Below is the text from a paper I wrote for English last year....Be afraid, comrades. Be VERY afraid. Also, I received a 97, so your opinion is invalid.
Angel-like voices. Entrancingly structured faces. Impeccable style. Admirable Humor. These are the reasons why I am irrevocably and obsessively in love with a certain British-Irish boy band. Widely known for their extremely catchy number one hit single, "What makes you beautiful", Brit Award, Number one album in 18 countries and a new unreleased album with a beautiful number one pre-order rate on iTunes, these heartthrobs have not only dominated my heart, parents money, sleep, time and energy; but have been taking over the entire world by storm. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the biggest complication in my fourteen years of existence, One Direction.
At first, my attraction to One Direction seemed like any other minuscule celebrity fascination, until it became an unhealthy obsession. The five boys; Zayn Jawaad Malik, Louis William Tomlinson (pronounced Lew-iee), Liam James Payne, Niall James Horan and Harry Edward Styles, are normally all that runs through my hallow, walnut of a head. Every moment anything extremely random occurs, my brain seems to be wired to lead an indication to them, no matter the situation. For example, often while reading, i get excited thinking that maybe, just maybe, one of the well groomed boys may have also read this book. That itself releases electrfying jitters and massive elegantly colored butterflies soaring through my stomach. My extreme dedication has also reached the irreparable point where even while going shopping, I often find myself in the male section like my mum on black Friday, searching and prying for outfits that they would appear absolutely dashing in, which is pretty much everything.
I've also spent over fifty dollars purchasing merchandise of their angelically chiseled faces printed across the front. I've went from pretending to have a conversation with one of them to unconsciously humming Lady Gaga's 'Papparazzi" like a mad man to my 15" by 12" poster of them super glued and firmly plastered across my beige back wall, which often results in some abnormal face stroking. My parents are concerned, always reminding me to prepare for high school harder and take additional SAT courses, often threatening to simply snip off their ears of if they hear another melodious One Direction song eloquently flowing through the car speakers. As much as I prefer my parents ears' connected to the sides of their head, opposed to in a mahogany frame dangling snugly atop a toasty fire in my father's study, I genuinely cannot overlook their twinkling eyes and boyish grins. My brain indicates to schoolwork, sleep and time management, but my fragile heart dangles from the masculinly manicured fingernails of the boys that are the fabulous One Direction.
The compelling obsession begin with a tap of the subdued play button on my withered iPod, and from then on, my life's been nothing but a mere fantasy. My days pass quite deliberately as I convince myself that I will eventually collide with the gorgeous, quiff headed Zayn Malik at a disparaged coffee shop on a dark, wet afternoon, like those unrealistic films where we then exchange numbers, belatedly get married, hop into a glimmering top down Ferrari, my ebony locks fluttering with the cooling breeze as we speed into the sunset. No, my hopes aren't high at all.
Angel-like voices. Entrancingly structured faces. Impeccable style. Admirable Humor. These are the reasons why I am irrevocably and obsessively in love with a certain British-Irish boy band. Widely known for their extremely catchy number one hit single, "What makes you beautiful", Brit Award, Number one album in 18 countries and a new unreleased album with a beautiful number one pre-order rate on iTunes, these heartthrobs have not only dominated my heart, parents money, sleep, time and energy; but have been taking over the entire world by storm. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the biggest complication in my fourteen years of existence, One Direction.
At first, my attraction to One Direction seemed like any other minuscule celebrity fascination, until it became an unhealthy obsession. The five boys; Zayn Jawaad Malik, Louis William Tomlinson (pronounced Lew-iee), Liam James Payne, Niall James Horan and Harry Edward Styles, are normally all that runs through my hallow, walnut of a head. Every moment anything extremely random occurs, my brain seems to be wired to lead an indication to them, no matter the situation. For example, often while reading, i get excited thinking that maybe, just maybe, one of the well groomed boys may have also read this book. That itself releases electrfying jitters and massive elegantly colored butterflies soaring through my stomach. My extreme dedication has also reached the irreparable point where even while going shopping, I often find myself in the male section like my mum on black Friday, searching and prying for outfits that they would appear absolutely dashing in, which is pretty much everything.
I've also spent over fifty dollars purchasing merchandise of their angelically chiseled faces printed across the front. I've went from pretending to have a conversation with one of them to unconsciously humming Lady Gaga's 'Papparazzi" like a mad man to my 15" by 12" poster of them super glued and firmly plastered across my beige back wall, which often results in some abnormal face stroking. My parents are concerned, always reminding me to prepare for high school harder and take additional SAT courses, often threatening to simply snip off their ears of if they hear another melodious One Direction song eloquently flowing through the car speakers. As much as I prefer my parents ears' connected to the sides of their head, opposed to in a mahogany frame dangling snugly atop a toasty fire in my father's study, I genuinely cannot overlook their twinkling eyes and boyish grins. My brain indicates to schoolwork, sleep and time management, but my fragile heart dangles from the masculinly manicured fingernails of the boys that are the fabulous One Direction.
The compelling obsession begin with a tap of the subdued play button on my withered iPod, and from then on, my life's been nothing but a mere fantasy. My days pass quite deliberately as I convince myself that I will eventually collide with the gorgeous, quiff headed Zayn Malik at a disparaged coffee shop on a dark, wet afternoon, like those unrealistic films where we then exchange numbers, belatedly get married, hop into a glimmering top down Ferrari, my ebony locks fluttering with the cooling breeze as we speed into the sunset. No, my hopes aren't high at all.
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