6 comments/ 34169 views/ 8 favorites I Will Not By: CookieCutter Both the teacher, Etta Coughlin, and the student, Reena Patellan, were thinking the same thing at the same time: it was the middle of April 1955; the weather outside was wonderful, inviting, tempting. Yet here they both were, stuck indoors in a warm, dusty classroom. They blamed each other. Miss Coughlin was punishing Reena by making her write lines on the blackboard. Reena didn't understand why she was being punished; just because she complained about the stuffiness of the class, then stood up at her desk, reached under her skirt, and pulled her panties down and off. This act was so outlandish, so impossible that the class reacted by not reacting: they simply sat and stared in stunned silence. Miss Coughlin tried to return to her grammar lesson, but she was just going through the motions. Like someone who had witnessed a train wreck or some natural disaster, she kept on teaching a lesson she had taught for five years. When the bell sounded ten minutes later, signaling the end of the school day, she seemed to come back to life as she told Reena to stay while dismissing the others in the class. The high school was an old building, looking like it had been built between the World Wars, and Miss Coughlin's class was on the third story. When teacher and student were the only two people left in the room, Miss Coughlin drew a shade down to cover the window in the door. They heard distant voices in the playground but couldn't see down into it unless they were at the window. Of course, nobody on the ground could look up and in. Miss Coughlin sat at her desk, and Reena sat at hers. Nobody said a word for a minute or two, until Miss Coughlin, trying to act her sternest, asked, "Why did you do that?" "Do what?" Rena asked, far too sweetly. "Don't pretend like that to me. That awful display in class!" "Was it really so awful, Miss Coughlin? I rather enjoyed it." "Reena, NOBODY behaves like that in society! What's gotten into you?" "Well, I've been doing some outside reading." "I'm afraid to ask, but what have you..." Her voice trailed off. Reena's voice was loud and clear: "Kinsey's report on the Human Female." "But, but you're just a, a STUDENT! How dare you..." "Easy; I went downtown and bought the book with my own money. No law against that, is there?" "You're a high school senior! Why are you reading about, about..." "Sex?" Reena finished the sentence. "Miss Coughlin, I'm eighteen and next month I graduate from this school. When am I supposed to read it: on my wedding night?" "Nobody even knows if half of what he wrote is true! There has to be a scientific approach to it all: experimentation, replication..." "All I know is how reading that book made me feel, and it felt RIGHT! I recognized what he was talking about: how I feel when I touch myself, or when someone else touches me—male or female." "Female? Are you saying that book turned you into a—a deviant?" "Deviant?" Reena's reaction was the one that Miss Coughlin least expected; a reaction that froze Miss Coughlin to the marrow of her bones: Reena laughed delightedly. She laughed as if she'd just heard a joke watching Red Skelton or Milton Berle on television. "I remember my life, you know; years ago, before I ever heard of Kinsey. I remember how it felt when Mommy gave me a bath. I remember a summer by the sea where I took off all my clothes, right on the beach, in front of total strangers. I remember how it felt the first time I rubbed between my legs, and it all felt GOOD! I'll never deny it; it felt good!" Etta Coughlin felt as if she was hearing the confessions of a murderer. That this pretty young woman was so casually confessing to so many horrible acts—it was monstrous! "Reena, you're a very bright girl," Miss Coughlin replied, as steadily as she could, taking a different approach. "You have to know that you can't just talk about getting undressed or, er, rubbing yourself. And you certainly know you can't do those things in public!" "Public, Miss Coughlin? It's just the two of us, here and now." "Yes, and you're not here because you want to be here, but because I want you to be here. Now, get started." Miss Coughlin pointed to the front of the class. Blackboards covered three walls; the fourth was all windows. "Start writing 'I will not take my clothes off in class.' If you get bored with that, well, that's good. I can give you some other lines until you've filled every inch of blackboard on these walls. And you will not leave until they're all filled, so you'd better get started!" With that, Etta Coughlin thought she'd made it quite clear to Reena Patellan who was in charge. She moved to a student desk in the back of the class with a magazine and began to read it. Reena certainly got the message, and smiled as she started writing. xxx Miss Coughlin spent the next ten minutes or so reading about the troubles brewing on the island of Cyprus, while in the back of her consciousness she listened to the click-swish click-swish of chalk on the blackboard. By the time she finished the article, she realized that the chalk had stopped making noise. She looked up The board in front of the classroom was filled with lines, and Reena herself had stopped writing. Instead, she sat on top of the teacher's desk, facing Miss Coughlin. Her skirt was pulled up over her knees, revealing her bare pussy, sodden with sweat and maybe other fluids. The brown hair that should have been a fluffy crown was instead plastered to her skin. And, worst insult of all: a piece of chalk was stuck halfway up her vagina, the tip of it sticking out from between her labia. Miss Coughlin almost jumped up from her seat. "What the hell do you think you're doing, you disgusting pervert?!" Reena had her eyes closed, focusing on the sensations she was giving herself as she groped at her breasts through her blouse. However long she'd been doing it, it was long enough for her nipples to swell and show themselves prominently bulging against her blouse. Apparently she hadn't even bothered with a brassiere. Reena's head lolled slowly back and forth, her eyes still closed, as if slowly coming awake from some lovely dream. "What's the problem?" "What's the problem?! I look at you and the disgusting things you're doing, and you can't see the problem?!" "I wrote enough lines for now," Reena said. Sure enough, she had filled the front blackboard. "I had such a good time I had to take a break." This wasn't supposed to be "a good time." The first half-dozen lines were repetitions of "I will not take my clothes off in class." But then, they started to change. She'd repeat the newer version, but only two or three times, before making more changes: "I will not slide my panties down over the warm smooth globes of my ass." "I will not pull the sopping wet crotch of my panties away from the sopping wet crotch of my pussy." "I will not bare my cunt, spread my legs, and let the scent of my aroused body fill this room from one end to the other." The moment she read that sentence, Miss Coughlin realized that she could indeed smell it: the scent of an aroused woman, a scent she was all too familiar with sharing a dormitory room at a teacher's college. A dormitory room where a succession of roommates either diddled themselves to start the fire and then damp it out; or smuggled in a boyfriend, or sometimes a girlfriend, or sometimes both... Etta shook her head violently, as if trying to force the images in her brain out through her ears. "Just ... get back to writing. You need to fill all three boards before you can go." Reena pulled the chalk slowly out of her cunt, held it to her nose, and sniffed it slowly, languidly; not avidly, like someone who hadn't eaten in a week smelling a banquet, but like a connoisseur in a garden smelling a rare and delicately fragrant blossom. She slid off of the desk and started writing again. xxx Etta was completely lost. She had studied long and hard to become a teacher, and she thought she had mastered all the pedagogic material. But no class she ever took had prepared her for THIS! She knew that she had to get Reena back on track, to change the writing on the board back to punitive lines, not to ... to self-indulgent pornography! This girl was obviously mentally unbalanced. There must be something wrong with her parents if they let her take things this far. Were there other authorities she could speak to... And yet there was a small corner of Etta Coughlin's brain, which usually sat quietly back in her head, that stopped her from interrupting the wild child writing filth on the board. That small corner actually was curious, waiting to see what would happen next. Etta was subconsciously biting her lower lip as she stared at the words appearing on the board: "I will not frig my red hot pussy with the chalk." "I will not squeeze my nips until lightning bolts run through me and explode in my cunt." "I will not lay awake at night rubbing my cunt red and raw while chanting my sexy teachers name." WHAT! What sexy teacher ... or did she mean teachers? Her grammar and punctuation was usually better than that, Etta thought; she shouldn't lose focus like that... "I will not stay awake for hours with one dildo in my pussy, another up my ass, and a third in my mouth all the time thinking Etta Etta Etta!" "REENA!" Reena froze, with her face to the board and her back to Miss Coughlin. Without turning, she asked, "Yes, Miss Coughlin?" It took every bit of willpower she had in her to ask, and even then her voice was a hoarse whisper that sounded, to the speaker, unintentionally sexy: "What ... is the meaning ... of that?" "Of what?" "Those last sentences! You're mocking me!" Etta expected Reena to burst out laughing again. Instead, she turned and took a couple of steps toward the teacher, who was certain she could see tears starting to form in Reena's eyes. "I'm not mocking you. I mean everything that I wrote, especially about you." "This is ... this is some kind of sick joke." "No it isn't, Miss Coughlin; sincerely. Some nights I can't get to sleep because I think about you so much. About all the things we could be doing together." "But that is so WRONG! You're a high school student, and I'm..." "You're not a student; yes, I know, Miss Coughlin. You're a grown woman, with a voluptuous body. You wear beautiful clothes that show off your beautiful curves. And society says we shouldn't be together, which makes me want to be with you all the more." "But I've never said or done anything to lead you to believe that I ... I could be with another..." She couldn't even bring herself to finish the sentence. "I ... I know what that's like," Reena said in almost a whisper. "The first time I was attracted to another girl, I didn't know what to do about it. I still liked boys, too, you see. That's when I started reading books like Kinsey's, to try to figure out what was going on. And I finally realized something: that love is just love. Some people attach all sorts of other stuff to it, like age and money and even gender. But all I know is I fell for you from my first class with you, in the fall. And I wanted to tell you this from that very first day." Etta was still trying to figure out what to do with all this new information. All she knew was that she hadn't had much experience, with love or sex, and certainly none with other girls. But she had witnessed it; pretending to be asleep in her dormitory room watching or listening to roommates performing acts she'd never even imagined and certainly had no chance—or desire—to put into practice herself. If her mind was still a blank, it was because, here and now, with Reena almost offering herself, all those possibilities became real for the first time in her life, and she literally had no idea how or where to start. Reena stepped forward again, closing the distance between them. Softly she asked, "Can you still smell me? Can you smell my pussy?" "Y-yes," Etta said, also barely above a whisper. "Do you want to kiss it?" "Oh, God, yes!" Etta dropped to her knees, pulled up her pupil's skirt, and drove her tongue into the sopping wet glory before her. It was the first pussy she'd ever eaten, but the noises coming from Reena's throat were perfectly clear: whatever the teacher was doing, she was doing it right. The first pussy she'd ever eaten was not going to be the last. "Yes yes oh god yes!" Reena moaned. "You make me feel soooo good! You're doing it exactly right!" And in that moment Etta Coughlin felt something she'd never felt before, nor ever expected to feel. She felt proud: proud to be praised so enthusiastically by her student lover, overjoyed that she was apparently talented at this act she had never performed before in her life. She licked and kissed, sucked and tickled and nibbled at the glorious hole before her, not thinking as she would have just an hour before of what it was or where it had been or how she could dare to do what she had been doing. She just kept on and kept on until she was rewarded with a gush of fluid, thick and spicy like some exotic gravy atop a perfectly cooked steak—a perfect part of a perfect meal. She tried to keep going but she felt fingers pushing against her skull. "Miss Etta! Please stop, Miss Etta! It's too much, too much. I can't..." Reena just let the words trail off; she was panting as if she'd just run five miles. "Are you feeling all right?" Etta asked, shifting her position to look her student in the eyes. Reena looked at her teacher through half-open eyes. "I feel wonderful," she whispered, as if afraid everything would vanish if she spoke too loudly. Her head darted up and kissed Etta on the mouth, and Etta hungrily returned the kiss. When they broke the kiss after two minutes, the both were emiling uncontrollably. Finally, Etta said, "We can't stay here, you know." "I wish I could." "What about your family?" "My parents are travelling: half business trip, half vacation. They won't be home until tomorrow night. Until then, I'm all alone." "Well," the teacher smiled, speaking without even thinking what she was saying, "we can talk about that." They got up off the floor and straightened their clothes. Then Miss Coughlin started erasing the lines Renna had been writing. "We shouldn't leave these up. For one thing, the janitor might read this and have a stroke." Reena giggled. "Did I say something funny?" "I'll tell you later," Reena said, as she started erasing the second board full of lines. They met in the middle, exchanged another long deep kiss, then, after opening a window to air out the room, walked hand in hand to Miss Coughlin's car in the parking lot. I Will Not Be a Mistake If you like the story all credit goes to ErikThread for his insightful editing and if you don't like some bits - trust me it was all me!! That night I walked into the club to see my fiancée playing tongue hockey with her ex-boyfriend, Chad. I watched as they sat down at a table together ... actually she sat in his lap. His hands were roaming her flat abdomen and brushed her breasts openly and gently stroked her shapely legs as they continued kissing and having a good time. They were dancing (or dry humping?) when she noticed me and it was evident that she was pleading with me not to make a scene in the public and I agreed. Her face showed so many emotions in that short time, first the look of lust as she ground her body against Chad, then the look of disbelief when she saw me standing there, followed by a slight look of guilt and embarrassment; it was followed by fear and then that look of pleading to me. We had been together for two years and I can read her face like a book. I quietly turned around and walked out, leaving her on the dance floor, still in the arms of her lover as he turned around to see me walk out. I went home, changed and went to sleep in the guest room. I am not sure when she came back home and honestly, it did not matter. The sleep was fitful and came in spurts. The morning was not much better, I was restless because I knew that she would be outside the guest room - somewhere, maybe preparing coffee or taking a shower. The hurt was bad and I was surprised I had not cried. I am not your typical alpha male. I do cry and I do invest my emotions in things that matter to me. Cindy mattered to me and she was a long term investment which had been declared kaput. I got up and opened the door of my guest room to be greeted by a silent living room. I walked toward the kitchen where I heard Cindy working. I was orphaned at a very early age. I was eight when my parents divorced and I was given into the custody of my dad because my mom's boss was not keen on having me around. My dad tried to get by, but drank himself to death in just 2 years. So at ten years of age, despite having a living parent, I was put into the juvenile care system. I bounced from one foster home to another till I was fifteen. I was a quiet boy who did well in academics but failed miserably at sports. When I was fifteen my mom was thrown out of her boyfriend's house after he found a younger woman. She came to meet me for the first time in seven years. I treated her with courtesy but I politely told her that since she chose someone else over me a long time ago, she had no business messing up my life at this late a stage. I never heard from her again until her lawyer called me to tell me that she was dead and had left me some money, but I gave all the money to the local church. So, in short, I am not the most forgiving person around. If there is one lesson that life has taught me then it has to be "No one looks after my interests as well as I do." My father did not care enough for me to stop drinking. My mother did not care enough for me to stay with me, and none of my foster parents cared about anything but the check they received for having me around. However, Cindy had almost become a part of me — in the sense that I had begun to believe I could trust her to look out for me. Now, at 26, I was gainfully employed as an installation and maintenance expert for Digital Photo Labs and I loved my job. It entailed some travel and the salary was good. On the plus side, if I was able to induce some sales I also got commission and I was doing rather well as a sales person because my clients valued my suggestions on equipment and upgrades. Cindy was a year younger than me and came from money. Her father was a rich lawyer with a private plane and varied real estate investments. I think he made more from his properties now than he did as a lawyer and that is saying a lot. Buying a million dollar yacht was just as easy for the Hamptons as it was for me to buy a pack of Pall Malls. So, why did Cindy chose me and not some multi-millionaire? Your guess is as good as mine. She was a good friend of a foster sister of mine and pursued me relentlessly before I gave in and went out with her. I was reluctant because of the big difference in our social standings. I am realist and I believe that a man should marry a girl who has lived all her life in the same socio-economic strata as what he is capable of providing. Cindy was used to spending her vacations on French Riviera while the best I could offer was Miami or Hawaii. She was used to driving custom built cars and the best I could ever dream of offering her was a Volvo. Yet, somehow she convinced me to pop the question and against the wishes of her parents we were engaged. Although no date had been set, we were talking about a summer wedding. That was not on the cards anymore, was it? Cindy and I had been living together for six months when the incident happened. Chad, by the way, was Cindy's boyfriend all through high school. They stopped dating when he went off to England for college. He might be even richer than Cindy, if it was possible. Obviously he was back in town and was reclaiming his girl. I reached the kitchen and saw her sitting at the table sipping on a cup of coffee. She said nothing as I poured myself one and sat opposite her. "How much time do you need to move out?" I asked. Her face was a picture of pain as she said, "I do not want to move out. I am sorry; I was drunk and not thinking straight. Seeing him after all this time, I guess the teenager inside me took over and I did something stupid. I am not trying to justify what I did, I am just saying I was stupid and thoughtless, please give me another chance." "It will not work out between us because I am an asshole when it comes to loyalty and you have shown me that you are not the loyal kind. Okay, let me tell you something. I was a player in younger days. I have never walked out a singles bar without a hot chick on my arm. What would happen if I told you that I went out with some single friends to a bar and with a little too much booze in my blood I picked up a chick and banged the shit out of her. I might rationalize that I had gotten back together with all my single friends after long, long time and my hormones and nostalgia kicked in and I ended up in bed with her. What would you do? Let it slide off your back?" I was ready for her argument. "I do not know, probably ... shit ... I would kick your ass from here to San Francisco," she said as she got up and started pacing around. She was getting angry ... at herself. I looked up at her. "I love you and I am sure in your own twisted way you love me too. Let's part so that we might be able to share a joke when we meet many years down the line," I said, "I wanted to be the air that you breath — just as you have been mine. But I will settle to be a breeze that passes through your life, gently caressing your cheek and filling your lungs for just a moment. I am ready to be a fond memory from your past who taught you a small lesson in fidelity and respect, even if it might bring a slight sadness and the question — 'What if?' I am ready to be a good friend when we meet decades from now. I'll be a chance you had to take, a heart you had to break. What I am not ready to be is a mistake." She had stopped pacing and had sat opposite me. Tears still flowed from her eyes. "You know my story. My mother forgot me like a bad mistake. I was a constant reminder of my father's mistake in marrying her and he drank himself to death, sick of looking at my face. I bounced from home to home because no one wanted me. I am done being a mistake that no one wants. And I refuse to be a mistake that someone discovers one fine morning. I am not giving myself to anyone giving me less than 100% in return. Chad is not a bad guy. He moved away for his studies and now that he is back. I will not resent you for going back to him. The two of you have a history and I hope a very bright future ahead. What I was or who I am will be forgotten as time goes by. Someday you will look back and smile when you think about me. Maybe someday, when I am older I may understand what I could have done to keep you in my arms forever. Maybe someday. I am sorry it is not going to be today or anytime soon." I stopped to wipe a solitary tear that had tumbled down my cheek. "I can tell you now that I had hoped we would never say goodbye. But sometimes hearts collide and then move on. You can say that we were foolish, our love was reckless, and it was weak. But at least it was not wrong; it was just a part of us growing up. Right now, that is what it is, a step in our path to become mature adults. If we confront this crossroad after we are married, then it would be a mistake. Again, I refuse to be a mistake," I said as she sobbed quietly. I knew that she probably would not have repeated this mistake if we reconciled, just as I knew that my mother would not come back to walk off again. But when you have been kicked by life as many times as I have, you cannot take the chance. You cannot enjoy a soccer match because you identify with the ball and not the players or cheering fans. I could not endure being kicked once again. I think Cindy understood what I tried to tell her. She got up after a while and hugged me. "I understand. I am so sorry for this hurt. Believe me when I tell you — I truly love you. For me the most important thing is your happiness. I forgot that in my drunken stupor. I am not drunk right now. I know that it is best for me for walk off without hurting you anymore. Just remember — I do love you. Never doubt that." She said in a sad-sad voice, "I guess when we fall in love or when we become too close to someone we grant them the power to hurt us. I am really sorry that I misused the power. I will give you one advice before I go. If you are not ready to be hurt a little by some stupid act of someone you love — don't love. There is no one alive who has not hurt or has not been hurt by people they love." "Goodbye, my lover. We didn't make it but it was one hell of a ride wasn't it?" She made a poor attempt at a joke and I smiled weakly. With that she was gone. She did marry Brad and he was a wonderful husband and father. I met her again when I was 55. I went to Chad's funeral. He was a decent human being and I wanted to thank him one last time for taking such good care of Cindy all these years. On that fateful day, thirty years ago, Cindy had made me realize that I was not strong enough to sustain the ups and downs that every relationship requires. I never married and never had serious relationships. I sought women who were looking for everything but commitment. It still served me well. It was a few months after the funeral that Cindy turned up at my door. "I am not looking for a relationship, Hon!" she said, "I am just lonely. It was always easy talking to you, so here I am." Almost thirty years ago I had committed a serious mistake in my efforts not be another mistake. I do not plan to make the same mistake again. Story dedicated to Web_Spinner who has written some beautiful romantic stories. I Will Not Bow Brother Samuel here. The most controversial writer in the history of online erotica. I'm a big and tall, openly bisexual young Black man of Haitian descent living in the Bird's Nest area of Ottawa, Ontario. Way down in the Confederation of Canada. I'm new in town and I hate it already. Canadians of all colors are such fakes and flakes. Especially those I'm related to. Man, my family is simply insane. Doesn't matter which branch of them I'm dealing with. How in hell can people be this way? Must be something in the blood. Such malevolence doesn't happen by accident. Male and female alike, they're all messed up. It seems my family is exclusively made up of sociopaths, man-haters, racists who hate their own, and other nutcases. I came to Canada with my degree in Criminal Justice from a Boston-area college. Along with my published novels. To start a new life. I walked away from my old life in the great city of Brockton, Massachusetts. Some aspects of it I miss, some I don't. 　 　 What do I miss about Brockton? I miss my friends, like John Dinga a fifty-something wise man from Cameroon who's been my mentor and father figure for the better part of a decade. He's really cool. Welcomed me into his life when I didn't have anybody. My uncle Leo and my aunt Gina are among the most despicable people I've ever known. I lived in their house for a decade, a house they bought with the help of my parents, Frank and Helen. They treated me like crap. My aunt Gina is a sociopath. Very charming when you first meet her but really evil and manipulative when you get to know her better. My uncle Leo isn't much better. He's a passive-aggressive bastard. That's part of the reason why I was so eager to leave the city of Brockton. Not that Ottawa is treating me much better. At least in Brockton I had some friends. At the Brockton Community Library, I had my pals. I could see my published novels on the shelves, perks of being a celebrated local author. In Ottawa, I'm nobody. And I don't like it. 　 　 To add insult to injury, a massive earthquake hit Haiti in January. Many thousands of Haitians died. The international community is currently helping with relief and eventual reconstruction efforts. Ironically, it's the Canadian government which has been at the forefront of efforts to help Haitians in our time of need. It brought a smile to the face of this cynic, folks. I hope things turn out okay for my Haitian brothers and sisters. I really do. When the quakes hit, I called home and couldn't reach anybody. My parents live in the city of Cap Haitien, far from the quake-ravaged capital. I wanted to hear their voices. Make sure they were okay. As it turns out, they were alright but I couldn't reach them for days. These were among the worst days of my life. Loneliest days of this brother's life. 　 　 The members of my family who live in Canada are absolutely despicable. In times of disaster, people show you their best sides and their worst sides. Well, while cut off from my parents, I saw the true colors of my family members. They're nothing but parasites. Take my cousin Sharon for example. She's around thirty, very dark-skinned, and has been in Canada all of her life. In this country where you can basically go to college for free and where the government sends you a check to help you in your time of need. If I grew up in Canada instead of America, I would be so much further along in my life and my career right now. I'd be a top notch lawyer or something. Yet Sharon has squandered all of the gifts this country has given her. She's got three brats by three different white men. All three men are dead beats, by the way. A lot of Black women out there reject Black men and only date white guys because they think white guys are better and will treat them nicely. What a load of crap. Last time I checked, bad guys come in all colors. After numerous failed relationships with guys of all colors, Sharon ended up with a light-skinned Black lesbian. A butch chick named Myra. The funny thing is that Myra might be a pre-op transsexual. She's very masculine, dresses like a guy, and has been reading a lot of female-to-male transsexual literature lately. She's also been watching a lot of that stuff on television. I'm almost completely indifferent except that I find it kind of funny. After failed relations with guys of all colors, Sharon sought refuge in a lesbian relationship. And the woman she's with actually wants to become a guy. I find it wickedly funny, and also kind of sad. I'm staying in the basement of their apartment, which they rent using money which the government of Canada sends Sharon because she's a single mom. She doesn't have a job. She relies exclusively on the Canadian government's checks and her lesbian partner's income to make ends meet. And now she's got me. Sharon's charging me two hundred bucks a month to stay in her basement. She's also foul-mouthed and hot-tempered. Makes her the nicest landlord ever. 　 　 　 Folks, I don't plan on staying long in my twisted cousin Sharon's basement. I'm going to get my own place as soon as I can. I can't stand that witch, her weird 'partner' and the shit that goes on in that house. Now, I'm not homophobic. I'm bisexual myself. I've dated both women and men, so I could care less if my cousin is queer. However, the way she lives, the way she treats people, all that stuns me. I can't deal with that kind of madness, man. I think Sharon is a sociopath. I used to think all sociopaths were smart, ambitious and ruthlessly driven. I thought all sociopaths wanted to rule the world. Like Adolf Hitler, Margaret Thatcher or Stalin. As it turns out, I was wrong. Some sociopaths are perfectly content to sit around doing nothing. Like my cousin Sharon. She is lazy and lives off the Canadian government's generosity. Sounds like an insane way to live. At least to me. She feeds off her partner Myra and she feeds off the system. And now she wants to feed on me. Having recognized what she is and what she's up to, I'm giving her a wide berth. 　 　 　 It's not going to be easy but somehow, I'm going to build a new life for myself in Canada. First things first, though. I need a new place to stay. I can't stay in my cousin's basement anymore. She's evil and insane. And she uses people. I need my own little place. Also, I need a new job. I've done odd jobs here and there, but I want something more steady. My writing is going good. It's the one thing that's going alright for me. I've written two books in the two months I've been in Canada. The first one introduces a unique voice to African-American Literature and Horror. The chronicles of a bisexual male werewolf of African descent roaming over all of North America as he searches for others like him. The second novel is part historical fiction, part fantasy novel. The world of twenty-first century Earth, seen through the eyes of a time-traveling ancient African deity. I hope folks will like them. For now, they're what keeps me going. I live in a mad world, folks. 　 　 　 Who knows? Maybe someday I'll look back on all this and laugh. Or cry. Whatever. All I know is that my life has been hell for the past ten years. I'm very close to putting it back together now. So close. I don't want anything to come along and fuck it up. I'm going to get my own place. Get back to school. Contribute to society. Have a normal life. I think I can do well in Canada, if I play my cards right. There are many obstacles in my way but I'm a Haitian man. We're a resilient bunch. I will survive. Even though my family members living in Canada are parasites and they'll stop at nothing to make my life pure hell. I will not bow to them. They will not break my will. Trust me on that one. Battling sociopaths is nothing new to me. Wish me luck, folks. It ain't going to be easy. I'm out of here.