^^story of my life. (via the tumblr account that I don't have.)
Writing/ sleep over quotes thus far from sydnees house.
"Redbull's for Pussies."
"You and I are getting Emotional over an old notebook."
"I know. How can you not?"
"Oh my god! I wrote in pencil!"
"I know, it's so sad. That's like a sin."
"Why can't I Just shake my head and have all of the words fall out of my ear and onto the paper in the right order.?"
Crappy first part of writing a short story. (I'm not sure if I'll continue this very much. I don't know if I like it. or if it will even go anywhere, but here it is.)
How I go on doing this, letting pieces of who I am just dissipate into thin air I mean, I will never know. There's only so much of myself that I can give. You can only stretch 5 feet, 1 inch and a quarter so far until there's nothing left to give. These feelings of being a shell are harbored from more than not knowing who I am. They stem from knowing who I am without being able to be that person. Watching all of the snails walk by with shells on their backs. Without having a snail inside of you.
I picked up a slug off the ground. He was slimy and disgusting.
"I'm like you. But your opposite. I'm the shell that you need. I've let all of the life out of me."
I sighed and set him back down on the moist patch of grass at the base of the tree that loomed over me.
The bell tower chimed in the distance, marking the hour, meaning it was time for me to leave the small medieval park the city had made in honor of an explorer from long ago. I had been laying beneath an old oak tree off to the side of the main attraction of the park; a large stage built of stone. I never wanted to bring attention directly to myself. I just wanted someone to bring all of their attention to me. I just wanted to feel needed.
My cellular phone buzzed in my purse. I was needed but not in the way that I wanted.
"Hi Cath-"
"Marge, I need one mocha: five pump, no whip, soy. Two soy caramel frappachinos, and a blue berrry scone. On my desk in five." Click.
"My name is margaret." I whispered. But she was already gone.
I am a new intern for a high fashion editorial magazine. I have spent my entire life trying to get my foot into this industry. Little did I know that I would be spending my time getting caffeinated beverages for people who were paid to argue about the difference between ocher and cadmium yellow in a fall collection, and people who were alowed to give you only five minutes to get three beverages and a snack in the busiest starbucks in town.
I loathed them. All of them. The only friend I had in the whole place was another intern. Owen. He was a snail without a shell.
"Margaret! " Owen had a beaming smile on his face when he held the door open for me.
"Can't now O, I'm late and Cathy sounds mad today." I rushed passed.
Owen gave me a weak smile, we were past nice pleasantries. You couldn't truly comfort anyone who had to deal with Cathy, even on a good day.
He kept up with my brisk pace, grabbed doors, and helped me dodge the chaotic traffic that comes with working in a place like this. We had found a comfort in each others silence.
There isn't much to say about Owen. He works here because he needed a job. Truly, he wants to be a journalist. Cover the hard hitting facts, get down to the gritty truth. Instead he has memorized the entire Starbucks menu and every way to alter any drink. He is a great writer, a great journalist. I had read some of his work out of his portfolio one night after work. Both of us had been so wound up over Cathy. That's the quick and dirty story of how we met. Actually, we bonded over the fact that we both had the potential without the opportunity to follow our dreams.
"Marge? Do you have your phone on you by chance?" Cathy was in an even worse mood than I had predicted.
"Uhm, yes." I stumbled over my words. Beads of sweat formed at the nape of my neck. She made me so nervous. It was horrifying.
"Get it out and tell me what time I called you, please." I was in deep trouble. She never said please. Ever.
I fumbled nervously through my bag, almost dropping my smart phone on the ground.
"You called at twelve oh one..."
"And what time is it right now?" Her voice cut through the air like knives.
God this woman is a bitch.
"Twelve fifteen.
"I said you had five minutes. It's been fourteen. Do you see the problem?"
Where am I going with this story? I have no idea. No idea what I'm doing. It's ridiculous. I have all of these great lines swirling through my head. Maybe I should write a book called "Great one lines for descriptive stories." Someone else might be able to figure out how to use my one lines of creative juice.
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