timmichangas

„This might be- and I write essays for days and am aware of the unfortunate existence of 50 Shades- but this might be the downright worst writing that has ever disgraced the clean slate of innocence that is a blank piece of paper.” “…Hah?” Ellie mouth-breathes at me from the couch. “I’m sorry, those were way too many words. What now?” My eyebrows wiggle at the screen before me. The laptop buzzes in cold menace, beaming a pale blue light. The words on the page are muddled like paste and I shake my head softly. “I’m saying this is bad writing and I don’t like it.” “But did you have to say it like that? Come on, man, taking the piss on another creative’s work? Don’t do 50 Shades dirty like that.” “Uhm…. Phrasing? But fine, if you wish to die defending the hill of 50 Shades of Grey, then be. My. Guest. Quite the hill you chose to die on though.” My rebuttal earned me a well-deserved eyeroll. “Martin, no one sets out to write a bad book.” “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t set out

"What are you doing?" "Hm. Who, me?" "Who else? What are you doing?" "I don't know. Thinking, I suppose?" "Anything good?" "Look, my mind is not a TV channel!... Sorry, I'm just hungry. To answer your question, no, I'm thinking nothing in particular. It's like my brain is occupying itself to stay busy." "I have those moments too. Deep in thought, but nowhere to pinpoint." "Like dropping a bottle post into an ocean. It's floating around in there, that's for certain, but you'll never find it until it washes ashore." "That's a weird metaphor." "Actually, I believe it would be a simile." "It's a weird simile, then. Happy?" "...No, because I thought the simile wasn't half bad!" "I never said it's bad, it's just odd, that's all. Octopi are weird, but they're not bad either." "Octopuses." "Levander!" "Alright, alright, I'm sorry, they're octopi now! But how did you get to octopi now?" "Hum, I thought I'd extend your ocean metaphor." "Simile." "God dammit, Levander!" "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist." "You don't even know if you're correct!" "Nooo, but I DO speak with confidence and attitude is everything." "How impressive." "I have my moments." "What's the difference between a simile and a metaphor anyway?" "Simply put... they're both comparisons, but the simile has a "like" or "as" at the forefront. 'Like a monkey out of a trap', for example." "Uh-huh. And I need to know this why?" "Okay, imagine you're talking to a friend." "Done." "Are you imagining me?" "You said I should imagine a friend." "... Okay, I deserved that one." "You did ask for it!" "Anyway, and this friend, right, listens to one of your fabled rants about octopuses-" "Octopi." "Sure. But then, in the midst of your poetic splendour, you deliver the finest display of your sharp tongue and quick wits; a simile." "Like that's ever gonna happen." "Don't sass me. Suddenly, your 'friend' exclaims the most rude insult to your educated intellect! An offense to your senses! They say 'oh, what a weird metaphor'." "Dear god..." "I know! But NOW YOU have the know-how to strike back! Educate them and tell them your opinion." "In that case, here is mine: I didn't know I had befriended such a smartass." "It's a power I was born with. Wait, where are you going?" "As far away from you as I can. I need a break." "Okay. But well done on that metaphor!" "Simile." "FUCK!"

„Do you sometimes just stare off? Nowhere specific, focusing on some invisible spot only you can see. It’s where the mind starts to wander, taking you places you didn’t know your mind could visit. It’s this vat of magic that you can tap only when deep in thought.” “Or when dreaming.” Levander picked a cornflower and nibbled on its stalk. “True. Or when dreaming.” “What did you dream last?” “Hm? I don’t know.” “Dreams are the elusive type.” “No, no, the memory’s there, it simply needs a dusting. Memories are weird, man. Sometimes I forget a beautiful event of my past, forget to think about it for days, months. Years even. But then, something takes me right back to it.” “You mean another memory?” “Only if in conversation and the mind builds bridges. Usually though, it’s a smell. Or a picture. And suddenly, the memory returns to me, clear as day. And I realize its impact it has had on me. As a person. Did you know that if you cringe at your past self they say it’s because

The Land of the Free and Bill Gates kept all of its voters in states After Great Depression came voter suppression and 'stead of debates, He hates.

The smell of orange reminds me of those sweet Summer nights. You know, when the sky would quite ironically be dyed a peachy pink. When the cherry trees would be overly ripe, the honeybees having done their duty in the Spring before. When I would sit on my porch, watching the sun dip and find cover. There would be that crackling energy, you know? You wouldn’t feel much. Perhaps not more than a tingle in your fingertips, a breath of hot air behind your head, icy fingers raising the hairs on the back of your neck. And I saw her standing right there. She never wore long hair. I thought it suited her too, but it was the short buzz that truly matched her style. A loose tank top, bracelets, one two three, around one arm in colours that seemed like apples. A bright, yet pale green, a dark red like the wine I would sip just occasionally. I never was the wine connoisseur. She was, however. With her vast knowledge about grapes alone she could fill a book. I had always encouraged her to write