I got home early that Friday. We’d just finished handling a client at work that damn near gave me a heart attack. I opened the door and heard nothing but the dust settling from the door’s swinging. There’s something very lonely about coming back from work to an empty home. My wife was out somewhere and the children were at school, so I took a shower, changed into my casual clothes and sat to watch some mindless television. Television is different at two-o’clock. I wanted to change the channels from house supply advertisements, but I couldn’t muster the strength by the time I’d settled into the couch.

The exhaustion had taken over me, so I couldn’t care less. I didn’t need cable to dream for me. I can’t tell you when I dosed off, but it couldn’t have been long. I thought about my day as soon as my eyes closed. My mind demanded it. If you close your eyes and keep conscious of the darkness behind your eyelids you can watch your mind organising snap-shots into their appropriate mind drawers. You’d be a moron to try and stop such a delicate process. Far too many fight against their own dream machine. Thoughts that they don’t appreciate, they consider hostile. That’s how you lose sleep, not allowing your mind to organize, trying to impose your will onto it, your own reality.

Sleep isn’t difficult for me. Never was. I could never understand when my wife would stay up at night, tossing and turning, battling her mind, fighting it, neuron by neuron. Until then, I couldn’t. I had my first nightmare on that couch. I was tied to the back a train, dragged on the tracks, getting hit in the face at full speed by every individual wooden board. I tried reaching out, and I managed to hang on for a moment using a necklace with my wedding ring, but I couldn’t hold on for long, it broke and I lost my ring. The train suddenly stopped and I hurled towards it, expecting to hit my face, but I got greeted by an open door, through which I entered and landed gracefully. As I stood in pride, looking around to see who was there. I found my Mother and a specifically nasty English teacher I had in fourth grade talking, being interrupted by my entrance. My teacher looked at me disapprovingly, and waved at my mother with her finger, to which my mother reacted to by looking at me, shedding some tears and coldly slitting her own throat with a pen.

When I woke up, it felt like my mind was trying to run away out of my body. I jolted out of sleep and took a moment to adjust to reality again. The dream refused to stop repeating itself. The part that bothered me the most was how it felt when I lost my wedding ring. My heart was racing, my body was cold and sweaty. I went to the bathroom and washed my face, made some tea to try and calm my nerves. At this point I wanted to call my wife, but I was having a difficult time doing that, I couldn’t say why. Just before I fell asleep I was excited to nag her half to death with my rough day, but every time I thought about her, I would be attacked with the most debauched sexual thoughts.

To think of my wife, was to think of throat fucking my neighbour’s daughter. The more I fought the thought, the more intensely vivid the image would be. At some point, every tiny detail of her drool dripping down my member onto her chin would be amplified. What I found most peculiar was the fact that I never had an interest in that act, or any rough manners in sex, nor had I ever seen any, yet my imagination had created what I believed to be the most faithful rendition it could have. I was being attacked by my own mind and the more I fought it, the stronger it became. Tea couldn’t solve my dilemma, so for the first time in my life, at forty-two, I decided to try and drink my thoughts away.

I wore my shoes and left the house. It had been a few months since I left the house without my work suit. Being a civilian feels different, no matter what costume you don usually. I felt naked without it. I was myself and my mind decided to make a statement right then and there. I walked calmly to the car, but now the image of fucking the receptionist at work in the ass until she bled had taken over my mind. Every tiny crease of her anal entrance, the stretch marks on the side of her hips, her improper posture causing her ass to bend in a specific way. All details I had never thought I’d processed.

These details were all true. I realized that on the intersection on my way to the bar. The pornographic imagery had gripped me. Every woman I saw on the way had become a sexual object that I wanted to express the most debauched feelings towards. My wife and I had sex, but nothing close to the things I wanted to do to those women. The guilt kept eating me up and it became too much to juggle my guilt and trying to stop myself from thinking. I finally got to the bar, and went into the parking lot near by. I couldn’t help myself and I started masturbating in the parking lot, imagining my neighbour’s daughter begging me to “fill up my whore cunt.”

The guilt multiplied as soon as I orgasmed. The climax gave me shivers, but when those were over, I was almost moved to tears. I could barely handle the fact that I’d ruined my pants, like a child, masturbating in a parking lot, thinking of the most foul thoughts my mind could conjure. I cleaned my pants as best I could and went to the bar, which thankfully was dimly lit. I sat on a stool by the bar and ordered my drink. The bar tender was nice and tried to start conversation, but I was so absent minded I only muttered a few words, and I believe he got the idea. The extent of our relationship was me ordering my Whisky, and him pouring it and taking his money.

Dark settled when I left the bar. I had hardly noticed the time pass, I was almost asleep, lost in a hell made of wet dreams. I approached my car, but I noticed I was far too drunk to walk. Calling my wife occurred to me, but I could hardly say her name to myself without feeling sick with guilt. How could I even look at her? I chose to find a taxi, so I started walking towards a main road. As drunk as I was, the thoughts refused to stop. I tried to get lost in the rhythm of my shoes hitting the pavement, but that quickly turned to the sound of flesh pounding. That’s when I heard her.

“You wanna party?” she said.

She sounded young, no older than my own daughter who just graduated high school. I looked in the voice’s direction, and I saw a girl, no older than seventeen, skimpily clothed and heavily made up. Her stomach was bulging, I’m no doctor, but she looked at least six months pregnant. Despite that, I couldn’t help myself but look at her legs, trying to catch a glimpse under her skirt or through her shirt.

“You look excited.” she chuckled, and took a drag of her cigarette.

I was already hard. Had I not been drunk, I would’ve been embarrassed, but I was lost in her. Her sex. The smell of her sweat. The taste of her ass. I wanted to know if I could make her cum. What was her pussy like? I wanted her to be on her period. The thoughts drove themselves, and so did my words.

“I want to fuck your mouth until my cum flies out of your nose.” I blurted out.

She smiled at me, and I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not, if she was going to love feeling my dick ramming her wind pipes.

“All rough stuff is limited to the face, understood?” she said, pointing at her belly.

“Yes, whatever you want, I’ll make sure I don’t hurt it.”

“It’ll cost you.”


“Three hundred.”

I nodded like a moron, and she grabbed my hand, and it felt soft and I wanted to slip my dick in it right then and there. We entered a motel, and walked up the stairs into an indiscriminate motel room. I put the money on the table, and she started undressing herself.

At this point, I’d like to say that I won’t go into too many details, both because of certain actions I still have problems accepting. What I will say is this; I had to pay her, much more than three-hundred dollars. Her face was fractured at three points, and I ruptured her windpipe with my penis. She asked me to pay her hospital bills and I had to settle with her outside of court so she wouldn’t sue me. What I did to that poor girl is unconscionable. I met a beast in myself that I never knew existed, and it frightened me. It still does. I rarely find rest at night, trying to wrestle that demon within every night.

It shames me immensely to say that the demon over-powers me, and does so often, and to this day, I cannot understand what caused it. Since my first occasion, I learned much. Mainly; how to not hurt the girls too badly. Further than that, I learned that my wife’s no idiot, and that it’s hard to maintain a double life, but not impossible. For now, this is the course of action I’ve decided to take. The accumulative shame of what happened is too much to bare. It would destroy my life if it came out. Until then, I’ll put my demon in his cage until he breaks out again.


Tender my nibbuns.

“I’m bored, Ali.”

“Me too.”

“No, you don’t get it.” she sighed, “I’ve been bored for the past twelve years.”

Ali held his contempt as best he could, but his eyes widening, and his arms twitching gave it away. She knows him too well. He knows that all too well himself. He sat down, and slid his hand across his hair to regain some composure.

“That’s what happens when you’re forty and married.”

Zahra hated him and his quips of wisdom. Always the diplomat, never addressing the real problem.

“It wasn’t like that in the beginning.”  she said, with a nostalgic smile.

“That’s a long time ago. My love for you changed, it developed. I hoped your love for me would too, but I haven’t felt like you loved me, ever.”

“I do love you, Ali. You know I do.” She said, reaching over to hold his hands.

“No, Zahra. You only think you love me because you never had the chance to love anyone else.”

“How dare you say that?” she quickly stood up, and threw Ali’s hands into his laps.

Ali remained calm, and looked up from his seat. Her heart was racing, even she didn’t know why she reacted so erratically. She looked down at him, at that familiar face, and just at that moment she was overwhelmed with images of all the men that were in her life. Every single one of them, starting with her father, took a turns having wild lustful sex with her, and the images were so vivid she could hardly see Ali’s face.

“Can you please sit down?” he said, holding her hands, slowly leading her to the chair.

She wanted to speak, she wanted to yell for help, but she couldn’t understand why that was happening to her.

“I know you haven’t loved me since you found out I was sterile.” he said, “and I know I can’t ever give you those twelve years back, but I thought you’d love me one day, but now, I can’t let myself do this to you. Zahra, I love you beyond anything, but I saw my fair share of the world before we met.”

“Ali, please, don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it, I beg you. Can we just wait? Can’t I try? I love you, my husband, my man, my spine. We grew together. We’ve done too much to just let it go.”

Zahra cried, and hugged Ali, digging her face into his chest.

“Had I not fallen in love with you to the stars and beyond, had I not seen the gold that’s in you over these years. Oh Zahra, you are the sun, and what monster would rob the sun of her children that nourish in her rays?”

Her tears stained his white shirt, but his hands relentlessly brushed against her hair, and held her tightly. But even in the solace of darkness, burrowed in Ali’s chest, Zahra couldn’t escape the horrible ideas she had, and none of them included him. She had imagined herself being filled up to the brim with semen by half the men she met in her life, and not a single one of them was Ali.

She quickly pushed herself off his chest, and yelled.

“And what do you think my life is for, huh? To do nothing but bring children to this world? Would I be that kind of monster? To take you as meat and throw you away like bone? Do you see me to be such a fool, such an idiot?”

Ali chuckled, and hugged Zahra, despite her attempts at pushing him away.

“You honoured me with your presence all this time. Zahra, my wild flower,  I want you to be the happiest, and I cannot give you any of that. And don’t let me fool myself, I remember how you would never stop talking about how you wanted to have kids. I can’t look myself in the mirror any more.”

She had imagined every single man she knew at that point, every subconscious image of a man stored in her memory, she had conjured and made the filthiest (to the best of her abilities) love to them, and it would always end with her being completely filled up with their semen. And it just stopped. There was no Ali. The more she looked at him, the more odd of a creature he had become. A fruitless plant. A cactus that sucked on her time and effort.

The world was available and she had been sheltered from it for too much. Indeed she was a sun, and she needed a planet to nourish, a child, a galaxy, a dozen babies! When she looked at Ali, all she saw was a cactus. A prickly cactus that wouldn’t budge. She cried, but she couldn’t find solace in him any more. She didn’t have the impulse to seek his help.

“I’m sorry.” he said, choking on his words, tears on the edge of his eyelids.

“You’re right.” she muttered slowly and quietly with shivering lips. “This entire time. Why didn’t you tell me before? Why didn’t I do something about?”

“What’s done is done, Zahra, the future is bright for both of us. I promise you.”

“I’m going to my mother’s house, I need to be alone for a while.”

She started walking towards the room, and she took one final glance at Ali, who had resigned himself to silent thought. She stood there for a minute, looking at him and him occasionally looking at her and back to the ground. She shook her head slightly and blinked a few times and said.

“You’re a god damned cactus, Ali.”



In many ways, if not every way, I am a traditional man. I work with my hands, breaking down walls, chimneys, stairs, foundation columns and remodelling them. The man I’m working for right now is one of the more educated people I’ve worked for. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve worked in some prominent people’s homes, I don’t just work with my hands, I’m good with them too. Every muscle fibre of mine is attuned to my work. I can hit a nail with a hammer blind folded, and that’s no empty claim. A water pipe blew up in my face from behind a wall and got a bunch of materials in my eyes. Some of that material was the asbestos we were clearing out. My eyes burnt for the next three hours, but I continued working, and I didn’t mess up once. It’s by no pleasure of my own that I’ve taken on my line of work. I am a traditional man, because the tradition I’ve adopted works in my circumstances. My wife and I have children to feed.

That’s a thing that’ll get you through a rough day. Knowing that if you fuck up, someone’s going to have to pay the price, and it’s not necessarily you. Having trouble of your own becomes a leisure. My kids are well worth the sacrifice. They didn’t ask for it. I didn’t really shed the guilt of imposing life on them yet. My daughter Salwa is the older of the two. She has a temper like you wouldn’t understand. She destroyed her room three times about now, ranting and screaming about one thing or the other we wouldn’t allow her to do; like dating that scum-bag from across the street. My mother always told me that the people you choose to befriend reflect you, and I refuse my daughter to be reflected as a fool that goes around the types of people that smoke weed and listen to unreasonably loud death metal. Besides, the boy wears mascara. It’s odd.


Penartha and the Crimson Gates


I decided to kill myself on the 19th of August. The decision was made through a lengthy process of self loathing, chronic pains and a general disdain for my own existence. When I told the preacher in our mid-western town what I decided to do.

“God holds no passion for those who take their own lives.” he warned.

My mother used to tell me the same thing. For some reason, I suppose I expected a man of God to have a better answer, but somehow, all the reasons to remain alive fall flat in the face of suffering. Besides; I figure if I know why I’m being punished, it’d be easier to accept.

I didn’t want to die a virgin. Girls never liked me much, so there wasn’t much of a chance for me to find anyone that was willing. But I knew ‘Mick’s Bar’ has prostitutes coming in and out. For a person that was perfectly content with the idea of his death, I felt disturbingly anxious when I met Candy. She wasn’t a stunner, but she had a sexiness to the way she sat that knocked me out of my mind and between her breasts.

She smoked, and she drank, and I sat in the corner of the bar holding my Iced Tea with both hands, staring at her. She looked back, and our eyes met, then my eyes and her tits met, then I got acquainted with the rest of her body that carved itself into her dress under the dingy bar lights. I looked back at her face, and saw a little smile forming at one side of her lips, and then she turned back to the bartender and whispered something into his ear.

It didn’t take long before the bartender approached me with his smooth walk, and asked.

“You’ve been sitting here for a while. Are you sure you don’t want something stronger?”

I lifted my head up slowly, trying to catch another glimpse of Candy’s body and chuckled.

“Do you serve Cyanide?” I asked.

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Forked road

I fell in love once.  I can pinpoint the moment I knew it was her I needed. The moment I saw her. That should’ve been the first sign. I am a blind man.’ Her and I’ quickly became ‘us’. Love never comes without it’s high. Something about that person tells you that they will tether you on to the cliff you’re bound to fall off. A quaint relaxation that a missing part of you returned to its original place.

Helen was a work of art. Watching her walk was entertainment. Not just for me. Everyone saw it. To be present, was an honor. It didn’t feel very honorable two years after we moved in with each other. The perfect image of the sturdy rope that you draw for yourself quickly dissolves with every bastardization of the reality you drew. It was cute that she snorted after laughing. I once wanted to strangle her during a comedy film.

I ended it two weeks ago. The fight was stupid. All of them were. Over the four years we were together, we came to understand how flawed our image of each other really was. I came back home one night, after spending a few hours at the bar with my friends, and I found her waiting for me on the chair in front of the door. Had it not been for her texting me a million times about when I’d be back home, I would have been shocked.

She asked me to give her my phone.


“I just want to see it, give it to me.”

I pulled out my phone, and gave it to her. I didn’t feel like going through the hassle of a fight, and there wasn’t really anything in it that needed hiding. She quickly tapped in my code and started going through my phone.

“I didn’t know you had my password.” I said.

“Yea, well, I do.” she quickly replied, without even glancing up for a moment.

I walked around her, and went to the bedroom where I changed into my pajamas. I brushed my teeth, and sat on my lavatorial throne. I reached into my pocket as I squeezed, only to remember where it was. I then realized I hadn’t had a quiet shit in more than three months. The only time one shits peacefully is at work.

She called for me from the living room just as I finished wiping. It happened so often, that at that moment I had a revelation that I might have been turned into a dog.

“Pavlov’s fucking dog.” I said to myself, as I pulled up my pants, looked in the mirror, smiled at my handsome self, and got out into the hallway.

“Nadel.” she moaned.

“I’m coming. I’m coming.” I said. “Can I have my phone back now? Are you happy?”

“No, I’m not happy. I know you’re keeping a secret from me.”


“You’re hiding something, and I don’t fucking like it.” she said, pushing the phone into my hands.

I grabbed her by the arm as she turned away.

“Wait, just. Hold up.” I said, bringing her near to me. “I’m not hiding anything, I promise. Where the hell did that idea spring up from anyway?”

“It said it on my horoscope.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Mona Lisa was burning right in front of my eyes. I remembered the first time I made her laugh, and how perfect she was. How flawless. To me, she was God’s masterpiece in engineering. So how was it that I was being bombarded by a Lego wall built by a limbless toddler?

“I can’t take this shit.” I said, letting her arm go, and returning to the bedroom.

She stayed in the living room and watched television.”E! TV”. I laid in bed, and surfed the internet for a while. I heard Kim Kardashian sobbing from the living room, and something clicked in my brain. I searched for her porno, and I masturbated. I hadn’t jerked off in longer than three years. There was a certain sense of liberation and comfort after that, and I rode that pleasurable feeling into a blissful nap.

She woke me up at three o’clock in the morning.

“I’m sorry.” she said.

“It’s fine, we’ll talk tomorrow.” I yawned at her.

“I won’t be able to sleep if we don’t talk about this.”

I took a deep breathe and imagined a marine assaulted me out of no where and drenched me in cold water.

“Alright, I’m up.”

“I don’t know.” she said, “Those things are almost never wrong, and you know how I feel about them.”

“It’s fine. Can I go to bed now?”

“No, not yet.” she said, giving me a playful smile. “Remember when we first met?”

I nodded slowly, still smacking my eyelids together, trying to let them know they’ll be working for a while.

“I asked you what you think about fate. Do you remember what you said?”

“You make me feel like it’s not bullshit.” I said with a nostalgic smile.

“And you remember when you used to read the horoscopes with me and laugh about how you’d see them happening?”

I laughed, and realized that it’s only nostalgic if you lost it in the first place. The marine came back and gave me a good kicking, and drowned me in ice.

“Where are you going with this, Helen?”

“Do I still make you feel that way?” she said. “Do I still make you feel like fate and everything beautiful in the world isn’t complete bullshit?”

“No,” I blurted out. “not a single bit.”

I kept cold and wore a marine’s poker face. She started sobbing.

“I could feel it you know.” she sobbed through her palms.

“I don’t know what to say. It’s just not there anymore. The world is as dull as it always was, and your glitter faded. Everything I loved about you never existed. I was sold a bad product, and so were you. It’s my fault. It really is. I don’t regret any of it, but we should have known.”

She cried louder, and nodded her head.

“You’re a fucking fool, you know that?!” she yelled at me. “You think you’ve got it all figured out. ‘Mister nothing makes sense’. You and your stupid fucking ways. You just can’t follow anything, can you? There’s no fucking way to make you even think that any of that was possible. You’re so stuck up your own ass, you can’t see what’s right in front of you. You don’t take anyone’s bullshit, I’ll give you that. But it’s only because you’re so in love with your own.”

“Tell me, then. What’s in front of me?” said the marine.

“Love, you son of a bitch. True love. We have something special, and you’re throwing it out the window.”

“Love?” I said, “Love is a lie Hollywood made up so we can populate more and create more consumers. Love is a satire taken serious. What we had was special. Nothing in the world can ever recreate it. It ran its course. I don’t want a part of it anymore. I want out, Helen.”

She sobbed again. Louder, and then louder. I sat and I watched.

“You’re breaking up with me?”


She sobbed harder, and I got up to wear my clothes.

“Where are you going?” she asked “Let’s talk about this.”

“We just did. I’m going to sleep at Jerry’s tonight.”

She went to the living room, and I could hear her cry. I could hear her cry all the way until the end of our stoop. I looked back at the life I built over the past four years. If fate intended this, then it’s nothing but a bad joke. I took out a cigarette, looked at the side walk that split in two opposite directions, and wondered where I should go. There was no way Jerry is awake. I felt like being alone anyway.

Left or right. Fortuna depended on it. There must be a correct path, I thought to myself. There must be the perfect path. I stood there for a while. I smoked three cigarettes by the time I realized what I had to do. I went in between both paths in front of my chain linked fence. I closed my eyes, and I spun. I don’t know how many times. I made it a goal to not count.

It’s not a mistake if I didn’t decide it. When I stopped turning, I saw that I had spun right back to where I started. Facing the street. I stepped off the sidewalk, and went to the other side, and my feet declared the direction on their own. I had no idea where I was going, and I didn’t care. Nothing I did was right. Nothing I did was wrong. My feet started walking faster. Before I knew it, I was running.




The dead owe us nothing

The sound of snow crunched under his little boot covered feet, and the wind gently slid on the sides of his face, leaving his nose a little redder with each waft. On passing, he saw an old man sitting on a bench, alone, throwing dry chunks of bread to no one in particular. He went around the cemetery once and realized there weren’t any birds. On his return, the old man still sat hunched forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, throwing small chunks from a dried piece of toast with his thick fingers.

“There’s no birds around.” said the boy.
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Holy smokes

He nestled his head into the rims of his coat and walked into the dark streets lit by nothing but lamps. His cigarette laid comfortably on his lower lip, unlit, and soggy from the rain that was pouring heavily. His dark black hair dripped water into the insides of his shirt, and his walk swayed sideways. Had it not been for the distinct smell of the first winter’s rain, he would’ve been assaulted by his own odor, a mixture of whiskey and sweat.

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He who sat quietly

In solitude, you hear God’s voice. His silence fills the largest rooms with a deafening echo. To hear no one speak, is to be blessed with God’s music. None knew that better than the old man, sitting on a mountain top that he declared his long before anyone had stepped on its rigid rocks.

The five hundred and thirty year old man, with eyes that squinted in a constant smile, and wrinkles on his face that were dug by time, was the only one that spoke the Lord’s language. His dark hair lightened with the light of the sun, and shone with the moon’s luminescence, and his lips never parted more than thrice to interrupt his only friend’s conversation that spanned over the millennia.

The first time was when a bird with a broken wing landed itself in front of his rock. It sat and chirped in pain.

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El Matador

Señor Delgado was a wonderful dancer. When he wasn’t dodging bulls with a magnificent twirl and spin, he was breaking hearts somewhere on a dance floor. His charm rarely left him. Even when he took down vicious beasts attacking him, there was an elegance to his moves. His sword was golden, and his muleta was green. He rarely wore the tight shiny clothes, disregarding them for a salsa dancer’s suit.

For a matador, he was quite bulky. He had more muscles than subtlety. The kind of man that left you wondering how he could obviously try so hard, but make it look so simple.

My fondest memory of him was when I first saw him on television. He was pitted against a bull, ‘El Empalador’, three times the size of the largest bull I’d seen. A large bastard that impaled and dislocated limbs, yet never saw the chopping block. When the town decided it was his turn to die, Señor Delgado stood and told the congregation that he will take care of him, and so, it was his final dance.

The sun shone hard that day. We could see it through the cameras, and the sweat on everyone’s foreheads. Everyone but Delgado’s. He simply stood, like a magnificent structure, immovable by fear or heat. No blazing star could shine harder than he.

When the bull was released, the crowd cheered, and the Señor bowed for him. As if there were an unspoken respect between the two, the bull lowered his head, bowed, and let out a gust of air that set out the dust from under him, and started digging his hooves into the ground.

Señor Delgado unsheathed his sword, and it shone. It shone so hard the camera could show nothing anymore. I clenched my hands onto the couch seat in excitement. I could taste the crowd’s fear in our living room.

He took out his green muleta and yelled.

“Come beast. One of us will no longer dance tomorrow.”

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Fifty shades of Gandalf the Grey


By all means, I was just a normal girl. The farthest extent of individuality I ever reached was the little journal I wrote in, the one you are reading right now, which in a sense, is you peering into my soul. My dirty, tainted, molested soul. If you’d turn the page backwards, you’d only find the ramblings of an innocent girl that plunged into the world after graduating University. At the top of her class no less. Thing is about the life of academia, is it could ready you for the trials and tribulations of business, or how to translate a sentence in Shakespeare’s works a hundred different ways, but what you will read later on, no university could have prepared me for. This entry began around the time I found my first apartment, where I shared a room with my friend Cindy. Now, I call her a friend because I found myself dumped into a job where I knew no one, spending the bulk of my day tending to an obese boss’s every need as his secretary, and a new city filled with hustle and bustle that I myself was impartial to. You see, I’m just a normal girl as I stated earlier. I’m not very active in the social lives of others, nor am I completely secluded and hidden away. I was used to having friends in school, a little group I would stick with, then the same in University, but after being dumped from the institutionalized world, I found myself completely lacking any human contact. I still speak to them on Facebook every now and then, but it’s not really the same. Our relationships were built on more shallow things. Gossiping, sharing events that happened around the day, and talking of the amazing parties we were going to.

Cindy however, was a well rounded individual when it came to everything. She had everything in order, at least, that’s the way I saw it. She was a journalist, working for a financial magazine, a beautiful woman that dated all sorts of men, that I some now and then got to see naked as they passed by my room, sometimes to get refreshments, other times tissues, and once, I believe a spatula. The walls were thick in our house, but not nearly thick enough to muffle Cindy’s screams. AT times it was the men that were screaming. I asked her what would happen on those nights, and she told me:

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