Lust contemplated her answer as she listened to the sound of the food crushing in her mouth.

“I think its a contemporary lack of self control. We refuse to deny our true beings. We realize that we are animals, and that the predator will always seek its prey. Murder is a feeling, and so is rage and happiness. You and I do not separate the three among them. You see just as much beauty in a painting as you see in a dry corpse. I see just as much beauty in the first breath of a child, as I see in the last breath of a victim. It’s in all of us, we are just the ones who choose to unleash it.”

Vinnie took a deep breath. He had to control himself from ravishing her right then and there.

“You’re somethin’ else you know.”, he spoke in a muffled tone so she would not hear the desire in his voice.

She smirked as he turned his back and remembered that one night where his self control was not as ingrained as it was today.

The sound of the gloves snapping on his hands awoke her from the entrancing day dream. She watched as he dug his hands into the bubble of fat that laid on the examination table and thought,
“Those same hands have been all over me.”

He threw the over-sized liver into the weighing bin and began humming an old french song as if he was in a welcoming cafe, not a cold and sinister morgue.

This is what Lust enjoyed about him.
He too saw the beauty and the macabre elegance of being elbow deep in things most people fainted only thinking of.

They were both the anomalies.

The rejected elite.

She continued to elaborate her theory. Knowing full well that she would reel him in with her every word.

“You see my dear, it is like a beast. Most choose to contain this beast, deep into the cages of the soul. We choose to let it breathe. We choose to let it roam free. A calm creature that feeds only ever so often. The others harness it, and just as any encased beast does, it tears at the walls of its confinement. The struggle translates into curiosity and soon the people find it harder and harder to deny the fervor. That is when you hear the bimbos on TV say:

“A middle aged man was arrested today and is being investigated in the murders of three women. Friends of the suspect say that the event was completely out of character and that they would have never expected a good man like him to commit such horrendous crimes.”

And so you see my sweet pea, they burn the candle at both ends until the cage no longer holds and the beast no longer folds.
We are the lucky ones. We are made of flesh and the omnipresent talent to allow ourselves to be the creatures we truly are. The predator will always seek its prey.”

He unbuckled his belt and she knew her words had reached their goal.

The predator will always seek its prey.

- I have a few people on my list, whom with each status, make me wonder more and more why I’m their friend to begin with.

- Drama in my life is like puddles on the sidewalk, sometimes I can jump over them, and sometimes I sink ankle deep in them unintending.

- If I’m ever homeless, I’d like to at least be able to pull of the homeless look. I love hobo bags?

- Food in america is found in boxes, so are dead people. Connection?

- If I ask another question will this piece seem questionable? Do I care?

- I want a purple coat. I want it to hang in my closet, because considering Arizona weather, I surely will not be able to wear it.

- If my library card history, was my credit history, I would never get a loan from any bank.

- The show the Real Housewives makes me regret calling myself a woman. So does saying I’m from Scottsdale. Both are beautifully intertwined.

- Socks are nice, but only when they’re white. Which in my case, is usually rare.

- When I started typing this my nails were clear, now they’re bright red. Im such a whore for the color red.

- I enjoy the Bravo channel, when I feel like I lack a brain and personality of course.

- I’m going to go into the kitchen now, where a woman belongs. Yes, I just said that.

- Till next time, my sweet pink pebble lovers.

- You’ve got a bit of ignorance on your lip. Here, take the life napkin, perhaps it can wipe it off.

- What exactly is attractive in a man wearing socks up to his knees and pants that also happen to reach the same length?
Are they trying to be idiots?
They’re doing a good job.

- So I keep seeing: “If I could rearrange the keyboard, I would put U and I together.”
If it were me, I would suggest a backspace and an ALT+F4 for those who think that is clever.

- I like laying on carpet, its almost as enjoyable as the occasional nail bed.

- Children are kind of like construction, they’re fine until the noise starts getting to be a bit much.

- I have all my academic awards taped on my wall.
Strictly adjacent to those are pictures of Marilyn Monroe, Anne Boleyn, and Corrine Griffith.
Does anyone see a sense of extreme irony in that other than me?

- I like rocks. They’re the only thing on my desk that don’t need dusting. Its quite convenient.

- Lately, I’ve been writing as often as I feed my fish. Once a week.
I should do that more. Writing, that is.
The fish should be fine.

- I read an article about feminists the other day. Apparently, I can’t be one because I actually enjoy cleaning.

- I saw a really beautiful girl the other day, but then she turned around and I saw her face.

- Drive-through workers should be provided the occasional alcoholic drink.
Maybe they would be much more friendly that way.

- Every time the air condition goes on, I feel the bank accounts being drained.

- I want to have my coffee tomorrow at zero G and the skys to rain spider monkeys.
Nothing too extravagant.

- Till next time, my sweet little gum drops.

We are stagnant.

A stagnant addition of worthless deoxyribose scum.

Mmm, how delicious that does sound.

Cruel, diminishing, misunderstanding, impotently unintelligent relatives of the hair mammal.

Mmm, how true that does sound.

A glimmer of tertiary hope and despair, wrapped in a box of I don’t care.

Viscious female glares, and careless male flares.

Idignant polination, yielding instignation.

Mmm, how ill repented and kill stimpented that does sound.

All in hope that we are found, sitting in a pile of sweet cucumber’s mound.

No thoughts or repercussions,

Just the quiet, yet lively sound of my heart beating, and my lungs breathing.

My writing is nothing.

My art? Impressive only to the masses that approve at quick glance.

My soul? Disapproving and profusely rebellious.

Hidden.

Shown at rare occasions where vulenerability doesn’t play its typical role.

I’m a writer. A painter. A dreamer, lover, and non-returnable 30 days after purchase.

Good god.

Somebody make some lemonade, my brain hurts and my ankle isn’t doing great either.