and if anyone actually reads this blog..

heres my horror story from english class... its really gross and i swear i'm not that creepy

James Anthony Pattinson, my one true love. He has floppy chestnut colored hair that falls over his chocolate brown eyes and the sweetest crooked smile I have ever seen. His favorite color is blue and he is the one guy I know that likes The Notebook. He goes through about four cans of pizza flavored Pringles every week, and he works at the playstation. He writes his own music, although he has never told anyone, and he enjoys singing in the shower. I know he loves god because he has a cross tattoo on his lower neck next to a birth mark shaped like the big dipper. His home of 18 years presides on 1220 Terrace Road and he drives a 1998 Trans Am. The first and last time I ever talked to him was in the hallway two years ago when I ever so carelessly tripped in front of him. He looked at me, asked me if I was ok, laughed, and walked away. It was magical.
Then there is his dreadful girlfriend Katie Bazan. She has fiery red hair and piercing blue eyes. She is the spawn of Satan. I don’t know what he sees in her. Clearly she is demented and she doesn’t know anything about him. I hate her. No, I more then hate her, I curse the day she was born. If I ever get to be alone with her I can only imagine all the opportunities I would have to hurt her as I please.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

There she is, right on time for their date. He’s making her French onion soup. He loves onions. Thank God they don’t have curtains; it makes things so much easier.

He slurps his soup.

Look at the way she’s gripping the table. It is as if she’s imagining it to be his neck. Who would want to do that to him? Her, on the other hand I would understand. I just want to pry her bony fingers from the table and bend them all the way backwards, twist them around and pluck them off, like fuzzies on a wool sweater.

He cracks his knuckles.

I wish I could pop Katie in the head with a gun like James pops his knuckles. Just like a paper target at the shooting range. Stand her about 100 feet away and shoot at free will. Aim right for her cold empty heart and at her skull where there should be a brain. Too late for that.

He laughs.

His laughter sounds like bells peeling on a Sunday morning, calling church in session. Her laugh on the other hand, sounds like the screech of a cat being run over by a semi truck. Oh how I wish I had the opportunity to do that to her. I would run her feet over first, so she couldn’t get away. Then I would reverse and run over more of her legs. I would keep on with this, slowly crushing all of her bones in her body. Saving her head for last I would run it over, back up over it again and then get out of the car to watch her ooze all over the pavement.

He ruffles his hair.

He looks so adorable when he does that. It’s a useless action since it just flops back in his eyes, but I love it. On the other hand, when she touches her hair, I just want to scalp her. I want to take a rusty old butter knife and drag it slowly over her head, shaving off all of her repulsive ginger hair.

He snaps his fingers to recall something.

Look at the way her eyes flicker every time he snaps his fingers. All hot with anger; it seems as if she wants to stick his hands in boiling water or something. If I had a pot of water I would gouge out her eyeballs and squeeze out the jelly for my cat to eat. Then I would boil the remnants of her eyes like hard boiled eggs and jar them up to set on my nightstand.

They finish eating and he pushes out his chair.

Where are they going? Up to his room? I can not believe her! Trapping the poor boy up there! Now I don’t know what they’re doing. I guess I will have to go inside. It’s not like I haven’t done it before. Hopefully I don’t get caught; it was a pretty close call last time. He’ll be grateful though once I save him. And once I gut her like a fish. I really could gut her right now; I have my pocket knife. All it would take is cutting her Achilles tendon so she can’t get away. It would be a piece of cake from there. But I would have to send James away. He’s too precious to see something like that.

He carries her up the stairs.

I could lighten his load. Maybe I could chop off her chicken legs. Or maybe I could just take her altogether and cut her into little pieces to put in the blender.

He shuts the door.

What is going on in there? I can’t take this anymore! All I can hear is faint muffled noises. If she even so much as pulls out one of his arm hairs, I’ll slaughter her! I’ll slice off her head and... I have to go in; I am going mad out here. I…

CRACCCK.

She snapped his neck! My world is over. With-out him, I have no reason to exist. My love is dead! A half of me is gone forever!
She sees me in the doorway.
She’s crazy! She’s deranged! She is the spawn of Satan! Good thing I grabbed that kitchen knife before I came up here.

I pull out the knife.

Off with her head. She’s better off dead than alive. She was a bit of a lunatic.