I am NOT Rebecca Levin.
No one's posted in a while.
Here's a story I wrote for Drumbeat. Everyone who is my livejournal pal was there and heard it, I know, but . . . chicken fingers. for those of you not in the know, we had to write a story using a few words . . . so . . . yeah.:
I don't know why I got the hysterectomy, all I remember is that it was in a dark alleyway, with a certified acupunturist performing the procedure and a prostitute lazily smoking a cigarette to the side. The clearly physically ill harlot put me on some drugs; the needle was big and it pocked me hatefully.
"Are you ready?" said the acupunturist. He wore an angora sweater-vest; the new Edward Wood.
"Uhhhh . . ." I mumbled, because the drugs had taken effect and I couldn't feel my face.
"Kay" he said simply. In twently quick minutes, the procedure was all over. The old prostitute whose hair was barely untangled stood over me and looked right into my numbed face. I could tell she had a diseases mind; I think she had a brain tumor or something.
"Alright." said Mr. Acupuncturist, snapping his gloves like a transvestite doctor. Performing surgical procedures while cross-dressing is a very awkward thing to do.
I latter found out he was a conservative, God-fearing republican, who took every word from the bible literally, so I asked him when i came to what he was doing performing hysterectomies in dark alleyways with prostitutes and angora sweater-vests.
"Because I like women." he said.
This was really really awkward and I wanted to leave abruptly.
The prostitute was in love, once, with the president of East Timor. He hated the violence in his country, so he left her in America as a sad and lonely bookwormish jumpoff. The thing they shared in common was a love of Anarctic animals.
"Personally, I liked mosquitoes." she said, the cigarette dying, "But he liked penguins."
But, yeah, I'm really tired and the story isn't all that good and I can't go to Mel's quinceanera because the tickets to the Placebo show are sold out. I haven't done any work, I still have a bag of uneaten candy in my room, and I AM NOT REBECCA LEVIN. HOW ARE WE SO ALIKE. IT'S SCARY. OMFG.
This is my life right now. This and my wife's apple pie.
Uh . . . yeah.
Here's a story I wrote for Drumbeat. Everyone who is my livejournal pal was there and heard it, I know, but . . . chicken fingers. for those of you not in the know, we had to write a story using a few words . . . so . . . yeah.:
I don't know why I got the hysterectomy, all I remember is that it was in a dark alleyway, with a certified acupunturist performing the procedure and a prostitute lazily smoking a cigarette to the side. The clearly physically ill harlot put me on some drugs; the needle was big and it pocked me hatefully.
"Are you ready?" said the acupunturist. He wore an angora sweater-vest; the new Edward Wood.
"Uhhhh . . ." I mumbled, because the drugs had taken effect and I couldn't feel my face.
"Kay" he said simply. In twently quick minutes, the procedure was all over. The old prostitute whose hair was barely untangled stood over me and looked right into my numbed face. I could tell she had a diseases mind; I think she had a brain tumor or something.
"Alright." said Mr. Acupuncturist, snapping his gloves like a transvestite doctor. Performing surgical procedures while cross-dressing is a very awkward thing to do.
I latter found out he was a conservative, God-fearing republican, who took every word from the bible literally, so I asked him when i came to what he was doing performing hysterectomies in dark alleyways with prostitutes and angora sweater-vests.
"Because I like women." he said.
This was really really awkward and I wanted to leave abruptly.
The prostitute was in love, once, with the president of East Timor. He hated the violence in his country, so he left her in America as a sad and lonely bookwormish jumpoff. The thing they shared in common was a love of Anarctic animals.
"Personally, I liked mosquitoes." she said, the cigarette dying, "But he liked penguins."
But, yeah, I'm really tired and the story isn't all that good and I can't go to Mel's quinceanera because the tickets to the Placebo show are sold out. I haven't done any work, I still have a bag of uneaten candy in my room, and I AM NOT REBECCA LEVIN. HOW ARE WE SO ALIKE. IT'S SCARY. OMFG.
This is my life right now. This and my wife's apple pie.
Uh . . . yeah.