N O N I C ∀ L

The Halloween Party "Ending!"

Mon, 12 Dec 2011 01:34:00 -0500

[In October of 2010 R.L. Stine had a contest where he wrote the beginning of a short story and it was your job to finish it by writing your own ending! If you won I believe you received signed copies of his books and your story was read by R.L. Stine himself. Of course I didn’t win! But here is my ending, and yes I thought the winner had a decent ending but I liked mine more.]

10.09.10

Here is my entry for the ending to the R.L. Stine contest.

Andy looked around the room, then the lights went out and it was completely dark. Stacy screamed. Loud grunts and clawing along the slick walls was heard. Andy nervously reached inside his “trick-or-treat” bag and removed his glow stick. The room suddenly light up in lime green. Everybody hissed and turned their faces, hiding from the oozing glow of green slime. Andy held it up high and waved it out in front of his face. Stacy clenched him by his right arm holding him tightly. The monsters cried out, the light was blinding them. Melting their flesh and skin, all at once they began caving to the floor, melting like witches.

Then the glow stick went out. Andy shook it in panic, but it was dead. Then they both looked up and saw one hairy creature still alive and it was coming for them. Andy called out, “What now Stacy? I don’t have anything else.”

”Wait,” she said. Then she reached inside her bag and pulled out her zombie “glow-in-the-dark” lipstick and held it out. The creature turned, “Arhhhh” it screeched loudly. Then it slowly began melting. “It’s working!” said Andy.

“Arh.” it cried one final breath.

The room was a creepy mess of slime and ooze. But Andy and Stacy were alive and ready to go home. “What about the other party? I heard it has real live goblins.” They both grinned at one another as they walked away.

THE END

"My Girlfriend Jumped Five Stories"

Tue, 22 Nov 2011 07:32:00 -0500

by Drew Blanche

I was looking out over the ledge of the five story balcony when I heard her slip and fall. I rushed back into the kitchen to witness her sprawled out on the tile floor, her dress spread wildly across the slick flooring of our Manhattan apartment. I leaned down to help her up, gripping her right arm and pulling her forcefully upward.

”Don’t touch me,” she screeched. “I’ll live, I just stumbled on these damn shoes.” After she stood she reached down to yank off her heels one at a time throwing them across the floor into the living room. They hit the expensive sofa and bounced off landing on the coca carpet rug. “You need me to help with anything?” I asked.

My look of concern seemed to only annoy the shit out of her. We had only been dating a couple months but the place was ours, we shared it in the city. She was an amazing artist and I was a struggling writer to be. She reached for the bottle of white wine and began pouring, “No,” she said. “I can take care of the rest.”

What I didn’t realize until later on is that she had written a suicide note in lipstick and it was smeared across the bathroom mirror. I discovered it only after unzipping my trousers and taking a leak which seemed to last three generations. I pictured old cavemen becoming bald and white men in suits and ties with jobs. After flushing I went over to the sink and turned on the faucet and a stream of cold water hit my hands and coated them. After I had rubbed them together and felt satisfied with their cleanness that’s when I glanced up in the mirror and saw the message. It was in red, the lettering was big and curly shaped with lots of loops.

I didn’t bother drying my hands as I reached for the handle of the door and rushed into the living room to see her still alive, standing at the edge of the kitchen with two wine glasses in her hands. She moved towards me handing me one and she began taking a long sip of organic white wine. I took a swallow myself, staring back at her tensely, looking deep into her hollow eyes. She smiled, then she moved towards her purse and took out her smokes. She lit one up with her father’s vintage lighter, WWII I believe it was. Then she offered me one and I watched her place it in between my lips and light it. I sucked the end and exhaled after a couple seconds.

She then moved toward the balcony and I quickly followed. I watched her smoke as I stood next to her as she ash her cigarette over the ledge. I stared at her until I got the nerve to ask her about the note. “What are you planning to do?” I asked. I felt sickly inside so I took another swallow of wine. She exhaled a long drag, staring deeply into my black eyes. “Nothing or maybe…I don’t really know. I haven’t decided yet.” I watched her as she moved closer to the ledge and looked toward the city. It was lit up with lights all around us. After a short pause, “Wouldn’t it be perfect to just leap off the ledge and just fly for a moment before your death?” I didn’t say anything, I knew my answer didn’t matter.

Then, “I suppose it would be.” I finally uttered underneath my breath. She threw her cigarette over the ledge and turned quickly to me. “You don’t even know what it feels like to die, do you?” “No.” “It’s madness, pure madness and rage and horrifying to say the least.” “Then why do you want to kill yourself?” She was pissed at my last remark. “I just can’t handle this routine anymore, this daily nightmare. It’s as if I’m my father’s slave or something. You know what it’s like going to work for him, please tell me you hate it. You hate it don’t you?” “I never thought about it.” “See that’s the thing, you never stop to think, to think about things, about the way they effect you.” I set down my wine glass and moved closer to her.

“I’m just, I’m not ready to give it all up and just walk away. It’s not that simple you know.” “It is though, it’s that simple. Don’t you see…we could be free, the two of us, off in another world, so free and so happy. Just the two of us.” I didn’t understand her logic. Being dead didn’t seem like the answer and what if after you died, the real nightmare began. “Tell me you’re joking?” “No, no I’m not kidding Frank. You know me, I don’t kid. I don’t have the fancy to kid around anymore.”

Then she turned sharply in my arms and grabbed a hold of the rail and began stepping over with one leg. As she got over she turned to me again. “I know you love me Frank, but this is the end of our happiness. We will have to join hands on the other side if you want to continue this love.” Then she turned towards the city and inhaled one last breath before letting go.

I rushed forward watching the bundle of hair float up towards me as she fell with immensity. I couldn’t bare the sight of watching her hit the ground so I closed my eyes. A Sarah McLachlan song entered my head and I listened until the silence rung dead.

Best Songs To Do Coke To?

Wed, 16 Nov 2011 23:44:00 -0500

For me, it has to be some sort of party/dance song. Usually with an 80’s vibe of some kind. Here are my top picks for songs to do coke to. :)

1. Hey Hey Guy - Ken Laszlo

2. Girl Panic - Duran Duran

3. I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight - Cutting Crew

4. Crazy Train - Ozzy Osbourne

5. Do You Wanna Touch Me - Joan Jett

6. Fooled Around and Fell in Love - Elvin Bishop

7. Fell in Love With An Alien - The Kelly Family

8. Anything, Anything - Dramarama

9. Midnight Blue - Lou Gramm

10. Into the Sun - The Parlor Mob

11. Talk Show Host - Radiohead

12. Dancing Queen - Abba

Photo

Sat, 30 Jul 2011 17:19:26 -0400

20 Great Things About Dating a Writer

Sun, 24 Jul 2011 01:31:43 -0400

Taken from this blog!

Earlier this week I wrote a post about how I don’t necessarily tend to date other writers. But that doesn’t mean that I think people shouldn’t date writers. In fact, I think that there are a lot of great things in store for you if you decide to date a writer - especially if you aren’t one yourself.

Here’s a look at 20 reasons to date a writer:

Writers will romance you with words. Dating a writer means that you will receive love letters. Quirky notes will turn up in your pockets. Flowery descriptions of everything great about you will be shared on special occasions. See my recent post on things to write someone for Valentine’s Day for an idea of what you may receive when dating a writer.
Writers will write about you. Date a blog writer and you’ll find yourself bookmarking that blog to see if there are references to you in it. Date a poet and you will see yourself reflected back in some of the lines of poetry that the person recites at open mic nights. Your narcissistic tendencies will be happily fed when you date a writer. Of course, the drawback here is that dating a writer means that personal details about you may turn up in written form and the writer may write much less flattering things about you if you break up.
Writers will take you to interesting events. Writers, as a general rule, are curious people. We like to go to lots of different types of things so that we can widen the boundaries of our life experience and therefore broaden our writing. When you date a writer, you can expect to be invited to everything from burlesque shows to roller derby races to foreign countries.
Writers will remind you that money doesn’t matter so much. People who write for a living don’t do it to get rich. They know that money may matter but it’s not the most important thing in life. Dating a writer will help to remind you that it’s important to pursue your passions.
Writers will acknowledge you and dedicate things to you. Writers are big on acknowledging those who have helped them. Almost every book at the bookstore has a page for dedications and / or acknowledgments. Song writers and poets frequently include a dedication on their work. Date a writer and the world will know that you’ve supported someone in the arts.
Writers will offer you an interesting perspective on things. There is a writing quote about how writers taste life twice - once in the living and once in the re-telling on the page. Writers pay attention to interesting details in life so that they can recapture the world in their writing. When you date a writer, you will be privy to all of their insights about life’s events and experiences - and you may find that you get to see things in a whole new light.
Writers are smart. The majority of writers are intelligent people. They are usually well-read and well-educated which means they can hold their own in many types of conversations. Dating someone dumb just isn’t fun for long; dating someone smart is always an interesting challenge.
Writers are really passionate. Writers use all of their senses. They are passionate about their work and passionate about their lives. Your life will be enhanced by this passion for things when you date a writer.
Writers can think through their feelings. Writers may be really passionate but most of them don’t fly off-the-handle with emotion. They like to take time to process things. This ability is a true asset in a long-term relationship.
Writers enjoy their solitude. Unless you’re in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, you probably want at least some time to yourself and time to spend with your friends and family. Writers want time to be alone to write and think which means that you’ll get your own much-needed space as well.
Writers are creative. This sounds obvious but it has a deeper truth to it. Creative people are more capable of coming up with solutions to problems in life. Dating a writer means a chance to come up with creative solutions to life’s problems.
Writers wear their hearts on their sleeves. Sure this depends on the writer but most writers are pretty good at articulating what is going on with them. If they adore you, you’ll know it. If they’re mad at you, you probably won’t have to guess at why.
Writers will teach you cool new words. Writers love words. It can be irritating when they use ten dollar words in normal conversations but it can also be kind of fun to stretch your mind and build your vocabulary. Expect to play lots of Scrabble when dating a writer.
Writers may be able to adjust their schedules for you. Writers who can set their own schedules might be willing to rearrange things to spend time with you. They might be happy to meet you for a long lunch or to spend a luxurious morning in bed with you. Don’t expect the writer you’re dating to give up all of his or her time - they have to work regularly to pay their bills just like anyone else - but do know that there are some scheduling perks possible when you date a writer.
Writers can find 1000 ways to tell you why they like you. Writers are wordy and they like to express themselves. You can bask in the glow of hearing good things about yourself in ways that you’ve never heard them before. Of course, some writers will also be all too happy to tell you your faults so make sure you date a kind writer!
Writers communicate in a bunch of different ways. Most writers are pretty flexible in how they communicate. They’ll be just as content to get an email from you or to chat on IM with you as they are to talk on the phone (maybe even more so). This means that however you communicate regularly is probably fine for the writer you’re dating.
Writers can work from anywhere. This is nice because it means that writers can happily travel with you. They may have to take a laptop and spend some time at the hotel when you go to the beach but you can enjoy much easier vacation planning with a writer than with someone who works a 9-5 job.
Writers are surrounded by interesting people. Writers have a lot of characters in their lives. If you like meeting interesting people, just plan on being the date that goes along to parties and other gatherings with a writer.
Writers are easy to buy gifts for. Writers are happy with little things. Most writers like getting books as gifts. Since they aren’t really into the pursuit of money, they aren’t going to be chasing you for the big bucks you spend on them. This doesn’t mean you shouldn’t spoil a writer if you want to but you should know that they value thoughtfulness way more than most material things.
Writers are sexy. There is a reason that people have fantasies about the school librarian. Male or female, those bookish types are hot hot hot.

So, why wouldn’t you date a writer?!

Poe Died Poor

Sat, 16 Jul 2011 10:00:00 -0400

Edgar Allan Poe made $14 when he sold The Raven. He was so poor that he had to destroy the furniture in his room to keep warm at night.

Hemingway's Writing Advice!

Mon, 11 Jul 2011 21:33:00 -0400

I was hesitant to calling this “Hemingway’s Drinking Advice!”

A long while ago, maybe 3-4 years back I picked up a copy of Hemingway’s On Writing and it made me realize the most important things that a writer must follow in order to be a successful writer. Basically for most, we must follow a simple set of rules. Looking back on the book, it gave a lot of tips on how to finish a novel, not to over write and the one thing that I see clear now is probably something that most people wouldn’t even consider.

Hemingway said, that he never drank before or during a writing session. I myself have been waking up to a cocktail or finishing off a beer from the previous night to start my mornings, and I was of course drinking during all my writing sessions while working on my latest novel, The Strip. Though, after being sober for 2 days for the first time since I lived at Hooters I see this advice or rather this personal enigma being true. You just can’t focus with booze in your system, and you can’t write more than 30 minutes without wanting to take another drink and calling it a day.

Very little writing has been done when I am drinking, and I look back on my other books how I wrote 10 hours a day and got so much writing done—realizing I was sober. You can’t be drunk and write, it’s when you sober up do you get any real writing done.

So if you have to drink, drink afterwards. It will be your reward for actually writing something. Because let’s face it, Hemingway drank up to a quart of whiskey a day, he didn’t drink less with this system, he just drank after the writing session was over and he was known to only write an average of 500 words a day. That is a lot lower than my standard of 5k a day, every day.

Good luck!

Thursday night.

Fri, 08 Jul 2011 01:59:00 -0400

I’m drinking some cheap rum, listening to new James Blunt and rolling my own cigs. I’m in the middle of my book, trying to finish it up this month. It’s slowly beginning to take shape, but it’s still dragging along in a very slow pace. And the hot weather doesn’t seem to help me too much. I wish it were cold, winter I do better. I write more, the depression seems to add up at the end of the year but whether that matters much does not seem to be a real problem.

I’m just ready to hit the road and disappear for a year or two. See where I end up, if I die or survive, if I shed my skin or melt away in the sun. I can feel the stubble on my face, and I shaved a day or two ago. I can see my blond hair starting to grow out and my mind isn’t always clear and my soul isn’t always free but I continue on.

I continue on.

Who is this cute little girl? Why it’s Ernest Hemingway!...

Wed, 06 Jul 2011 21:37:40 -0400

Who is this cute little girl? Why it’s Ernest Hemingway! From the day he was born up until the age of 6 his mother dressed him up as a little girl.

Road To Desolation

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 02:57:04 -0400

Road To Desolation

Saying Hello To Windows

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 19:23:00 -0400

This poem was rejected by Everyday Poets. I think I was drunk when I submitted the lousy poem which only took 3 minutes to write, hoping to get $1 for my contribution. Below you can read their feedback, and I may agree on some line breaks however, I do not agree with the rest. I still think it’s a great poem and that’s not to say that I am drunk now even though I most likely “was” drunk then.

“Saying Hello To Windows”

I had my daily rum screwdriver
with an unfiltered stick of joy
as I bickered about and paced
back and forth with such madness
though it felt good to be somewhere else
on the road, on another walk down the strip
unsure of which direction for which I were heading
I only wanted to see the lights and hear the music
and dance in all my steps while I drank and smoked
and rubbed my empty belly and put the thought of food
out of my mind because I was having a buzz
some girls passed me and I sought them with beauty
for I am the great American writer and forever lonely
typing my life away—reading over my stupid ramblings
wanting to be great—diving into a stack of loose sheet papers
and scoring a big lousy hit of madness—sadness all about
losing my grip on stupid boring life goals—more bickering
with less sorrow and drinking away under the moodlight
listening to my heart swell and nothing else even mattered
as I sat down and lit up another Lucky and sighed

From The Editors

Thank you for your submission to Every Day Poets. I regret to inform you that we are unable to use it at this time.

I can see some potential here, but think it needs some work still. Maybe some line breaks?
In line 7 that should be “was” and not “were”.
“I sought them with beauty” ??
— Robin Sue Herrnfeld

No. It has potential, but it’s not there yet.
— Amy Corbin

Too loose and rambling.
— Jeff Jeppesen

We wish you good luck in placing the poem elsewhere.

A Collection of Mostly Trash!

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 09:25:00 -0400

[Note: A while back, I had planned on releasing a collection of stories, mostly unpublished snippets of failed writing and I was going to call it, “A Collection of Mostly Trash!” Well, I never did compile the book or put it together—this was really as far as I had gotten. Enjoy!]

Introduction:

A short story is like a pill, you need a whole lot of them to clear the voices in your head so here is a collection of them. Mostly unpublished works, rejected by the same magazine more than once. Some however never submitted at all. I couldn’t afford to do so, whenever I send out a story and it goes unanswered I am out about 10-15 bucks each time. Who can afford to throw money away? Not a struggling writer like myself. So I hope you enjoy this collection of mostly trash! Most of these short stories were written in an hour on cold, dark, lonely nights where I sat alone in my room and struggled to breathe. Struggled to cope with the insane tense madness that this writing life is. Often you say to yourself, self, what the hell am I doing. Why bother? This life is stupid and meaningless, but then you realize you haven’t anything else. That you’ve been cursed with this madness for a reason and that is to continue on until the ship sinks.

-DB

“My Heart Sinks & My Shit Stinks!”

I’m writing a short story because I haven’t written one in a long time. I’m hoping it is awful but I don’t have to hope too much. I’m staring at this fat chick with short hair, drinking V8 out of a large bottle. Her left eye is twitching, and she scratches her brow like it might just fall off. Her husband is in the background somewhere reading some tech nonsense and I could care less. I just want to see her huge tits. I’ve seen them before, I might even have pictures of them saved somewhere I’m not entirely sure. Her lips are plain even though she might be wearing gloss. Her eyes look better than they usually do since she is sort of half dolled up.

People in the room talk nonsense. The ceiling fan twirls and my mind seems to go blank. Later I stand outside for an hour peeking over the wall into the neighbor’s kitchen window. There’s some person sitting in a stool with a device in their hand that they can’t seem to put down. I look around, over this shoulder and that shoulder and listen as another’s AC kicks on and makes a rattling noise; small bugs pass by and a spider remains upside down in its web in front of my vision as I stare through the top of the brick wall. I’m not sure what I am hoping to see, this is a kitchen window, most people do not walk around their kitchens in the nude. However, I do. Partially. Mostly I am semi-nude and pacing back and forth through the kitchen and living room passing the nonexistence of a dining room and back around again.

I do this every day when I’m alone in the house and no one’s home. Thinking about writing, about the future, about tomorrow, about yesterday, about the girls I want to sleep with and the hotels I want to live in. The alcohol I want to consume and the stories I hope to write someday. Today, everyday. I try to gather the pigsty of thoughts, try to sort them out in my worried head, my buried mind—sometimes it just runs on blank—repeat. A memory of some horrid past mistake I’ve made and can’t seem to swallow. Though years pass, sometimes time remains the same.

Then I look and I see the figure adjust her leg, it’s a her and she’s a she or the leg is a female so to speak. A male leg on a female body I probably wouldn’t be looking at, not now, not here, not in the heat while standing outside with bugs and voices. I think I hear voices, sirens and depth and strangeness about.

This short story had no meaning or purpose but I’m glad you read it anyway. I only wrote it so I could go to bed.

“Beer Is Queer!”

This beer is my first in a while. I’m alone in a house, not on a hill, not in a cave or near a grave. The house is in a normal looking neighborhood and I’m sitting here in a dark bedroom, writing. Of course I’m writing what else would I possibly be doing. I already made and had my supper. My plate is now resting in the sink beneath water on tap. The music from my speakers is playing and sounds lovely and lucid. I feel somewhat glad to be writing at the moment but not so happy that nobody is here to enjoy the moment. The actual act of writing is like a gift of magic, here I am performing a trick but nobody is here to see it. How sad. Sad thoughts start to storm madly inside my head. I am not too happy at the moment but I wasn’t really that thrilled before I began. You see, this is just another story tale. It isn’t meant to be long or big or that amusing. It’s really rather only here just to pass the time. Which is why I am writing it, so I can get it all over with. This wasn’t meant to be shocking or moving or pretty. Stories aren’t pretty. Most, if not all of them are lonely, all sitting on cold metal shelves waiting to be adopted. All the writers just left them out in the wild, to survive on their own. But most of them don’t make it long, nobody wants to home these lonely beasts. These strangers of the night. They don’t really know where to put them once they buy them anyhow.

“E.T. Was A Cross Dresser”

Being a person who began masturbating at the age of four, I can’t remember why I wanted to rub my penis or why I suddenly had known it would feel good. Of course at age four you can’t have a “real” orgasm. Not in the sense that white goo will fly out of you and make a mess all over your bedspread. In fact, nothing comes out but a clear sticky substance that seems to almost magically disappear altogether.

I recall the first girl I ever masturbated to, ever pictured in my head and wanted to have sex with and it was Kelly from Saved by the Bell. I would rush home after school and lay on the sofa and stick my penis between the cushions and start humping away. I’d have to look up and watch the staircase to make sure my mother wasn’t around. Then I’d wait for Kelly to appear on screen; start attacking the cushion like flies on shit. I’d pump and pump until she disappeared off screen. Then I’d lie there and sigh and wait patiently for her return. I pictured being Zack and dating Kelly, it seemed to thrill me. I would then picture being on the set, behind the scenes and kissing her off screen. Romancing her up, doing the dirty in a backseat of a convertible. I was hard, as hard as any boy could get at my age.

Then Kelly was back on and I made a mess in the couch. I pulled up the front of my shorts and sat up, all good now. Mother could come downstairs and not know the difference. Not know that I just watered the sofa with my sticky goo, that Kelly from Saved by the Bell was responsible. It wasn’t my fault at all; she was just so pretty and her curves and buttocks and breasts were all so perfect. It couldn’t be my fault I thought, and often my mother cleaned the couch and found the dried stains and I began switching sides, using the whole sofa, all the cushions, having sex with them all. Some felt better than others, deeper, tighter, smoother, and softer. I miss that sofa couch. I had sex with it in every place I possibly could until we later sold it to my uncle. Once I went over their house years later and stared down at it.

How’s it going babe? I miss you. But I’ve moved on. Don’t worry, and I hope you have found another boy to accompany your stay. I walked away feeling as if I had just broken up with my first girlfriend. Later, I went home and hump our new sofa.

The Lost Weekend!

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 06:07:59 -0400

Helen: What is it you want to be so much that you're not?
Don: A writer. It's silly, isn't it? You know, in college, I passed for a genius. They couldn't get out the college magazine without one of my stories. Boy, was I hot! Hemingway stuff. I reached my peak when I was nineteen. Sold a piece to The Atlantic Monthly. Reprinted in the Reader's Digest... My mother bought me a brand-new typewriter and I moved right in on New York. Well, the first thing I wrote, that didn't quite come off. And the second I dropped — the public wasn't ready for that. I started a third and a fourth. Only by then, somebody began to look over my shoulder and whisper in a thin, clear voice like the E string on a violin. "Don Birnam," he whispered, "It's not good enough, not that way. How about a couple of drinks just to set it on its feet, huh?" So I had a couple. Oh, what a great idea that was! That made all the difference. Suddenly I could see the whole thing. The tragic sweep of the great novel beautifully proportioned. But before I could really grab it and throw it down on paper, the drinks would wear off and everything would be gone like a mirage. Then there was despair, and a drink to counter-balance despair, and then one to counter-balance the counter-balance. I'd sit in front of that typewriter trying to squeeze out one page that was halfway decent and that guy would pop up again... the other Don Birnam. There are two of us, you know. Don the drunk and Don the writer. And the drunk would say to the writer, "Come on, you idiot. Let's get some good out of that portable. Let's hock it. Let's take it to that pawn shop over on Third Avenue. It's always good for ten dollars." Another drink, another binge, another bender, another spree. Such humorous words. I've tried to break away from that guy a lot of times, but no good. You know, once I even got myself a gun and some bullets. I was gonna do it on my thirtieth birthday. Here are the bullets. The gun went for three quarts of whiskey. That other Don wanted us to have a drink first. He always wants us to have a drink first. The flop suicide of a flop writer.

Jack Kerouac song makes me shiver.

Mon, 04 Jul 2011 04:09:45 -0400

Jack Kerouac song makes me shiver.

better than heroin.

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 19:35:38 -0400

better than heroin.

Rejected poem!

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 19:20:41 -0400

“Chikan”

I met a transgender who loved
watching Chikan porno.
Japanese tentacle porn.
She told me “Gokkun” is the
consumption of large amounts of cum.
She had a white trash schoolgirl look going on
with an insane case of insomnia.
Her long bangs were flattened to her forehead
and her yellow eye shadow was smeared a bit
with runny mascara that needed to be touched up.
She didn’t care or seem to notice the fact that
she looked very trashed.
I’m thinking now it was her persona.
I noticed her left thigh had track marks
from heroin needles but she said she hadn’t
shot up in a couple months.
She was now smoking crystal meth.
Later after finding out that I was a writer
she told me not to write anything about her.
“Don’t you fucking mention me at all, you hear?”
So for this purpose and this purpose only,
I will refer to her as Limpy.
She limped quite a bit but only on the leg
that she used to shoot up on.
She said it twitched a lot and went numb as well.
Limpy wanted to suck me off but I told her that
I was completely straight.
“Nobody is 100% straight. You’re at least 10% gay
since you’re laying in bed with me.”
“No, you’re laying in bed with me,” I told her.
“This is my room.” “Exactly,” she said.
“Now if it were my room then maybe you wouldn’t be
10% gay, only 3 or 5.” After she got high I told her to leave
and she threw one of my Patti Smith records at me and
I ducked down and it smashed against the window cracking in two pieces.
“You 10% homo dick writer, fuck you.” I wasn’t happy with that last remark.
I ran to the door and locked it after she slammed it shut behind her.
I heard her kick and spit on the door before she trailed off down the hall.
Fuck it. Her real name was Randy Waver,
she was 29 and she smelt like burned toast.

this is exactly what my life’s become.

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 04:26:51 -0400

this is exactly what my life’s become.

Video

Sun, 03 Jul 2011 04:12:50 -0400