldy tree, thousands of years old, and continues to grow and house hundreds of birds, but most of them south for the winter at this time. I go over to feel it. It feels old, as though it has endured many a-winter. Further ahead amongst the trees, I see a deer, chewing on the leaves of a sprouting tree. I can smell no human impurity except for my own, just the pines, the river, and the purity of Mother Nature. It is a cloudy day, just moments before a drizzle begins. Although it is cold, I can feel the warmth of the wilderness keep me from shivering. Although there maybe no heaven on earth, this is pretty close.