light switch.

A kind of primal instinct when she strategically places herself in the seat closest to the emergency exit.

Staring at the faded lights in the darkness, the longer she stares, the more they seem to mesh.

A canvas of all black, through her eyes, splash of color travels through the seams at the condescending speed of light.

A bite of the bottom lip, boy this book is interesting, a shiny lighter makes its personality known.

A beat, a rythm, and a ciggarette is lit.

Menthol according to her high prefference.

Paintbrush in hand, her soul seeps through the paint much like blood through a vein.

The image of a door, light screaming through the crack, is this the place to be or is it just fantasy?

The clock moves its branches, swaying its hours to ambition.

Minutes fall like leaves of autumn, running away from the dull tick of electronical symphony.

Much to her desire, it was 3 in the morning, and insomnia made its usual prescence.

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spastic & sterilized.

From her right hand drops the pair of vocal cords straight into a biological canister, her hand still warm from the blood, Lust grabs her yogurt from the contrastingly cold refrigerator.

Staring at the white wall in front of her, Lust sees herself much like the wall, perhaps their lives are even similar.

The wall listens, but does not speak, is present, but goes for the most part, unnoticed.

Blank, empty, and ready to be covered in blood, this wall is more of a mirror than a simple slab of bricks.

A blink signals her return to the real world, a return to the treat that awaited, this was her reward, a sick reward to most, but to Lust it was sheer excitement to be on the job and process according to her own desire.

She crumbles the yogurt box, throws it in the trash and turns on the water.

The water pouring from the sink, starts up a slight twitch in the victim.

Washing your hands before any contact under skin is always indicated. Always. Even if the victim lay above the sink.

Lust enjoyed maintaing a certain cleanliness, although she knew that this future corpse did not need sterile sculpting of any kind.

Gritting her teeth, she begins to dig into the superficial abdomen with the K-24 Fanno hand saw, however this tool appears to be much more rough than Lust had anticipated.

Glistening knives flash through her mind as she half smiles at the whore  in front of her.

“You’ll be fine, my dear, not much difference is there between your plastic surgery endeavors, and this. Also, if you complain about lack of anesthesia, do tell your doctor that I didn’t get the fucking memo in time. That is… if you can tell him.”

Lust stands in front of her knife case, much like Hitler stood affront his army, her knives screamed at her much like his soldiers would scream to him that they would make him most proud.

Well, in that moment, the antique Bowie Knife she had received from her father as a birthday gift seemed to be the one that would make her most proud indeed.

She got elbows deep into the victims torso, the liver hanging upside down off the counter much like a fallen cord phone, the lungs cut into precise 2″ inch cubes set into an oval shape around the head, no reason.

She could feel drops running down her forehead, but they were not of sweat, Lust knew the task would be strenuous and set the air condition to an uncomfortable low, therefore this meant that the drops were of blood.
Warm blood.

Acting on impulse, she allowed herself to loose control, not just physically, but mentally.

She gave in.

She gave in to the instinct, the desire, and the want to cut flesh open.

All humans had it.

She just decided to be smart and make money while doing it.

The victims right leg spasmed as Lust smirked at this thought and continued cutting.

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GFY. [abbreviations 101]

Authenticated Fuck List.

[Highly inappropriate and not recommended if you are suffering from extreme sensitivity, high blood pressure, or just a fucking close-minded mentality.]

Fuck life, and all the shitty events and happenings that it entails.

Fuck raising children, you never ever really master the talent, parents will always be winging it, and children will always be rebellious.

Fuck the typical idea of how one should go about living their life.

College, Marriage, Children.

FUCK that.

Fuck being different, and while I’m at it, fuck being the same also.

The young generation is so obsessed with being different and unique, they no longer see how they end up all being the same because of that.

A bunch of fucking too colorfully dressed, strangely put together, little wannabe artists who listen to vintage french music and think they’re cool.

And fuck the fact that I’m in that group of stupid young people who do strive to be “unique” and I know it consciously.

Fuck understanding the “nature of the world” around us. We need to understand ourselves as fucking human beings before we get to know what the fuck “surrounds” us. I’ll tell you what surrounds us. Stupidity.

It’s fucking everywhere.

That brings me to a sentence I am quite excited to write.

Quite excited indeed.

Fuck stupid people, the general population of stupid people, people who don’t want to talk about things, people who would rather watch football than read a book, people who list shopping as a hobby, people who don’t like cottage cheese just because it looks “funny”, prissy ass bitches who look more fake than my childhood barbies, and fuck unintelligent living beings who do not contribute to this planet with anything except their fat lard shaped bodies of floating emotional eating disorders.

Fuck them, and fuck this list.

I need a yogurt.

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stilettos & indignation.

Smooth Jazz plays its tune as she opens box by box.

Dust slowly floats into the thin air as objects are placed on shelves and cabinets.

She turns and looks over her shoulder, imagining a suave young man in a suit waiting for her to go to a Gala of some sort, perhaps an art exhibition.

Perhaps this was the beginning of something grand, the ambient light in her bedroom shined softly on her paintings and gave her a sense of new perspective.

Not all men could be conquered by her poise and alluding eyes, but surely one would come to fancy her.

For a moment, she wondered who could be living in the apartment next to her.

Perhaps a young painter with long hair and a low tolerance for cats.

Or maybe a struggling writer who smoked more than he slept.

She enjoyed the mystery and hoped to not find out who did reside there for as long as possible.

Imagination was always more entertaining to her.

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“go back to start.”

Today, I started packing once more. Definitely not the first time now is it.

Only god knows how many times I’ve gone through this, and by now you would think I’m immune.

Perhaps “mature” enough to not be affected by the fear of the new, but no, still affected am I.

Some of the people in my life that I truly respect have told me on numerous occasions that I am the strongest soul they know.

Well, I appreciate the compliment, but even Goliaths get splinters. 

Just the simple sight of that empty cardboard box made me break down in tears.

Perhaps the way I was raised is at fault, but even when something does bother me, I shun it away, I don’t wallow in it, and I don’t let it affect me.

I “hide” it somewhere well and don’t touch on it for as long as I can.

It’s been almost 8 years since I last felt this feeling.

To be honest, I’m so fucking sick of this moving shit.

So sick.

Starting over?

How many times must I start and start over?

Moving is much like playing a board game, you are at the start line, and at one point a card is handed to you that says “‘Move two spaces forward”, so you do, you end up on the “Romania” square for a while, and then you get another card; “Finish High School” and another and so on, until at one point, you get the card you’ve been dreading.

“Go back to start.”

And all your so-called “progress” in the game is as if it never existed.

And imagine not even being able to show frustration.

That is how it was and always is with my parents, I could never say “hey, i’m affected by this.” because they would say “you don’t have any problems, you’re just making up problems for yourself.”

And to a certain extent they were right, that not all my problems were nearly as bad as theirs, but at the same time, mine were treated as if they didn’t even exist to begin with.

I could NEVER talk to them and tell them what bothered me without walking away frustrated and shunned.

And although this helped make me strong, every now and then I have a moment where someone actually opens my eyes to what is actually going on, and I can no longer look at it as ”you don’t have problems, you just make problems for yourself.”

I feel, and I hurt, and even if to some I am tough as a rock, the past still hurts and my fears still exist.

Before every move, I would sit in the room that was mine and stare through the window, wondering if this move would be the last one, and if maybe finally I’d find what I was looking for.

Today is no different than those days.

An empty box, a grim view out the window, and a box of tissues.

Maybe this is the last time.

Maybe.

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