Is this publishable? or does it have potential? (a snippet of a work in progress)?
Wednesday, March 24th, 2010
__A_YAHOO_USER__ asked:
It is Thanksgiving and once again, I eat alone, hovering over my kitchen counter. The oven roasted turkey sandwich, which I so professionally prepared with equal amounts of Valium; two green pills crumbled to smithereens mixed in with the mustard and there all alone standing over the counter like a vigilant orange bottle half empty with the rest of the diazepam pills , for dessert. This is pathetic even I know this; but this has been my Thanksgiving for years; being strung out on drugs while enjoying a simple yet, traditional thanksgiving feast. I have adapted to loneliness. I live life not worrying about others; this is the lowest realm of narcissism. It’s all me?, me?, me?; instead of me, me, me. The sun of my kitchen brings me fake sunshine, I love plastic sunshine. I feel like a zombie, life can be so boring. I make it boring. I stand around getting a high, eating an oven roasted turkey sandwich in a two-bedroom apartment. The second room was for Sister but she did not move in, she stayed; she stayed at our parent’s house. I take a bite of my toasted bread and the phone rings. I chew on my Valium mustard covered turkey and the phone rings again. I never answer my phone; it’s usually telemarketers trying to sell me toner from some third world country. The reason I know this is because only Sister and Dan have this number. The reason they have my number is because Sister bought me this phone. I hate phones, she made me; I promise. The reason Dan has the number is he is one of my managers; he might have to call me in to be Cat. Dan has a lot of family and friends, so he is not going to take a moment out of his time to call miserably pathetic me. It rings one last time before my machine shuts it up, it threatens it to stay quite by saying, “I am not here. Leave a message.” The annoying beep tells my machine to let the hostage go and the hostage sounds like Sister. “Hey, it’s me. Answer your phone. I know you’re just eating your sandwich.” Amazing, that telepathy thing at work or am I just really predictable. Sister says something to someone in the background, comes back with loud pop music attacking my ability to hear her correctly, I think she says, “Just calling to…fool me, fool me…hoping you would come over…pretend that you love me…call me back if…anything but you…I’m waiting” Her message left me appetite less with predictability and the urge to say that you need me dance. I abandon my sandwich on the doorsteps of the Garbage family. I heard they were nice.
I grab my dessert. The pills belonged to a woman with anxiety, which left her purse at Cat’s Game, when she brought her five children to have as much fun as a wall with the inevitable annoyance of a nail on its surface. I am terribly sorry Ms. Wozniak of 2731 Malian Drive. With my condolences out the window I use the one cup I have in the house to fill with tap water. I catapult the green beauties into my mouth, I drink the disgusting water. My esophagus couldn’t be happier. Abandoning the cup in the sink, I navigate to where a television should be but find a plastic fold out chair in its place with a pack of Camel Lights sleeping on top waiting to be smoked. I fulfill their desires by lighting up. Aww, sweet death. As I inhale I wonder what the world is doing, in America, the United States, a majority of them are having a ball with a dead bird. The rest of the world is doing something. What am I doing? Nothing is right. I exhale, smoke covers my face. I hate the smell of smoke but I love smoking. Weird. My mind accelerates for a moment and with only to be pleasurable sensations in my body, thanks to Valium. I can do anything and enjoy it. Anything. I half-heartily walk to the phone. I dial Sisters number. I am half-way excited. The phone rings once, twice, three times, fou—answered! “I didn’t think you would call” Is that surprised or regretful? I say into the weird shaped communication device, “Yeah, well if I am still invited, I would like to go.” She replies with what I can only come up with in my emotion dictionary as joy, “Of course you are, you should come over…right now!” She talks to someone once again asking if ‘Alice’ was still showing up. She is just being rude now. “I want you to meet someone.” Oh no, but then again there is my sidekick Valium to protect me. I reply to that, “Sure, I’ll be there in a bit.” Those words travel fast through wires somewhere. She says, “Can’t wait. You better hurry.”
This will be the first time I will be at home, the place where nothing happened but everything happened. Oasis in the pit of regret. Sister will have someone to introduce me to. I walk out my door feeling lightheaded and I stumble down the stairs. I rolled down the stairs, painkilled and comfortable. The concrete slabs are crushing something in me but when I hit the bottom of the stairs, I look up at the stars who shine down upon me with their amazing simplicity and I smile. I laugh, and I laugh hard. I, with my feet resting or at least pas
Written when I was 16. Edited: never; revised: same.
Actually, I just reread this myself… it sucks.
Actually, I just reread this myself… it sucks.
It is Thanksgiving and once again, I eat alone, hovering over my kitchen counter. The oven roasted turkey sandwich, which I so professionally prepared with equal amounts of Valium; two green pills crumbled to smithereens mixed in with the mustard and there all alone standing over the counter like a vigilant orange bottle half empty with the rest of the diazepam pills , for dessert. This is pathetic even I know this; but this has been my Thanksgiving for years; being strung out on drugs while enjoying a simple yet, traditional thanksgiving feast. I have adapted to loneliness. I live life not worrying about others; this is the lowest realm of narcissism. It’s all me?, me?, me?; instead of me, me, me. The sun of my kitchen brings me fake sunshine, I love plastic sunshine. I feel like a zombie, life can be so boring. I make it boring. I stand around getting a high, eating an oven roasted turkey sandwich in a two-bedroom apartment. The second room was for Sister but she did not move in, she stayed; she stayed at our parent’s house. I take a bite of my toasted bread and the phone rings. I chew on my Valium mustard covered turkey and the phone rings again. I never answer my phone; it’s usually telemarketers trying to sell me toner from some third world country. The reason I know this is because only Sister and Dan have this number. The reason they have my number is because Sister bought me this phone. I hate phones, she made me; I promise. The reason Dan has the number is he is one of my managers; he might have to call me in to be Cat. Dan has a lot of family and friends, so he is not going to take a moment out of his time to call miserably pathetic me. It rings one last time before my machine shuts it up, it threatens it to stay quite by saying, “I am not here. Leave a message.” The annoying beep tells my machine to let the hostage go and the hostage sounds like Sister. “Hey, it’s me. Answer your phone. I know you’re just eating your sandwich.” Amazing, that telepathy thing at work or am I just really predictable. Sister says something to someone in the background, comes back with loud pop music attacking my ability to hear her correctly, I think she says, “Just calling to…fool me, fool me…hoping you would come over…pretend that you love me…call me back if…anything but you…I’m waiting” Her message left me appetite less with predictability and the urge to say that you need me dance. I abandon my sandwich on the doorsteps of the Garbage family. I heard they were nice.
I grab my dessert. The pills belonged to a woman with anxiety, which left her purse at Cat’s Game, when she brought her five children to have as much fun as a wall with the inevitable annoyance of a nail on its surface. I am terribly sorry Ms. Wozniak of 2731 Malian Drive. With my condolences out the window I use the one cup I have in the house to fill with tap water. I catapult the green beauties into my mouth, I drink the disgusting water. My esophagus couldn’t be happier. Abandoning the cup in the sink, I navigate to where a television should be but find a plastic fold out chair in its place with a pack of Camel Lights sleeping on top waiting to be smoked. I fulfill their desires by lighting up. Aww, sweet death. As I inhale I wonder what the world is doing, in America, the United States, a majority of them are having a ball with a dead bird. The rest of the world is doing something. What am I doing? Nothing is right. I exhale, smoke covers my face. I hate the smell of smoke but I love smoking. Weird. My mind accelerates for a moment and with only to be pleasurable sensations in my body, thanks to Valium. I can do anything and enjoy it. Anything. I half-heartily walk to the phone. I dial Sisters number. I am half-way excited. The phone rings once, twice, three times, fou—answered! “I didn’t think you would call” Is that surprised or regretful? I say into the weird shaped communication device, “Yeah, well if I am still invited, I would like to go.” She replies with what I can only come up with in my emotion dictionary as joy, “Of course you are, you should come over…right now!” She talks to someone once again asking if ‘Alice’ was still showing up. She is just being rude now. “I want you to meet someone.” Oh no, but then again there is my sidekick Valium to protect me. I reply to that, “Sure, I’ll be there in a bit.” Those words travel fast through wires somewhere. She says, “Can’t wait. You better hurry.”
This will be the first time I will be at home, the place where nothing happened but everything happened. Oasis in the pit of regret. Sister will have someone to introduce me to. I walk out my door feeling lightheaded and I stumble down the stairs. I rolled down the stairs, painkilled and comfortable. The concrete slabs are crushing something in me but when I hit the bottom of the stairs, I look up at the stars who shine down upon me with their amazing simplicity and I smile. I laugh, and I laugh hard. I, with my feet resting or at least pas
Written when I was 16. Edited: never; revised: same.
Actually, I just reread this myself… it sucks.
Actually, I just reread this myself… it sucks.