What To Write

So, I've made a decision since my last post. I will be saving the tattoo mystery for my NaNoWriMo novel. Instead I am currently working on an essay about the end of the world. Which I hope to have done by the weekend. Sorry, this blogging thing is harder than I thought.

First Failure

So I suck. I make a blog, I write two posts, I disappear. I am off to a terrible start as a blogger but of course I have some excuses.

1. I have been sick. As mentioned in my previous post I went through a pretty nasty little cold, that became a big cold and then I died. No worries though, C called in a voodoo priestess who had me up at 100% functionality, if you'll ignore the smell.

2. I've been busy. This is a LAME fucking excuse, but a true one nonetheless. In addition to the increasingly daunting workload I have on my platter, I have been doing much running about. I got tattooed at Maritime Tattoo Festival (photos taken by J) and I went to see my friend's super awesome band Saint Ray Satellite at Tribeca with The Rev.

Any who, I am not ready to post the two things I've gotten started on as far as writing goes, so no creativity today. I am interested in hearing which of the two I should wrap up and post first. Would you like to read about A) A noir-style mystery featuring tattoos that come to life OR B) A short personification of a viral invasion? Comment to let me know. Anyway I have to clean my kitchen now.

<_Insert Swine Flu Joke Here_>

I am sick. More sick than I have been in months and it sucks the proverbial dick (if you'll pardon the vulgar expression). My throat is aflame and my head is... a-pounding? Not at all fun. I did get some ice cream out of the deal from some guilty anonymous pigs. I guess I forgive them.

At any rate, illness is clouding my inner vision and impeding the creative process so I do not have any new material to post. I know what you're thinking, "Awesome way to start a writing blog Melanie! What am I supposed to read now?" Well non-existent readers, I will post something I've posted elsewhere to hold you over. If you are reading this there is a good chance you have already seen this and for that, I am sorry.

A letter-rant to Nadya Suleman (aka Octomom).

Dear Ms. Suleman,

I just want to let you know that your mission has been accomplished. I can not turn on a TV or surf an internet site for news and information without seeing your self-serving mug plastered all over the place. I also want to let you know that, like so many others, I have formed a strong opinion of what you are doing. Or rather, what you have done.

You say you have been obsessed with having kids since you were a teenager and wanted twelve in all. You now have fourteen and all the media attention your starved little heart desires. You know what the experts call this? Munchausen's syndrome by proxy. Your children are nothing but byproducts.

But let's get back to the initial conception of your recent octuplets. Your fertility doctor (who wishes to remain anonymous for good reason) implanted a whole butt-load of frozen embryos into your otherwise barren womb. Eight were conceived and you were offered selective termination to lower the number to a healthy and safe (for both mother and fetuses) one. You declined, citing religious reasons.

Now, by religious standards what you initially did was a big no-no. By religious standards you were playing God by taking your fertility into your own hands. Additionally, you have refused to marry, which from what I understand is also a big no-no. So, by religious standards, every sperm is sacred but every frozen embryo, unfortunately for you...is not. Long story short, by making you barren God was pretty much saying, "I DO NOT WANT YOU PROCREATING!" God is a pretty smart guy.

Now, I am NOT trying to tear down your religion. Despite my unwavering atheism and respect for all that is scientifically proven, I believe everyone has the right to their beliefs. What drives me nuts is when people take the beliefs and twist the rules to make it work for them. But I digress.

So, who pays for these little abominations when Pampers stops sending you free diapers? You're not employed and from what you say, not receiving social assistance. You replied on the Today Show I believe, "God will help me feed my babies." ...... Now that, is presumption. Does God help feed millions of starving (naturally conceived and birthed babies at that) around the world? Nope. Why would you think he is going to help you.

Do those kids a favour (include your six originals in this as well) give them to social services to be put up for adoption by parents who will take care of them. Don't keep them, starve them and ultimately raise them to be crazy selfish adults like yourself. Even your mother is disgusted...that's saying something.

Then after you do that...seek medical attention and get a fucking cat!

Best Regards,

Melanie Lowe

The Beginning of My Rope

Wow, so here is my very first blog post. Cue the fanfare...

No? Oh, alright then.

I guess I should explain what I am trying to do here. Basically, I have decided to write about writing from my amateur perspective. I will also post some of the random things that come out of my brain when I put fingers to keys. Hopefully this goes well.

Anyway, flow forth creative juices!

The following was written from a prompt I found at Creative Writing Prompts . It suggested I write in the voice of a rope about to break. So here it is, be gentle.

My life is over. It was inevitable that I meet my end this way but the tension is excruciating. Bit by bit pieces break away, ticking down like the minute hand on his fancy sport watch. Any second now and it will all be over and he doesn’t even notice. He trusts me to protect him, I’ve never let him down before.

He thought that my flashy looks and my lofty price tag was evidence enough that I was the superior choice. He doesn’t even look me over when we go out any more. I guess he deserves what’s about to happen. You really shouldn’t take anything for granted. Nothing stays and money doesn’t matter in the end. I am not in the condition I was in my youth and he is about to pay for that indifference.

Not far to go now, maybe only seconds. It feels like eons to me. It’s hard to imagine myself dead, broken and useless. There is no afterlife to look forward to, just a prime position at the top of the trash heap. I hope there is one for him, he’s not all bad. Gosh, the rocks below look sharp. I hope there is no pa-