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[ don't be aroused
Anger and lust.
Anger and lust are easily two of the most inspiring things a person can feel, and they both motivate in their own special ways. Whether you want to beat someone's face in or simply better yourself to prove them wrong, or whether it's an item, lifestyle or person you want to claim ownership of, anger and lust are what will see you through to achieving those goals.
You're not always sure why you need something so bad, or why you persist when it's denied to you repeatedly, but such is the nature of emotion. You don't ask why or how; you act accordingly to attain your desired goal.
Shouldn't that sort of dedication be admirable?
Charlie put his pen down and paused to grumble at the large blue ink stain that was smudged across the side of his left hand, the result of writing furiously by hand for hours on end. He was on the last page of this journal, and a new one would be in order shortly, hopefully to coincide with his new life.
He picked up his pen once more and dated the entry -- April 1st, 2007 -- before setting it down again and closing the book, its worn spine crackling as he did so.
[ she'll suck you dry
In the years since Adora had left him, it seemed the universe had chosen to cruelly remind him of his loss by emphasizing that he could win over most any woman except his own wife. If only she listened when he reached out. Sure, he'd done something crazy to drive her away, and he wasn't sure why -- other than that his love for her made him do it -- but now, in refusing to hear him out, she forced him to be drastic again.
"Thank you... Millie," he offered, reading her nametag before winking playfully at her. She only turned redder and lowered her eyes sheepishly in lieu of a response.
"Charles Adare?" asked Geoffrey Faust as Charlie stepped in.
"Yes sir," Charlie replied, reaching out to shake the older man's already extended hand. He still marvelled at the difference a firm handshake could make in first impressions.
"You've made my task exponentially simpler, young man," he said, taking Charlie by surprise. "I'm not sure I have to read another resum� at all, yours is so impressive, and your cover letter so glowing."
Perhaps in his crazed focus on reuniting with his wife, he'd forgotten that he truly had a lot to offer as a professional. Despite having graduated magna cum laude from McMaster Law, he continued to let his failed marriage define him and overshadow his successes.
"Well thank you, that's always good to hear... is that an indirect way of saying I've got the job?"
"I see you're perceptive, too! Now, I know you don't have a whole lot of experience working in a firm quite this large and respected, but I think you'll flourish here. There's a lot of opportunity for young lawyers here, because we're always growing and a lot of our veterans are beginning to retire or..." he trailed off and let out a choked cough, "or are passing on."
"It's always tragic to lose a co-worker," Charlie nodded solemnly, whilst feeling very little genuine emotion at all.
"Yes, well, I'd like to start you off as soon as possible. You failed to specify availability in your cover letter."
"Right now if you need me to!" Charlie replied, a little to quickly, now regretting that he betrayed so much enthusiasm.
"How about tomorrow?" Geoffrey laughed heartily.
"I'll see you at 8A.M. sharp." Charlie grinned as she shook the older man's hand once again. And with that, he turned on his heel, a new, refreshing bounce in his step (and hopefully in his peen in the near future).
[ jesus is risen, it's no surprise
At that moment he hated her for deserting him, but, god, he wanted to fuck her. It was as though she'd put a mental block on him with her departure, and while all he could think about was sex, he could barely have it when the opportunity arose.
He shuddered at the thought. He almost wished she'd taken all of his money or things when she left instead of this -- sure, he didn't have many things at that point, and maybe that made it worse.
Vividly, he could remember her bounding energetically atop their bed each night before going to sleep, mostly disrobed except for her underwear. He would watch her, hands behind his head as he lay, his body jostling with her every bounce.
Once tired, she would sink to her knees, one smooth-skinned thigh on either side of his head. Grinning, she would gently tug at the waistband of her underwear, teasing him patiently -- the only time she was patient -- until she'd had enough. With a breezy laugh, she would stand up, slide them off and toss them to the side. But that was where her control ended.
Before she could say another word, his hands would be on the smalls of her knees, and with one expert motion, they always buckled. Startled, she would cry out, but taking her off guard again, he'd grab her by the hips and push her down to his awaiting lips.
Again, he slammed his body futilely into the mattress, more frustration yet coursing hotly up and down his spine.
Even he barely understood the power she continued to have over him.
[ (pray) til i go blind
Stepping into Geoffry Faust's sprawling office, Charlie was surprised by what he found. Instead of the early morning sunshine filling the room brilliantly while Geoffrey sat in his enormous leather chair, Charlie was met with near darkness, save for where light filtered through the spaces between the curtain panels. A man not much older than he himself was sat in the chair behind the great desk, his hair messy and expression frazzled.
"Charles?" Brian Reed asked, his gaze remaining focused on the slew of papers scattered over the shiny, mahogany surface of the desk.
"Yes, I'm looking for Geoffrey Faust, maybe I have the wrong office?"
"Nope, you're right where you should be. I just made partner - no congratulations necessary, thanks - so I have to sort all my clients out and pass some on to my own replacement. Which would be you. Keep it down and the curtains closed; I've got a headache. Capisce?"
"I'm getting clients and case files already?" Charlie was stunned. The plan was going better than, well, planned.
"Sure! And lucky you, you get to review them all with me before I hand them over. I'm not sure which ones I want to hand off, 'cause I have a mess of my own as well as all of Bill's." He paused and looked up at Charlie, making eye contact for the first time. "Bill's the dead guy."
"I figured as much. So what are you looking at right now?" he asked curiously, certain he could make out a glossy photo of a blonde woman with red lips somewhere in the jumbled papers.
"Miss Adora Reed," Brian announced, a lopsided grin playing at the corners of his mouth as he spoke her name. "Heard of her?"
"The name rings a bell," he replied, nodding his head as nonchalantly as he could. Inside, he felt a surge of terrirotrial rage pass through him. Who the fuck was this guy, saying his wife's name like he knew anything about her, grinning like a little shit-faced shiteater.
A cacophony of images flooded his mind: carrying Adora over their poor excuse for a threshold, the first time he saw her as a little girl, she and Gina baking rainbow cupcakes with pink frosting, her perennial smile and just as frequent petulant pout, her sleeping face - did this Brian have any of these memories of her? No.
And then it hit Charlie why something so simple could set him off: everything he knew of Adora was in the past. It was no longer current and no longer valid; she was a different person, and this stranger in front of him probably knew more of that new person than Charlie did. He swallowed the thought back bitterly, choosing to suppress it for a while longer.
"I'm Brian Reed, by the way," Brian said, eyes once more focused on the documents before him. "Sup."
Reed?! Charlie's rage flared, confusion only increasing his anger. Inwardly, he knew it was irrational to be upset that someone had the same last name as Adora, but he couldn't help it. He had to remind himself that, if anything, she was an Adare and no longer a Reed, so ultimately it didn't matter.
Slowly composing himself, he walked to the desk and sat on the chair opposite Brian. That's why he was here, he reminded himself, to get back to that place in her life that he belonged in. "Let's see," Charlie said, sticking a hand out to accept a glossy portrait from Brian, hoping his face wasn't flushed from his episode.
"I'm not sure I want to give her away," Brian said thoughtfully, "I think I can actually do something for her. I've already gotten her to appear as a spokesperson for an anti-seal hunt campaign. No one's ever tried to market her outside of wrestling before, and there's a lot of potential there. I mean, look how far Morgana's gone."
"Seal hunt," Charlie chuckled, "that sounds about right."
"What?" Brian asked impatiently.
"Nothing. Don't you think that this kind of stuff is better left to publicists and managers?"
"Yeah, but for right now I'm not really going out of my way to do this for her, and it's working for all parties involved, so why not? Plus, she has some personal legal issues I'm going to have to deal with for her."
"Like what?" Charlie froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing with dread.
"Can't really say," Brian offered one of his cocky, infuriating smiles, "she's still my client and will remain that way. Confidentiality and crap."
But really, what was another setback? Soon enough, Brian would hand over that file, and Charlie would be in charge again.
[ my pulse has been rising
Don't you know who I am? I want to scream at them. I know she does; perhaps I'll have to remind her.
I have to take a certain amount of credit for how she's turned out, for the person she is -- after all, I was there to shape and mould her since she was six years old, was I not? I brought her out of her shell. She wouldn't have the balls to say half the things she does, had I not been there, encouraging her to overcome her shyness.
Some would say these changes occurred in her simply because she grew up and evolved and even thrived without me.
Well, they don't know her like I do -- she barely knows herself like I do.
So, no. I don't think I'm unjustified in feeling entitled, feeling bitter that I'm not there to share in the glory with her. Look at her, without me she's living as a guest in her best friend's house. She's too scared to live alone! There's no other explanation for that, so she obviously needs my presence in her life in order to feel safe. Think of how much more she could achieve with that influence! If only she'd get it.
Soon she will.
[ the next wave ]
Thanks there, Vampy, I needed that. They say that laughter adds years onto your life, and I think your promo added about fifty. I'm not sure if I should be grateful for, or severely annoyed by that, but who cares?!
YOU CALLED ME AWHORA! You actually did it! You deserve a pat on your sallow, vampire-skinned back, because NO ONE has ever pulled that one on me, while farting excitedly over how very clever and witty they are. Honest to god, you are THE first.
I'm still laughing so hard I might die before our match, but I'm going to try to move on. Hopefully none of my organs will combust from the physical strain this hilarity is putting on my body (but if they do, Julian Brown has dibs on eating them).
I won't even touch the whole sucking dick thing, because that's yet another comment each of my opponents make, and I don't know how many times I can point out everything that's wrong with it before you fatheads come up with something better. Please think of something better, I'm fucking begging, here.
I love how no male here stands for anything but their own manly, bulging manliness. I love how they all think that their big, salty cocksicles are great gifts to this world, despite the fact that no female who isn't secretly a 50-year old obese man hiding behind the screen name "qtpi4u," would likely look their way twice.
It's actually really refreshing, because not everyone can have the personality of a cracker - and not even a saltine cracker - and still feel smug in their blandness. Do any of you actually believe in anything other than attaining glory for your fictional selves? I say fictional because you all clearly have very distorted self-images, where you think being slack-jawed chimps equals total thumbs up, fat 'n' sassy awesomeness.
So I'll worry about the seals, thanks very much, because they actually matter to me. You, my dear Casanova, are apparently dead and/or don't actually exist, so what the juice do I care? You spew a bunch of eighth-grade level rhetoric at me and expect me to be afraid? I'm pretty sure that as long as I keep my windows closed at night, eat lots of garlic and plug my ears when you crap on about how sharp your teeth are, and how worthy an adversary that can of V8 was, I'll be just fine.
Cliff notes? I can't say I'm familiar with them -- I guess I wasn't dense enough to need help in understanding high school-level texts. Maybe you should go read the Cliff Notes for Dracula and get some hard facts on vampires before you skip around pretending to be one. Well, as hard as facts on something that's not real can be.
Your attempts at taking the wife down a notch were pretty pathetic as well. Apparently you're also challenged in detecting sarcasm -- good show, slappy! Which reminds me, in case you missed my earlier sarcasm about "Awhora," the first person to do that was some shithead named Angel in NEW, and I defy you to ask anyone about him and garner any reaction other than wild laughter.
Your main argument against her serves only to highlight your own glaring fault: raging immaturity. Gag me? How about I call you a geekburger and threaten to tell on the teacher?
Who else? I'm feeling good, here, and officially fucking tired of being overlooked for a bunch of second-rate putzes, who boast more groundless arrogance than they do greatness.
Oh, I know! Julian Brown. It's nice that you know my name, while I have no idea who you are, but it's mighty brave of you to deem yourself to be not just any shit, but the shit. You might want to achieve something -- anything -- before you vomit all that tasty shit in the the form of ego you eat, at a bunch of people who have no clue that you exist.
Actually, maybe I DO know you. You remind me of this little fruit who ran an indie fed in my XWW days, and contacted me to help him get it going. If I remember correctly, I spent a loooot of time correcting that wee moron's atrocious spelling and grammar and rewriting his company policy, which included a strict "no profanity in promos or forums" clause, along with numerous other illogical, obnoxious rules.
Who knows. It's just a vibe I get from you. Maybe there's no truth to it at all... but there most probably is.
Am I really getting away with this? *looks around* Yep, I guess so!
As for this "army" you speak of bringing... what? Who? You sound like some obnoxious, Risk-playing kid, who, with his great knowledge of geometry, plans on popping his army of golf ball-sized pustules into the eyes of any and all detractors.
Nice work, though! You've officially made and ass of yourself, so you can stop spouting your grandiose fantasies of how your time in SW will play out and fetch me some tea instead. You know, make yourself at least a little useful!
Johnson Jackson: your sister sounds like the kind of lady that gets her meat curtains porked by strange men in 24-hour steambaths. Please get her vaccinated and possibly neutered before bringing her anywhere near Sin Wrestling. I'll even pay for her post-op protective cone!
Now for Glen "Dildosaurus Rex," Fischer a dude whose alias makes him sound like one of those vibrating pocket pussies ugly men like to take to private movie viewing booths. I try to ignore irrelevant people like you, but your excess of testosterone inspired me. While it's hard to see you from way up here at the top of the card when you're aaaall the way down at the bottom, I'm going to be kind and give you some advice on how to potentiallypossiblymaybe become as good as even ONE of the women in this company: learn how to spell!!!
It's an admirable quality in any adult, but as outlined in "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader (which you are unfortunately not)," you shouldn't feel bad because it's a quality as rare as it is technically basic. Seriously, though, don't feel bad, I've had to clarify this for LOTS of people!
Sometimes in the English language, a personal pronoun is contracted with the appropriate conjugation of a verb -- which is to say that if you want to use the verb "to go" in the first person plural, you wouldn't say "I goes." Well, maybe you would, but that's why I'm helping you out. For example: "He is" turns to "He's." The apostrophe replaces the 'i' in 'is' and it becomes one word. Are you following? I remember this being tricky when I was six!
So, let's apply this knowledge and contract the second person singular conjugation of "to be." Present tense, in case you weren't sure, because I noticed you were having some trouble with that as well! I'll give you a second here.
...
...
Nothing? Okay, I'll help you out! YOU ARE CONTRACTS TO YOU'RE. Y-o-u-apostrophe-r-e. Got it?
"Your," y-o-u-r, is entirely different. This is a little more difficult of a concept to wrap feeble minds around, but I'll give you a shot at it anyway. "Your" is what we silly women like to call a possessive pronoun! It indicates ownership. Fascinating, no?
Hopefully, this information will help you to stop failing at life.
Oh, and please, for the love of god, people need to stop crying over their ring rust. The wife and I hadn't done this in, oh, two and a half and four years respectively before January, so boo fucking hoo -- a few months shouldn't affect your wrestling ability in the least.
As for Miss Destiny Daniels... is she moonlighting as a shitty journalist or something? I've never read such a masturbatory article -- if you can call it that -- in my life. Seriously, it was like a baby touching himself for the first time, unsure of what's happening, but knowing that it feels damn good.
You're going to have to hire yourself a better feature writer next time, or we'll never be able to blow our self-indulgent loads with you, Destiny. That piece was a cross between a column and a news article. There's a reason news articles aren't printed in magazines: because by the time it goes to print, it's not news anymore. Features tend to consist of scenes and well-developed characters, of which there were neither in that thing you call journalism.
Also, "self-solidity?" What the crap is that? The opposite of self-liquidity? A measure of your personal viscosity? I honestly don't know.
And quite frankly, I don't think you do either.
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