dissmiss & distress.

The apartment seemed to have collected a decent organization, a couch, some pillows, it was time to go for a stroll.

Nobody ever seemed to be outside, but Lost continued to hope that perhaps at the pool there would be a sign of civilization.

The generic look of all the other buildings seemed like a  taunting joke to her.

Her walk was one of dragged feet and hopeless searches.

Hours passed and she found herself surrounded by people.

Prescence? Yes.

Connection? No.

She knew she was completely disconnected from these people and their way of life.

You know you’re alone in a room full of people when you can hear all their conversations at once and still pay attention to each of them at the same time.

She listened to the two young girls in front of her converse:

“Yeahhhh, I knoooo, I so made a list for my family of what I will be wanting for Christmas, I’m sure i’ll fax it to them about a month or two before, my new car will have to be bought.

The young girl replied back:

“Yeahhhh, totallyyyy, ummmm I don’t know, It’s hard having two cars though, cause like this morning I totally didn’t know whether I wanted to take the Avalanche or the BMW.”

Lost rolled her eyes at this remark and continued reading her book.

Lighting a ciggarette on her balcony she thought perhaps that contact with the human race for now should be put off.

She didn’t yet know why, but she was sure that some more hours spent alone in her mind would conjure up some form of good reasonning.

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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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