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Archive for the category “Musings”

Free Writing exercise, Little Doggie.

The Little Dog

Staring up in pure desperation, I drooped my head and stared up at her. That bowl of chicken is mine. The smell has is permanently lodged in my nose, I won’t ever get it out until I eat that chicken. If only I were a taller dog, like a great dane could I eat whatever I wanted whenever I wanted, and smell it all forever! What else is there really? Oh, but I love my owner, she’s pretty and smells nice, and, but I really want that chicken and maybe I am starting to dislike her, but no she is so sweet and pretty. Standing up on my hind legs my nose barely reached the hand that was holding the food, with a small pout I fell back down and continued my ferocious glare of hunger. Yes, this will work eventually. I licked her legs, I turned around, and rolled over, but eating, eating, eating, is all she did. Then she put the bowl down. In frantic desperation I lunged at a chance to at least lick the last smear in the bottom, and then she walked away.

I was on her heels in an instant, continueing my mean glare she would eventually succumb to. I know, this is has worked before, but I just can’t remember, because that smell is just permeating my head. I will become the chicken at this rate. I can taste it even still. Then the bowl was on the counter… yes the unreachable, forever out of my grasps, that damned top of the counter. What dog could ever be that big? Oh yes, the great dane, but no not me, not a little… thing! Then the cat walked up behind me and said, “mew, mew, mew…. Mew, mew, mew.”

“Oh hello sweet heart, want a treat?” And she gave the cat treats! What about me!!! What about me!!! The cat ate her tasty treats and proceeded to jump on the counter, and stuck her disgusting head in My bowl. That was it. I had been concentrating on this bowl for nearly three walks long. She jumped down and my mouth just went and took a clear chunk out of her tail. The cat disappeared after that annoying screech, stupid animal. Then, there she was.

She stood over me with that enthralling presence, and all of sudden I could do nothing but shrink down to the ground with her finger in my face. I am a bad, bad dog. I lurked closer to the ground feeling that my whole existence was useless, lazy, fat, hungry, and nothing.

Some time later… I’m not sure when I went outside because I had to go. After we got in she looked down at me again and said “Good dog, here’s a treat!”

A treat!!! I ate it and it made me so happy. Then she wanted to curl up with me. I snuggled with her and fell asleep. What happened earlier that made me so mad?


Mrs. Dalloway’s, Lily Everit verses the World

Cover of "Mrs. Dalloway"

Cover of Mrs. Dalloway

Mrs. Dalloway’s Party: “The Introduction”

            We as readers are desperate for words with substance to perk up our idle minds. Virginia Woolf’s grasp on human train of thought is eerily realistic and fantastically done with her literary excellence. The voice is strong throughout the short stories that take us spiraling through the party within Mrs. Dalloway’s walls, inviting us into the mind of Woolf and her true feelings on the female oppression of her time. In particular, “The Introduction featuring the mind of Lily Everit and what seems to be the most horrific incident that has ever happened to her; to the rest of the party it’s a suitable introduction for a possible marriage. The following will attempt to convey how Woolf uses Lily’s frame of mind to enlighten the reader of the unfair culture a woman must live in and endure with wide eyes and a curved mouth.

Lily Everit, like Woolf is a writer and like many women takes an overly modest manner on her work. She frets feverishly over an essay her professor has dubbed “first rate,” but regardless of the compliment, the essay, and her choice to write essays over poetry begin to wear her confidence down progressively as Mrs. Dalloway leads her to a suitable bachelor, Bob Brinsley. Mr. Brinsley, a “direct descendent from Shakespeare” has Lily in a frenzy of worry (Woolf 31-37). The thoughts conveyed from Lily portray a young woman with an independent mind forced to hide her true nature inside her “chrysalis.” The delicate mold of the young lady she knows she ought to be is grieving work for her. In the following passage Lily manages to keep her lady like façade in tact as she approaches Mr. Brinsley.

“Perhaps that was the thing that came out, that remained, it was part of the dress, and all the little chivalries and respects of the drawing room; all made her feel that she had come out of her chrysalis and was being proclaimed what in the long comfortable darkness of childhood she had never been—this frail and beautiful creature, this limited and circumscribed creature who could not do what she liked, this butterfly with a thousand facets to its eyes, and delicate fine plumage, and difficulties and sensibilities and sadnesses innumerable: a woman.” (Woolf 33)

Lily has just entered womanhood, and could potentially marry quite soon after this very incident at Mrs. Dalloway’s party. It is not only her attempt to be what a woman should be, but it is the stress she associates with being one, all of which have contributed to the dreadfulness of meeting a potential suitor in order to marry. Lily as a writer knows she cannot fit the mold of this beautiful “butterfly” she is to become in order to be a woman—a wife—a “limited” creature. Her struggle to embrace her fate is consuming, and emotionally strenuous.

As Lily approaches Brinsely she begins to frantically rationalize how very unlike a woman she is, and reduces herself to the form of a fly verses the delicate butterfly. Brinsely, who Lily describes as an arrogant man ready to pounce on her and her work because of his link to Shakespeare, his higher education, and superiority has put her under his foot. The “fly” with no wings that Brinsely is silently ripping apart with his air of entitlement has Lily in a fright. She quickly inverts her natural self by “smothering down softly her sharp instinct” in order to please him, but it is clear her nerves have overtaken her (Woolf 35). She begins to watch him, in his “perfect” glory, rip the wings off of flies.

The fly metaphor may be that he is cruel to women who do not live up to the standards of his society, standards that oppress women and whittle them down to mere servants with meager lives. “But he talked; but he looked; but he laughed; he tore the wings off a fly” (Woolf 36). The words of a woman whose mind is in it’s own nightmare playing out right in front of her because of the simple fact that she see’s the iniquitousness of it all. All, meaning not only Mrs. Dalloway’s party, but of her existence, there for him to do as he like with it; she helpless to stop it with marriage as the main means of survival for a woman.

As the unfairness of her discovery descends to acceptance she ponders “that there are no sanctuaries, or butterflies, and this civilization, said Lily Everit to herself, as she accepted the kind compliments of old Mrs. Bromley on her appearance, depends upon me” (Woolf 37).

Lily Everit from that day forward will go on with her life, with an understanding that her life this way because she complies to it, and until others are willing to admit they feel as she does, she must go on with “the weight of the world upon her shoulders” (Woolf 37). One woman cannot fight alone, but as we already know, she won’t feel alone for much longer.

The Short Stories surrounding Mrs. Dalloway’s party by Virginia Woolf can be interpreted in many directions. I as a woman and feminist will never forget the story of Lily Everit and the few minutes that formed her opinion of her own society forever. I like to think she went on and married for love and not security, and the man she married treated her as an intellectual equal and they grew old and died together. The thought of Lily genuinely happy is a fixed image in my mind. It took Woolf seven pages to completely captivate me with her work. Woolf in my opinion holds women in her mind as magnificent beings capable of anything—I agree. Lily Everit’s story is a superb example of this.


Prose, Francine and Virginia Woolf. The Mrs. Dalloway Reader. United States: Harcourt, 2003. Print.

Part 2—Victorian Underground


Part two, of my Victorian Underground. I’m not sure where it’s going yet, and I don’t like to put stories under genres because I don’t want to create any kind of expectations for the reader. Like most of my stories it may be getting away from me and becoming a longer endeavor than I meant it to be, but I’m going to go with my muse for this piece and resist cutting it down for now.

“Rosalie! What in hell are you runnin’ for?” a man said.

“OH! Y-you fucking son of a bitch you scared the shit out of me,” I said. I was breathing hard and fast while I was trying to convince my body and mind that I was in fact not going to be raped and murdered on my own stoop. Travis had been at the bar with some friends and I, and although we didn’t consider him in our inner circle, we enjoyed having him with us once in a while. As long as he didn’t bring along his little posse who I received more than my fare share of sexual harassment from. He was good at balancing his good looks with an all around nice guy air about him. I might even be interested in him, if the whole female population didn’t want to strip down for him. That wasn’t my idea of the perfect guy. I opted for the more natural rugged type, kind of dirty to keep away other gorgeous women. Talk about being self-conscious.

“Travis what are you doing here so late? I thought you took off to meet your girl?” I said

“Um, yeah I did. I went home and, well… she dumped me. I needed to get out, so I came here to see what you were up to, I brought ice cream? I come in peace, just looking for some company. Cigarette?” he said. He lit one for himself and handed me one. He sank down into my cushioned swing and took a deep drag of his cig. I figured I should cheer him up so I sank in next to him and lit up as well. I didn’t usually smoke when I wasn’t drinking. It’s a bad habit to covet.

“So how come you didn’t go to Benny’s, he’s your best friend isn’t he? Not that I’m not flattered you came here Travis, but we hardly know each other outside the bars. Except when we all come back to my place occasionally, ya know?” I said. I put out my cigarette in a coffee can I kept on the porch.

“Hah, yeah…. Well about Benny. The reason she broke up with me is because she’s been having an affair with him and now that Benny’s got that sweet new job, nothing was standing in their way now, blah-blah, dumb bitch. … I need new friends.” Travis looked down to the ground and grabbed the top of his head gripping his hair. To put it gently, the man was falling apart, I think I saw water in his eyes but he quickly sucked them back in not wanting to cry in front of me I suppose. I scooted closer to him and rubbed his shoulder for a few seconds, I didn’t want to get too friendly, but I felt sorry for him.

“Aw Travis, I’m so sorry. Ok let’s go in the kitchen and eat some of that ice cream, eh?” I asked him. I gave him my best cheer up smile. He finally turned up his eyes from the ground and gave me a half smirk. It was better than tears.

“Alright… Doll face,” he added.

We plunked down in my small cheap wooden table. He pulled out a Quart of Snickers ice cream, one of my personal favorites.
“Yum, you sure know what’s good,” I said. I winked at him while I went to grab the spoons in the drawer next to my fridge. I handed him one and kept the other for myself. He popped the top and set the tub of ice cream in the middle of the us. I raised my spoon and said, “cheers.” I didn’t mind eating out of the carton with him. I took my first bite.

I’d always been a girl not able to refuse someone, wanting to make them happy or in this case feel better. The fact that he was a good-looking somewhat older man was just a plus in my book. I wasn’t half bad myself, but I would never be anything less than humble about it.

“Oh my god, YUM, I didn’t realize how bad I had the drunken munchies. I must have scared my hunger away out there. Oh! By the way did you hear that noise outside on your way over here? It sounded kind of like a deep bell or something, I can’t place it, but I was about to go search for it down rosewood and then something made me jump, so I jetted home as fast as I could,” I said.

“No, I didn’t hear anything, but I did come from the opposite direction. I assume it’s stopped because we didn’t hear anything while we were talking on your porch,” he replied.

Part 1- Victorian Underground

A story I’m currently re-editing and will post in short pieces when I think it’s ready. This is Part 1!

There was a strange sound, distant in the town. It was an acute deep tenor hum, and it had been repeating itself for the last fifteen minutes. The thrumming noise clung to my head even when it paused, so I started to walk towards it. You might say it was an irrational thing to do as a woman, so I put my mace in my pocket and continued to scout it out. I always had my cell phone to call the police if needed. Folding my arms close to my chest I slowly meandered towards the noise. It was one of those warm foggy nights on the east coast nearly three in the morning. Moisture saturated the air, but with the sun down it didn’t bother me on this summer night, brightly luminescent with moonlight. I had closed the bar down the road, out drinking with some friends and walked back to my duplex to sit and enjoy the quiet hours of the town. It was my favorite time when I was sober enough to take pleasure in it. Not a soul prowling the street, maybe a car packed full of kids with intoxicatingly loud music flowing out their windows, but it was seldom after the bars closed. The old Victorian houses seemed haunted and barren with no lights in sight besides the street lamps. Unfortunately in a town like this street lamps weren’t on all of the streets, just the main ones. I came to rosewood lane and stared down it standing directly in the middle of the intersection. In the middle of the night in a small town— you could practically sit in the road and could see a car coming half a mile away. The road looked morbid like a tunnel about to swallow me whole never to be seen again. I’d just be another victim forgotten after a few months, right, another statistic I sneered. I was bored though, and it was only my imagination teasing me. Oh what the hell, I’m going in, what could happen to me in this Podunk town. I could always run screaming pounding on every door… right? There was a rustle in the bushes and I let out a small squeak and started breathing harder. Ok maybe not, I’m going home, there is no way I’m going to be a rape victim. I grasped the pepper spray in my left hand and let off the safety switch as I high tailed it home. When I could see my stoop I sprinted to the steps and unlocked the door.


A poem?

After being picked on your entire life, you clam up. The psychologist’s say she’s shut up so no one can get in, and it’ll take time to break her seals. What they meant was it will take at least a thousand dollars to break her shields, because in reality they have no idea what’s going on in the child’s mind. I’m all grown up darling. I have nothing to hide and I’m not scared to tell anyone. What is the point of keeping secrets from any one person when all it does it hurt you in the end and help that person. You need to spill it out no matter what, to clean your own mind. Do it for yourself, no one else, not even God or the gods, or spirits, and your mother, and father, or anyone else. Do it for yourself. Be mean to everyone but yourself. Is that so wrong? Tell them, “Go fuck yourself,” and I promise the pain will start to vanquish. Tear the tears off your face before they can see because I promise it won’t be worth explaining them. Drink enough, but not too much to write down what you truly feel, not what they push on you. Then, dare them to do the same. They won’t.

“Pretty fades, pretty girl”


Sweet Angel

Sooo, this is a piece I wrote a while back, but did some major revisions on recently. The changes were definitely needed and I’m somewhat happy with the results. It’s a work in progress though, as usual. I’m still thinking about changing the ending completely, because I’ve heard it’s somewhat unclear to some, but I didn’t think so.

Sweet Angel

I was a dull red-orange and had yellow in some spots. Ever since a seedling I had been ashamed of my heritage, or lack there of. They didn’t even pick me at the peak of my tomato hood, they plucked me days early so that I’d last long enough in the store to be bought. I felt pathetic and may as well be rotting, because none of this would stir her to even look across towards my part of the rack—the cheap one. She was heirloom; able to be used in magnificent ways I’d never dreamed of. What a proper tomato would take for granted. I was nothing, yellow and on the verge of rotting and most likely wouldn’t even be sold, but tossed away in just a few short days. In the center of my seeds though, I still had hope, and a zing of happiness flowed through my juices when a young girl started plucking tomatoes around me; trying to find a cheaper alternative like myself verses $3.99 a pound like Angel. That’s what I call her. I knew her name must be something wonderful like Angel, so that is what I called her until the most unlikely day that I should meet her. The young girl plucking non-heirloom tomatoes was taking her time with each one. She must really be hard up. If she were to choose an heirloom like Angel, she’d have bought the first one she picked up. Oh my sweet Angel, what is a deplorable yellow turd like me to do?

Then I floated up off the soft mushy pile of other crappy tomatoes and up to her nose. Her hot breath warmed my shameful juices. I used all my might to flex those juices and the meat that enclosed them. Oh pick me, pick me, please oh pick me! I was spinning around on the soft pads of her hands, her thumb tickling me with each rotation.

At the last rotation she placed me gently into a green bag. The girl was indeed purchasing me, me, the red-orange and some yellow, pathetic, on the verge of rotting in a few days—me. In my see through bag I could still see the plump shiny bright red Angel clearer than I ever had. She stood out from the other noble heirlooms in her beautiful glory. If this would be the last time I could look upon Angel’s beauty I was certainly soaking it all in. I was the happiest little tomato ever grown.

The girl was standing talking with a young man, and I began listening to their conversation.

“Honey, are you really going to buy those tomatoes to save money, splurge tonight and get those,” he said. He was pointing at Angel. In a perfect world she would keep me still, and choose Angel out of all the others. How could she not, she was the best!

“hmmmm,” she said. Her face was staring down at me now, her lips pursed in thought. “Just trying to save a buck,” she said. I watched the girl kiss the side of his face.

He stared back adoringly into her eyes. Were they in love? It seems they could be, but what does a non-heirloom tomato like me know? I kept staring at Angel as I continued to eavesdrop. “Come on, don’t worry so much, food isn’t something you skimp on, ok?” he said. He turned towards Angel and plucked her out of the $3.99 a pound pile. “Here, get two of these, and make up the difference with those cheap ones, ok?” he said.

The girl’s face lit up in delight, no doubt an obvious lover of food. “Oooooh, those look soooo good, yum.” She took Angel from his hand and inhaled her perfect scent deeply. After a little shimmy of delight she plucked the second best one and put them in the bag. Yes, Angel was in my plastic bag with me—me!

And off the people strode with us, to wherever that may be.

Thoughts scrambled through my center and in those short moments we were touching, every word I ever dreamed of telling her disappeared. If a tomato could shake, I surely would be. My thoughts were jammed and nothing remotely coherent came out of me at my first attempt.

“E’hem, what was that?” she said. She sounded sweet, just as I had imagined. I was frozen and minutes must of have passed before I replied to her.

“I was, I…I, I just wanted to talk to you… and-a-and,” I said. Useless, I was shriveling with each word. She began laughing. It was… it was enchanting, and I almost thought she was singing. It was the most serene sound I’ve ever heard, and it instantly relaxed me to the core.

“Well go ahead and talk to me. I won’t shun you because you’ve no pedigree, silly,” she said.

“Really?” I said.

“Yes really. What is your name?”

“I-It’s Troy, what’s your name?” I asked. This was it, it would either be fantastical as I’d imagine or a big fat disappointment. Would it make any difference to me?

“Agnessa,” she said. I didn’t speak. I was daydreaming, and all the daydreams I ever dreamed about Agnessa flowed through me. Agnessa, was the most beautiful name in the world, it had to be, for it belonged to her. Agnessa, Agnessa, Agnessa, Agnessa.

“I-I-It’s b-beautiful,” I said. My juices felt as though they were boiling at this point. The red-orange nothing, was having small talk with Agnessa. I felt a surge rush through me. Could it be she saw past heritage and into me?

“Agnessa, you’re the most beautiful thing in my world,” I said. I was resting against her and I had no fear in me now. In my short existence I would have no regrets, even if I didn’t know how long my existence actually was.

“Well you’re quite brave, aren’t you? I must say… it’s rather enthralling.” I could feel her looking me at me. I looked back and tried my best to look robust; it wasn’t easy. She must be twice the size of me. It was glorious, and my core melted only for her. I dreamed of us together in a lovely tomato sauce intertwined together. Then I dreamed of the girl planting our seeds together; wouldn’t that be the most glorious thing ever!? We would have an eternity to be together. I dreamed of what it would be like to have an eternity to grow and do it all over again, with her?

Quickly, it occurred to me that she was still staring at me and I let my dreams flee back inside me. “Thank you,” I said.

You’re welcome!” she said. She began laughing again and I laughed too. “What do you think is on the menu tonight?” she asked.

“I don’t care so long as I’m with you, Agnessa. Perhaps a tomato sauce, wouldn’t that be lovely, like you…” I said.

Where had this sudden burst of bravery sprouted from, I had no clue. Any tomato in their right mind would never expect it from one as sad as me. To be honest, tomato sauce is the only thing I’ve heard of. What else was there? I was far too uncultured to answer her question fairly, but it wouldn’t stop me. I wonder?

“What would you prefer?” I asked. This was my chance. I wasn’t only conversing with a pure line tomato that I was in love with, but I was stepping my boundaries. She would have a wealth of knowledge passed down in her line; knowledge I should be shunned from. I knew nothing, I knew of tomato sauce from the roma tomatoes that sat next to us, but that was all. All I learned from them was that I would never be tomato sauce; that it was a privilege of theirs alone. I completely agreed with them. Who would eat tomatoes like us, all mushy and gross?

“I never truly thought of what dish I’d be in, I just knew I was magnanimous. At least that’s what the plants taught us,” she answered. She seemed reserved and sheltered to the beauty she had. How could she have no idea how wonderful she was? Her plants had even been teachers to them; our plants were deaf and mute, knowing nothing. I was dazzled by this new information. There was more to our world than I’d even imagined. Could I possibly hear more?

“Please Agnessa, will you tell me more of your holy world?”

“Heh, I’d hardly call it holy, aren’t you darling, well if you must know, I will tell you,” she said. She paused for a moment.

“Well first, I’ll say that I come from a long line of tomato’s called Nightingale, due to our ability to make humans sing. The first Nightingale was grown in a small well kempt garden tended by a group of humans. The first human that decided to cherish our seeds and name us was a young girl, Alice. All this is passed down so you must forgive any inconsistencies.”

She gave a small chuckle. “It’s really not that interesting.”

The other Nightingale tomato chimed in. I completely forgot there were others in the bag with us, and I froze horrified.

“What do you think your doing? These are secrets meant for our pure line only, stop this!” He didn’t sound as angry as he did surprised, he must think much more of himself than she did.

“Don’t presume in telling me what to do, we’ll soon be chopped and consumed and they won’t save his seeds. This won’t leave this bag and you know it. Besides, what’s wrong with him, he’s far more interesting than YOU,” she spat.

Another tomato interrupted, one from my rack. “Aye! Don’t be thinkin’ you’re betta’ than us chump, let the lady speak to him if she wants. Whaddo we got to look forward to, we ain’t got nothin like you; no line to remember us.”

The pompous tomato was silent—shocking.

“Ga’ head darling, keep talkin if ya don’t mind,” he said politely.

The soft hush of anticipation followed, baiting her to speak. Her humbleness dissolved my anxiety. She was luminous, a beacon I knew I would worship until I had no consciousness, and beyond that I knew she would be my empyrean.

“The garden was secluded and small, and the stories passed down from plant to tomato and the next and the next said the family grew their garden for us alone. Alice turned into Beth turned into Lela turned into and etc… etc… Each one caring for us with the same heart the first one had. They even talked to us, it helps us grow you know. So I understand why where you come from, you wouldn’t be much bigger than a kiwi; your kind just isn’t happy. It breaks my heart even more to see there isn’t anything wrong with you at all aside from not being cared for properly.”

“Ain’t that somethin'” said the other small tomato.

“Amazing, a garden just for you, and they talk to you? It makes perfect sense to me, that they would care so much for you, perfect…” I said.

She laughed softly and grew a little more red than before.

“And did you ever speak back to them Agnessa?” I asked.

“Well, there was one story, more like a myth to us, that there was once a little girl among our caretakers who could understand us. It was said that one of the more deviant Nightingale’s during the time spoke back to her. They say he grew on the edge of the garden where she often played. I’m not sure I believe that though. Can you imagine, talking to them?!” she said.

I couldn’t imagine any human speaking to me, but I knew if I ever had the opportunity, I would answer them too. At that moment, I heard people talking and we we’re moving violently until we all rolled out onto something hard. I was upside down once I stopped and watched Agnessa barrel into me turning me right side up. She laughed her sunny laugh side by side with me, and far enough from the others that we felt alone.

“Well, it won’t be long now Troy. I’m so happy that I met you,” she said warmly.

“If they do grow your seeds, will they remember me?” I asked.

“Oh yes yes, any tomato that is lucky enough to have their seeds chosen will transfer all memories to the plant. Then the plants share the stories to the tomatoes, you see? The lucky ones stay in Alice’s garden. I would have given anything to stay there. It was sunny and warm, and perfectly tranquil. The tulips bordered the tomato garden, and the dogs would often trample them. We would all laugh at the old one chasing them around with a stick. ”

She hushed. It was apparent she was deep in thought. Could my love be homesick? I let the stillness carry on, permitting her to mourn the loss of her home. Her bright stem wilted a smidge, then perked up again as she spoke again.

“Ah well, if I was never sold I would have never met you, and I’m grateful for that. Oh no, here they come! Must it end so soon?”

“Angessa I have to say this now. I love you, I’ll love you forever, to where ever forever takes us, and…” I lost my voice at that moment. I had no words once my skin broke open. I felt myself in a million different directions all at once, and other pieces were landing around me. It was her, I could feel her tender juices mixing with my own; bliss. I heard a loud rattling sound, and there was nothing.

Once conscious, I saw nothing but a spec, tiny and white. Was I inside them? And then the spec grew larger. It was the only object I could see, I had no clue if it was in my imagination or real. I grew annoyed, wondering if this is what my kind had to look forward to after being gobbled down. I was more worried about Agnessa; it would break her heart if this were her fate. It couldn’t be for my sweet angel.

The spec swelled to double its original size, but it didn’t stop there. I realized it wasn’t a spec; it was a window opening wider and wider. First all I could distinguish was green. Was my afterlife green, green what? It was growing faster now, and the picture started to become clearer, it was the foliage of plants, I was sure of it. The window was wide open now and the scene was lucid. Could this be? Then sound perforated me with a vengeance. I heard the dogs, and an old lady screaming. I heard the plants and a hundred other tomatoes talking all at once. A small child was talking to a tomato on the edge of the garden boundaries. It was the same garden Agnessa had described. This was life after being eaten!? By Golly! All at once all the sounds ceased and I only heard one voice. The same divine voice that was and would infinitely be my sublime delight.

“Hello Troy,” she sang.

And here I was, graced in her celestial dream, eternally.

An Excerpt

Here’s a small excerpt of a much larger idea. This is fiction, but as a women I do have some experience with these issues, naturally.

I stood in front of my full-length mirror—naked. I’m not thin, and I don’t think I’m fat. My breasts were normal, I guess, I liked them a lot though. I even like my big hips and the way they make my waist look small. There was always something that could be improved. The barely there dimples on my butt, thinner thighs. Who doesn’t want thinner thighs? Hell, if we don’t have chicken legs, someone will say you have fat thighs. Love handles—those are the worst. Then again they did add a little something so long as you didn’t start growing a belly along with them. I was as comfortable with myself as one could be, I thought. It’s normal to never be fully satisfied, isn’t it? Well, sometimes I’m sure and sometimes I’m not. What if— that’s the real question. What if I wasn’t told I should lose ten pounds since I hit puberty. Aren’t women supposed to have twice as much fat as men? Who is providing us with this information, or better yet, who isn’t? What if you didn’t tell me to eat better, to not eat carbohydrates, to exercise for at least an hour a day, and drink eight glasses of water, oh and don’t eat sugar. Well tell me then, what the fuck do you want me to eat you fucking know it alls. I’m mad now, I’m not sure why, but then again, maybe I do know. Maybe deep down all that crap doesn’t really matter, it doesn’t mean squat diddly, all the crap they feed us. The worst part is we do it to ourselves now. Brainwashing is a harsh word for it, but maybe it isn’t? What else could one call it; suggestions, guidance, tell me, what!

Once upon a time I was 119 pounds, not 120, 119, and that was very important to me. One pound made all the difference to me then. It was the difference between being in the teens and all they way in the 120’s. In my eyes, during that time, all young girls should be, and god forbid they weren’t. The “teen” girls secretly sneered at them, but the aura of judgement always seeped through their pours, like a poison, and it was a poison in a way. It doesn’t matter if they say “it” or not, you can feel it. You can’t get away from that feeling.

I held myself in a higher bracket than those girls, like I was the only one that could rise above it all. I was the better person, the fair person, the best. It’s disgusting, to think one is the best, so I learned. You really have to experience both sides of the spectrum, skinny—and fat. Unfortunately I did.

There was never a normal middle of the road spectrum in my eyes, there was gorgeous and thin, or frumpy and large.

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