I’ve been working with the concept of doing a series for a while now and I’ve decided to just go ahead and jump into the thick of it. I’m really excited about this and I hope you are too.
It’s heavily influenced by Joss Whedon and Neil Gaiman and there’s a sneak peek of a character illustration on the facebook page. I wanted to add an element of noir as well so hopefully, that comes through in the writing. I don’t want to give away too much but it’s got everything from demons to presidents of home owner associations, which from my understanding, are fairly similar.
I’m working on the first issue and will be posting it hopefully by the end of this week.
I thought knew how much I loved you.
I thought I knew the way you made me feel but the distance between us has taught me that I knew nothing.
That I know nothing. Continue reading
Posted in Season III
- Tagged blog, diary, entertainment, letter, life, lifestyle, love, love letter, men, romance, storytelling, women
It’s The Most Magical Time of The Year
Ah, December. What a magical time. Frost in the air, cookies in the oven, stockings hung on the mantle with care. It’s a time when families gather all around and set out as a pack to choose one tree that will serve as a reminder to the other trees not to get too cocky as we parade it through the streets atop our four-door, family vehicles before dragging it inside and decorating it’s withering body with sparkles and various other whimsical baubles. We prefer to put them in front of large windows so that its slow and drawn-out, but none the less beautiful, death tells passerby’s “Hey, hey look at all this shit we can pile on this thing. I know right? Keep it moving, plebeians”.
O Christmas Tree
O Christmas Tree
How much better does your slowly rotting carcass look in our house that it does from that
tacky whore, Debra’s?
Walking into work after class felt like slowly scraping away at a chalkboard locked inside my skull. Mentally, I had just about had it with remembering to open each eye after blinking and the fact that my feet somehow continued to shuffle one after another is a miracle. Between analyzing every minuscule detail of Richard the III and decoding whether or not toddlers can be racist based on their Teletubbie preferences, I was a lobotomized mess. The lack of sleep combined with mental anguish was beginning to drive me insane. For some reason my mouth constantly tasted like cotton balls and those weird off brand gummy bears and my hands were always covered in hives. My legs essentially felt like I was saving up for a broomstick harvest at a contemporary crafts festival. It was leggings day, every day for fall was gonna come early this year regardless if it was 93 degrees outside. Wild animals scurried away from me when I went outside. Hordes of vultures circled my house. Murders of crows haunted my ears as I aimlessly plucked out an out of tune rendition of “Banana Pancakes” on my sad little ukelele. There would be no banana pancakes here. Nay, I say! Nay! For they are too happy a thing to reside in the darkness that was my heart in the depths of despair that were these times. Continue reading
It was the last day of class. Finally I would be free from the toils of the mountains of essays and the relentless onslaught of writing page after page of dull, lifeless prose that sucked out my soul and left dark rings under my eyes. No longer would I have to sit in the classroom that smelled of wet cardboard and stale kitty litter and listen to Professor Hammond’s twin prattle on about Iambic Pentameter while making a makeshift beat on his podium, losing it about five seconds in and restarting the lesson from the top.
On a side note here, it honestly scared me how much he looks like my professor. Down to the hat and cane.
I was positive that I had begun to develop a brain tumor out of stress, not due to difficulty, but out of frustration that he insisted on using the space bar when the tab key would indent the correct amount already. I was mentally exhausted from holding back audible screams of rage when ever he would look into my eyes and proceed to center his words using his fast little clicks.
Tiptiptiptiptiptiptiptip “Oh darn, too far” Tack Tack Tack Tack Tiptiptiptiptip Continue reading
“Does anyone not know how to log on to a computer?”
I lean back in my desk and feel the glaze on my eyes further solidify as I join the rest of the class in silence. The curve of the chair bites into my tail bone but at least I feel something again. I check the time on my phone from the pocket of my dress. We’re entering hour two of our three-hour tour. I was forming a theory that this was a psychological experiment of some sort over how long it will take for millennial’s to go all Planet of the Apes on an old man.
“Okay, so you start with your name, usually it has this format with a name box and password box.”
Lord have mercy he’s doing it again. I could not count the times that I had seen this exact presentation. It was a good fifteen minutes about the importance typing with the correct fingers.
“Now, some people do, I think it’s chicken beak type style, like this”, he held up his stubby little hands, “Notice my pointer finger is up, like this, and the rest of my fingers are curled under like a fist without the raised finger. Now watch.” Continue reading
Posted in Season I
- Tagged blog, college, diary, flirting, Humor, lifestyle, love, MySuddenlyOkayLife, selfesteem, storytelling, teens, women
This is the sequel to the Independence Day Special “Born In the U.S.A.. You can find that by clicking right here!
It was later in the day now and after endless bouts of going inside and outside to back inside I had officially had enough of the mosquitoes. I could already pass as someone with chicken pox and I was beginning to worry if I would have any blood left after this incessant holiday. I rejoined my allies at the kitchen windows.
We were like spectators at a zoo watching the children swim in the water.
Earlier before our journey into the outdoors, our scantily clad guests had wandered upstairs to change and we each gave each-other a look that, in-turn, assured us that our thoughts were in the same place. After noticing how the girl seems to walk on her tip toes, someone suggested that if she had relaxed on her feet, the shear force of how high her shorts were pulled would either A.) rupture her clitoris and create an elevator-from-the-Shining-esque mess of blood or B.) split her in half altogether. Either way, I would be stuck cleaning it up and it would be icing on the patriot cake on my least favorite day of the year. Continue reading
Ah, breakfast. The meal where we break our fast of the night and welcome the new day with foods that we’ve cruelly segregated from the others. A virtual farmyard of foods ranging from the stolen eggs of chickens to the belly of Babe’s mother and possibly the rest of his long lost family. To be honest, you shouldn’t feel bad about that. The rest of those piglets ended up as right jerks. I saw one kick a pigeon once. Just punted it right across the sidewalk. It really caused a scene at the annual Christmas festival that year. Especially since it was right in front of the line for Santa. Also because his family is just genetically delicious or so I’m told.
Breakfast is also a time where one can enjoy the fruits that an underpaid worker probably tended with his own hands. You can almost taste the civil injustice with every sip of my tropical smoothie.
A wonderful concoction of banana and mangoes did I crave as I awoke this morning with bright eyes full of wonderment. Oh happy day! I practically floated into my kitchen and dramatically threw open the cabinet to retrieve my peacock print smoothie cup. A beautiful cup for a beautiful assortment of vitamin c and potassium rich fruits.
I set it aside and prepared myself for the unveiling of the contents of my freezer. With a smile I opened the freezer door to happiness and looked upon my prized smoothie shelf.
Nothing. Continue reading
There is something magical about summer. New light shimmers on fresh dew as the birds wake with the rising sun. Already at 7:30 am the light is filtered through the trees casting little diamonds on my driveway as I toss my purse in my car. There’s some kind of magic in the air. So much so that it’s almost tangible on my skin.
“Today is going to be a good day”, I think to myself as I sip on my smoothie of the day and buckle in. My my head hits the roof of the car and I sigh.
“This is why we can’t have good hair days”. I put the car in reverse and the small indent where the pavement of the road meets my drive rocks the car, sending my hula dancer into a rhythm and rubbing my head into the fabric of the roof more and generating even more static, but it’s not going to ruin my day as I remind myself what’s ahead of the drive. I continue pulling out of the driveway and onto my street, running my hand over my face to brush away any remains of sleep. As I open my eyes and switch to drive I glance at that decrepit old house on the corner. It reminds me of a gingerbread house that was left inside an ant hill. A rather bulbous skunk snakes its way along its splintering walls and disappears into a crevice that I would have never guessed it would fit into had I not seen it with my own eyes. As I pass the house, its stench burns my nose and I switch my febreeze car freshener to full blast on my air-vents. Not today, skunk.
Not today. Continue reading
Thanks for coming back to the second part of my Intro to Polly! Follow and share if you liked it! Feel free to comment on what you want to see talked about or what kind of story you want me to tell next.
Every great office comedy has an eccentric nutcase that we all can’t help but fall in love with despite their shortcomings. Jim Halpert has his Dwight Schrute. Peter Gibbons has his Milton Waddams. Hell, the whole cast of Workaholics has the whole cast of Workaholics. There’s always at least one in each ensemble that forces you to question what you would do such a situation.
I know exactly what you should do in that situation.
Run. Don’t stop. Just run. Don’t think of the children and go back or think you absolutely need your phone that you left on your desk. You don’t need it and maybe those kids should have tried a little harder in gym. Perhaps then they would have some scrap of a chance at survival. What the movies want you to think is that there is a lovable innocence underneath that quirky exterior. But what if there is no innocence? What if underneath that exoskeleton of broken dreams and filth film theres just evil and cynicism? Like an oyster filled with excrement.
This is Polly. Continue reading