I have done all that I could to see the evil and the good...

Yeah, I know that no one reads this and that no one who might probably cares, but I feel the need to put something here. I'm going (hopefully in the next week or so) to a doctor, the doctor will give me a perscription for ADHD meds and I will probably be able to focus better. This may mean that the frequency of posting will go from "whenever I'm just drunk enough" to "whenever I have the time." There it is, drugs may improve me. I'm putting up a revised version of a story I posted a month or three back below.

He hadn't stopped crying for the last twenty miles. As Eliza pulled into the gas station, the lightning flickered again. It cracked close and and she heard a car alarm sound briefly, then stop when it realized there was no danger. She clutched the baby as she ran into the brown wood paneled and white stuccoed building. A woman was sitting behind the counter, thick glasses, pale flabby skin and a large gap in her large front teeth that prevented her from being bucktoothed. The floor was wet and Eliza's shoes squeaked like vicious mice as she stepped across the aging white linoleum. The whole place reeked of wet dog and stale cigarettes, despite the signs that told her both were not allowed in the store.
“How can I help ya?” The woman behind the counter said, helpful, but loud to be heard over the thunder, now frequent, and the baby's crying, which was constant.
“Is there somewhere I could change him?” Eliza said, bouncing Jonathan jr. ad she said it.
“Bathroom's back there” The woman, Joan according the the hand printed name tag on her white polo shirt, replied gesturing towards the area to the left of the register. “It's purty small, but so's he” she grinned wide as she said it.
“Thank you” she ducked into the bathroom, which was as small as a bathroom could be without using the toilet as a sink and changed him on the lid of the toilet. Washing her hands she looked at herself in the mirror, and proceeded to agonize over her wrinkled, sun-damaged tan face and bottle blond hair, which was matted from the rain. She spent several minutes trying to dry her hair with the cheap, ineffective hand dryer, giving up she grabbed her baby and made another mad dash around the building to her white, late-model Trans-Am. As she did so the woman behind the counter shouted “Aren't ya gonna buy something?” then when the answer was clearly no, she added “Bitch!”
She would have felt bad about not buying anything on any other night, but tonight she had to keep moving. If someone had asked her why or where she was going, she would have been at a loss, unable to explain it. She just knew that staying still for any longer than necessary was not an option.
Of course she knew why she had started moving, it was over, everything, it was all falling apart. It had happened in her first marriage, the hanging feeling that it was over, all but the lawyers and custody battle, but this time it was different, stronger and more terrifying, it wasn't just her marriage, it was her who was falling to pieces. She had decided to go to a friend's house about a hundred miles away, wait for the feeling to abate, call her lawyer and go back home. The friend was out of town for the week, she forgot to check ahead, she got in her car and drove away from home, that was three hundred miles before.
Jonathan was crying again, she kept driving, while trying to comfort him. The crying kept going, she turned, and screamed “Shut up, why do you keep crying? We can't stop again, we just can't, so stop it.” As she turned to look back at the road, a flash of lightning showed the milk truck she had been following jack knife, the trailer snapping loose and twisting. She realized just before the car hit that she was going to have to stop, the terror of stopping flooding away the fear of her or Jonathan jr's death. The car crumpled, the milk tank burst and leaked into the ditch mingling with the rain water.
The paramedics arrived 30 minutes later, the milk truck driver needed a dozen stitches in his forehead, Jonathan had miraculously survived the crash unharmed, and Eliza just sat in the puddle of milk and rain water and laughed, the water soaking her red sleeveless shirt and faded denim shorts. She stood up after they had checked her over and began to run the direction she had been driving. Running, she escaped them, the storm fading away as she disappeared in the distance. Jonathan had stopped crying and slept gently during the long drive to the hospital, while the truck driver stared forward blank.

Click here for more (or a permanent link to this here post)

His novel was refused and his movie was panned. [a concession to the usual content of blogs]

Done this once before, but I thought I might as well let my pitiful personal life shine through. Just feel like ranting. Ignore it or click below to continue.

I guess the major reason I haven't written more here is a general feeling of anger and disgust I get whenever I am around people too long. I get a little too morose as I am ignored and given guff for any emotion that I express (some people understand, but most don't). I'm sorry, but I have had one relationship from the age of 15 and that one was a little bit fucked up . I spent my childhood jumping between groups and with my pitifully long time to establish friendships combined with a general misanthropy has lead to college being the best years of my life. I've stuck it out and have a few people I trust, but still can't really get close to anyone. Honestly, most of you have had at least one positive romantic experience, I haven't and this obviously influences my writing. Fuck you, you lucky bastards and bitches, I hate you all. That about wraps it up. Give me a fucking break, because I'm whiny.

P.S. Will fix the spelling when my keyboard merges into one.!

*Edit: Fixed most of the spelling, the vodka had me by the balls.

Click here for more (or a permanent link to this here post)

Faces look ugly when you're alone...[More story extending, been nearly a week]

First, I am writing this completely off of the top of my head, second my head is addled by various and sundry beverages (i.e. I'm a little bit drunk) when writing these, thusly, and also I guess thirdly as well, these are as rough a draft as could be. Suggestions of fixes and continuity errors are welcome. I'm just trying to get things written down, also if you're reading this and you know me in person let me know. I probably won't want to talk about any of the stories I write here as the amount of seriousness with which I approach topics is basically beyond my capability in person and the inability to rewrite leads to disappointment of anyone who thinks me a capable writer. As my rambling leads into the story, here's an extension of the previous story. We know join our "hero" at a greasy fast food joint after a night of heavy drinking.

I stumbled in heavily, leaning against the door to open it as my arms gave out. I walked up past the line of people ordering food and asked about their bathroom where it was and if I could use it. This at the moment seemed incredibly urgent. I felt that if I was going to spend anymore time standing I was going to have very little say in what came out of which part of my body and that I would like to limit my options and the damage.

I went into the stall and sat, it felt like acid, I thought, as I thought nearly every hangover, that I would die, this was it, going out like Elvis to be found by some teenager making minimum wage. After an eternity of pain and anguish I felt more than ready for something to fill the gaping ragged hole in my gut.

That's all I got right now. I may revise, but this might remain until November as the first thing people see. I'm too tired and frankly too sober to write much more at the moment.

Click here for more (or a permanent link to this here post)