Wifeh

Two months, one week, six days. I'd count the hours, but when you're not sleeping, they all seem to blend together. Not much has happened in this time. Not much ever happens when you're not here. Remember the month you were gone on your silly little business trip to Spain? Every night when you called and asked what I did that day, I answered, "Nothing, really...". I wasn't exaggerating. I could never function properly without you. That's frighteningly clear now. I really wish something would happen. Something to distract me from this mess. Maybe I should get a puppy, they're a lot of work, that'd take up my time. A yellow lab, like the one

"Just relax, sweetheart. Here, let me help you with that." The nameless woman un-does my belt, un-tucks my shirt, and un-buttons it. I am un-aroused. The idea of tonight was to get you out of my mind, get your sweet touch off of my body, to replace it with a meaningless one. "You want me to take my top off?" She reveals her breasts before I can answer- or cringe at- her question.The veined skin bounces near my face as she grinds her lap into mine. I count the stretch marks. "Yeah, you like that?" Dear God, she needs to stop talking, it's ruining the shadow of a "mood". But yes, I do like it. I like that she's the exact opposite of you. D

Depictions of love, of true, real, raw love break me down, speak to me in a way that rips fibers of my heart out, and lays them out in front of my eyes. There is a pain, a jealousy, a longing that is drawn from my core, bringing tears that flow without my consent. When I see the passion and sacrifice a person makes for another, when I see a father crying tears he never knew he had because he sees his little girl in pain, when I see a woman give her lover a kiss on the forehead, and whisper in their ear that it's going to be fine, a warmth runs over my body, and my lips tremble. The moment a mother first holds her baby boy in he

The smell of your basement used to make me ill. The mixture of Patchouli, and Cucumber, and Aqua D'Gio (type) would go up my nose, and into the lobes and nodules and folds in my brain that trigger migraines, and the pulsating nausea would start. (Same thing happens whenever I walk past the Yankee Candle store in the mall.) For years I hated going down those stairs, because I knew that a headache awaited me at the bottom. But, I did it anyways. Because I was twelve-ish, and I didn't know that I could refuse invitations. Somewhere within the six/sixpointfive/seven years that I intermittently smelled Man Hands, and OMH, and something I can

it's not that i miss you, i just don't know what to do without you here.

You're only first, it doesn't signify you're the best. You get much too much recognition for your prominence, you're even first in the word describing where you derive from. You lie proudly in the beginning, while the rest of us regretfully follow, not in your footsteps, but in the deep, muddy depressions you've left while 'guiding' us.

Megan Stewart English 11B Block 6 May 2, 2010 The Great Gatsby I do not want to write this report. I have not read the book, and I have no motivation to do so. I have a sinus infection, and I can't hear out of my right ear. I'm in no condition to write a paragraph about the extent that Gatsby's wealth, and all the luxuries that it provides, affects his ability to achieve what he desires. Nor am I in a state of mind to state how other characters' attitudes toward wealth affect what happens throughout the narrative, or debate whether class status be changed. I do not want to write 3-5 pages (typed, double spaced, 12 point font [TNR or Ari

The sweater she got for you is beginning to fray, like the scarf that preceded it. You can't resist pulling on the strands, helping this mess along. So it goes, another skein for the yarn basket, another demonstration of love torn apart. Not even the finest yard of ivory silk would be good enough for this seam ripper, not even the finest heart.