Sometimes I feel like I'm a pretender to the writing lifestyle. By that I mean that I wasn't blessed with the precocious ability, from a young age, to write down everything I had in my head and make it melodic. I think I was a fairly retarded youngster. And a bit of a little bastard. But I never kept a daily journal, nor write in a daily journal ( Read more... )

I rubbed the shampoo through my hair, kneading at my scalp, singing along with some song on the radio. What it was doesn't really matter; this is about the song that came after ( Read more... )

Sing, O Muse, of the desire to be valued. Sing, O Muse, of the base human desire for an individual to be loved on their own terms ( Read more... )

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Sartre once wrote about nausea. The nausea he felt in his life. The nausea of disconnection, the nausea of being totally seperate from reality. In a way, it's similar to the Narrator's insomnia in Fight Club. It's not just disconnection ( Read more... )

I will be a tragic hero ( Read more... )

I got home, and as I've been doing for the past two weeks, rushed over to the pile of mail sitting on the red couch ( Read more... )

Tomorrow I have my last final I will ever have to take in the public school system of Dearborn, Michigan ( Read more... )

I sit down in front of the computer and place my hands on the keyboard.

Ready? Set? Go.

Type, type your little short story. You want to be a writer? Then write, motherfucker. Write like you've never written before. Write with verbs and nouns, not adjectives and past participles. Write with power! Write with confidence. Write a short story about ( Read more... )

I want to be your superhero. In a thoughtless city; an imitation of all of Chicago and New York and St. Louis and Los Angeles is where you'll find me soaring in bright colors and in supersonic speed. An alleyway caped and masked madman whose every wish is manifested thanks to the incredible powers of his mind is here and he's ready to rescue you ( Read more... )