Blothces is a very serious decese. As it can kill and harm you for life. I don’t really known how I came across blotches in the first place, I just know that I do not want them. As a first time mom I would die if I got it.
blotches, blotches are the things people care most about
when they lose their blotches hell breaks lose
one day peter lost his blotch, and when he noticed it was missing
hij tryed to kill himself but then luckly a friend interrupted him
telling him he left his blotch at his place…
thank god he servived
He had blotches down his legs. People stared. People watched. He felt as if the whole world was staring at him when really it was about 15 people. The weight of the world was on his shoulders.
I dont know what is blotches. I’m brazilian, and I wanna be a writer someday. A great writer. A great writer who make people think and cry. I don’t know what is blotches, anyway….
blotches rhyme with watches..
i don’t know what it means..
but i’ll try to stay keen..
they said,don’t think and just write..
but right now, i really don’t sound bright
“Goddamnit!” she screamed at herself in the mirror. A few other women in the bathroom turned to stare at her, but quickly returned to their own business. Her eye makeup — the elaborate layering of eyeliner and eye shadow — had gotten smeared and blotched all over her face when she started crying. This would take ages to fix.
They had started appearing all over his body. First on his arm, then on his chest, now they covered most of his skin. They stung, and little stinking pustules began to emerge as the days past. “Maybe” he thought “you can’t really get superpowers from rolling around in toxic waste.”
There were blotches of red on the sleeve of her shirt. She had bug bites and was a habitual picker, so they had started bleeding. She watched as the blood started to soak through her shirt. It soaked through as if it had a purpose.
I had blotches on my skin. Oh my god, I screamed. Mom help me, I have blotches all over my face. How will I go to school now? My friends will think I am the ugliest monster ever! Mom said, don’t worry about it, try on this new anti blotches cream I got. After I put it on, there were even more blotches, and I cried.
My eyes sweat, as the emotion wakes
Inside;
Chopin In-kind;
Let the treble allegro tempo,
Run wild and drop subtly to a bass cleft
Monologue;
Whisper gently into this shallow heart;
Blotch the sun, draw the drapes.
What the hell is blotches? I was expecting a normal word, but maybe it is a normal word – I’m not to good in English.
It seems like the word clothes, just scrambled. What to do?
The blotches on his shirt were visible. How was he going to explain to his parents? No, the question was, was this even explainable? What he had done just back there, was something he had never imagined in his dreams thought that he was capable of. It was inhumane, simply shocking that he had just been there, holding that knife. Oh no… where was that knife now? Did he dispose of it neatly? He didn’t remember. He also had to check for blood anywhere else. Maybe on his pants? Maybe a bit on his shoes, leaving a trail of blood leading to his house? Most disturbingly, he was still unable to answer the question “why” for himself. Why did he do that? Was it simply the savage feeling in every man’s heart? Was it really that simple?
the blotches on my camera represent the raindrops that are falling, they soak my skin and seep into my hair. My camera can’t focus and my shot is no longer there…. i will never find it again
I don’t like that word. It makes me felike I don’t like it. I don’t like randomwords in that way. Is 60 seconds up yet. ‘m drunk sorry. Goign to eat kamjatang now. Good luck from Kroea! Hmmm… porn is taking a long time :) JK but really it is. Santa is by my computer for presants I think. How about that.
The angry red blotches on Candice’s face betrayed the fact that she’d had one too many Kir Royales. She crossed her legs on the barstool and lent over to Richard. “I’ve always liked you
Memories, crooked, slide up my thigh, through the pores of my shorts, between the stitching of my old underwear, and then melt on my most ugly, sacred places. They leave blotches of what was and what I wanted to be was and what I wanted to have been, but wasn’t.
I hate blotches. That’s why he doesn’t like me. I hate them because they make things so imperfect. I love them because they make things so imperfect. Blotches? Like splothces. With a B. I think one day somebody will appreciate my blotches, appreciate how we all have them. A blotch? What is a blotch anyway. I know people wonder about it. I know people act like they know what certain words mean, when they really don’t.
Blotches! Sometimes I see them everywhere. Especially when I’m tired or hormonal. I see blotches in my house,my family,my relationships,my choices. I hate blotches! Why can i only see them when I’m too tired to try to fix them?
All over my paper. They smeared and sploshed, covering my most precious works of art. No magic could erase, nor could my memory bring back what had once previously ruled my desk. The cat was now out of the house. Permanently. Although i knew that as soon as she would start crying, my pity would bring her back in. It was her fault the fresh ink was scorn across my pages. All that was left were hyroglyphics of a past masterpiece. She could never be forgiven, nor could my job, for I am an author, and my workplace, each page. No money could replace, no consolidation would fix, those damned blotches….
It was middle school. I was in the middle of American History with Mrs. Green. I hated that class so much. And as I was hoping that something would happen for it to end, I got randomly called out of the class by a small, short blonde woman. She directed me to the room across the hall and she sat me down in order to conduct a special test.
Blotches of red covered her tear-stained cheeks. Her crystal blue tears were streaming down her face, landing in tiny pools among the wrinkles of her clothing.
Surely, this wasn’t the end. Not for real.
It was too much to bear. The pain was manifesting itself as a physical symptom. She switched her weight; unfolded her legs and sat up straighter.
“There has to be something I can do to make this right,” she thought. “It can’t just…”
Her thoughts faded away, just as her connection with him had.
The last time I saw blotches, she was sitting on the front mat. I should have suspected something was wrong when she didn’t wag her tail to greet me. I don’t think she knew who I was. It was scary.
Itchy, red, irritating little marks that come from practically nowhere and appear all over your body. Nasty and gross, all in one. Don’t you just hate those blotches?
I hate two things about the women that I try to hook up with: bad teeth and blotchy skin. I don’t know why. They can be the nicest, funniest girls that I know but I will hate them for it. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I hate the things that I could be.
Blotches on his face marked his story like fingerprints on a wineglass. Shining, imperfect, but his alone. One from his childhood when his little brother who, while trying to teach him the secrets of vomiting on command, accidentally knocked him into the bathtub.
Like the stars in the ephemeral night sky, her timeless visage featured imperfections and blemishes. She was ravishing nonetheless, but her insecurities had plagued her mind and twisted her vision of beauty. Believing herself an abomination, she stole her grace away from the world and lived in fear. If only I could have spent more time with her before she departed… let me know if your heart is still beating.
instead of ink blotches across the paper, i get ugly words typed across the screen. backspace backspace backspace. sometimes i miss the way things used to be, how am i supposed to crumple up and throw away a mac…
Blothces is a very serious decese. As it can kill and harm you for life. I don’t really known how I came across blotches in the first place, I just know that I do not want them. As a first time mom I would die if I got it.
Blotches reveal more than people give them credit for. Better keep your stuff clean
blotches, blotches are the things people care most about
when they lose their blotches hell breaks lose
one day peter lost his blotch, and when he noticed it was missing
hij tryed to kill himself but then luckly a friend interrupted him
telling him he left his blotch at his place…
thank god he servived
He had blotches down his legs. People stared. People watched. He felt as if the whole world was staring at him when really it was about 15 people. The weight of the world was on his shoulders.
I dont know what is blotches. I’m brazilian, and I wanna be a writer someday. A great writer. A great writer who make people think and cry. I don’t know what is blotches, anyway….
blotches rhyme with watches..
i don’t know what it means..
but i’ll try to stay keen..
they said,don’t think and just write..
but right now, i really don’t sound bright
“Goddamnit!” she screamed at herself in the mirror. A few other women in the bathroom turned to stare at her, but quickly returned to their own business. Her eye makeup — the elaborate layering of eyeliner and eye shadow — had gotten smeared and blotched all over her face when she started crying. This would take ages to fix.
blotches is curable.. and so is your life if you fail.. :)
They had started appearing all over his body. First on his arm, then on his chest, now they covered most of his skin. They stung, and little stinking pustules began to emerge as the days past. “Maybe” he thought “you can’t really get superpowers from rolling around in toxic waste.”
The blotches on my skin were nothing compared to what I harbored underneath.
Anger, jealousy, rage, lust.
All the disfigures and discolorations that stain the blood and bone underneath.
THOSE are the blotches that destroy me.
Yuck, red, itchy, awful. Why me or you or him or her. Is it embarrassment, reaction, reaction to action? Why?
There were blotches of red on the sleeve of her shirt. She had bug bites and was a habitual picker, so they had started bleeding. She watched as the blood started to soak through her shirt. It soaked through as if it had a purpose.
It made her wish she could say the same.
Blotches Blotches.
In society?
In our homes?
What happened to us?
Are we nothing
but
Blotches?
I give up on you.
I had blotches on my skin. Oh my god, I screamed. Mom help me, I have blotches all over my face. How will I go to school now? My friends will think I am the ugliest monster ever! Mom said, don’t worry about it, try on this new anti blotches cream I got. After I put it on, there were even more blotches, and I cried.
The pink splats on her arms were obvious for all to see. Mottled blotches contrasting against the white cotton of her simple summer dress.
I have no idea what blotches are, but I like the word. It is fun to say and it sound very funny when said outloud. I love funny word. I really do.
My eyes sweat, as the emotion wakes
Inside;
Chopin In-kind;
Let the treble allegro tempo,
Run wild and drop subtly to a bass cleft
Monologue;
Whisper gently into this shallow heart;
Blotch the sun, draw the drapes.
What the hell is blotches? I was expecting a normal word, but maybe it is a normal word – I’m not to good in English.
It seems like the word clothes, just scrambled. What to do?
The blotches on his shirt were visible. How was he going to explain to his parents? No, the question was, was this even explainable? What he had done just back there, was something he had never imagined in his dreams thought that he was capable of. It was inhumane, simply shocking that he had just been there, holding that knife. Oh no… where was that knife now? Did he dispose of it neatly? He didn’t remember. He also had to check for blood anywhere else. Maybe on his pants? Maybe a bit on his shoes, leaving a trail of blood leading to his house? Most disturbingly, he was still unable to answer the question “why” for himself. Why did he do that? Was it simply the savage feeling in every man’s heart? Was it really that simple?
Blotches can mar the appearance of ones face. if your’e having a bad day a blotch can make you want to hide under the duvet.
the blotches on my camera represent the raindrops that are falling, they soak my skin and seep into my hair. My camera can’t focus and my shot is no longer there…. i will never find it again
I don’t like that word. It makes me felike I don’t like it. I don’t like randomwords in that way. Is 60 seconds up yet. ‘m drunk sorry. Goign to eat kamjatang now. Good luck from Kroea! Hmmm… porn is taking a long time :) JK but really it is. Santa is by my computer for presants I think. How about that.
Idon’t even know what this word means. I’m italian and, yeah, i don’t really know what “blotches” are. I will search it on the dictionary, like now!
The blotches of my pen were the mirrors of my soul.
The blotches of ink in my paper reflects the stain of my personality.
The angry red blotches on Candice’s face betrayed the fact that she’d had one too many Kir Royales. She crossed her legs on the barstool and lent over to Richard. “I’ve always liked you
Memories, crooked, slide up my thigh, through the pores of my shorts, between the stitching of my old underwear, and then melt on my most ugly, sacred places. They leave blotches of what was and what I wanted to be was and what I wanted to have been, but wasn’t.
I hate blotches. That’s why he doesn’t like me. I hate them because they make things so imperfect. I love them because they make things so imperfect. Blotches? Like splothces. With a B. I think one day somebody will appreciate my blotches, appreciate how we all have them. A blotch? What is a blotch anyway. I know people wonder about it. I know people act like they know what certain words mean, when they really don’t.
Blotches! Sometimes I see them everywhere. Especially when I’m tired or hormonal. I see blotches in my house,my family,my relationships,my choices. I hate blotches! Why can i only see them when I’m too tired to try to fix them?
All over my paper. They smeared and sploshed, covering my most precious works of art. No magic could erase, nor could my memory bring back what had once previously ruled my desk. The cat was now out of the house. Permanently. Although i knew that as soon as she would start crying, my pity would bring her back in. It was her fault the fresh ink was scorn across my pages. All that was left were hyroglyphics of a past masterpiece. She could never be forgiven, nor could my job, for I am an author, and my workplace, each page. No money could replace, no consolidation would fix, those damned blotches….
It was large and black. I hadn’t seen anything like it…it was big
It was middle school. I was in the middle of American History with Mrs. Green. I hated that class so much. And as I was hoping that something would happen for it to end, I got randomly called out of the class by a small, short blonde woman. She directed me to the room across the hall and she sat me down in order to conduct a special test.
Blotches of red covered her tear-stained cheeks. Her crystal blue tears were streaming down her face, landing in tiny pools among the wrinkles of her clothing.
Surely, this wasn’t the end. Not for real.
It was too much to bear. The pain was manifesting itself as a physical symptom. She switched her weight; unfolded her legs and sat up straighter.
“There has to be something I can do to make this right,” she thought. “It can’t just…”
Her thoughts faded away, just as her connection with him had.
The last time I saw blotches, she was sitting on the front mat. I should have suspected something was wrong when she didn’t wag her tail to greet me. I don’t think she knew who I was. It was scary.
Itchy, red, irritating little marks that come from practically nowhere and appear all over your body. Nasty and gross, all in one. Don’t you just hate those blotches?
I hate two things about the women that I try to hook up with: bad teeth and blotchy skin. I don’t know why. They can be the nicest, funniest girls that I know but I will hate them for it. I don’t know what it is. Maybe I hate the things that I could be.
Blotches on his face marked his story like fingerprints on a wineglass. Shining, imperfect, but his alone. One from his childhood when his little brother who, while trying to teach him the secrets of vomiting on command, accidentally knocked him into the bathtub.
Like the stars in the ephemeral night sky, her timeless visage featured imperfections and blemishes. She was ravishing nonetheless, but her insecurities had plagued her mind and twisted her vision of beauty. Believing herself an abomination, she stole her grace away from the world and lived in fear. If only I could have spent more time with her before she departed… let me know if your heart is still beating.
on paper and blotches on lives
instead of ink blotches across the paper, i get ugly words typed across the screen. backspace backspace backspace. sometimes i miss the way things used to be, how am i supposed to crumple up and throw away a mac…