Friday, December 12, 2008

I'll Be Home for Christmas

Merry Christmas!

Yeah, so it's not close yet, but I'm not going to be around to say it properly. Am I going to die? Maybe--I haven't thought about it. Am I going to be out of touch? Absolutely.

I'll be here starting December 19th:

Oh...that doesn't tell you anything? Yes, I know, it is a pretty picture. Ok, here, how about now:

Still no luck? Man...I guess that picture is also pretty vague. I mean, there's grass and flowers, but what place, outside Death Valley, doesn't have a freaking flower? This picture may help more...

Right? Got it now?? I know you've got it now--clear water, void of trash?

It's B├╝singen am Hochrhein!!

I'm going to experience my first ever (see: EVER) white Christmas. And it's going to be in Switzerland!!!

I am so far in love it hurts.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008


Here is a revised version of a short story I wrote for my Creative Writing Class...

Enjoy! :D

By: Stephanie Rosemeyer

When I first started renting my soul, I wondered what people were going to trade it for. The first time, I was shared shitless. I kept thinking what I would do if it didn’t work. I pictured all the dogs of Hell finding me in my aluminum trailer on my plot of land in Tuscaloosa. I saw my body ripped to pieces for finding a loop in Satan’s scheme.

That’s what the guy thought would happen, too. He went to church and played the bongos. He was black and said he didn’t want to take a chance on ruining his chances of getting into Heaven by parting with his own soul. He told me, “I’m already saved, thank you very much. Ain’t no way I’m gonna be damned when yours is for rent Craig’s List.” I thought his selfish motives would work for my experiment. He wanted to open a restaurant and needed some killer recipes. I get breakfast there—on the house.

Satan’s dogs didn’t come calling. A month later, when I was sleeping, I felt something big and heavy pressing down on my body. I couldn’t open my eyes or inhale, but I didn’t care if I suffocated to death painfully slow. I was more afraid of having to live longer with that oppression so I stayed still, deflating my own lungs. Voices from the corpse atop me came into my head and every cell in my body felt like spikes, grinding against one another. Satan said I would endure him if I ever sold my soul again. I laughed for the next hour because it kept deflating my lungs.

My next customer was a woman who wanted to be a country singer and make it big. She had been really sweet—blonde, cowboy boots, sweet smile. She was hesitant to rent my soul at first. “Honey,” she said to me. “Are you in an abusive relationship? I used to work at a woman’s shelter and I know the signs when I see ‘em.” I told her I was happy with my arrangement and asked her why she didn’t just sign up with a label. “You’ve got the boob thing going on, and it’s a lot cheaper to sleep with an executive.” She told me she didn’t want to have to sleep around for someone to recognize her talent. Who am I to judge, I said and took her money. That month, I slept with my lights on so I could see him whenever he came. The spikes came back and he pulled chunks of my hair out he was so pissed, but I was more upset because he broke my light bulbs. He left a demon at my door that taunts me every morning when I wake up. He stopped trying to bother me when I told him his dip shit boss should’ve thought of a return policy for the souls he takes. Fuck him. I found the loophole.

Another time, a man came to me who wanted to be in politics. “No, not President—that’s too much shit to deal with. I want to be chief of something,” he told me. He spoke down to me like a politician as if I was a damn five year old. I told him he should think it through a little more and he told me he wasn’t going to worry about it. I got pissed at his attitude. “Satan isn’t a god damned career counselor,” I told him. I never voted for that asshole.

I was getting cocky and the king of Hell agreed. He started scratching tallies on me as if I didn’t know how many times I had sold my soul for someone else to use. There are scabs all around the ten lines that pierce through my body. He can keep ‘em coming. When my soul comes back, it gains five years of life—that’s the stipulation for losing your soul on someone else’s account.

When I was young, I never knew how desperate people are to get out of their shitty lives, but they all want the same fucking thing—my soul to save theirs. There was one time a man came to me, desperate as all hell. His wife left him and he told me, “I want to kill the bastard who touched the bitch in my house! She’s my wife and, damnit, I love her!” I made sure he wanted to pay the seven digits I charge for a job he could do with a piece of steel. He thought Satan would have a better method of getting vengeance. I looked at the demon at my door, sweeping my porch, and I thought he was a dumb ass. After I swiped his credit card, I told him what he should’ve done. “Fuck a whore and use her dirty needles to stab the pussy you call wife. You should’ve just stabbed that bitch with some STD.”

That night, he visited me. I guess he thinks I’ll stop with more frequent visits from him, and I’m pretty sure ‘ol Beelzebub is getting used to tormenting me. He’s a predictable, sick fuck and shows up before I get to watch CSI. He said he would stab me with the dirty needles his legions used. He was blinded by rage and almost tore my head off. I told him to suck it and come up with his own ideas.

One time, I had a seven year old come in. I asked her who the hell she was and how did she find my trailer. I didn’t even use Craig’s List anymore. They wanted me to fill out some survey, so I switched to MySpace. But this little monster said she heard about me from her grandma and wanted my help to get her mom a job. I told her I didn’t need to help some bitch open her legs. “Tell your grandma that I don’t do pro-bono. I’m not here to help sorry shits like you.” I made her repeat my message. Her voice shook, but she said what I told her to tell her mother: “Get your mother fucking ass off the couch! I’m a responsibility! Use some lube on that shit and make your cunt useful as some trucker’s fuck!” She even threw the bottle of KY jelly at me like I told her to.

No one bought my soul that month but Satan still came. I made him chamomile and he just poured the boiling water on me. It’s petulant. The loophole is that he can’t kill me while people are buying my soul. Every time some desperate fuck buys it, it comes right back to me like a mother fucking boomerang. The bastard who thinks he’s so smart for blindsiding God didn’t see me coming. The only thing he cares about is having more of a soul count than God.

Fuck him. I’ll sell my soul for eternity.

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Note to Self:

I want this cake.


Thursday, December 4, 2008

I have Editor's Block, Not Writer's Block

I am really frustrated by my writing.

I'm in a conference course with Professor Doody and I am supposed to turn in 50 pages of an original manuscript by the end of the semester. I have 12 pages, but it gets better. I've been working on them, tweaking, rewording, etc, and I like what I have. Then I wrote an email to Doody about what I'm doing with the pages and it hit me:

What I have isn't going to work.

I may be curbing my writing style to fit what he wants from me, but I agree with what he is telling me. I need to start off with drama. I am not good at writing drama because I never know how much is too much, what is going too far, if anything is even realistic...blah blah blah

I realized that anything can happen in life, and things I write can be ridiculous. But, I want it to be plausible. I don't want what I write to be outlandish stories that no one can relate to, but I think what I need is a story to base my ideas off.

I thought I had that--a friend's relational situation I was "mimicking" but it isn't the same at all.

I hate writing. It's so hard. I edit myself too much, and Doody called me on it. He said I'm too hard on myself. It's true. Like, right now, I am looking at what I wrote and I see "I" everywhere. I want to go through and edit my blog to minimize the use of "I" so I don't seem sell-obsessed, which I am.

Fuck it.

I hate writing. I don't want to analyze myself anymore.

The end.