Literature.

It's like a battle. You instigate, you retaliate. Still, you lose either way.
Still, you're pathetic either way.
Still, you have a lot of overcome either way.

Get your mind straight.
And claim your mistakes.

You need to learn how to write.
You suck.
Your friends only say you're good to be nice.
They feel bad for you.
Quit being pathetic.

I've been blind for longer than I could remember, I'd been playing guitar since I was eight, and I'd been best friends with Johnson since I was twelve. The only reason we were friends was because I had begged my parents to let me to go public school just to try it out; it didn't work out. A lot of things haven't worked out with me, mostly because I'm blind. I walk with one of those guiding sticks and I always have sunglasses on, so people normally stay away from me. The only two constants in my life have been Johnson, and guitar. Well, aside from not being able to see; that's pretty constant.

Johnson came over to double-check everything and make sure we were ready. In a few days, we were driving cross-country, all the way to California for college. I'd been packed since the day after my little home-school graduation ceremony and I was more than ready to leave. College, for me, meant making a name for myself in a place where no one knew me. The only thing I hadn't packed was my guitar. I'd been writing a few new songs in the past couple of days and I figured I'd play them for Johnson before we left.

When he came in, he immediately sat down at the office room computer and signed into his MySpace. That's normally how it went because he had two hippie parents who didn't like electronics too much. He didn't have a microwave or a TV at his house, so when he came here, he used them as much as he could.

I played him my two new songs. Of course, he said he loved them, just like every other time. Sometimes I think he says that because he's my friend and he doesn't want to say anything else, but I know Johnson better than that. He pulled something out of his bag and it sounded like he was rustling around the computer wires.

"Jay,  what're you doing?" I usually just called him Jay when we're hanging out. Johnson is too many syllables and it reminds me of his mom whining to him. She can get like that sometimes.



See, you tried to write this. Then, you tried to edit it and your computer LOST IT. Good thing it did. The dialogue was shit. They sound so fake.
When you write dialogue, it needs to be something people would actually fucking say.
Also, it's dry. You wrote it and you're bored reading it. Like that lady said: "If I don't like the first sentence, I don't bother reading on."

Quit being lame.


ALSO, you change narrative perspectives like, 5895793485 times. WTF is that?
Johnson is a lame name. Change it.

six years of schooling without your best friend; i finally graduated. it was a little ceremony with the other home-schooled kids in my area and i'm pretty sure i was the only one who had to be helped walk across the stage. in approximately one week, i'll be heading off to college with my best friend johnson to start over and reinvent myself. i don't want to be 'the blind girl' anymore.

when johnson came over that night, i was working a few new songs. he'd already heard the hundreds of other ones, so i figured i'd write a few new songs before we left. i'd had my guitar and been playing it since my eighth birthday when my uncle jim gave it to me and this was the first time i'd have to put it in it's case and take it somewhere. i was nervous; the guitar was in good shape, but it was old. it was old when i got it.

when i was two, the world started getting fuzzier. it happened pretty slowly, but it didn't take more than eight or nine months for me to completely lose my vision. the doctors knew what was happening and were unable to fix it and me, being two or so, didn't really notice it too much. everything just seemed to fade away over time. when i got a little older, about four or five, it began to really bother me. i couldn't see what my hair looked like after my mother fixed it up nice or my father when he put on his best tie at christmas.

one time, i went to play outside in the yard because i heard other kids through the open window, but i didn't tell my parents. the other kids were nice to me at first; one took my hand and led me to where they were playing and the others told me their names. they said we were playing partner hide and seek, so the kid who had my name, his name was jamie, told me he'd be my partner. he led me somewhere that he claimed was 'the best spot' and then let go of my hand. then, i heard tons of screaming and jamie pushed me hard on the back and told me to run, so, not thinking, i did. i woke up in an ambulance because i had been hit by a car. they weren't going very fast, but i had run right into the street. i wasn't hurt more than a few bruises, but it was the last time i played in the outside for a while.

when i was about eight, my uncle harvey came to stay with us a bit because he had never seen new york and he wanted to play his guitar. i had never heard a guitar right in front of my before and when he played, i fell in love. i asked him to play all the time, every song he knew. one time, when he wasn't home, i went looking for his guitar. when i found it, i tried to make the sounds he had but couldn't, so i sat there and cried. when he came home and found me crying on his guitar, he sat me down and taught me how to play a song called 'stairway to heaven,' and i was hooked.

for weeks, i begged my parents for a guitar but my mother was weary and my father said it would be too hard because i was blind. i screamed at him when he told me that. i hated being called 'blind' or 'visually impaired.' especially 'visually impaired.' so i wrote to uncle harvey, explaining my predicament, and in a little more than a month, just before my ninth birthday, uncle harvey sent me an acoustic guitar. he told me that even though it wasn't new, it would be a good start. i began to take it everywhere i went.

right before i turned twelve, a new boy came to my school and became my first best friend. i'd had a few friends in the past, but none that i went to the park with, or got ice cream with, did homework with, or even talked to outside of school. kids would tease us and say that we liked each other and were boyfriend and girlfriend, and i did like him, but we were just best friends which was fine with me.

his name was johnson and he was a piano, but he told all the other kids to call him by his middle name, which was brett, and never told anyone he played piano. he told me that if the kids knew he played piano, they would think he was lame. i told him i didn't think it was lame and that's when i showed him my guitar. i played him something i had made up a little while ago, and he told me it was great. when he asked who the song was by, i told him me, and he laughed a bit, and then told me it was the best song he had ever heard, but it would sound better with words. so he brought me to his house and gave me some CDs. he told me to listen to the way the singers sang their songs and they way their lyrics went and then to try it. then we made ice cream sundays and walked around his neighbourhood. it seemed as if he didn't know i couldn't see him, or anything. he didn't care.

April 17th, you told people you'd write the good stuff.
I think it's safe to say you're a liar.
Not to sound self-destructive or anything...

I love how you get and epic and sensual idea for a scene,
and then you ROYALLY FUCK IT UP.


You're a real talented retard.

Before I know it, he has me pressed against the wall with only clothes between us. He's kissing me with such desperation I might melt. A kiss of need; he needs me with every fibre of his being; the kiss I've been waiting for. He slows a bit, my eyes opening to find his staring back, pleading for the privilege of moving forward. I grin, just slightly, and he slides his hand over my bare back, giving me chills all over. I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull him to me, letting him dive into my grasp with more intent than I thought he had in him.
His hands move over my stomach, fingers spread, keeping a hold of every bit of me he can. He moves higher and his hands are under my bra and we're clumsily dancing toward the bed. Slowly, his hands leave my chest and I break our embrace, questioning his disinterest, but am answered by his firm grasp on my hips, pulling me to him as he turns over, pressing me into his lap as he sits up.
Though the mess of hands gaping and mouths tangling, my shirt comes off before I notice and I slide his off just as quickly. Skin against skin, he manoeuvres himself on top of me and entangled as we become, I feel


dead.

How could you do this to me? How could you put on such an act?
I know how; you're a lonely, angry little boy who doesn't know anything but destruction and ANGER.
And if there isn't destruction, you have to destroy SOMETHING!
You create this for yourself! COMPLETELY. This is no one's fault but YOURS.
You LIED. I trusted you. You let me trust you, for so long. But your act wore thin,
your stories intertwined.
AND YOU WERE CAUGHT.
I could strangle you,
I could kiss you.
I could punch you so hard in the face,
I could hold you close.

You are scum
You are my love.
How could you do this to me!?
Because you are selfish, second generation SCUM. You were BRED this way.
BREAK THE CYCLE.
Yes, there is good in there. I found it.
But you, you will never see it! You have not LOOKED!
Will you ever look?
Will you ever look past your nose and see the world?
See me?

Two batches of chocolate chip, one peanut butter with white chocolate chunks, two fudge swirl with almond glaze, and one batch of straight chocolate cupcakes.
I'm on my third batch of chocolate chip and I can't eat a single bite. Whenever I'm angry or sad, I was always able to bake; not now. It's probably past 3 A.M. and I'm almost out of flour. But I can't seem to stop. No amount of cookies will bring him back. No amount of hours in the kitchen will change this.
This is what I call bake-therapy
And it's the first time it hasn't work.

This is also the first time I've had the love of my life leave me for his high school sweetheart. I didn't even know he had one. I didn't even know he looked at other girls, much less would notice one like her. She's so



Don't write in a bad mood
everything you put out will reflect your mind
which is angry.


And anger makes bad stories
well, so far.
I think I'll write and attack monologue.

I feel the car braking; I almost cracked a smile. No such luck with duct-tape. I hear the grunting of my attackers bumbling out of the car and coming towards the trunk. The wrench the lid open and the sunlight blinds me so bad my eyes water. I start writhing and one of them smacks me on the head, hard.






I really hope this hasn't died.

I've never had sympathy for people who were claustrophobic. It seemed like a crap excuse to get out of stuff that no one else wanted to do, but if you whined enough, people would just let you out to shut you up. I now understand claustrophobia. Hours have probably passed and I'm still locked in a trunk, hundreds of miles from home, and I really, really have to use the bathroom. I'd scream, but my mouth is duct-taped. I'd kick or punch or move only, I'm bound by ropes and a pair of handcuffs for my wrists and ankles. I don't even know why I'm in this mess. But let me tell you, once I get out of this, I will never walk down the trail again.
Yes, when I get out of this, because I will.
I hope.

I remember, a few months ago, I signed up for those AMBERalerts that tell you when a child has gone missing in your area; my phone has vibrated three times. I'm just glad whoever is driving didn't feel the trunk buzz. Not like they could; this old beater makes more noise than a semi going over railway tracks. But about the AMBERalerts, I got a few of my friends to do the same, including my stupidhead ex-boyfriend who is the reason I'm in all this mess. If he wouldn't have walked in on Benny Harmon trying to put the moves on me and then MISSED me pushing him off and kicking him in the, ahem, private area, I wouldn't have stormed off school grounds and onto the trail to get home, where I was, in fact, jumpedhandcuffedduct-tapedanddrugaway. It happened fast enough to fit as one word.

I know they're going to come looking for me. Even though my best friend thinks I cheated on my boyfriend because she too missed the private area kicking and my disgust, but I know they'll come; they'll feel terrible.
I hope.

My hands hurt, aching down to my elbows with shooting pains through my wrists and cramps in my shoulders. He's stopped laughing; I've stopped pounding. Stopped yelling. Stopped threatening. Now I'm just slumped at the door, praying for the beautiful sound of a lock with a key in it to cut the tension in the room. I can't even look at him; I don't want to see that smug, arrogant smirk plastered on his face as he puts his hands behind his head and leans back against the wall, ready to wait this out. It doesn't phase him a bit. For once in my life, I envy him.

I know our friends have retreated back downstairs to play cards or make-out or whatever, I don't even care. So what if we were fighting? Okay, so maybe we both were screaming and I did throw a plate, or two. Those plates weren't mine, but still, that's no reason to lock us in a room, alone, until we work it out. At the time, I was flipping out and he, being the uncaring asshole he is, just let it go. He just sat down, shut his eyes, and stuck that default smirk on his face just to piss me off. He's good at that; pissing me off.

I shut my eyes and lean back on the door, not knowing whether I should cry or sleep or something. I decide to just pretend not to care. Bad idea.

"So baby, you ready to make up?" Sarcasm; I think I could kill him. I give him the silent treatment. That'll teach him.

"Come on,

CosmoGirl! of the year essay.

When you think of my city, where I live, what school I attend, you don't think of kids who read frequently, write literately, or are going out and improving themselves. I've been growing up in that environment and I'm tired of a broken heart. I'm tired of the hurt, knowing that there are so many young people that will never make it any farther than high school, or won’t become anything more than a statistic. I want to change that; if not just for myself, but for everyone else who wants to learn to help themselves. Being CosmoGirl of the year would open so many teenagers’ ears to what they've missed; what I've discovered: No matter where you come from, what you have, or who you’re supposed to become, expectations are meant to be surpassed. At school, most people steer clear of the library because of its nerdy reputation. Instead, they come to me, the girl with a hundred books, for reading material so that their friends won’t deem them weird. Also, most kids at my school can’t afford tutors; neither can I, so, I do whatever I can to help because I know these kids want to succeed. I don't do these things because I'm hoping for karma points; I'm doing them because I'm afraid no one else will. I have knowledge that many young people have yet to discover in themselves and I feel it's my job to help whoever will listen. Becoming CosmoGirl of the year would give my voice the megaphone and hopefully inspire other people to find their voice, even if they don't come from the best place or the best school. It'll inspire them to be better than they were told they could be; that's my goal: For the world to exceed expectations.

Love is only a word,
a mechanism,
a tool of manipulation,
a feeble attempt to label the
indescribable.
We know we cannot express
in simple terms
a dire need for a presence.
No one will trust or understand;
we are far too simple
to trust anything but
words.


Is this even poetry?
What the hell is this?

Hey, guess what!


You're mad. I'm talking, whatinthegoldengatesofIsraelisgoingthroughyourbloodymind mad.





Have fun with that.
xx Yourself.

This isn't going to be one of those stories that seems to subconsciously drops names of little known indie artists in playlists made for the main character's love interest. This isn't one of those tales where the dog dies and the necessary sex scene happens because that's just how literature works. This isn't one of those stories that grasps individuality because the author hasn't been a teenager for twenty years but wants to relive some lost youth through writing for kids.
No.
This is teen fiction, written by a teenager. No crap,
                                                                                      just good stuff.

Never start a story with an 'I sentence' or a question or a fragment of dialogue; so said Dr. What'shisface in his whogivesacrap english class. I'm fifteen years old and I'm going to be a literature prodigy. I think it's safe to say I can start a story however I please. But, in honour of Dr. What'shisface and all of his whogivesacrap english class, I started my story with a short monologue about how lame I thought his course was.
Insignificant, right? Wrong. Very significant; as long as you're paying attention.

Quit neglecting me and start doing something for yourself!

-Your mind.