Robotic Idea

Here I go with my writing and showing its conception to you right here, right now... How 50 Shades of Gray of Me... Though ironically enough, I'm writing it from my bedroom. If I actually have any actual followers following and you read two previous entries ago, I said I needed to get the hell out of my bedroom more since it should be only used for its only intention... To bedded in (amongst many other sinful lustful things purrrrr MEOW)... Mind you what you are about to read will be utterly first rough draft material so don't whip out the nasty "Get a real day job missy and stop wasting my oh so precious Internet minutes that I could have been using watching porn in my parents basement while making minimum wage at burger hut on Main St and Central..."

"I'm broken." I said.




I was taught to act and talk like a robot. So to simply say, I'm hurting, for whatever reason for, my conditioned response was always "I'm broken". The reason this time I was broken this time around was that my eyes ached something as I was practically dragged out of the cellar, which I only came to find out just moment ago was called by the very people dragging me. They called themselves the "Police".





It was always brighter upstairs than in the cellar. There had only been one little light in the center of the room in the ceiling. When it was working that is. Either they, my owners, turned it off to punish me for crimes I committed against them or the light just blew out suddenly I guess from being left on all the time. Many times in the past I had heard my owners yell to each other upstairs, after the the light went out, 'why the hell did ya not pay the goddamn electricity. Goddamn it, useless'. That was always my owner Cecilia telling her husband Freddie that.




I was only ever brought upstairs though to use the shower up there since all I had in the cellar was a toilet. Never really saw much of the rest of house since the upstairs bathroom was only feet away from the exit of the cellar door. The bathroom too was always brighter than the cellar. But I guess just about everywhere would be brighter than the cellar since I spent my whole known life in it, with the exception of coming up for my showers, which I so loved since I never felt like I ever really clean...




To be continued...

 

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I have been bad... Oops says I!

It's not that I haven't had anything to say. I haven't been avoiding. I haven't been ignoring. It's just been weird and stressful time. I know that I have the creativeness to develop in the storytelling world. I have the dreams to succeed or at least enjoy permanently vacationing in a literary universe. But what the hell stops me? All my favorite authors, both independent and professionally published alike, have of course succeeded to hurdle over the obstacles that writing a story/book usually provides. I'm not trying to be the next "Them". Who knows what I could be capable of. But I'm fed up with this completely unlife-like existence. I don't want to go out and travel the world (well, I do sorta want to but right now just USA), sleep with thousands of people, dance my nights away at the most trendiest clubs... I know some wish for some sort of life that's exciting and gives one the most salacious bragging rights. But I don't just want to stick myself in my room and waste away. I'm trying to find what this rut is that I am in, lace it with some nasty c4, and blow the sucker into another dimension. Just any place outside my room... A bedroom should just be what it's suppose to be built for, to be bedded in... Only! I got the imagination. I see it everywhere I go. I can look at the most simplest of objects and imagine a story from it... Modern day Scheherazade... Well, slight version of her!

 

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What A Phrase No. 1

Lord oh Might of Mike A Doula

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