I feel so inspired after watching American Horror Story to write a screenplay. The show portrays human emotion and horror so well. I received a camera for Christmas and I have taken some pictures since, which I shall post after. I am unaware of why I have not written on here since before Christmas. I guess I’ve been busy- but truly I have not.
I took this photo of my parents over Thanksgiving break. They were playing a game they used to play when they first met. I’m so grateful I had my camera to capture this amazing photo. I have framed it and cannot wait until they open it Christmas morning. I love them and the love they have for each other is unlike any I will ever witness in my life. Watching my mom and dad makes me believe in true love every single day, and for anyone who may be skeptical that such an everlasting, unselfish love can actually exist- believe me when I say it does. Have faith.
Today has been wonderful. James and I went apartment hunting for a majority of the afternoon and came across a few apartments that we were both fond of. I fell in love with an apartment complex that differed from all the rest and reminded me of a quaint neighborhood in some European city because all of the apartments were aligned down a tight road with balconies towering above you. Ah, it was beautiful! And of course, it was the most expensive apartment we viewed that day. Thankfully James can set my mind straight when thoughts of money evaporate from my mind in exchange for beauty. I love a beautiful exterior. We were not able to view the two bedroom apartment today and I shall be returning within the next two days to see if the inside matches the gorgeous surroundings.
Another place reigning at the top of our list is a very reasonably priced and large two bedroom town home. When the day first began, I felt slightly stressed about the apartment search, but once we viewed the first place all of my anxieties flew away. I’m excited for the move, I’ll be even more excited once we’ve selected the ideal location, but I know I’ll shed a few tears as I pack away the home we’ve been residing in for two years.
I just became aware of the site I write like and instantly plugged in two different types of my writing- fiction and non fiction.
The fiction piece I submitted was:
“As if losing my hair wasn’t enough, I was beginning to lose my memory. What day was it? Trash littered the floor and the calendar had long been forgotten. Sometimes, when my body was cooperating and I could find the courage to, I’d sit out on the porch but at the first sight of a human I would scurry back into my cave. Why my mind must be tortured with thoughts of paranoia and anxiety, I don’t know but it was tearing me apart.
Food was a distant thought. My stomach surely has shrunk to less than half its normal size and with meals no longer a necessity, I could find no logical reason to interact with others. One would think that I’d have at least one distant relative or fairly close acquaintance but sadly I have no one but myself. I believe I cannot be saved.”
And I was taken to this
!!! I love Stephen King, as some of my other posts hint to, and his style of writing has been an inspiration.
The nonfiction piece I submitted was:
“I come to these keys in an attempt to avoid a potential hell. My eyes may very well be sunken into my skull for I feel I have no human qualities that could distinguish me from a corpse. Normally, I would be ecstatic for the liquid stored away in the vicinities of my freezer however the drunken happiness that I will be incapable of remembering is not sufficient for the main fact that my emotions will exponentially grow and foolish antics will begin, antics I do not wish to make myself vulnerable to.
The peak will leave me content for the hour, but the sole reason for not consuming the liquid is the never ending downfall that will leave me incapacitated.
I feel as though I have already fallen down the pit.”
Yes, quite depressing, and I was quickly told I write like…
David Foster Wallace, a deceased author I recently gained knowledge about during my creative non fiction class. The man wrote amazingly and he gave speeches on sustaining happiness in ones life, yet he committed suicide. Many were angered that he was not capable of taking his own advice, but for anyone who’s fallen into the darkest corridors of depression, you know that sometimes you can’t take your own advice anymore, even if you’ve been desperately trying for years. It’s bittersweet that my writing style was compared to his.
Well, I don’t know how the website reaches these conclusions, but I found it beyond entertaining and wish to send the information onto my teacher.
This morning, James and I ventured to an Aussie bakery and had probably the best brunch we’ve had this year. Their unique french toast slaughtered all other conventional french toasts I’ve ever had, besides homemade french toast of course. I typically loathe egg sandwiches and the mere thought causes me to gag without control, but I tore this one apart once the bacon was removed. The sauces that accompanied the sandwich were roasted bell pepper chutney and cilantro pesto. Ahhh it was so good I wish I could have some right now! *glances at Chinese food sitting nearby and shrugs* Maybe next Sunday.