Weekly Creative Writing class
 

Does anyone else remember this from Lumberjims Office?

Well i do and i miss it! why dont we start it again? one person can give the topic, we have 7 days to complete, we vote and the winner gets to chose the next topic, and run around naked in a victory dance?

Why not skip all that and just go straight for the running around naked in a victory dance?

ok wolf... you go first ;)

Okay. Now it's your turn.

:love: :heartpump :doit: :thumbsup:

ok....

wooooooooooooooooooooooooo

oh no.

oops!! i didnt mean for anybody to see THAT!!

carry on.

It was a dark and stormy night.............uh....I'll get back to ya. :o

ok, Write a short story imposing a boundary.

In the last sentance.. cross it.

I walked up to a door. It was locked. I unlocked it, and walked through.

I had PMS. My breasts felt like they were stuffed with lead and bee saliva. I was in no mood for sex. Hell, I was barely able to manage a conversation. My husband was horny- no, very horny. He told me this. I said "no, get away from me. Don't touch them. Ouch. That hurts." He proceeded to chase me around the apartment. My lead breasts slowed me down and he caught me. He threw me on the bed and tried to rip off my jeans. I started screaming "old men! grandmas! baseball! irritable bowel syndrome! cold sores! starving children in africa! vasectomy! vomit!"
My attempts at destroying his erection were in vain.
He got the pants off, then the panties. I became tired of struggling, so I finally said "Fine! Fuck me. Fuck me now and do it hard and fast, damn it". He did.

Wow. Good stuff, Staceyv. :) Ya freak. ;)

I had a rough week at work. I was complaining to my husband that I had to juggle work with taking the dog out, cooking every meal, paying the bills, grocery shopping, laundry, and pretty much everything else it takes to keep the household running smoothly. My husband said to me in his most convincing used car salesman voice,"honey, I don't want you to be stressed out. What can I do to help?" I said, "well, I think it would be a big help if you took the dog out twice a day. That will only take a minute of your time, and he's always there to remind you". He said "great! I will do that. You don't ever have to think about that again."
Fast forward two months later: I took the dog out twice yesterday, because I don't want my baby to be in pain. When Happy has to pee, he shakes and paws at my legs. How could I deny him that? I would never hurt my dog to spite my husband. I would like to kick my husband in the balls, though. This morning, my husband was walking out the door after eating his homemade pistachio cake for breakfast, with his lunch bag in hand, which I had prepared for him earlier with pizza sandwiches on homemade italian bread , homemade cookies, homemade lasagna, and rinsed grapes. I said "Are you going to take the dog out?" He said "oh, come ON! I'm going to work to make money. Why do you bitch right before I leave for work?"
All of the aggravation resulting from his false promises and incompassionate, self-gratifying attitude caused my foot to involuntarily raise itself at warp speeds towards his balls, which exploded upon contact. The end.

Did he then say, "Oh, come ON! I'm going to work to make money. Why do you kick me in the balls right before I leave for work?"

I think he might have forgotten what he's working to make money for. You're his family, you're what matters.

I don't write because basically, I am a whiney-sort of person. The world does not need another confessional from another alcoholic, bulimic, Born-Again, ex-con, ex-Moonie, kidnap victim or prostitute. If I told my "story" I would only be contributing to the Vacuous Black already teeming with monsters out there. And besides! The story isn't even finished! That wouldn't be quite fair to the reader, would it? Having no ending is like stopping right before your partner cums! It's mean-spirited, is what I'm saying. The only possible reason for writing anything is to see if my mind still works. To see if I recall anything at all or if I've indeed become a victim of Korsakoff's Syndrome. I am, incidentally, right in the very midst of a juicy, life-altering (possibly including Time in the Pokey!) scenario, but I haven't the heart. Why make you misreable when you can read the very amusing toilet messages between SV and Arsen? Now there's a story! (No disrespect meant to either party.) I thank you for this opportunity for 'sharing', though. Very good of you all.

These people that have moved upstairs
Can never just sit still,
They're always moving, banging, yelling,
Why can't they just chill?

If they're not moving, banging, yelling,
They're Screwing, and I swear
They vaccum every single day
Of every friggin year.

The girl, she moans, the guy he shouts,
They re-did the floors and that CRAP,
That no good excuse for music spills out
It'll be my last straw- Yes, I'll snap.

Boom, shaka laka boom, boom, shaka laka boom
Who LISTENS to this? I couldn't even if you paid me,
Boom shaka laka boom, boom thrashing through my room,
Oh God, someone, please come sedate me.

That was, without a doubt, the best post from Brianna I have ever read. Brilliant. :lol:

Thanks, CW. You see--I'm an unbeliveably self-conscious person. I'm a real-live people-pleaser and it's very hard for me to be authentic. I'm working on it, though.

Brianna, if that's true, you would make an excellent waitress :)

I love that poem, Stacey.

Do you know what a Klein Bottle is? It's this amazing topological paradox. It's a bottle that has no "inside" and no "outside". Your statement gives me the same brainlock. Here's my problem: Are you a real-live people pleaser? Is that authentically you? Or are you NOT a real people pleaser, you'd rather...something else? Your post does not compute for me. Explain, please.

Thanks for the link, BigV. I did not know what a Klein Bottle was but now I do. Sorry about the brainlock, though. I guess in answer to your question I'd have to say I don't WANT to be a people-pleaser but I am too insecure to NOT be one. Make any sense? I'm too sensitive to live. Especially now. I write short little blurbs here in the Cellar so no one can really "know" me (in as much as anyone in Cyberworld can really know anyone else) and I am worried that I don't have any morals, convictions or opinions. I feel gross--like an amorphous, floating cloud of nothingness. I feel empty inside. The only thing that matters is what the collective YOU think. I feel I don't matter to myself. God, this is disgusting.

Thanks for asking.

You do matter, and once you understand that this is more than just words, your recovery will be better established.

Don't just listen to me, though. Get thee to a program. Inpatient would be best, IOP at a minimum.

*sigh* well, when wolf tells you to get thee to an IOP (at least!) you'd better do it. I am, wolf, I am. Yikes. It's scary. And that's just the staff. ;)

And watch 28 Days. No, not the zombie movie. The funny one. About Rehab. With Sandra Bullock. It has the upside and the downside ...