Yay to creative writing prompts for the mentally unsound block people who think of themselves as writers get

So I found a website that has random creative writing prompts. One of which was to write a story about a man who teaches his pet cockroaches to dance. Another was to write a letter to your ten year old self. Most of the rest was trash I could not comprehend.

So...

Dear Chloe,

I assume that since you are 10 now, you will be 11 soon. I am really sorry about that but don't worry, 13 years later you haven't changed at all. Goal succeeded, win.

But the real reason I'm writing to you now from the future, as your awesome future self, is not to tell you shit I know now that I wish I knew then but to tell you this ridiculous whack story I'm making up right now about Mr Hunting Lodge as a whim.

Who is Mr Hunting Lodge you ask? Why, he's the bottle of whisky daddy finished that mummy now uses as water bottles to hydrate her annoying and awful family. Yes, we are awful and annoying but don't worry, generally people kinda like us so really, you can quit trying now.

Mr Lodge was one of those cranky pseudo posh guys with big teeth and oily skin that always thought at the back of his head just like you do that he was meant for something greater. It was always just out of his grasp and try as he may, his long skinny fingers just couldn't feel it in the dark. He lived like the slob he is but walked around in his prissy purple coat tailed jacket and shiny denim jeans and talked posh, posh not like he went to Hogwarts but like he had a smell under his nose and a singing frog stuck in his throat.

He lost his job because the frog in his throat lost its voice.

His pity party was Britney Spears, Tesco and New Years at Times Square all at once with the devil beside him patting his shoulder whispering there, there really sweetly. Then a cockroach crawled up to the little cardboard box that once held the fat he had had delivered out of misery but which now lines his stomach and clogs up his ass and started nibbling on the remnants of cheeseburger it contained inside.

Mr Lodge tried to smash it with his fist but the little roach evaded and continued its meal.

"I can't even kill a cockroach," moaned Lodge, tears rolling down his eyes again in streams.

"There, there," whispered the devil sweetly.

"Useless, useless, useless... maybe I'll facebook the 45 minutes before I commit suicide."

"There, there."

The cockroach shot Lodge a look. If you can't imagine a cockroach doing that Chloe, don't worry, Wall-E will show you how and your imagination will fly away with you.

Lodge started humming Evanescence. Imaginary paper flowers and purple clouded skies for him.

"FML!" thought the cockroach. "Another fucking emo."

And it started to dance.

That's right, you heard me. It started to dance.

Not like a ballerina in a tutu you dumbass, but it bopped it head along to the humming, and scuttled this way and that the way only a cockroach knows how. In its head it chanted dance, dance, dance, dance, dance dance dance revolution! Dance dance revolution, ohhh-hhhhhhh oh oh ohhhhh ow ow emo!

When you grow up Chloe, there will come a time when you will nod your head in agreement when some bimbo tells you that she doesn't care about the alcohol, she only likes to dance. You too may say it to someone else but believe me, that will be a lie, not a white lie - a really bad one.

But still, the cockroach danced its way in front of Lodge whose tears was still streaming down his face though his eyes were shut tight and it cleared it throat. This too is something you will see in Wall-E as cockroaches are apparently one of the only creatures that can survive a nuclear disaster which is probably how we will die in the near future. He was so sererousry ronerey that he esproded Sou Koreya. Or his dough faced successor did and AMERICA FUCK YEAH did nothing to help cos there ain't no oil there baby and they sure didn't want another Vietnam on their hands as ever since then, they only like to go to war when they sure as hell know what they're dying for.

The cockroach cleared his throat again in a series of clicks and jingly buzzes. Mr Hunting Lodge looked down and yes, I am about to say that his life changed forever.

His life changed forever.

I am now bored of this story and I realise you have no idea what facebook is. It's what people with no friends do not have. You have facebook, don't worry.

Love,
Chloe.

PS: But you like to fuck your friends over as it suits you and you have atrocious work ethic.

PPS: I wonder if this will get me a job in a magazine if they ask for sample writing.

PPPS: Maybe I should have chosen the topic which was to tell a story about an adoption agency selling shaved baby chimps instead.

PPPPS: Or about a bucket of distaste. Everyone okay with another racist post?

PPPPPS: Happy birthday EBONY! Who never reads this blog. I love you!

PPPPPPS: http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/ if anyone's interested.

QUACKing

definition: acronym for carrying out Quirky Unusual Acts of Christmas Kindness.

You learn something new everyday.

In light of the recent confessions of a Malay Muslim men that he's gay and okay, I have a few things to say about it.

Do you accept homosexuality?
Does saying you'll treat such a person humanely but dont want to do anything that may appear to show "support" or "encouragement" towards the chosen lifestyle of said person is only superficially oxymoronic or is it an outright contradiction?

Does withholding support equal inhumane treatment? Where do you draw the line at what constitutes "support" and "encouragement"?

I find it hard to believe that if I say to a cross-dresser/homosexual/transsexual etc "hey, you look amazing today!" it'd be like I said "hey, you gay people are so hip. I support you hey, I'd totally be gay if I could and whatever with my religion!"

I believe that the Quran tells me judgment is for God. I will draw my line there. If you feel that you can be a devout Muslim and be homosexual, I say that is fine with me. Because you may have found something I've not yet learned to see.

I've thought about all the horrible things that could happen in life. To the people around you. I think the most important thing is that the persons you love know that they come to you even when other people think the worst of them. Know that I will be there no matter how terrible things look. No matter how bad the reality.
I will do my best to understand your reality.

I want you to know that.

Maxi-pad

The above title is fair warning that the following post is not funny. Take heed and beware. I just want to talk about myself some more.

I fell asleep last night and woke up in December. It feels like a holiday again you guys! I haven't felt like this forever and not because I was doing much but because I haven't felt as excited for a long time. Damn I'm excited!

I don't know, maybe it's because Chellius zinged me up with her sudden bout of amazing spot-on direction (which makes me wonder if she has always had an okay sense of direction but I've been misguided because of she has loud squawking arms).

The Reasonable Man was probably the worst super-hero idea ever. It seems now quite likely that when he popped up in the stories those law books tell he could have been to me that boring good old white Protestant man, slightly stout but had had an honest job in his day that allowed him to retire politely and whom after having a daily snooze by the fire place with his wife's cat warming up his belly after tea would walk out to catch that stupid Clapham omnibus my poyo A Level teacher kept stressing on while raising his hat to women and acquaintances all the while holding on tightly to it in case in blew off. He also went to church on Sundays and paid his dues to God and to State religiously and had little squabbles with his old wife. I think I pictured Mr Twiddle. Damn you Enid Blyton, you really set the foundation of my imagination.

Or maybe I should be damning my lack of imagination and ridiculous uneducated and naive stereotypes but fuck that, Wayne Morrison looked like that. He was angry like how a more educated Mr Twiddle could be too. And he was red faced just like how I imagined. That must then be the standard of the average white toad. Or maybe dear Enid Blyton, you made law slightly more interesting, I luff you?

And then I spent all day today watching Greek. And I tell you that Casey Cartwright's father is even more boring than she is. He was the single most blandest blend of white male character ever, that I cannot believe that he really is the average American reasonable man.

Imagine if he had a sarong wrapped around his waist and a pair of spectacles on his nose. He might have a pretty respectable carpet selling business or he might not but he always, always has a family. Stretch him further you might have a Malaysian reasonable man but then a debate would be struck up on the average reasonable man dependent on the race. And then someone might confuse race with religion and the whole May 13 thing will be used as a reminder of what could happen if we run on racial politics. Could. If.

But then again, back to me. Yesterday was pretty fun Chellius and Meeragus. Can I call you that? I don't know but I don't know how else to end your name with an us.

Farmadickly, I totally missed you yesterday. We didn't have a set target and all Chelle did was call me out on how much I like talking about myself and then take me to places that remind me of that stupid Dark Water and Ringu. It was okay, but boy I did wish you were there. You just whine so and then pretend like you didn't. Waa waa waaa. Waaaa. Waaaa. Waaaaaaaaaaaa. I can hear you dumb fuck!

Maybe it's because January round the corner actually feels like the beginning of a brand new year and not like some I'm not really sure what month it is but I think it's December though its really in the middle of the fucking school year which shouldn't be in December because December's are fucking holidays! But aren't because fuck May's around the corner.

Is a good feeling. And I like pencils.

I saw a little punky-pine.

Oh life is bigger, bigger than you and you are not me.

Once upon a time, there was a little ma-duu running through fields of rice being chased by a motorbike with a screaming kid on it. Ahhh cried the ma-duu, aahhhh cried the kid.

The mother kangaroo was hopping fiercely behind the motorbike trying to catch up but the motorbike had a mind of its own and it wanted to run the ma-duu down. Run the ma-duu down, run the ma-duu down it chanted to itself every time it revved its engine.

Where do we go from here?