Days I Haven't Died

Formerly named, "No, no, no, I hate poor people." Earlier Nope. Not convinced. Convinced everyone can be saved if they want to be? Yeah. Convinced that not heeding advise is foolish? Yeah. Convinced that the way desired by man leads to death? Yeah. Convinced I should go to rehab? Nope. Not convinced. Especially because it isn't rehab. It's a fucking homeless shelter. Also, convinced that to mock the poor is to insult their Maker? Yeah. I'm sinful. I'm wicked. I'm not going to go be around a bunch of homeless dudes in a shelter and have an ass-load of free time on my hands to do absolutely nothing with. Literally, as soon as I found out how much free time I would have, and that it wasn't actually a rehab I was dead set on not going. Fuck that. I might hate everyone around me, rejoice in the idea of an actual rehabilitation center but the fucking homeless?  Nope. Last night in Church the sermon was about praying to God out loud and being ...

"Call me," had been the signal to shut my phone off. Sorry, Kristen. ~Carnivorous Cats~ My left forearm looked as if it'd been used as a shield to fight off a relentless onslaught of cats whose claws had never before seen clippers. There I was, that fateful night, out far past my bedtime, wandering in the woods. The moonlight played with the wind and trees to create monsters and mythical beasts in the corners of my eyes, but little did I know the real danger lurking all around me. I could hear the hoot of owls, the flutter of wings. Nothing out of the ordinary, I'd been here many times. If I'd listen carefully enough, I could hear the soft skittering of mice as they cautiously crawled beneath fallen leaves and logs to avoid becoming late-night snacks. The mice. It must've been the mice that had attracted them, the smell of their weak, tiny flesh that had led the bloodthirsty kittens to those woods. Tripping over a broken branch, I landed hard on ...