The "100 Words Exactly" Journal Project -- ENCORE 1
The start of this project
"God damn it, I'm turning into fucking Martha", Brad stormed as he sought in vain for a matching sock in the laundry basket.
"Martha Stewart? Not with the state of this apartment," Brian sneered, before taking a sip from his latte. "A small hint -- those throw-pillows don't match the sheet you have covering the couch."
"No, you idiot, Martha from the Bible." Brad sighed. "The one who did all the work while Mary just sat around chatting up Jesus when He came to visit? I'm drowning in trivialities. The poetry in my soul's just...gone. It's the death of dreams."
[FIRST ENCORE]
Brian stretched lazily, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "Drama drama drama. Queen, just get the fuck over it. You know you've got to be joking. You've got a ton of creative outlets. Blogging, script-writing, reviews...and that's just from the writing standpoints. Add any of the performing arts, or take a fucking class in life drawing -- hell, in the bedroom you're the goddamn Leonardo da Vinci. So why are you on this "death of poetry" bullshit? I couldn't give a wet fart about your whiny-ass angst."
Brad sighed again. "What would you know? You're not even here."
"God damn it, I'm turning into fucking Martha", Brad stormed as he sought in vain for a matching sock in the laundry basket.
"Martha Stewart? Not with the state of this apartment," Brian sneered, before taking a sip from his latte. "A small hint -- those throw-pillows don't match the sheet you have covering the couch."
"No, you idiot, Martha from the Bible." Brad sighed. "The one who did all the work while Mary just sat around chatting up Jesus when He came to visit? I'm drowning in trivialities. The poetry in my soul's just...gone. It's the death of dreams."
[FIRST ENCORE]
Brian stretched lazily, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "Drama drama drama. Queen, just get the fuck over it. You know you've got to be joking. You've got a ton of creative outlets. Blogging, script-writing, reviews...and that's just from the writing standpoints. Add any of the performing arts, or take a fucking class in life drawing -- hell, in the bedroom you're the goddamn Leonardo da Vinci. So why are you on this "death of poetry" bullshit? I couldn't give a wet fart about your whiny-ass angst."
Brad sighed again. "What would you know? You're not even here."