writinglychallenged

[writinglychallenged]

Day 8:

Thick thighs and a queen bed For this bitch to lay her queen head Please please this bitch with good head No stutter. I said what I said

Fuck a god-damn non-sequester  A regal slut, crown-jewels and scepter  Fight the labels that might stick to her Mortals? No chance, she’ll be victor 

If I said it, I meant it, I mean it, no drafts here Flexible opinions, but I need evidence dear The system is broken, not the woke, it’s clear Sorry some scream murder while they choke themselves on their fear

#write every day #a couple days trapped in my notes #rhyme thyme

[writinglychallenged]

Day 4:

So I play chess. No thanks to the Queens Gambit. I was staying inside at lunchtime instead of building lasting schoolyard relationships when Netflix was still primarily delivering DVDs, thank you very much! It’s not something I study but I’m always up for a game and I remember bonding with some Tinder dude about it, back when I was trying to put myself out there. So after a bit of banter, I take my life in my hands and agreed to meet him in person. You know, how it is whenever a woman wants to try dating... But yeah, we specifically arranged to have a game of chess over a cold beverage. 

Bit of chat, bit of background before we get into the game, easy breezy. While still chatting we start thinning out each others pieces. Early game, I’m pretty aggressive, as a rule I barely value my own life, you think I care about losing a pawn? Fight. Me. This guy is SHOCKED! Like, what did you hear when I told you I enjoy playing chess? Did you think your dabbling put you on the same level as someone who calls themselves experienced? Or did you think there was literally no way for you to lose? Either way I’m confused and I don’t love the comments of, ‘oh, you really play’. Bitch, did I stutter or did you lie? Regardless, now he’s less chatty because I guess the outcome of this is directly linked to his worth as a man? Honestly it was a first for me. Pinpointing, real time, exactly when on a date I become the enemy. Something about seeing someone resent you for any amount of skill was a bit of a turn off so I’ve blissfully forgotten that game’s outcome and this guys name. But here are some highlights I do remember from our one and only date:

 - He likes skiing, he’s been to lots of places skiing, some places have better skiing than other places, and he can carry on about skiing and how good he is at it for at least 20 minutes past when his conversation partner says they haven’t been skiing so can’t really speak to it.

- He insisted on walking the same direction as me after I tried to end the date, and in possibly the most misguided attempt to cover the fact he was trying to spend more time with me; this child bragged about how lazy he was and that despite it being quicker to walk in the opposite direction to his next destination he would rather bus it. Lazy was his word, not mine, he offered that all by himself. Repeatedly.

- When finally got to the point we had to pat ways he asked pretend awkwardly how do you even end a date?!?! “What should we do? Hug, kiss, shake hands? Ahhh, it’s all so confusing. Clearing it up for him immediately, I offered my hand. He asked me if I was serious. Stone cold, I shook his confused hand, left him on the platform and skipped to my bus.

Checkmate, bitch.

#writing everyday #stand up

[writinglychallenged]

Day 3:

Patience is compassion.

When you shared making another work mistake, the repeat offense of not knowing when you had to show up, I aimed for compassion but with my distinct brand of practicality. I took your story, I remembered that the constantly changing shifts require much more attention than your previous positions, and I tried to turn it to your advantage despite the fact that you were clearly in the wrong. 

Patience is compassion.

Your story concluded with everything actually working out for the best, which is lucky but not actually a functional strategy. I try to turn this happy ending into a fortuitous beginning. I perform the mental gymnastics to make this egregious mistake a fault of the current scheduling system and therefore it’s in everyone’s best interests to secure you more predictable hours. I’m here, I’m on your side, and I want you to get what you want.

Patience is compassion.

You actually don’t need a ‘lecture’ from me. And another thing...

Patience is compassion.

Understood. Well the weather is super crazy over here, have you watched any of our news? The pool just opened and we have plans to get in there while it’s free. Got to go. Love you, thanks for the call.

You text an apology.

Patience is compassion.

You text an apology.

You’re fucking 50 Mum. I’m so pleased you were able to stand up for yourself. Practice on me a couple more times and maybe you’ll muster up enough gall to have a direct and reasonable discussion with your supervisor. My initial inclination was to call you stupid, would you rather attend that lecture? Maybe this exercise of reading into every comment as an attack will help you decipher your fucking roster.

I text back no worries, lets try changing topics sooner next time.

Patience is compassion.

#writing everyday

[writinglychallenged]

Day 2:

This couch has been shaped (and misshaped) by 3 children growing up and moving on. That rug has known both red wine dinner parties and a toilet training puppy. The coffee table’s hard edges delight in the bruised shins and the countless assaults on unsuspecting toes. But this dress knows murder. Ambling around the thrift store I drink in the stories and impressions woven through each item. Usually I need to make physical contact to glean what the material has been through and what it’s held on to. I don’t feel a full case history or anything, but clothes especially seem to soak up the people and feelings they’ve experienced. Most new clothes come pristine and traumatised, from machines and underpaid workers sewing for survival. Therefore I prefer preloved items, someone else has liberated them, shared some life, and hopefully shared some comfort that I can borrow. While I am obviously drawn to particularly joyful pieces, as my floral overall shorts that have only known sunshine and determination can attest, I do love a rescue mission.  So it’s a Tuesday, and I have 3 hours in between classes. Research Methodology in Psychology always drains me and instead of studying my course notes in the library I’m looking for some resilience to try on. I wonder if a lab coat or something could make me care about cross-sectional vs retrospective cohort study designs? Even as I wonder, I doubt someone lived and breathed my specific course enough to work up any particular feeling strong enough to imprint the answers I seek, so head towards the dress rack instead.

I avoid the formal dresses. There are big expectations for event wear and I’m not looking to grapple with any particularly big feelings. I rummage past a size zero that someone was ecstatic to have grown out of, something with a bunch of cutouts that dripped judgement, and a skin tight number that was filled with confidence. I specifically touched the hangers to move past some drab pieces with their tags still on, and that’s when I landed on it. Even before touching it I knew I’d never felt such darkness before. I stepped back a little and took in what it actually looked like. Modest. Long sleeves, rounded neckline, and knee-length hem didn’t leave much skin on display. Unassuming, in a deep forest green and in good condition, except for a speck of something inside a cuff. Almost absentmindedly I reached out to investigate the stain. On contact I knew two things for certain, the stain was blood and this dress did not belong to a victim.

#new writer #writing everyday

[writinglychallenged]

Day 1:

Oh shit... My only thought as I crumple onto the cold bathroom tiles. Sweat threatens to overwhelm my brows and assault my eyes further. Neither of us moves. I retreat as far as possible, balling up to try and shield as much of myself as possible but the truth encroaches. I can’t feel the relentless frenzy of my heart and I don’t notice the tears staining my suddenly pale face. All I can focus on is the growing pool of blood.  I can’t believe you made me do that.

#prompt #StartupS1E6 #I didn't do that #Someone else did that