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    knows who she is, inside and out. She wouldn't imitate the love, as though she were the only child. Jenkins, I learned the deeper meaning of what she. 1 - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read online for free. InA Deeper Love Inside, readers will encounter their favorite characters from The. Read here verbatimura.gq?book= Read [PDF] Download A Deeper Love Inside: The Porsche Santiaga Story.

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    A Deeper Love Inside Pdf

    5 days ago A Deeper Love Inside The Porsche Santiaga Story - [Free] A Deeper Love Inside Santiaga Story [PDF] [EPUB] The Coldest Winter Ever is an. A deeper love inside is written in the words of porsche santiaga winters sharp tongued quick witted younger sister porsche worships winter a natural born. Issuu is a digital publishing platform that makes it simple to publish magazines, catalogs, newspapers, books, and more online. Easily share.

    A deeper love inside the porsche santiaga story by sister souljah pdf A Deeper Love Inside is intended to be the answer to Souljah's last literary classic, The Coldest Winter Ever; where the main character of that novel was the exemplary product of her harsh environment and all of her manipulative behaviors were recounted, but her little sister Porsche proves to be the exception. Brand New Paperback. Deeper Mounting Hardware Fishfinders. Deeper Systems with Transducers. Fierce, raw, and filled with adventure and emotional intensity, A Deeper Love Inside is an unforgettable comingofage story in the words of Porsche Santiaga, Winters younger sister.

    Juno's stepmom stands up for her. Paulie's family rejects her. The family she thought was perfect falls apart in front of her? But what's the major lesson in the theme? So once Juno realizes this platitude, she knows who's supposed to get her baby. The person who will love it and give it the family it deserves; Vanessa.

    Deeper Love Inside Chap. 1

    Come on, that's so beautiful. The exceptional dialogue in Juno Look, when you mention Juno someone always comes back with "Honest to blog? Because they have no heart or imagination. Look at the way the dialogue is sparse and leaves plenty of white space on the page. It sets its tone and never lets up. Even the action lines are indicative of the story's tone. We talk about "voice" here. This is what "voice" looks like.

    It oozes control over us while we read. We are in Cody's mind and seeing this story through her intentions. The screenplay doesn't just pop when there is awkward flirting. It completely breaks you down in the fighting scenes as well.

    Another thing the screenplay to Juno does so well is work with bookends. It all began with a chair. And that's how it ends too. This clever way of telling the story gives us a sense of completion that makes us think the story and chapter have officially closed. While the chair isn't the official last scene of the movie, it does mark the entryway into a new story for Juno. One where she gets to be a kid again. This time, with a family. How Juno lit Diablo Cody's career on fire It's hard to understate how famous Diablo Cody became in without the real social media influence we see surrounding films today.

    Here's her Oscar speech, which is inspiring, short, and one of the best. But how do you get to the Academy Awards from the blogging world? It was very freeing. I started blogging every day and when I started blogging about stripping and the sex industry, suddenly surprise surprise I got a huge audience! For some reason people on the internet are interested in sex — who knew that?!

    My blog traffic went through the roof and one day I got an email from this guy who said he was a big fan of my blog and he was also a producer in Hollywood and he said I think you should try writing a movie. I hit upon the idea for Juno. I cant lie. But sometimes, quietly, I was yearning for Poppa and Momma to pay more attention to me simply because their love for me was astrue and as strong as my love for each of them.

    I didnt want to have to beg them for love. I didnt like the idea of having to be annoyingto get attention or having to make a dramatic or phony scene. I hate pretense.

    Winter was a queen in my younger eyes because she didnt have to ask for love, but she was always receiving it. When she did receive it, no one cared if she returned it. They loved her whether she loved them or not. She didnt seek attention. She commanded it. Winter had the best of everything without working or obeying. Her friends, who were coming and calling constantly, surrounded my sister.

    Even my young friends wanted to grow up to be Winter. My old aunties wish they could be young again only to try to look and live like Winter. More than that, in my younger eyes, Winter was above pain and. In the chaos of any crisis she walked in looking good, stylish, clean, and untouched. Shed shift her pretty eyes right and then to the left and come up with the swiftest plan, which only she knew the details of. I was home when they arrested my father.

    Winter wasnt. I was left at home when they arrested my mother. I was home when the kidnappers, social services, snatched up me, Lexy, and Mercedes. We three sisters were separated and trapped in the system. In fact, Winter and Momma came to check me one time at a state-supervised visit, where I was being held and watched over by the kidnappers.

    When they walked in, my beautiful mommas head was shaved bald. Shocked for some seconds, I still wanted to hug her and have her hug me back tight enough to signal to me silently that she knew that this shit was all wrong. That she would take me back home with her. Mommas eyes were filled with rage and sorrow.

    Winter looked rich. She was sparkling and free, like she had a thousand little lightbulbs outlining her entire body. Her caramel-colored skin was glowing. Her hair was fresh, soft, long, and second only to her pretty face. She looked unbreakable, untouched, and unaffected. Then it was confirmed in my eyes on that exact day, that Winter was straight royalty, above everyone else who suffered on a regular, including now my momma and me.

    That so-called visit was the first time I saw my mother and sister after being tooken, and the last time I saw both of them together ever again. I miss Momma so much I ache, like when you have vomited to the end and theres nothing else to throw up. Only a thick yellow fluid comes out, that one nurse said is called bile.

    Have you ever been in the emergency room strapped to a bed, screaming out Momma times, Poppa seventy-seven times, and I want to go home thirtythree times? As for Poppa, six one, light-skinned, strong, and suave with not even a teaspoon of bitch in him, no man on earth is better than him. Momma is like a cup of hot chocolate on a freezing morning. Poppa is like a cup of black tea with a whole lot of heavy cream mixed in. Dark and light, they complemented one another. Winter was the best parts of both of them, all in one.

    I love her, and fuck anybody else who doesnt, no matter his or her reason. Listen when I tell you, I am percent loyalty. If you can count, youd know that theres nothing left over from that. Unique, I know Im different from her, but we sisters. Were full blood related.

    So Im royal. I inherited these looks. Like Winter and Momma, my beauty is undeniable, captivating, and offensive to many. No, Im not light-skinned. Stop that silly shit, as if there is only one shade to be deeply admired. Im honey-brown like an expensive Godiva that can only be downloadd in a specialty shop.

    My browngold eyes are outlined with a thin black line that circles around the pupil, like an exotic bird. When people first notice them, they pause and look again. Every day I fight. Not because of anything I did, just because of who I am naturally. I fight young angry bitches cause they wish they had these same eyes and cant get comfortable until they poke mines out.

    My skin is flawless like satin, or an unaffordable diamond. Im a dancer, not a stuck-up ballerina or a fucking stripper. Back on our Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, block I had an all-girls dance crew. We used to rock. We even won first place at our block party over some girls that was older than us. People were amazed at how our young bodies could bend and move, flow, bounce, and shake like we knew shit we couldnt possibly have known, and experienced shit that none of us had experienced yet.

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    That night, Momma placed her hands on my hips and said I would grow up to be her moneymaker. I liked the feeling that I was doing something that made Momma look my way for more than a few moments, and believe in me. My hair is black. It grew from my own scalp and lays on my back. Momma says its long because Im loved. She says, Other bitches dont know or dont want to keep their daughters hair clean, oiled, combed, conditioned, and clipped.

    Hm... Are You a Human?

    Back then Momma would say, If you see a bald bitch shes unloved. Or, she cut her hair off because she dont want to be loved. Or, she cut it off because she ran up on some rotten love. Me, I know mine is real nice, but I dont worship my hair. I keep it neat and never throw it in nobodys face. Apparently that aint enough.

    In a two-year stretch, I had seventeen fights. Nine of them were brawls over hair, with half-bald bitches with homemade weapons. I fought a conceited ugly girl named Cha-Cha four out of the nine hair fights. In arts n crafts class, I grabbed the one pair of scissors shared by twenty girls and chained to the desktop, and cut off my hair and gave it to her, so she could stop fucking sweating me.

    She wore my hair braided into single box braids on her head the next day. I didnt say anything to her. I had gotten comfortable with my short cut overnight. Then she got mad cause I wasnt mad. So she fought me again.

    The authorities, thats what we call them, they locked me up in isolation for fighting. Every time they act like they dont know what the fight is all about. Even with my wrists locked and my ankles chained, headed to isolation, I dont react. They release me into that little space buttnaked. Then I dance.

    Deeper Love Inside Chap. 1

    Repetition makes my legs beautiful, strong, and tight. I dont eat, so I dont have no body fat. I taught myself to accept hunger, cause people try to use it against you when they think they got something you really need, even if its only a sandwich. I dance until Im drenched. The music plays in my head, sounding crisp like it did back in Brooklyn.

    I stop when I collapse. Then, I wake up in another wing with a tube in my arm and a bad-breath nurse faking concern and whispering something like, You couldve died last night. I close my eyes and wish I had enough fluids in my mouth to spit on her, just to clear my throat. When they would bring me back into the population mix with the rest of the bitches, of them to be exact, Id see most of the girls from my section gasp like they seen a ghost.

    I know certain ones of them wont be happy until they slit my perfect skin open, or at least put a permanent stamp on it. Thats why I plot. In one of the monthly head sessions they make us have, one of my enemies told the therapist that she fights me because I think Im better. I told her she fights me because she thinks Im better. These regular bitches dont get it. Its not my hair or eyes or legs or none of that bullshit that makes me who I am, plain and simple.

    Its that. Im Porsche L. Santiaga, born rich. My daddy was rich. My momma was rich. My sisters were rich. Im not gonna act like a regular bitch when I was born royal. They never had nothing, so they dont know no better. They got nothing to miss. I had a queen-sized bed when I was seven years old.

    Even before then, back in Brooklyn at my sisters sixteenth birthday celebration at Moes, in the dead of the winter season, my whole family was styling. I rocked a three-quarter mink, and mink earmuffs, and a mink muffler instead of gloves.