Writing?

[VoidLivesOn]

Hah take it how you want it. If my writing makes you think all the more reason for me to let people read it.

ok then here is something else I wrote after I was arrested and grounded. I got bored and walked to the gas station and made a little fictional story out of it. MIght be some errors seeing as this one is almost a year old too.

[align=center]Am I as Bored as it is Hot Outside?[/align]


I stick my hand in my pocket halfway expecting a handful of nullity to exist within my palm when I pull it out for inspection.This time I'm wrong.The crumbled up dollar that rests before me is discrepant to my adverse assumptions of what could have possibly existed in my pocket.I'm not complaining though, this discovery has now given my wearisome day a new significance.A walk to the nearest gas station is in mind.

I make it to the front door reluctant to open it because the sedateness the AC leaves on my body is compelling enough to give me second thoughts.I shake my head no and continue through the door.The serene heat wraps around my body and I already feel like I won't make it.I refuse to let myself think I will go back into the very house that has made my arid, and uninteresting day...well, a day. Although this walk might not have the potential to cultivate one ounce of interest on the behalf of my attention span I don't care theres nothing else to do.

I hit the street, thoughts revolving like the inner works of a clock, nothing stands before me and this gas station except a world of perplexity that an individual such as myself seems to dimunitive to exist in.Thats not stopping me though.I keep walking, passing houses wondering what methodical, routine formalities are keeping these people inside entertained.It dosn't cross my mind that these people could be as unfortunate as I am with entertainment or I would not be walking to this gas station alone.It dosn't matter I keep walking.

If heat could make noise on this day I would find it nearly impossible to hear anything.Instead the vacuous drone of sprinklers, and air conditioners occupy my ears as my mind ventures elsewhere.I turn my head and see an older black woman walking.Yes walking, not driving.At this day and age its kind of sad to admit that when you actually see an older person walking, why do we automatically presume that this person is not as opulent as the rest in there comfortable cars? I have no time to feel guilt on an age old issue, I have walking to do.
At last my intention of leaving the house in the first place is now in sight.
The hasty smell of gasoline stings my nose letting me know I have finally reached my destination.I walk up to the familiar bin of 37 cent soda's that has never let me down before when I was running low on cash.I put my hand in my pocket to pull out the discovery that set me out on my conquest.To my convience its still there.This time it appears different to me though. Inconsequently earlier when I held the crumbled dollar in my hand I made no effort to check if the dollar was whole, because the thought of me actaully keeping a half of a dollar in my pocket was never really an authentic thought in my mind at all.Where had I messed up? Did it matter? No it didn't because I had preoccupied myself, the whole point I left my house in the first place.
I put the soda back and headed back home.

[VoidLivesOn]

And then here is one more...sorry...

It's sort of inspired from my old man one it's another old guy in midlife crisis except it's has a more sarcastic touch and I elaborated alot more. This is actually a story I'm not even finished with yet. I hope to make it into a low grade indie film when I'm out of college and have the money and equipment. The question marks mean I haven't quite decided what to put there yet..like what job or car.

[align=center]The Longest Line[/align]

I opened my eyes and like usual fluttered them two times. Just another one of my early morning routines I did to ward off the defeat seven hours of sleep left on my eyes. With more routine I sat up, slid my legs to the left to get them off the bed, and waited for the familiar soft touch of carpet to graze the bottoms of my feet.

I stared down at the crevasses my feet made in the carpet. I felt an emptiness behind me on the opposite side of the bed from where I sat. An emptiness that only conceived distant memories of someone I once loved getting up along with me to endure a long shitty day of work we would both share with each other later that night. In that same space. Right there in that bed holding on to each other.

Conveniently enough the bitch was probably on her back right now getting pumped full of a young, head full of hair, 7 figure inheriting cock. See where I was comming from? I'm sure you could deceipher between the two because she sure as hell did. For her it was either bald, high school sweet heart working as a ? and raising an ungrateful fuck up of a kid. Or put some positive use to her bear cave of a pussy and attract the youngest hottest doctor in town and ride his cock to get another free ride I like to call a promising easy, opulent life. Something I hadn't been offering. Oh well screw her, I'm sure on every one of those occasional gloomy Friday nights, the ones when I go through enough pints of Jack Daniels to justify the thought of me shitting on the hood of my ex wifes car, she enjoys scraping my shit off the hood of her ? every Saturday morning. I like to think she gets it on her fingers sometimes. Fair trade I would say, I mean she only ripped out my heart, pissed in the unoccupied space, and then wiped her middle with it. Then had the nerve to fuck me over on any benefits from the divorce. Hah, what an oxymoron. Kind of like a happy marriage or life.

But who needs to know any of that? That informations about as useful as an asshole on my elbow and right now I had get ready for work and wake up useless.

Useless. Probably something I shouldn't be calling my son right? Oh well, lying isn't my thing. Oh my son, my son, my son. His names Steven. Preferably "Steve". Sometimes to his friends he's known as "Steve to the mo'fuckin Reed". Or to me, one of the biggest, growing voids in my life. But I love him. Does he love me? That useless question is usually ensued by another useless one. Does a steaming pile of shit cure cancer?

I stood up, balanced my weight, and took the first agonizing step of my day towards the bathroom. I atleast had to attempt to look impressionable for a bunch of co-workers I would rather puke on site than be anywhere near contemorary with. I stared into the mirror. This was an every morning occurance I had that slightly reminded me of why my lovely wife would have even thought about leaving me in the first place; besides our shitty sex life, financial problems, and child. I was a short, balding man, forty-one years old, just beginning to put on a gut. My blonde hair was thin and wispy, so that you could see the scalp beneath it, pink and chapped looking. I had crooked teeth that gave me a comical quality and had enough ear hair to keep a small child in Cambodia warm for a winter.