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I give the fuck up. [Mar. 27th, 2005|12:09 am]
You know what? That's it. I'm done with this. I give the fuck up.

I was talking to Alison - my girlfriend - tonight, and her dad decided, in addition to installing spyware on her computer, she could not go over to my house - or vice-versa, without a chaperone. A fucking chaperone. In high school.

Firstly: We are normal, responsible teenagers. I'm not some 17 year old creep who wants to get laid. Trust me, going over to my house unsupervised in and of itself does not evolve into some wild unconscious orgy of passion. I mean, maybe, maybe, at the MOST UNCONTROLLABLE LEVEL we kiss. That's it. That's fucking it. And even that is conscious 99.9999999999% of the time.

Secondly: How do you think Alison's going to turn out when she's 18, huh? She'll be fucked. I mean, she'll learn eventually, but it will be a much harder, much more painful, much slower learning process, because there will be no support there, no one helping her but still allowing her to learn, no one being a mentor - a guiding hand. Instead, it'll be just her, getting routinely fucked over and over again in what she thinks the world is like because she's been sheltered. Well, either that or she'll just fuck the first guy she sees 'cause of built up hormones.

Thirdly, and finally: He won't even talk to me about it. At all. That's right. Just won't fucking talk about it. Even a little. And Alison's mad at me for talking about it a lot. But you know what?

In the end, I can't continue a relationship where there is literally no way for me and my girlfriend to get privacy. I can't. What will we do, talk in code for the rest of our relationship? Constantly evade her dad?

I give up.

I give the fuck up.
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Chapter I [Mar. 6th, 2005|01:46 am]
Talent is a paradox.

Nothing can just appear out of nowhere, you see. For example, the universe did not just spring up one day with a “G’day mate” and went along on its merry way; building little flaming red balls, making a bunch of smaller balls revolve around them, and then blowing them all up. No, the universe arose from something, just as everything does, and talent is no exception. Therefore, talent itself requires obtaining talent; specifically, obtaining talent at obtaining talent. At this point, one asks the question: if talent is obtained by obtaining talent at obtaining talent, how does one go about obtaining the talent at obtaining talent?

The simple answer to this would be: you don’t. There’s no such thing as talent, and every brilliant author is just a better person than you, and you’re a complete failure.

Let us, however, assume for a moment there is such a thing as talent, in which case having talent is a talent, and talent cannot spring up from nowhere without talent at having talents spring up from nowhere, which itself cannot spring up from nowhere.

Therefore, talent is a paradox.

Now, if you had just listened when I first made mention of this fact, we could’ve been done with all this now, and be onto the story, and I would not have had to use the word obtained at all.

However, word count tells me I have used it eight times in the span of two sentences.

That is entirely your fault.
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(no subject) [Feb. 21st, 2005|03:58 am]
Kinda written for Adam, he said "Sexy story!" I said "Okay!" :D

Jeanette shrugged her bra off her shoulder, and watched it slowly as it fell, tickling down her arm till it reached her fingertips and she tossed it into the pile of clothes that had amassed near the bed. She covered her bare breasts seductively, and then pouted when she realized her lover wasn’t watching, but instead was gazing out the window, daydreaming. This was what you got when you dated poets.

She cocked her head to the side a little, wondering what he was thinking about. Of course, she didn’t have to wonder long; she knew as soon as he began to hum that tune under his breath. The same tune he hummed every time he was creating.

That’s what he called it, anyway, creating. Jeanette kind of loved that in her own, odd way. It was art fag and pretentious, she’d admit, but there was something about it, that just…

Well, she didn’t know how to put it. There was just something about poets for her that drew her to them. They were… deep. Like, always willing to have a little sex, but also always willing to talk a little soul.

Of course, she was preoccupied with the former right now, and was being rather thwarted by the latter, but she didn’t mind so much. After all, this is why she fell in love with the oaf. However she was, for lack of a better adjective (after all, she was no poet herself), incredibly horny, and desperately needed release. Drastic measures.

”Oh, honey…” she twirled her finger casually and sensually around her lover’s back, “don’t you want to come back to bed?”

”One sec,” he called back, and was immediately wrapped up again in his thoughts, which would have been fine, if they had been thoughts about making wild, wild love to her.

”Please?” She whimpered once more, kissing his neck gently and sliding her hands down his front until they reached his hips.

He sighed, paused, and placed his notebook on the bed, where it softly took its claim amongst the covers. “Jee, you know I love you. It’s just that… when I’ve gotta poem, I’ve gotta poem, you know?”

She paused for a second, milling it over.

”I know.”

After all, it’s why she loved the guy.
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(no subject) [Feb. 7th, 2005|05:47 pm]
A fraction of my NaNo (nanowrimo.org), totally unedited. Throwing it up here just for fun, I had a hell of a time writing it. Although I'm not quite fond of the dialogue in this, I promised myself I wouldn't edit.

Tell me how much it sucks.


Mary was a young, attractive woman who preferred her coffee with just a tad of pineapple juice, and was despised for it. You see, society absolutely hates more of the same, and absolutely loves the unexpected. The unexpected, however, seems to harbor a grudge against society, and thus society and the unexpected are on rather terse terms, even if society is head over heels for the unexpected.

Now this is where the story becomes rather confusing, for the unexpected has, over time, grown fond of society (though she would sooner die then admit it). His relentlessness took her by surprise and, as you can imagine, the unexpected enjoys surprise very much; it is the fuel for her flame.

One day, the unexpected decided she wouldn’t mind so much to be society’s wife, and at last agreed to marry him. They were wed on the fourth of July, under a brilliant display of fireworks for the founding of a nation that would not be founded for quite a while.

They spent their honeymoon in England, where they listened to great music, drank great wine and had great sex.

The two years after their honeymoon were the happy years. Everything was just right in the family; no one was ever angry; no one ever yelled.

Society worked a day job at a law firm, where he stamped small white sheets of paper and then delivered them to his boss, who then promptly ran them through the paper shredder.

It was the best job society had ever worked; all he had to do was stamp things, take lunch breaks, and urinate.

The unexpected was the greatest wife a man could hope for. She had taken up sewing, and sewed every day with surprising regularity; she cleaned the dishes; washed the car and did pretty much all of the housework that needed doing.

One sunny summer day, after he had left for work, society received a strange call on his cell phone.

”Hello.” A voice said.

”Hello.” He answered.

There was a long pause and a rather awkward silence. Finally society spoke up.

”Who is this?”

”The nineteen-sixties.”


Pause again.

”Why don’t you meet me up in the middle of North America?” the voice prompted, “It could be fun.”

Society thought hard. It would mean a break from his work, which had grown rather tiresome lately.

”Okay.” society said, finally.

And so society went to the 1960s, and they had the most wonderful of times. Tolerance was celebrated, tie-die shirts were donned and marijuana was smoked. Oh god, was marijuana smoked.

After what seemed like a decade, society came back to their small flat, pretending to be tired out from a long day’s work.

Soon enough, though, society was grooving with the 70s, rocking with the 80s and invading Iraq with the 90s. And every night at home with the unexpected seemed dull and regular. And so the unexpected and society grew apart.

Finally, the society and the unexpected had a long, good talk about their relationship and decided it wasn’t working. They divorced, split their money and took off.

And soon enough, society had found a new outlet for his emotional needs: pop music. And the unexpected was oh so jealous.

To this day, the unexpected and society are on tough terms. They are sporadically falling in and out of love. But right now, the 21st century, they are out of love and society is quite cross with society for reasons unknown.

And there was nothing more unexpected then a fully grown woman putting pineapple juice in her tea. Society hated her for doing such an unexpected thing, and never passed up a chance to scowl at her.

So Mary had never had a boyfriend, or any real friends, had always been neglected by her mother, had always been hit by her father and had always been scratched by the family cat.

Because she took her coffee with a tad of pineapple juice.

So here she was, drinking coffee in the airport café once again. People were staring, couples whispering, mothers covering the eyes of their children. She was used to it all by now, though. She had to be, to get by.
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Short, but alright. [Jan. 21st, 2005|11:57 pm]

Chapter 1

John paused mid-step, and looked back behind him. Boot prints had followed him through the forest, and he felt relatively safe under their watchful eye. He reached down past the snow, grabbed a handful of grass and ripped it out of the ground. One by one, he let the blades slide out between his fingertips, and watched as the slowly fell to the ground, lightly taking their claim in the fresh snow that was still sprinkling down from the sky.

He let the last one slip from his grip, and then grabbed it and it tossed and turned in the chilly winter air. He spun it around in his fingers, then dropped it carefully into his pocket, and heard the familiar scream he wished no one would ever shout again.


He began to run to the voice, but doubted he would make it in time. “MEEEDIC!” He ran faster, each breath he took in more painful than the last, the cold air stinging his lungs and his throat, stinging his eyes and his lips and his ears. He ran faster than he could, his feet barely touching the ground with each long stride, his gear clanked in unison behind him, urging him on and holding him back all at the same time, the scream was getting fainter as he was getting closer, and he knew he had to hurry, but then his lungs gave out and breath became too hard to draw breath and down he went, half-falling half-diving into the soft white ground.

Then he saw it. No longer human in form or shape or anything, his face, his body, everything about him was a mess. Metal poked out from holes in his chest and his mouth, and cuts covered what shrapnel had forgotten. He was obviously beyond death, but John crept closer just to make sure. He gripped his arm, the still-warm blood flowing up between his fingertips and staining his knuckles, and put two fingers on his bloodied wrist.

No pulse.

John hated this job.
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