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young writer, would love advice/review!! (Opening)

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I once had a sense of humor.

I once had a lot of things.

I had fame.
I had fortune.
Hell, I even had a Porsche.
That I never drove.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Let's try this again.

Imagine a woman getting ready for a party.
Picture her zipping the back of a delicate black evening gown,
as seductive as the false elegance
she works so hard to portray.
Now imagine her picking out earrings,
spraying on perfume,
and pushing her breasts together to coax out more cleavage.

Imagine a bottle of cheap champagne,
chilling in an ice display
in a sterile fluorescent green corner store
as it's snatched by a hand
whose pair
holds the hand of a smiling blonde girl wearing a skirt
shorter than she gives it credit for.
Imagine them kissing,
Imagine he's slipping his hand up her skirt
as he makes fun of the clerk
who asked for his I.D.

Now picture a college student,
a mother,
a bachelor,
a slut,
and fifty other people
checking their breath,
unlocking their cars,
and driving to the same apartment building.  

Imagine them holding up their dresses and pant legs
as they climb the stairs
and elbow their way
through a claustrophobic hall,
laughing and grinning
as they check for bruises
and deodorant stains.

Imagine being the first one at the door,
swinging it open,
and flicking on the lights to reveal
a limp,
swinging corpse
with a noose around its neck.

I had been on Oprah.

My book was number one on the New York Times' bestseller list
for 72 consecutive weeks.
I recieved tear-stained letters
every morning
from 15-year-old girls,
telling me how I'd saved their lives.

I don't even have kids.

I was 35 years old.
I used to live in a 3-room apartment
where the roof leaked
and the walls were thin enough
to wake up at 3 am to the sound of my deaf neighbor
moaning to sex
that only I could hear.
Look at me now,
complaining about thin walls.
I should have been content,
But I wasn't.

And now I'm getting ahead of myself again.

First of all,
everyone is contemptuous of money.
Whether rich,
or anarcho-syndicalistic,
money and its amount weighs heavily
on one's thoughts.
I was just more conscious of this weight.

Above the pyramid on the dollar bill reads
"God has favored our undertaking."
America didn't feel the same way
about mine.

It started out as cynicism.
A joke to the masses.
I watched MTV.
I went to Hot Topic.
Strange to find that a 35-year-old man
wasn't conspicuous in a place like Hot Topic.
Boyish girls
and girlish boys
with tight pants and piercings
led around by housewives
with Mastercards
don't have time for quiet observers.

I read books like "Go Ask Alice,"
"You Don't Know Me,"
and "Cut."

I read Plath.

I listened to My Chemical Romance.

Why? You may ask.
Well, I'm not entirely positive
but I'm pretty sure it had to do with
a suit jacket,
a mangey dog,
and James Frey.




(please read the other post for the first chapter!!!)