"Hey there, Trouble," it was the best way to greet her. She was your typical non-Christian fourteen year old girl. Not a virgin. Sold her Xanax for side money. No cares about anything; not lucky enough to be rich but wealthy enough to not give a fuck.
She'd said she sold pharms, so I asked which. I loved bragging about how much I got. Of course she asked if I'd supply so she could sell more.
"Not a fucking chance," I laughed at the girl.
The drug was a fucking death wish. The idea of fourteen year olds accessing a benzo harder than roofies was ridiculous.
I'd told Stefany about my mistake. Honestly, it was the hardest thing I'd done all day. I hated it. She seemed like she was warming up to me again, and I had to cut her with the cold truth:
I was still just as bad if not worse than I'd always been.
Either fucking way, I felt like trash. It bothered me, but life proceeded to waggle it's tremendous cock in my face.
Lime Lounge was like watching a bunch of retards try to fuck on a dance floor; problem was there was no one on the dance floor.
It was fucking ridiculous. Women dancing with women. Men dancing alone. If there were any visible, tangible definition of retardation; it was this.
Cassandra Walters showed up. As classy as she was, I felt sorry that she'd happened upon such a disgrace of an evening.
Thou shall not judge.
Fuck. Fucking, fucking, fuck. This asinine behavior maddened me to the point of evil.
I heard the call.
Chaos, baby, chaos. Stop.
She'd said she sold pharms, so I asked which. I loved bragging about how much I got. Of course she asked if I'd supply so she could sell more.
"Not a fucking chance," I laughed at the girl.
The drug was a fucking death wish. The idea of fourteen year olds accessing a benzo harder than roofies was ridiculous.
I'd told Stefany about my mistake. Honestly, it was the hardest thing I'd done all day. I hated it. She seemed like she was warming up to me again, and I had to cut her with the cold truth:
I was still just as bad if not worse than I'd always been.
Either fucking way, I felt like trash. It bothered me, but life proceeded to waggle it's tremendous cock in my face.
Lime Lounge was like watching a bunch of retards try to fuck on a dance floor; problem was there was no one on the dance floor.
It was fucking ridiculous. Women dancing with women. Men dancing alone. If there were any visible, tangible definition of retardation; it was this.
Cassandra Walters showed up. As classy as she was, I felt sorry that she'd happened upon such a disgrace of an evening.
Thou shall not judge.
Fuck. Fucking, fucking, fuck. This asinine behavior maddened me to the point of evil.
I heard the call.
Chaos, baby, chaos. Stop.
Stef hadn't stopped condemning me since I'd been honest with her. She had every right to. She'd given me herself and I'd given her mine, and to the product I'd given dirt compared to what she had.
Whatever, I thought. Although I hated thinking that way, it was me.
I helped some man who seemed either too drunk to see or actually blind retrieve his cane from the ground.
Steven offered help through a text.
Serotonin antagonists. Whatever. The fag had access to something I hadn't. Abuse? Probably. Sin? Certainly.
The most faithful here I'd watched experience a sexual experience with a freshly cut lawn. Lime Lounge was a domain for lost souls and all the astray. Cheap drinks? My ass.
Drunkenness led only to wickedness.
'Sandra was beautiful in floral dress. The man with the cane was being forced to leave, the poor drunk. Drugged or too weak for alcohol; still it remained a shame. On the bright side, the imbecile hadn't a chance at the anything any of the able bodied had; dancing, immoral sex, intimacy.
I refused it all for a lack of drive and interest. Him? The poor soul ought to have shown up purely out of hope.
Hope, that not driven by Christ would surely lead to nothing but wickedness and sorrow.
A fellow, dark long haired and silent, wrote in a notebook the entirety of the evening.
Whatever, I thought. Although I hated thinking that way, it was me.
I helped some man who seemed either too drunk to see or actually blind retrieve his cane from the ground.
Steven offered help through a text.
Serotonin antagonists. Whatever. The fag had access to something I hadn't. Abuse? Probably. Sin? Certainly.
The most faithful here I'd watched experience a sexual experience with a freshly cut lawn. Lime Lounge was a domain for lost souls and all the astray. Cheap drinks? My ass.
Drunkenness led only to wickedness.
'Sandra was beautiful in floral dress. The man with the cane was being forced to leave, the poor drunk. Drugged or too weak for alcohol; still it remained a shame. On the bright side, the imbecile hadn't a chance at the anything any of the able bodied had; dancing, immoral sex, intimacy.
I refused it all for a lack of drive and interest. Him? The poor soul ought to have shown up purely out of hope.
Hope, that not driven by Christ would surely lead to nothing but wickedness and sorrow.
A fellow, dark long haired and silent, wrote in a notebook the entirety of the evening.
Intrigued, I inquired as to his nature and intent.
He'd chosen the scene and paired the alcohol to assist in writing the tendentious. Laymen's; to express a cause, especially the controversial.
Thus, I met Justino Alatorre.
Emily wanted to dance yet I refused. My ambition had dwindled to wisps as the five to zero had worked through its half life. There would be no dancing tonight. It was the short bus of expression of desires of the flesh; I'd have rather dirtied myself in lonesome than partake in useless sociality.
I waited outside the dirty club on a bench, anxiously checking Facebook and other social medias for needless gratification.
She'd been online. I had nothing and everything to say her. Yet my best intentions drowned beneath a thick molasses of friendly poison and sedation. After professing my eerie and ominous love there hadn't been a cause in life, death and beyond that'd warrant contact.
It was not loathing or resentment or even fear; it was respect. I hated the idea of being another soul to save to her. A burden. It made me sick.
Bloody Hell. I'd spent hours at a trashy club. Lime.
I'd fucked extramaritally. I'd attempted to spend five stolen dollars on poutine out of boredom. I'd judged every soul I saw, condemning them, being wicked myself.
I failed again and again. At Zero, I'd known and embraced the oncoming challenge. A war against myself; I felt the ambition and drive steadily leaving my body. My arms to my fingers, my legs to my feet, and all of my spine to my mind had slowly began losing their steadfastness.
My eyelids fell shut far faster than before, my once life-filled energy dwindling. Stefany continued her cantor; I, doing the only Christian thing I'd done all day, did not argue. I did not justify or judge as I wanted.
My eyes felt as if they welled with tears yet no tears came.
I cannot say I loved, or at all I refused to do so. So many times I'd misused it to have bitter consequences.
I'd spoke of Bible Study at work. I felt proud of myself for uttering the words: Before now, I'd never had the faith in God to profess it.
I felt sick. Unlike anyone else, Stefany could hurt me more than anyone. Kristen, the funny named girl, and Stefany all held that power over me, knowingly or not.
Kristen had been meaningfully straightforward, but not like this. She'd been trying to help me.
The funny name girl hadn't seemed to have a malicious bone in her entirety.
Stefany had it, used it, probably not of her own doing, and inadvertently used Amelia, too, with that power, and because I was guilty, that power ate at me, killing me.
I ignored several calls from Stefany (who claimed it was Amelia, whose first words I witnessed through a minute long video message) the next morning on my way to Therapy.
Apparently Amelia, according to Stefany, keeps screaming for me,
"Dada!"
Next
He'd chosen the scene and paired the alcohol to assist in writing the tendentious. Laymen's; to express a cause, especially the controversial.
Thus, I met Justino Alatorre.
Emily wanted to dance yet I refused. My ambition had dwindled to wisps as the five to zero had worked through its half life. There would be no dancing tonight. It was the short bus of expression of desires of the flesh; I'd have rather dirtied myself in lonesome than partake in useless sociality.
I waited outside the dirty club on a bench, anxiously checking Facebook and other social medias for needless gratification.
She'd been online. I had nothing and everything to say her. Yet my best intentions drowned beneath a thick molasses of friendly poison and sedation. After professing my eerie and ominous love there hadn't been a cause in life, death and beyond that'd warrant contact.
It was not loathing or resentment or even fear; it was respect. I hated the idea of being another soul to save to her. A burden. It made me sick.
Bloody Hell. I'd spent hours at a trashy club. Lime.
I'd fucked extramaritally. I'd attempted to spend five stolen dollars on poutine out of boredom. I'd judged every soul I saw, condemning them, being wicked myself.
I failed again and again. At Zero, I'd known and embraced the oncoming challenge. A war against myself; I felt the ambition and drive steadily leaving my body. My arms to my fingers, my legs to my feet, and all of my spine to my mind had slowly began losing their steadfastness.
My eyelids fell shut far faster than before, my once life-filled energy dwindling. Stefany continued her cantor; I, doing the only Christian thing I'd done all day, did not argue. I did not justify or judge as I wanted.
My eyes felt as if they welled with tears yet no tears came.
I cannot say I loved, or at all I refused to do so. So many times I'd misused it to have bitter consequences.
I'd spoke of Bible Study at work. I felt proud of myself for uttering the words: Before now, I'd never had the faith in God to profess it.
I felt sick. Unlike anyone else, Stefany could hurt me more than anyone. Kristen, the funny named girl, and Stefany all held that power over me, knowingly or not.
Kristen had been meaningfully straightforward, but not like this. She'd been trying to help me.
The funny name girl hadn't seemed to have a malicious bone in her entirety.
Stefany had it, used it, probably not of her own doing, and inadvertently used Amelia, too, with that power, and because I was guilty, that power ate at me, killing me.
I ignored several calls from Stefany (who claimed it was Amelia, whose first words I witnessed through a minute long video message) the next morning on my way to Therapy.
Apparently Amelia, according to Stefany, keeps screaming for me,
"Dada!"
Next
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