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.”