Random

She lights a smoke, while thinking of the words about to posses this blank page. She fumbles with the lighter because the beer she’s consumed is raging threw her sober veins.

She belches at the snoring beast on the floor, while being laughed at from two different directions. Those laughing wenches sit there with similar agendas. Compute. Compute until you cannot stand to look at a screen. Or until your sleepy.

Ridicule is next. Glances pass between them and contemptuous laughter follows. She gets belittled by statements of who she should be.

“It’s ka-ka” says one of the screaming wenches repeatedly. Then the computing system tells her she cannot spell.

“You cannot” bellows the other.

Another blowing belch at the snoring beast. “I need a beer” states the subject of contempt.

After a refill of wine, soda and beer, she again sits to complete her thoughts. Nothingness. All around her. The dark of the gloomy feeling surrounds her like a dark descriptive thing.

She attempt writing with her nose, thinking it might inspire something meaningful and profound. It does not.

She’s odd and uncultured. Or not. She reads her horoscope and feels pretzelized by the word. Crippling twists and turns of her emotions. All the while thinking ‘Jason’s Sexy’.

Coughing, drinking and smoking seem to go hand in mouth with this group. The thoughts of Dutch Rudders make them giggle like little school boys learning what a Dutch Rudder is.

“Damn!” she proclaims. “That’s a good sentence”.

She takes a swig of beer and thinks of the snot in her nose. “I should blow that” she says.

“All done, that was quick”.

She finds herself explaining the situation to a young bucking male that has herpes. He’s not ashamed of this.

She thinks of morrows day when her evil sister from France will intrude on the light hearted laughter. It makes her think of Morris Day and The Time. Jungle Love. And that makes her think of Jason Mewes, which makes her think of Porno.

The herpie infected male makes her realize, she’s Schizo. She takes another swig while thinking she’s sad in the pants.

“Sad sack” screeches the wine wench.

“You’re a poor sad sack” states the creamy soda wench.

“I am not” yells the writer of this shit. And in the background, behind the battlefield the infested sack of mucus herpie screams like nothing matters “Napoleon!”.

The wine wench wants promises’ and demands. She wants to be told she wrong. Love, to her, is no battlefield. Or maybe it is.