NO smoking and writing a novel

My “friend” today said to not call it writing a novel.  She said to do it one piece at a time and don’t say novel.  I’m eating macaroni and cheese and I have a headache.  I’m writing a chapter today.  Tommorw = chapter.

This blows.  I don’t like starting.  My teacher said if I can do short stories and stuff then I can write.  I saw another blog said 3500 words a day he’s doing.  I google it and it says thats 7 pages single spaced.  So I’m going to do what he’s doing.  Doing it now.

Sorry Fred

At the end of the second part of class today I realized that he’s not so bad. (OMG this lady in the library right now is changing the printer paper and shit and is SOOOOO angry. She is old and slamming the drawers and the paper in and looking a us crazily.) In class we talked about the Jihari window and how there are things that you keep hidden from people, things that open, and things that are blind to and things that are unknown. He said that when you write you can go into the unknown and I liked that. It makes me wonder what is hidden about me that other people can see but I can’t see for myself. I know what is hidden about him and he can’t see but I should probably not judge him for that.

But then I wrote in “Freewriting Portion” today that we all do that when we write stories and stuff. Judging. Anyway, wtf with this lady. Today I learned a lot about writing and taking chances so I am going to write a short story and take chances. I’m sorry to my teacher and I’m glad he wasn’t such a cuntbucket today and was nice to me and actually even smiled when I was there. I’m going to keep saying my affirmations and treat people nice and everything like that. It will be great and I think things are going to work out finally.

“Unlike novelists and playwrights, who lurk behind the scenes while distracting our attention with the puppet show of imaginary characters,

“Unlike novelists and playwrights, who lurk behind the scenes while distracting our attention with the puppet show of imaginary characters, unlike scholars and journalists, who quote the opinions of others and shelter behind the hedges of neutrality, the essayist has nowhere to hide. While the poet can lean back on a several-thousand-year-old legacy of ecstatic speech, the essayist inherits a much briefer and skimpier tradition. The poet is allowed to quit after a few lines, but the essayist must hold our attention over pages and pages. It is a brash and foolhardy form, this one-man or one-woman circus, which relies on the tricks of anecdote, conjecture, memory, and wit to enthrall us.”
-Scott Sanders

I have a huge fucking problem with this quote my teacher gave me. I hope he chokes on his fair trade 8 dollar biscuit while reading this again. I am trying to be nice. My doctor said to picture him as a little baby and would I be made at a baby and I nodded and said MmmHmm. But really, yes, I would hate that fucking baby. Babies don’t go around talking about other babies and making them feel bad about what they wrote and telling them that poets and writers are dumb trashy. Babies don’t say that I’m lurking and distracting with characters and hiding in the bushes when I write. I want to hide in his bushy grungy beard and whisper Trump tweets in his ear while he sleeps.

He called poets quiters and novelists trashy which is kinda true, but not really, I don’t think. I like trying poetry sometimes. I used to start from rap lyrics and I might try that again. I want to turn in a page of em dashes, but I know he will get ANGRY and that’s funny to me because he tries to act so calming. He says the Peace be With You writers when we leave but his face screws all up in a fucked up knot when I talk.

The other day I finished my assignment and it was at the end of class so I needed to leave bc it was snowing anyway. I thought a normal person would do that without having to bow to his budah highness but no. He gets all weird about it like I’m supposed to plead and beg him first before putting on my coat. Bullshit.

Sucked out by the vacuum of space A SHORT STORY

Ben2Times eyelids fluttered furiously in his sleep. Stephania perched on the edge of the cot.  They were in the storeroom closet of the Burger Bop.

Ever since they’d gotten back from that Duplicate Planet, Ben’d been nodding off, off and on, throughout the endless night.

It wouldn’t even day anymore.  The letter “d”s had left the building, drifting, floating through the air at a laconic droopy pace and nobody even swatted at them or said goodbye.

When the last one left, he had snapped close his briefcase (how’d he even get that in here, Stephania had thought, but then she thought of the pink flamingo rocker dance and the cage rock fury and thought yeah, well, why not). He’d drifted breezily but curtly by her through the door.  His look of disdain was almost audible so Stephania was sure to slam the door right behind him as he had tried to compress it ever so gently.

“Fucking asshole “D”s…” Stephania mumbled as Ben2Times eyelids fluttered even faster and his paws swiped sleepily in the air.

Since the endless night and the departure of the “d”s, things had taken a turn. Smithann and Fitz had been spending ever-increasing lapses of time in the walk-in freezer and she knew they were up to something in there.  Everybody knew.  Even Natalianese, who could be a lot of things, but unobservant was not one of them, Stephania could tell.  She was watching her.  Close.

All was quiet in the Burger Bop, she could hear the swipe of the soapy towel that Natalianese was using the wipe the door-paneled windows in the lobby.  The whole place was see-thru in the lobby area and they had used this to their advantage before, able to notice if any weird entities were creeping up even though none had ever tried it.  All that time and not a visitor.  Well, except Fitz, and that one little girl that no one will talk about yet, and the bug.  And the meat.

But now the night and Ben2Times spent most of his time sleeping and Natalianese wouldn’t stop washing the windows in the dark.  It was creepy.  You could hear the dead silence of nothing and then the creak or whine of some type of pulley or contraption from the freezer and the hum of its engine kicking in ever so often.  Then the squeaks from the glass as Natalianese made her dumb-ass karate kid circles. Stephania could see her stupid red eyeballs pinpointing down on them when she was suspended and floating, washing from the outside.

Stephania decided to see what she was up to.  She waited until she seemed to not be looking and eased through the door.  Then she crept around and kicked over her wash bucket, but something strange fell out.

It wasn’t water.

Suddenly Natalianese shrieked soundlessly and air-glided toward her lightning fast at a horizontal angle of quickened oatmeal.  Quite impressive, Stephania thought, and mentally saved that move into her repertoire.

“You   don’t   touch   that  bucket   bitch.” Natalianese spat.

“Whoa whoa whoa?  What bucket?” Stephania smiled and looked at her with as much doe eye as she could muster.

“I was just out for a stroll…  oh, you mean this bucket?” She picked up the bucket and tossed it over her shoulder.  It fell quickly toward the polyurethane sidewalk panel but stopped mid-air right before it could crash.

Stephania eyed it floating there, pursed her lips in a half grin and looked back up at Natalianese.

They glared at each other in a deathlock of fury.

“You mean this magic bucket?” Stephania said into Natalianese’s brain.

“I can still talk like this too you green cow.” Natalianese thought back at her.

Neither of their lips moved but their eyes shone into the night, Natalianese with more of a red hue that Stephania noticed was starting to jump vision on the glass and project little red dots everywhere.

“Uh oh.”

“Damn right, you green menace!” Natalianese blared into her brain and Stephania felt her eyes began to wobble as the high-pitched warble reverberated between her ears.  She ripped two tufts of the sidewalk panel up, balled it up in little bits and shoved them in her ears like two earplugs.

That didn’t help.

She had forgotten the old ways.  They had gotten used to using the new organ voices and now this crazy loon was inside of her and she even had the magic bucket.  She had forgotten all about these devices.

She ripped the plugs out of her ears and yanked the bucket from the air.  Some more of the strange substance fell out but Stephania ignored it and slammed the bucket down over Natalianese’s big stupid head.

She withdrew her pointing stick and unsheathed it from its ultra sound-absorbent scabbard.

“Aaaayyyyyyyyeeeeeeeee!” she screeched and reigned down a series of furious thumps on top of the bucket covering Natalianese’s head.

With each thump Natalianese kinda sunk down through the polyurethane ground board until finally she was drilled waist deep.  The shrilling stopped echoing in Stephania’s head and was replaced by a sad sad sobbing.

“Wha?  Wait, stop that.  Stop that crying.” Stephania said and Natalianese whimpered even more sadly in her head.

“C’mon, it’s not that serious.  I was just… I was just trying to get you to stop.  You know how we are, I… uh…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Natalianese said and used the soppy towel to wipe the front of the bucket. “It doesn’t even matter anymore.  Just help me with my feet, it tickles.”

“Okay.” Stephania said and punched a hole through the sidewalk panel next to the Natalianese-shaped screw hole.

She punched again until the hole was wide enough to peek her head in and peer down there.

“Oh.  Hey guys. Sorry about that,” she said. “Didn’t know you were next to us down there… it’s complicated…”

“Just fix it.  Fix it now.” One of the blue creatures wrote on a card and held up to her head so she could read it.

Stephania figured these were the guys she had heard of before, but she thought they were located on the other side of town, through a sky ceiling at least, not the sidewalk.

It was magnificent down there.  Brilliantly blue with shimmering hints of pink, orange… any color you could think of really.

And the things looked like furry seahorses but with huge wide soccer ball eyes perched on long tendrils sticking out from their shoulder pockets.

They would have been scary, with the huge eyes and no mouths and all except for the funny looking cards that they wrote on with big sparkly glitter pencils.  Everywhere stickers.  Bright neon colors and dancing, happy stickers and bright pencils with fuzzy things attached and sparkly streamers.

The creatures bumped about and greeted with tails but Stephania noticed a few of the placards floating in the air had really, really disturbing messages.  She looked around at the huge eyeballs of some of them and wondered which ones had written them.  Sad, sad disjointed writing with glitter mounded on top but the stickers were awesome, very bright.

“Well how do I fix it?” Stephania asked one of them who happened to be floating by.

“You don’t,” it wrote and pulled out a small vial filled with red, blue, and green confetti and tossed the contents into its eyes.

It sighed and stared at her with most of its whites now sparkling and twinkling in the night.

“You just throw a bunch of this shit on it.” it wrote, and tossed her a bottle.

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…And I was having a good day to.  Screw the em dash and all the dashes i will put them in hell with an inferno like dante so people can laugh at all his enemies for CENTURIES

YOU UYOU YOU

-you are now a character- –in a short story i will write.  soon lol —- — – ——   –

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Stacy Hill
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You replied on 2/15/2017 2:27 PM.
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Hello Stacy, 
I finally read the draft of your process essay. As usual, your writing takes me into unexpected places, and often works within realms I cannot quite fathom. I do not say that to mean that it should be different, only that I may not be the best reader of your work, for I do not always even know how I feel when reading your writing. This piece, in particular, feels like the monologue of a little girl who jumps all around (and why not?) but it is unclear where the piece is headed. In fact the draft literally ends mid-sentence at the bottom of page 3: "...measured out in "  Out in what? I am curious what "the hims" are. I am curious about the sailboat forms described on page 3. (By the way, use a dash — instead of a hyphen - on each side of "Keelboat form." I make a dash on my computer by pressing shift+option+the hyphen key.) 

I am not sure what to say about ways to revise what is here. Why should I care what a little girl has to say or think? It feels random. I have a hard time relating to little girls. And yet, clearly, many humans love thinking about childhood, who they are, what power they have, and how it affects our lives. What does writing from the perspective of this “paranoid” girl do for you? What does it allow you to explore? In what ways might it obscure things you could say more directly? These are the questions that come up for me when I am reading this piece. I want to understand it better than I do, but I need the piece itself to offer something of itself to me, to reach out. So far in my life, I have not really felt that little girls care much about me. This girl, too. I want to care about what this being says, but cannot find an entrance place, a way in, yet. 

Hope my comments stir up something valuable for you. Please know that you are free to ignore all that I say and write what you want. I am just trying to be honest, and also trying to say to you that I want to connect to your writing more than I do in this piece. At least as it is so far. I look forward to how you revise it.

Guess who’s having the most amazing Russian twitter meltdown?

As we speak.

LOL my title is like that old movie with Ashton Kutcher, “Guess Who’s coming to dinner?.”  I remember watching that when I was little.  But we need to talk about your president.  Seriously wtf

russia

 

imho he’s sniffing the glue again behind the white house dumptser.  Got them aerosol cans or maybe just a line or two of that white lady (My mom called it that the other night and we were ROLLING laughing).  Anyway your president is having an epic Frozen iceberg meltdown and it is fun too watch.

It’s kinda like watching an action movie scene in slow motion when they show you all the train pieces flying up slow-mo into the air and the cars veer off the tracks and you know everyone is going to die.  But still fun.

He uses twitter like my friend Veronica used to and one time she went OFF.  All the way.  She blasted Marcus and the whole volleyball team and the coaches the principal, I mean everybody. It was crazy to watch but then she killed herself tho.

russia2

I don’t think he’ll do that. He’s too rich and crazy and now I wonder if we ever had a president who committed suicide.  There’s alwasys room for growth.

That may sound mean and it was.  I guess I should talk at my appointment today about that whatevs! lol.  No, I will.  I had a guy say that to me once and it made me be like WHAT!? “I can’t believe he said that….” on the inside but I didn’t say it cuz I knew he was already mad.  He was like, “Bitch… kill yoself.  Jump off of a bridge or something”. and I was like damn.  That was mean.

Well, I gotta go to school shout out to all my hata’s I know you don’t read my blog and that’s find by me it’s for my ANONIMOUS hastag twitter facebook rants and trying poetry without actually having to embarass myself to all my irl friends like the president.

the way we talk

My friend had to explain to my mom that she talks differently to her little sister than ways that my mom would understand.  Here’s what happened.  They were at our house and we were just playing around and Jacki’es little sister was there because she had to watch her. THEN, we found the shattered perfume bottle tried to be hidden in the closet and asked her why she did it (we know it was her).  Jackie tries to be nice and all and in meantime mom and her stupid neighbor get there to pick up some more things for the brunch.  So we’re questioning Margo and she obviously lying and Jackie says to her “SEE- this is how you get the shit beat out of you.” in a real man way.  Finally Margo confesses and we clean it up and my mom was listening at the steps and called up in the room.  She says, “Jackie, as a parent, I am very concerned, it sounds like you beat really beat your sister, if so, this is not ok.  She is considerably younger than you and cannot protect hersrlf  and that is ABUSE.”  So I start laughing and can’t stop ROLLING and Jackie looks really confused and that makes it even funnier.  “Mrs O. I don’t know what you mean, that’s how we talk to each other.  That’s how my mom and dad talks to me.  Except worse.  It don’t mean I actually DO it.  Or would do it… it’s how we talk.”  And my mom’s like yeah well but you said That’s How you get” and Jackie was like yeah it’s the same as saying “That’s how you WILL get” but we don’t say Will like you guys do.  Oh. My mom says.

Then she goes, “But don’t you think that will hurt her self-esteem or scare the living beejezus out of her, I mean, she’s just a kid for God’s sake.” Then Jackie says Mrs O. then you don’t know <Margo, she can be a tanzmanian and I will beat the living shit out of her… but not really.  That’s just how we talk, I mean, communicate.  Then my mom goes on and on about self-esteem and I start to get sleepy and hungry and I can tell Jackie kinda spaces out after a while but finally they both agree that she’ll try not to threaten Margo’s very life next time and try OPEN communication systems or something like that.  (but I think she’s still gonna say she”ll beat the shit outta her) LOL

My mom is great.  Corny sometimes, but really, really great.

 

 

 

 

M. Night Shamalan scared the crap out of me

Let me you tell you how he did it.

So I went with my friends to see that Split movie which is about a man with many personalities that kidnaps three teenagers, but I won’t give it away. I’ll just say it was a pretty good movie and I liked seeing all of the different personalities come out and freak out and confuse everybody involved.

It didn’t really scare me. I was worried too, because my mom and her stupido boyfriend thought that mayb I shouldn’t go see it because of my history with DEPRESSION which is really just a different word for TRUMP 2017. (But really I was sad before Trump, he just tops it all off with a sideling of crazy.) SO I thought I might be sad or scared during the movie, but I wasn’t. Really, it was just very interesting to watch and think about science and stuff like that. But then so I got home and was like, humph, I’m pretty fearless nothing scares me. WRONG. wrong.

On my computer I watched THE VISIT, M. Night Shamalan’s movie from last year that I hadn’t watched because I thought it might be a little creepy. IT was still on there so I watched it and it terrified the living crap out of me. WTF?!!!

This is not ok. I’m like, really really scared. Not right at this moment, but I know I’m going to have to try to go to sleep at some point tonight and if you know anything about me you know that I don’t like things at night and noises, shapes, everything. I have a whole bunch of stuff to do tomorrow and I just really don’t want to be super sleepy all day but now I think I will be because I don’t know how I’ll go to sleep. This really sucks. A lot.

I DO NOT LIKE BEING SCARED.

so fuck you m night shamalan for being so good at your job not with split but witht he fucking visit goddamn you

(if anybody out there believes in praying please pray for me not to be so scared tonight or just to get some sleep but not dead)