lucy

Some fiction for you kids to read, it's the beginning of a new project I'm working on.

Blowing Smoke Rings
You lean out of the window and push your bangs out of your face. You taste a mouthful of it as a gust of wind blows it into your lipgloss. You glower and contemplate just shaving your locks off. A shock and a new start's maybe all you need, and that will provide both. But winter's coming and god, wouldn't you look stupid in the end, with your bumpy head and all the scars on your scalp? And what are you, if not pretty? Your whole identity has become how you look.

If you're not careful,you'll end up dead at thirty of an overdose, just like all those young starlets with all face and no skills.
Marilyn Monroe.
Anna Nicole.

Or maybe that's what you want, isn't it? That's what all girls like you want, and you're all just too afraid to off yourself good and proper, once and for all. Look at you, nearly falling out of the third-story window so the room won't reek of pot, almost tumbling splat-flat onto the streets each time you cough.

These days, instead of eating, you sneak a joint outside the window.

These days, instead of exercising, you spend all of your time on the internet looking at pictures of cats and jerking off to that same clip of James Marsden banging Jaime King in Lies and Alibis.

These days, getting out of bed, waking up every morning and choosing to live, choosing to wake up from the asolute peace that you allot yourself more and more time in; these days, that seems more and more a bad choice.

You've smoked your drug down to the filter. You flick the butt onto the grass, secretly hoping there's something in there incendiary enough to make the entire lawn go up in flames. You feel a kiss of grim satisfaction as you see a tiny spark flare for a second and then die. It passes...no natural disaster to make your dramatic exit this evening. Tonight won't be your triumphant end.

You close the window and roll on the bed, thinking. The hard partying, the self abuse...the flaking out on work and waking up to a new face every morning...the knowing in your heart that your looks aren't sustainable and that in five to ten years you'll be nothing unless you can be tragic and brave enough to off yourself and therefore attain that immortal status that comes from great beauty cut off in its prime...face it, lady. You're a DUI and a little dog away from being your typical Hollywood st-HARLOT.

The numb feeling envelops you, leaving you warm and languid. You detach yourself from the harshness of reality and snuggle into your thoughts. You always tell people you're a writer, but you never write. You spend a lot of time writing, but you never write. It isn't because you don't want to write. You love creating stories.

You just hate telling them.
bd2007

hexes and ohhhs.
love lucy