The sunlight pushed its way through the heavy curtains at my enormous window and I shut it out. I need to be alone, I tell myself but I know that I can never be alone for long. After a while someone is bound to come along and try to cheer me up. I might smile, might even laugh but we all know that laughter can't last forever. I force myself to peek out the window and observe the street below. A cluster of small children play on the sidewalk, laughing. The joy on their faces lights a spark in me...
After removing the gown and sliding to the floor, she flinched - another splinter. Number four. That is simply too many splinters.
Fen agreed.
Some people will tell you that time will heal all wounds but they don't know the truth. They simply hide behind nice sounding words meant to comfort those of us who have experienced unspeakable pain and the deepest of wounds. They don't know that some scars never go away. Some cuts never stop bleeding. Some hearts never quite knit themselves together again. And no stain every really comes out. "Time will heal all wounds" Beautiful words really, but a joke just like every other promise of healing. Time will do alot of things. It will grow up your little girl...
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. Being a professional, I have no time for such girls. My life is full of alcohol, women, and meetings. I also work on occasion, but if that were the reason I came into my profession, I would not currently be involved in what I do.
Do I care about the world? Funny you should ask that. Just the other day, I sent a donation to a charity. I felt bad because people are starving... somewhere.
My girlfriend is beautiful. She has done modeling for various designers...
In retrospect Philip probably shouldn't have put the bologna in the microwave. But Philip was 32 years old. He still had a childish sense of curiosity about the world. And he wondered what would happen.
For the last month Patty had been bringing her dog to work. A small ratty terrier named Bongo.
It barked at Philip every time he walked by Patty's desk. Not a "Let's play" bark either. More like a "Get the fuck away from Patty" kind of bark. Like he was even interested in Patty, a roundish red head with glasses with an annoying whistle...
She opened the envelope and screamed. Lick, lick, and sealed it tight. His address she wrote in delicate red ink, a thin spidery scrawl which crawled over the front of the envelope and crept over to the back, coming together into a pair of bright red lips over the seam.
Emotion-paper was still a new thing, the idea of some crystal-wearers out in Sonoma that actually seemed to work. Like a flat mood-ring, it imprinted with the feelings of the person using it. And with the proper equipment, a helmet that transmitted some harmless electrical impulses to the reader, those...
Fecking parents. Stupid betches who sent me to some Asiaman country. Like, the Olympics were here or some shit? Margo watched the gymnastics because she says those skinny betches give her inspiration.
So the plane. There's some old shriveled mushroom man who murmurs some language in his sleep. His elbow keeps bumping mine, mind my bubble betch.
Some dude picks me up at the airport. No English, obviously. Why the feck don't you speak English? I thought everyone learns it in school. Whatever. My parents sent me here for culture. Sorry if eating dogs and people yelling squiggly lines at...
Can I survive? Am I really as strong as they think I am? They all think that I'm some prefect little girl who is strong and mature enough to keep her head and endure anything all by herself, but am I really? I just keep searching for an elusive escape that doesn't exist, I keep praying for answers that I know I will never find. Why don't they see my cheeks, burned by the tears? Why don't they hear the screaming of my heart as I live my life? They don't because I don't let it show. I can't let...
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway. It was a cold evening, and it turns out she didn't quite make the cut to be invited to the party. There's no way she could've gone back home, though. The opinion of her parents was so important to her-- having them know that she was an outcast? It wasn't an option.
So she just stood there. Outside, watching all the more popular people go in. It wouldn't have been so bad if she could sit alone in a quiet corner of the restaurant across the...
I once tried a six minute story
As a cure for a tapped-out mental quarry
Writer's block was the snare
"Toujours ici" filled the air
And I floundered like a carp in a dory