He wrote a rape story, and not even a good one

Last year I was in an advanced creative course and the first day of class we all talked about our creative processes. One guy told us that he liked to write his stories at the bar, and he looked kinda nerdy, so I thought, 'oh, so he writes his Dragonball Z fan fiction while sitting by himself at Good Time Charley's. Good for him.'

That same guy volunteered to have his first paper peer edited that next week and wow, I couldn't have been wronger.

He wrote a rape story, and not even a good one. People got raped and they cried and there wasn't even much of a plot between all the pointless swearing, the Capitalization for No reason and, you know, the rape.

I got competitive and thought 'well, heck, I could write a better rape story than this guy. I'm new to the rape genre, but at least I'd use symbolism and motifs and I'd try to tell a touching story ... about... rape...?'

Yeah, that never happened.

(work.)

Anybody else take a creative writing course and get a classmate like this? And are there any other Creative Writing Classmates you think are recurring?

I'll start:
There's almost always the sorority girl who blatantly adapts her stories from her own life. Every story had a protagonist who looked and acted just like her and, coincidentally, every story was really bland.

Love note homework

Hey guys, you ever receive a love note from your girlfriend? You're flattered at first, then something happens.

You think, 'Ah, fuck. I just got a love note.'

Love notes are fucking hard to write. You know you have to return the favor, but it's going to be really hard.

Girls are much better at using words to write about their feelings. Some guys don't even have feelings, and now we have to write about them? Shit.

And love notes from your girlfriend are usually incredibly sweet, and before you even finish reading them you're brainstorming ideas about how you'll write your return love note. Only she's already said every sweet thing possible.

I've debating writing back with,
'Dear Amy,
Right back atcha!.
-Henry'

(Library.)

That love letter is currently sitting on my desk. Every time I look at it, I feel like it's taunting me. "Come on, asshole. Top this, I dare you." And I end up thinking, "You know what? Fuck you, love letter."

Of all the things someone could say to a love letter, I end up with "Fuck you." All because I suck at expressing myself. Can I write about farting, Batman, homeless people, the human taint, and igniting my genitals with hot sauce? Sure. But can I write a letter to a pretty girl? Not at all.

A fuck proposal

Yesterday morning I got back from the computer lab at 6:30am after almost finishing a paper. At this point I came close to, as men in labcoats put it, 'snapping inside my own goddamn brain.' My thoughts raced, my body twitched from sleep deprivation, and I couldn't get in a good moment's rest because the stupid paper wasn't even done.

Things like papers should not affect us as humans. They are not part of the survival instinct. I was not hiding from predators or pursuing a mate. An experimental proposal does not directly pertain to me shooting my DNA around in hopes of making little Henrys for the future, yet there I was, shakin' around, losing my grip on reality.

Lesson learned: stop caring about stuff that doesn't directly help you survive, like essays. Unless that paper gets you laid. A well-written Fuck Proposal, perhaps.

(bed.)

Love letters are just fuck proposals that rhyme. Unless you wrote your girlfriend a haiku, in which case you're just lazy, because those things are easy as shit.

Unicorn fucked

Well, it's story time yet again, which means that with every word I type, I tell a tale of humanity and keg beer and drunk chicks and holy shit I am fucked. Fucked fucked fucked. Prison fucked.

Or worse: Unicorn fucked. This is when that mythical creature, in its infinite mystery, manifests itself before you for the sole purpose of sodomizing you with its magical horn.

So while you're off having your normal Sunday, a fantasy creature is raping me with its majesty.

(Fucked.)

Stressing over finals yields gibberish

This morning I have to pick between studying for an exam worth 25% of my grade or revising a shitty story for a portfolio worth ALL of my grade. This is like picking between two kids I don't really like. The one I pick sticks around and bothers me while the other one shits on my GPA.

And that didn't even make any sense, but I've been awake for about 20 hours straight now (with only about 12 more to go before I can go back to bed) so you can't hold me accountable for anything I type in this state of mind.

One time I deep fried a family of wild gerbils and then fed them to a pack of crocodiles who are allergic to gerbils. dun dun DUN holy shit I'm going to the fishbowl to study now.

If I live through this, people, you may actually see me in real life. And I'll shave this fucking stress beard.

(death.)

Motherhood through narrative prose

I used to think writing was fun. You get to create. You take nothingness and turn it into a leaving, breathing word child. Writing can make you a mother.

Well, now I feel like I'm hella preggers with 40 pages of doom and all I want is this demon word child out of me.

So I'm in a library today, writing things. I don't plan on getting home until very late at night. I have to breathe life into Untitled Document. In the next 48 hours I have to perform CPR on a blank page until it can say something on its own. Fucking literature. If only away messages could be classified as narrative prose...

(Converting creativity to ideas, ideas into words, words into stories, stories into Word documents, Word documents into grades, grades into my future.)

What dudes like

People want to be writers when they grow up because it sounds fun and easy. You just write. Write the words you use every day, only this time, adoring fans pay you to use them. And in our ideal worlds, we use words best, and everybody loves them, and they pay good money for them, and all you had to do was think the words and put them on paper and count your novel money.

Tonight I told some lady friends 'dudes like penetration.' Which got a laugh, but it's a FACT, people. I was there to educate and they just laughed at me. I gave them the secret to global domination and they took it as entertainment. Penetration will get you Planet Earth. Or at least an hourly fee. Plus tip.

Can you believe that you have to tip hookers? I mean, COME ON, I already gave you a ride. YOU should be paying ME.

(Bed.)

Adderall probably gives you anal warts

Monkey quiz, monkey lecture, superhero lecture, beer, Hitchhiker's Guide, then freaking the fuck out over a short story.

Pretty much all creativity inside me has died, and I think the most ironic part of this is that this lack of creativity stems from ...drum roll.... creative writing. And I blame the internet for this ADD.

Anybody ever try that Adderall stuff? It's supposed to be for dumb kids, but when taken by college students, you're supposed to be able to concentrate on really tedious shit.

Anybody know anything about this supposed miracle drug? It sounds like it'll help you with learning, but knowing how the universe works, Adderall probably gives you anal warts. Sure, you may know everything, but you'll have to do it standing up, 'cause sitting down hurts. Anal warts. Yeah.

(Out.)

Whenever I want to get myself to not try something I convince myself it'll adversely affect my ass.

Ass balls happen

Anybody know an easy way to squeeze out some hot, steamy narrative fiction really quickly? I just want to sit down and then fill an untitled Word document to the brim with character development and plotlines and clever dialogue.

Instead, I'll probably end up sitting in front of a computer mumbling 'fucking asshole shit fuck ass balls donkey turds diarrhea.'

And hopefully, there will be people around me, wondering what ass balls are.

Ass balls are when one wears the other as a hat. Doesn't matter the order.

To those I just offended, I'm sorry, but that's the facts. Ass balls happen. Mostly on the internet, though.

(Fiction/swearing, then sleep/death.)

If only away messages could be turned into short stories, then maybe I wouldn't be so effed in the A.

Also, it looks like everything I write has to involve butts or scrotums (or in this case, both).