Little moments of joy and anger


Alright. So aside from Hockey being a giant bitch yesterday, there was one other rather large flaw.  My ex texted me while he was heavily intoxicated.  It was not a ‘baby I want you back’ text.  More like an apology.  But none the less…  he texted again while sober to explain and intends on contacting me after my lovely spring break.

After everything he’s done… which includes, but is not limited to, lying about me, asking out my friend, spreading rumors, and general defacement of character, there is no forgiveness left in me.  I can forgive a lot of things, and I have.  BUT THIS TAKES THE FUCKING CAKE.  YOU HEAR ME ASSHOLE?



There is in fact a brighter side to my day.  I found a great new k-cup in my kitchen called Butter Toffee Coffee.  It is so rich and creamy and delicious.  I also had a great shower, so now I smell delicious and everything is soft and smooth.  My cat spent the whole day with me.  I had a quiet evening and am just enjoying my day.  I’m writing.  I’m watching youtube videos.  It’s great.  I’ve got plans to go horseback later this week.  I get to see Pretty in Pink and Horsing Around as well.  and….

I GET TO VISIT  PRESCHOOLERS!!!!!!!!  This is what I am really truly excited for because I miss my kids so fucking much.

Alright, I need to go and write and then possible throw on jammies cause the boy is coming over and I want to be extra cute and soft all over.  🙂

Have an excellent evening ladies and gentlemen.  I’ll see if I can get a poem up soon.

642 Things to Write about: 10

Prompt: Write a scene in which a person is leaving a restaurant with her husband and bumps into a former lover.  What words are exchanged or not exchanged?  What do her body positions say?  (For the sake of this prompt, I am changing husband to fiancee and former lover will remain the same)

It was a night of celebration, albeit a meager one.  With a smile and a blush, Annamarie let her fiancee toast her success, the day care she’d be starting soon enough.  It had taken her so long to get things up and running, but she had done it.  The pride that she felt was a small emotion in comparison to the warmth of Marcus’ gray green eyes.  e was proud of her.  She knew she shouldn’t have her cheeks flare up with color, however, it was a habit.  She always blushed, especially when put in the spot light.  He toasted her and she graciously accepted, before leaning upwards and giving him a kiss.

Their dinner, at the fancy little Italian place an hour away, had been divine.  Next, Marcus had promised her they’d stop at the chocolate shop before they left for home, perhaps even the bookstore.  Her soon to be husband knew not to tempt her with books, or they’d never leave.  The dinner was exquisite, she had dressed for the occasion.  Her blonde hair spilled around her bare shoulders, the purple dress bringing easy color to her pale skin.  Annamarie had even worn high heels, something she only did once in a  blue moon.  Stumbling on her higher than normal footwear, Marcus caught her and helped her into the champagne colored coat.  Once outside, she stumbled again, but not into Marcus’ strong and steady embrace.

Laughing, she spoke before looking up.  “I’m so sorry!  I’m a bit of klutz!”  With another giggle she looked up, only to have the color washed from her face.  It was David.  Stepping back, she did her best to keep herself away from him.

“Anna?  Is that you?”

“It would seem that way wouldn’t it.  How have you been David?”

“Been worse I suppose, but you wouldn’t know about that would you?  You look amazing after all.”  His eyes slunk over her body and Annamarie felt more than a sense of revulsion.  This man had used her in a scheme that had not quite come to fruition.  It was something he had always been bitter about.  Happy to feel Marcus’ body behind her, she spoke.

“Thank you.  I believe you remember my fiancee Marcus?”

Staunchly, both men both shook hands.  It was a battle to the death with that one handshake.  However, Marcus was not only taller, but a lot stronger than her former lover.  Feeling safer already, Annamarie started to make excuses for them to go.  Marcus obliged her and they left the scene.  Muttering as they left, she pushed the thought of the her ex lover out of her mind.

David was not so lucky in removing the thoughts of that lady out of his head.  She had looked amazing.  Older yes, but a classy older.  She looked as though she had come into her own.  He wondered if she still spent too much time on her make up, or if she was wearing tights with those heels.  Knowing her love for romance, she was probably wearing garters and thigh highs.  Sneaking a peak, he hoped to see any lingering glances by her.  Just one lingering glance and he’d go back to her.

They were not even on the street anymore.  David sighed and pushed forward, looking for the liquer store.  Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure about ending his night sober.  Not with thoughts of Annamarie, his former lover, dancing about in his head.

642 Things to Write About: 9

Prompt: Where do you go to escape?

Unlike her younger sister Britney, who disappeared into the pages of an old paper novel when she needed space, Ashley fell into the internet.  Se would pull up the New York Times, Glamour, Huffington Post, WordPress, everything.  There would be five to twelve tabs on her browser while she scoped out the damage for the day.  She’d find the latest trends and latest issues.  She’d devour sources and articles, ripping through pages quickly.  If there was one trait both she and her sister shared, it was a need to reading.  They simply had different tastes.  Britney liked her books, where everything stayed the same.   No matter how many times she read her books, the outcome was always the same.

That was why Ashley liked the news, she loved the ever constant flux of change.  She liked to live her entire life in that flux of change and insanity.  It made her feel right at home to see her world changing, being crafted by events.  She worshiped changed, bowed down to it like she did to the discounted merchandise at outlet stores.  It made her feel right at home.

That morning, after the stressful all nighter, she couldn’t believe her first all nighter was only two weeks into the semester.  Junior year was kicking her ass already.  Ashley sighed, and settled down with her laptop, watching as the lights came streaming on in wonder.  She loved her laptop with the pale blue case.  It was her perfect baby, her favorite thing, the best accessory.  She had spent too much time and money on this laptop to have it run anything other than smoothly.

While she pulled up er tabs, her email alerted her that she had a new follower on her blog.  smiling, she quickly recounted in her head.  76 followers to date.  That made her smile, that made her happy.  She pulled up this new blog and decided to give it a once over, to see if it was worth following or not.

“Holy hell,” she swore.  The blog was flawless.  More so than her own even.  Whomever made this blog either knew how to work it, or spent hours upon hours on it like she did with her own.  The blog blended artistry and the news flawlessly.  It was gorgeous.

Ashley spent the next few hours on the blog, rereading, searching for some sign of flaw.  Nothing, there was nothing amiss.  His writing was both compact and creative and compelling, the stories he chose were perfectly fitting.  The desire to track this man down was rising in her blood stream.  Could she?  Should she was the real question.

642 Things to Write About: 8

Prompt: What happened that night?

Meredith couldn’t remember the exact details.  Perhaps she didn’t want to remember them.  Her mind was rejecting the past, so she started to make up stories based on her favorite television shows and books.  There wasn’t much else to do when you were in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital at twelve thirty at night.  She could be sleeping, but she was tired of sleeping.  Meredith wanted to talk to someone, or to write.  Settling for her imagination, the soon to be college student let her mind wander.  There were no dark thoughts there, none at all.  Only the possibilities of a hundred worlds.

How had she gotten the scars on her arms?  perhaps a demon had attacked, a werewolf, a windego.  With a smile, she thought the Winchester brothers might have popped in to save her.  Had she noticed Sam and Dean? Was Castiel with them?  Did they save me?

Speaking of werewolves, maybe Lupin had gone rogue and attacked her during a transformation.  She did remember the full moon.  Maybe it was magical what happened, she couldn’t recall.

If she had looked at her admission forms, she’d remember.  The forms that said she had cut herself over seventy times with a razor blade.

Meredith didn’t want to remember, not yet.  For now, she’d stay in her fantasy world

642 Things to Write About: 7

Prompt: How you’re just like your mother

There are days where I say something or do something and am under the sudden, perfect knowledge that it was something my mother would do or say.  For a moment, I am embarrassed  sad in a way.  Then I realize we may all end up like our parents and that I am simply more aware of it than my friends.  While I see the traits my father has given me more often than mom (the blonde hair, blue eyes, messy nature)  they are there.

We both tend to be more introverted, but that does not mean we cannot have fun. It’s difficult for both of us to admit that we’re wrong, especially when we yell at each other.  We both like the same sort of cowl neck sweaters and impulsive, situational swearing.  For example:

When my mom swears, we all point it out.  She’s usually swearing over dropping something.  I dropped two rolls of bread after grocery shopping and swore in the drive way.  Mom laughed.

We are similar, but not.  I know I”ll end up turning into my parents one day.  It’s just a strange thought to see those qualities now.

642 Things to Write about: 6

Prompt: How someone (or something) saved your life.

It wasn’t one specific person who saved my life, not that I was in dire need of saving anyway.  High school had started and I could feel that all intense pull to retreat, to become the introvert that I know I am some days.  It was a bad situation, but as August drew to an end, I did in fact find my savior.

My savior was no one human and not one specific event.  My savior was marching band.  Yes, this is an entry into my band geek past.  I was terrified of high school, it meant growing up and that was something I was keen to avoid as a fourteen year old.  I did not know how the dynamics of the high school worked, I didn’t have a clue as to what I was doing.

Marching band has this thing the week before school which my mother thought was brilliant.  It’s called band camp, or as every band student fondly refers to it as… hell week. In the late summer sun, on a field, in a practice room or in the locker room, we band geeks thrive on this week or die by it.  It a week where music is learned, marching is taught or retaught, and drills are tattooed into our heads like the lyrics to a favorite song.

Marching band was my savior, my little super power that kept me going.  While I was at odds with concert band since middle school practices were held far too early for my tastes, marching band was an entirely different story.  Marching band met after school and for Friday football games.  It was those games where you learned how to endure cold, hot, itching uniforms and the terrifying swarms of students at the snack bar.

Coming into high school was terrifying to me.  Marching band gave me a place, a thing, a duty.  Senior year when I really was faced with growing up, marching band gave me a job.  Assistant to the director and student director.  While I had desperately hoped to become drum major, I did have my shining moment.  My awkwardness was overcome when I got up on that podium and conducted.  I did that in front of thousands of people on night or two.  It was the biggest rush I have felt.

Marching band saved me.

642 Things to Write About: 5

Prompt: Start a story with the line “Everyone whispered about ____________ , but no one had the courage to talk to her.”

(This little story is coming from this ongoing work in my head, one that was kind of sprung by the last 642 things to write about, so please enjoy another character on the scene!)

Everyone whispered about Maxine Darcy, but no one had the courage to talk to her.  First off, she hated when anyone from her parent’s circle of upper crust, high class friends called her Maxine.  Maxine had been her great grandmother’s name and the current owner of that name despised it.  It sounded, elderly, matronly, and unattractive.  Max, as she preferred to go by, was none of those things.

At seventeen, she was young, lithe, exuberant  and constantly looking for fun things to do.  She supposed, or actually, she knew that it was her quality to search for fun things to do that had gotten her into this predicament in the first place.  It was also her endless wallet of cash and her endless supply of stubbornness to show her parents up that had led up to this.

The benefit at the country club was warm, March had given them quite a few warmer than average days.  Outside, on both the garden and the east lawn, a modest tea party had been brought to life.  The warm sunshine fell on ivory table clothes and lacy napkins.  Thick cream parchment held name cards and each and everyone of the faces, including her parents, grandmother on her father’s side, her brother, and her brother’s new girlfriend, held some form of shock or anger.

All Max had wanted was an entrance.  She’s certainly made one in more ways than one.  To begin, the dress.  Her mother had sent the dress to her brother’s apartment because that was where Max had been living.  What her mother didn’t know was that Max hadn’t been attending school for over a month a half.  Thanks to her brother’s interfering phone call, now she did.  Mary Darcy had sent the most proper, elegant, tasteless tea gown she could find in order to adequately show her displeasure in her youngest child.  Along with the dress had a note, Max couldn’t remember much of it.  The first two lines were more about this would make her brother and her father look.  She wondered when the last time her mother gave a care about her.

The dress, originally had been a lovely peachy color that would have gone splendidly with Max’s original brown hair.  Oops, forgot to tell Mom I dyed it.  The peach had clashed with her warm skin and the newly platinum blonde hair, so the young girl had decided to get it altered.   Taking into the town closest to her brother’s home, she had a dress maker alter the dress slight.  Instead of ending at the ankles or having cap sleeves, the dress was now strapless and the skirt was fuller, wider, and ended around her knee caps.  The peach had been transformed into a rocking red that did wonders for her.

To top the entire thing off, Max had arrived on her latest purchase.  It wasn’t a car, or even a detestable motorcycle.  It was a horse.

The former owner had named him Kelvin, for his hot blood, but Max had taken to calling him Cal.  He had a buckskin coat, all golden cream with black points and a perfect black mane.  He had been the only thing that had gotten Max through this hellish year thus far and she had finally saved up enough of her interest to purchase him.  She’d been riding him since the beginning of last school year , but her mother refused to indulge the childish notion of ‘buying her daughter a pony’.  Cal stood taller, seventeen hands, strong, lean, and a fierce.  Max worried about her matching red heels getting caught in the stirrups, but then decided against dismounting.  She would wait for her mother to come forward.  Inevitably, she did.

“Maxine Eugenia Darcy, get off of that beast!” She screeched under her breath.  Max stood her her ground.

“Or what mother?  You’ll drag me down yourself?  A likely outcome.”

“Maxine, now,” she said, her voice softer, sweeter, and infinitely more terrifying.

“Or what?  You’ll scream at me in front of your precious club?”

Her mother took a different tactic, ignoring Kelvin and his flaring nostrils.

“What did you to that perfectly lovely dress I gave you?  And your hair?  It’s blonde!”

“I decided it need a change.”

“You have had enough changes this year, young lady.  Now get off of your horse and get down here.”


The place was quiet.  She looked to see her brother almost smiling.  At least he understood.  At least someone understood why she was doing this.

642 Things to write about: 4

Prompt: describe a professor coming on to one of his students. (For the sake of my writing, I will be using a teacher’s assistant.)

Britney sat at the desk in the back corner of the library. While she knew she was supposed to be on duty at the research desk, her head was just too far away for her to be there. Pulling at her long gold curls, she tried valiantly to rearrange them in a more flattering fashion. Desperately, Britney begged for the improbable help of a more skillful set of hands, like her roommate Meredith for example.  Her fingers tried to shove the bobby pins back into her hair when a noise made her drop a few of them.  Spinning, she found that her peace had been interrupted by her poetry professor’s TA Johnathon Darcy.

“Mr Darcy!” she exclaimed, while smoothing down her pencil skirt. In her futile attempts to fix her hair, the skirt had risen to an indecent level around her thighs.

“Call me Johnathon, please. We aren’t in class.”

“I’m sorry Mr Da- … Johnathon,” she corrected herself before finishing his surname. Flustered, her face turned an attractive shade of pink while he cracked a joke about how students calling him that made him feel extraordinarily old. Britney noted with a quick glance, he looked anything but old.

Johnathon looked to be in his mid to late twenties, with slightly tanned skin and dark brown hair that fell rougeishly around his lean face. There was a bit of stubble around his chin, a result of carelessness or perhaps it was intended?  Britney adjusted her glasses before taking a look at his warm coffee colored eyes. He’d been staring at her as well; Britney looked away while her face and the tips of her ears turned red. The TA chuckled before asking her a question. She was too embarrassed and ended up mumbling for him to repeat it.

“I asked why you weren’t at the front desk,” he said, his voice full of charming concern.

“Everyone kept asking me questions. I know it’s part of my job to get asked plenty of questions, but I just couldn’t deal with them all today.  And to top it off, I feel over dressed and my hair refuses to stay up!”

It was only after she finished her rant that she realized she had just let out all of her frustrations out on her professor’s assistant. She felt like a fol and quickly started apologizing for her lack of decorum. The more she rambled, the wider Johnathon’s smile grew until he stopped her with a wave of his hand. Smile still in place, he took the chair next to Britney’s and sat so that he was facing her.

“Personally, I think your hair looks lovelier down than it does up.”

Britney looked up at him again before she pulled the last three remaining pins out of her hair. It tumbled to the middle of her shoulder blades in all of its golden glory. Cautiously,  Johnathon wrapped a curl around his forefinger then let it go, watching it spring back into place.

“Much better,” he said.

Britney’s wide green eyes looked down at her outfit, staring awkwardly at the white button down with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the sweater vest with the argyle print in blue, black, and purple and her black pencil skirt and suitable pumps. She still felt far overdressed for the third day back to classes for the spring semester.  Johnathon spoke again.

“You know, I like a girl who makes herself look professional, especially in the work place. It gives off a certain air of confidence and credibility and dominance. I really like it.”

Her whole face flushed at the comment was she nodded. She didn’t feel dominant, but the compliment put her a little more at ease. The college freshman thanked him and gave him a rare, pure smile.

“Now, about all that stress, let me see if I can help get it off your mind,” he said while his hand slunk up from her knee, where it had come to rest after he had played with her hair, to under her skirt. It still rested on the outside of her thigh,  but the warmth and sudden contact made her breath catch in her throat.  He looked confident as his eyes gazed into her’s.  Britney felt hunted, but she liked it.  She really enjoyed the feeling of Johnathon’s hand on her.  His other hand came to rest on her cheek. Her glasses fogged up from the heavy breathing she was experiencing.  What would he do, what would he do?

He leaned forward and kissed her neck softly. The feeling of his lips over her pulse sent it skyrocketing as she gasped. He smiled at her and the innocence she held. His hands left her and he pulled away. She whimpered, unsure of her body’s reactions.

“Go back to work my dear Britney. I’ll collect you when your shift is done. We’ll work out the rest of your stress later.”  With that he left, leaving Britney realing.

642 Things to Write About: 3

Prompt: Everyone was laughing, except you.

I hate that feeling. That horrible, sick curling feeling the bottom layer of your stomach.  That feeling you get when your cheeks turn from their normal ivory to that deep, embarrassed red.  The kind of red that turns certain spots of your face splotchy and even makes your ears go red.  Your fists shake, finger nails biting into palms to keep yourself calm, to keep yourself from lashing out.  It’s that feeling where you know that you’re the butt of the joke.  The punchline.  The effervescent hilarity, that laughter that surrounds you is because of you.  And no, they aren’t laughing with you.  Rather, they are laughing at you.

It’s a more frequent occurrence that not to be the of the joke for me.  I’m somewhat funny, but the jokes that she keeps throwing around are distinctly un-funny.  They are hurtful and while everyone else laughs at my expense, I sit there with a tense smile on my face.  They are drunk and I am not.  This shouldn’t be an excuse, but my brain is desperate to keep a tight leash on my ever dying control.  I am normally the butt of one joke or another.  The reasoning behind the jokes are simply my own features.

I’m a klutz.

I’m blonde (and therefore less intelligent than everyone else in the room).

I’m short.

I’m kind of a sexual deviant.

I don’t drink much, if at all.

I have an obsession with books and literature.

I’m somewhat messy.

I have a real problem with anger and holding grudges (especially against ex boyfriend).

I’m a serious band geek.

While I believe all these traits to be normal, admirable, or simply who I am, others are not so kind.  One of my roommates, the bully of the group, continues to make blonde jokes, a few of our friends chiming in.  The jokes turn into sexual based ones and then she lashes out at my problems with my ex boyfriend.  I sit there and just breathe, holding on tightly to my control.  It is a losing battle.  If I don’t do something soon, I am guaranteed to blow up at some one in this room.  There is a part of me that would like nothing better than to do just that, now is not the time or place.  If I am to exact any form of retaliation, revenge, or similar ideas, I’d prefer my house to be completely sober before I do anything malicious.

Instead of screaming and calling them every nasty name I can think of, I stand up and tell everyone I’m going for a walk.  I’m desperately in some fresh air.  One of my roommates, whom has just appeared from her own room, agrees to accompany me.  With  a casual wave, I go to stand outside.  It’s cold, biting cold.  I’m glad to be wearing my winter coat and boots.  Tugging the hair tie from my wrist, I wrap my blonde hair into a bun, keeping the strands out of my eyes.  the cold does little to calm me down, but it does seem to make my anger settle into a stasis.  When my one roommate joins me, I hear fleeting jokes at my expense through the doorway.

“What the fuck is that girl’s problem?  Just cause she’s a blonde nympho doesn’t mean she has to be a bitch too!”

“She’s just a drama queen.  She’s probably doesn’t have enough brain cells underneath all that hair to really be too angry.”

“She just needs to get laid!”

The laughter is raucous and it hits me like a knife.  My roommate with the red hair joins me and she hands me a pack of TNT poppers.  These are my own brand of anger management.  We walk a ways around the parking lot until we are far enough away from my building to yell.  I swear like a sailor and start my war path.  She listens and we throw poppers on the ground intermittently.  The fire and the smoke blaze up and put themselves out in an instant.  It’s a release of some form.  I complain for the better part of an hour while my roommate listens and comments.  I’m not sure how many loops we’ve made around the building adn the parking lots near by, but it’s approaching one in the morning when we return.  The apartment seems quieter and I am feeling better.

Walking in, I hear the muted sounds of alcoholic puking.  I smile.

I wonder who has the last laugh now?

642 Things to Write About: 2

Making Soup:

While she was no culinary genius, Tabby did her best to cook with the simple instructions that he mother had given in the recipe.  The broth spilled into the large pot with a careful hand as she smelled the aroma that permeated the room.  A splash of the broth caught the edge of her shirt, making her swear.  It wasn’t hot, but she did not want to go find another top.

“Son of a bitch!”  her voice, while like bells, sounding rough.  One of her roommates popped out to see if she had burned herself.  Tabby had a tendency to injure herself.

“Calm down, I’m fine.  I just an apron.”  She debated between the three that rested neatly on the hook on the outlying wall of the kitchen.  Tugging out the black apron with the words ‘spooning leads to forking’, she tied it to herself to avoid anymore spills.  Back to the pot, she watched as everything came to boil, the whole apartment filling with warmth.  It felt so good to be cooking for people, her roommates and one of her friends.  She wasn’t the best cook, her abilities limited to breakfast foods and a few other odds and ends.  However, this recipe was warm and very healthy, so she thought it would be appropriate for the gathering of friends.

diligently, she dropped in ditalini, lemon juice, herbs, and watched as the whole pot came to a boil.  she turned up the catchy Taylor Swift tune as she danced in the kitchen, listening for the door.  When the knocks came, she slid on her fuzzy socks to the door and opened it.  Her friend walked in, commenting on the warmth.  As her roommates filtered out of their rooms, they too made noises of appreciation for the food.

Sitting down, she felt like she was home.

Maybe she was.