I’m writing my story. I don’t think I’ll get it done, but I must try anyway. I ate so much food, god. But anyway, my story is about a woman named Camilla who drives off an overpass onto a little island where one of the stanchions supporting the overpass is. She’ll be trapped in the car for a while, ruminating over her stupid and lame life, and then in the end she’s going to see some rescue personnel and wish she was dead. But I need to invent the inner conflict. I was thinking that she could have an ex-husband or an adversary at work. OOh, how about a sado-masochistic relationship with her boss? I dunno. That’s kinda lame. Hmm…how about she’s driving to meet someone in Shepperton, maybe? I’m leaning towards her having an ex-husband. Hmm. Crap. It’s 1:19. I should have rumnated more on this. Eh, who cares. It’s my last story. Shit. I need a conflict. I know, how about she’s driving back to her loving boyfriend. And when she hits, she’s up to her waist in water and the car is sliding slowly into the deeper water. Sweet. Eh, it didn’t work. The “river” ended up being a marshy area. She’s having a flashback about something that happened on Western Avenue…and I don’t know how this relates to the “conflict.”
I guess she has an ex-husband/boyfriend. Weird. Writing is the strangest thing. You just put yourself into other people’s heads and like…stuff happens.
Okay, her ex-boyfriend is named Lucien, but I don’t know how their interaction makes or breaks this plot. Right now it’s all I’ve got unless she gets out of the car and there is another character.
Shit fuck. I’m stuck. I wrote myself into a corner. There will be no scenes with dialog in this story if she just stays there dying in the Jag. Can I do that? I think this is going to be boring as hell. Okay, I’ll read it from the beginning and see where I think I need to go.
Shit. Dead again. I got a good paragraph about Lucien, but I can’t work in this one part that I want. Shit. I don’t have an ending. I can’t come up with a compelling enough reason that makes her want to die. Camilla would have gone down in history as one of the best characters ever, and one of the few chosen? lol.
But yeah. Dead. Dead meat. No ending. Great, I just lost the bottom half of this post. I just fucking love Blogger. Long story short, I wrote myself into a corner and I’m going to get an F and a disapproving look from Molly. De-fucking-pressing. Maybe I’ll go uber-passive agressive and not show up. Fuck. Well, I guess I’d better get to “accepting the consequences of my actions” and all those related bullshit platitudes. Fuck fuck fuck. Well, at least I know when a story sucks too much to write it. Maybe Camilla should recover from her accident and begin her trip to Mt. Rubidoux. Lol. Fucking sad. I hate myself. I should just stop wallowing in self-pity and get the fuck to sleep so I can at least be half-awake to register the disapproving glances from my teacher and classmates. Eh, fuck ‘em. I don’t think I’ll go to class. I hate it when I fail. It makes me ersatz suicidal. It makes me very depressed.
I think I’ll take the passive agressive way out. I’ll sleep through all the looks of derision and all the “you didn’t write your story?” shit. If I’m going to fail, I’m going to do it in the privacy of my own home. Fuck everybody.
I took this class because I thought that I could somehow express how I feel about the world, and now I realize that I have nothing original to say. Everything I think has already been thought for me by the great philosophers of the world. I’m nothing but a philosophical parasite, digesting the ideas that others have worked their entire lives on. I will never have an original thought. I am a machine controlled by the media, brainwashed into thinking that things will make me happy and that there is the perfect mate for me out there somewhere. It’s all bullshit to make you buy clothes, mouthwash, and cell phones. Everything I’ve ever wanted (love, success, an education) I want because I saw it on TV. I’m a machine. A slave to corporations. I scream, but I can never break free. Never. There is no “I.” There is just a demographic. A target market. Consumers. It’s so fucking disgusting. I envy the dead.
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