r/RSwritingclub

I crush stars /like david with the rock

I moon walk/iconic when I drop

I smooth talk/ I'm a walking honey pot

eye patch on/I jack the spot

I wink you / means I need top

me meme memes/ like ai slop

slide through feeds/ I surf the rot

ICU I'm a take the shot / I bless U

please the wipe the snot

I bag clean it's zipped and locked

I serve fiends crystals in a sock

I lend Cream then buy your block

No better Choice

Do whatever makes you feel better. Yeah, sure. What if there is no such thing as making me feel better? Then what am I to do? Yeah, well, maybe, well, maybe you didn't find it yet. Sure, I could choose to rest, sit back, wait; maybe that object of fulfillment, happiness, whatever, will find me eventually, right? I can't say whether it's right or wrong, though sitting with this lack can be comforting for some and destructive for others. I believe that this comfort can also work for some, propelling them into a state of well-being, helping them live in the present so they can be aware of small things and thus find joy in them, leading to a somewhat easy, almost monotonous life, but happy. I'm thinking that this fulfillment only appears later, as time passes. It is slowly constructed, as the appetite comes with eating or something. Coming back, for some, this comfort seems like a conscious state of decay, the will to rot, drying one's potential willingly, it may seem, choosing to do nothing over something, seemingly frustrating and thus not suitable, right? Truly understandable. Moreover, an active life, a constant search, and effort may create some relative safety, as there is no certainty about anything. And of course, it can be rewarding. Maybe someone sees that effort; maybe that merit might be validated; maybe, after creating, after everything invested, there should be credit. Maybe. Maybe it turns out you invested everything in the wrong domain, turns out you've been looking in the wrong direction for the whole time. If everything is possible, why shouldn't this be? And what if it's too late to go back to do it all again? Is it worth it? Maybe. Maybe you'll fail a second time. Would you do it again? Do you still have what it takes to start over? Maybe, maybe not. Can you bear the burden, the pain of folding? So, will you risk everything to potentially achieve greatness, or will you make a choice that's more forgiving but means you have to forget about your potential? There is no shame in choosing any of these lifestyles, or whatever you want to call them. Life ends in the ground, no matter what you choose. The only difference is that one choice raises you to the clouds and beyond, and when it's all over, it just throws you back to where you came from. No questions asked, no matter what you achieved. You are thrown to the ground as hard as possible, and the other choice builds up a more gradual descent. It is more gentle, but it still gets you to the ground. There is no better choice. It is just how you cope with the consequences of your own actions, even if they are enforced.

I'm using Google Docs with folders for different chapters but have lots of fragments of writing that I think will feed into the project in some way, shape or form, but are currently getting lost in the ether.

My process follows a rough shape of broadly free writing for an hour or so several times a week, then maybe some editing or organising in the afternoons/evenings.

Writing more on the weekends, and having phases which are more generative, and ones which are more focused around editing things into shape for my crits.

My project is a narrative piece, but it's also to an extent autofictional, and blends together narrative with essay and other forms, and is trying to resist the urge to be too rigidly structured/plotted, so I'm trying to feel it out as I go.

But having reached some 40,000 words or so, I'm finding it more and more difficult to get the oversight I need, and my laissez-faire organisational methods are beginning to come back to bite me in the arse.

I also do a lot of writing in notebooks, which are a pain in the arse to transcribe — my current method is recording myself reading them out & using the transcripts, but doesn't always work the best.

A few of mine, I've just noticed, are: dismal, terrible, pleasant, gather, drift

Most of us in this city don’t believe in God. It’s hard to believe in a higher power when you live on the 30th floor. I’d love to transcend with the bankers on the 34th, but I can’t afford to find myself at the bottom of a bottle again.

>Daily Protein (g) = Body Weight in kg × (1.4 to 2.0)

You’ve noticed of course. Aldi’s delicious smelling bread section has been infiltrated, with a new odorless white block of foam, ‘now with added protein’. Should I have been getting a hit of protein through my bread? How much am I supposed to be eating?

>Daily Protein (g) = Body Weight in kg × (1.4 to 2.0)

A modern scripture, a formula to getting ripped, yoked and ‘uge. The nutritionists have gifted us this wisdom from the mountain. Follow it and you’ll look hot and also not get osteoporosis. So who are you to defy the oracle?

>Daily Protein (g) = Body Weight in kg × (1.4 to 2.0)

Except how the fuck am I supposed to eat that much protein everyday? There’s no way that it has been normal for most of human history to eat that much fucking protein at every meal. You want me, to eat 110 grams of protein a day? (+5g of creatine) It’s barbaric and it tastes like shit.

Maybe people are managing it, Henry VIII looks like he ate a lot of chicken legs, but I was raised on penne arrabbiata, and frijoles with plantain. Am I expected to forget flavour? That meals can themselves be divine? Especially on holiday for some reason.

But the people will like me more in this shape. The women, the women will like me more in this shape. So yes, forget the flavours you once knew.

Which is where you find me now. Drinking the most disgusting chocolate protein shake. I double scooped so I could enjoy a regular meal, like the good old days, so this drink more accurately resembles slowly hardening clay. Tasteless stringy clay that I’m sipping from the pottery wheel; yum, a lump!

I’ve tried other alternatives yogurts, yogurt drinks, protein isolate shakes that taste like squash, high protein bagels, high protein wraps. Consuming them is like kissing your crush except the seams of their face are peeling off.

I’ve also tried improving my personality so as not to rely on superficialities to get ahead. This was difficult and expensive, so I gave up. Abs are easy and cheap when compared with resisting the social alienation wrought by Big Tech.

Which is why it’s time to boil my four eggs. They’ll make a delicious mid morning snack. My coworkers won’t mind the smell.

We are in a dinky café at 7 p.m., both of our characters drinking black coffee, the psychopaths, talking about their respective goals.

“I’m in grad school,” says Emily.

“I work in my father’s auto shop,” says her date.

Clearly, there is something incongruous about this. The breadwinner, Emily, and the industrialist date? Would it work? Would Emily be the breadwinner in the first place? In the back of her mind, she feels a shameful urge to head her family in every affair possible. It’s shameful because it’s a masculine urge and the precedent for it, in totality, is a sheer outrage.

The waiter arrives. “What would you like, sir?”

“Goddamn misogynist!” flashes unwittingly through Emily’s mind because the waiter seemingly noticed her date first, the narcissist. Her hands move for some reason in a way to spill her piping hot coffee, landing on the poor 19-year-old, tuition-paying waiter. The waiter looks rather androgynous but with more male qualities than female, for sure. He screams in pain, clutching the bare skin on his thigh, as the 1,000-degree-Celsius coffee burns through the cheap threads of his pants.

“Oops!” Emily says with absolute indifference. The Emilys of the world are always indifferent, as a rule.

“What do you mean, ‘Oops!’? You’ve burned him!” cries her disoriented date.

“Perhaps he deserved it. Perhaps ALL MEN DESERVE IT!”

And Emily throws the remaining coffee, which was still almost supernaturally piping hot, at her poor date’s face—scarring it immediately. A total prune she made of him. It’s a disaster.

“AGGGGGGGHHhhh,” the date obviously cries in pain.

The entire restaurant explodes into a cacophony of reproaches, efforts to console, and even derisive laughter amongst the lowest creatures of them all. It was odd—all of the opposing, differentiated emotions expressed by them almost, one could say, represented the date itself writ large.

To put an end to the foolishness, the manager runs through the Western-movie door leading to his office and puts Emily’s date into a headlock, intending to subdue him in an efficient manner. The restaurant cries harder, because clearly, the one in the wrong here is Emily, and sentiments of injustice spread throughout all of the patrons—even the common contrarians—in spectacular fashion. They rise up and attack the manager. An all-out onslaught of violence occurs.

At 10 p.m., police arrive and attempt to obtain a full account of the tale. A homeless man in rags, who watched from the window, describes the affair in literary detail, perhaps even embellishing some aspects. The police, the useless bunch, laugh at the absurdity of it all. They drive away, declaring it unworthy of their time.

Emily’s sin remains unexpiated, forever and for all time.