morella fancy | eight, cb3 | fin

I always wanted pretty things: the soft dresses on display, those jewel-encrusted gloves. Of course, the great irony of my life and of my name- Fancy- is that nothing about my life is fancy. I'm waifish, I'm slow with a needle, and my mouth gets me into trouble. But I'm smart. I may not be the type to sit around and read about it in books all day, but I always figure out whatever it is I need to know. And I make due, do what needs doing to make sure I'm good. Momma couldn't ever save enough to open up her own business so she still works at the textiles, knowing damn well any extra penny she makes will be spent on food or clothes just as soon as she can. I think my dream is to figure out a way to make enough money some day that I can help her set up shop.

I might be bad at sewing but my Mom makes some of the prettiest things I've ever seen. I'm talking window-worthy. I'm talking worn-with-those-gloves-I-mentioned-worthy. She doesn't get paid nearly enough to use any of the good fabric for the stuff we wear, but her talent alone has made sure that I always look good wherever I go. Where that may be... Well, I don't know. I guess I've just been waiting to find something, some idea that'll make me say 'This! This! This is what I wish to do with my life!' but maybe that idea doesn't exist, and maybe the truth is that it's up to me to find a way to make something feel like that. But like... wouldn't that be depressing? I'd love more time to try and figure it out, but the reality is that I'll be graduated soon. Time is something I don't have.