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Why do women always cry at the most inopportune moments? I do it too, and I hate it. I'm sitting in my living room watching some flashy reality TV show and nothing emotional is happening. I just bust out in random tears. The disgusting, runny nose, blotchy eyes kind. For no reason. Why? Because my body decided that just because I have a vagina I needed to release a flood of tears. The only upside to this is that I was alone when it happened. I just hope that the next time it occurs I'm not at work or shopping.
I hate working retail during the holidays. Customers get ridiculously cranky during this time of year. They want everything and they want it for free. A guy came in and bought a computer. He asked, completely serious, that since he bought a $1700 computer, could he get a free gaming system? When we told him no, he got this shocked look on his face. This guy really thought that we would give away a $400 item. Come on people! How do you think we make money? If we just started giving everything away, we wouldn't make money and would close.
to be pretty
to be successful
to live a full life
to be good at something... anything
to make you laugh
to make you envious
to bring a smile to your face
to love deeply
to create something that is all my own
to be joyful and carefree
to be loved
to be held
to share passionate moments with you
to love with all my heart
to love the face I see in the mirror
to live in reality
to think for myself
I need... I need...
Will I ever feel what falling in love is like? Will I ever feel like Iíve fulfilled my lifeís purpose? Will I ever know what my lifeís purpose is? What is my future? What do I want to grow up to be? Shouldnít I know that by now? I feel lost and Iím getting panicky. I have to figure out what I want to do and I need to figure it out fast. Maybe I need to go on one of those spiritual quests where I figure out whatís inside me, waiting to bloom...
Don't read these. PLEASE don't read these. They're horrible. I'm an atrocious writer. The only reason I'm doing this is because I thought it would be a fun and improve my writing skills. Give me a college research paper to write and I'm dandy. I can tell you the pros and cons of genetic engineering. I can even give you an entire paper on the possibility of pigs flying. (I did write a paper on that in high school. Got a 98.) But make me do creative writing or journal style, I end up sounding thirteen. It's a curse. CURSE!
How do I make you notice me? How do I make you love me? I tried jokes to make you laugh. I changed my hair hoping you would notice. I even tried the oils!
But nothing works. Nothing.
It's not you I want. Not really. I just want someone, anyone to see me. To look at all my faults and still be able to say I love you.
But how can someone love me, when I can't love myself? Who will be able to see past the pale skin and flabby body, if I can't?
I miss that magical place where I spent a carefree, work-free, people-free week. That place full of sunshine, stupid jokes and stupid movies.
I miss having no worries apart from the diminishing food supplies, which was easily remedied. I miss the walks through the thorn infested desert. The researching, planning and execution of making our scented oils. Treating our stuffed...animals, for lack of a better term, like real people. I miss the sight of rotting pumpkins and home made decorations.
I want to go back there. To not have to deal with the chaos of my world.
Awkward. That one word describes me. I can make any normal situation awkward.
Insert me into any conversation, let me speak one word or phrase. BAM! Instant stares and silence. No conversation can go back to being normal after I have interrupted it. It's guaranteed every time. Why? Because I always, ALWAYS say the wrong thing. I have a way with words, sure. But, unfortunately, it's not the right way.
This regrettable talent has made me socially awkward and shy. Thus, not many people have gotten to know me. Many cannot get past my awkward nature to really SEE me.
Ever since I was a kid, I've loved the moon. I've always felt this connection with her. Yes, I think of it as a "her". To me she's always had this very magical, very feminine presence. She's nurturing and loving, like a mother.
Some nights she is so full of sorrow it makes my heart break. Maybe that's the reason behind our connection. Sadness. I was always a sad child, unpopular and overlooked.
I would sit outside and stare up at her. I'd tell her my darkest secrets. All my hopes and fears. I knew she listened.
She always listens.
Have keep going. No stopping. Chaos. Children crying. People laughing. Music everywhere.
This is what I live for. No time for a breath. Feet aching. Can't sit down. Throat dry. Rasping out that last word, hoping to get water soon.
"Sell, sell, sell," chanting in the back of my mind. The exchange of money. This is what my day is like. This is my world. I love it. I hate it. I want to leave. But...
What would I do? Where would I go? I love these people. I love this place. I am so overwhelmed. What can I do?
Oh, books. They are my one true love. I can spend days, weeks, living in a world created by someone else. I love getting to know characters.
Watching them make mistakes, seeing their greatest achievements. Hating them. Falling in love with them. I have fallen in love with so many fictional characters over the years.
But when will I fall in love with a real person? One who I can actually touch, hold, kiss? Will I ever find someone who will win my heart? Or have I buried myself so deep in fiction that I will never find a way out?
I want the life of a Sci-Fi movie heroine. I don't care if it's aliens, zombies, vampires, werewolves, whatever. I just want some action and excitement.
And since I'm obsessed with such things, I would rather it be of the supernatural/paranormal kind. If I have to run from zombies and live by the double tap rule, I will.
My life has no pizazz in it at all. I NEED pizazz. I need excitement. I don't know how long I can live in this monotonous life. I want something new, something different to spice up my world.
Maybe a faery prince? Eh?
SURPRISE! Guess what I found in my bed? No. Not Ryan Reynolds naked. I can only dream. No, what I found in my bed after a long, long, very long day at work were three very loud persons. Well, make that two and a half very loud persons. My brother, sister-in-law and niece. It was a pleasant surprise. Mostly. I haven't seen them in a while, so it was nice. Seeing my niece always makes me smile. She is the most ridiculous little girl ever. But she's cute, so that makes up for the orneriness. I love my family.
What is love really? Is it that fluttery feeling in your stomach? Is it gentle kisses? Romantic walks on the beach? Cuddling under the stars? Or is it uncaged passion? All fire and lust?
Whatever it is, I have seen it do more harm than good. Growing up, I believed it to be something sweet and blissful that would just fall out of the sky one day to land in my heart.
I was so naive.
Love is harsh and grating. The only thing you get out of love is anguish so brutal, it will leave you raw and bleeding.
I am told I am a good friend. I listen. I protect. I love.
But am I really? No. I am selfish. I am mean.
Why does no one notice? Because I hide. I hide behind kindness. When I give "heartfelt" advice, I'm not thinking of helping you. I'm actually calling you a fucking moron. "Get a grip!" I'm screaming in my head while smiling sincerely at you.
I don't want you telling me I'm a good person. I want you to really look at me and
. Scream at me. Call me names. But see.
Passion. Teeth scraping. Nails cutting into flesh. Pounding. Fingers bruising my hips. Fire everywhere. No words. Just harsh groans and hot breath.
This is what I want. What I need.
You give me sweet words. Gentle love.
This is not what I want. I want to throw you away. But I can't get rid of you. My heart holds on tightly, while my head and body push with the strength of a thousand men.
I scoff at those sweet, sweet words. I cherish them. I laugh at your stupid love. I hold it in my heart. I cry in rage and beat my fist against you. You hold me.
I hate you.
I love you.
I am running. My legs scream in agony. Breath scrapes my throat.
Why am I running? I am running from her. The girl with fire for hair and glowing green eyes. She is fierce and beautiful.
Why is she chasing me?
"Wait!" She cries. "Stop!"
I can't help but obey that enchanting voice. I turn toward her. She is magnificent. My knees buckle. I stare as she lays her hand on my cheek.
"Why are you running from me child?"
"Your beauty frightens me."
"I want to be you," I whisper.
"You are," she says, evaporating.
Life has become blurry. I'm on the floor with no recollection as to how I got there.
I laugh until I have no breath and tears fall down my face. The world is funny here.
I dance in the rain. I am happy. A bit discombobulated but happy.
I am carefree and joyful. Life is good when I'm in this place.
I don't want to stop.
I stumble and my speech is slurred, but that's ok.
I poison my body with rich drink, but I do it to make myself feel good. There's nothing wrong with that.
A deep Scottish burr whispering naughty fairy tales in my ear.
Broad hands that know all the right places to touch, caress.
A sensuous mouth that expertly uses lips, tongue and teeth to kiss, lick, nip.
Stubble on a masculine jaw that erotically chafes sensitive skin.
Warm breath that makes goose-flesh rise all over my body.
Hard, ripped muscles under silky smooth skin.
Immense shoulders that surround me as the pleasure peaks.
I rake my nails down a hard back and tight, round buttocks.
I scream his name and beg for more.
Strong arms enfold me.
That's it. That's all we have.
Childhood raced by in a blur, barely remembered.
Adolescence the awkward, clumsy snap of a finger.
High school, teen years the blink of a pretty, naive eye.
30,000 days is not enough time to truly live.
I want a million!
A million days to explore every culture, go through all the nooks and crannies of the world.
A million days to love, share passion.
A million days to show kindness, to bring smiles to sad faces.
A million days absorb knowledge.
But I don't have a million days.
"Are these seats taken?" I ask. He looks up and stares.
"N-no," he mumbles, looking down shyly.
Conversations die down, the lights dim.
Shy glances when he thinks I'm not looking, a few brushes of our bare arms.
His flirting is shy and quiet. Sweet.
Actors kiss on the screen, his eyes slide over to me and a smirk raises the corner of his mouth. My lips lift in reply.
Our fingers brush and he gives a startled little laugh, but doesn't remove his hand. I smile and leave mine as well.
Then it is over.
I walk away.
100 words. 100 words. What should I write in 100 words? Shall I write about the rain pounding out a soothing rhythm on my windows? About the meaning of life? About the sweet richness of young love? About the bitterness and agony of broken hearts?
Or should I share another of my steamy little fantasies? I am quite fond of those.
Oh, right. Writing.
Sorry, I got a bit distracted. So, what shall I write about? The tingling sensation of fingers running slowly, oh, so slowly down my arm? Or a kiss that makes me shiver?
Rage. Lips pursed. Nostrils flaring. Teeth gnashing.
I can feel my blood rising to a boil in my veins. I want to rip, tear, smear the blood of my enemies across the sky. I want to bathe in their marrow. I want to savor their piercing cries of agony as bones snap and limbs are torn from their bodies.
I am no longer human. I am a creature of unfathomable desires.
My soul is on fire. My only thought vengeance.
They will pay for every scream she ever cried, every pain she ever felt.
They will pay with their lives.
Sunlight glimmers on their naked bodies. The heat bringing a blush to her perfect skin. She slumbers, content, wrapped in the warm cocoon of his embrace.
He watches the even rise and fall of her perfectly rounded breasts. The sultry summer breeze ruffles the strands of shimmering scarlet, splaying them over his chest.
She sighs, her eyelids flutter and she clings more closely to him. Her silky smooth thigh brushes that primal male part of him and his body instantly hardens.
He's never felt more sated, yet his body craves more. He will never get enough of this woman.
I'm supposed to be thankful today. I am for the most part. Thankful for everything I have. Family, friends, the usual. But why do we have to have a holiday to be thankful? Shouldn't we always give thanks for the joys and people in our lives?
I've always hated the tradition of everyone saying what they're thankful for before the turkey gets carved. It's always the same things. Every year you hear, "I'm thankful for my kids, my husband/wife, blah, blah, blah." It never changes.
We should give thanks every day. Give thanks for being alive.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone.
Blistering cold. A darkness so deep not even the light of god could penetrate it.
She sits in the corner. Her warm vibrant glow dimming in the bloody wasteland. She mumbles incoherently. In my mind I hear her screaming for me to rescue her from her torment.
A chilling cackle rises out of the blackness. Goosebumps raise the flesh of my arms. It is him. The King of Shadows. The already freezing temperature drops another twenty degrees.
"Hello old friend," says that wintry voice. "Come to watch the show?"
Her scream pierces the air and wakes me from the dream.
last thoughts last thoughts what will be my last thoughts what will go through my mind last why haven't i loved why haven't i been loved regrets why didn't i show more affection towards loved ones why wasn't i better person why did i say no to that date why did i waste my life at home alone always alone no friends no laughter oh shit what happens now is there a god do i just wander around aimlessly is there an afterlife or is it just over when we die just over life wasted wasted wasted away fuck this
Even breathing. In. Out. In. Out. A clear head.
I can feel it beneath my breast. Like a great beast rising from an enchanted slumber. It heats my blood.
Stretching, it reaches out to my fingers and toes. It grows, and grows until it bursts from my body, searching and exploring.
A faint, ethereal caress and our powers collide, twining together. They explode in a heated dance for dominance. Together they slide in and out of me, touching places I thought untouchable. It is the most exquisite pleasure, almost becoming pain. It is more intimate than sex.
It is Magic.
Pulsing lights. Intense, mind-numbing music. Sweat soaked bodies writhing against each other. Couples with glassy eyes doing dark deeds in shadowed corners. Cash and blow exchanging hands in a back room guarded by a scarred, dirty thug.
This is where she becomes a woman. This is where she is brought to be sold and used. They dress her up in skimpy, too-tight clothes. Rub kohl under her eyes and smear ruby red on her lips.
"Hey honey, lookin' for a good time?" she says the rehearsed line, numb inside. Whether pain or pleasure, she will never feel again.
She is a voyeur. She can't help it, she is lonely. They scream and rant at each other for hours. Then decide there are better uses for their mouths and the passionate fight turns into passionate lovemaking. They are rough with their bodies, pouring all of their anger into the fucking.
When will she get that, she wonders. When will she meet someone she can have ridiculous, petty, fire-filled arguments with, just so they can have wild, fire-filled make-up sex? Will she ever get that? Or will she be stuck watching them, forever fantasizing, never actually living?
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