Better a Witty Fool than a Foolish Wit

Inner Workings of My Twisted Mind.


Ok guys,
So I know I’ve alluded to atually writing something other than
mediocre rants about crap you all could probably care less about, but
none of you, with the exception of my parents, have actually read said

So here it is.  Feel free to be as mean and nasty or nice and fluffy
about it as you would like.  But first I’d like to give a little

1) I haven’t done more than proofread for grammatical errors since I
wrote this.  But feel free to rip it apart.  I was a lit major…I can
guarantee someone’s said something worse about something I’ve written
(and I’m probably related to her).

2)  Since my father didn’t quite get this, I feel the need to explain.
 For those of you who are science people and haven’t really had to
write more than a lab report (or in the case of my father, a lesson
plan) you may not be aware of the fact that when people write fiction
they make up characters.  That’s right kids, this story is not about
me.  I mean, sure, I only have the experiences I’ve had so I can only
really write from them, but the girl in this story is a fictional

3) I know it’s dark, but you know what?  This is how I deal with my
demons.  Some people work out, some people smoke crack, I write.  And
contrary to popular belief, I don’t think the world is all sunshine
lollypops and rainbows everywhere.

Ok, Love you all.  Enjoy.  And let the games begin.


I’m attaching the document, but I use mac so just in case I’m going to
paste the text below.

          Smoke surrounds her face as she brings the cigarette to her
lips.  Shiny with lipgloss, they close around the filtered tip.  She
inhales slowly, savoring the flavor.  Her eyes connect with his from
across the room.  She is obscured by the fingers of smoke coming off
the cherry of her cigarette and his interest is piqued.  She takes
another sip of the clear liquid in her hand as he slowly makes his way
across the room.  They never take their eyes off of each other.  Even
when he is stopped by a group of his friends, his eyes are on her
face.  The dim lights of the party and the incessant haze of smoke
around her excites and scares him.  She watches as his ex drunkenly
stumbles towards him, running a finger seductively from his lip to the
buckle of his pants.  Still, his eyes never leave her.  A warm heat
spreads through her chest.  Partially from the vodka, partially from
his ceaseless gaze.  She is hypnotized, she wants to look away, but
she can’t.  She knows he’s bad news.  She knows he’s trouble, but his
messy hair and the chain around his neck and the glow of his eyes make
her feel alive because she knows he’s alive.  She thinks about dying
all the time.  She thinks about killing herself.  She thinks of pain.
When she’s in the bathroom, alone, in her parent’s modest middle class
house in the suburbs of a town she can’t stand, she drags the razor
across her skin painfully slowly.  But as he walks towards her that is
all forgotten.  It is as if he has cured her with his deep brown eyes.
 She’s lost, but he has found her.  And maybe it’s a cliché, but she
doesn’t care.  She doesn’t want to think about anything else.

He stops in front of her and carefully brushes a strand of her curly
brown hair behind her ear.  She smirks at him, the corners of her
mouth turning up ever so slightly at the corners.  It’s the most
sincere smile she’s smiled in over a year.  He smiles back with the
same smile.  And they just look at each other, transfixed.  His gaze
moves slowly down her arm as he sees the bottle of clear liquid.  She
doesn’t need a chaser, she’s been doing this for a long time and she
likes the pain that it causes as it slides down her throat.  She
doesn’t want to dull that pain with orange juice or diet Pepsi, she
relishes the pain, the burning.  He knows.  He respects that.
Respects her.  No one else does.  That’s why she loves him.

His fingers graze her shoulder.  Her whole body erupts in goosebumps
even though she is wearing a leather jacket.  The warmth of his hand
permeates her beloved jacket, the one she never leaves home without.
She lives in California, but she never takes off her jacket.  It hides
her from the world, shelters her from the hurt she’s afraid to feel.
She loves the physical pain, it’s the emotional kind that kills her.
Even though she’s felt a relatively small amount of it, she fears it.
She doesn’t fear death, doesn’t fear her parents catching her with
this bottle of vodka in her hand, she doesn’t fear the future.  She
fears the pain.  She fears emotion.  And her jacket keeps it out.  It
keeps people away.  It scares them away.  Until him.

They haven’t even said anything to each other yet and she knows that
she’s just shed her jacket in front of him.  She’s giving it to him.
She starts to loose the ability to think coherent thoughts as his
fingertips lightly move down her arm.  They stop at her hand, at the
bottle and, for the first time, they have actual physical contact.
He takes the bottle from her hand and slowly lifts it to his lips.
His full red lips.  As he brings the bottle down his tongue comes out
to taste the last remnants of vodka on his lower lip.

He brings the bottle up to his lips one more time.  This time, she
can’t stop herself.  She reaches for him and slowly licks the remnants
of Vodka off his lips.  Her eyes slip closed as she feels every
emotion, every muscle, every breath.  For the first time since they
locked eyes across the room, their eye contact is broken and it’s
wonderful.  His chin is coarse with stubble and this is the first time
she’s ever found that sensation pleasurable.  When her dad forgets to
shave she doesn’t let him kiss her, but this stubbled cheek makes her
kiss him harder.  She wants some of him to seep inside of her.  He’s
so much better than she is and maybe if she kisses him hard enough, a
little bit of him will rub off on her.  As her lips are pressed
against his she knows she’s come home.  She knows she’s found her soul
mate.  She doesn’t even believe in soul mates, but she’s found hers.
And in that moment she knows that he has the power to crush her.  He
can hurt her in a way she’s never been hurt before.  She’s scared, but
she’s excited at the same time.

As they pull apart a small smirk plays on his lips.  He lifts the
bottle one more time and takes a gulp.  He lowers the bottle.  His
fingertips, along with the brown paper bag, graze her hand lightly.
She slowly opens her hand to accept the bottle.  She smiles at him and
he smiles back.

“Thanks” he says quietly.  He turns around and heads for the door.
She knew he would break her heart.


June 14, 2007 - Posted by | High School, Santa Cruz, Sex, Stories

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