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hello
hello so drrunk that i allow myself to be writing this
hello that she kissed me
and that she asked to kiss me before doing so
i’m going to rght now
is that okay
bottle of red something having a god time
so happy i could die
but you make me want to swallow your lips
shamelessly as the cars drive by
its getting darker and darker typing this
maybe i should get to bed
he ate my heart he a-a-a-ate my heart
yeah maybe i should celebrate this small victory
she kissed me, man
she
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i know you guys are having a serious conversation but i just dunked my hand in hot wax
and it’s hard to keep my eyes open anymore because there was a lot of sweet rum in that wine glass and i’m sorry again for breaking it but sometimes these things happen. it’s too dark to see the fields behind us but i know it’s wide open space and the thought is overwhelming but only when i really start to stare into the night. i’m lying in the dark beside you after we’ve blown out the candles shaped like skulls and he’s gone home because there’s work to be done in the morning and i want to throw my arm around your waist because obviously it’s a disease i have— a ratio of proximity/snuggles and i just can’t explain it. but i think it would be good, comfortable, and at the same time i start thinking again about walking home in the rain and that too is comfortable in nervous kind of way and i want to just turn to you and let you know that that hey i know you aren’t interested in any long term bogged down independent lady business and you gotta understand that i’m unbelievably good at being shy and coy and all that but just if you want it
well, if you want it, it’s here
and somehow i can’t sleep because it’s spinning when i close my eyes but it’s just something else to pull through so i start playing music and— what is that, oldschool R.E.M? and the fields are still so dark and i smile because i’m recalling a moment ten minutes ago and it’s sweet because he’s everyone’s conscience in his newsboy hat and i bet he’s irish somewhere along the line because he’d look really good in a bright green. i bet. and our backs are touching and it grounds me, focus on that and the silence and the thought of complete air around us and the windows on all four walls and the warm lump of fur at our feet. and man what is that goddamn song cause it’s stuck in a loop and i just hope you’re happy as you ask over and over if it’s all okay. there’s a start out of nowhere like you’re falling out of the sky and then everything is calm again. i love to hate that feeling
there’s still wax under my nails but it’s just detail, just like her and you and all of them. they’re kissing in the car but is it awkward because she says so or because he thinks so? you all think too much sometimes, out of control like the bugs chirping just around and around and all over. i can’t decide whether i like the sound. i know i do. but this is a good night and i’m glad you called and i’d love to know more about every single thing you have to say
i can already see the summer fires burning when i close my eyes
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writeordie.com
I don’t think I understand how this works. I just keep typing? Seems easy enough.
Dean waited, daring to let the clock tick a little longer. No, maybe it’s jensen. no, maybe it’s some other guy. John Smith waited, holding his breath without realizing it as the clock ticked the seconds by. His slick no his shaggy blond hair needed a wash, stringy around his eyes as he takes a moment to lick his lips and check his wrist watch. nothing is going to happen, nothing bad is going to happy. happen.
the wordcount meter shifted once once, 98. 99. what kind of wor— oh i understand. it isn’t letters at all. so i’ve met my goal now, haven’t i? but there’s still 11 min and 19 18 17 15 13 sec left. 08. what do i do? pause mode. useless. should i be paying for this? should i really be writing at all, when there’s an empty bed and a warm cat and my feet are asleep and cramped and this screen is too bright anyway. anyways.
this was all a huge mistake, John Smith cringed as the thought dawned on him. why hadn’t he selected five minutes? two? why had he started in the first place? he stood waiting by the door, that’s right because he’s not typing at all. that wouldn’t be very interesting to read about, you see. and this is probably why authors have piles and piles of beta readers and spell checkers and they never ever release a book as they write it— like some kind of live broadcast? that doesn’t even make sense in the realm of literature. maybe i should start drinking, things get a lot more interesting. or so i’m told.
so this guy john smith is waiting by the door and watching the clock and he’s nervous about something. he’s waiting for his kid to get out of preschool, his six year old who decided today was ballreena day and got on the bus with a confidence nod and a crisp purple tutu. and her name is something cute but not too femme, something like rayna or birkenstock or cleo. cloe? and it’s a door because the class is still in session but that really just means the kids are dragging their backpacks across the room and waiting almost as desperately as he is to get out of there. wax crayons and bits of hole-punched papers are still on the floor and in the middle of it all is this child, chloe of course that’s how you spell that name, sitting in her tutu and looking pouty and tired. and yet she’s still precious adorable in the way that small quiet children are, unlike abraham who is throwing his leftover lunch across the room because it’s there and he simply can. abe, what a stupid name for a kid. who gives their kid an old man’s name? he’ll need a beard and funny hat, but it’s abe and sometimes graham from unknowing substitute teachers and hammy if you’re his mom. and he’s just whipping his shit across the room, not literally, but the little red stick from his cheese and crackers pack is loose and now lying on the burny green carpet that is the reading area. crumbs are everywhere too and john just wants to pick up his kid and get outta there cause the bell’s ringing and the ticker’s done.
holy shit was that 574 words? 577. i’m impressed, i guess. time to sleep, or read about someone else’s smiths and feel bad for fictional characters.
(and i said, hey boy whatchoo cryin’ for? and if this life doesn’t give you the love you expect, there’s always the next)
soon this’ll all make sense, but until i see some kind of clear punishment i can’t promise much. what happened to earthquakes and horror? i want my money back on that one.
(Source: writeordie.com)
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this is only six beers in me i think
so once i read that you shpi;d write drunk and edit sober
anmd i figured i should try
the drun, part at least
so herte i am am focusing soely on the keys aned not the bright screen
in between my periods of lying on my materess
watching the room spin
and i dont tink it’llamont to mcuh
sinc ei cant’ even feel my fiungers hitting the keys
but ill try anytthing once right
so i
m a little druink
i thin, at leat
and i’m hop[ping down the awall trying not to make a dound
silently jubilnat
myself alone
this makes sense right
i hope so
i’m hopping
and httiting the qwalls every now and then
but it’s okay becuase my future date and her ex is there
and my best cowkeroer
oh god this makes no sense
it make s pefercet sense
just dont puke
dneo
dont
no
i dont know
it’ll all be bette in the morning
my nose feels like it’s floating from my face
like a seperate being
like its own creatire
thats oaky right
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you look so defeated lying there in your new twin-sized bed
dear,
I hope things are okay. seeing more of you around these days— should it make me happy or nervous? that maybe things aren’t okay. I’ll always be happy, of course, without you there’s nothing left and (sad and desperate) it will always be truth. Isn’t that horrible?
and maybe I just need somebody around and maybe I just need to get laid and maybe I’m just needy. actually, that’s not even rhetorical. again, just truth. But it doesn’t mean I don’t worry, because while it’s theoretically easy to know what I want, need, whatever, yours is another beast altogether.
I just… never quite understand, a concept on the black board that everyone else ignores because it’s just common knowledge and I’m still trying to decipher the chalky teacher scrawl. Is that what it is? an equation? You and me and everyone we know.
But it’s okay. Let them talk.
and truly, I couldn’t care less. and I will fight for that, I would take on the world for you. I’m just never sure if it’s necessary (it is) or if you want it (just answer me) or if I’m crossing the line from crazy to overkill to stop that right now. I was never very good at math, you know that. It’s just… you deserve silver and gold. I wish everyone else could see that.
I wish you could too.
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sometimes i choke on the ideas
this house is so completely surrounded by death. it’s almost funny. I never noticed any moving truck, no heap of boxes or welcome casseroles. it’s just always been here. does anybody else know?
it lingers.
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She lives in her small town
and everyone knows she’s sweet as apple pie because she’s got that kind of face. Big blue eyes to match her checkered schoolgirl skirt and black knee-highs. Spends her afternoons brushing her hair over her shoulder and counting the strokes, one two three four four four four. Works part time with her mother and shares every breath with the woman, along with every pair of shoes. Her apple pie boyfriend stops by for a kiss before dinner, his wholesome dimples and Americana lighting up the place.Everyone watching in awe, two lamb innocent in the fields—-
straight A’s, star basketball player
lovely singing voice, tall enough to reach the top shelf.
always saying please, always early for workWe’ll come back to that.
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journal: november 4th
hesitate.
wait.
it’s late, it’s a tuesday, we have work in the morning. no, I have work. you never need an excuse. everything is warm and dark and so comfortable, soft, easy.
hesitate.
no, hang on. it tickles! I’m laughing to keep from— no. that can’t be it. it’s okay. don’t worry. don’t…
hesitate. it’s only this, static and warmth and cold hands suddenly but WAIT. couldn’t we just…? no, come on. I can’t not
hesitate. she’s on me, caging me in, all I have to do is… but I can’t. why? don’t know. she’s all around me, pushing down onto me, the heavy weight a sick metaphor for—
hesitate. why not? because she’s all over but all I’d have to do is turn away.wait. hesitate. again. imagine how frustrating this must be! stop. wait don’t.
cold hands on my bare legs but—
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(Source: observando, via makemywaybackhome)
