You know what, I bet if you were a real person, you'd be a schmuck. The type that brags about something as soft-subjected as suicide attempts or laughs at another's horrible misfortune. You're always such an asshole and I'm sorry Joey but I'm no longer sure if I can bring myself to still allow you to meet my family. For such a good looking boy, he was such a jerk. Wait a minute, those two go hand in hand most times, don't they? Who are you talking to?

Don't listen to them and remember class, a good portion of this semesters grade is based on class participation. Now Jenny doll, go ahead and don't be afraid to unzip Joey's pants.

"Is she still talking to herself Joyce?" A masculine voice roughly tore into the silence. "Well, is she?"

"She's teaching sex-ed again honey," the voice of Joyce a very malleable type (Always changing tones and level's of pitch and so on. Bending like a flexible exhibitionist wanting to impress the hundreds of on-lookers at a nudist rally in the park that year ).

"Maybe we should call in Dr. Phlyps again?" His only reply back.

A disheveled room is soon to be hidden as Joyce shuts the door and walks to her husband in the other room. The contents that still remain within are: Joyce and Steve's youngest daughter, Elizabeth, one Babble, plates of food left all around the room, which Elizabeth refuses to eat, unless her parents coincide with her on the feeding of her students and a few other odds and ends. Some items of no importance. Some items that would need plenty of large barrels to contain the amount of importance they're radiating off of themselves. Some things we've may have even failed to see. But most important of all, I just realized a couple sentences back, I have written out the word Babble instead of bible. And for the reasons of (well nothing really) I'll explain to you why I have chosen to keep it this way. It's very simple actually. Thus by NIcholas | (5) comment

"No! And in fact, I would love for you to know that the subject of insomnia, sure as fuck is a sore one."

       The telephone had pissed him off. Computer and television screens both smashed atop their old resting places. Visitors, they didn't stand a chance of recognition. A knock at the door meant about as much to him, as more pussy did to Hue Hefner.

           He wasn't a bad guy. Most called him a prick or said he was a bitter man. It's only because he had more so enjoyed keeping to himself than he did sharing gossip or simple hellos' through the grapevine of everyday conversations. Chosing to not fill the limited brain space, allowed, with irrelevant facts or names. Repetative, everyday non-sense.

       Many really didn't see the need as to why they had even shunned him. It wasn't so much as a "olden-days" banning that took place, but more so a more modern cold shoulder amongst the town population and the everyday working man or any other normal New Jersey resident at the time.

What it came down to was a situation far too beyond silly to even began analyzing. What were the god damned chances of it happening anyway? He was only a boy. No smarter than any other child at the age of nine either. This we've caught onto by his lack of understanding throughout the easiest parts of most childrens schooling. Things as simple as coloring inside the lines or the spelling of his own name.  Which in my apolgies I have failed to mention yet.  I don't believe he started talking much before the age of six or maybe I've mistaken my information. Really at this point, none of that appeared to matter to the general public nor to his family.              

       Nine years ago Dorothy Frapp, made way to the hospital to give birth to a 3 months pre-mature little boy.

 On this day, present time, something has changed. That nine year old boy was soon to make way into the history books, they shoved so relentlessly down our throats, all throughout grades one through twelve.

By this time, it hadn't even mattered anymore. Your lust for her was beyond imaginable and your thoughts, well, we'll get back to those later. Those may or may not turn you off (or on) way too early on, in the get-go. This book will remind you of that drunken girl at the party who wouldn't dare give you the light of day while sober, but in the moment (or numerous drinks later) wants you all for herself and refuses to leave your side. So you show her off in a unfashionable way. "Of course I'm going to be fucking this later", you dragged her half concious body through out the three story house, proposing toasts to yourself and slurring your words.

Bumping fists with others upon the show casing of your 'score'. Lucky bastard, this is what some were saying as he paraded about, with the confidence of a mouse approaching an elephant. An ego boost mutiplied by an infinite amount of numbers. Cockier than Ron Jeremy himself. An all around class A kid, ready for the fuck of his life.

Let me start off by saying the first intial taste of blood is the most shocking. After that, it's almost sort of soothing. Providing your mind with that sense of a warm comforting feeling. Something like eating tomato soup.

     He knew he was fucked from the beggining, but hey, you should have seen the other guy. How he so helplessly floated into the current. Limbs tossing, clothing soaked through. Jeff and his two buds, they sat and watched in despair. Self defense? It wouldn't fly. Every other idea the three compiled were as terrible as a winter in upstate Minnesota. I could say this much though, there wasn't so much as the slightest thoughts of turning themselves in. Back to Jeff's broken nose, it was time to go take care of that. They flicked the butts of their cigarettes into the water joining the body and the rest of the sea to float off into nothing.

I came across a web site, which chose to share this rediculous home remedy to cure writer's block. They put this out there and expected us to believe it

"Writer's block" a term used loosely and held close to some more than other's. Something that will tear apart the human mind over years of stress related happennings. It's known to cause: shortness with others, bitterness, seclusion, and loss of sanity in some cases studied. In other's, it's something that comes and goes as it pleases. Short bursts of, long nights ending with stacks of crumpled paper//s, loitering in the corner of your room (or wherever it may be) not close to the waste basket by any means, but piled up enough in your head so much, it makes as a makeshift trash bin already.

So this is what they said. In the year 1932, a man named Richard Beliguin, discovered and simple remedy for what's commenly known as writer's block. It came about when Rich mixed the urine of Meercats and the pollen of a Purpledious Emazia. His livestock and maybe even family were in risk of being eaten//harmed by a pack of wild dogs. Rich, he wouldn't harm an animal, if it came down to life or death. He always said he'd go how it was planned. A circle of life. Anyway, the urine and pollen. He wanted to use this potion or remedy as a tranqualizer for the dogs. Take his family and animals out of harms way. Also, tranquing the rabid dogs and maybe, in hopes, coming to terms with these manic pups and let them roam his plentiful acres of land without harming anything and also creating a bond between the groups. It took a turn for the best though, as Rich loaded the tranqualizers into the dart gun he accidently shot himself in the foot. Oops. When he came to, he wrote the most wonderfully enchanting story about a land where a mutual agreement between animals and man was made and honored. They lived as one. But really as two. This book, it made Rich by NIcholas | (0) comment