It's Tuesday

So what? Sigh.

I'm afraid that once again I'm suffering exhaustion.  I can't sleep, my body and mind are tired.  Last night I was in bed by 5:00 pm.  5!!!

On top of that, this has been a bad time of year for me for about the last four years. My depressions always gets the best of me. Why?  No idea.  It just is.  I know it's busy for everyone, but it brings me down so much which bugs me because I LOVE the Christmas season, I do. The lights, the gifts, the food. sigh.

My driver quit, I think that's one reason I'm suffering.  I hired her when I suffered exhaustion before. My doctor told me to take it easy, and I thought that would be money well spent, which it was.  She picked up my kids from school, drove them to lessons, soccer, etc.  Now it's back to me.

I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder, and if you've ever lived in the PNW, you know how gray it gets this time of year.

And in general, I'm stressed out about this week because there are music lessons, and Dr. appointments, and choir concerts, and I have to put together and deliver about 55 gift baskets for the law firm, I need to do my Christmas baking, on top of work, rewrites, and being a mom, grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking (which I rarely do anymore with kids schedules and such).

Good thing?  All my Christmas presents are bought.  Most my Christmas presents are wrapped and under the tree.  So, there, I'm ahead of the game.

Writing Wednesday: Sad

    A little snippet.  I'm getting close to being done.  Have to flesh it out a bit and add some elements.  Tell me what you think.

 

     David and I decided that if we were going to be ready together, and the night was to be perfect, we’d have to plan it.

     “Prom night,” David said shoveling some fries in his face at Baldy’s, our new favorite hangout.

      “That’s pretty cliché,” I said.

      “No, it’s not, because we’re not going to prom.”

      I stopped mid fry and looked in his eyes.  “We aren’t?”

     “No, prom is for the superficial and desperate.  We’re skipping it.”  He took a sip of his mega-pop that had to be at least eighty-five ounces.

     “What if I don’t want to skip it?” I said, finally finishing my fry.

     David gaped at me like he couldn’t comprehend what I was saying, as if I was speaking a foreign language.

     “What?”  I said.

     He pointed a French fry at me and said, “What sounds better?  Wearing uncomfortable clothes and conforming to the conventional, phony social rituals of a misguided youth?  Listening to banal music created by mama’s boys wearing guyliner whose hearts have been broken into a million pieces? Witnessing the doldrums of fake ceremonious elections for elitist snob kings and queens while everyone else’s hopes and dreams are scattered all over the floor with the leftover streamers?” He took a breath.  “Or, would you rather have a romantic evening in a beautiful hotel suite with the love of your life, feeding each other chocolate covered strawberries and drinking champagne, while giving completely and profoundly of yourself, and then tangling up together and falling asleep in each other’s arms?”

     “Well, when you put it that way—”

Writing Wednesday: FML

Okay, this is what I'm changing my title too if my agent will let me.  It more clearly explains what my protagonist Sydney is going through.

Couple things before I post, if anyone wants to guest post some writing on my Wednesday blog, please contact me.  I'm sure people get tired of seeing my crap here all the time.

Also, don't forget my Follower contest get someone to be my 200th follower and you and that person each get a $10 Amazon gift card.

Now, without further ado, an excerpt from FML (and it's an R rated excerpt again, you've been warned):

     “Listen, Syd, ever since you and David started going out I’ve had my-best-friends-girl syndrome.”

     “I don’t get—”

     “I’ve liked you, Syd.  I love how your hair curls just slightly at the ends.  And how your nose wrinkles up when you laugh.  I love the real you, the one who acts like nothing bothers her, but has these moments of quiet reflection when she  thinks no one is looking.  I love your music, your singing.  I love you Syd.”

     “Oh my god.”  I slid out of bed and put my clothes back on.  “I can’t do this Zach.”

     “Why not?”

     “Because, I just broke up with my boyfriend.  Because I still love him, no matter what he’s done.  You can’t just get over that in a day!”

     “I’m not asking you to.  We can take things slow.”

     “No.  We’re not taking things at all.  You need to go.”  I picked his clothes up off the floor, pushed them at him and left my room.  I paced the kitchen.  I wanted to cry, yell, collapse.  This was not supposed to happen.  A sympathy fuck between friends and done.

     Zach came out a few minutes later, disheveled and glossy eyed.  His head hung low as he said, “Bye Syd.  See you later.”

     “Yep.” It was all I could say without screaming.

     As soon as the door shut behind him, I went to my dad’s tool room, grabbed his box cutter and pulled the blade out.  I went to the bathroom and grabbed the hydrogen peroxide, a washcloth, a Dixie up, and a bandage, then proceeded to my room, closing the door behind me.  Placing the blade in the cup, I sat it down on my nightstand, poured peroxide over it, and watched it bubble and foam.  I pulled my pants down to my knees and sat on my bed.  When I thought the blade was thoroughly sterilized, I removed it from the cup.  With a steady hand, I sliced into my thigh, about an inch long, and deep enough for blood to flow. 

     Imagining all the poison, all the anger, all the guilt inside me rushing out, I caught it in the washcloth, so that it could be bleached away in the wash.  When I’d bled out to my satisfaction, I wiped the rest of the blood from my leg, bandaged it up, and it was like nothing ever happened.

Writing Wednesday: A blog and some Sad

First off, I blogged for The Class of 2k11 this morning, check it out here.

Secondly. Here is a snippet from the book formerly known as Sad, which for now I'm changing to FML.  It is unedited, R rated, and not for the faint of heart.  You may leave comments if you wish.

     Speak of the devil.  Tammy walked in humming some sickingly sweet love song, looking way to peppy for my tastes.  Instead of punching her in the face I only glare in her general direction.  She stops in her tracks, looks over at me and lets out a little yelp.  I can’t help but giggle.  “Jesus, Syd, you scared the shit out of me.  What the hell are you doing home?”

     “Brooding,” I said and went back to looking out the window.

     “What are you brooding over?” 

     I looked back at her.  She didn’t give a shit, that much was certain.  She stood there with her stupid messy blond ponytail, hand on her jutted out hip, her legs shooting out of her boxers like sticks.  She made me sick.  “Fuck off, Tammy,” I said.

    “Jesus, you kiss mom with that mouth?  I’m trying to be nice here.”

    “Go be nice somewhere else?  What are you even doing here?  Out of places to bed hop?”

     Her face fell.  I’d hit her where it hurt.  But everyone knew she was a slut.  She rarely spent a night at home.  Still, I’m sure she wasn’t proud of it, and I felt guilty.  I shouldn’t take my frustrations concerning David and Haley out on Tammy.  Even if she was a major bitch.   “Hey, Tammy, I’m sorry.  It’s just . . . David and I broke up.”

     She gave me a puzzled look and then asked, “Who’s David?” 

     And this was why I hated her.  She cared nothing about the world around her.  All she cared about was how she looked and who she was going to lay.  I went from remorse to rage in two seconds flat.  “My boyfriend.”

     She stared at me as if I was speaking a foreign language.  Then she said, “You have a boyfriend?”  as if it was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard.

      “Had,” I said.  I stood up, bumped into her as I passed, nearly knocking her against the wall, and went to my room.

     She called after me, “How the hell was I supposed to know?”

     “Open your eyes,” I yelled back right before slamming my door so hard it knocked my framed picture of me and Haley off my wall.  It crashed to the wooden floor, which was fine with me.  I walked over to it, grabbed the frame and threw it in my trash can.  I started picking up the big chunks of glass when one sliced into my finger.    I automatically dropped the glass, but then just stared at my finger, mesmerized.  Why?  I’m not sure.

     Watching the blood as it dripped from my finger to my wrist, down to my elbow and then to the floor, was serene in a strange way, like sitting on the edge of a stream of blood, watching as it twists and turns over the terrain of my arm.  And I felt this release as if everything that had happened the last couple days was oozing out of me, becoming nothing but a pool of heartbreak on my bedroom floor that I could wipe up and throw away.

  For the first time in the last twenty four hours I felt . . . a kind of peace.  I also felt like I was going to pass out.

Writing Wednesday: Sad

 

   Keep in mind, this is all unedited.  If any of you would like to be a guest writer on my Wednesday blog, give me a shout.  And don't forget I'm holding a contest for the 200th follower and their referral.  I'm thinking $10 Amazon gift cards (though I haven't really decided).  Maybe a pair of knee socks.

David and I decided that if we were going to be ready together, and the night was to be perfect, we’d have to plan it.

     “Prom night,” David said shoveling some fries in his face at Baldy’s, our new favorite hangout.

      “That’s pretty cliché,” I said.

      “No, because we’re not going to prom.”

      I stopped mid fry and looked in his eyes.  “We aren’t?”

     “No, prom is for the superficial and desperate.  We’re skipping it.”  He took a sip of his mega-pop than had to be at least eighty-five ounces.

     “What if I don’t want to skip it?” I said, finally finishing my fry.

     David gaped at me like he couldn’t comprehend what I was saying, as if I was speaking a foreign language.

     “What?”  I said.

     He pointed a French fry at me and said, “What sounds better?  Wearing uncomfortable clothes and conforming to the conventional, phony social rituals of a misguided youth while listening to banal music created by mamas boys wearing guyliner whose hearts have been broken into a million pieces all while witnessing the doldrums of fake ceremonious elections for elitist snob kings and queens while everyone else’s hope and dreams are scattered all over the floor with the leftover streamers?” He took a breath.  “Or, would you rather have a romantic evening in a beautiful hotel suite with the love of your life, feeding each other chocolate covered strawberries and drinking champagne while giving completely and profoundly of yourself, and then tangling up together and falling asleep in each other’s arms?”

     “Well, when you put it that way—”

     “Exactly.”  He shoved the pointer fry into his mouth. 

Writing Wednesday: Sad

Unedited of course.

We never said a word to each other until we both found ourselves at Lacy McKenna’s kegger.  The best cure for shyness is a couple pints of beer.  I remember just sitting there in the corner by myself, Haley, that’s my best friend, was off getting us a couple more beers.  David came up and said, “You’re the girl that shits behind me in English.” 

     I couldn’t help but laugh at the way he slurred sit to sound like shit.  “Yeah, that’s me.”

     He sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders.  “I’ve seen you looking at me.  Why you always doin’ that?”

     I looked at him and said, “Because I find you interesting.”

     “Why?”

     “You’re so quiet and always look like you’re deep in thought.  I sometimes wonder what you’re thinking about.”

     “Really?”

     “Yeah, really.”

     “That’s kind of cool.”

     An awkward silence lingered between us, and I figured it couldn’t get any more awkward so I said, “I heard about your dad.  Sorry.”

     He looked at me and said, “You want to go talk somewhere?  Quieter I mean?”

     “Sure.” 

     He grabbed my hand and led me through the living room.  Haley was heading back with my beer, so snatched it from her and said, “Be back in a bit.”  Knowing how much I crushed on David, she gave me the thumbs up then went on her way. 

     David took me up a staircase, and opened the first door on the right, which he immediately closed back up saying, “Oops, sorry.”  He turned and gave me an embarrassed look.  I giggled.

     Door number three seemed to be the charm.  He led me to the bed where we sat in silence for a minute sipping our beers while he eyed me cautiously.  Finally he said, “I’ve never really talked about it and no one up to this point has ever asked.”

     “About your dad?”

     “Yeah?”

     “That’s because people trip over their tongues when it comes to talking about the hard facts of life.”