ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
I am a 17 year old thinker. I am too cool for school and too scared to drop out. [March 2005]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (3) Coined Truth (Essays) Jesus would approve. [203 words] Here Today, Gone Fishing Pt.1 (Short Stories) A little after-drug-deal excitement. [1,105 words] Naminalism (Essays) Is this for you? Because it should be if you care about yourself. And our future. [228 words] [Self-Help]
The Business Of Hope Sullivan Of The Sea
The room smelled like a 2-day old tampon and warm cigars. On my left there was a middle-aged mother of four dancing like she was re-living her first divorce. Nothing flowed well; her hips were frozen, her arms just waved around like a suffocating seagul, and she had no rhythm. Rhythm is a funny thing, one would think that since the shitty techno beat is pounding so loudly, it would be easy to at least tap your toe with the bass drum. The dancer, who I have secretely named Sasha, seems completely unaware of the deep rumbling of the bass. Her mind is occupied on something that means a little more than shaking her ass for some 40-something businessman like me. However. One must always remember their place. Sasha's job is to make money and to entertain me. Just like it is my job to make money and make people feel like shit. From behind me, I can feel the weight of someone's eyes gazing at my back.
"Hey Alex, is that you? Alex Hepburn? Fuck! Jake, come look at the great televangelist himself, Alex Hepburn." "Do I know you?" "Probably not. I'm Luke, my wife's a fan of your show. Well, actually she's a fan of God and she says you're the closest thing to him." "Hmm." I manage to scare Sasha away with a wave of disinterest and a raised eyebrow. Jake approaches his annoying friend with a pat on the back. "What do we have here Luke? Looks like a hypocritical God-lover at a strip club. Now what do you suppose he is doing here, Luke my old buddy?" "Fellas, listen. I am a man, and I have every right to be entertained as you do. Now leave me and my drink the fuck alone. Unless you want me to tell God where you have been tonight." "At least he aint one of them homo... uh, homo-child-fucker-sexual priests I've heard about. Take it easy God-lover."
Any chance of getting a boner has just been evaporated along with all the moisture in this goddamned place. I take it back, the moisture is still present. Mostly between my dress shirt and my skin. Work was tough tonight, I filmed an info-mercial for 3 hours and it still isn't finished. My 19 year old daughter is probably getting fucked, it used to be a fear but now it's a given. Fathers, as soon as your little girl grows tits, forget about father's-day gifts and piggy back rides. It's all about pearl necklaces and reverse cowgirls from then on. Giving up is way underated.
As I leave the stripclub, I see Sasha in the parking lot. I approach her and can smell the thick perfume coming off her body, obviously covering the scent of her bad habits. I told her I was interested in helping her, and she didn't respond, save for the rolling of her eyes. When I flashed some cash, those eyes lit up like two infants in a bathtub with a hair-dryer. In ten minutes, I had my cock in her loose vagina. I dropped her off at her house, like a gentleman, gave her a couple hundred bucks, and drove home.
I lit a cigerette while I was driving and blew the smoke out as slowly as I had inhaled it. I don't like to roll my windows down because it's a bad neighborhood. I put my favorite tape in and tapped my fingers to the rhythm. Oh Sasha, if you only danced the way you fuck. No energy, but at least you had a sense of timing. What the fuck was her real name? As these thoughts were going through my head, I am hit by a small Toyota pickup with a Pantera sticker on the back window. My old Corolla was flung into oncoming traffic, I nearly missed a homeless man, and I jumped out of my car with my fucking 45 magnum in my hot little hands. I commando-rolled onto the sidewald and fired blindly into the direction of my attacker and killed about five people. The truck got away, but the homeless man didn't. I put a bullet into his sad fucking skull too.
After I lit the cigerette I put it out instantly because I was supposed to be quiting. Giving up is way underrated. I press on my brakes because I see a homeless man crossing the street ahead of me and as I do, a shitty Toyota truck blaring metal through 10-inch speakers blows a stop sign and nearly collides with my little Corolla. I am completely indifferent to what has just happened. I think about how cool it would have been if he had hit me. I would have shown him. Probably would have shot the fucker, if only I had a gun. I pulled into my driveway and saw that there was an extra car in my street. Probably another fucking boyfriend of my daughters. I walk into the house and tell the little whore to quiet down while I watch my TV show. My TV show. God Lives. This is the one where some handicapped asshole picks up a car because God allows it. Oh man, this is real entertainment.
There are a number of ways to take your mind of the misery of living. I believe it is my duty as a Christian to explore every possibility, whether through living or dreaming. However, giving up is way underrated...
READER'S REVIEWS (5) DISCLAIMER: STORYMANIA DOES NOT PROVIDE AND IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR REVIEWS. ALL REVIEWS ARE PROVIDED BY NON-ASSOCIATED VISITORS, REGARDLESS OF THE WAY THEY CALL THEMSELVES.
"What is the use of this? Terrible dialogue, terrible train of thoughts, and a terrible attempt at writing. It seems to me that the author is lacking many skills as a writer. An amatuer no doubt, but you'll get better, you're only seventeen just let some time pass by. And the title is awful as well. I believe that if you stop trying to sound like a "bad ass" and learn to structure your paragraphs better and think up stories with a little more cleverness and get yourself a style of writing then you may do okay. What I mean by that is the whole story and style of the writing is like taking a gulp of water, anyone can do it. You just need to find yourself. Last point: and when you repeat a line or phrase more than once in a story it should sound somewhat profound and meaningful. " -- Matti K .
"oh yeah Matti? fuck you. how's that for bad-ass? I bet you didn't know you just insulted a grade-A magician of miscontent, did you? faggot. try getting laid, then you wont spend so much time critiquing "17" year-olds' work online. pervert. im telling my mom." -- Sullivan of the Sea.
"A little hurt I see. Nothing more than words. You shouldn't get so upset over nothing. It seems that you thought nothing else to say, so you insulted the person who hurt you so dearly. I critiqued the work because isn't that what you wanted? I'm sorry that reality has come your way and you've discovered that not everyone in this world is going to enjoy what comes from your tiny mind. I was just stating my opinion, which I still stand by. So you tell your blasted mother of a mom about your in ability to write something decent, and that a bunch of words typed up with no real voice behind them hurt your simple feelings. I'm sure I'll be hearing from you again and your lack of mind. Cheers. " -- Matti K.
"No hope for this story bro I think matti was on to something. I couldn't evan finish the whole thing. My stories are just as bad though so dont think of me as an enemy. It's not like this stuff is being published by the website anyway. Stick with it young cat and "Keep hope alive" The Crystal Method" -- Kendall.
"Well I didn't think it was as bad as some of these people said. I finished it. it wasn't the greatest, but what the hell? that doesn't mean its bad. if i was to say something about it i would say that you need to structure it a little better. i could go on but i won't. keep trying." -- sf.
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