Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Could be you, could be someone else, who the hell knows.
Take the blouse off of Marmaduke and no one gets hurt.
There is no such thing as cleaning, just fuck white shoes, seriously.
In what world does a ranch made out of bacon and hash browns qualify as a famous painting? (Especially when it's clearly a genius one.)
Damn that little beagle and his 1950's morals, encouraging those children to exercise and eat bowls of salad. Can't he see he's a bad influence?!
I thought my circulatory system kept my blood running. Also is it just me or is the right side of the page dripping with sarcasm?
Saturday, September 17, 2011
I don’t think I’m an atheist though, I just don’t know how to get that connection back, or what I really believe in and I don’t know where to start looking for it.
I feel so alone in the spiritual sense. It makes me really sad, I don’t feel like the Gods care about me anymore, everything’s just gone. I don’t really know what to do. I keep telling people I’m a Pagan still because the truth is just too complicated to explain.
It’s been like this for a while now. I was looking for signs to lead me in the correct direction to find my spirituality again, but….it just seems like they’ve stopped and I don’t know where to go from here.
Has anyone ever had a crisis of faith before? What the hell did you do?
I can’t help but think that if I was a Christian this might be easier, ha ha.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
I never gave the characters names other than the woman's name in the beginning, because it never mattered. They didn't need names and I think it would kind of take away from the story if they had names to tell the truth.
The first few sentences I think are a tid bit rough, but I can't think of any other way to start the story, and I'm not sure about a couple of the metaphors. They sound somewhat odd, but I think they fit. Hope you enjoy it.
Wendy Rose was her name. It reminded him of her hair; usually velvety soft and dark red like a bud newly bloomed. Now, however, it was distressed and faded like a wilted petal.
No, wait...her name was not Wendy Rose. He kept forgetting the spelling of it. It was Wendy Roase. This spelling reminded him of a different kind of rose, as in rise. As in the rising in his chest that he felt whenever he viewed this woman he should not love. This woman he knew as a girl, had grown into a broken down trolley of a person. As in the rising of bile in his throat as he watched her kill herself, nice and slow, in front of him time and time again. The rising of dread against the fall of hope when the realization set in that he could not save her from herself and that he, alone, was not enough for her to want to stop.
She had not yet risen from her bed. She stayed entrapped in her stupor, even as he took the needle out of the vein in her arm and loosened the belt to let the blood flow back to the limb. The rise and fall of her chest coinciding with his shortness of breath. He always got this way when he played babysitter for her.
He could have called the cops on her at anytime, but he wouldn't do that to her, couldn't do that to her. He was an enabler in every sense of the word and he wanted to kill himself for that, and for allowing himself and her to live a life that others judged and could not comprehend. A life that endangered them at every living moment.
He left the room to throw away the dirty needle. As he looked into the trash can his eyes grazed over the needles, crumpled tinfoil, used condoms and other refuse, all testaments to the ways one can destroy themselves. The vomit was once again rising quickly. Panicked, he jerkily turned around and grabbed a cup. He turned on the faucet and left the cold water blasting as he continuously gulped it down. On his way back, he heard a low, choking gurgle break the din of silence that enveloped the house. The panic came back with such ferocity, it threatened to destroy him. His body wanted to rush ahead, to run to her, calling an ambulance on his phone along the way. He wanted so badly, but his mind detached and left him behind in a dazed state. He stumbled and slowly lurched forward like a creature from a bad zombie movie.
He leaned against the door frame to catch his breath and couldn't take his eyes off her even though he fought to close them. Standing there, he watched her gasp and convulse, her body doing some sort of seductive macabre dance. He snapped out of his daze much too late as her convulsions started to subside. Forgetting all about the phone in his pocket, he raced for the phone by her side, dropping to his knees on the dirty floor. There on the ground he met her dead gaze. When he looks back on this moment, he will remember how peaceful she looked dead, and how broken and sullied, with the myriad of holes and bruises on her arms and scars on her face. She was like a dirty pin cushion someone had thrown away. He'll also wonder if he waited to help on purpose.
Dialing 911, he stared at her. When the operator picked up he mumbled the address and the words, "She's dead, help me.", into the phone and then hung up. He quickly turned his back to her and sat beside the bed. Curling up his knees he laid his head on them crying like a child, hugging himself, rocking back and forth waiting for the ambulance to come; waiting for them to finally relieve him of his burden.