Catch Me On A Good

A Pretty Face Had Been Damaged By Acne Scars And She Wore And Extra Forty Pounds On Her Frame Like A Threat. Her Eyes Were Dull With Anger Disguised As Apathy. If She Kept On Her Current Path, She'd Grow Into The Type Of Person Who Fed Her Kids Doritos For Breakfast And Purchased Angry Bumper Stickers With Lots Of Exclamation Points. But Right Now, She Was Just Another In A Long Line Of Pissed-off Small-town Girls With A Shitty Outlook.

That's The Thing About Being A Victim; You Start To Think It'll Happen To You On A Regular Basis. It's Living With The Reality Of Your Own Vulnerability, And It Sucks.

I Believe In God. Maybe Not The Catholic God Or Even The Christian One Because I Have A Hard Time Seeing Any God As Elitist. I Also Have A Hard Time Believing That Anything That Created Rain Forests And Oceans And An Infinite Universe Would, In The Same Process, Create Something As Unnatural As Humanity In Its Own Image. I Believe In God, But Not As A He Or She Or An It, But As Something That Defines My Ability To Conceptualize Within The Rather Paltry Frames Of Reference I Have On Hand.

She Was Afraid Of All That And So Much More, But What Terrified Her Most Was Inside Of Her, An Insect Of Unnatural Intelligence Who’d Been Living In Her Brain Her Entire Life, Playing With It, Clicking Across It, Wrenching Loose Its Cables On A Whim.

I Found That I Could Write Two Kinds Of Short Stories: I Could Write Very Absurd, Kind Of Surrealistic, Funny Stories; Or I Could Write Very Dark, Realistic - Hyper-realistic - Stories. I Was Never Happy With That, Because I Couldn't Meld The Two.