PEDS 250 Writing

I always hated morning commute. No, it's not because of the traffic jam. It's not because of how sleepy I am while driving. It's not because of the stupid radio announcers struggling to get material to make my morning. It's because I am alone. Or at least that’s what people see. I never really was alone. I wish I was. But this little guy inside my head always accompanied me when I'm “alone”. This guy was a twat. He would say things that terrifies me the most. He would ask, “What's the point of even trying anymore?” “Do you really think people actually like you?” “How do you expect a moron like you to have a bright future?” “You're just wasting your parents’ money, you have no use in this family". I never really bothered to answer. Today, he asked me something that's very intriguing. “When you're dead, do you really think that people would come to your funeral? Your existence does not really matter to them anyway. People do not like you, they...

PROMPT:: Making experience-based short stories Hi Axel, It’s been a while since we’ve met. I remember exactly 16 years ago when you stepped into me. You were so small and whiney. I witnessed your first day of school, fourteen birthdays, your first driving lesson (it left a scar on my wall, you asshole). You’re always there. In the front-right corner of me. God knows what you’re doing there. Lollygagging? Studying? Listening to G-Friend songs on repeat? It’s been two years since we’ve met. I miss seeing you trying to park that stupid little blue car in me. I miss you complaining about me being old and haunted or my cracked tiles or even my leaked pipes. But you really had to go, didn’t you? I wish I could blame your parents divorce so you had to leave me. I wish I could blame your ungratefull ass and your high standard of a house. But we have one thing in common. We always blame ourselves for whatever reason. It has to be because of my dilapitated paint. It has to be because I’m...

PROMPT:: Making fictional short stories Dorothy, You’re the 12th woman I’ve ever fallen in love with. I know it doesn’t seem like anything special, but it means you’re my 12th heartbreak. Seeing a woman like you, on her deathbed, smiling as if she’s ecstatic to leave me alone is exactly the reason why I hate God or any fucking deities up there. I didn’t ask to be immortal. I didn’t ask to spend literally 672 years –and counting-watching my friends, my significant others, to die one by one while I’m brokenhearted and in tears. What’s the point of looking for companionship anymore when I know perfectly well that the relationship wouldn’t last.   We didn’t last. Maybe, centuries from now, it would be acceptable for us to be in love. But 1887 isn’t exactly the best year for “faggot” like me to be in love. So here I am, standing beside you, sobbing, pretending that I am so devastated seeing cancer took my sister-in-law from me. Who the hell would be sobbing like crazy for ...