I mean it from the bottom of my [HEART].

Here’s a story I started writing in 2021 based on an extremely vivid nightmare I once had. The original version was only as long as the first part of this rewrite, and absolutely everything has been changed. This is my first attempt at ungraded creative writing in at least a decade. Go easy on me. Part 1 The rays of morning light filtered through her curtains, casting a soft glow across the bed, offering a gentle nudge towards wakefulness. Savitri blinked open her eyes, greeted by the soft chaos of her bedroom — books piled high on the nightstand, a sweater draped over a chair from the night before, and her journal lying open, a silent witness to the thoughts that often kept her company in the quiet hours. She reached for the journal, her fingers tracing the worn edges with a familiarity that felt like home. Flipping to the last entry, she expected to find solace in her own words, a breadcrumb trail of yesterday’s thoughts. Instead, she found herself staring at a stranger’s diary. The ...

Why are we all expected to just accept everyone's friendship scraps? And its thought of as being "extra" to ask to be treated with respect. Why should I bother calling anyone a friend if I do 90% more for them than they wold ever do for me? I'm not going to try to force anyone to be a real friend to me. But I'm not going to just take what is given to me either. If it isn't worth my time I need to let it go.

This will take me more than a while to write down only because it has to be done in between my waves of sadness. I don't know how valid my words can be if I spend the entire time trying to describe to you how revolting I find myself to be. ___________________________________________________ I was raped on November 1, 2014 at 3 o'clock in the morning. I have been told that I led him on. I have been told that I dressed too enticingly. I have been told that I was asking for it. I have been told that it's what I really wanted all along. Sometimes I believe none of these things are true. Sometimes I believe they're all true. But this event, life changing that it was, is not the focus of what I'm trying to say. It's all about the after. What happened to me after this. Who I became after this. I'm not even really sure, to be honest. It started with a lot of confusion. Genuine, crippling confusion. Like, in order to cope with day to day life my brain...

I see you. Over there in the nook to the left of the bar. The shadowy place that no one ever notices unless you’re looking for it. The place I always look because that’s where you always are. And I see you. And I see her. Climbing all over you like some sort of primate. Maybe it’s because you’re so tall. Maybe it’s because she’s the size of a pixie. Either way, I can’t take my eyes away. I feel no jealousy. All I feel is warm. Tequilla. Whisky. Vodka. My blood is a coctail and all I feel is warm and the urge to dance. So I do. I completely forget about you because my needs are more important than you are. And it feels so good. Hair flips. Hip sways. Two steps. It’s wonderful. But then a song I don’t know comes on. And I stop dancing. And I look over. And you’re watching me. How long had I been there? How long had you noticed I was there? “Let’s go get another drink,” my friend says. Followed by a walk to the bar. It’s crowded. I stand back. You make your move. “So where’s you...

I like to think of it less as a kidnapping and more as a rescue. He saved my life before I even knew that I needed saving. He led me away from my boring mundane life with promises of candy and chocolates, and He followed through with just that. At first, I was a bit scared of this strange older man. You see, at the time I was young – only 9 – and I knew nothing about life or adventure or love. All I needed was a push in the right direction, and the back of His windowless Ford Econoline was just the direction I needed to go. At first I missed my parents something fierce. I didn’t understand why I wasn’t allowed to see them anymore. But He explained to me very early on that they didn’t want me anymore. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Mom had grounded me a few weeks prior for no good reason. So what if I don’t finish my peas. And Dad agreed with her! Plus, that one time when I told them that Billy Christopher was picking on me, they only told me that he had a crush o...

I found this today. I wrote it sometime last winter. It proves I'm insane, at least. ----------------------------------------------------------- If I told you a story right now would it matter? Would you care? Would it make you smile. My similes of unicorns and tiled bathroom floors. The kind that makes them cold when you walk inside first thing in the morning with no socks on. I hate those days. I wake up too quickly afterwards. Like growing up too fast. Being forced to do things before the time is right. The right time. When is the wright time. The wrist time. I'm just enjoying the feel of wri wri wri wri wire. That's what I am by the way. I'm wired. I'm keyed up and I'm making no sense am I. Who say's I need to make sense. I'm a writer. I can turn anything into something beautiful just because I feel like it. Just because I say that I can. Just like those crappy artists. The ones that paint squares and a circle on a canvas and get to call it art....

If there were a way to see inside of me it would look like a storm.  A tornado.  A tsunami.  There is too much rolling around inside with no way to get out.  I could scream and yell and bitch and rant and not a one in the world would hear me.  I'm ripping apart and my screws are coming lose and soon there will be nothing left of me but shreds.  Paper in a fire.  Ash in the wind.  I'm not damaged, I'm conflicted and I'm perceived all wrong.  Maybe there is just no right way to interpret me.  I'm wrong. It's wrong. All wrong.

There is blood all over my exquisitely painted walls. And on the imported carpet from China. And soaked into the thousand thread-count sheets. This is going to take absolutely forever to clean up. I was never informed that death was so messy and if I had known I would have put down some plastic over the furniture or something. Now I have to pay someone to get all the stains out. Such a hassle. I was just playing a bit of a game with my husband, you see. It seems that we got a bit too rough and he has hurt himself. Such a clumsy man I am married to. He has managed to make a mess of everything in the room, and now it's going to take me even longer to clean up before dinner can get made. We always play little games like this with each other though. The last time we played tag, he accidentally pushed me too hard and I hit my head on the kitchen table. I ended up with 4 stitches, but I know it was just a mistake. Another time while we were playing hide and seek at the mall, he acciden...

[ Whiner /Winner] I'm a whiner. Whiner, not a winner. I'm hungry. I'm tired. I'm bored. I give you full permission to slap me and tell me to shut up. Shut up. Sit down. Go play in traffic. Bad Ashley.

There is a subtle art to feeding off of ideas from another person. The point is not, as some may think, to completely take their ideas as your own and try to market them as magic of your own. The stealing of someone else's hard work actually makes me sick. That's why they come down on you so hard at school for plagiarism. It's the lack of creativity that your teachers and parents are worried about. That their pupil or child is going to end up working a pointless 9 to 5 cubicled desk-job because of their inabilities to think for themselves. Working and thinking for the man. But the beauty of drawing an idea from someone else and then using it to fuel your own creativity, thats true beauty. The fact that another persons thoughts have been able to help you create something magical of your own, that's what I strive for. To take in the aura of someone else and make something for myself that I can be proud of. To inspire others to be proud of themselves.

You kiss me in a darkly lit room. Tell me I'm pretty. Please, tell me I'm pretty. I ask if you will regret this later. You say no. You just need me to Stay... Right... There... Wait, no, stop. You hear a voice. Voices. People. Panic. [Fight or flight] I am tossed to the side. You chose flight. We must save the image. [Just laugh it off] Don't let them know. [Just laugh it off] Never let them see. [Just laugh it off] It was nothing you say. It was nothing I say. .exit stage left.

1. Walk your dog! 2. Run a mile! 3. Make 7 sandwiches. Eat them! 4. Prank call all the friends you know are sleeping! 5. Make a bookshelf naked! 6. Solve P versus NP ! 7. Bass fishing! 8. Grease a pig. Catch it! 9. Sing an opera in front of your neighbors home at the top of your lungs! 10. Go to Wal-Mart. Steal all the food you can carry. Donate it to the homeless. Eat it in front of them!

1. Buy a new toothbrush as the one that I currently own  has the slight scent of aged cheese, as well as a bit of the color. 2. Get a haircut. To say that my hair is merely 'uneven' would be a gross understatement resulting in an entire flock of angels falling down dead as a result of my untruths. I will never be accepted into heaven, as God shall never forgive me. 3. Buy some cat food, for underneath all of that fur lies a feline of pure skin and bone. She will die soon from starvation. As it stands I feed her bits of my Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the bowl in between bites. We are currently team eaters. 4. Invest in a few pairs of long socks. The winter months are soon to set in and without adequate warmth for my legs whilst wearing unseasonably short skirts, I will fall ill and die. Also, because of the set of angels I had slain previously, I will be sent directly to hell, where although it will be warm enough for my unseasonably short skirt, will be rather vexing as it...

Happy. He asked me once if I was ever happy. I had to think for a long time in order to answer his question. If what I perceived as happiness with him was really happiness. Or if it were what I forced myself to believe was happiness. After a long moment of silence, I finally opened my mouth to speak. "No, I don't suppose I ever was."

A few nights ago, I was left at the imaginary altar. My bedroom, the church filled with all of our imaginary family and friends joined together as imaginary guests. My imaginary groom long gone, bags packed as you ran out the door with only the excuse of 'this just isn't working out anymore,' to tide me over. My not-so-imaginary tears did nothing to make you stay. All that you left behind was me standing alone to explain to everyone just why you weren't going to make it to the imaginary wedding.

Excluding the unfortunate soul I lost my virginity to in the first place, I can honestly say that I have never had sex with any one person more than once. I suppose to some that would make it seem like I am promiscuous. The phrase 'tantric whore' is the one my cousin used to describe me once, actually. It could be assumed that I just have sex with a bunch of people. Only once. Numbers start stacking after a while, I would imagine. Maybe someone who only has sex with a person once, but has somehow had sex upwards of fifty times in a year would be given the title of whore. I'm certain that if a girl has sex with four men in a month people go around whispering behind her back. That's at least a man per week. But truth be told, this could also mean that I don't have that much sex. What happens if I don't have sex with everyone with a warm body that I come across? Once doesn't seem so bad if it's only something that comes around every time the moon turns g...

I still consider myself to be a bit of a child. It all boils down to the fact that I have yet to learn from my mistakes. Not to say, that I do not learn from the mistakes I make, however. I just believe that I have many mistakes left to make. And therefore many things that I have yet to learn. Only then can I think of myself as an adult.

"Does it bother you that I have sex with other women?" he asks. The question catches me a little bit off guard. We were laying naked together in bed. It just didn't seem like an appropriate time or place to ask that kind of thing. Or to answer it. A noncommittal grunt is my only response. What could I possibly have to say in response to that? Yes, I am bothered by the fact that you sleep with other women. The thought alone makes me feel sick to my stomach . "Because, if it's a problem for you, we'll probably have to stop doing this kind of thing." "You already have a girlfriend," I remind him. "I knew you were having sex with her when this whole thing started. Why would I start getting mad about it now?" It becomes apparent to me then that I'm not the one who this question should be directed toward. There is a whole other person someone out there who doesn't know that she's a part of a sex triangle. Plus, she didn't ...

In another life, known as the age of 14, I had a big crush on a boy. Before I get started recalling any type of detail about the nature of our relationship - no relationship whatsoever, actually - I feel compelled to describe our differences in outward appearance. Jason, last name Whothehellknows, was a rather attractive specimen of boy. Tall, slender, rather nice hair, amazing glasses. He was probably the boy that got me started on my love of guys that wear glasses, actually. I liked them so much that I even renamed him. Pretty Glasses Boy he was dubbed, PGB for short and I was completely infatuate. So was the rest of the female student body, to be honest. He delivered letters and memos to other classrooms for the office and you could hear the murmur down the hall from the girls after he left a room. I, on the other hand, was on the other side of aesthetically pleasing. I was short, too skinny, and my hair was wrong. Come to think of it, when isn't my hair wrong? I digress. He...

8:00 pm “All you have to do is throw her some dollars,” Ken says. Apparently it’s all in the wrist and I’m tossing the money wrong. I never knew there was a way to do it wrong, but I have found a way. It’s 8 pm and I’m at Strokers. For my birthday. Two weeks late. I’m not complaining. 9:47 pm “Do you want anything else to drink? Another shot of Patron good?” Ned and Ken have been pumping me full of alcohol for the past hour and change. I wish I knew what they were trying to achieve. “So, how many more shots do we need to get you before you start taking off your top?” 9:53 pm Her name is Alex. She’s a rather nice girl considering that I met her from staring at the inside of her vagina. Which, I must say, is a really great way to start a conversation. “Hey, I love your necklace!” Hit a split. “The one with the rainbows, I mean.” Cheeks spread… Man, it’s really pink in there. 10:51 pm I’m at The Hideout now. I managed to drive to Anabelle’s house and not crash the car, so I feel rather...