yeah, i kinda went nuts last night but i'm better now. it was quite an episode. i'd like to thank the academy........
seriously, though, thanks everyone for your kind comments.
i think i'm just really selfish sometimes and tend to forget other people have lives and feelings and yeah, i just sort of upgraded to a bitch catagory hurricane last night
it was a bit of a chaotic week last week though. i'm learning a lot about myself from the new book i'm writing. its semi-biographical, whatever the hell that means. i write about my father, who comes to visit (that would be the FICTION part) but the main character loosely based on me realizes through her father's visit how good her life is in restrospect. she remembers where she's from and how far along she's come. the only thing is she's a pathological liar and has been jeopardizing everything. of course there are other things like a psycho serial rapist drag queen and stuff to keep it all exciting
i'm actually starting to like my new job. it will do until my agent sells my book. all the guys in the west village are soooooooooooo friendly and they all have cute dogs and can drop ten dollars on a tofu salad everyday. weird.
anyway here's more "demonic"

****DEVON****

The white marble floor was polished to perfection and my black shoes had just been shined by some sales geek at Sole Land with acne and a strange haircut. I studied the colors of the floor and my shoes as they came together, wishing everything could be so perfect and yet still so divided. To my right was a bronzed statue of a man on one bended knee. He looked like he was begging a lover’s forgiveness, but there was no statue of another lover. I walked toward a red carpet between two more masculine statues holding objects. One was expanding an arm towards the sky, introducing a basketball to the skylight. The other had a golf club swung over his right shoulder. My footsteps were silenced by the long red carpet leading to the indoor golf course. I cleared my throat and waited for my father to look up. This castle was for pros. It even said so on the large gold plaque over the podium on the front lawn: This Castle Is For Pros. The Estate was bigger than three arenas together. Champion Estate was my father’s home away from home; an indoor and outdoor sports haven.
This was where my father could be found, playing golf between the gigantic waterfalls. Both waterfalls spat water up so high that someone on the third floor of the sports club could get their feet wet if they stood close enough to the edge of the banister. The falling water echoed throughout Champion Estate. Every member had a special gold card. My father, Chris, gave me one for my eighteenth birthday. I was expecting a new car because that would have been typical, but there was no way anyone would beat out the one I had now. When Dad gave me the card he slapped me on the arm and flashed his winning smile. “You’re going to be just like your father, kid,” he told me. I admired sports players just like all my friends, but I hadn’t really played anything long enough to be good. My Dad was a professional golf player. That was his thing. Nicole was a cheerleader. The guys played football. Me, I just couldn’t decipher. Maybe this was dad’s way of helping me out.
“All access,” Dad bragged when I popped open the small burgundy box and saw the card stuck to the surface. Dad proudly adjusted his necktie. “I know normally you pick me up because I don’t like to mess with those damn parking attendants, but I notice how you look around the place. I see you’re yearning so now, there you go, you’re one of us.”
“Clyde will laugh at me, I’ll look like a fucking joke,” I tried to explain a couple of days later when I saw it fit. My folks had been having one of their many social parties in our five-story home. Most of the people were from Ballenking, a few were from Makers Lake, but the Makers Lake people kept to themselves in a corner. Ballenking folk looked down on them. Someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew Mom had been promoted in a company relative to Dad’s law firm so the party was to celebrate that. I didn’t know them and even if I had I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart once they were mixed in together near the buffet. Clyde’s old man was there looking spiffy as hell, drinking scotch straight, talking about how he delivered three babies that day. Everyone around him wore designer clothes. They ate the same, too, with a smug grin as they shook some peanuts in the palm of their hand or held out an appetizer, talking and talking, and finally popping it in their mouth. Laughter would break out all the time. It reminded me of the waterfall’s echo. “Clyde thinks indoor sports are faggy,” I concluded to my father.
“That’s cos he’s no good at ‘em,” Chris joked. He looked on at his so-called friends for their approval. Everyone pushed out a little supportive laugh.