April 30, 2003

After a trip to the doctor's today, I'm now the proud recipent of a new brand of birth control. I'm sure you're all excited to know it.
I'm about to share it with you.
I've been having really bad (read: crying with a heating pad) cramps lately (for about 5 months now) so they thought it'd be a good idea to change me from my previous pill to a bright new shiny jolly candy like pill. We'll see if it helps me, or if the higher level of progesterone makes me a crazy big haired demon ...
Though, come to think of it. It might not be a bad thing. I think I would look like that girl on the cover of the Ultimate Sin album by Ozzy.
Maybe it'll make me more sane. Maybe I'll start wearing twin-sets and long skirts and my hair in a bun.

Maybe I won't be so manic. One can only hope.

In other news, after my huge renting from the library reading jag...I'm now on a lull. It's taken me a week and 1/2 to get through a book. It's not the lack of desire to read, that's for sure...I just...start reading and fall asleep. Right away. Like 2 minutes in. It's instant sleeping pill action. I don't want it to be this way. I want to read, not sleep. I'm tired of sleeping. I want my brain to be full of creative stories from other people. I want to live vicariously through people that don't exsist.
I don't want to sleep. (Well, maybe just a little...)
Speaking of writing, I got my hands on some interesting contests to enter and some places that might be interested in publishing me. It's come to my attention that if I am going to continue on the current path I am on (the writing teacher path), I have to start getting published.
What? Can't a teacher who hasn't been published and wouldn't know the first thing about getting published teach creative writing? Naah, I don't think so either.

I submitted a story I'm working on to a forum where a few friends (and some people I don't know) gather to critique eachother's work. So far not one person has said a damn thing to me. I appreciate it. Really. Fuckholes.

That's the thing I hate the most. When I don't want your goddamned opinion, I get it by the bucketload. But when I ask for a little help, I don't get one peep.
bastardos. Man. They're lucky they don't see my fist cos it'd be in their face.
Jerks.

Manic? me?
posted at 12:48 AM

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April 26, 2003

When I was little, probably about 5, I realized that I said my s's different than other people.
I didn't have a stereotypical lisp. It wasthn't all funny sthounding. It was more ssssubtle. It was like a normal (closed teeth) s but with a little extra sssssss.
I just stuck my tounge out a little bit instead of closing my teeth.
I made it a point to teach myself to say my s's the correct way, with my teeth closed.
But, strangely enough, since that day I haven't been able to shake the memory. I constantly check myself when I speak, especially when I'm saying something that requires a lot of SSSSSSSSSSS. I don't speak with the extra-tounge s and I haven't since I was little but I still remind myself not to do it.

I think I've always been hard on myself. Even since the age of 5. I've always been ultra stubborn, too. Once, in kindergarden, I had to take a test to prove that my motor skills were up to par for the first grade. I told the teachers that I wasn't going to do it because it was a stupid test. They begged. They cajoled. They tried to appeal to my teeny tiny little 5 year old brain to please please just do the test. Nope, said I. I would not because I knew I could do the stupid stuff and I didn't have to prove it to them.
They had to finally call my mom in from work to come and talk to me, to make me take the test.
I finally gave in, reluctantly of course. It was one of those test where you have to walk on the balance beam, hop on one foot, stuff like that.
Basically a drunk test for children.

But back to the point. In addition to being stubborn, I was very hard on myself. Not just the 'hard on myself' way of pushing myself to be better, smarter, whatever. I was hard on my self-esteem. I was never good enough. I was never anything enough.
My earliest memory of self-hate was probably at the age of 7 when the girls in my neighborhood decided to form a club without me. There were only 4 of us, mind you, (it was a small wooded, country-type neighborhood...so we were all close knit) and usually cliques of 3 would form.
One time, the three girls, Krista, little Niki and Big Niki (unfortunate nicknames, be certian, but it was because one was tall and one was short) all got together and hand made some cards with their club name on it. They decorated it with stickers and stamps and all sorts of other 7-8 year old designs and put the cards in my mailbox with a note. The note said "We don't like you and you're not ever going to be a part of our club. You're fat and ugly and stupid."
I cried for days but I never let them know it.
I think my mom still has the note in her old ''little amanda stuff' box.
At any rate, I remember feeling so horrible about myself thinking that if I were not fat, not ugly or not stupid, I could be friends with these girls. I could be part of a club! I could be somebody.
It sounds strange to my 27 year old mind now, but at 7 years old it's a huge thing.

The unfortunate thing is that as I grew older so did my self-loathing. It evolved into blaming myself for every little thing. My parents would call my name in a voice I thought was a little too gruff, "What'd I do?" was my response. (in fact, it still is...)In my 11th grade chemistry class, someone made a joke about "someone ruining the class curve". I immedately started crying because I was getting a D in the class. I was the piece of shit ruining the chemistry grade. In college, I hung out with mostly gay guys because then I didn't have to place myself in the face of rejection from straight guys. (not that I didn't have my fair share of dates, that's not helpful to my story tonight...)
I don't know.
I mean, I'm not particularly melancholy today I'm just introspective.
I was thinking earlier today about why I am so hard on myself. Is it because of the bad times that have been going on -- what with me getting laid off, J. getting laid off, money problems, my friend calling my apartment a "shit hole" (it's not, mind you...I'll take pictures to prove it), everyone else around me buying houses and planning for the future and I am wondering about rent for next month...and how long I can stay healthy because I don't have insurance? Or is it because I just am predisposed to kicking the shit out of my psyche?
Maybe the fact that I'm actually recognizing that I've always been angry with myself is the first step to leaving myself alone?

Something that made me think of all this...
I was eating a dove promise (those chocolate candy things that have little sayings in the foil wrappers). I was so mad at myself for something. I was completely on a roll, tearing up everything I could think of about myself. When I opened the wrapper I read the 'promise' : Go easy on yourself.

posted at 12:16 AM

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April 23, 2003

Just got done watching the movie drumline. It makes me wish I had seen that in the theatre. A story of a boy who loves to drum and has to overcome seemingly outstanding odds in order to play in finals.
It made me miss marching band.

I am most certianly the biggest geek when it comes to marching band. I will watch any band at any time no matter what. I have to stop and listen and critique them on what I think they're doing wrong. I have to say "Oh, in our band..." or "Oh man, Mr. Chapman would never allow that ."

On one hand, I'm really happy and proud of my band geek heritage. On the other hand I'm deeply embarassed. I'm a 27 year old girl looking at highschool (and sometimes college) kids and judging them on their skills. When is it time to move on? How old is too old? Are you ever really too old?


At any rate. I've been extremely busy keeping up with the BathHouse stuff. I've had a lot to go through and now have to design a few pages for our site. It's interesting, to say the least.
I also accidently contacted an author, one who wasn't supposed to be contacted, with an acceptance letter. Oops. I liked his stuff but no one else really did. I guess they're going to think I did it on purpose but I swear to god I didn't know he wasn't approved.
Oh well, at least he's going in the next issue.

We're running a little behind schedule, too.

In honor of my graduation, I am the proud recipent of an Eeyore graduation stuffed animal.
I couldn't think of a better gift in recognition of my x years of service at Eastern Michigan University.
Speaking of graduation, on dateline last night they had a few people from this high school class of 78 (don't quote me on the year) and they are doing some sort of weight loss challenge. The part that piqued my interest wasn't about the weight loss but the fact that they could still remember their fight song.
Nearly 25 years after high school they can still sing the fight song.
I can't remember Clarkston's fight song and I used to have to play it every friday night -- for 3 years!
And don't even ask me about College. I didn't attend one sporting event while at Eastern.
Not a single one.
Though I did have a class with some famous football guy that went on to play for some famous football team. He was a nice guy and not too bright.
Oh and I had a class with that girl that went on to marry Tom Arnold. She also was nice and not too bright.

Ah well. Anyway, I've been playing some more with my camera. I'm setting up another place for that. I don't want to even begin to confuse people to make them think I'm some sort of fancy picture taker. I'm not.
I'm a horrible one. But it's fun so I don't care.
posted at 3:38 PM

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April 20, 2003

Today I was fortunate enough to be a part of a wonderful project of hide-and-go-take-pictures game.
I feel so happy and so silly and am giggling a lot because I have always thought that Em was just an incredibly cool person and was someone I really admired.
Callou-Callay, I'm happy today.

At any rate, I am now in possession of my very own digital camera. It's strange and hard to get used to. Em, Mike and Jules make it look so easy. Either way, I'm going to take it everywhere I go and use it until it breaks.
Until then:
here's Phil.


posted at 2:39 AM

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April 18, 2003

Way back when I was 13, I developed a crush on Joe Elliott from Def Leppard. This was not your typical 13 year old pre-teen crush on any old New Kid On The Block. This was a full-fleged, balls to the wall, change my name when I'm 18 so it looks like we got married crush. A crush so strange and strong that my mother should have put me in a group home for teens just to get my brains readjusted. Joe Elliott was my experimental drug of choice. I wasn't smoking in the boys room after school, I was listening to Pyromania and watching my Def Leppard videos for the 18320947th time.

On Joe's 29th birthday, my friend Jennifer and I threw a birthday party in his honor. The party was complete with balloons, signs and a cake with a British flag fashioned out of blue, white and red icing.
My mother took pictures and I looked completely rediculous.

I started a scrap book into which I put every single scrap of information about Def Leppard I could find. A two line blurb in Metal Edge? In the scrapbook. A fuzzy, barely recognizable Joe Elliott in the back of Hit Parader from a t-shirt ad? You bet it's in my scrapbook.

I had an entire wall of my bedroom plastered in Def Leppard posters and pictures. There was one picture of Joe in the bathtub that I had framed and positioned next to my bed. I filled an entire 3 subject notebook with "I love Joe Elliott." I remember sitting on the couch, watching the videos, writing secretly in my notebook. My brother staring over my shoulder screaming "Why are you only writing I love Joe ?" I punched him and ran to my room nearly in tears.

Jennifer and I used to spend every weekend together, staying up late at night watching the Historia video. We'd pause it on our favorite scenes...we'd call it the "Peel" game. We liked to imagine that one day in the scary future, there'd be a machine that would print off pictures from the tv screen any time you paused it.
We'd imagine how many great pictures of Joe (and her favorite Rick) we'd have, how many people would be envious...

We finally got our big chance to see Def Leppard in concert -- IN THE ROUND! IN YOUR FACE! -- at the Palace. My aunt had a suite and was able to give my mom 4 tickets for Jennifer, Me, My mom and Jen's mom. (They stayed happily in the suite) I remember wanting so bad to be one of the girls who was picked to go under the stage. I didn't even consider the fact that Joe was, oh, 15 years older than me and would not even think twice about a little girl only 14 years old. Illegal wasn't in my vocabulary.
I wanted to meet him so bad. If Joe just met me, I thought, he'd find me witty and interesting and beautiful and spectacular and he'd call me his muse and I'd run away to England to be with him forever.

The concert was over and I was never picked to go under the stage. I wasn't even looked at twice by any roadie or cleaning guy or even the concession guy. I was 14.

I turned 15 and fell out of love with Joe. I took down all of my Def Leppard posters and put up Metallica ones. Slayer ones. A picture of Sid Vicious on my door. I can still remember the quote on the poster "Undermine their pompous authority. Reject their moral standards. Make anarchy and disorder your trademarks. Cause as much chaos and disruption as possible . . . But don’t let them take you alive!"
I even had two Einsturzende Neubauten posters up.
I changed.

Joe never did.

Which brings me to today. I saw a show on Vh-1 about groupies through the years and there was my Joe Elliott...smiling and laughing and singing. They showed alot of the video footage that I used to watch 'back in the day' and it really stirred up a lot of memories. I haven't thought about that stuff in years.
There was Joe, reminiscing about the girls that came to the shows, how fun those times were, etc.
And I found myself getting jealous.
JEALOUS.

Can you believe it? After all of this time, I am still jealous to hear that Joe Elliott got some sweet booty lovin from someone that wasn't my 14 year old self. I was appalled. I was confused. I was 14 all over again.

I've been going through my old stuff and laughing. Downloading music and laughing. I think I'm going to put a picture of Joe Elliott on my computer. What's funny is that since then, I don't think I've ever really had a crush like that on anyone ever -- real life or not. Maybe I always resevered a little part of me for Joe Elliott. I mean after all he's only 42, now. That's not bad. That's old enough to still be sexy yet young enough to keep up.

I'm listening to Bringing on the Heartbreak right now (Did you know Mariah Carey did a cover of it? It's wretched. It hurts to even think of it. Don't, for the love of god, even think of downloading it. It will hurt you) and I remember how much I loved that Joe Elliott.
posted at 3:10 AM

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April 15, 2003

It appears that April is the month for the most suicides of the year.
Kurt Cobain
Wendy O Williams
The Solar Temple Cult Peoples
pamela courson (jim morrison's girly)
Leslie Cheung
Virginia Woolf (so it was march, but the very last days of march so i'll count it)
Clara Blandick (Auntie Em from the wizard of oz)
Robert Pilatus (milli vanilli)
Hitler and Eva Braun
I think the Heavens Gate cult was around this time too.

Gives you something to think about.
posted at 3:07 AM

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April 14, 2003

For some reason, I've taken a shine to Hall & Oates.
Now, I've always liked the duo -- Hall with his big, blonde hair and Oates with his big, black mustache. In fact, Hall & Oates was my first concert (well, technically second if you want to count Anne Murray and Roger Whittaker with my mom and grandma when I was like 5). I used to like them so much that at the age of 10, I begged and pleaded with my mother to allow me to get my hair cut like Mr. Hall. I did. It did not last long.
So, after a brief hiatus of oh, 17 years, I'm back with the Big blonde man and the short Oates man. Unfortunately this means, because I've taken a shine to Darryl and John, I can't stop listening to their songs. So, of course I have burned a Darryl & Oates cd.
I like this cd a lot and I listen to it a lot. It keeps me company on the way to school, during lunch, on the way to class, and in the computer lab. The H man and the Oatester talk to me all about the rich bitch who has gone too far, don't you know she's a maneater named sara who smiles a while. I listen, attentively, because the stories they tell are facscinating. Hemmingway don't have nothin on these two.
Anyway, sometimes, D&J like it when I sing along with them to their stories -- especially Rich Girl. They get a kick out of that.
So, here we are in the computer lab -- headphones firmly on, track 3 started..."You're a rich girl and you've gone too far cos you know it don't matter anyway..."and off I go, singing away - loud enough for them to hear me in Oates' living room -- right along with their catchy little beat.
Yes. Completely forgetting that I'm in the computer lab. I am an asshole.

Those Halls and Oates are tricksy fellas. Damn it. They got me good this time...But I'll get you Gadget, next time!!

posted at 5:50 PM

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April 11, 2003

Sometimes I try to do things, and it just don't turn out the way I wanted to and I get real frustrated, it's like, I take my time and I try real hard, but no matter what I do and no matter what I try it never works out, it's like I concentrate on it real hard, but it never works out, it's like I need some time to figure these things out, but there's always someone there going, "Hey Am, you know, we been noticing you've been having alot of problems lately, you know, and like maybe you should talk about it, you'd feel a lot
better. And I go, "No, it's ok, I now have some problems, I'll figure it out myself, just leave me alone I'll figure it out." And they go, "Why don't you talk about it, you'll feel a lot better." And I go, "No, I don't want to, just leave me alone, I'll figure it out myself!"

So then, I was sitting in my room, and I was like staring at the walls thinking about everything but then again I was thinking about nothing, and then my mom came
in and I didn't notice she was there and she calls my name and I didn't hear her and then she started screamin "Am, Am!"
And I go, "What, what's the matter?"
She goes, "What's the matter with you?"
I say, "Nothing mom."
She goes, "Don't tell me nothing, you're on drugs!"
I go, "No mom, I'm not on drugs, I'm ok, I'm just thinking, you know, why don't you get me a Pepsi?"
She goes, "No, you're on drugs, you're crazy, normal people won't be acting that way!"
I go, "Mom, I'm all right, I'm just thinking, you know, so why don't you, like give me a Pepsi?"
And she goes, "No, you're crazy!"
All I wanted was a Pepsi, just one Pepsi, and she wouldn't give it to me. Just one Pepsi.

I was sitting in my room and my mom and my dad came in and they pulled up a chair and they sat down, they go: "Am, we need to talk to you."
And I said, "Okay, what's the matter?"
They go,"Well me and your mom, we been noticing lately you've been having alot of problems, and you haven't been acting like yourself, and we're afraid that you're going to hurt somebody, and we're afraid that you're gonna hurt yourself, so we decided that it would be in your best interest if we put you somewhere where you could get the help that you need..."
And I said, "Wait, what are we talking about?! We decided?! My best interest?! How can you know, how can you say what my best interest is? What are you trying to
say? I'm crazy? When I went to your schools, I went to your churches, I went to your institutional learning facilities. So how can you say that I'm crazy?"

I'm not crazy.
You're the one who's crazy.

Me and los vatos locos hanging out one day...
posted at 3:48 AM

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April 09, 2003

I was thinking earlier about what Hell is really like. -- you know, given the whole if Heaven and Hell really even exsist anyway thing --

I don't think that Hell is like you'd think it would be. It's definately not like fire and brimstone. It's most certainly not a guy poking you in the ass all day with his huge and painful pitchfork.
I think Hell is a lot more subtle. I used to think that Hell was a series of bad things that kept happening over and over again. Like watching your loved one die a horrible and or brutal death over and over and over and over and over and over...each time you're unable to do anythign, no matter what you try to do. Or maybe, bad things keep happening inexplicably. There you are, doing your normal thing at your normal job when suddenly you black out only to wake up in a hotel room with all of these secret documents spread around you only to black out and wake up with a gun in your hand and blood all over your clothes only to black out and wake up in an alley being chased by the yakuza only to black out and wake up raping someone or being raped only to...you get the idea. But, I think you could eventually harden up to that. You could get cold and unfeeling and not care anymore. You could start to not care that they are dying in front of you or you keep having weird things happen over again that you can't explain. You would become an automaton or a killing machine, unfeeling cold and dead inside. That defeats the purpose of Hell.
Now I think Hell is more cunning. Say you're the fattest fat guy for miles. You do everything right to lose weight and now you're looking great. You're a total stud. Hotty. A 10 out of 10!! Then one day, you're boiling your eggs for an egg salad sandwich and the boiling water suddenly gets poured on your face. Now you're a hot body with a burned up horribly disfigured face that you can never fix. Then you win the lottery only to hook up with a girl who steals all of your money forcing you to live in a van down by the river. You get all your stuff back together and get your life together and you move into this awesome place, rebuild your dignity and career -- start the high track on a successful computer programming job ...meet a great gal on the internet, one who doesn't care about your burned up one eyed face only to find out you've been chatting with a 13 year old boy and get thrown in jail on child porn charges.
That's what Hell is.
Not this big red guy with hooved feet. It's a kiss on the lips then a slap in the face.
posted at 12:59 AM

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April 06, 2003

So I went and bought a new keyboard and a new mouse. My mouse was defective. Lousy-pousy mouse.
I'm hoping this will be a more conductive environment to my writing. We'll see. So far the analysis on the keyboard is : Typeability 8.5, Noisy-ness 4, Comfort 5, Spill proofness 10.

I had to create a project for my writers class using sound as language. Use sound to think of the way that we use language ...not to enhance it but to create it. For example this guy recorded himself saying "this is the begining of the story " or something similar. Then he took it into a sound program and then divided up the words into syllables then mixed it up and changed the way that we thought of the words blah blah yadda. It was actually pretty cool sounding. It turned into a song.
So, after fretting for a few days and brainstorming with J. we came up with the best idea.

What I've done is create a game of questions with two computers. They are asking questions about an alleged dead body that one of them "sees". They start out talking loudly, with a soft morse code going in the background -- repeating what they are saying in dots and dashes. Eventually their voices get drowned out by the morse code...dot dot dash dot dash... before you know it you're listening to that and not paying attention to the words. It's pretty damn cool if I do say so myself.

posted at 9:21 PM

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April 04, 2003

I'm supposed to be writing a story for an ex-boyfriend of mine (who is still a good friend of mine)... but I just can't even begin it. I don't know how to write an innocuous story about a guy I dated without putting personal bits in. I don't want to write a personal story. I mean, gawl-lee, his wife is about ready to have a baby any second. I think what I'm going to do, instead, is write a story about an alternate universe where he never left Texas (he went there for grad. school) and he never met his religious wife and he never got wrapped up in a weird baptist religion where he makes weird decisions and can't swear any more. I don't fully trust someone who doesn't swear. I think while in Texas, he will have a breakdown of sorts (which isn't so far from the truth) and then become an underground film maker specializing in extreme sex. HA! Won't that get his titties in a twist?
I don't know, I don't want to offend him, either. I can't seem to get it just right. Maybe if I think about it a little bit longer.

(aside: I find that the better the keyboard on which I am typing, the more I enjoy writing. Note to self, must get a better keyboard at home.)

I'm supposed to attend this reading by two of the English professors here at school... in approximately 18 minutes. One of the professors is the one who nominated (and later presented) me for the Departmental Honors award in creative writing. She really, really enjoyed my work and has really pushed me hard to continue my education. The only problem is I haven't spoken to her pretty much since September. I want to talk to her and be all like "hey it's me, you know your favorite student EVER" but I'm almost certian that she won't remember me.
Why am I certain? I don't know. I just have that feeling. Probably because I respect and admire her a lot and have built it up in my head more than it should be.
I'm a great imaginator.
I would like that to be on my tombstone.

"Here lies the last great imaginator..."

I still prefer the old "I told you I was sick!"...

Speaking of tombstones, there's this cemetary on the way to my parents house from school. It's a very very old cemetary - very small too - but there's a couple of new tombstones there to make things a little more interesting.
The odd thing is, is that all of the new tombstones are ones that are made into interesting shapes. One is in the shape of a dumptruck. One is in the shape of a giant angel. Another is in the shape of a mailbox. (that one is really odd). My favorite: One is in the shape of the star trek insignia. I love tha t person. It's huge. I haven't stopped in to see what it says on it..I hope "Death. The final frontier"! I hope that's it. Man ..wait. I hope that's not it. So when I die, instead of my "Here lies the last great imaginator" I want a giant insignia that reads "Death. The Final Frontier. This is the final voyage of the starship am "

I would be so cool - even in death.
posted at 4:54 PM

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April 01, 2003

I need to clarify something. It's not that I really WANT him dead, it's that I much prefer to imagine him dead. I would rather him imaginary-dead than say, oh, living in Japan with a whore named Yuki. Yuki who laughs behind her hand at jokes she doesn't get. She only really loves him because he's an "American" and that's "really so cool!" She likes his "way out" American accent that makes him so mysterious and foreign. She doesn't even remember his middle name. Yuki, who doesn't really get it but looks super hot in short skirts and platform trainers. Yuki, who, at the age of 14, sold her used panties to a business-friend of her father. Only because she needed some money to buy this "super-cool awesomea" american t-shirt with a phrase that said "UCLA Yankee Cola" on it. Yuki, who just doesn't get it but he loves unashamedly because she's japanese and so cute in her short skirts and blinking cartoon eyes with that demure little accent and the polite laughing behind the hand that never gets old.

I would much prefer that he died on the way back from California, somewhere in Missouri at one of those fancy hotel-slash-truck-stops. He would be writing a note to me on the back of the Fire Exit notice posted on the door since it was the only paper he could find. In my letter, he wrote how he hated to make the long drive alone and the place he stopped at was a shit-hole. He had some things that he wanted to talk about. I didn't have my hopes up. I didn't expect anything from him but I just wanted to talk. Meanwhile, Brad Stephens, a truck driver from Wisconsin, was making an unexpected detour at the same hoteltruckstop. Brad Stephens also had an unexpected cargo -- a 14 year old girl from his hometown who always seemed to be flirting with Brad, showing a little more leg than usual, shaking her ass, taunting him and teasing him. Missy, the 14 year old Lolita from Wisconsin, was tied up neatly in the back of his truck, dead for at least 9 hours now. Brad pulled his rig right outside of the window near the hotel. My boy-so-very-far-away happened to look up only to watch as Brad removed the limp and lifeless body of Missy and popped her quietly into the dumpster. Boy-so-very-far-away looked out, shocked at what he was seeing. Just then, Brad Stephens looked up and locked eyes with boy-so-very-far-away. (who henceforth shall be known as: bsvfa)
bsvfa ducked back quickly behind the window shade and debated what he should do next. He quickly grabbed his jacket and keys, only remembering at the last second to shove my letter into his pocket. As he approched the door, Brad Stephens, Truck Driver Murderer, knocked impatiently on the door.
Quick wittedly, bsvfa managed to open the window, kick out the screen and ran for his truck. He jumped in and high tailed it like a son-of-a-bitch to get out of the parking lot.
As he drove on, faster and faster, he wound up on an unfamilar back road, far from the highway. He continued to speed upwards of 100 miles per hour, just to get away from Madman Brad. When suddenly, a hairpin curve appeared and bsvfa lost control. His truck flipped several times before coming to rest in the woods. He crawled out of the open window, slowly, and lay silently a few feet from the mangled mess of the vehicle.
He managed to wrench free my letter from his pocket, holding it tightly in his hand just before uttering his last breath...all the while, back at home, I pine for a lost love, knowing that one day we'll be able to talk again and that all is not lost.
Or...sometimes, if I'm feeling more generous, instead of dying in a car wreck, he dies from carbon monxide poisioning in the shady hotel.

Either way, I much prefer that he's dead rather than living it up in Japan or California with a japanese whore named Yuki who doesn't eat food that's orange because it's "icky" and only drinks pop with a straw and only gives hand jobs because she doesn't want to smear her lipstick but nevertheless he remains smitten because she's exotic.
Yeah. I hope that cleared some things up.

posted at 12:56 AM

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