“Write down the interior monologue you experience when you sit down to write.”
When I sit down to write, my mind literally goes into hyper drive and my thoughts become sporadic and hard to contain. They are very random and have nothing to do with anything really, but I go off on tangents. I don’t know if it’s me looking for inspiration, or if it’s me procrastinating because I fear sucking so bad that I can’t live up to the things swirling around in my brain. It might look something like this:
When I stepped out into the bright sunlight, from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind, Paul Newman and a ride home.
These things are good, ice cream and cake, a ride on a Harley, seeing monkeys in the trees, the rain on my tongue, and the sun shining on my face. These things are a drag, dust in my hair, holes in my shoes, no money in my pocket, and the sun shining on my face.
I’m not the one who stabbed the captain with a
Pope Alexander. Alexander Pope.
An eye for an eye makes the world blind.
Better late than pregnant.
For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
My cigarette burns like a flame, my lungs will never be the same. I puff, and I puff, I can’t get enough. Oh well, I’ll get cancer just the same.
Now you feel how nothing clings to you, your vast shell reaches into endless space, and there the rich thick fluids rise and flow, illuminated in your infinite peace.
Song of myself. Jenny from the L word was a cunt. Grendel’s mom was also a cunt, until Angelina Jolie played her.I liked Tombraider.
All seeing eye. The illuminati.
This ain’t the fucking Help bitch, but you will eat my shit.
Bora bora bora. I wouldn’t throw my pie for very many people. Dandelion. I want pie. You have the right to remain silent. Perhaps I should exercise that right.
Some other me is homeless, some other me is queen, some other me has seen things that no other me has seen.
Always starting over. What the fuck. 525600 minutes. How we gonna pay this year’s rent. Santa fe. Anna Gunn. I am the danger. Bitch. What would Kalinda do?
In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In NYC the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit, these are their stores. Bong Gong.
#SaveBenson. #ForgivingRollins.#NoMore. #Endthebacklog. #TheJHF.I’m still not the one who stabbed the captain with a pickle.
Poor Jodi Picoult. JK Rowling. I need just one good book. Tax man!!! I heart Emma Thompson. I liked Stranger than Fiction. I need a new watch. What the hell am I supposed to be writing about? Where was I?
What If Alyssa’s A Concrete Angel?
First off, I would like to extend my gratitude to my readers and those who always offer inspiration. I tend to do two things, write about pop culture and share my creative stories, usually taken from “642 Things to Write About.” May you all have love, laughter, inspiration, and a joyful heart during the holiday season and always.
I have some stories to tell, but these aren’t my usual type of stories. This one may be a long post, but I think it’s important and I appreciate those who read it in its entirety.
The neighborhood was quaint yet terrifying. The drug lords at the end of the street sold to half of the residents, while the other half was either in recovery or taking care of someone who was. There were a few squeaky clean inhabitants, and they spent their days with caution and fear, a lot of them elderly and had been living on Santa Goretti Avenue for decades. There were the neighborhood kids, latch key bastards for the most part. One such little girl attended the local elementary school with a few of the other kids from the street. Her parents didn’t approve of many of them, one in particular because his uncle was the aforementioned drug leader. Still, when the kids were playing basketball in the street while their parents still at work, there wasn’t much that could be done to prevent interaction. The little girl had a swing set and a trampoline in her yard, so occasionally against her parent’s instructions, she would invite her friends over to hang out. This was all a seemingly normal childhood behavior with no extreme cause for concern. Quaint neighborhoods have a way of harboring secrets though, don’t they?
A lot of fathers have sheds and a lot of sheds make great play houses despite the tools, dirt, and clutter often found in them. One afternoon after school, the drug dealer’s nephew came into the girl’s yard, where she was swinging high. He joined her, swinging even higher and in true show off fashion, did a back flip off the swing he was using. She laughed and smiled in awe, jealous of his super cool middle school abilities. They laughed and carried on and she asked him to do it again. He obliged but under one condition, he said only if they could go play in the red and white shed that stood a few yards from the swing set. She agreed because it was just too impressive a trick and she had to see it again. The boy flew high once more and flipped out of the swing sticking his landing even better than the first time around. Without hesitation, he made his way to the shed and hollered for the girl to follow. She skipped toward the shed, passing him and opening the big red door. The smell of aged wood mixed in with flickering specks of dust that danced near the small window only complimented the rusted tools and random junk that lay about on the shelving. Before she could even begin to reach for her hidden stash of treasure, the boy grabbed her by the arm, turned her to face him, and stuck his hand into her skort. He pressed so hard and with so much pressure, she winced in pain as he shushed her. It only lasted a few minutes, and without saying a word, he exited the shed and made his way to the gate leading out of the back yard. He never looked back, but she glimpsed him putting his fingers to his nose as she stood staring and frozen, never having left the shed.
Word travels fast in quaint little areas, and it wasn’t long before another older boy groped the girl’s body and forced his tongue into her mouth. She didn’t understand why anyone would do such a thing. And that was it. Nobody else bothered her and she wondered why for many years. She never would find the answer. That same summer, her parents divorced and she was nothing but relieved. Never again would she have to be sat down by her mother and explained to what crystal meth was, or why daddy popped mommy across the face at dinner or why he slugged mommy because she made his sandwich incorrectly. She never again would have to be told what a prostitute was when she overheard daddy apologizing for picking one up like a gallon of milk. Never again would she have a conversation in the parking lot of a country western bar with her mother, who decided it was the appropriate time to confess that the abusive addict she knew as daddy was in fact not her father, but he was father to her sibling. Never again would she think about the boys that had violated her. She would never tell anybody, especially when it came to the boy from the shed. He was a black boy from the neighborhood and his family was dangerous. She was raised with tolerance in her life, and the worst thing she could imagine was being called a racist. And as far as the other boy was concerned, well rumor on Santa Goretti was that after his parents were killed in a car accident, the boy was mentally disturbed and she just knew that’s why he was screwed up in the head and did what he did. Rumor also had it that he was committed into a juvenile psychiatric facility. That was the summer she grew up, and that was the summer she decided no more putting her trust into anyone with a Y chromosome.
Homeroom was bullshit, a waste of everybody’s time really. Armed with a hoodie and a Discman cleverly wired through the sleeve, it was music and nap time as far as she was concerned. Doodling happened quite often, you know to give off the appearance of actually working on something school related. Unfortunately her homeroom teacher was also her twelfth grade English teacher that year, and the bitch had it in for her, stemming back to freshman year. See, as a freshman, even then, her mouth got her into a lot of trouble and it got her thrown out of her ninth grade English class. Things have a way of shifting in unexpected ways when you’re a teenager.
One particularly freezing morning during said homeroom, the senior chick with a mouth that would make sailors cringe, started writing, nothing in particular, mostly bullshit in poetic form. Of course her teacher would happen to bust her on that day when she was supposed to be working on actual schoolwork. She took the paper and set in on her desk. Oh man, the student was pissed and glared at the blonde haired grey eyed authority figure with such distain. The teacher than spoke loudly, “See me after the bell.” She sighed heavily and muttered “bullshit” under her breath. Through the tortuous minutes left of homeroom, the student kept glancing over to see the teacher reading her paper on and off. Anger mounted and she knew she’d have to get a grip before talking to this lady after class. But on that day, staying after the bell would have a dramatic domino effect that would literally change that student for life.
The teacher started by reprimanding the girl for not doing as instructed, as per usual. The conversation then sped off on tangent, one in which the teacher was suddenly whispering, and strangely, complimenting the writing skills of the student. There was something there that the student hadn’t noticed previously; she didn’t think her teacher was a bitch at that point. Before either could pay attention to the clock, the bell rang, signaling that the shady student was late for her next class. Her English teacher wrote her a hall pass and sent her on her way. And so was planted the seed. Days and weeks nurtured their new found fondness of one another and it wasn’t long until they found themselves having coffee after school, or reading to each other in a book store. Nor was it long before the two consensually flamed a forbidden conflagration that would surely generate a back draft of reckoning.
The liaisons would only last but a couple months, that’s how long it took Mrs. Solange to be sideswiped by her conscience. The gossip in high schools is a pandemic that extends its unsightly branches to faculty and staff. Sure she was a senior, she would be 17 that year, not exactly a child and yet, a child still. She rarely attended all her classes, although there was one class she never missed in all her years since middle school, drama. She was working on a monologue from “Beside Herself” by Sarah Daniels but wasn’t connecting with it which led her to become worried. She actually gave a shit about drama class. She did what any respectable student would do, she asked her acting teacher to assist with the monologue, the problem hid in the legitimacy that he didn’t think she was respectable. He agreed to meet with her after class for some performance exercises. Little did she know what kind of performance and what kind of exercise. When he finished assaulting her, she abruptly had all the inspiration she would ever need for that monologue.
The principal wouldn’t believe a punk kid with attitude. She knew Mrs. Solange must have confided in the douche bag, that’s why he targeted her. She couldn’t risk their relationship to be exposed, and for that reason, her mouth never uttered a word about the attack. He was smart too, he didn’t rape her, and there would be no evidence anyways. Never again would that girl ask a teacher for help. Never again would she stand on a theater stage under the hot, blinding lights of her passion. Never again would she pass drama class. That was the school year that broke her, and that was the school year she decided no more putting her trust into anybody.
Brain Hemorrhage, Shark Attack, Witch’s Tit, and Sex in the Shower were some of her favorite drinks to prepare as a bartender. Actually, when put into perspective, in comparison with all the jobs she had ever had, she quite liked being a bar wench. The only big complaint was that when there were any social gatherings she attended, she was drink mixer by default. Who wants to bring work home with them? Even a bartender doesn’t want to. She wasn’t a big drinker herself, which many found surprising considering her line of work. A glass of wine here, a mixed drink there, and perhaps a shot on special occasions, that was about the extent of her consumption. Eventually she would accept a job with higher earning potential and left bartending, and it would take some time for her past behind the bar to bite her square in the rounded ass.
The air was filthy one night, overpoweringly so. Rain was threatening to hit the earth but procrastinated. Keeping warm with coffee and a few soft blankets, she found herself to be bored. She had several conversations brewing via text message, nonetheless she felt like Jack Torrance. She paced rapidly in her mind and grew anxious. The annoying buzz of a cell phone reverberating off of the wood of her coffee table kept her sane. However, something far more sinister and more annoying had come through, a goddamn group message. Two of her friends whom she had worked with in the retail world years prior, long before her days in a bar, were inviting her over for a drink and some telly. They were a married couple who had been together since she first met them. She wasn’t looking forward to going outside into the ugly night, but decided it was something to do. She blasted the heater for the entire five minute trip to the couple’s house; the temperature never reached its full potential. She didn’t even bother changing into real clothes, instead opting for the casual comfort of her pajamas. A cigarette was in order she decided, as she pulled into the driveway of a corner house. A quick reply to the group message would signal the couple to meet her outside so she could acquire a nicotine fix. Her car was not to be smoked in, so begrudgingly she shivered her way through the cancer stick. Just as promised, when they made their way into the house, bottles of alcohol were in clear view on the counter. “We waited for you, so you could introduce us to new drinks.” The husband joked, but only his wife found the humor.
A little of this, a little of that, and voila, before anyone knew it, Chelsea Handler was blasting from the television set and the trio was indulging in some pretty heavily poured cocktails. The woman who showed up stag to the party, only had two mixed drinks before cutting herself off. She had to drive home at some point, and if bartending taught her anything, it was a sense of responsibility with alcohol in her hands. She was however, not sober, but not entirely drunk either. Laughter filled the living room as Ms. Handler’s standup routine continued. When it ended, the woman asked for a glass of Dr. Pepper. Drinking always did maker her thirsty as a salt loving diabetic. After chugging the glass of the mythical prune juice, things to a strange turn, so strange she would not remember the rest of the night in its entirety.
Red numbers blinked at her, big red numbers. It was dark and the light from the alarm clock hurt her head. Confused and blurry, it took her several moments to piece together that she was in a bed with a woman to her right and a man to her left. It took a few more moments to realize it was her friends, the married friends. The last thing she remembered prior to waking up, was sitting on their couch laughing. A couple more moments and she became aware of pressure betwixt her legs. It was her; it was her thighs trying to fight their way out of a precarious position. The female friend was whispering something into her ear and the male was trying to spread her legs with his hands. Bits and pieces flashed her memory; she was in and out of awareness. At one point she was finally able to vocalize “Stop it. That fucking hurts.” At that point, the wife actually stopped and instructed her husband to do the same. He didn’t stop until he was finished, and his wife didn’t put up too much a fight with him. And that was it. It was over. Damage done.
Bruised, bleeding, afraid, and unable to locate her apparel, she cried and cussed frantically. She never did find her underwear, but after throwing on her pajamas, she raced out into the driveway. She felt woozy and still very intoxicated. She would never even consider getting behind the wheel of a vehicle. Her Chevrolegs took her to the nearest emergency room which she recognized as Morosini County General. It was almost four o’clock in the morning. She walked right up to the admitting nurse who was tucked safely away in a clear cell. There was a slit on the front of the station, presumably to speak into. There was also a second slightly larger slit on the counter where a clipboard was laying. The nurse didn’t look up when she muttered, “Sign in please and have your insurance card ready.” The woman didn’t have insurance. She whispered the embarrassing truth, “I was raped. I don’t have insurance.” Again the nurse’s gaze never left the paperwork she was working on, “Sign in and have a seat, case worker will be down shortly.” She signed a fake name and sat down in the farthest corner away from the admitting desk as possible. The ER wasn’t too crowded and she sure as shit didn’t want to sit near anybody. She contemplating fleeing the ER over and over, and only because she was pretty beat up and bleeding did she stay. She had decided before she even got dressed that she wouldn’t talk to law enforcement, no way, no how. Then a thought crossed her mind as she counted the number of people in the waiting room, eleven, she wondered if she could acquire the morning after pill.
A brunette in a skirt suit walked into the waiting room. It seemed very odd to her, even more so as the lady picked up the clipboard and shouted the woman’s name. She raised her hand and the sharply dressed brunette made her way over. She introduced herself and explained that she was a caseworker and would need to ask some questions because, “The nurse tells me you were raped.” The woman nodded slowly. The questions kept pouring out and responses were kept to head nods and “mm hmm” or “nu uh.” As humiliating and uncomfortable as it was, she answered because she felt it was the right thing. She was agonizing on the inside because as a bartender she knew better. She knew all the tricks in the book. It’s like a doctor smoking, it’s fucking stupid. Nothing could have prepared her for one of the final questions the caseworker would ask. Never in her life had she heard this question. “Did you have an orgasm during the rape?” The woman must have had a blank look canvassing her face because the caseworker asked if she needed to repeat the question. “No you don’t. The answer is yes I think so.” The horror that engulfed her stomach was indescribable. The shame was so overwhelming she had to choke down the vomit. The caseworker instructed the woman to follow her. She led her into a room and stated that a nurse would be right in. She made a mistake going there, she knew it.
A younger woman entered the room and introduced herself. She sat in front of the woman, looking up and down, not saying much directly. She mumbled about the visible cuts and bruises and then pushed her chair back towards the desk where a chart was sitting. She wrote something down and it appeared to the woman that the nurse rolled her eyes as she began to spoke. The words that would leave her mouth were not words one can prepare for. “Listen honey,” she started in a very condescending manner, “you are clearly intoxicated, and sounds to me like you made some poor choices tonight. The fact that you had an orgasm during this alleged rape indicates to me that there was no rape. I see no reason to do a rape exam, and considering you carry no insurance, there’s no need to strain you financially. Go home, sober up, cope with your choices and let it go.” Despite the fact that the woman was bleeding, she raced out of that emergency room and walked back to her car. She broke her own rule. As a bartender she hated people who got behind the wheel knowing they weren’t in any condition to do so. She was a walking contradiction. She drove home, paying no mind to speed limit signs.
The sun would rise the same as it ever did, and she would shower repeatedly. She knew better than to do that too. Her head was pounding yet she managed to make her way to a Planned Parenthood. She signed in with another fake name, and when asked the reason for her visit responded, “I had unprotected sex last night, I need emergency contraception.” She would never ever say she was raped again. The staff at the clinic was decent enough. She had an STD panel performed and was prescribed emergency contraception. And that was it. Never again would she mix drinks for her friends. Never again would she laugh the same or as hard as she once did. Never again would she stay sober. That night was the night that defeated her as a woman and that was the night she decided no more putting her trust into herself.
*The only non factual pieces here are street names, names of persons, and names of places. Do yourself a favor and Google Saint Maria Goretti, Saint Solange of Bourges, Blessed Pierina Morosini, and “Beside Herself” by Sarah Daniels.
Now, what if I told you these were true stories, not “based on” true stories, but factually truthful stories? And what if I told you all three, happened to ONE person at different stages in her life?
I have recently become very interested and involved with The Joyful Heart Foundation, the #NOMORE campaign, and the fight to #endthebacklog. If you get a moment please take a look and maybe learn some things you didn’t know before. I am starting the conversation wherever possible, I ask you to join me.