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I think my life so far can be summed up by one long and simple sigh. Sure, pain and misery have added some excitement into the mix, but consistent pain and misery have calloused my spirit and now even the most terrible events leave me unsurprised and bored. I'm ready for something absolutely invigorating. Something to release all of the optimism residing in me. How about some love? A meaningful hug to break some emotional barriers with one gentle squeeze. A loving kiss to rid my lips of their habitual bitterness. A passionate fuck to rid me of this lethargy.
We met in a chat room. We got to know each other fairly well. We met for coffee. We talked about spirituality, psoriasis, and death. We went for a ride in your car. We wound up at your apartment. We pretended to watch TV for a while on your daybed. We ate popcorn. We pretended to watch TV some more. I didn't want to become emotionally attached to you so I stupidly agreed to fool around with you. You're a great kisser. I am surprisingly not emotionally attached. You're lucky. I had my first casual sex encounter tonight. I'm happy.
I look around cautiously, look straight into the black bulbous cameras that protrude from the ceiling, turn my back to them, and mime putting some nearby item into my inside jacket pocket through the open zipper. Then, with a terribly guilty look on my face, I close my jacket and make a B-line for the Kmart doors. Five minutes later I find myself in the security office with some muscular security officer with his hand up my ass, searching for the "goods". At this point, I throw the charade by groaning out a triumphant "Fooled ya!" and head to Walmart.
The day I found God I wasn't "looking handsome" in a pew next to my Baba in church, and it wasn't when that creepy religious lady in the park coerced me into asking Jesus into my heart. It happened rather suddenly on a drizzly day when I was fifteen. I sat depressed on my favourite park bench by the lake, contemplating suicide. My sexuality was tearing me apart from the inside out. "I don't want to be gay, God," I said, my voice to the sky. Then there it was – a gorgeous coloured arc. God gave me a rainbow.
To the person who sent me an email saying I shouldn‘t write about my homosexuality so much: I'm sorry – I couldn't hear you over the sound of my boyfriend's testicles slapping my ass as he fucks me. Who the hell are you to decide what I should and should not write? These are
words, not yours, you ignorant, arrogant, fundamentalist, homophobic ass wipe. If you don't like what I write, then avert your eyes, because this teenaged boy is going to sing whatever song he wants until the day his voice is gone from giving too many blowjobs.
I am cozy tonight. Wrapped in blankets and drinking tea, I decided it was a good night to write haiku poems. And here they are...
moonlit snowflakes fall
to a short frozen slumber
on your eyelashes
your quiet breathing
is no particular match
for your rhythmic heart
give me a rainbow
and you'll see all the colours
in my warm thank you
grass under my feet
is home to many creatures
a tiny jungle
tongues bouncing wildly
like two pink, short-stringed yoyos
tired dogs in the shade
clouds shaped like dolphins
play in the calm, airy waves
of cerulean skies
Frankly, I find the 100 Words Message Board to be a bit blah.
What are your favourite books? Who is your favourite author? What do you do to get rid of writer's block? Who here is a professional writer?
You know, typical geeky writer stuff. I play along, give my censored two cents worth and go on my merry way. The stuff I would really like to know are things like what gets that riverdame chick off. Or how many dead cats little Brittany has buried in her basement. Lord knows I have a few stories to tell, too.
Imagine my astonishment today when I found a tiny dinghy floating in my glass of water. Inside the miniature boat was a puny man in a yellow slicker who claimed that he was a fisherman lost at sea. We came to an agreement that he would ride in my pocket to the post office, whereupon arrival I would mail him home to the coast of Newfoundland. Unfortunately, I couldn't cover the cost of express air mail so the little bastard let his catch loose in my pants, slid down my leg, and ran away. The stupid fucker gave me crabs!
I call you and you come right over. I see and smell that you have not bathed in a while. Your hair is tousled and your coat is filthy and despite it all, I can't resist feeding your hunger. In your nonchalance you fail to wipe your feet. You dirty, dirty boy. I'm nervous the whole time you're here. If he catches us, he'll kill you. I tell you to leave, but you won't go. You're stubborn and you want more. He lives here, not you. I feel very guilty. I boot you out. I must stop feeding stray cats.
I found her in an alley on my way to the bus stop. A jumper. She lay naked on the asphalt, her body bloody and twisted from the fall. On every square inch of her exposed skin she had written MARCY FISHER in black felt pen. She'd somehow managed to scrawl a few on her back as well. A mirror, I guessed, judging from the backward S's. I took her cold hands into mine, lay alongside her and fell asleep. When I awoke, there was a man standing over us. "What are you doing? Who is this girl?" he asked.
"Achoo!" I turn my head just in time to see that look of surprise and embarrassment in your eyes. You've just sneezed into your hands and I can tell that it was a wet one. You put on a casual facade, but I know that you're panicking inside. What are you going to do? You can't move your hands or everyone on the bus will see the green snot dripping down your chin. But you can't leave your hands up there forever without looking silly, either. You're lucky, lady: I wink as I hand you a tissue from my backpack.
I want to be umpire again but that other faggy kid asks first. I take the next best position in right field, praying that the ball will steer clear of me. No luck: some jock hits a clean one and it heads my way.
Catch it, Brad. Catch it. Catch it so you don't have to throw it.
The ball falls into my glove and bounces onto the grass. Fuck. I hear them swearing. Even the P.E. teacher. "I tried! I
tried!" I yell. I don't attempt a throw. Instead I sob like the big sissy that I am.
Dear Mr. Bantock,
I've recently finished reading the fifth instalment of your "Griffin and Sabine" series. As usual, I found your artwork creative and stunning. But now on to business matters.
When the fuck are you going to end this series? I've spent about $150 for these five books, and I don't know if I'm willing to pay for any more. Quite frankly, Nick, the plot has been going downhill since "The Golden Mean" but you knew everyone would want the complete set like I do.
You should write one more and then quit while you're ahead, you money-grubbing bastard.
I wonder if Holden Caulfield would think I was a phony if I'd known him when he was young. He'd think I was a flit - that's for sure - but would he be able to look past that minor detail and befriend me? Would I "kill" him? I know that every time I read "The Catcher In The Rye" I want to leap into the pages and comfort the guy, run around New York with him. I mean, I love Holden. Who doesn't? I think we have all been in his position at some point in our crazy lives.
One of my favourite writing spots is gone. Well, not gone, just inaccessible now. I used to climb the fire escape of this strip mall downtown and write on its rooftop while looking at everyone walking down below. It was kind of tricky holding my pen and notebook between my teeth while ascending the ladders, but it was worth all the struggle. People do some neat things when they don't know anyone's watching them. But alas, I went there tonight to find inspiration and found only a tall fence around the fire escape. Ladders are one thing, fences are another.
I wonder if on some tiny level I reek of gasoline emissions or the sewage drains of the city. These country people who pass me on the road don't smile or wave to me like they do each other. These country insects swarm around me as if I were a huge mound of rotting garbage. Nobody in the city has complained about my smell. Perhaps all of us city folk have some sort of embedded pheromone or scented aura about us that separates us from these small-town dwellers. Maybe we do stink. People may lie, but flies certainly do not.
Everything in this little town seems so much closer together now. I'd come here when I was small and it would take my short legs about 15 minutes to carry me to the candy store. Now I can easily make the trip in five. I used to need a stool to reach Baba's cookie jar. Now the damn thing is level with my eyes. While I wasn't looking, I grew up. No distance is too great, everything is within my reach. I'm not sure how I feel about this. This town isn't just a town. This town is the world.
"No I'm not."
"I saw you, Brad. What was that one? The zed? Just because you're picking all the shitty letters doesn't mean you can throw them back into the bag."
"I'm not cheating! Why would I cheat? I'm beating you by 70 points!"
"That's probably because you're cheating at keeping score, too."
"You're such a sore loser."
"Loser? Ha! I'd be winning if you were playing fair."
"I'm playing fair! In fact, I let you make words that aren't even real words. For example, lube. Lube isn't a word."
I watched a flying beetle flail its limbs in the air after making a clumsy landing beside me on the bench. She was frantic. She tried stretching out her wings to provide some leverage for her hind legs, but her curved back kept her stranded. I watched these unsuccessful attempts to turn over for a few minutes, all the time imagining I could hear tiny cries for help. Finally, I lent the poor thing a hand (or in this case a finger) and nudged her onto her belly. Sometimes all we need is a good nudge to get going again.
Two cute, little, snack-sharing girls became beasts today when I saw them throw their Fritos bag into the lake. When I informed them of the park's many trash bins, their mother intervened and told me to mind my own business. I was too tired to argue, so I just sadly watched that orange bag drift off into the water until its silhouette was indistinguishable from those of the swimming seagulls. The strangest thing happened on the bike ride home, too. The air suddenly seemed a little rusty, the grass a little more yellow. Everything took on a little orange hue.
A regular downtown lunch hour. Mall security knocks over an elderly man in the process of chasing a young girl who has stolen a CD. The food court attendant has teary eyes as she wipes tray after tray, table after table. Businessmen stroll around in threes, jingling keys in their khaki pockets, arguing over which secretary is most bangable. A mother yells at her crying son who had just a minute ago run in front of a moving bus. In the park, green clouds hover over the hemp-clad hacky sack players. A skinny boy writes candid observations in his notebook.
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How many tabs of acid would it take to ruin my graduation party? Hmm... A punch bowl holds about eight litres of liquid, and I figure I'd need a tab for every half litre to keep the drug concentration high enough for any fun results. Acid is five bucks per tab. That means all I need is $80 maximum. Not a bad price for ruining a few dreams. I'm sorry, Bobby, you can't be a pilot anymore. Haha! No, I wouldn't do such a terrible thing. I'll just have to settle with requesting a few Grateful Dead tunes that night.
You've earned your scholarship money - there's no doubting that. You deserve to get into that good post-secondary institute. You should be proud of yourself. However, you have no right to tell everyone "below" you that they can kiss your ass because you're going to be some corporate lawyer one day. If you think money is success, you're sadly mistaken. I hope you still have this pompous, I'm-better-than-you attitude at our 10-year reunion, because let me tell you that there'll be a decade's worth of bile in the back of my throat waiting to splatter right in your Botoxed-up face.
I caught an
on my tongue. Thousands of tiny, cut-out letters fell silently from the sky. Soon cut-out words came down. Smaller, then larger -
were just a few of the many that fluttered around. Then the pages started floating down, catching the air like feathers do. I picked one up. It was a sheet from "Oliver Twist". Another from "Fahrenheit 451". It was all so phenomenal, so marvellous. It wasn't long before entire books fell. The beautiful dream ended when a copy of "War and Peace" landed on my head and jolted me awake.
My nervous fingers sweep the soft hair away from your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. In my mind, I thank you for not commenting on my trembling. I stare at your lovely face, now exposed, for quite a while. There is a moment when I forget what comes next. You're the one who leans in, not me. In my mind, I'm thanking you. Your smooth, full lips stir my emotions so much that tears come. Can you tell this is my first encounter with female lips? Of course, but you don't speak - you just continue kissing. Thank you.
Last summer, I had this volunteer job painting faces at various children's parties and other events. After a bit of practice, I could do anything from miniature cheek art to dramatic, full-faced disguises. I remember one afternoon where this little boy plopped on the stool in front of me and shyly asked if I could make him a into princess. Behind him stood a scowling father and a beaming mother. "Princess it is!" I exclaimed, smiling. Five minutes later, I nearly cried when I saw the look of delight in that boy's eyes as he gaped in the hand mirror.
"Hi. My name's Frankie. I'm new to this school. My real name's really Francis, but I go by Frankie because Francis sounds like a
's name. My friend, Ken, says he has an aunt named Francis. Once he tried to be funny by calling me Aunty Francis, but I got back at him. When he wasn't looking, I ran up behind him and body checked him to the ground. He scraped his face on the cement and got a bloody nose. That's all. Thanks."
"Why the silly speech, Margaret? You were supposed to tell the class about your book."
Patricia donned a sleek, beaded gown for the event. She'd had her hair done that afternoon and had just finished applying her makeup in the pristine fashion she thought appropriate for such occasions. After tidying up her vanity, she stepped out onto the patio and walked calmly to the large, circular pool that they'd just installed last summer. The last thing she noticed before jumping in was the dazzling effect the underwater lights had on the beads of her dress. She let the ripples of the water smooth out before she fully immersed herself and inhaled. And choked. And inhaled.
What is Mom going to think when she reads this batch? I know for a fact that she has read my February batch, a batch that didn't really contain anything that I'd be weary of her reading. In this batch, however, I've included some entries that I would rather not have her see. Some of these entries are fact, some are fiction, all spawned from my fingertips. I wonder if she'll be able to distinguish my reality from my imagination. Probably not. Nobody but I can, really. There is a strange sort of power in that. Any writer would agree.
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