An update

Romance, Blood, and a Nightclub

Cheesy title, I know. I wrote this for Creative Writing 1 last year.

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Grace was the oldest one in the nightclub; one hundred and thirteen years and with the same body she had when she was nineteen. The only thing that had changed about her physical appearance was the pair of puncture wounds, hidden beneath the synthetic leather collar she wore.

She worked as a bartender at Shampoo Nightclub in Philadelphia. Bartending was one of the few occupations that met her nocturnal needs. Plus, the energy of the youthful was like heroin to a vampire, but less addictive. It suppressed her appetite and her keep her going without blood, but just barely. But she could live off the liveliness of dancing club goers until she could find a “donor.”

Grace loved working Wednesdays: Industrial Night. It was her weekly dose of people she could actually connect with. Among the “posers” and whiny teenagers, there were those who truly did understand the appeal of the darker side of life. And on occasion, she would sense a few of the undead (undoubtedly searching for a source of food), and even some psychic “vampires” who may or may not have known what they were capable of.

It was here that she met Fiona. One night, when the song changed, the crowd at the bar had flowed back onto the dance floor. She remained, waiting patiently for that moment when she could order her drink without drowning in the sea of drunks. When Grace saw her at first she had thought it was Clyde, until she reminded herself he had been dead for ninety-four years. Still, there was an eerie resemblance. She had the same softly angled face, and dark brown eyes. Her short, unkempt black hair even resembled his dark, untidy hair before she noticed the purple streaks. And she was just as beautiful.

“Red devil, please,” she requested, her voice soft, quiet, but not shy. Grace knew she was not twenty-one, but the paper wristband indicated she was of age, and that was the bouncer’s problem, so she mixed up the concoction. A gut feeling told her this wasn’t another under aged kid trying to get drunk for the sake of being rebellious.

“Thanks,” she responded as Grace put the red colored drink down in front of her.

Grace hadn’t realized she had been staring until the girl responded with a questioning, somewhat nervous look. Shaking herself out of the daze,
Grace explained, “Sorry, you just remind me of someone.”

Unsure of how to respond, she gave a simple, “Thanks?” Unsure of what to say, she shifted her weight uncomfortably and took a drink.

After a moment of quiet, Grace laughed. It was one of those awkward silence induced laughs, but it spread to the girl, and it broke the ice. Another half hour of flirting later, she learned her name, that she was a student at Art Institute, and her more recent love life issues. Grace received a generous tip from her in her cleavage, exaggerated by the corset she wore.

“You going to be here tomorrow?” Grace asked. She didn’t work Thursdays, but she would come in to see her again.

“No…. Sorry,” she said, truly apologetically. “Wanna go get lunch somewhere?” she asked.

Lunch… That daytime meal... During which she was usually sleeping, or sitting in her apartment with her thick curtain closed, reading or composing a new melody on her violin, claiming to have a migraine whenever her landlady came by and questioned the darkness. “Sorry, I can’t. I’m busy during the day,” she lied. Fiona looked down, disappointed. “How about dinner?”

Fiona looked back up, her brown eyes widened in excitement. “Ok,” she answered, in an excited manner that, by the slightly embarrassed look, Grace could tell was out of character for her. Grace smiled at her; she was cute when she blushed.

They continued flirting until the main lights turned on, signaling closing time.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Fiona said, allowing Grace to do her work. She pulled a small card from her pocket. “Business cards make me feel cool,” she explained, half joking, and handed it to Grace, who laughed. “Just give me a call so we can work out the details.”

“Or I can pick you up at eight thirty, Ms. Page,” she suggested, examining the card, saying her last name in a mock formal tone.

Fiona laughed, “Sounds like a plan. See you tomorrow then.”

The next night, dinner went well. They ate at an Italian restaurant, and Grace was thankful that the myth about garlic —and just about everything else— was merely superstition. She had not eaten real food in a long time, and while it did nothing to sustain her, she had forgotten the pleasure of taste. It was not the same as blood, which gave her a high, but still pleasant.

While listening to Fiona speak about philosophy, Grace had to keep pulling her lustful stare from her neck back to her eyes. To Clyde’s eyes. They were the same, until she noticed the flecks of blue in them; this was a different person than her lost lover, but she was falling in love with her nonetheless.

But there was still that lustful instinct that she knew would take over if they ever got too physical. She did not want to hurt Fiona, but that meant that there must always be a barrier between them.

After Grace paid for their dinner, claiming to be a “gentleman” in response Fiona protest, she got up from the table, still hungry.

As they left the restaurant, something didn’t feel right to Grace. “I’ll walk you home,” she offered.

“You really are a gentleman,” Fiona laughed. Grace pretended to laugh too, but the feeling that someone was watching them was worrying her. Sure enough, she could feel the presence of someone following them as they walked together. Grace kept a protective arm around Fiona’s shoulder.

They arrived outside Fiona’s apartment building, and Grace’s hand moved down to her date’s soft hand and they looked in each other’s eyes, smiling. “I really had a good time,” said Fiona. “Thanks.”

“Good night Fiona,” said Grace. She wanted to get her inside quickly, but she did not want it to end either.

Grace moved in towards her, closing her eyes, and kissed her gently on the lips, which were just as soft as the skin on her hands and the cheek she caressed. There was a blissful silence as they pulled away, their gazes locked. “Good night,” Fiona said softly, still smiling. She kept stealing glances at Grace as she walked through the door.

Once the door was closed and Grace was sure she had climbed at least a few flights of stairs, she walked back in the direction from which they came and turned into an alley.

“Give me your wallet, dyke,” a man’s voice said over the cocking of a gun. She turned around to face the silhouette, and without warning, lunged at the man. He fired the gun in panic, but Grace hardly cared about the bullet lodged where her non beating heart was. She grabbed his dirty hair, jerking his head painfully to the side as she sank her teeth savagely into his neck.

The blood tingled as it coursed through her veins and her heart began beating again, resonating throughout her body. She could feel the warm liquid run down her chest, soaking her shirt while the wound healed and ejected the bullet.

She drank until there was nothing left and she ripped a large piece of flesh from his neck as she tore his lifeless body away from her. This was a man society cared little about and his death would not merit an investigation; it looked like a “well trained” dog had done its master’s dirty work and the police would pass it off as such.

Done with him, Grace wiped the blood from her mouth as she stepped back into the street, feeling more alive than she had since she actually was alive.

Grace and Fiona saw each other frequently over the next few weeks. Between visiting Grace at work, there were more dinner dates, a couple movies, and even a night in at Grace’s apartment where Fiona had been impressed by the lack of modern technology. Things were going well, except for the restricted physical affection, limited to small kisses.

The kisses were wonderful, but Grace desired more, and so did Fiona, but the vampire could not explain her nature to the mortal. Not only did she fear her reaction, but it was a burden that the teenage girl was off without. Still, Grace wanted to taste her, and had to keep fighting off that urge. She doubted her control, because even if it was a single drop of blood, she did not know if she would be able to stop there.

One Wednesday at Shampoo, while Grace watched the back of Fiona’s exposed neck when she left the bar, she heard a cold but suave voice, “Still working as a bartender?”

If she had a pulse, her heart would have stopped momentarily as what felt like and invisible hand was squeezing her stomach. “What are you doing here, Drake?” she asked the other vampire bitterly, spitting out his name.

“Just collecting some money you still owe me,” he said, brushing his long black hair out of his face with his slender, colorless hands.

“Isn’t it enough that you already took Clyde?” she whispered.

“Consider his life a late fee,” he practically laughed. His icy grey gaze suddenly turned serious. “And don’t try to pin your guilt onto me for falling behind on payment. Ironic though. You effort to save to save your lover’s life resulted in his fate.”

Grace’s knees gave way and she toppled over onto the floor behind the bar, her eyes flooding with tears that she tried to hide from Drake.

“Grace, are you ok?” came Fiona’s concerned voice. Grace didn’t respond, but silently cursed her girlfriend for condemning herself. Now Drake leverage.

“How rude, Grace. You’re not going to introduce me to your acquaintance here?” She wished she could stab the thick mockery in his voice. He circled Fiona, looking her up and down. “She’s got a beautiful neck. So delicate… so fragile.” He traced a hand around the mortal’s neck, causing her to shiver. He could have easily used his vampire charm to make this threat more arousing to Fiona, but his intention was to make them both uncomfortable.

Grace finally found her voice and was now standing again, a firm hand on the counter to keep her balance. “Keep your hands off my customers,” she demanded. Drake slowly pulled his hand away from her neck, smirking.

“I’ll expect payment in a week. In modern value.” He turned and left, several horny girls’ stares following him as he walked towards the exit.

“What was that about?” asked Fiona after a short silence that seemed to cut through the loud industrial music playing.

“I think it’s best if you stay away from here for a while. And my apartment isn’t safe either.” Grace’s voice was monotonous, void of all emotion; she was too numb to feel anything. Her gaze was fixed on a pair of overlapping stains on the top surface of the bar as her mind wandered back ninety-four years.

In 1911, Clyde had been sick with pneumonia, and her income as a bar maiden was not enough to pay the medical bills. Drake, the owner of the bar, had heard of her dilemma, and offered her a loan; something she had not expected from someone who was usually so cold, but she welcomed it anyway. Clyde’s condition only got worse when she had finally been able to pay back Drake, so the money saved had to go into further treatment.

Clyde did get better soon after, but Drake’s generosity was limited. One July night, they were both asleep when she felt a presence, waking her up. Indeed, above her sleeping husband was her boss, his features illuminated by the reflection from the blade in his hand. She couldn’t even find the voice to warn him before the knife slit his throat.

The image of Clyde’s eyes, wide open and drained of life, while Drake’s fangs sank deep into her neck was still imprinted in her memory. Her lover was dead, and it was her fault. She had been useless to prevent it, and she was the one that got them into the situation. Now she was at Drake’s mercy and unable to die. She had tried many of the common methods in effort to end her guilt, but not even a silver bullet to the brain worked.

Now Fiona was in danger because of her mistake.

Grace was not going to have the blood of another innocent on her hands. She was not going to lose Fiona like she lost Clyde. But at the same time, she could not afford to pay back Drake. And she knew he would not stop the torment even then.

If she learned one thing from modern graphic novels, a hero’s weakness was attachment. It could be exploited, hence the anonymity. Of course Drake knew who she was, so instead, she had to cut off all ties with Fiona. It was the only thing she could do to protect her, other than turn her into one of the undead too, but she could not condemn her to the same curse that plagued her. Giving her up was the only choice to keep her safe.

Thursday morning, she gathered the only belongings that were worth anything to her in a book bag; a couple sets of clothes, her and Clyde’s wedding bands strung together by a chain, some books, her violin, and the card with Fiona’s information. She put on a cap and a hooded sweatshirt to protect her from the sun outside.

It was her first time out during the day in years, and even through the sweatshirt she could feel the harsh rays harassing her skin. Ignoring it, she headed towards Fiona’s apartment, knowing she was in class now.

The door to the apartment was already open a crack, and from inside, she could hear Spice Girls playing with Fiona’s roommate, Andrew singing along. Although the myth that a vampire could not enter a home uninvited was only superstition, as Drake had proved, Grace would give her the courtesy of respecting her privacy. Rummaging through the book bag, she pulled out the card and the chain with the two rings on it and reached inside, placing them on top of a trunk that served as a makeshift table beside the door.

“Goodbye, Fiona…” she whispered, a tear escaping her eyes. Without looking behind, she walked back onto the sunlit street and headed towards the bus station.

Melanie

Did this story for a class. Basically an allegory to heteronormativity. Shorter than I planned it on being, but I also deleted a lot of stuff for the sake of not sounding like a filler arc in Naruto. So, here goes.

MELANIE

August 5, 2012,
I am practically a god. I don't mean to be sacrilegious, but I have given life where it had been taken. I am a Creator!
Years of bionic engineering research has finally pulled through. After a few failed attempts, I finally succeeded at reanimating a dead body.
I named her Melanie, since I had no other way of identifying her. I simply found her on the side of the road outside state lines. I'm guessing she had only been dead for about three days before I found her. She's a female caucasian. Approximately age fifteen. She had been shot three times in the head, and due to swelling of the labia, bruises and incisions on her chest and arms, and rope burn along her limbs, I can assume she had been raped. There was also water in her lungs, but the fact that I found her on the side of the road leaves me in doubt that she drowned.
The damage done to the brain was irreversible, so I had to start from scratch, creating a new brain altogether. To regulate breathing, heart rate, and other functions, I had to instal a microprocessor. Tomorrow, I will begin more complex programming. My aim is to make her into a perfect human being, with superior intelligence, and capable of learning and free will.

Dr. Joseph White sighed as he pulled his chair away from his desk. Exhausted, he took a drink of now cold coffee as he stood up. Placing it next to the face-down picture frame, he went into the lab, adjacent to the office.
Melanie lay on the operating table, now only connected to various monitors rather than the life support machines she had been connected to for about a month before. This was the farthest the bio-kinetics scientist had come. None of his previous subjects had been able to sustain themselves. White had even worse luck recycling a body once he had mistakenly assumed that it was ready to be disconnected. But other than needing to be fed and hydrated through tubes, Melanie's body was able to control her own breathing, heart rate, and sleep, and reacted to external stimuli.
Any other scientist would consider this a good place to stop and perfect what had been achieved, but White just couldn't wait to dive deeper. Putting a computer together was essential, but it was the programming that put that skill to use. And personality engineering was the essence of his research. It wasn't like he could just have someone else swipe dead bodies and bring them back to life, so that was just a part he needed to do first.
Sleeping, she reminded him of Joy. He had a small hope that he would get back the family he had lost and the perfect daughter Joy wouldn't let him have. White went back into his office to get his coffee cup and make sure his work had been saved. Picking up the mug, he didn't notice the picture frame crash to the floor as he shut the door.


II
Out of the House

August 12, 2012,
Melanie is progressing faster than I expected. She is able to complete mental tasks quickly and accurately. She has a phenomenal understanding of English language and even philosophy. She even questions various schools of thought and understands figures of speech. I just have to hope I didn't create a psycho-killer. But she has a knack for sympathy, so I won't have to worry about that.
She has a basic understanding of customs and mannerisms based off reading and watching television. Melanie even caught on to what was meant to be construed as abnormal in literature, which eases was my main fear that she would model herself on these characters. Tomorrow, I intend to push her social skills and personality development. I will take her out where she will be exposed to other humans. I can't wait.

True to his log, White took Melanie out on Monday morning, instructing her to observe everyone else's behaviors and reactions, and their relation to each other. Thankfully, it was summer, so she would have a wider base to learn from.
While she was washing, he laid out an outfit on her bed for her to wear. A white and pink tank top with a white, knee-length skirt, and pink sandals. White went to the kitchen to wait for her.
Melanie was just as excited. All she could remember was life in Dr. White's house. Even when she did venture out into the yard, she couldn't see much over the white picket fence. All she knew about the world was what she had been told by Dr. White, and what she observed in media.
She got dressed in the clothes he had put out for her and brushed her hair. As she came into the kitchen, White was reminded of Nina, but older, and not grumbling at the outfits he insisted that she wear. She sat down and poured herself a bowl of Trix, and White sipped at his coffee.
"Ready?" he asked as she finished washing the dishes.
"Ok," she answered, putting the dishes on the drying rack. She practically ran out the door, though she stayed behind him.
It was like Melanie was struggling with a leash on an excited puppy jumping around inside her. It was nothing like what she had expected based on TV or books. Everyone other than the main character had been so generic when they were behind a screen or on the page. But instead, everyone was unique, with their own personality. Even those trying to "fit in" or conform, they all had unique traits, quirks, and dreams. Everyone was different.
She took in everything she saw and heard as White walked beside her down Main Street. He led her into a cafe where they had lunch. She was adapting well. She did not even come off as weird like he had feared. He was worried she would act like an alien trying to assimilate with humans.
Eventually, they headed to the park. Melanie was appealed by the swings, and sat down on the rubber strap. She kicked herself into the air while listening to the conversations going on between parents about their children, the town's decision to remove public recycling bins, and politics. White just sat on the bench, making sure Melanie stayed out of trouble.
After a while, Melanie got bored of the swings, and the novelty of weightlessness had worn off. She jumped off mid-swing, and went towards a group of eleven boys, about her age, playing soccer. She already knew the rules and wanted to try it out for herself.
"Can I play?" she asked simply as they took a quick break after scoring.
A couple of the guys seemed reluctant, but the majority were welcoming. "Sure, why not? We're uneven anyway," one of them said. Two in the group went to the makeshift goals, marked off by book bags, and the rest, including melanie crowded around the ball as they clarified which team she was on.
"Melanie," White shouted as they started up again. He had a concerned look on his face, and he said, "It's time to go!"


III
The Bug

August 19, 2012
Last week's experiments have been a failure. Melanie has begun exhibiting masculine traits. It's as if she's confusing genders. This may be due to exposure to the wrong types. I am trying to re-teach her the differences. But if that does not work, then it must be a glitch in her programing, in which case I will have to reprogram the gender definitions in her knowledge databases.

Melanie played with the powdery "marshmallows" in her bowl of Lucky Charms while watching Pinochio. The basement door opened and closed. Dr. White poured himself a cup of coffee and looked at Melanie.
"Melanie, why are you dressed like that?" he asked her.
"You told me to wear this," she answered. She was wearing a skirt and blouse, but underneath she was wearing his jeans and a pair of boots that Joy had left behind.
"I told you to wear the skirt and shirt, not the rest of your getup."
"I don't feel right wearing skirts. It's uncomfortable sitting 'ladylike.'" She picked up a rainbow shaped marshmallow, noticing the inaccuracy of the colors, before popping it into her mouth.
White turned off the television and sat down across from her. "Melanie, you're a girl. You should start dressing more like one."
"But I've seen many girls wear pants."
"Yes, but they wear girls' pants."
"But they're not very comfortable. They're too tight. And I've seen girls wear baggier pants, and t-shirts, like the ones you told me boys wear."
"But those girls are different. They don't think of themselves as girls. They're confused, and weird."
Melanie didn't even know how to respond to such a stupid answer. He was clearly close minded about this subject and would not listen to anything she said, so she decided to change the subject. She got up and refilled her own cup of coffee and said,
"The yard needs to be cleaned. I'll get to work on that."
"No, that's ok. It's too late in the summer to start gardening anyway."
"I meant actual yard work."
"No, I will do that. You can help me by cleaning the house."
"Is that because that's what girls are supposed to do?"
"Yes, Melanie." He didn't even acknowledge the sarcasm in her question.
She groaned, but got up and started clearing the table. She was living under his roof, and he was taking care of her, so it was only fair that she do her share of work.

Later that night, White came upstairs from his lab to where Melanie was cooking dinner.
"Melanie! What the hell did you do to your hair?" he screamed.
"I cut it," she answered as if she was telling him where the knife was. Her dark brown hair had gone from brushing the middle of her back to hanging loosely by her ears.
"Why? Do you want to look like a boy?!"
"Does this really change my gender?"
"No, it just confuses it. It makes you look like a fucking dyke!"
"I think you may be the one who's confused."
Angrily, White grabbed her arm and dragged her downstairs.
Half an hour later, Melanie was connected by her brainstem to a computer, through various wires. White searched through her programming, but found no problem. Everything was running fine.
He decided to look through her cognitive abilities; perhaps she was thinking too much like a man. He selectively deleted mathematical concepts, philosophical teachings, scientific information, and historical facts. He kept her with the bare minimum of information she needed to function. He also went through her history, finding events that may have confused her, and erased them all.


IV
Final Decision

August 26, 2012,
My efforts were all in vain. She has become slow and unable to reason the way she used to. She lost the compassion she used to have, and thinks using only logic. She reasons like a child, knowing only right and wrong, and limited facts. But even though she now does what I tell her, she shows an inclination towards acting male.
This bug in her gender associations is enough to discredit me as a scientist. I have no choice but to shut her down.
So much for having the perfect daughter.

"I'm sorry," Dr. White said as he hooked wires into the base of Melanie's brain.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted me to be," she answered.

"I'm sorry I want to be more than your perfect housewife! I'm sorry I want more for my daughter than to be your doll!" Joy screamed as she slammed the car door. Holding Nina's hand, she lead her daughter to the passenger side and buckled her safely in place. She then got in the driver's side and said to her now ex-husband, "I'm sorry you can't see the world outside your own window."
Joseph tried to ignore Joy and Nina driving away as he slammed the door, causing the glass panes to shatter.

Dr. White held back tears that he had held for so many years as he proceeded typing away. He didn't look at Melanie as he terminated, one by one, every function of her programming. Soon, she slumped over, lifeless, in her chair.

September 2nd, 2012
I regret shutting down Melanie, but I had to. Before reprogramming her, she was phenomenal, apart from that one glitch. Looking back at her data, her personality had advanced more than I expected. It was identical to that of a human. She even developed a SuperEgo. I was so close...

Joseph looked down and saw the white rectangle on the floor. He picked up the photograph that he had not looked at in year. Next to him, with his forced smile, was Nina, in her mud-covered soccer uniform. Joy was smiling too, with an arm around their daughter.
He couldn't believe what he gave up.

"Liquor? Victor? Vicar?" and a bunch of flaming freaks

Went to Word Play last night (my college's creative writing club) So, to resurrect this... I post two exercises I did.

For the first one, we had to write a scene based off someone mishearing a word. The words we had were "liquor" and "vicar."
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"-Having the vicar over for dinner?"

This immediately got my attention. I rolled off the couch and stumbled up. I was hung over and needed a fix.

Liquor for dinner. I knew there was a reason I married Joan. She knew me so well. Ahhh, how I love English women.

I got into the shower, not wanting the smell of last night's drunken escapades to linger into tonight's. As I let the hot water run over my goods and I stood, scratching my butt, I tried figuring out how Joan planned on preparing liquor for dinner.

Hmmm, maybe it was some kind of sauce where the alcohol doesn't get cooked out. I didn't know. I trusted Joan, and decided to let her surprise me.

I got out of the shower and put on my ripped jeans and ICP t-shirt. I went into the kitchen to spy on Joan, but she heard me. Turning to greet me, she gave me an appalled look.

"You can't possibly expect to have the vicar over while wearing such rubbish!"

"Who the hell is Victor?"

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The second exercise was a fill in the blank type thing, and we had to work off that. "Until _____, nothing notable had happened in the town of Madison since the year of its founding.

--
Until the Fiery Freak Fest came to town, nothing notable had happened in the town of Madison since the year of its founding.

Fiery Freak Fest was a traveling freak show, known for its sexually titillating fire acts. Their arrival had not been welcomed in the small Christian community. Women barely covered by leather spinning fire into intricate patterns of circles and topless men consuming flames as if they were cotton candy, and of course, all of them, their bodies were canvases for metal hoops and tattoo machines.

It was not enough to boycott them, for when Jan decided to sneak out of her room at night to see them, her friends followed. Soon, the freshmen did the same. Within a week, all the children of Madison had seen the Flaming Freaks.

A sigh of relief came from all the adults (since the open-minded ones had left upon turning eighteen) as the freaks of nature left to plague some other town.

But the fires did not leave with them.

What we can't have

What is it that makes us want most what we can't have and not appreciate what we do have? It's a simple question, and it's an answer itself to many problems. But the answer is too complicated. In "Imp of the Perverse," Poe talks about the human instinct and desire to cause ourselves harm. Or maybe we just can't settle on something that it wasn't a challenge to achieve. I believe it to be the former.

These Sheets and Post Sex

We started the poetry unit in class last week, and yesterday we worked on list/mantra poems.

These Sheets
These sheets were tossed this way and that
These sheets were drenched with our sweat
These sheets were glazed with lube
These sheets were littered with latex tubes
These sheets were hiding the fur covered hand cuffs
These sheets were where I had enough
These sheets are now empty
But these sheets are no longer lonely


Post Sex
P.S. I lied when I said size doesn't matter
P.S. Your best friends was better
P.S. Magnums slide off of you
P.S. My orgasms were all fake
P.S. Your "foreplay" was fake too
P.S. I lied when I said I like your family
P.S. I could never get into it with your mother's portrait eying me
P.S. I lied when I said "I Do"
P.S. I'm taking the kids and the car
P.S. The heater's broken

The Werewolf's Sonnet

I see the moon's reflection in your eyes;
They tell of blissful runs through icy nights,
Your reign that lasts sunset to sunrise.
I know the story of the werewolves' flight.
I see the lust for blood inside your soul;
It tells the madness haunting ev'ry month:
The pearly orb that renders hearts ice cold,
The sign for you to begin your frightful hunt.
This is your curse that tortures always, friend.
It will stay with you 'til the day you die,
Unsettling torment with you to the end.
Never will you be free, slave of the sky.
The moon is round; I hear the howls tonight,
The werewolves prowl and hunt and feast and fight.

A short prose (DELETED)

November 7th, 2008:
No one reads this, but in the event that this picks up eventually and someone decides to read this far back, here's an explanation:

Dear readers who so faithfully waste their time to read this,

I wrote this prose as an observation of someone who I found fascinating, but never had the balls to get to know.
However... I have gotten to know him on a very personal and intimate level. Out of respect for him, I'm deleting what I wrote and keeping it to myself, where it belongs.
No, it was not dissing Mac in any way (yeah, found out his name; I wrote it before that point in time). It was just way off and my thoughts on his smile are no one else's business.
Sorry, but don't worry. It really was not worth reading.
~Aidan A. Ryan

P.S. If you actually care why I didn't delete the post altogether: 1, I rather keep it on record that something was written. 2, I have no fuckin idea how to delete posts x_x 3, stfu and give me a cookie.


But somewhere, hidden behind the hair and metal, I saw him smile.

It was so innocent and childlike.

Limerick Time!

There once was a penguin in a hat
He tried to whore out the cat
But her boy, the panda
Beat him with a Fanta
And broke his knees with a baseball bat