Life

I had a meeting with StudioBlue7 Photography and Videography this morning. I am joining their team as a Freelance Photographer and Videographer. My first shoot is this coming Saturday.

I also worked as the Lab Technician this afternoon. That actually went surprisingly well. I’ve got that again tomorrow night. Plus work tomorrow morning at the office. Plus classes all afternoon.

I’m seriously considering posting a section of one of the novels I’m writing for some feedback. There’s a catch, though. It’s a pretty explicit portion of the novel. I’m not sure what my average “reader age” is, but I don’t want to post anything too outrageous if I’ve got a lot of young readers (which I doubt)… or if I’ve got a lot of readers who are offended by that sort of thing.

I’m actually not the type of person to care what other people think. I walk to the beat of my own drum, regardless of how cliche that sounds. However… I don’t want to turn off any readers. Hmmm… what do to, what to do…

I guess if you see some explicit fiction soon, you’ll know what my decision was.

Life as a Bitch

Beginning of a short story….not sure if it’s worth continuing.  Feedback please : ]

Carole never had any siblings. She never had anyone competing with her for her parents’ attention. Her bedroom was full of the best toys money could buy, and still she was never satisfied. Her father was the heir to an oil fortune, so she got whatever she wanted whenever she wanted.
Carole was officious. She had plenty of playmates as a child, but never any real friends. The girls she played with only liked her for her toys.
As she grew older, she found no one with whom she could share her secrets. She knew the other girls only pretended to like her and whispered mean things about her behind her back. She began to grow bitter.
When Carole reached adulthood she had no real friendships. Her father arranged several male callers but none of them ever took a real interest in Carole; they only cared about the fortune she would one day inherit.
Being spoiled in her childhood turned Carole into a bitch. She disliked anyone who did not agree with her opinions. She couldn’t keep a job for more than a few months because she couldn’t follow directions. She found that if it wasn’t her way, it wasn’t right.
She never moved out of her parents’ house but was rarely there. She went out each night to a different bar and got drunk. On a good night someone would call a cab to take her to the nearest hotel to sleep it off. Most nights, however, one desperate man or another who “really felt connected to her” would pick her up. He would take her to his apartment (never a house), and they would have sex.
She rarely remembered the events due to her level of intoxication. Twice she had contracted gonorrhea, and even became pregnant once. She decided to keep the baby but miscarried during the second month.
Losing her unborn child only served to make her more bitter. She stopped trying to find a job and stayed in bed for most of the day. Her parents tried expressing their concerns but she lashed out at them.
“Honey, we’re really worried about you. You’ve been staying in bed all day and staying out all night. You haven’t had a job for months. Is everything okay?”
“Why don’t you just mind your own damn business” she bit back.
Finally, after three months of sulking, she decided it was time for a change. She bought a plane ticket to Las Vegas and announced to her parents that she would be going away for a few weeks.
“Where are you going, honey?” they asked.
“Away. It doesn’t matter where I am. I just need to get out of this damn place. I need to sort some things out. I don’t know exactly when I’ll be back, so don’t ask.” She responded.
“What if we need to get a hold of you?” they asked.
“You won’t.”
She left the following morning with only a wallet full of debit and credit cards. She figured she would buy whatever she needed when she got there.
The flight was long and she spent the majority of it arguing with the stewardess and man in the seat next to her.
“This man smells putrid, move him immediately” she ordered the stewardess.
“You little bitch. Who do you think you are?” the man responded.
“I think I’m a high paying customer who doesn’t wish to smell B.O. and fish for six hours.”
“I’m sorry miss, but there are no other seats available. You’ll just have to make due. Is there anything I can get you to make you more comfortable?” the stewardess asked.

Letters To Heaven

Introduction of a Potential Book

Letters to Heaven

My Momma died when I was six. They told me when it happened that she was just really tired and needed to go away to somewhere called Heaven where she could get as much rest as she needed to and where she could always be happy. I wondered why she couldn’t be happy here. That was eleven years ago. Now I know that my mother really died of cancer. I found out from my big sister, Ellie when I was nine. She told me that it was time I knew the truth, that I was finally old enough to understand. She told me how Momma was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, and how she always wore a smile. I knew that Momma was beautiful, I could remember wishing that some day I would be as pretty as she was. Ellie was twelve when Momma died. I remember that she cried a lot after it happened. She came home from her friends house one day after school crying her eyes out and I thought she was hurt. “Ellie? What’s the matter? Why are you crying?” I asked. “Oh Jessie it’s just so unfair! All my friends have their mothers to guide them and now, when I need my mother the most, she’s gone. She’s gone and she’s never coming back!” she sobbed. “But Ellie, Momma still loves us even though she’s gone, doesn’t she?” I asked, by that time I too was crying. “Of course Momma loves us, she’ll always love us. I’m sorry Jessie, it’s not nice for me to talk like that in front of you. Momma’s in a better place now, she’s not suffering anymore.” “Was Momma suffering when she was with us Ellie?” “No darling, when she was with us, she was so very happy, it was only towards the end that she was suffering, and she wasn’t with us then, remember?” “Where was she Ellie?” “In the end, Momma was in the hospital. The doctors were trying to make her as comfortable as possible. Momma didn’t want to be there though, she wanted to be here with you and me and Daddy.” “Then why did the doctors keep Momma there if she didn’t want to stay. They should have let her come home. Can she come home now? Will the doctors let her come home?” “No sweetie, Momma’s not in the hospital anymore; she’s in Heaven now, remember?” “Can’t we go visit her? I miss her. It’s been so long since I saw her.” “No, you can’t visit Heaven Jessie, you can only pray and hope that some day when it’s our time to go to Heaven, we’ll see Momma again.” “Ellie, is Daddy gonna go to Heaven to be with Momma?” “Hopefully not for a long time. His place is here with us. Momma would want him to stay with us, be strong for us.” “Ellie, why did Momma have to go to Heaven and leave us?” That was the question that would lead to the revelation of my mother’s cancer.

For the next few years after that day, Ellie acted as not only my big sister, but also as my mother and my best friend. She told me everything I needed to know about clothes, makeup, boys, and becoming a woman. She taught me how to cook since she was the one who prepared all of our meals. Our father worked long hours, leaving in the morning before either Ellie or myself were awake, and often didn’t come home until we were both in bed. Ellie always saved Daddy a plate of dinner so he could eat when he got home.  When I was thirteen I “became a woman” as Ellie put it. Ellie and I both cried a lot that day because we were thinking about Momma and how we wished she could have been there for us then. Ellie was a senior in high school that year. She asked me to go shopping with her for a prom dress in April. We went together and she picked out the most beautiful dress I had ever seen.

Confessions of a Horny Stoned Idiot

(This Story is FICTIONAL)

Sure, everyone does stupid things. Those who do drugs, however, are far more likely to do far stupider things.

This is why I will never do drugs again.

I smoked a bowl, and as usual, I started to feel pretty horny. Since I was alone, I decided to take care of the problem myself.

My internet wasn’t working so I couldn’t watch my usual free porn to get myself “into it”, so I decided to try something else.

I’d bought some lube a few months earlier and decided to use that the help get myself “ready”.

I figured that it would feel much better if it was warm, so I squirted some in a paper cup and poped it in the microwave.

I heated it for about 10 seconds and then sucked it out of the cup with a medicine dropper.

I took off my pants and laid down with the medicine dropper in my hand.

I squeezed it onto myself and felt nothing for a moment.

Then I felt nothing but pain, hot, excruciating pain! I heated it for too long!

I started freaking out and jumped up to find the nearest towel to wipe of the lava lube.

But the damage had been done. My skin was bright red and raw with pain.

It’s safe to say that I sobered up pretty quickly after that.

On those anti-drug commercials, they show stupid kids duing stupid things on weed.

We all laugh and think.. yeah right. Well let me tell you.. those commercials might be funny…

But the reality is.. it’s called dope for a reason.

My advice to you.. IF you’re going to get high.. don’t try to take care of your horniness by yourself.

Eternal Desolation

There are so many things I wish I had the courage to say. So many fears I wish I could voice. There are so many thoughts and ideas kept prisoner inside my mind.

My mind is like a giant jail cell full of innocent people wrongly convicted of a crime, condemned to spend eternity locked up unjustly. I too, am a prisoner of my mind. I see the thoughts, ideas, and feelings, and there is a sheet of glass blocking them, so strong that nothing can penetrate it. I can not set them free; I can not set myself free. With each day that passes a thin layer of dust covers the glass and no matter what I do to clear the dust, eventually everything becomes indistinguishable.
I can no longer tell when I am happy or when I am sad. I have become a shell of my former self, numb to all feelings good or bad. Often times when I assume that I am happy, I raise a hand to my face only to feel tears pouring out of my eyes. I don’t know the reason that I cry, and I can never quite tell why I’m smiling.
It seems that no matter how hard I try I can no longer grasp the things that I once had such control over. I used to be able to pull inspiration out of thin air and write down my deepest desires and darkest secrets. Now no matter how long I sit and stare at a piece of paper or the flashing bar on the computer screen, nothing inspiring comes to my mind.
I have become a desperate soul searching for a purpose. What is left for me now that I’ve lost it all? I used to want to be a writer with the ability to instill fear, happiness, desperation and love into the hearts and minds of anyone and everyone who read my books or my poetry. I knew that I had that ability then, and to this day I know that I still have so much potential.
The problem is I let things dwell and become forever encased in that glass that continually gathers dust. I’ve placed my inspiration in a glass box on a shelf too high for me to reach and no way to ever access it again. I’ve lost the ability to be happy or hopeful. The only feelings that I have are ones of desperation and despair.
I have lost the strength in all my friendships. Everyone that used to be close and important has been lost along this journey towards eternal desolation. The faces of former friends and family are now simply just shadows fading into the night. When that final ray of light dwindles and dies, the shadows of the people that I once loved will too fade away, along with any hope that I had left.
I feel as though I’m on a sinking ship without life vest or lifeboat. I’ve sailed myself out to the middle of nowhere and the water around me is freezing. My body is exhausted and lacks the strength to swim me back to salvation. There is no one beside me to offer comforting words, there’s no one for me to say goodbye to, no one to save me.
That is what my life has become, a ship destined to sink. I have lost touch with reality, only able to look through the dusted glass, as though I’m living in a dream and unable to contact anyone of importance. I can see my memories and they remind me of how things used to be. I see the soul of my former self screaming out in anguish for all the pain I’ve suffered. I see the shell of who I used to be going through the motions of every day life, struggling to get by.
Night time is the only time that I embrace because when the restlessness finally subsides and I fade away into sleep, I am free, if only but for a few hours.