Envy - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Every time I saw Sasha I let myself hate her, feeling nothing if she were sad, feeling angry if she were happy. It took a while to see those feelings as my problem, my envy. All she did was stand there looking athletic with a smile that could light up the world. Then, one spring day I saw the truth, saw that she was lovely. It was my job to make myself better, to take that negative energy I poured in her direction and make it work for me instead, make it positive. I started working out more, eating better, helping others. Sasha was a God-given role model and I'm thankful to finally see her properly.
In the haze of the afternoon I can feel the loose shirt start to cling to my back in places and there is a slight sting to my eyes - old mascara. I never seem to learn to throw it out before it goes rancid and I'm just too vain to leave the house without it. My sister, who got father's brown skin, looks beautiful even when sweating; her skin becomes more like polished stone. I'm white like mother right down to my blue eyes and red-tinged hair. Sweating makes me look like I need someone to dunk me in an ice bath fast, anything to put out the fire in my cheeks,
Binka smiles like she's happy right to her soul, like there is no part of her that sadness dwells. She has no mannerisms that show damage of any kind; she's perfection right down to her micro-expressions. The boys follow her with their eyes, even the ones who don't tend to notice girls. I'd sell my soul just to be her for one day, to walk in those shoes instead of my own. If that's envy I don't care. How fair is it to be born so ordinary and then be judged for wanting more?
When I look over at Olivia I get a jab in the ribs from Emma. "Envy ain't pretty," she says and keeps writing. I get on with my work but I can't help looking over at Olivia's hair, black against her brown skin. I get another jab; "Your face looks constipated, forget Olivia and be yourself."
I hated her with a huge passion. Her presence buzzed around me like a fly that I could not swat. She had designer clothes, lived in a mansion. She had everything. And there was me. A boring old school child with no special qualities.
Envy was a good way of saying how I felt about her--the prima donna and me, a plain middle school girl.
Envy is the art of counting another man's blessings instead of your own
I stared at her my eyes were filled with hate, in one of her hands was a plum purple bag and in the other the hand of the most popular boy in school, oh how I envied her
Jayne perused her social media page. Betty had new shoes from that designer store all the girls talked about and Tina's man had bought her a bunch of roses. She clicked "like" on both. Dave hadn't bought her flowers in a while, maybe there was something wrong. Perhaps she should drop some hints. Scrolling down there were Clara's vacation photos, gorgeous, she clicked "like" again but by now there was a tense feeling she couldn't shake. She kept on scrolling, adverts from companies and posts of grinning friends, all so happy. Rachel had a new hair do. She paused to look at her hair in the mirror and just as quickly looked away again. It was frumpy and dull. She checked her messages, no-one had replied to her messages in the past few minutes. They were online though, she could see that. She closed her laptop and headed out to the coffee shop, she could book a hair appointment at the salon next door for some cool new colours. Everyone just loved those pictures: "OMG," "WOW", "So cute xxx
Liam is grade A: grade A in school, body and witty personality. The girls drool and vie for the tiniest slivers of his attention. He could have any girl he wants and still he works hard at school and volunteers at church youth group. He's all about family, marriage and integrity. You can guess how much that makes him all the more alluring. I just want one of his skills, just one. How fair is it he won every lottery out there - genetic, personality and family. The more I dwell on the notion of Liam the blacker my heart, the more I want him to fail and be miserable. Last week after science class he tossed me a twinkie, my favourite, and I stumbled on the thank-you. It came out like the cry of a strangled chicken rather than a man's voice. Mom says he was trying to be nice, maybe I can be his friend. I swear if she starts being his "groupie" too I'm gonna kill him.