Another sort of memoir/journal entry thing. I hope somebody gets something from it... there's no great message. Just the raw details of my pathetic existance. If you could read it and leave a comment I'll critique you back if you leave me a link. Thanks guys, I've had a hard time writing lately.

Unos Chicago Grill and Suicide Girls

Yesterday started off on a hopeful note. I began my day with ten hydrocodone 5s. I was to go on a date with my gorgeous, shallow girlfriend, she would be paying . We went to Uno's Chicago Grill and she paid for me, bought me a deep-dish pepperoni pizza.

Her sister Rachel seemed a lot more cool and mature than her. She's a senior in high school and is focused on her future. My girlfriend Stephanie dropped out of high school to go to beauty school. She dropped out of beauty school to go to the local psyche ward. Steph takes three ambien to go to sleep. She dresses in Hollister and American Eagle, goes tanning, bleaches her hair and lives with her mother. She'll be twenty in a month and she'll have had sex with a guy for every year she's existed, not including myself. She blames her psychiatric issues for her promiscuity and cheating. I tried to tell her that demons of mental illness don't possess her, she just likes sex and shouldn't disguise herself as a victim. I told her that her actions are selfish when she has a boyfriend and she cheats on him, and that she should grow up and take accountability for these things; to stop running away from her problems with psychotropic medication and blaming them on her childhood. It's time to grow up. Though, I really should take my own advice.

After I met Stephanie's parents I took ten more hydro 5s and went to her basement to watch American Psycho and have her hold me as the opiates took over; numbing my brain and making my penis impotent. We made out and both stripped down to pajama pants at around 3 in the afternoon. I felt her up, and amazingly was able to work myself to a semi as I held her from behind and she quoted every line of American Psycho. She told me she had double Ds and I really didn't believe her, she concealed them well. Stephanie asked me to put my mouth on her chest and bite hard enough to give her a hicky. So I took off her 40 dollar t-shirt, expecting to see Bs in a bra much too large for her petite breasts. Instead I saw perfect firm cleavage tightly pressed against a color red size double D. I was in heaven as I unclasped her bra with one hand(a skill I'd mastered on teddy bears at the age of twelve) When I got off her bra I saw scars all over her wonderfully firm breasts, scars obviously from deep cuts done with a razor blade, probably borrowed from a box cutter at her job in retail(a trendy store in the local mall) I bit her chest and started masturbating.

I took off her pants and saw fresh cuts beneath her panty line. Beneath her hip diamond tattoo surrounded by nautical stars. She told me when she cuts herself she feels okay, she punishes herself for doing bad things like cheating on men and having sex with her mother's boyfriends. Stephanie cuts away the sin from her body, like a woman who goes to confession to be redeemed.

Amazingly after four hours I ejaculated on the sheets in her fathers guest room. My body was completely numb, and I let her hold me for another hour before I left. She walked me to where my ride was coming to pick me up and I harassed a pet store owner about my work history and why I'd make a valuable asset to his team.

When Marquis showed up with her boyfriend to pick me up, I kissed Steph goodbye and told her I think I'm falling for her. She said she loves me, I've known her for a week. I'm moving her in so I can use her child support check to cover half of my rent and a cable/internet bill.

As I got into the backseat of the car, I watched out the window while Stephanie's eyes were locked on my body and movement. I felt like she might actually be in love with me, and there's no way I can let her know I plan on cheating on her. I believe she' s mentally incapable of truly loving someone and not hurting them. I will hurt her first.

My brother and I are getting matching tattoos for that reason, a crown with text that depicts "he who cares the least wears the crown".

Marquis is a beautiful girl who just had her first child at the age of 17 with her boyfriend Josh. When I was 16 and Marquis was 15 my friends and I would sleep with her. She hates herself for her past, and calls herself a whore. But, she's grown up a lot. Marquis is far from shallow, is intelligent and has a great personality. She's going to be an apprentice as a tattoo artist this spring; Marquis is a great mother.

Her and Josh wanted to introduce me to their friend who attends Syracuse University as an English major. We were going to meet at a party on campus, Saturday night. I agreed and was really excited to go. I forgot that I was supposed to wear a sweater and dress shirt, and was just dressed in my air Nikes, blue jeans and a black button down from H+M. I still looked handsome though, and I was confident I would impress their friend anyway.

When we arrived at the party it was three girls to every guy, everyone was dressed very well and drank fine wine and champagne. I was smoking cheap little cigars and drinking malt liquor; my brain still buzzing from the opiates. I arrived quite primed and socially lubricated.

I met Amber after a couple of hours of meeting the girls and wooing them with my average intelligence and arrogance. Amber was great. We talked about literature, and the script that I'm writing for my friend in the indie film industry in NYC. I told her it was going to be an autobiography and flirtatiously asked her if she wanted me to change her name or if I should keep it the same. I told her all about what was inside the script, obviously; my life story. As usual, I was able to win her over with my strange personality combination of confidence and apathy. We exchanged numbers to exchange poetry; I went about getting obliterated and telling everyone how much I liked her. My new friend Rich and I blew lines of oxy and coke in the bathroom and told each other we looked handsome. We did, and these girls were so typical, they loved our rebellion and carefree attitude, tactfully disguised with romanticism and nihilism.

Everything was going great until I fell down a flight of stairs. I spilled half of my 40 and got back up to attempt the second flight. I slipped down that flight too, and the rest of my 40 was gone.

The owner of the home was some sort of Latino, or whatever’s politically correct to call brown people these days. I didn't care enough to find out her name, because she seemed pretty stuck up. She wore those black framed glasses that beg the question "are those prescription? or are you trying to look like an intelligent slut?" Her cleavage stuck obnoxiously from her pushup bra underneath her too expensive black cocktail dress. She told me that I'd have to go, because I was too drunk.

If I hadn't been so high on opiates and cocaine, I probably would have called her a cunt. Good thing the drugs disguised my anger with a pathetic disposition.

I walked around downtown for three hours with a head full of pills and a belly full of booze. It was ten degrees and raining; I had no way home. I curled up in a gutter with a pack of cigarettes and my canvas jacket. I chain smoked until the sun came up and felt sorry for myself.

Sunday morning I called my father and had him come get me after he got out of church. He cried a little and gave me a hug after I told him what happened. I don't like disappointing him, but I have a hard time believing the future holds anything for me. My soul is covered in some sort of black tar, and I don't know what I can do to chip away at it. I stole more of my father's pills when we returned home. I popped them and monopolized his telephone to tell people of my previous night's adventure. I didn't call Steph, because I didn't want to worry her. Well, honestly I didn't want her to annoy me with questions and kill my buzz.

Being the anti-hero is getting old.

Goodnight, or Good morning.
Last edited by clichealias at Dec 28, 2009,
You should get a penpal, it would probably be more useful than what the forums can do for you. The writing is great though.
Quote by Arthur Curry
it's official, vintage x metal is the saving grace of this board and/or the antichrist

e-married to
& alaskan_ninja

Writing to someone rather the entire forum would give you a personal type of feedback. You'd have someone to read the entire thing in more of a perspective of looking at you as a person and wanting more details (that you could put in your overall work after talking about it) rather than just... someone randomly reading a passage that you've posted and maybe fixing a sentence or two or telling you something that can only go as deep as that one thing you posted. I mean, it's your call obviously and you should do whatever you think would be more helpful to you. I just don't know how much help you'd get out of this in particular, other than having a place to write.
Quote by Arthur Curry
it's official, vintage x metal is the saving grace of this board and/or the antichrist

e-married to
& alaskan_ninja

Is this a real story?

Great story by the way, but it seems to be an excerpt from a biography. I don't usually enjoy biographies but this was really a good read.
i liked everything up until that you fell down the stairs, .. twice. although i did like how that sentence looked and what it meant by itself, i didnt like the direction that the rest of the story, the ending, went after that. i didnt like the unrealistic-ness of 'curling up in a gutter' til what, like 11am when church gets out? and the detail about your dad 'crying a little' was bogus. i did like that you mentioned that you took some of his pills that next early sunday afternoon. by the way is this sort of ****ing shit really normal these days? getting opiates into your system? is that what you do when you didnt grow up in a small city, and don't have all those country roads to drive around on and smoke pot?

i would write more but im typing this with only my left hand, my shoulder being ****ed for the time being, and it gets annoying
Quote by greyeyedfire
How old are you ?

Me? Twenty.

And, to whoever mentioned something seeming unrealistic... sorry, but it's all completely true. I didn't mean that I was chain smoking until he picked me up; I passed out for much of the time.

And... I did grow up in the country. I didn't move to the city until a few years ago. I did opiates a long time before that.