Challenge (Say Hi, Prose Census)
Hello fuckers. There are very few left who still remember that intro. Lol. I've been here since almost the beginning. Shout out to all those who remember Sammie and Paul. That's not a lack of respect for A and Jeff. You two keep building this place and moving forward. Kudos. Also, if you haven't recently, please post an origins of Prose story, it's a pretty damn good story. I'm not on much anymore. Partly because my writing is at a crossroads and I'm gunshy. Partly because I miss a lot of people and it's not quite the same. I remember a big city with a small town feel, where people that freckled the entirety of the globe became friends. Also, shit happens. But Prose will always feel like home, and I'll never stop coming back. So, to the founders of something that can't be quantified, Jeff, A, fucking cheers and thank you for having a dream that was bigger than yourselves. Even those who simply pop in and leave have been made better because of a "cheers." So cheers. Fuckers.
Pep Talk :D
When the light starts to fade
and it goes pitch dark.
You’re filled with hate
and you have no way out.
Alone, in this universe
where no one cares
about your existence
and you feel scared.
But don’t forget,
there’s always someone
who will give you light
and lift you from your sorrows.
You don’t have to hide your feelings anymore...
You are a strong person
to have held all the pain,
doing your best to
brighten up someone’s day.
You have put others’ needs
you deserve love too.
Now it is time
to return the deed
I’ll be your listening ear
when you’re in need.
If you feel insecure,
this will be the last.
No need to back out anymore,
you don’t have to be an eccedentesiast.
Don’t be afraid,
there’s nothing to hide
No one will judge you
you are just fine.
You don’t have to
Take down those walls,
and connect with the people
who deeply love you.
To whoever’s reading this,
Go on now, and treat yourself
to a cup of hot cocoa,
and a good book
because you deserve it.
A virtual hug from me to you
Love yourself, because I do too :)
If I had a dick
I would have made a
The last you have of me
is pig tailed dna
and that last placenta pill
I kept in y(our) freezer
I never popped it
a red balloon
when she makes you get rid of it
to the men
to the bloody mess
I cannot find my father's
thank you for teaching me how to
I am so sorry
I never learned
Larry the Angry Llama
Mac stood a few feet back from Larry's pen. Not far enough away to be out of the llama's spitting range, but far enough to engage his makeshift shield before getting assaulted with green sputum. Mac adjusted his goggles as Larry approached the fence, still chewing furiously with an angry look in his eyes.
"What's up, you little snowflake bitch?" said the llama.
Mac sighed. "Larry, we've discussed this, bro. The fact that I don't believe people of color are less human than white people doesn't make me a snowflake bitch."
"Oh yeah?" said the llama. "Then what does it make you?"
Mac stood, blinking, careful not to make any sudden movements before speaking. "Well," he said, his finger resting on the button to release and open the umbrella. "For starters, it makes me not a piece of shit, unlike yourself." Mac successfully predicted what came next and had pushed the umbrella's button the moment he finished his sentence. The umbrella extended with a click and a thwump that was instantly followed by the sound of phlegm hitting the umbrella's vinyl fabric.
Mac knelt with the umbrella close to his body, like a spartan shield, deflecting enemy projectiles. He was, in theory, deflecting enemy projectiles. Only these missiles weren't arrows or spears. It was cud. Which, according to Mac's Google research, was "partly digested food returned from the first stomach of ruminants to the mouth for further chewing." Mac didn't even know what the hell a ruminant was until he brought the llama to the farm. He learned ruminants were cattle, deer, goats, and finally, camelids.
That's what Larry was. A loogie-hocking asshole cousin of the camel. Just one of the many facts Mac discovered in his llama research. Another fun thing he learned was just how far llamas could spit, which was 10-15 feet. Larry could spit further than that and could do so with deadly accuracy.
"Come out and take your medicine, you hairless dickbag!" Larry yelled.
"Larry," said Mac, growing more impatient with each barrage of spit. "I have tried incredibly hard to empathize with your upbringing, but sweet Christ, do you make this difficult!" The response to his statement was another jet of liquid striking the umbrella's fabric.
"Funny you should mention our Lord and Savior because the bible says that the white man should inherit the Earth!"
"Larry, no, it does not. Cut that shit out." The llama attempted to shift sideways and spit from a different angle, but Mac was ready. He shifted when Larry shifted and crouched when he spit at his feet. This time, Mac was ready. He had done this dance with Larry too many times to not know his moves by now. He could feel less mucus hitting the umbrella with each stream and knew the creature was running low on ammo.
"Cursed be the son of Ham!" said Larry.
"What the fuck are you on about now?"
"That's what Noah said in the bible! Ham was one of his son's and his descendants became black."
"Larry, not only is that the dumbest fucking thing I've ever heard, but it's also wrong on several levels."
"You don't know anything about the good book!" Larry's statement was punctuated with another jet of spit.
"I was raised southern baptist. I had all 66 books of the good word branded onto my brain," said Mac flatly.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means I know it better than you do, and that Ham descendant shit isn't anywhere in it."
"Yes, it is! My owners were true God-fearing folks and read their favorite parts of it out loud for everyone to hear!"
"Let me guess. Judges, Job, Revelations, probably a Leviticus or two, and Genesis." The llama gasped, and the spitting ceased. Mac kept his umbrella deployed but peeked over the top of the now phlegm-soaked vinyl. He saw Larry standing in the same spot, but his mouth had stopped moving angrily.
The llama stood there, his jaw slack with a wide-eyed expression. "Those were almost all of their favorite books. How did you know that?"
"Because objectively speaking, that's when God is at his most hardcore and angry in the bible. I told you. I was raised southern baptist."
Larry squinted suspiciously. "But you're a heathen atheist."
"Technically, I'm agnostic, but I know more about the Christian Bible than you do, you wooly twat!" Mac ducked expectantly behind his umbrella as more mucus struck the vinyl. He had wanted to make sure Larry was empty before carrying on his conversation, and it now seemed that he was. Mac poked his head back out and lifted his goggles to his forehead.
"Larry, just because I'm no longer a believer in Christianity doesn't mean I don't believe in some of its lessons."
The llama squinted again. "What lessons?"
Mac had his favorite story from the bible already in mind. "The book of Luke, chapter 10, verses 25-37."
"Sound's made up," replied Larry."
"It's called the Parable of the Good Samaritan, and if you stop fucking spitting at me for two minutes, I'll tell it to you. You once told me your favorite part of the day was when your old owners would walk around loudly reading from the bible, right?"
"Yes," said Larry, a suspicious look still etched on his face. "I enjoy the stories."
"Well, let me tell you this one then. And if you stop acting like a psych ward patient around here, I'll start taking the time to tell you more stories. But you have to stop being such an asshole."
"I would like to hear the story now," said Larry, the contempt beginning to fade from his voice.
Mac lowered his umbrella to his side but kept it ready if the llama got trigger happy again. "So there was this man, traveling on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho and-"
"Jerusalem?" interrupted Larry. "Doesn't that have something to do with Jews?"
"Most of Jewish history revolves around Jerusalem and a few thousand years of conflict, going on even today, but that's not what we're discussing. The llama began to speak, but Mac held up a finger. "If some anti-semitic shit comes out of your mouth, I'm not going to tell the story." Larry huffed through his nose but kept his thoughts to himself. Mac waited just in case he changed his mind.
"Now," said Mac. "Jerusalem to Jericho. This guy was traveling. You with me?"
"Why was he traveling?"
"Larry, I don't fucking know. To see the walls."
"Jericho had walls?! You see, we should build a wall at the southern border!"
Mac sighed. "Firstly, according to the bible, all it took was a few laps around the city and a handful of dudes blowing trumpets to bring those walls down, so don't fall in love with them. Secondly, that's one of the many stories I will tell you if you'll just shut up and let me finish this one." Mac gestured for the llama to add anything else, but Larry remained silent.
"So this guy was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho when he was beset upon by thieves."
"Beset?" queried Larry.
"So these thieves attacked him, stripped him, and beat him within an inch of his life. They left him there on the side of the road, covered in dirt and blood. As the traveler laid there dying, a priest happened by on the same side of the road. The priest saw the man in his state, and instead of helping him, he simply crossed to the other side of the road and continued on his way."
"Why didn't he stop to help the man? The man was a servant of God!" asked the llama.
"Just because someone believes in God doesn't make them inherently good, Larry. He may have been a servant of his God, but he wasn't a good person."
"Did the man die?"
"Well, it just so happens that someone else, a Levite, happened by on the same stretch of road. A Levite was like a religious functionary. They performed different tasks at holy temples like guard duty, singing, upkeep, all of it. So, much like the priest, this guy was supposed to hold himself to a better standard. But as the Levite came upon the traveler, he too ignored the dying man and crossed the road to continue on his way."
"Why didn't he help?"
Mac shrugged, squinting at the ground as he thought on the question. "Because he couldn't be bothered," he finally said. "Because like the traveler, he was trying to get somewhere, and the dying man would have been a great burden upon him." Mac sighed again. "Because the man was filthy, probably covered in not only blood but piss and shit as well. The traveler probably looked like a waste of time, a fruitless endeavor, a lost cause."
"So the man just died, suffering like that?" Larry asked with a hint of sadness in his voice.
"Well, one more person happened by, a Samaritan."
"What's a Samaritan?"
"Well, then it meant a person from a place called Samaria. So as I understand it, this Samaritan was nobody important or special. He was just a regular guy who happened to be traveling on the same road."
"Let me guess," interjected Larry. "This asshole crosses the road too."
"No," said Mac softly. "The Samaritan stopped on the side of the road. He washed the traveler, cleaned the man's wounds with oil and wine, then bandaged him up. After doing all that, the Samaritan put the traveler atop his own animal and escorted him to an inn. Once they arrived, the Samaritan purchased the traveler a room, and as he left, he gave the innkeeper enough money to cover room and food for a few nights. He told the innkeeper that whatever the man spent beyond that, he would pay for when he came back through."
Clearly confused, Larry stood silently staring at Mac. After several attempts to articulate his feelings, the llama finally settled on another question. "I get helping, but why did he do all of that? Who was he trying to impress?"
Mac smiled. "He wasn't trying to impress anyone. The Samaritan did it because he was a good person. The Samaritan had compassion for the traveler, and he acted on that compassion. Why should he stop with a half measure?" Larry had no response or retort. The llama simply stood there, pondering. "And you know what else?" asked Mac.
"What?" replied Larry.
"Recalling that story is the very reason I decided to bring a cantankerous, racist llama here to the farm."
"How in the hell do I compare to a beat-up traveler?" said Larry.
"You're both victims of circumstance," answered Mac. "Your former owners were just on the other side of the woods out back, correct?"
"Well, I am firmly convinced that whatever the fuck gives me the ability to talk to animals is tied to the land, this land, not me. I'm just the guy that bought it." Mac stared into the distance, going over in his head what he already had a thousand times before. "I don't know if it's because I'm closer in proximity, if it's because my name's on the deed, or what the hell is going on. Maybe the animals here act a certain way because of who I am, how I think, I-"
Mac paused, still wrapping his mind around the question that plagued him perpetually. After a few seconds of reflection, he finally spoke. "I just don't fucking know, Larry." Mac shrugged. "Apparently, you and your former owners were close enough to be affected."
Larry shook his head. "I never spoke with them."
"But you clearly understood their teachings. You also soaked up a lot of their personality, which makes me hopeful that I may finally get some answers instead of constantly guessing and hoping for the best." Mac dropped the umbrella on the ground as a show of faith and continued speaking as he drew closer to the llama's enclosure.
"Back to my original point," said Mac. "You and the traveler were both victims of circumstance. There wasn't much either of you could have done to avoid the outcome." Larry remained silent as Mac went on. "I have the opportunity to help you, and I'm going to exhaust all of my efforts to do that."
"How do you plan to do that?" asked Larry.
"Did you enjoy that story I told?"
"Well, there are a hundred more I could tell you, but I need something in return."
The llama sighed and rolled his eyes. "What?"
"You have to start keeping the hateful shit to yourself."
"Being proud of my heritage is not-"
Mac held up a finger. "Larry, you're not a white Anglo-Saxon man. You're a fucking llama with white fur. I can't change the way you think, not yet at least, but I can keep you from saying nasty shit out loud."
"And what if I don't?" said Larry, narrowing his eyes.
"You're gone. I won't sell you because you're not my property. I will give you to whoever is willing to take you." said Mac. "I want to help you, but not at the expense of the other animals." He took his goggles completely off of his head and leaned up against the gate. "I mean, how the hell am I supposed to find you a mate if you're acting like such an asshole all the time?"
Larry tilted his head slowly, confused by Mac's question. "Find me a what?"
"A mate?" said Mac, confused as well. "A creature of the same species, generally of the opposite sex if you wish to reproduce."
"Homosexuality is-" Larry stopped himself when he saw Mac raise his eyebrows. "Nevermind, back to the thing you just said about the mate of the opposite sex."
"You're telling me that there are female llamas out there that are not my mother and sisters?"
Mac blinked slowly at the llama, dumbfounded by the creature's questions. Had he really gone through his entire life believing the only other females of his species were his relatives? "Larry," he said. "Do you know how many llamas are in the world?"
"I dunno, maybe a few hundred."
"I'm not entirely sure on the exact number, but it's more like a few hundred thousand."
"Is that a lot?"
Mac looked up thoughtfully. "Let's put it like this. There are so many of your kind that I can state with utter certainty that you're not related to 99.9% of them. You and your relatives make up a tiny portion of the llama population, so we can find you a mate with relative ease." Larry began to stomp his front feet excitedly. "But," said Mac. "That offer is conditional on you working with me."
Mac held up his index finger. "One, you can't say racist shit anymore." He held up a second finger. "Two, you can't fucking spit on me anymore." Mac pointed to the spit-soaked umbrella, and the green caked goggles. "I swear on everything I love if you ever spit in my face again, I will knock you unconscious, sheer you bald, and leave you on the side of the fucking road."
Larry started moving his lower jaw aggressively out of habit but thought better of it. "If I do as you say, you'll keep reading me stories and find me a mate?"
"What if I don't believe the things you're trying to teach me."
Mac shrugged. "As long as you're not conveying your beliefs out loud, I don't give a shit." He genuinely didn't either, because just getting the llama to stop spitting on him was a major victory in itself. "It begins right now, do you understand?" Larry nodded as Mac opened the gate cautiously, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. He swung the gate wide open and gestured for the creature to exit his pen. "I originally came over here because we're having a farm meeting, and since you're a part of this family, I would like you to attend."
Larry's jaw dropped. "You want me to attend?"
"I do, but if one negative thing comes out of your nasty mouth, our deal is off." The llama nodded his head again, and they both walked side-by-side towards the farm animals now convening behind the house.
Let me start this thing off with a little bit about myself. My name is Adam. I'm a full-time firefighter/EMT, and writing is a form of therapy for me.
I first began to write on theprose.com last September. I think I was looking for writing contests, and I stumbled across the website on google. The first monthly challenge I entered was about Jeffrey Epstein landing at the airport, knowing the FBI would arrest him upon departing the plane. What started as a normal story quickly progressed into a tale about Epstein's assistant performing a spell that allowed a demon to possess the body of the pedophile as mentioned above, ultimately being the reason he winds up hanging himself. I went way off the rails and went wherever the story led me. When I finished, I proofread it and thought, "Well, this is fucking weird. Maybe someone will like it."
As it turns out, a few people liked it, and it even got an honorable mention in a monthly email. It was an exhilarating feeling, having my work spotlighted, and it's what really sucked me into theprose. Unfortunately, I let the same thing that anchored me to this website also go to my head. I thought if I got an honorable mention on my very first try, then I must be damn good. Looking back now, I feel pretty damn foolish.
My story didn't get picked because it was some of the best writing ever. It was decent, and maybe that played a factor, but ultimately, it was picked because it was weird. It was spotlighted because it was strange and different.
That first contest gave me a high that I spent months chasing. I went to other websites looking for it and couldn't figure out why no one chose my work as the best. Then one day, it finally dawned on me. I'm just not that good. I'd like to think I'm a good writer, but I'm nowhere close to the best. I can think of a handful of prosers off the top of my head who are better than me in all categories—grammar, vocabulary, story structure, all of it. I didn't see that at first, but I do now.
Yes, most of us want to believe our work is better than everyone else's. Feelings like that are only natural when you put your heart and soul down for other people to analyze and critique.
Yes, most of us would love to be discovered by a large publishing agency and make millions of dollars doing this full-time. That became my plan after that first contest. I would write the best short stories ever and win every contest I entered, then publishing agencies would have to notice me, right? I despise the term "lol," but I do literally laugh out loud thinking about what a fucking imbecile I am sometimes. One thing about me, though? I learn from my mistakes.
After swallowing the pill, that was my basic-bitch plan to "write really good stuff," I went back to the drawing board. Was I going to quit writing just because I wasn't winning or getting the most likes? Hell no. So I asked my self "Ok, then. What do you want to get out of this?" It took close to nine months, but I finally figured out what I intend to get out of theprose.com. I just want to get better.
Am I the next big thing? In all likelihood, no. The chances of me getting discovered online and subsequently making J.K. Rowling money are dreadfully low. But maybe one day I'll get good enough for someone to publish my work. Perhaps I'll get to a point where I'm skilled enough to do this full-time, and I'll be able to retire from the fire service early. But as of this moment, as of this entry that I'm currently typing, I'm nowhere fucking close to that, and there's only one way I know of to mitigate that issue. Write.
theprose.com is a forge for me. A place to hone my craft, a whetstone to sharpen my storytelling abilities. If I treat it as such from here on, I think I'll become the writer I wish to be. I've already seen a marked improvement from my first entry, and if I keep going, I bet I'll look back on this entry and cringe at some of the things I typed. In the interim, I believe it's not on just me, but all of us, to make this site a better experience. That's why I made this my first challenge ever on prose. Because I want to toss a few suggestions out there, but more importantly, I want to hear your suggestions and ideas.
First I'll tell you what I plan to do personally. It's this right here, what I am doing now—reaching out to the community, talking, and conceivably, starting a dialogue. I also plan to be better about reading other people's work without any expected reciprocation. If you read my work, I will return the courtesy, but we all fall into the habit of stroking one another's egos. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. We, as amateur writers, should encourage and praise one another's work, but we shouldn't limit the experience to just that.
No, I'm not suggesting that you wipe your ass with someone's entry, but I am suggesting that we help each other get better. If that's not something you're interested in, then don't sweat it. If you don't take critiquing well, then it's your prerogative to ignore this specific suggestion. I personally encourage all of you to give me your honest thoughts and opinions because that's what originally drew me here. I came here searching for honesty, so don't be afraid to give it to me in the comment section of my entries.
One of the bigger suggestions I have is for us to be more participative in special events that are put on. The prime example would be in September when we all received an email about a twitch stream featuring one of the prose's creators, Jeff Stewart. I thought it sounded interesting, and I so happened to have the time that evening, so I created a twitch account and participated in the interview via chat.
If you're not into video games, I don't expect you to know what twitch or a twitch stream is, so don't feel bad that you missed it. There wound up being only 5-6 of us that logged on, and half of that number participated in the chat. It was a great opportunity for an amateur writer like me because Stewart knew about the in's and out's of publishing houses and self-publishing before and after the Kindle direct publishing boom.
So looking back, part of me is glad there were so few of us because it allowed me to ask a shit load of questions. The other part of me wishes there was a wider audience to ask questions that I didn't think of at the time. In the future, I hope prose offers more interviews with Stewart or other self-published Indie authors. Not simply because it's a chance to pick an author's brain, but because it's a great opportunity to meet one another outside our comment sections.
If you need help making a twitch account or more information on the site, please message me about it. I can assure you it's just as safe as any other website you're using, and the process is relatively streamlined. You can also keep your anonymity on the website chat if that's your concern. But ultimately, why would the site's admins go through the trouble of planning another interview like that if they thought they'd get the same turnout? Let's all fix that issue together.
The way I see it, theprose.com's continued success is partly on us. We were given a garden, and we need to be the ones that tend to it. To see it truly succeed, prose writers need to become better about sharing things on other forms of social media. Spread the word, recruit writers, recruit readers. If you're scared to share your writing with those that know you personally, then take me, for example. I work in public safety with a bunch of alpha male personalities, and I still share my work on Facebook. If anyone thinks it's weird, then they can get bent; I didn't write it for them.
At the end of the day, these are merely opinions, and you as a writer are entitled to write and participate on theprose.com in any way you see fit. If you do have ideas, suggestions, or opinions on how you believe we can make it better, please follow up with an entry or even a comment.
Quote of the Day
There are wounds that never
show on the body that are
Deeper and more hurtful than
anything that bleeds.
These wounds are memories.
While they can warm you
up on the inside,
they can also
tear you apart...
By someone or something, I can't...
Is it real, or perceived?
Does it matter?
If the thing that disturbs you does not exist, are you no less disturbed?
I look for it.
I feel its presence.
But like a quantom particle, when I look for it one place, it ceases to be there.
I try and take solace that it probably does not exist, that I am mistaken and everything is probably fine.
Then why am I disturbed?
If a problem does not exist, it is exceedingly hard to correct it.
It occurs to me that the perception of something being wrong, IS the thing that is wrong, and that by extrapolation, THAT is the problem, and it DOES indeed exist.
This makes it no easier to get my hands around it. To grab and wrangle, to force into submission, that which displeases me. In the real world, that is exactly what I would do. Metting out justice with my hands, as this world has taught me.
And so, I remain frustrated.
Chasing my tail as it were, pouncing, or attempting to pounce anyway, on that elusive, ever-present pebble in my shoe.
Rehab writing: Spill Your Guts Cause That Booze Can’t Fill Your Guts 1.1
I dated a rapper once. We met in upscale Minneapolis hotels. I paid for them with my son’s trust fund.
All in all it amounted to 10,000 lost dollars meant for his college education. I wrote an apology note to his grandmother but never admitted that it went to gluttonous sex, booze, and destruction. His dad just asked me where the rest of the money went: 10,000 a year. I said I didn’t know a thing about it. I only abused this one Christmas present check. This is the truth. I know he didn’t believe me.
Back to the rapper:
We spent hours in bed. The thread count stronger than my moral compass. He poured hot wax on my body and took the sexiest pocket knife I have ever seen-it was so fast to flick and said full throttle in gold lettering. He cut me tracing the curveture of my breasts. It left no lasting scar, the blade so thin and sharp. Earlier that morning we had woken up to pristine white sheets stained in menstrual blood. I called the concierage for a tampon that cost me $3.50. My embarassment resulted in him saying “I used to be a butcher, I’m not scared of a little blood.” For quite a while I thought this was the most romantic thing anyone could ever say to me.
I tell this story because it was the beginning of my slow burn. A descent into finding unique ways I could fuck myself over with the help of a penis or two. He was the fourth man I had sex with. By the time I reached 9 I had two children, two domestic disturbance calls, and one false engagement.
I think I’m at 16 lovers. Some things you work very hard to forget. I count the ones that weren’t consensual. Even dumb whores have standards.
One true story: Memory 1 Backstory
I am so goddamn tired of thinking and feeling too much. At this point on a murder documentary they are going to call it suicide. Keep your eyes on that chick from Tinder. I legit thought I was going to die. You know I am far too much of a pussy. And that logical brain, oh she pulls at you. Remember in treatment when she played you STOP IT? Bob Newhart. TV Land childhood dream. I think this is meant to be funny because this chick is from Mad TV. I think. I’m mad. Who knows?
It IS hilarious. It is pretty damn accurate. And I feel like it is a knife to the chest. She sees through me. She sees that I could teach this class. Give me some DBT and it’s time to show off how to write those rhymes so eloquent you fool the best of them. That is the problem: I fooled you. I am fooling myself. Who is the fool now?
The entire purpose of this post was to share a story about my grandmother’s house. I called my sister and mother to vet the truth but neither answered. I imagine the truth is both less scary and more frightening than we could ever imagine.
I am that overly dramatic bitch that hits post before her body has time to align with her brain.
Know what I’m saying?
I’m about to undergo the most massive overhaul of my life this side of getting knocked up by two different men. I am an alcoholic. I have a problem. I’m doing that priviledged white girl thing where you kill yourself without actually having to do it. Don’t worry. I’m disgusted too.
Here is the real story. I think it is true. Honestly, I’m gonna need some months of therapy to figure this shit out
Most of the time I cannot recall whether or not my grandmother is alive. Her blue carpet, romance novel bookshelves, kitchen so sparse you could barely find a vacant diet coke My older sister says there was an old man at the top of the stairs. We were all scared of the little blue attic door. That play kitchen sat parallel to it. Pots and pans clanging together to knock out our fear. God forbid you lost the find china. Don’t we all want a beautiful pretend life? Children know. Though I do not claim to understand any of this. I remember the doll room. It looked like a Doctor Quinn whore house. I had just read American Psycho. I so very badly wanted to understand it. I could not. Thus nail gun orgasms stuck in my tired brain and so my cousin and I posed these dolls in a ritual sacrifice. Rather hilarious. I think I was 13 and I was wearing a blouse from the Limited. Who the fuck did I think I was going to be? Grandma was not amused. Every moment of that house since then is a faded dream nighmarescape; I never saw that old man, the one at the top of the stairs. I just knew every time I crossed into that landscape I was reinactng a nightmare my mother thought she had to cut out.
That’s the tea, no sip.
I was engaged for six years
without ever trying on a wedding gown
my tits are tired
from the turn around
my sister bought the silk
to make my dream dress
show off that
I'm tripping on romance
I'm the x
questions are the
masturbating to kill time
well I'm a burger
I like it my own way
looking for a knight
any man that
wants to play
just give you those good
fall for my penned
I'm a depression
you'll find me
forgive me for these flowers
I throw them to the next
say girl I've got your back now
the sisterhood of the
you'll find me
birthday candles in one hand
you'll find me 2/14
wishing it was a
a sucker for the wish
it never comes true
cause I'm left swallowing all my hopes down