I pour another drink, gin on the rocks except I have no ice left and carefully flip through the pages. She rambles about Oscar Wilde, how he would have been the perfect husband and how she would have looked perfect with an 19th century background. The drink doesn’t help, doesn’t make it easier. I feel a sudden urge to change her words and look around desperately for a pen. There isn’t one pen in this god forsaken room. So I have no other choice but to tear out the page but it doesn’t cut it. It needs to vanish, it’s filled with her condescending words and lack of knowledge. When there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire I think and start chewing (a page or two is easy to swallow)
There's a new blog out there, written by a girl who I have a feeling just might get IT. She just might be what is missing.
There's heaven and hell, there's good writers and awful ones. There's serpents and then theres Eve.