"What do you think of it?"

"I think it's impossible, ridiculous, and insane."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, I wish I'd thought of it first."

They are completely out of breath. Struggling to keep the ruffled hotel sheets from falling off the edge of the bed. Moving quick with determination. She gets money, he gets cheap pleasure. Everything hits right until wrong. He grabs her by the waist. She grabs him by the wrist. Continuing to let out soft sighs as his pace starts to escalate. Setting goals that he can't reach by himself. Somewhere a wife is wondering where her husband is.

Equipped with a pen, I can build new worlds.

With a handful of words I can toy with your emotions.

Using certain phrases I can change the fate of a single character.

I can give life to both heroes and villains.

By scratching ink onto a page, I can end lives, as well spare them.

My words are powerful, my thoughts are the blueprints of new inventions, and my ideas live in the ink sprawled across a page.

I am a Writer. All things are possible.

"Sorry, I have rehearsal."

Whether I wanted to participate in what I gave an excuse for or not, this is normally my excuse.

"Will you be able to come tonight?"

"I would love to but I got rehearsal tonight...maybe some other time."

"You know I think that's just an excuse you use to get out of doing stuff."

"Only for the special ones,"

"Ha ha, real funny."

"I know I am. Thanks for noticing."

"You're hopeless."

"So hopeless."

"Well alright, let me know how 'rehearsal' goes."

"Yeah and let me know how 'hanging out with your friends' goes."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you have no other friends than me."

"Yeah right,"

"I know I am."

"Whatever."

"You say that 'cause you know it's true."

"..."

There isn't one kind of love.

And I don't mean "family love, friend love, and relationship love" no much much more than that. There are variations of love. You can love someone but you couldn't spend the rest of your life with them. You can actually love someone, and love them forever, but be completely in love with someone else. You see? So once you give your love to someone, true you may never get it back, but you can still love. It may be hard but not impossible.

There she sat. On her couch. In her summerhouse. By her lamp. There's so much around her. So much that she doesn't need. All her superficial have left. She's been what they all wanted, but what happens when what they want changes? Why couldn't she see have seen this coming? She knows now. The money. The fame. The parties. The popularity. It's all pitiful. It's all ugly. Ironically, she's left as empty as the things she's surrounded herself with are. Her Cinderella Syndrome. It's full of lies. She cries authentic tears for the first time in God knows how long. Maybe, just maybe, she's alone for a reason. Is she the reason? Is it her fault? Could it be all because of her?

“Just as beautiful as you are. It's so pitiful what you are. You should've it coming all along.”

She begged for death.

The pain wouldn't cease.

Pills were scattered across the floor.

Her wrist was painted in blood.

Tears rained down her cheeks.

A bottle of whiskey was at her side.

Her endless thoughts repeated.

She wanted to end this suffering.

The gun was in her hand.

She pointed it at her temple.

Then a man walked in the door.

She put the gun down and cried.

That day she cried for help.

All she asked for was to be wanted.