Neutrality

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I wanna be a polar bear

I Hate Huckabees

"Hobbes said, 'the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,'" Duke said.

"First of all, where did you go to school? Harvard? Or is that code word classified?"

Duke nodded. His evasiveness was beginning to grate on Aislin's nerves.

"You don't actually believe the crap movies Hollywood is making, which involve condensing great thinkers and whole schools of philosophy down into sound bites. Better yet, they animate it. Films geared to make you feel like post-modernism and deconstruction are your orginal thoughts. Futhermore, screw Hobbes. He was a negative bastard that just wanted to make everyone feel bad so he could step on them." Aislin was getting animated herself and nearly knocked Duke's pint glass onto the floor.

"I thought you went to art school."

"Honey, I had every major in college. I would spend about a year in a major, take all the good classes and change to something else. I'd take the theory classes first and then get bored in the practical classes."

One of those

It was one of those days Aislin felt like hanging out in her pajamas, listen to The Cure, and write sad poems.

Welcome Back

Thank you Aaron Sorkin! If you missed last night's Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, I'm sorry. The writers were able to comment upon all the reasons not to celebrate the holiday season--misconceptions about the birth of Christ, commercialism, cynacism; however, the show ends with hope and a reason.

I've been a fan of the show since its premiere in September. I was distraught when rumors of cancelation circulated. I've been an Aaron Sorkin fan for as long as I can remember. During Sorkin's run with the West Wing, I wanted to be Toby Ziegler... I even considered law school. Studio 60 has possibly influenced my decision to apply to Northwestern's writing for stage and screen program. Sorkin believes, "My obligation isn't to the truth ... my obligation is to captivate you for however long I've asked for your attention." Studio 60 not just a show within a television show, but a vehicle to comment on television and society. I aspire to this.

Cough Drop, PLEASE!

The woman in the office next to me has been clearing her throat repeatedly for about half an hour and I want to offer her a cough drop but I'm afriad I'll give her a complex.

Can we say Ricooolaaaaa...

The Bar

Aislin faced the bar ordered a vodka tonic--the drink no bar could get wrong--and stared at the neon domestic beer signs casting the patrons in an eerie red glow. Familiar faces from high school telling familiar stories, each marked by bad marriages and multiple kids. Lining the wall were NASCAR plaques, famous pictures of baseball's history, and small placards denoting fried delacasies served in red plastic baskets.

The bartender looked like an ex-boyfriend and probably was. Aislin had been popular with the opposite sex in the days before college--a lucky combination of five miles a day and large Irish baby feeding breasts. Furthermore, Aislin hypothesized that most men fantacized about red heads, although her red locks were now the result of monthly salon appointments.

Duke drank his Guinness like a drunk recently off the wagon. In two swallows the pint was gone.

"I'm sorry," Aislin said.

"Do you appologize for everything?"

"I suppose I do. I'm Irish Catholic, guilt is all I know. What's your excuse?"

Duke stared into his glass as if the answer was hidden in the foam at the bottom, started to talk, but Aislin interrupted him. "You know I never hear confession when alcohol is involved. Let's just enjoy our beverages and take in the atmosphere."

300th Post... Better make it a good one

I was melocholy last night when I thought of what could have been. I miss the girl I was when I was with you. You made me shine.

Stop AIDS; Keep the Promise

December 1st is World AIDS Day. Established by the World Health Organization in 1988, World AIDS Day serves to focus global attention on the devastating impact of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Observance of this day provides an opportunity for governments, national AIDS programs, churches, community organizations and individuals to demonstrate the importance of the fight against HIV/AIDS.

The red ribbon has been an international symbol of AIDS awareness since 1991. The Red Ribbon Project was created by the New York based organisation Visual AIDS, which brought together artists to create a symbol of support for the growing number of people living with HIV in the US.

The red ribbon is worn as a sign of support for people living with HIV. Wearing a red ribbon is a simple and powerful way to challenge the stigma and prejudice surrounding HIV and AIDS that prevents us from tackling the global epidemic.

According to UNAIDS estimates, there are now 39.5 million people living with HIV, including 2.3 million children, and during 2006 some 4.3 million people became newly infected with the virus. Around half of all people who become infected with HIV do so before they are 25 and are killed by AIDS before they are 35.

It's like Crack in a Can

A crackhead is rescued from the jaws of an alligator after he passed out on a beach.

Is it bad that I laughed at this? I only feel sorry for the alligator.

Wait. Let her finish her Orgasm.

I watched Muriel's Wedding last night and I can say that I'm ready to pack my Abba tapes and move to Sydney.

I've grown into a love affair with Toni Collette's roles. It always seems that she's having a great time!

Pimp or Pope?

Rain, rain, go away

Peri stared out at the rainy morning wondering what the doctor would say in a few hours. She'd choosen a light sweater because she knew she'd end up sitting on the table in a strachy paper gown: private tatoos bared to the room, scars brilliant white under stark lights.

Fif

The secretary kept talking about December 5th today and I just want to yell, "FIF!"

I wanna be a Zombie

One of the guys in my office just brought me this book. I was very excited that he remembered that I like zombie films.

I do regret that I never made that film. I'd like to blame Justin but I know it isn't true. :(

Momo

Alfred didn’t trust cars and he seemed to like the Benz even less. His head swayed from side to side as he peered up from under his thick, furrowed, grey brow.

“Do you need another pint?”

Alfred whined in response, lowering his head and looking away.

Aislin turned back to the house. The large Victorian was stately against low foothills. She loved this house, wrapping her with beautiful views and security. Since high school graduation her life had been in constant flux. A proprietor of a nomadic life, she’d attended three different colleges before completing her bachelor’s degree. This house now represented not just home but her new ability to deal with permanency and stability. The house was the beautiful scar that represented healing.

Aislin poured a pint of Guinness into the heavy stainless steel bowl and set it on the floor.

“You know it’s not healthy to get drunk this early in the morning.”

Alfred lapped up the beer. The massive Great Dane grinned up at her, foam dripping from his muzzle.

“Are you ready to go?”

Whine.

“Will Momo make you feel better?”

The dog’s head bounced in agreement.

“Go get him.”

Alfred dashed up the stair his nails clicking on the oak hardwood flooring the whole way into his bedroom. Aislin checked her watch it was almost 2 a.m. and she was anxious to get on the road. Alfred returned with Momo gingerly held in his mouth.

Aislin didn’t travel without Alfred, much like Alfred didn’t travel without Momo. The dog and his pet sock monkey were introduced when Alfred was no bigger than soccer ball. Momo was never a chew toy, but a brother.

Back in the frigid morning air, Alfred now climbed into the SUV, fortified by Ireland’s favourite ale and the everlasting bonds of friendship. From the driver’s seat, she watched the dog sprawl out on the backseat, rollover, and spread his legs to the ceiling as Momo rested on his white, tummy.

“Comfortable?” she asked pulling out of the driveway.

The high mountain valley was still asleep as they headed east out of town. The wind did not stir the latest dusting of powder. The five stoplights in town were flashing yellow. Alfred was snoozing before they hit Monarch Pass.

Aislin was always reluctant to leave Gunnison, especially on business. On vacation it was always her choice when to return. Whenever business called her away it seemed she’d never return home.

Familiar landmarks marked her progress from mountain to plain. Aislin thought of the familiar landmarks she couldn’t see in the dark; a pedestrian crossing sign atop the pass with a hula hoop painted across the man’s middle; a yellow house that college students honked at for good luck; a rock that looked like a miniature cow.

I need new aquiantences...

Sometimes I just want support. I don't always want advice. Sometimes advice is condecending.

It is funny that aquaintences are often more supportive than close friends.

You broke me today

Photo: zakovska

Madison burned for a smoke. The day had worn off the tarnish, rubbed her so that the wounds looked shiny and new.

She ran her hands through her already touseled hair and mahogany curls fell back into her face to soak up the salty remnants of her last wave of grief.

It seemed no one cared about her happiness, overlooking each small injury they inflicted, and pushing her on down the path. Everyone wanted her to be sucessful so that they could go along for the ride on her coattails. "Maddy you've got talent and a gift and you'll have a profound impact on those who read your work."

Encouragement felt like pressure. If you don't publish, you are a failure. If you can't find the words to set the world alight, I won't love you anymore.

Again she pulled the hair out of her face. Talents and gifts aside she, felt herself die--not in a tangible way that can be easily explained or described in some long monologue constructed for cathartic heroin. It was her heart that perished. That small part of herself Maddy had held back all these years, held in faith, died that day.

I can't write about love anymore. I can't write about something I no longer believe in. I can't write these stories about hope, because I've lost my voice. I've lost my hope. I've lost my love. I lost... I am lost...

Maddy cried into her shaking hands.

I'm broken in some irrepairable way. All the king's horses and all the king's men can't put this back together again.

Giddy Happy

Happy Dance. Happy Dance.

My glasses were found. Hooray!

I can use the computer again.

Canticle

Brigid stared into the mirror, watching the muscles around both eyes twitch and jump. The interview had gone well, but there was always that other issue. How did she continue to find herself back here? Why was she so willing to accept the abuse? Did he have any idea?

Two little blue pills promising sleep downed in a rush of warm water. Tonight she would sleep. Tomorrow she'd find her glasses to quiet her eyes.

Grey's Anatomy

Only three more weeks until the season premiere. Wahoo!

Goodnight Sweet Boy

Each rejection
crushes
a small, hoping
muscle.

She cannot
return
for the abuse.

Gone for
awhile,
Gone for
ever.

Salt washed
away with
faith in him.

I was chatting with my mom today about my fear of Zelda Rouillard. I'm not sure how we got on the topic. I trace my fear back to my high school senior AP English teacher, Mrs. Spiker. That woman hated me! She claimed that I had no understanding of the English language because I was a poor speller. I realized a few weeks into the class that she was nearly blind and I invested in one of those pocket spelling thingys that look like a calculator. I never failed another test and she never the wiser. Being severely dyslexic doesn't bode well for English students.

I hold Mrs. Spiker and Bill King in the same esteem. Both of them told me I'd never become a writer. People like that suck and shouldn't be allowed to teach.

Improv on the Go

I'd love to see Western's Improv troupe do this at Walmart in Gunny!

Director of Forensics

I finally have an interview! Tomorrow I meet with the Associate Dean of Students at Grinnell College for a part time job as the Advisor to the debate team.

I talked to Svea about how to prepare for the interview and I'll be doing a lot of prep work tonight.

I really want this job!

Please think of me and send me good vibes tomorrow.

Yark!

Brad will be here this weekend. Grrr...

Dropped me an email yesterday to remind me. I don't remember discussing this. I don't remember saying, "Yeah, it'd be great to see you." I'd have to be drunk and high on qualudes to say such a thing.

I hope a get a job by the end of the week just so I can avoid him.

His friend Milt is having a party. If I go, everyone will assume Brad and I are together and nothing would make me want to vomit more.

He's creepy, possessive, over-protective, and looming. Yikes!

Bring Christopher Back!

Another Odd Thomas Book? I wasn't that impressed with the last one.

Will Dean Koontz ever return to the Christopher Snow books?

Babar down and out

Recognition

Aislin filled her Nalgene with ice and Mountain Dew. The woman at the counter was the owner of the small convience store, and the mother of a classmate. Laughing, Aislin recalled stopping here nearly everyday during her high school years for a soda and a Snickers bar.

"How do you like being back in town?" the attendant asked.

Aislin choked on her drink. "You remember me?"

"You were in Adam's class and moved to Colorado after graduation," she said, taking Aislin's seventy-five cents.

Keep it about her, and don't answer questions, Aislin thought. "How's Adam?"

Adam had been a classmate since kindergarten. A nice guy pushed into the freaks and geeks category by his participation in Honours classes.

"Oh, he spent four years in the Marines and is working as a plumber now. What about you?"

Graphic

Peri pulled loose, chapped skin off her lips with her teeth. It was a nervous habit lost since childhood, and rediscovered in the last week. She'd avoided driving past the house where it had happened. She was now emboldened, however, by her night with Lex--somehow fortified by a healthy sexual connection--and the time seemed right to confront the ghosts of misery past.

The rambling Victorian sat on the corner in front of the high school like a sentinal to adolescent pain and education. In the decade that had passed some had torn down the large oak in the sideyard where kids had once huddled sneaking a few illict drags of nicotine before class. The lawn boasted new landscaping and the porch swing had recieved copious layers of new paint.

Peri recalled the weekend that Gideon had asked her and her mother to stay. It was sort of a trail to see if they could all live together before the vows were final. Gideon had decorated Peri's room with comic book posters, a mini fridge stocked with Mountain Dew and sweet snacks, a bed laden with downy comforts, and a drafting board with enough supplies to write, draw, and ink ten comic books.

Gideon's attention to detail enthralled Peri. In only a few short months she'd be entering the University of Iowa as a freshman art student. Mom seemed happy with Gideon and vise versa. Life was glimmering.

Mom had been called in for overtime in the ER. Peri was bent over her drawing table working on a self-portrait of herself in the same position. The drawing, a homage to Will Eisner, was coming along nicely when Gideon knocked.

"Come in."

Gideon entered in his police uniform.

"I thought you didn't have to work tonight?" Peri asked.

Gideon smiled and brushed her question to the side. "So, what do you think? Could we be a happy family here?"

Peri set down her Micron pen and swiveled in her chair to face the question. "I don't see why not. Everyone seems happy and I think I'm pretty easy to get along with."

"That's what I was counting on, Gideon said, his eyes changing from soft and inquizative to manical. Peri had seen eyes like that before when Uncle Freddie returned from the Marines a changed man.

Peri's feet dangled and kicked over her new pens as she was held aloft by a single hand at her throat. Quick as a snake he had struck. Too shocked to scream, she pulled at her fingers as he threw her on the bed.

Released from his grip she scrambled up the bed pushing pillows and bedding between them. He'd removed the handcuffs from his belt and shackled her to the headboard. She kicked at him and her foot nearly found purchase but Gideon slipped to the side as he punched her in the ear. His grunts of rage faded into a uffled ringing.

"Resisting arrest is against the law," he said, flipping her onto her stomach and twisting her hands in the cuffs drawing blood from tender skin.

"Who's daddy's little whore, now?" He ripped her pajama shorts down, while raising her to a kneeling position with his knees.

When she felt Gideon baton enter her, Peri screamed into the pillow.

"That's right." Gideon, again, grabbed her by the throat, lifted her head so he could hear her yelps. Then he thrust himself into her from behind.

Peri had never felt such pain as if someone cut her from stem to stern. Her anus contracted and ripped. He rocked back and forth on top of her shouting obsenities, slapping her ass, and pulling her hair.

Then, suddenly, Peri heard shrieking louder than her own. A deafening siren wail, then a door slammed in her head and all was dark.

She felt herself break into
two fragile pieces,
stronger only together.
apart only two
small slips of fabric
torn from a favourite dress
dancing and twirling
in updrafts
and downdrafts.

She watched
fabric twist
wishing to sew
back together
fragile
scraps of self.

I've chosen to bask in the safety of something I knew wouldn't work rather than seek happiness and fail.

Olivia's cynacism was directly proportional to Laura's overwhelming romanticism.

Laura returned from a first date with a man she'd met at a bar and claimed to be in love. Laura was positively gushing and Olivia wanted to vomit.

When I think of Him

Tennesse Williams writes, "In memory everything seems to happen to music."

When Olivia thought of Alan, she heard only foolish music.

Graphic!

Need to watch graphic sex without renting porn? Check out 9 Songs by Micheal Winterbottom. It's like the a really good porn with an interesting plot centered around the Britian club scene. I'm still thinking about the characters.

Warning: Do not watch with friends unless you are extremely comfortable with them.

Damn This Life

She tried to make contact again and was ignored.

Removal

Olivia removed the surgical steel bar from her eyebrow. It was time to rid herself of the last reminder of Quinn. He was the domestic violence lawyer that was too interested in committing the crime he was paid to prosecute.

Olivia was ready to be rid of the memory of his control and his jealousy. She needed to be scrubbed of every thought of him.

Removing this small token from her visage was the last step to a full cleansing.

Who wouldn't f%$k Superman

I want an ugly doll

I LOVE these guys!

If only it was this cool to be ugly.

Oliva's heart was pounding when she woke. A single tear slid down her cheek and bounced on the pillow.

Nothing had prepared her to watch Gabe make love to another woman, even if it was just a dream. In the course of the dream he'd broken her heart a multitude of times. Even now, while out of the sandman's grip, her chest hurt. It was difficult to push the images aside.

Was it a manifestation of Olivia's guilt? She'd been trying to forget about Gabe for the past few weeks. Then yesterday he'd sent an email to apologize for his distance. Was his email the ploy that set her unconcious to work?

Whatever the answers were, Olivia knew that, once again, her heart ached for his touch and his smile.

Invisible Girlfriend

Peri was tired of being the docile one, tired of waiting for him to call, tired of hiding from their friends, and tired of being ignored if she tried to initate anything.

At dinner last night with a mutual friend, Peri learned of Alan's jealous habits. Supposedly one night Peri'd been at the bar and a man had his arm around her. Alan walked in, took one look at her, and left.

Peri had stopped dating Jeremy two months ago when she thought there was a chance with Alan. Furthermore, she had plenty of male friends that would be affectionate with her. Whereas, Alan seemed incapable of being the least bit affectionate in public. For more than a year all she'd wanted was to be a part of Alan's life and was always brushed aside.

She'd learned early in her relationships with men that it is easier and less painful to simply walk away than to beg for attention. Although her propensity toward flight left her single and alone, she prefered it.

Things between them were amazing when they were together; however, Alan wasn't honest with or about her. No one should be shoved to the back of the closet. She didn't want to be anyone's dirty little secret.

What was so wrong with being open? What sort of judgement was he so scared of?

Maggie's Return

I now return to you old blogger friend. I've ignored this blog for too long. I was too caught up in silly Livejournal world with people that felt like friends. It is time to start writing again.

It is here that I know very few judging eyes peer. I'm sure many people have forgotten about this place and for that I am thankful.

Grasshoppers thumped against the side panels; heavy, humid air clung like an old lady's purfume; I could taste the impending harvest; the air smelled green like eatting a fitful of grass.

Can't Rain All the Time

I hate waking up to mornings like this. Omnious, gray and brooding set the tone no matter what method I used to scour it from my skin and my soul. Today would be another one of those days – too many classes, too many meetings, too much rain.

The night dripped slowly with the rain of a late autumn monsoon. I watched the cigarette smoke curl toward the inky sky.

Sophie

Grief, that inner weeping child I call Sophie, has become an everyday part of me. Sophie sits in a corner waiting for a quiet moment to tug on my coat sleeve. Won’t you come play with me? Won’t you hold me?

I go many days without talking to Sophie. She gets upset, throws things and sneaks up on me, scares me into crying. Sophie has a way of doing this while I’m at a party, at the grocery store, or watching a movie with friends.

Peri rubbed her drowsy eyes and tried to wrap her sleep deprived mind around her next course of action.

"I gotta get rid of him," she said into her naptime pillow.

There had been too many nights with too many bad men. Chad wasn't a bad guy--he was fucking amazing--and every night they's shared was thrilling. However, Peri knew her feelings were the stronger of the two.

Rejection and disappointment were not a reality she was willing to face again. Not as she was just securing her sanity and her future. Not when her career was finally showing promise.

He'd failed the hug test. Why was she so reluctant to let this one go?

Friends was great but she'd already burned that bridge and there was no return.

Failed the hug test...

Quote of the Day

So what are you, Jacob? A faithless preacher? Or a mean motherfuckin' servant of God?

Writing Advice

Anxious inexperienced writers obey the rules.

Rebellious unschooled writers break rules.

Artists master the form.

The archetypal story unearths a universally human experience. Then unwraps itself inside a unique, cultural-specific expression.

An archetypal story creates settings and characters so rare that our eyes feast on every detail while it telling illuminates conflicts so true to humankind that it journeys from culture to culture.

Excuse me, Mr. O' Brien, may I have another Coors? I used to drink martinis utnil I met that son of a bitch. He's the one that srinks this shitty American crap. Stupid matchstick munching redneck.

What was I thinking. My daddy warned me about him. Said he was up to no good and all he wanted was a piece of the Thompson cash. Betty, he said, a boy like that only wants two things and you have both of them: sex and money.

I guess he got 'em both. Stole my virginity. Then the bastard stole my Beamer. How am I going to tell Daddy? He's going to be so mad at me. He bought me that car for my sweet sixteen.

Do you have any snacks? Pretzels? Peanuts? Thanks. You should really fix this place up. Recover the booths, refinish the floors, it could be a real classy place.

I know what you're thinking. I'm just another dumb rich girl who got taken advantage of. You might be right. But this guy was different.

Under his torn Levis and flannel shirt he was smart. Smart enough to make me fall in love. He was a reader, got me excited about books, movies, music. He was brilliant, probably could've gone to Harvard. But he loved working on cars.

The farmhouse is empty. The only sound is the ticking of an over-worked radiator and an occasional icicle falling from the eves.

A fear beyond vioence, beyond her twisted step-father, beyond the family friend and virginity thief, beyond any husband stealing disease.

Hunter embodied love, being loved, recieving love. Hunter meant letting go of the exquiste pain of the past. Hunter was the salve that healed. The reverie of past loves lost, thoughts of a dead husband washed into shadow smiles of yesterday.

Hunter cupped her face with bothe hands farcing her eyes to his. "Where did you go?"

Sean and I were a duet. A violin and cello in harmony. Two musicians anticipating the others' bow strokes.

Transcriptions

Gas prices = foreign policy

Patriotism = shoping

Bombs = security

transcriptions

Shadow of a person

A lighter version of a true self

Sing when you are sad

I don't think you understand how much I hate myself.

Liar; producer, sound; Best Director at the Western Film and Video Showcase
Edit; producer, co-writer, assistant director; Best Picture at the Western Film and Video Showcase
ICU, producer; offcial selection at the Western Film and Video Showcase

Next project? Spark with Torrance. Have a script to look at from Luke. In negotiations with David. Considering the zombie film again.

The perfect tickless silence of a clock stopped universe filled the house. Bleeding, of course, is a quiet process. Crying is even quieter.

Peri curled into a ball at the bottom of the shower stall, cradling her bleeding fist. Sobs undulated within her body while not a whimper escapes her quaking red lips.

The bathroom was the epicenter of all life’s grief: a place to cleanse wounds, wash away the evidence of sexual transgressions, and purge toxins. A place to replace the face before returning to the world.

The night before she’d been drinking from a warm bottle of Riesling still in the brown paper bag and staggering the midnight streets like a wino. The bottle was only one method to quiet her racing mind. Sleep was no longer possible as her thoughts did not stop falling from one dream into another.

This morning Peri had tried to gaze into her own pale green eyes wondering if they displayed her torment. She’d put her feeble fist through the medicine cabinet when she imagined a cloud passing through the depths of green.

Red ribbons of skin hung from her fingers. Peri knew she needed stitches to hold the delicate skin together; however, a hospital asks too many questions.

Peri stood before the shattered mirror, wound gauze around her hand, and watched her reflection fracture.

Dripping and naked, she searched her spartan apartment for her cell phone. A trail of clothes led from the front door to her rumpled bed. The phone had spilled from one of her pockets as she’d peeled her jeans off the night before.

Howard’s voice was tired and gravely—lacking his first cup of herbal tea. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Howie, I need to go to the hospital.”

“Then hop into your cute little beamer and drive your cute little butt to the ER. I’m sleeping and I’m not alone. Can you dig?”

“I can’t shift and I think I’m still drunk.”

“Jesus, Peri. Can you wait half and hour or are you really dying this time.”

“Send her home gently.”

She pulled on a navy suit, opting for flats instead of wobbling on heels. The tea kettle sounded its heated protest fro the kitchen. She made two cups to-go and waited on the sofa.

The perfect tickless silence of a clock stopped universe filled the house. Bleeding, of course, is a quiet process. Crying is even quieter.

Peri curled into a ball at the bottom of the shower stall, cradling her bleeding fist. Sobs undulated within her body while not a whimper escapes her quaking red lips.

The bathroom was the epicenter of all life’s grief: a place to cleanse wounds, wash away the evidence of sexual transgressions, and purge toxins. A place to replace the face before returning to the world.

The night before she’d been drinking from a warm bottle of Riesling still in the brown paper bag and staggering the midnight streets like a wino. The bottle was only one method to quiet her racing mind. Sleep was no longer possible as her thoughts did not stop falling from one dream into another.

This morning Peri had tried to gaze into her own pale green eyes wondering if they displayed her torment. She’d put her feeble fist through the medicine cabinet when she imagined a cloud passing through the depths of green.

Red ribbons of skin hung from her fingers. Peri knew she needed stitches to hold the delicate skin together; however, a hospital asks too many questions.

Peri stood before the shattered mirror, wound gauze around her hand, and watched her reflection fracture.

Dripping and naked, she searched her spartan apartment for her cell phone. A trail of clothes led from the front door to her rumpled bed. The phone had spilled from one of her pockets as she’d peeled her jeans off the night before.

Howard’s voice was tired and gravely—lacking his first cup of herbal tea. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Howie, I need to go to the hospital.”

“Then hop into your cute little beamer and drive your cute little butt to the ER. I’m sleeping and I’m not alone. Can you dig?”

“I can’t shift and I think I’m still drunk.”

“Jesus, Peri. Can you wait half and hour or are you really dying this time.”

“Send her home gently.”

She pulled on a navy suit, opting for flats instead of wobbling on heels. The tea kettle sounded its heated protest fro the kitchen. She made two cups to-go and waited on the sofa.

Unread and unreadable

What is the difference between literature and journalism? ... Journalism is unreadable and literature is not read. That is all." - Oscar Wilde

Emotional Bumper Stickers and Warning Labels

Control Freak

Hi, I'm borderline bipolar

I have committment issues

Therapy sucks

Sex and Emotion don't mix

Functional Alcoholic

Hey Justin

Did you see the WOMAN producer accepting for best picture, you sexist bastard?

Oscars

Ben Stiller is an idiot. What was Naomi Watts wearing? Jon Stewart is a gem. Dolly Parton should win on sheer personality alone. Stupid Penguins, Murderball should have won. Charlize what was that thing on your shoulder. Hooray Ang Lee! Kudos Philip Seymour Hoffman!

Thank you to all of those that thanked the writers!

Smile

Dear 1993,

Death in the Bathroom

Following the wretched crying, Emma goes the bathroom. It’s the sort of sobbing that is painful to hear, a torrent of vocal pain. She pushes the door open, knowing the scene beyond but drawn to it nonetheless. Yellow light bathed the room in a sickly, sallow glow. Roach traps were stuck into every corner. If Death had a bathroom, it looked like this one. Hell had changed addresses.

A girl with downy skin and platinum curls hugs her knees in a bathtub of pink water. Red drips dancing with peach smelling bubbles. Blood seeps from glass embedded in her pale forearms. Her skin turned to ribbon over a bruise that looked like an ink stain. The police would call it a defense injury, a natural reaction to save face while falling through a glass coffee table. Scratches marred the innocence stretched across her visage like skin.

Breath smoothes. Tears dry. The girl calms herself stroking a Saint Jude metal around her neck. She picks up a pair of bloody tweezers and begins removing the glass. Safety glass, which is not sharp, but the sheer force at which she was thrown embedded the shards. Emma sits on the toilet hoping her presence will console the girl who cannot see her.

A women, lumbers in, propping herself against the small, filthy sink. A Marlboro in one hand, a New York Police Academy coffee cup in the other. Her starched blue uniform did little to flatter her ample frame “You are so clumsy!”

The girl hugs her knees, rocking back and forth in the darkening water.

“Stop sniveling!” Mom says, her words punctuated with smoke pouring from her pert nose. Mommy Dragon. “Clean up your mess before Daddy gets back.”

I'm not an addict

Yesterday I was accused of being an addict and asked if I'd ever been to a meeting.

This upsets me.

Furthermore, you can keep your 12 steps to yourself.

Bloody Hell

I have a sinus infection. The doctor's won't prescribe me any antibiotics because of all my allergies. Life sucks.

My ears are messed up so I'm dizzy so I get nauseous. The Vicks-Vapo rub isn't working anymore. I can't take most decongestants. Sucky!

Prayer

Please let submission fest go well. Please let the writing be amazing. Please make my decisions hard to make. I love tough decisions.

Oh... and one more thing ... I'd like to run into that guy from last night, you know the one I'm talking about.

Happy Rex Manning Day!

Pathfinder

Pathfinder Submission Fest is Wednesday, February 15 from 3-5 pm.

Submit up to 5 pieces of fiction, nonfiction, or poetry to Taylor 129 or send as a Word attachment to pathfinder@western.edu.

Manuscripts displaying the author's name will be not be read.

There are 4 scholarships of $100 for creative writing.

Please submit your best polished work.

readers

I've written a short fiction piece that needs readers. It is graphic and possibly disturbing. I'd love to put it in the Pathfinder, but I don't want to deal with protests.

Please let me know if you are interested in helping me out.

Unity!

I love that Dave got James Lipton to dance.

I love that James said "Piss on You."

Welcome back, Dave! We missed you! Hollywood may suck but your fans are devoted.

Thank you for reminding me that the hard times are about building character. I need that right now.

Observation

Have you ever noticed that Chinese left-overs in the fridge smell like pot?

Voices

Peri sat at her computer and stared at the blinking curser. Deadlines loomed and a story was jumping up and down at the back of her subconscious yelling "Pick me, pick me!"

She was afraid that giving the story a voice would destroy her; yet, she'd learned that suppressing a voice could kill her.

Instead of writing, she designed a new journal out of CD inserts. Album art. She used every piece of double-stick tape in her apartment and watched terrible television.

The voice would come in the middle of the night. Waking her at midnight and tearing across the pages of a small notebook usually tucked under a pillow.

Joey

Update

Hung out with Ryan last night for an hour or two. That was cool. He's cute and funny. But when a guy says he's only read two books in his life, I get a little nervous.

Went to Jon and Betsy's house to watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. That was cool except Jeff Krieg was being a douchebag as usual. What did I ever see in that guy?

Saw Jason from CB this week but I think he was more than a little f-ed up. That wasn't just pot and sex making him fall over. I know I'm good in bed but that was a little bizzare.

Classes are going well now that I don't have to deal with Justin's BS.

I think Brad might stop calling soon. At least I hope so.

Maps

I want to run or die or get fucked up. I wan to be blind and dumb and have no heart. I want to crawl in a hole and never come out. I want to wipe my existence straight off the map.

James Frey

Yo!

Bandaid

Peri was in need of a bandaid - one shaped in the form of a wasted man. It was on nights like this she thought that the hole in her heart the size of Jonas was going to swallow her.

rage

I hate being in therapy. I spend one hour a week trying to figure out my irrational thoughts and behaviour. I spend the rest of the week trying to figure out what the hell happened to me 20 years ago. I spend hours making correlations between my stomach and the fucked up behaviours of others.

How is someone supposed to feel when a professional explains that you are incapable of anger? Furthermore, I only experience rage. How do I respond that? I think back to the great lengths I go to in order to avoid anger/rage.

What the hell happened me? Do I really want to know?

I hate therapy!

I hate Professors

I really hate professors that can't mind their own fucking business.

Justin called me at home last night. I told him that I was not doing the film and I was dropping his class.

Justin then called Tory, asking Tory why I was dropping the class, why I was quitting the film. Tory told him to talk to me and mentioned that I had some personal issues I wanted to take care of.

Justin then asked Tory if I was a danger to myself or others.

Are you kidding me? I'm dropping his class so I must be suicidal. What a fucking idiot!

I knew that Justin was sexist but I didn't know he had a white knight complex. If I'm a danger to myself, I know where to get help and it sure as hell isn't from Justin.

I might be a danger to others now that I want to choke the shit of out him.

Shrink

"I'd like to make an appointment."

"Who would you like to see?"

"I want to see your meanest shrink. I don't respond well to therapists that want to hold my hand."

"Really? Why's that?"

"I'm manipulative and I hate therapy."

Valley Girl

Peri stared at the cute emo across the food court. Hair of a runway model, pink eyeshadow smudged into the coners of his eyes, nails painted day-glo orange, silver loop throuh his lower lip, plastic bracelets stacked in his waifish wrists.

Peri wanted to walk over tangle her fingers into the back of his black hair, pull his head back and let her tongue explore his depths.

She then imagined the yuppies shitting solid gold bricks at the sight of little Miss Strait-laced making out with a refugee from the streets of Los Angeles circa 1983.Valley Girls reinacted in the middle of WASP America.

AA

He possessed the honesty and politeness only a former addict can muster. Addiction recovery seemed to rid the mind of all inhibitions much like the abused substance freed the body. Tom had lost the inner censor. Years of AA had freed him to discuss the worst of the human condition - his.

Lilly

Aislin wasn't feeling self-destructive. She just didn't want to exist for awhile. Pull back inside and heal before facing the world again. Like a bulb waiting for spring to bloom.

Wish in one hand

I wish I could tell the truth
I wish I could cry
I wish I could sleep
I wish I could ...

DJ

I've been thinking about hiring this guy to DJ my graduation party. What do you think?