Bel Banta is a fourth year English major from New York. When she's in the city, she spends too much time browsing for books at the Strand. When she's in Charlottesville, she spends too much time reading the books that she bought at the Strand. For more of Bel's writing, visit belbanta.com.
Posting a picture to Instagram is an event. The right filter must be found, a witty caption conjured. As likes accumulate, it is as if each screen tap is a reflection on you as a person. Not just the way you look, but also how you are perceived by others.
I am tired of spunky heroines and one-dimensional love interests. I am neither of these types of woman, and it is not often that I see myself reflected in literature. This is because, like most women, I am anything but perfect. If I were to be a character, I would sleep until noon and sometimes say things I shouldn’t.
My dad is sitting across from me eating Eggos. He doesn’t eat them gracefully. They are stuffed into his mouth, loudly chewed, sugars clinging onto fat as they enter his bloodstream. I imagine my dad’s body is made of all the unhealthy things: corn syrup, GMO’s, candy bars.
I wake up alone in bed. A winter chill has somehow drifted through the window I struggled to shut the night before. All I can do is pull the covers around me and huddle for warmth.