So I gotta write a short story for my English class, so I decided why not see what the pit monkeys think? I don't think theres any other place to post this on this forum. And don't feed me any **** like its too long, its supposed to be a page long. If you don't wanna read it, then don't. Anyway, here it goes:

I sat in my grey cubicle, mindlessly drooling over the images dancing across the glass. The screen glowed blue against my pale face as I wasted time, waiting to die. 32 and I'm already washed up. I hate myself. The figures in front of me silently swelled and receded, with the volume turned down so no one would know I wasn’t working. The days seem longer and longer, a side effect of mixing insomnia and manic depression; just add water. I should be working on the reports about our income vs. the cost of production of shower curtains. Four years of college for this: shower curtains. My father was right about me. So I watch one of the meaningless videos all over the internet. You name it, I’ve seen it. In this particular video, I watched three South Africans brutally rape a young girl. I watched, not because I got some sort of pleasure out of it, but because it numbed me. Made me forget, made me not feel, made me forget how to feel. I continued to surf the web, finding more images most people would say are disturbing. But all these people are just as bad as I am, they just don’t realize it. Their all stuck in this maze of grey, collapsible walls, white computer screens, and broken copy machines, just like me.
Then it was six.
I quickly made my way across the office. The people here think I'm insane. They think I'm gonna go postal and shoot the place up. I don’t have the spine. I walk quickly; avoiding eye contact with everyone I passed. I slammed open the exit and walked to my car: a piece of **** Skylark. The seat was wet, I don’t know why, and the entire inside smelled like mold and wet dog. I drove to the Korean owned mini-mart, picked up a case of factory outlet beer and got in line. I looked at the people in front of me, and I was disgusted. A pathetically false woman was purchasing piles of make-up and diet pills. She had a fake chest, bio-degradable lips and a counterfeit nose, with phony cheek-bones and a disposable tan. She was a sad excuse for a human trying to hold on to her youth with everything she had. A nauseatingly overweight woman was behind my counterfeit friend. She wore a red sundress that hung down to her callous knees, and was too busy yelling at her husband to notice that her child had wandered over to the yellow janitor’s bucket and was now splashing in the murky, brown, disease infested water. A frail man in a plaid button up, ancient looking jeans, and tennis shoes that were coming apart clung desperately to his armful of cold medicines, the cheap stuff too. His eyes were sunk in and looking around in a paranoid frenzy; he was obviously a tweaker. Living in a trailer-park on the outskirts of LA lets you see all kinds of freaks. All bunch of rats in a maze.
What the Hell am I doing here?
Night had fallen by the time I got back to my car, and the lights glowing in the dark hurt my eyes as I drove home. Scratch home, where I sleep. …Scratch that again, the one place where I don’t have to do anything. I walked through the front door, now with a splitting headache. I went to the couch, turned on the TV, and broke open my first cheap beer. It was warm already. I looked for anything to watch, but it’s hard when all I have to work with is seven channels, all of them feeding me the same ****. I settle for the news, now telling me more about the problems in the Middle East, and the economy, and global warming, and screwed up youth, and obesity and I wonder what the point is. We’re all after the same **** in this maze. Power, money, cheese, it’s all the same. I sat quietly and took another swig of my cheese, and laughed at my genius. A commercial comes on and I see some punk-**** queer in a band with girls and tattoos and sunglasses and big muscles, and I could tell he thought he was hot-****. He was God as far as he could tell. I threw my empty bottle at the TV, adding to the broken glass under it. And another sleepless night started, just like every night before it, just like every night after it.
Please kill me.
I really only read the first and last line, but I like it. However, something baffles me. You're allowed to swear in English? That's the only thing holding my opinion back is the latent vulgarities that it always carries.

It actually reminds me of just about everything I've ever written for English. Way to take command of the "not every ending is a happy one" style of writing. It's like my one kids poem about a faceless cripple who hangs himself.
Yeah, its really creative writing, and the teacher doesn't care if we swear. We have to write a story describing our character, so this is just like an epilogue of whats to come.

Edit: Whoops, yeah, prologue.
Last edited by Johnny Volume at Dec 12, 2007,
I remember having to write essays. they sucked balls, now I have to write a ****ing 5 chapter book 20 pages long. this essay was ok though, but kind of depressing. great use of semicolons

Edit: I think you mean prologue.
If you can play music with enthusiasm and an honest effort, then no matter how flawed, noisy and unclean the music is, you are a musician. If you play just to be the best, you are not a musician, nor are you worthy of any musician's recognition. - me
Last edited by cm_richardson at Dec 12, 2007,

Thought I'd give it one last shot at the first page before its washed away and forever forgotten
It was good, I think you reused a lot of adjectives though. Also, I'm not a personal fan of the first person POV, but that's just me.