Dear Diary, your weekly escape from reality.
Sunday 7th September
This is not real. None of this really happened. The events which follow aren't based on reality. The reason I'm writing this story
is because I want to. If my style seems crude, that's because it is crude. If i come across as amateur, over the top, offensive or
untalented it'll be because I am. If you don't like what I write about, nobody is forcing you to read it. My words will never be
studied in school.
Lizzie was so old and diseased that it hurt her to eat anything but mush, which slivered through her insides like razorblades
through an old stocking. Even mush brough tears to her saggy old eyes.
There is no way to grow old gracefully, as she discovered when her anal muscles gave up and poo dripped happily out of her.
There is nothing graceful about adult nappies. Of course that was after her good looks and curved figure were eaten alive by
wrinkles. Following that anything below the waist sealed over and the smell of rotting flesh followed her around wherever
she went, which usually wasn't far.
If Lizzie got too hot, she would die. If Lizzie got too cold, she would die. If Lizzie got too just right, she would die.
Other things you might enjoy laughing at Lizzie for include keeping cats, talking to photographs of dead relatives
and calling young people youths.
She lived in a broken down old bungalow where only a person weightless enough to blow away with a big gust of wind would
be able to move around without collapsing it's rickety structure.
"Life can be summed up in a few miserable phases" croaked Lizzie on her deathbed. "First you're born, you cry and sh*t and
grow teeth. Then you go to school and get ugly and lose any confidence you thought you had. Fifty years of work later you have
no use for the things you broke your back for, your teeth fall back out and you die in a puddle of piss."
Beside the bed stood Lizzie's only non-feline companion, a mousy young broad named Laura. She wore brown, lots and lots of
brown. Dark brown blazer and knee length skirt with dark brown socks and light brown bra, knickers and blouse. Her hair,
brown with a dark brown bobble holding a brown pony tail. Her face, plain. She clutched a diary to her chest and listened to
the old mess's rambling as if it were coming from somebody worth a damn.
"Take my advice." Up popped a haggard old hand, riddled with liver spots. "Leave this place today and do something interesting
with your life, don't waste it."
Finally Laura spoke, her voice was as mousy as her body. "Like what Lizzie?" She leaned in.
That horrible hand grabbed Laura's blouse and tugged her down. "F*ck." Another yank and her ear was pressed against Lizzie's
dried out pit of a mouth, it smelled like cat food. "Fight." She could feel it move against her, grey bristles tickling the side of her
head. "Steal." She was pulled in closer, Lizzie's prune of a tongue sploshed around inside her ear, that whispery old voice hissed
through her brain. "Kill." Lizzie let go and Laura sprung back. "Just don't end up rotting in a bed thinking about all the stuff you
wish you'd done when you could."
And with that the ghastly old hag let out a roaring fart, rolled over and died. The smell of sh*t and death drifted out from under
the bedsheets.
Dozens of stinking, flea-ridden cats curiosly wandered over as Laura exited the scene. She leaned against the door outside,
opened her diary and began to write. Lizzie's garden was a jungle of tangled, overgrown plants, the kind of place you wouldn't
enter for fear of some gnarled vine gripping your ankle. The only thing out there to be scared of was the occasional stinging
nettle or mangled bird carcass.
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