A Short Rant

Yesterday one of my good friends came over for a while to hang out which he hasn’t done in a few weeks. He’s going to be moving soon so we’re trying to spend time together before he leaves. Apparently my dad had talked to him before he came in the house, where I was playing Xbox. During their conversation my father brings up how he thinks my friend and I should date.

…

UGH! I don’t understand why people find it so impossible for males and females to have platonic relationships. Neither of us wants to date the other. We don’t see each other that way. And before anyone tries throwing any “friend-zoning” bullshit at me, I’m 100% positive he has the same thoughts on me as this. Even stumbling, doesn’t remember what he did the next day, drunk he refers to me strictly as a friend and doesn’t try at all to flirt with me, which he does with any other girl he finds attractive while drunk.

Even beyond that point is that I have a boyfriend. It may be a long distance relationship, but that doesn’t make it fake or non-existent. I really miss him. I do get to see him again at the end of May which will be nice, but leaving again will be so difficult. It’s so hard to stay connected being so far away. I crave the things I had in my past relationship: getting to fall asleep together, seeing each other on a near daily basis, being able to go out and do things together whenever we wanted to.

I hope time goes by quickly. People don’t seem to really count what we have as a relationship. Maybe once he gets the money saved up to come stay here for a little while their minds will change but who knows. It’s just disheartening not having my friends and family support me in this.

 

Zoey’s Prologue: An Introduction to One of My Characters

It was an unusual day for Zoey. She stumbled into a Starbucks quietly, hoping to avoid drawing attention. One look at her though, and the other’s in the café could not move their gaze. The lanky 17 year old, who hunched as she was stood at 5’6, but at attention, was 5’10, smelled of smoke and gasoline. Short, frizzy, brunette hair stuck out at odd angles and her bib overalls were covered in stains of grease and oil. Still, this was not at all the strangest of oddities the crowd observed. Bounding behind her was a creature that appeared to be a dog. However, unlike any dog these people had seen, it was shiny, metal, and altogether synthetic in make.

“Phew… That was a close one Harley,” Zoey said as she gave her pet a pat on the head. In reply, Harley gave a small bark as he wagged his tail. It was then that the manager of the establishment approached them.

“Uh, I’m sorry to tell you, but pets aren’t allowed in here,” She said, trying to be as polite as possible through her dumbstruck state. Zoey quickly realized where she was and fumbled through an apology. Turning around, she and Harley zipped across the street and down a familiar alley.

“So, what do you suppose those goons were after?” Zoey asked her companion. Harley shook his head. Neither was sure what was going on. Usually things like this were sources of entertainment for them. A gang of thugs who Zoey’s father owed money would try to get to her in an attempt to smoke him out. She managed to outwit them every time. Coming up with new ways to trap them and scare them off was one of her favorite pass times.

This was different though. They seemed more organized, more determined, and more serious than any of the other groups Zoey had dealt with. It also seemed like they had genuinely been after her instead of just using her as a pawn in their game.

After a few more minutes the duo had reached their home. A small shack that was at one point her dad’s automotive workshop now housed not cars but Zoey and Harley. She walked over to her cot in the corner and plopped down. It had been quite the exciting day. So exciting, in fact, that it wasn’t until she started to drift off that she noticed the shooting pain in her side. Placing her palm on the spot she found the source.

“Aw fuck… I can’t believe one actually got me,” Zoey cursed under her breath. One of the men who had been after her earlier had managed to get a shot in her. Not a normal bullet though, it seemed. What exactly it was, she couldn’t be for certain, but she knew she needed to have it removed. If she went to a hospital they would take it and have to file a report on it. She wanted to examine the thing herself.

Finding herself a pair of needle nose pliers, she hobbled over to the sink in the small attached bathroom. Washing them as well as she could she took a couple deep breaths. This wasn’t the first time she’d attended to herself, but it was the first time it was to anything this serious. Prodding her side she found the entry wound. She grabbed the nearby towel and put it between her teeth. Gritting her teeth hard she dug the pliers into the wound. Tears of pain leaked from her eyes as she searched inside for the foreign object. Finally she removed the small piece of metal and dropped it on the floor next to her.

In her muddled state of concentration and pain she had failed to realize the amount of blood that she had lost. She tried to call for Harley, but could not make her voice out. Was she going deaf? Or was she not even actually saying anything? In a fleeting moment the world blurred and then faded away. Nothing but black showed in her eyes as she dropped to the floor.

Suddenly vision returned to her. Slowly and with a few hard blinks Zoey regained her senses and her memory of what had happened before she fell unconscious. She began scrambling up, looking for the metal chunk she’d worked so hard for. It was then she realized that she was no longer in the tiny bathroom in the grimy garage turned home. She was no longer even in her own clothes. Upon inspection she realized someone had bandaged her up, as well as bathed her and given her fresh clothes. Whoever it was obviously did not know her well, though this did not surprise her. Zoey’s one and only friend was Harley, the pet she’d made herself back when she was a kid. Her eyes darted around the unfamiliar room in search of her overalls, as the flower patterned, halter sundress was not going to cut it.

“You know, it’s much easier to tell that you’re a girl when you’re in a cute dress like that instead of those dirty overalls. A cute pair of flats and a spot of make-up and you’d be down right pretty, you know?” A stranger’s voice echoed in the room, but from where Zoey could not tell.

“Being pretty isn’t something I worry about. How am I supposed to do anything in an outfit like this? And who the hell are you, anyway?” Zoey was coming up with a few things she could do in case of an emergency. Overload the lights to blow, rig the thermostat to boiling hot or freezing cold, and if she knew where the voice was coming from, could hijack the electrical flow in the wiring to surge there to zap her captor. Escaping would be difficult without any of her tools and limited knowledge of the building she was in.

“Aw, come on now. I saved your life you know. Couldn’t I at least get a thank you? If your pooch hadn’t gotten you out of there you’d be either dead or enslaved. You owe him a lot, you know?” The voice still hadn’t introduced itself. This kept Zoey on edged.

“Where is Harley?” Zoey questioned. Having him with her would make defending herself and possibly escaping a piece of cake. Throughout her life she added bits and upgrades and tweaks to make Harley a Swiss Army Knife of sorts. He was made for any situation Zoey could think of.

“He’s headed your way. Any minute now he should be walking through that door,” And as the voice said this the door slid open and Harley walked in. Of course, as soon as he was inside it closed again. Harley was happy to see Zoey up and well. He ran up to her and jumped up, putting his paws on her chest. His presence calmed her slightly, but as always she was still on her toes. She leaned down and whispered in his ear.

“Do you have it?” Harley jumped down and his demeanor changed. He shook his head again and whined apologetically.

“Are you talking about the bullet you pulled out from your side? I destroyed it,” The voice informed her. Zoey’s right eye twitched in anger. All of that for nothing. She was tired of dealing with this. After having the longest day of her life she was ready to go home and have things back to normal.

“Trust me, it’s for the best. As I’m sure you figured out, it wasn’t an ordinary bullet. It was a tracking device. They got that in there so they could find you later when you least expected it,” Whoever it was seemed to be telling the truth.

“But why would anyone want to track me? I know people want to find my father, but I haven’t seen him in years. Hell, I don’t even know if he’s alive, let alone where to find him,” Zoey said. The voice just gave a condescending chuckle in response. She was growing tired of this taunting.

“You think they wanted your father? No no no… They want you. You, like a handful of others, are special. You were able to build a fully robotic dog out of spare car parts at the age of 7. You can tell a bullet isn’t a bullet just from a mere poke. You have already figured out at least 5 ways you can use the technology in that room to defend yourself and escape. You go above and beyond a savant. That is power. And power is what they want.”

Zoey just stood in disbelief. They wanted her? She was special? Sure, she was good at making things, but that was about it. And how could she trust this voice? Perhaps it only patched her up in order to gain her trust to use her later. But why? None of this was making any sense.

“I know; you’re confused. You’re tired and probably still disoriented from the amount of blood you lost before the wound was closed. Why don’t you just go ahead and rest in the bed provided and we can talk more later?” It really seemed Zoey had no choice. Without know where she was, who she was up against, or even why she was there in the first place, she couldn’t make a solid plan of escape. She resigned and crawled into the bed, determined to get answers when she awoke.

 

Anyone Have Any Hagerty?

What do you do when your silver lining starts to tarnish

and you can’t afford to buy the polish?

The shine dims in the sky and your eyes.

No longer can you focus on the prize.

 

While others laugh away their days

you sit there in an overwhelming haze.

Do they notice you aren’t really there?

Scarier yet, do they even care?

 

How can a person expect you to conquer your fears

when they don’t even notice you holding back tears?

A simple “It’s fine” suffices.

You’re left alone with your vices.

 

Even now I’m all you have left

To depend on when you’re feeling bereft.

I still try to help all that I can.

I know you just need a hand.

 

But it isn’t that easy for me to give

knowing you once stopped caring if I lived.

Cries and screams and words were like poison.

I used and abused them without reason.

 

So all that I offer cannot be enough

for you to grow wiser to the world so rough.

It’s all up to you just like you feared.

Be careful; your hope has disappeared.

 

The World, a description of an environment for my next big project

The light flickers in its usual manner as the soft glow of a computer monitor sparked to life. Turning on any appliance, including the computer or television always nearly caused a fuse to pop. Once upon a time the tiny studio apartment was an optimal spot for a bachelor in the city. Now, the white floors are tainted with dirt and all surfaces are coated with a layer of dust. Clicks made by rapid typing broke the silence. A roach crawls from underneath a kitchen cabinet. Another flicker from the yellow ceiling light and the roach is gone as if it never existed. Time ticks away on the clock hanging on the wall by the only window in the room. Curtains drawn over the window prevent any light or unwanted eyes from peering inside. A light breeze ruffles the dark sheet away, a bit of sunlight breaking in for a moment. Was the window left open? A crisp orange leaf flows in on the breeze along with a chill. After a few more ticks from the clock the leaf has disintegrated and melded into the dirt; it’s pang of color gone with it. As the window shuts, stars can be seen in the darkened sky, defying the birds chirping in the one neatly trimmed tree in the sidewalk. Once the clock struck 6 o’clock the redness would be back. Every night at the same time, a dense red would pervade the air, cover the floor, and drip from the ceiling. The light would cease flickering at this time and give in to the redness. Only the computer monitor fought the redness, sometimes experiencing triumph and sometimes squashed in defeat. The redness seeped away by the time the clock struck ten. After redness came darkness. The darkness brought peace with it. Silence reigned again.

 

A Scrap of Paper “Accidentally” Left Out by a Writer(redone and edited version of “The Mind of a Writer”)

I feel like I may implode at any moment. I cannot wake from reality but dreaming brings me no peace either. What am I? I don’t know. Or maybe I do but am just too afraid to admit it. Fuck this bullshit! I scream yet no one hears me as my mouth remains shut. What am I? This question haunts my every thought, pervading every word and action, tainting once meaningless acts. What am I? A dreamer? A thinker? A wisher? A doer? I cannot find a definition yet I find them everywhere. I am nothing and everything at once. What bullshit is that? I am the next hipster “goddess” who thinks they are deeper than the Marianas Trench… Fuck that. I am no deeper than any other, covered in scars others have gained before me. Does any of this even matter?

These words flow through my mind and down to my pen. My biggest fear and biggest wish are that someone will read them.

 

Lust Overwhelming a Cutter’s Mind(redone and edited version of “The Mind of a Cutter”)

Nerves build up inside me as I grip the box cutter in my pocket. The urge hits again to dig the blade into someone, myself. Tear the skin, feel the blood pulse through me, out of me, around me. I create my own red sea and wait for my Moses to come part it. Liquid rubies smear the white tiles, staining them; swirling into a whirlpool no ship could pass through. But my smile still shines, fooling everyone. There is no blood, no river, no sea. Best friends, lovers, family all simply ignore what they refuse to see. This is nothing more than a figment of my imagination, my being. But still the blood pours and pools and drowns me. Most would gag and choke and writhe, but the familiarity of the salty taste thicker than the whiskey I crave drives me on. I lap it up willingly, even joyfully. I drink and drink until the blood is all that I am.

 

Unspoken Rant of the Daughter of Modern Peasants(re-done and edited version of “The Mind of a Peasant”)

Emotion bubbles and threatens to overflow. I twist, stretch, move; anything to keep the lid on. People see injustice everywhere but those with the means to stop it wear blinders so they can be steered as well as a New York draft horse as it pulls carriages along the busy streets. I live in a world where my mother believes that the Mexicans steal American jobs and the Christians are persecuted while she sits on the couch spewing hate about atheists along with the rest of the nation. I know I am not the only one who sees what is happening. People talk all the time but rarely do they speak. Even when they think to speak they bite their tongue, afraid of what their once formless thoughts may do. Truth is hard to find and harder yet to stand for. But what can I do but let the anger and rage churn inside me? I am a coward. A sheep too scared to call out against the shepherd as he leads us to a wolf pack.

 

Thinking About My Life

Man, I really love my creative writing class. And English stuff in general. Reading and writing and everything that goes with it is just the best to me. I want to become a legitimate writer. That’s what I want to do with my life. Hell, it’s been a dream of mine since I was a kid. But there are some big problems with this that have kept me from pursuing it as anything more than a hobby.

Firstly, there’s the lack of stability such a career would entail. There’s no way of knowing if my work will get published and even if it did, would it become popular enough for me to live off of even on my own, let alone if I get married and/or have kid(s) in the future? That scares the hell out of me thinking I might commit my life to something with the odds being it’ll never go anywhere.

Second, I have the societal standards of going to college and getting a degree to combat with. This is especially true since I’ve said I’d like to go into psychology and get my degree in that, a PhD even. Ten more years of school just seems so daunting, especially since I can’t seem to get myself past this dreadfully boring introductory classes. I could theoretically just switch to an English major, but what good would that do me really? I can’t get into pretty much any field with a bachelor’s in English.

Third, pressure from my family, mostly my parents, to accomplish/be something. Unless I could manage to write some awesome book that gets crazy popular and I make loads of money from it I’m sure my parents will see writing as a waste of time and effort and in no way a possible career choice.

Lastly, I’d be letting my own old goals down. Will I be ok with not getting my PhD? Is that something I’d be able to not care about eventually? Is going into the future knowing I’ll have to work a job and write in my free time something that will be fulfilling or something that will just stress me out and make me feel like a failure?

I’m at a loss of what to do really. I want to write so badly… But all of these reasons are making me think perhaps going down that path won’t work for me. My creative writing teachers have given me a lot of drive to go for it though. I wonder if they realize how much of an influence they’ve had on my life this semester.

 

The Mind of a Writer

I feel like I may implode at any moment. I cannot wake from reality but dreaming brings me no peace either. What am I? I don’t know. Or maybe I do but am just too afraid to admit it. Fuck! Fuck this bullshit! I scream yet no one hears me as my mouth remains shut. What am I? This question haunts my every thought, pervading every word and action, tainting once meaningless acts. What am I? A dreamer? A thinker? A wisher? A doer? I cannot find a definition yet I find them everywhere. I am nothing and everything at once. What bullshit is that? Am I to be the next hipster “goddess” who thinks they are deeper than the Marianas Trench? Fuck that. I am no deeper than any other, covered in scars others have gained before me. These words flow through my mind and down to my pen. My biggest fear and biggest wish are that someone will read them.

 

The Mind of a Cutter

Nerves build up inside me as I grip the box cutter in my pocket. The urge hits again to dig the blade into someone, myself. Tear the skin, feel the blood pulse through me, out of me, around me. I create my own red sea and wait for my Moses to come part it. Liquid rubies smear the white tiles, staining them; swirling into a whirlpool no ship could pass through. But my smile still shines, fooling everyone. There is no blood, no river, no sea. They do not want to see it so the simply ignore it. A figment of my imagination, my being. But still the blood pours and pools and drowns me. Most would gag and choke and writhe, but the familiarity of the salty taste thicker than the whiskey I crave drives me on. I lap it up willingly, even joyfully. I drink and drink until the blood is all that I am.