Pearl Diver

Gina let the rain splatter against the roof of her mouth and back of her teeth. Her smile widened while she lathered in the popping sound it created. She spread her limbs across the flooding grass and her laughs came out in sputtered chokes. Gina's rose tattoo underneath her chin seemed to flutter with the worsening weather. Jenny stood above her as she had the past while with the knife trembling against her thigh.
"I could kill you if I wanted to," Jenny whispered. Gina let out a happy sigh.
"Oh, if only you would. I deserve it. Come on Jenny, it's just you and me. I'm here, in the most vulnerable position. You won't even have to make much of an effort."
Jenny's trembling became more violent. "I want out."

Getting lost when searching for my lost self.

I had asked John how people could still be searching for themselves, especially when a person is in a midst of a competition. But I guess that's because I don't know what it's like to search for myself. I wouldn't even know where to begin. I'm horrible at navigation and I'd probably get lost looking for my lost self. I haven't written on my story since I graduated in December and I've done even worse keeping a journal here. I know what I'm supposed to be doing, and that's write, so why do I always avoid it? Why do people let life get in the way? Especially when we have talents. Derek pissed his away because he wanted a girl and someone to love him more than he wanted to grow as a person. How can you pine artistically when you're loved and distracted? When you have to clean the house, pay the bills, change diapers, pay for your child's future? As soon as a person has a child, that person's life ends and they spend the rest of their life setting up their child's. What kind of vicious cycle is that?

I don't want to lose this. If I don't have writing, what do I have? Gucci bag? Some nice heels? A movie that's supposed to be badass to see in theaters, with fucking 3D glasses? Yes, that's our life these days. An 80 dollar bar bill and a Gucci obsession.

Tell others to read the book Niche. Can't find it? Contact me

Rafe Young can get you dreams. For the right price, you’ll never have to endure another government-packaged dream saturated with subliminal messages and spliced with behavioral correcting chemicals. Do not fear the Island of California, created by the earthquake 75 years ago in 2012; the people living on its banks, calling themselves the Apostles of the Ascension, are some of the last standing natural humans. Without the automaton nutriment, disguised as your REM salvation by the trusted government, you can fall in love--even with your biological sister, like Rafe. Funded by Lord Trick who runs the Island, Rafe and Lisa reap and sow in the desert of Las Vegas where holograms and Shebots thrive instead of humans. They are on the assignment to find and retrieve a 13-year-old girl, Naomi Burton, who ran away from an experiment operated by her father, Dr. Burton, and a secret branch of the government. Naomi was designed to be the first genetically engineered human as a tactic to lead a war against the dream trafficking rebels and bring the uprising to an absolute end. Trick, notified through snitchers about Naomi and the experiment, will not stop until he holds the ultimate power over the government. Lust, betrayal and government controversies all contort in a tangled orgy in this novel called, Niche.

There's room on top, but first you must learn to smile as you kill...

I've got a ring on my finger and a new business suit, and she thinks this will suffice. Allow me to feel what I've never felt my whole life. Make the skin peel off to reveal plasticity and all it's grotesque neutral save the world bullshit wallpaper as the next person in line. I've got a pretty smile, but wait til you hear me speak. I'm naive until I've got you pummeled to the floor, you will see. I'm doomed to be clever enough to be hated.

I'll show you where it hurts. I've got nine places I could start a story. What kind of woman tattoos a fetus and maggots? Oh, let me show you.

I cannot do anything but what I'm destined to. If you refuse it you will only run wildly in circles, or become one of the numb behind the desk. The eyes will glaze over and it will be gone. It will hurt to stay strong, to not let go. It's why so few have gone so far.

It's not fair for him to have to suffer with my summoning future. A married writer is not a very serious writer. Unless they married after they were well published and well grounded. Able to shut out their life for the pen. Or computer. To sacrifice love and quality time and dinners and school plays for the sake of the art. Art is always more important than the artist, unless they are one and the same.

How do you let life go to write another's? What life is a writer's life? We can in some ways identify with the actor. Always playing someone else's life. Developing someone else's identity, feelings, and disaster.

Ever heard that writers are the most boring people in real life? I believe it. Even the crazy ones, because they wouldn't talk to you anyway.

A baby is definitely out of the plan. But, I can always write about one. Give it a name. Jaime Liam. Rowan Hadley. They would give me a new world, and a great new sadness.

Empty

Even though I have no creative juices lately, I'm hoping that will change this summer with a writing class.

Mom is now bald. So, in support of her, I cut ALL of my hair off. Sitting there in the chair and seeing all of it go, I sort of went into this zombie shock mode, and wondered how my mom must have reacted when she finally saw the hair fill up the sink in handfuls. I wonder if she broke down and cried. I wonder if she smiled and embraced it like it so seems over the phone. She usually is always upbeat over the phone. But then again, she never let out her true feelings. I guess I learned how to build walls by her.

So, now we get to grow it out together. I'm also hoping with weight watcher's help, that my growing hair with correspond with my changing body. That's the idea, anyway.

I get to see my mom again next month. I'm really excited. I miss her a ton. I also miss Pickles.

My ears are now at a 6, and I have been stretching them for only two weeks. It's one of those refreshing pains, like a tattoo.

This snow needs to vanish, so I can bike.

I need to work.

I will return my diet pills and vow to never try anything stupid like that again.

I will not give up.

Home sweet home.

I'm in a situation I now can't get out of, when I knew it would happen when I decided to get in this mess.

I have a year lease now with a guy I don't trust, and a ring and another car on my credit. I try to talk to friends about what I should do, and they just say, stick it out for now. But I don't want to. I want to go back to being with myself. I don't want to get married. At least not to him. I don't trust him. I wish I was self sufficient so that I could take care of this apartment by myself, and I would ask him to leave. Maybe we moved too fast. I just don't think we're ready. Especially him, he just got divorced last year, and he's already trying to make the same mistake again.

I don't know what to do. I need to find myself. I need to get out of ogden. I sometimes really wish melissa didn't have kids.

I wish there were still honest people out there. But I'd rather live alone than live with a liar.

Understanding a writer.

The hardest part about accepting to be an artist, is understanding that I will never be able to be like everyone else. I have to accept that my weirdness and abstractions and jekyll and hyde are the things I need to continue being an artist. I will not be able to fit into the norm. Marilyn Manson said something close to -To call myself a writer is to be controversial in about everything I write - and he is right. To be involved in popular culture and try to consume it is detrimental, unless I can use the knowledge to make my stories and characters more realistic. As long as I don't try to change myself. I need to focus more on reading and writing and stop worrying about the fact that I have bad mood swings or that I don't look or act or wear or do things like everyone else. I need to own it.