I remembered a weird dream I had and wrote about it:

Nicholas, you drunk bum, get off your ass and help me find the toys.” Wife shuffled into the room, where Nicholas’s watery eyes gazed in the direction of the blaring television set. He burped loudly through his overgrown mustache and tapped chubby fingers against the beer bottle which balanced on his bloated stomach.

“Be quiet, woman, lemme watch the game.” he mumbled as Wife stood in front of the TV. She wiped her hands on her stained white apron and tapped her foot on the floor.

Wife shoved her face in front of his, spittle flying from her mouth as she hissed “The kids will hate you for what you’ve become, Nicholas. You’ve really out-fucking-done yourself this time.”

With these words she stomped away.

A purple vein slowly began to bulge out of Nicholas’s crimson forehead. His cheeks, already red from the alcohol, grew tomato-crimson and his drooping white eyebrows knotted into a frown as his expression grew into a grotesque mask.

“Oi!” He roared, smacking the beer aside with one fat hand. “You don’t talk to me like that!” Nicholas squeezed his hands around his black belt as he forced himself to his feet. He wobbled in the spot, this way and that, before shuffling to find Wife, boots scuffing against the stone floor. He huffed and puffed as he moved. Beads of sweat dripped down his face and chin, salt mixing with the rotting stench of his gray unwashed beard.

“Wake up, Nicholas.” Wife shrilled from the next room. “It’s the 23rd already, you fool. You’re going to show up drunk off your nut again. Pitiful, pitiful man.”

Nicholas glanced at the torn calendar on the wall. He pressed his nose against the paper and squirmed to see the date. Wife was right. As always. Nicholas spat and curled his lip up in a snarl.

“Where are the toys, woman?” He rammed a fist against the wall. “I’ll be late.”

Wife appeared in the doorway, hauling the maroon bag behind her. “There. I just patched it up.” She pointed to the patches sown in on the side.

“About time.” Nicholas growled and jerked the bag out of her hands.

Wife made a rude gesture. “Just get out of here, you old drunk. And don’t whip the deer to damn hard. We can’t afford to lose another one.”

Nicholas slammed the door behind him as he left. He swung the bulging bag onto the sleigh, and waited for the wood to stop creaking and groaning when he planted himself in the seat. He poised the leather whip in his hands and cracked it loudly over the deers’ heads.

“Go on, ye dirty animals!” He yelled. The deer dug their hooves into the ice and snow, breaking the overloaded sled out inch by inch before finally ascending into the dusk sky. The bells jingled a merry tune and all the children cheered as they struggled on.

Gee, writing about Presidents really pays off! Here are some of my top Google search terms for today so far (people searched for these terms and as a result ended up on this site):

earned the new puppy
“earned the new puppy”
“you have earned the new puppy”
“and you have earned the new puppie that`s coming to the white house with us”
earned puppy

Some other interesting terms include:

crotch-exercises

…

My apologies to Sky of ‘Through Skys Eyes‘ for accidentally stealing her story! I posted a story I found in her blog thinking I’ve seen it somewhere before and that it was not written by her, therefore didn’t provide a link back to her page. It turns out that the piece was written by Sky (as discovered after careful Google searching) and I just completely used it without asking permission! To see Sky’s great story, see her blog.

The post has been deleted :) Sorry, Sky!

Alright, I need to get motivtated. A few years ago I would come home from school, sit, and write for hours on end. I’d write without actually having a set plot to write about, but stories were something that I’ve always loved creating and making up on the spot. And now when I try to write I can’t help but think “What’s the point? It’ll never get published.“

My problems are as follows:

1) I automatically think that a story is only worth writing if it will be published.
2) I automatically assume that my story won’t be good enough to be published.

Both of the above points are absolute crap and I need to get out of this mindset.

Boy, do I wish I knew about these types of sites when I was in school. Amid hours and hours of sitting behind the computer writing reports, I never once thought that there exist writing services to assist us with our work. I can only imagine how much time and sleepless nights I’d be saving.

Writing-Services.org is one such writing service site. Their website looks clean and professional. We all know there’s enough scams out there to require being careful with purchasing any product or service online. The only thing that looks a bit fishy to me is the lack of active links – there are only three links on the left hand sidebar that are actually active! I am unsure of whether or not the website is simply in progress of being built, but I wouldn’t recommend putting such an unfinished web site online – it may cause people to worry about the legitimacy of the service. I would also have liked to see the top navigation bar with various services actually linking to their respectful sections.

Other than that, the testimonials of past clients sound satisfied enough and the service itself is definitely intriguing. I love how detailed the order form is and wonder if all writing services are this detailed – this type of service writing must ensure that the work is exactly on target to what the client needs. If one little bit is off, the project cannot be considered complete. The order form requests a detailed assignment description, including the client’s major, type of assignment, topic, citation style, number of sources, etc.

I feel like beating my head against the wall as we speak for not finding something like this when I was back in school. Would’ve saved me from a lot of sleepless nights, that’s for sure.

I just found one of the pieces I had to write for a writing course I took a while back. I had to describe the happiest moment of my life. I never finished this, maybe one day I’ll get around to it :) :

I clenched the reins and a chunk of Deider’s black mane in one hand and placed my foot into the stirrup. I quickly switched both hands to the reins as I swung into the saddle, lowering myself into its leather arch gently. Deider shied under me, jerking forward.

“Whoa.” I pulled on the reins and guided him into a tight circle. I stroked the side of Deider’s neck with one hand as he puffed into the air, his ears twisting this way and that. This was a small open show, but Deider’s first in many, many years. He hoofed the ground impatiently as we waited for the other riders from the barn to mount their horses. My heart pounded against my chest like a drum as I led Deider toward the show ring, where the faint voice of the announcer echoed through the loudspeaker.

Ms. Doreen, my instructor, walked alongside me, petting Deider as he swiveled his head this way and that. “Don’t forget your leg yields. And just have fun. Remember, he hasn’t shown in ten years.”

I nodded and reached up to readjust my riding helmet on top of my head.

Part 1

“Have we met?”
Amanda looked up from her cocktail and found herself staring at a pimpled boy. She rolled her eyes and tilted the rest of the drink down her throat. “No.”

Ed put his hand around her shoulder, watching the unfortunate man slunk away. “Honey, you’ll never get a good one with that attitude!”

“You think that’s a good one?” Amanda set the empty glass on top of the bar.

Ed raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, pointing to the rather obese young man in the corner of the bar. “He was better than the fatty. Now excuse me, I’m going man hunting. I suggest you do the same.”

Amanda knew she should never have come here. She has given up on men. Perhaps she should scout women instead. But alas, becoming lesbian is not a conscious choice, and while she was scanning the nearby female faces, Amanda simply could not feel excited about the numerous potential prospects.

She emitted an exasperated sigh and proceeded to move toward the exit. Amanda had had enough. It was then that she saw a man approach her from her right and put one hand on her shoulder. She forced herself to not roll her eyes as she half-turned toward him.

“Let me ask you a quick question, my friend and I have been arguing over this all night.” The man grinned down at her. Amanda cocked her head. He had interesting hair – it was lime green at the tips.

“I’m actually on my way out.” She smiled wryly.

“Oh I only have a second myself so this won’t take long. I need a woman’s opinion on this. What do you think of guys who wear pink shirts?” He was now facing her head on, that crooked grin never leaving his face. This guy just wasn’t going to give up, was he?

“It depends on the shade of pink.” Amanda looked over the man’s attire. He wore a navy blue silk shirt with weathered dark jeans and black lace-up shoes. “It wouldn’t look good on you, though.”

“Oh yeah?” He looked mockingly hurt. “Why do you say that?”

“It just wouldn’t. I really need to go, I’m sorry. I’ve given up on dating.” Amanda glanced around for Ed.

“Who said I was interested in dating you? Aren’t you jumping the gun a bit? Unfortunately I seem to be getting attacked by horny women on the dance floor tonight so I needed to come off for a bit of a breather. You don’t look like the dancing type so I figured I’d be safe.”

Amanda crossed her arms on her chest.

“I happen to be a great dancer.” She remarked. While Amanda’s dancing career was over, her passion remained. How dare this stupid man say she didn’t look like the dancing type?

The man raised an eyebrow. “I can’t believe that. Don’t get me wrong, you have an alright body and all, but a dancer? I’ll have to see it to believe it.”

“And I’ll need a drink to loosen up enough to dance with a cocky stranger.”

“Great, same here!” He pulled a coin from his pocket. “If it’s tails I’m buying. Heads means it’s your treat.”

The man shuffled her to a more secluded corner of the room and flipped the coin into the air. He caught it expertly, slapping it onto the back of his hand. He then proceeded to stretch out his arm toward Amanda.

“What is it?” he asked.

“…it’s heads.” Amanda bit her lip. “I guess we had a deal.”

He smiled and put one arm on the small of her back, leading her toward the crowded bar. Amanda glanced at her watch. She had no idea how she got suckered into buying an unknown man a drink and owing him a dance, but at least he was better than pimple face and fatty. Amanda found herself adjusting her black sequin dress as she leaned toward the girl across the bar.

“I’ll have a vodka shot.” Her new acquaintance leaned in toward her ear.

Amanda parted her lips in a half smile. “I may be buying, but we never said you could choose what you’d have.”

“A raspberry Cruiser and a jager bomb, please.” She called out.

“Jager bomb works, too.”

“You’re getting the Cruiser.” Amanda tilted her chin up and pressed the bottle into his hand.

The man’s smile faltered, Amanda saw his eyes dart from side to side. She smiled inwardly. Finally, she had him at a loss for words. He regained his composure quickly, however, and twisted the cap off of the bottle. He poured the crimson liquid in his mouth and wiped his lips with a shrug as Amanda dropped the shot of Jager into the mug of Red Bull and gulped down the drink quickly.

“Sufficiently loosened up now, sweetie?” He asked.

“Maybe if I knew your name.”

“Philip.”

“Alright, Philip, but only for a minute.” Amanda set her empty glass back onto the bar.

TO BE CONTINUED…
—————————

SNEAK PEAK:

Philip gets thrown in a dumpster, Amanda meets a handsome millionaire and considers turning into a man hunting gold digger.

This is what you get when I’m bored.

————————————- 

Amanda nodded to the brunette waitress as she was handed her coffee. Milk, two sugars. She stirred the creamy liquid with her plastic spoon and turned back to her companion.

“So you see?” she said “Men are scum. They’re either gay or they’re scum. You’re so lucky you’re gay, otherwise you would not be on friendly terms with me right now.”

Ed nodded, his chin propped up on one dark hand. “I know what you mean, honey. But you know there’s a man for you somewhere out there.”

“Oh yeah, of course, there’s plenty of men for me out there.” Amanda threw her hands in the air. “They’re either wimps, jerks, or players. Perfect, right?” She brushed a lock of strawberry blonde hair from her face and took a sip. She then proceeded to cross her legs and twich her foot up and down impatiently. “Scum.”

Ed ran a hand across his shiny bald head and pouted his big black lips. “Honey, come out with me tonight. We’ll go to a straight bar and I’ll find you a nice one. I’ve got an eye for these things, you know.”

Amanda rolled your eyes. “You’ll probably just seduce him.”

“Oh no, no, sweetie I’ll be good, I promise.”

“….fine.”

 TO BE CONTINUED

Women fish for compliments. It’s what we do. We want to feel reminded of our strengths and reassured that we’re making an improvement on our weaknesses. But far too often we fish for compliments in the most obvious, blunt ways, that it isn’t really fishing anymore. It’s more like harpooning. So let’s look at some of the ways that simply aren’t subtle enough to remain graceful.

1) “Does this make me look fat?”
- Come on, I think we’ve tired this one out a long time ago. It’s like a brick to your man’s head.

2) “I just feel completely hideous compared to your new secretary.”
- Sure, he’ll give you a compliment. And then he’ll decide to take a closer look at the secretary.

3) “I think I’m too skinny.”
- Yeah, you don’t want reassurance on your skinny hotness at all.

4) “Why was that guy staring at me?” *giggle*
- I bet you don’t expect him to tell you it was because you had something in your teeth.

5) “So out of all the girls you dated, who was the prettiest?”
- Let me guess – are you going to throw a fit if he says it was Jessica…and your name isn’t Jessica?

The things people come up with in the throes of boredom. I’ll add a glossary later for people who don’t understand a word of this.

BIG PURPLE HAT

“I’m scared.” Christopher was shaking. Beads of swear gathered on his high forehead.

“Come on, man, you can do it. Put the hat on.” said Paul.

“Not the hat, no.” He ran a shaking hand down his clammy face.

“Put on the goddamn hat.” Paul shoved the oversized purple hat on Christopher’s head and readjusted the multicolored parrot feathers that adorned it. “It’s all in the peacock theory, man. She’ll go for it.”

Christopher blinked rapidly, watching the woman by the bar tilt her head up to swallow another shot. Paul called her an “HB6”, said she was perfect for someone like Christopher. He clammed his lips together into a thin line and drew himself up to full height – all five foot six of him. He was going to do it.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Christopher tiptoed toward his target. He was a solitary hunter, moving in for the kill.
“The three second rule, dude, remember the three second rule!” He heard Paul hissing behind him, barely audible through the deafening roar of the crowd around him.

Oh shit. Christopher forgot the three second rule! He jerked his head to the side and pursed his lips in an attempt to look sleek. He then proceeded to sprint toward the prey, approaching, coming, almost, almost….

“Hi there.” He slid to a halt in front of the woman. The HB6 popped a green olive from an empty cocktail glass into her mouth and raised an eyebrow.

“Can I help you?” she rolled the olive between her teeth. Was that an IOI? Is she interested? Does this mean we can fuck? Oh God, what now, what now? KINO!

Christopher slapped one hand onto her bare shoulder, keeping it there with the grip of clammy death. “So, uh…” he coughed. “What’s your name?”

“What’s with the hat?”

“Um…well…I asked you first.” Christopher’s other hand instinctively went to the prominent hat, which was now tightly jammed on top of his head.

“I don’t give my name to men in giant purple hats.” She smirked and proceeded to chew her olive, licking her crimson-nailed fingers as she snapped for another cocktail.

Christopher swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down painfully. He looked back to Paul, but his friend was nowhere in sight.

“My…my grandmother gave me this hat just before she died.” Holy shit, what the fuck was he saying? Talking about his fake dead grandmother? In an attempt to quickly diffuse the situation and wipe the intensely uncomfortable look off both of their faces, he blurted the first thing that came to mind: “So who lies more, men or women?”

“Men. Would you mind removing your hand? You’re sweating on me.” The HB6 cringed under his deathly hold.

“Oh yeah, sorry.” Christopher attempted a chuckle and managed a sort of husky grunt instead. “But yeah, why men?”

“Because you just lied to me about a dead grandmother.” The HB6 smiled.

Oh. My. God. She knows!

Christopher licked his chapped lips in an attempt to re-moisturize them. “What- what are you talking about?”

“Even if your grandmother was dead, I doubt any mentally stable individual would walk around with her hat on his head.”

“I…well…” She had a point.

The HB6 slid off of her bar stool and slid her empty glass toward the bar tender. “And I don’t like to associate myself with mentally unstable men.”

Again…good point.

“So I think I’d better go.” She granted Christopher a wry smile and disappeared into the crowd.

“Dead grandmother?” Paul appeared behind him. “Come on, you could have come up with something better than a dead grandmother.”

But Christopher wasn’t listening. He pulled the purple hat from his head and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with an emerald green feather. Pursing his lips once more, he slammed one hand on top of the bar, sending the abandoned cocktail glass rattling. “I want that one.”

TO BE CONTINUED