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From the edge of failure.I considered what I had in my pockets for a second, and then plunged my hands deep to thumb through my materials. Serviettes, badly bent paperclips, shavings. I digged deeper-- I had to know what my crimes have been. A poker chip-- I'd been down to the river. Rent would have to deal with itself that month, my gaming clears me out everytime the spirits take me. Even the cash I kept inbetween the tea-leaves or underneath my mattress had suddenly found itself preoccupied and unable to fulfill my sober request.
I always get knocked aside by my addictions. They take hold, strangling my resources to their lowest ebb. I lay there, drowning in the gutter as my bills wash away into the hands of reptilian mouth-breathers and banshee wailing whores. It's been this way ever since I could pick my tipple at the bar and it hasn't shown a hint of breaking. The day I hit the age of legal consumption my suitcase was packed and my ass was irreversibly kicked out of the family domicile.
I'm twenty three n
Writers BlogWhat the hell goes in this field here? The one marked 'Title'. I've jotted down a thousand utterances into this field before, why is today being difficult? Several hundred dots line up in rows as i firmly hold down the period key. No, this isn't going to inspire me. This is just a trail of idiocy, of stupidity. Get a fucking grip, you're a writer not an abstract artist.
Rapid clicking concedes the world thats waking around me. It's 5AM and I've got a deadline to hit. Scour newsgroups, forums and articles hoping for a little glimpse at todays inspiration. Could today be a colloquial witticism about society's spiral downfall or could today be a satirical blast at the entire concept of doing such an article?
Today is not a good day to try and write a blog.
It's time to go into a self-imposed catharsis, it's time to let go of last nights lack of literature and knock up a damn fine piece of dramaturgy. Hold on, that's not even the right medium. Dramaturgy is the art of play-wrighting, I'm n
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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