“642 Things to Write About” with 642 Things to Procrastinate With Pt. 1

Everything is so wonderful, yea?! Anyway, please read #47 for the time that I and my sister were the TERRIFIED, the worst. Nothing short of a kidnapping-plus-torture can top this time I was most afraid for my life- and maybe not even that.

Prompt # 46: Describe exultation

My response:

I think, perhaps, that this means extreme happiness? A so sublime experience that you believe that you sit on God’s golden throne? Yea? No?

Sister’s response: 

Exultation is being kicked out of something, or exile. Being exiled.

Prompt #47: The time you were the most terrified- your knees were knocking, your heart was racing, you could barely stand to be in your own skin

My response:

It was 5 in the morning, and my sister managed to snag another bag of weed. It was December 2010. We had already smoked a joint earlier that night, but we were ready for another go.

“Is this that fake weed?” my sister had asked her then-husband/boyfriend fuckface.


We live in Tennessee. When my sister referred to this marijuana as fake, I just thought she meant low-grade shit because we’re no where near Hawaii. That wasn’t the case. Fake weed was another name for some totally fuckerific crazy drug called Spice.

At my turn, I breathed in three long puffs, trying to get high as fast as possible. Oh… Did I…

I remember my first thoughts being, I’m this fucking high already? Maybe earlier’s joint hadn’t worn off, maybe I was too fast, too much, too  fast?

My next thoughts were that I had already taken my bipolar medicine, so maybe twice in one day wasn’t a good idea.

Then I passed out.

As I came to, God screamed at me to stop liking fags so much.


And that went on longer than I care to remember.

My life never flashed before my eyes, but I could feel the balls trembling in the back of my head as I attempted to open my eyes and move. Fuckface tried to shake me awake as I murmured, “I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dying” over and over again. I thought he was my dad, and the person crying for me to shut up was my mom (it was my brother and sister).

I didn’t know that I was saying it like that- in my mind, it went more like this: “I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I MMMMMMMMMMMMMM D-D-D-D-D-D-D-AI-AI-AI-AI-AI-YYYYYYYYYY-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!” Except a lot slower, with your eyeballs rolling around in your head, and the air squeezing your chest into the rough, rough carpet and everything was trying to kill you. 

The world went into hyper drive and I fought to keep up, to stay alive. In the meantime, I knocked down anything that was in reach. I couldn’t see, but I knew I was awake and walking and blind. I thought I was in Hell, to be trapped forever.

“I BELIEVE IN GOD, I BELIEVE IN GOD, I BELIEVE IN GOD!” I screamed, more than desperate for mercy. I tried to hurt myself to show how much I needed it, I dug through sand and dirt and millions of hands keeping me down to reach the light, destroying my sister’s room and several things in the kitchen in the process. I also pissed my pants- which felt like a freakin’ explosion out of nowhere- put a gash in my foot whose meat we never found, and various other things.

I was able to see again around seven, naked in the doorway with sun shining on me and a chilly breeze flowing over me awake.

I was still high.

Fuckface had left me with my sister and brother, both of them too hungover to be of any help whatsoever. Having forgotten the last two hours, I asked them if they remembered anything I said. They said I just went to sleep.


This seemed to put my mind into shambles. I then believed that whatever had happened hadn’t happened yet, and wouldn’t happen until my parents came home from their trip, that night. In a grand effort to right whatever wrongs I had done, to give myself another chance at redemption, I began destroying the material things in my life.

I started upstairs with the HD TV I bought my dad for father’s day, shattering it to pieces with a brandy bottle that I had hit myself with (and given myself a mild concussion, as well, not helping at all with the high life).

I then went downstairs. My laptop was thrown out the door, broke into three satisfying pieces. Then my Wii went with it (that was picked up by my sister’s- the one with the baby and Fuckface- friend to see if it still ‘worked’. It didn’t, I suppose.). My XBOX 360 was next, breaking into even more pieces. I thought it destroyed, but my brother tried to play it, and it worked, and it still works now. (Props to Microsoft)

I broke the downstairs tv and knocked down trophies and the entertainment center with everything in it and on it- I shattered the crystal atop one by one.

I then began to throw my books and manga- my beloved collection (bar the goddamn Bibles) out the window, intending to set them all ablaze. My brother finally became a big boy, realizing that something was seriously wrong with me to be still high after having smoked three puffs five hours ago

He stopped me from burning my books (PRAISE ZEUS!), and came with me as I walked half-naked with my gashed foot outside the house, intending to begin a impoverished missionary life in the name of whichever Christian God made me the most lucid. He called a friend to get me home before we got to a main thoroughfare. I thought I was possessed with a demon and started speaking in tongues and biting and scratching but they got me home.

I then began calling people- my deans, my friends in New York and New Jersey (friends from Johns Hopkins), my gay brother, my parents- telling them all the wrath of God and all that.

To speed up time, my parents were called home early from their trip, and my brother came from Nashville. They all tried to calm me down, but I kept saying I was dying and that I was going to hell and God hated fags- stuff like that.

Someone pointed out that I said that Ma and Pa was supposed to arrive at night- and that’s when I became slightly better, though my mind kept trying to tell me how they were all demons and were trying to get me away from Almighty God, and the air was tight and heavy and whirling (oh, brandy).

I wasn’t better until 9 o’ clock. AM. The next morning. For roundabouts 26  hours, I was high on Spice.

When I was better- as better as I could be with all my self-inflicted wounds, bruises, and concussion- people wondered why I wasn’t angrier. All my stuff was destroyed.

All I could think was that, man, if God was real, I would hate the bastard for doing such a thing to me! But he wasn’t, and I’m good.

Sister’s response: 

I was at the amusement park with my brothers and sisters. I am one of those people who hate 98 percent of the rides because they are too scary, which resulted in hating the amusement park. However, I love how it looks and I really want to go on all the rides with my siblings. On that day I decided to conquer my fear by going on The Dropzone (if you don’t know, it’s a tall ride that when you touch the top, you fall down fast and then you slow down) with my sister.

I got on the ride, excited to do it, and once I reached the top, I thought to myself, This isn’t so bad. It’s quite beautiful. All of the sudden, the ride dropped, and my heart shot out of my head.

We got off the ride and sure enough I was crying, my knees were knocking, my heart was racing, and I could barely stand to be in my own skin.


Prompt 48: The difference between the first death you remember and the most recent one

My response:

The first death I remember was my Dad’s Dad. I don’t remember his name, and I remember his face only from pictures, though I went to his house in the row more times than I could count. I was sitting on the bench next to my dad as he cried, and I remember thinking that I didn’t feel sad, even though death is a sad thing

The most recent death is of my Uncle David, my mom’s brother. An addict with a terrible knee, he got little better before he died. He lived months with us and favored my sister, who he often misnamed. He died when I was in school; I was speaking to my mom and she had spoken of a funeral.


“Your Uncle David.”

I wasn’t close at all to him, and he was more of a nuisance growing up than anything else, but to be caught on the fringe of his death, one that to this day I have no idea how it came about, rendered me speechless and useless. That guy who took my bed for a few months  and ate flour out the fridge- he was dead. The man who was your mother’s oldest brother, whose twin you’ve never met, he was dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

Sister’s response:

The first death I remember is my grandfather’s- Mom’s Dad. I was young so I didn’t acknowledge the meaning of death. I told my brother that whoever is the first one to cry, loses. He lost, and I sat there smiling. By the end of the service, I realized that my grandfather was dead and was never going to come back, or so I thought, and I started crying.

The most recent one is my freshman teacher, Miss Sissy, who died at childbirth. I was extremely shocked. To be honest, I was more shocked than I was sad. Not much different between the two deaths. My emotions don’t factor death properly. The only difference is that I didn’t cry when my teacher died.

Prompt #49: Write a review of a novel or memoir you’ve never written

I’m a little late in the game, but I have finished this year “The Gunslinger” by Stephen King. I’m completely biased towards his writing (and post-apocalypse settings), having not read very few of his works- including the Dark Tower series. I believe it was the slowest-paced, description-filled, sometimes totally empty and dry book I’ve read in my entire life- and I’m including shit by Charles Dickens, so you know I mean business.

But while in Dickens it is mostly because he was paid by the letter to be exceedingly verbose, I felt it more that it set the tone for “The Gunslinger”, especially as the main character, cue title, was quieter and drier than the desert he traversed for most of the book. It also set a starkness for all the crazy things that were to happen to him later, and wrenches your heart guts as he makes some terrible decisions later on for the good of his mission.

I don’t know what his mission is, except that it involves a tower, cue series title, and The Gunslinger will do anything for this tower business. Anything.

Of course, I loved it and will be reading the rest of of the books. It has nothing to push me away, so why not?

Sister’s response: 

I had to read “Of Mice and Men” for English and I got to say, it was pretty cool. The way the characters are set up and the deep meaning behind the story can really make you think how the world really is.

Prompt #50: I didn’t know what was happening at the time

My response:

Story of my life? I’m often out become out of the loop when a conversation becomes long, or when someone pounces on me with words, especially a string I’m not familiar with.

I once was watching TV with most of my family, and I’m known to do these complete zone-outs with shows and books. My brother walked in and began talking to my mom. Believing it was a personal plea, I ignored them both and continued watching television. Soon, my brother tapped me on the shoulder with a candy box, asking, “Do you want it?”

I didn’t know what was happening at the time when, at my gleeful affirmation, everyone began to laugh. So, I grabbed the box only to find it empty. What confused me was that they started laughing before I realized the box was empty, so I asked for clarification.

My brother answered between gasping chuckles, “I kept saying the ‘box was empty, the box was empty’.”

My mom adds, “And then he just told us that you probably weren’t paying attention.”


Sister’s response: 

My brother and I have the same pone. Of course, we would both ‘hack’ each other, but on day, my brother changed my background into something scary, which is probably why I don’t like it when people touch my phone.


Prompt #51: Your city one hundred years from now

My response:

They are removing many cornfields and tobacco fields and flower fields and forests and trees and ageless graveyards to make more room for shitty homes. In a hundred years, they’ll all be gone. Nothing else will be that important.

Sister’s response:

Neighborhoods. Neighborhoods, everywhere.

(Great minds think alike!)

Prompt #52: Write a short story in which you are the villain.

My response (ew, Mary fuckin’ Sue…After a few minutes of thinking, I’m actually fully at a loss. I don’t like this prompt at all!): 

Me, nine. Sister, eight. (Sister with baby, sister)

I wake in the middle of the night to find my sister watching television, I think “Beauty and the Beast”, even though she’s supposed to be in bed. She leaves. I think she is going back to bed, so I take the tv and put in a porno VHS that’s hidden in the back of the entertainment center. I fast forward it to the lesbian scene- the only part that turns me on. I watch that scene.

I hear someone awake in my parents’ room and I hurry to eject the tape. When that takes too long, I hurry into a nearby closet that I keep inched open so as not to rouse suspicion.

My sister comes back with a bowl of cereal, pushes in the tape and knocks down the VHS player. The tape plays anyway, the scene after the lesbian one.

My dad emerges from his room, demanding to know what the ruckus was all about. He sees the porn and asks about it (I wonder until today what exactly was going on in my dad’s head. “Is that the nudie video?” he had asked- what the hell else does it look like?!).

My sister says she was watching whatever video she was watching and that someone else put in the porn. Dad doesn’t believe a word and begins to talk angrily with my sister. I sneak back to bed. When my sister pushes the whole “I didn’t do it” business, my dad starts looking for someone else, finds everyone where they’re supposed to be, and grounds my sister.

Everyone is laughing about it the next day. Including me.

Sister’s response:

Everyone wants to conquer or destroy the world. Why do tat when I can just torture? Maybe tomorrow I can steal hobos the small amount of money they have? Or maybe I can kick a little girl’s puppy. Maybe beat it to death? Torture them one by one. Burn people’s homes. Kill their best friends. Take everything they own and watch them suffer and questioning, “Why would someone do this?” Maybe I won’t even finish this short story.

(We weren’t really meant to be the bad guys.)

Prompt #53: A bad situation that turned out for the best

My response:

I was sent home my freshmen year after having one too many mental breakdowns. I had planned on studying abroad in Japan my junior year, but that year Japan was hit by the devastating tsunami and nearly all abroad programs there, for quite awhile. Though I’m still academically a sophomore, if I stayed the course, I would never been able to study abroad, and that’s one of the few things I really, really, really want to do in my college career. Don’t know if I’ll able to do it thought… No one is clear of my triggers and most believe I won’t be able to handle study abroad.

Like, now what, though?

Sister’s response: 

In middle school, I was sent to ISS for leaving school because I was upset about everything. I was locked out of the school and the gym teacher found me outside. He took me to the principal’s office and he was extremely upset because I’m a good kid. During ISS, I did everything  I was supposed to do and didn’t cause a bit of trouble. I even replied with ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’. The teacher asked me why was I even in ISS and he trusted me to do errands for him. Those three days went by fast.



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