The findings of the report, titled “It’s Lit,” teach us that PlayStation is cool, #NetflixAndChill is how teens “connect” and video games are wildly popular — just not among teen girls.Google teen study indicates interesting numbers for video games among girls and boys.
Before we dive in, it’s worth noting that some of the data provided are questionable at best.
For example, on page 20 it claims that teens think Google’s Chrome browser is cool because it’s “fast, reliable and easy to use.” And on page four it suggests the company’s failed social network, Google Plus, has nearly as many female teen users as Pinterest. Seriously? Read more. (1:02 PM)
a/n: welcome to me being extra as hell and trying to get my love of writing back. enjoy :-) (this is based off two prompts i found on pinterest btw)
word count: 1,029
There was a boy in your apartment. This particularly boy was sopping wet from head to toe, his dripping dark locks sticking in the droplets that rolled from his thick eyelashes. This boy sported a thin white t-shirt and black basketball shorts, things that were now sticking to his soft honey complexion. This boy sported a devilish grin, one that dared you to either step closer to him or to turn and run. And when you chose the latter option, he was chasing after you, the smacking of his wet footsteps a backtrack to his musical laughter.
He caught you in the hallway, catching you around the waist and spinning you in a circle that drenched both you and your walls. He was accusing you of drenching him with a hose, and you were denying any such accusations with a shrug and a snarky remark about him needing a shower anyway. He sat you down then and you faced him, unafraid suddenly of just how in love with him you relished in dragging your eyes over the plump slope of his lips.
This boy was kissing you now, his damp hands dragging across your cheeks and settling in your hair. His kisses were feverish as he angled your mouth to slot over his again and again. Your hands fell helplessly on the rise of his hips. You couldn’t get away, you didn’t want to get away ever.
And then he was leaving, hastily grabbing his keys and stumbling into his shoes. He was frantic now in a different fashion, his eyes wide as he blubbered, “We can’t. I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t ever do this. I’m sorry.”
There wasn’t a boy in your apartment anymore, not technically. Just you and a text that read; i’m so sorry.