My Declaration

It's kind of pathetic how few times I've posted this year. I'm averaging just over once a month. Not cool. I remember when I started this blog for my class last year by posting a short story. Back then I would look forward to my weekly postings, and sometimes even post more than my assigned amounts. I just had to write. Had to get my word out to the world. Even if nobody was reading. I think it's obvious to everybody who knows me that I've lost myself this past year. Due to this huge hole in my heart so many of the important things that make me who I am have suffered, most notably my art. I don't really know what to write and I just haven't felt the inspiration to draw or paint. I've done some small crafts. More shoebox collages, knitting scarves in the middle of 90 degree weather. Shopping. Shopping is sort of an art... it's definitely a craft. Anyways I'm setting out to change things little by little. My "Summer of George" isn't just about being lazy. It's about enjoying myself. And in order to enjoy myself fully it's time to go back to the fundamentals of who and what is Maggie.

Here I am talking about returning to myself yet again. This seems to be a bit of a cycle. I guess as we experience more of life and get older we grow farther away from certain aspects of ourself. I think it's time to make sure that I don't lose that person entirely, because let's face it, she knew how to have a good time! So from here on I will start writing weekly blog posts (if not more, hopefully, but let's not push it) and maybe my creative juices will start flowing again.

Short story in progress

I want to take English 355 next semester, creative writing. To get in I need to submit 6-10 pages of original fiction to the teacher, soon. Assuming that he's asking for double-spaced papers, I've already got about 4 or 5 pages completed so far, with two short stories. I just wrote this while avoiding studying at club lib. I'm not sure how I feel about the tense or POV, any comments and/or criticisms are welcomed. Please, be harsh, I need to get into this class, and if it takes a massive rewrite of this story (or an entirely new concept all together) then so be it.

Sleep Driving

She’s blasted the music, consumed at least two bottles of water, opened the windows all the way, but her eyelids still have weights attached to them. The car swerves slightly into the left lane, and her body jerks forward a few inches. She reaches for the music dial and turns the volume up louder, attempting to sing along. No matter how hard she tries, it’s a losing battle. Seventeen more miles to the next rest stop. She’s not sure if she can make it that long.

She’s never able to sleep the night before traveling, be it by plane, bus, car, or train. There’s a certain anxiety attached to the idea of travel, what could potentially go wrong plagues her mind and keeps her puttering around the room to avoid letting her mind drift to those ideas. She stays awake until she’s tired enough to pass out as soon as head meets pillow. It’s a terrible system, but she’s afraid of sleeping through her alarm if she takes a sleeping pill.

Instead, she wakes up after what feels like mere moments later, slightly panicked and ready to ship out and leave. A stop at Dunkin Donuts for some sort of hot caffeinated beverage is a must. She has a bad feeling that they slipped her decaf today. Those bastards. Thanks to them there’s no heat coursing through her veins, keeping her body in motion, feeling raw with energy. Instead everything feels heavy, constantly sinking. Sinking into the seat, sinking into herself; her shoulders slumping forward, and her head bobbing back and forth, as if she was vigorously nodding to somebody in approval.

She winces as she slaps her left cheek, and just as quickly and harshly she slaps her right cheek. This alerts her body for all of thirty seconds, but even the sting from her palm seems washed out by the dreariness that is taking over her body. Just ten more miles, at the speed of seventy miles per hour means… she attempts to do the math, but her brain seems to be full of cotton balls at the moment. It’s less than ten minutes, she can at least deduce that much. She attempts to do the algebra in her head. Sixty and seventy both share a common denominator with four-hundred and twenty, which means… which means her brain is too fried to figure out this simple equation at the moment. With a sigh she checks the road for hiding police and speeds up another six miles per hour. The sooner she can pull over, the sooner she’ll be able to close her eyes.

Her heart speeds up as she sees somebody jump into the road out of nowhere. What the hell are they doing crossing the interstate?! As she swerves the car, narrowly missing the station wagon next to her, she blinks and the person is out of sight. No other cars seem to be getting out of the way, and the person was definitely not fast enough to cross the road already. If somebody had hit them there would somewhat of a ruckus going on behind her. It’s not possible that she was seeing things. That would mean she had some serious issues going on. Eight more miles.

The wheel is misaligned, so the car keeps brushing up against the grating on the left side. She supposes it’s doing its job, shaking the car to alert a sleepy driver that they’re falling off of the road. She wonders what would happen if she just surrenders. That’s the sleep talking, keep alert! an angry voice yells in her head. She glances at the stereo, only to see that she’s three songs further into the CD than she last remembers. Part of her is terrified at the possibility that she’s been sleeping for a little while.

As she finally approaches the exit, the car continues to swerve, despite her best efforts. Her head is playing the bobbing game again. One red light is all that holds her back from the McDonald’s parking lot up again. A car beeps behind her, and she realizes that her eyes were closed, and the light has turned green. She drives a few more yards and pulls into the lot. It seems to take an eternity to adjust the seat. One lowered, closes her eyes and can feel her body falling deeper and deeper, the warm arms of sleep engulfing her. One last frantic thought runs through her mind before all of her systems shut down. What if she never made it this far, and the car had careened into the cement guardrail the first time she knew her eyes had been closed longer than necessary?

Short Story from English 354

Very Important People


We’re here to look pretty, take ridiculous amounts of pictures, and get drunk. Preferably for as little money as possible. We’re not mooches. Regularly we’ll buy a pitcher or two and let the rest of the drinks come to us. The strangers rarely bite.


It doesn’t matter what day of the week it is, we’ve even done Sundays, although expect to bring cards for entertainment on off nights. We generally depart between 10 to 10:30, unless somebody doesn’t hop in the shower til 9:45, and then we arrive at 11. That’s never fun. Of course we know the bouncer, he waves us right in like the very important people we know we are, usually donning denim minis and leggings or the most butt flattering jeans we can squeeze into. One of us always wears the boob shirt. Mostly that’s me. Don’t wear shoes TOO nice because they will ALWAYS be spilled on.

Sometimes we have a table, but more often than not we head right for the dugout. We let the guys come to us. Typically, we “run into” our male counterparts. They are regulars as well, who hide in the dugout waiting for girls to come to them. They’re pretty much the beer providers for the rest of the night. When they’re occasionally feeling extra friendly we receive mixed drinks and shots.

Be careful about expressing interest in a stranger or one of the girls will push, no shove, you into him. Otherwise, fresh meat can come in the form of one of the girls’ co-workers or a friend of our regular guys. It’s always pretty loud, so the conversations never reach real depth.

“That necklace is Tiffany’s, isn’t it?”
Be still, my heart. “How do you know?”
“I used to get it for my ex-girlfriend.”
Ex-girlfriend is the universal bar-phrase for single.
“Have you seen that stand in the campus center? They sell fakes,” he lifts my necklace, “look just as good.”
What’s that noise? My heart has started beating again.

The grass is always greener on the other side, and girls always want what they can’t have, especially their friend’s bodies. Not in a sexual way, but in the “your waist is smaller” “but your boobs are bigger” kind of way. This eventually leads to the boob-grabbing part of the night. For some reason it is perfectly acceptable for girls to touch each others chests. It’s usually a playful poke, although some of us have endured all out grabs from our friends. It usually gets the attention of every male within eyesight, although that is not the purpose at all. The purpose? Still unknown. What is certain, however, if a guy were to attempt to join in on all this fun he would A) lose his hand, B) get thrown out of the bar, followed by C) miss out on all our picture taking because he is too busy getting his very own mug shot. Shame for them really.

Once everybody is good and liquored up Bon Jovi, Journey, or some other 80’s drunken sing-a-long fave starts playing. If you don’t know the words then you obviously do not hang out with us enough, or have never been to a college bar. We know the songs have been played specifically for us, because who doesn’t want to hear us sing off-key the ballad of that small-town girl living in a lonely world?

Shortly after we’ve made it clear to the world that we belong on American Idol, last call is announced. Time to chug down whatever’s in our hand, and head on out. The night is far from over. We have no qualms with freezing our asses off to get a free piece of pizza. We’re not mooches, we’re just hungry. Why waste money that you’ll need for going out again tomorrow? After all, tomorrow there will be new guys to flirt with, but they better come to us, because we’re far too important to break away from our circle and meet them. And they better not believe in fake Tiffany’s.