Genevieve's Low-Pressure Quarantine Writer's Workshop

June 08 – 8:07pm Welcome to my mind, brave intellectual! Part of me is afraid I’ve started writing this too soon, because I’ve only just begun the thing that I’ll be remembered for. But I figure that the earlier I start on this log the better. Elliot Rodger’s manifesto is way too high-strung—probably because he started working on his too close to his “Day of Retribution.” And since I want to distance myself from that Supreme Incel as much as possible (though the hivemind that is the Internet will no doubt lump us together), I want to give myself the luxury of time to make sure I’m saying everything I want to say, exactly as I intend for it to be known after my death. Unlike many others that have come before me, I don’t want or need retribution. What I’m after is a good time. I don’t want anyone thinking I raped these women or cajoled them into having sex with me. Remember this, Internet: I won them with my charms, which I cultivated all by myself through determination and self-confiden

Jenny had one too many slices of birthday cake and buttercream stuck to her lips like hot wax. “I dare Karla to push Sarah in the pool” She yelled while sashaying to the patio. The blur of friends moved in closer. Karla looked at me with bug eyes as the beads of sweat flowed getting trapped in her baby hairs. Jenny finally had something over us rather than a house at the dead end of Bit and Spur road, and the fact that when she bent over, Charmin spheres no longer fell out of her bra. She leaned over the patio table and blew out sixteen candles. Her bikini top is fresh hickey red and the bottoms stuffed into what mom called fast girl pants. I fix my straps to stop them from digging into my shoulders. I only had two, the black one piece suit, or the one with under the sea flowers that is now hidden in the box labeled shoes in the basement. “Go on Karla. What are you waiting for?” Jenny smirked as she wiped the rest of the blue buttercream mustache on her hand. I felt my skin grow hot de

He cracks the head of another warming Steel Reserve. For once it doesn’t get drowned out by the low frequency rumble of nation states of conversations having a hot war of competing decibels. In fact there’s an echo even. When the hiss and crack bounce off of brick and concrete of a parking structure, it sounds like the warning signs that some 80s slasher is coming around the corner, machete at the ready. He tilts his head back to try to give the alcohol a path of least resistance to get into his body and hopefully bypass his taste receptors entirely, presenting his throat to the world and God themselves. And no machete. And no release. At the very least it’d be some god damn physical contact. He thinks to himself. A taste akin to if beer was left out in the sun for two days still found a way to dip it’s hooks into his tongue. A Dollar Tree beer for a Dollar Tree high for a Dollar Tree life. The lights are still on outside of the parking garage and everyone is home. Humanity has ente