• praytel
      • hello holly schwartz
      • Username: praytel
      • In response to: "If you were in a movie right now, what music would be playing?" Hans Zimmer orchestrated chase scenes...
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    • A plea for absolution in letter form

      • For some reason this stupid thing will not let me edit my picture. The one I picked out is totally more convincing to the prompt, but what can you do...


        Dear Joe,

        How is it that people change? I know myself completely until tomorrow. Tomorrow I may decide that I am allergic to pine nuts and forever withhold the urge to consume pesto. Pesto with penne and Parmesan will stand on a short pedestal below other things I decided that I couldn't have through out the years; unfortunately chocolate chip cookie cakes and the butter lining an aluminum bowl filled with popcorn are also things forbidden to me from earlier years. Even though I may sound melodramatic, as I could being this entire episode of our relationship was in my early twenties and therefore majorly immature, I think I am allergic to you.

        (I have tried on numerous occasions to eternalize my guilt in script. Sometimes I rehearse so many times that I even believe the exaggerations that I plan on telling you. I'm not sure if I ever loved you, but that is not the point. Eight years ago, I knew you loved me.)

        Back to my apology, I'm sorry about Radiohead. I'm sorry about having you sleep in your car because I was uncomfortable with our closeness in the one man tent. You do have to admit that my humble abode being attacked by the bastard raccoons craving White Castle burgers was pretty fucking karma-like. I'm sorry about looking at the speedometer every five minutes until you had to place a piece of paper over it. (I know you were majorly exceeding the limit by the way.) I'm sorry about staring at you while you were paddling down the river in Indiana with the ex-Hell's Angles playing guitars and singing Niel Young. You had your shirt off and I couldn't help it.

        You're married now. I heard from some obnoxious social network internet thing that her name is April or maybe Amanda and that she is completely devoted. You also belong to a religious entity which I can't exactly agree with, but...whatever. I'll not judge your god or Sunday socials.

        Basically....I'm sorry that I think I'm allergic to you.

        Yours truly,

        (Please insert whatever name you refer to me as...I'm sure that I deserve many of the titles as I never truly apologized for the necessary evils. At least we never slept together. Then you would really dislike me.)

      • answered by praytel on 08/29/2010
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    • One Law I'd Abolish...

      • Moose Lodge

        I have recently been informed of a grave injustice...an injustice that not only effects the rights of a human American citizen, but those of one of our favorite four legged fiends. In Fairbanks Alaska, a city that I had once dreamed of gracing with my presence, it is illegal to feed a moose an alcoholic beverage.

        I think anyone wanting to get a moose drunk should be able to, if only to raise the chances of it killing them (them being the stupid idiots trying to get a massive hoofed and antlered animal drunk.) I guarantee that it's far more likely to halt the sport than a law forbidding it. Also, for those of you curious about other Alaska moose laws, pushing them out of planes is also a no no.

        Can someone please inform me as best as you can to the reasoning behind pushing a moose form a plane? Or why you would have a moose on a plane? Or even why you and moose would be in a plane in the air with an open hatch large enough to push one out of? (I realize that those are basically the same question, but I was hoping to express my utter lack of understanding by asking three times versus the one.)

      • answered by praytel on 08/23/2010
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    • Ha! I'm really not as crazy as you may think, I'm just kind of inebriated....

      • There is a small line between sanity and the other thing that resembles the contrary, but Maggie wasn't sure if she even cared any more. She was making a face into the mirror, ones that she usually does in the the bathroom of dingy comfortable bars, where she crosses her eyes and brings her chin close to her neck and sticks out her tongue;she calls it a tribute to conformity or some other such witty drunken wisdom. However,rather than watching her blurry image in the lipstick vandalized mirror, she was really paying attention to the blood pooling in the sink. It was a dingy bar...a bathroom in a dingy bar, where she had decided to kill herself.

        It was funny really...so, there’s this time that she thinks about often.,and wishes that she didn’t. The memories generally come when after the drinking, but not necessarily smashed. Usually a song provokes it. She hates the song. She really does. It’s a stupid song from some poppy band, about a gun or virginity, who knows, right? It’s about a gun and she's sitting in a van, sick and totally in love. No joke...she's in love, and he doesn’t even know.

        She looks into the mirror. Maggie looks into the mirror and can't make a straight face. "Why can't I tale this seriously?" she thinks to ask herself, but herself doesn't really feel like answering. "It was rhetorical anyways..." but what does it matter. Some girl is banging on the door and yelling about having to piss, while some song that she hates is playing in the background of her mind and ruining the moment. Why does nothing happen quickly?

        She looked at her wrists. The blood was still trickling down her arms and dripping off her elbows. It tickled, like the imaginary spiders that crawl all over you after you walk through their discarded webs. "Why does it tickle?" "Why am I still asking myself questions?" "I'm supposed to be dying." She pulls down the lever of the paper towel dispenser and wipes off her arms, then pulls down her sleeves. Washing wouldn't do any good really, but she turns the water on anyways and watches the red dilute slowly into a light pink. The banging increases and Maggie pulls open the door. "Jesus Christ,"she says."Learn some manners." She walks past the girl with her dyed blonde hair and too tight blue jeans. She glances through the bar before walking up the stairs to the outside. "Well this sucks" she said to herself. She wasn't nearly drunk enough for the walk home, she was still alive, and it smelled like rain.

      • answered by praytel on 08/07/2010
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    • My nonfluctuating sense of style...or other such crap

      • Got my blue jeans on


        A book carried under my arm and Jewish features have been the easiest way to describe me since I was eleven, and because of such, makes me the constant target of bouncers and other ID bastards. I started junior high school with the confidence of most eleven year olds, meaning without any. My mother had just remarried for the fourth time, although she still only claims three, and had enrolled me in my twelfth school since kindergarten. To make matters worse, we were also not very well off; meaning that we shopped at thrift stores for back to school styles. By the time my sister and I were able to grace the hallways of the high school, I was sporting the styles of some company's old softball t-shirts, blue jeans with self inflicted ink stained flowers, Chuck Taylors in a array of colors and durability, naturally almost straight black hair down to my ass, and a pair of eyebrows meant to warm the face of some poor eastern European. I was still not very confident, so I read a whole bunch of books. I actually read so many books, that by the time high school was over and everyone received awards for sports and academic achievements, the librarian stood on stage and absolved me of my late fees for eternity.

        (If only...)


        So, three women walk into a bar. The first lady is petite with long blonde hair who even with her highest worn heels only tops most men breasts. She is charismatic and poses perfectly for every cell phone that clicks as she passes without acknowledging herself as the focus of inebriated male attraction. The second stalks through with her own style and/or fashion with the confidence of booted feet and colored spiked hair. With the sensation of shocked awe, she glares with her sarcasm until you agree with everything she says. I follow with my book and prominently Jewish looks...this was supposed to be a joke, but I can't think of a punch line. I've actually come to the conclusion that I should wait in the car until both my sister and best friend enthrall the natives, so that I can be completely unnoticed when I make my entrance.

        During my emotional charged high school "I'm a writer" stage, I had decided to neglect the parts of growing up that consisted of "how to put on makeup," or "what style skirts to wear with your body type." Until recently, I had no idea that I should wear A-line dresses to minimalize my top heavy physique, or some crap. My best friend taught me how to flat iron my hair and put on eyeliner in my mid twenties which leads me to believe that this decade should have me growing up in leaps and bounds. After high school, and because of some emotional boyfriend trauma that will probably be explained in some later drunken missive, I sawed three feet off of my hair. Since then, I have changed hair styles in drastic forms, excluding colors. Unfortunately, I still wear t-shirts best left in garages for oil changes, blue jeans with the asses worn thin from calling them lucky, and Chuck Taylors both pink and purple. My eyebrows, however...look amazing.

      • answered by praytel on 07/28/2010
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    • The first part of chapter one of My Slightly Exagerrated American Novel

      • Handmade Panties Multi color Plaid

        My lingerie collection was suspiciously devoid of any resemblance of lingerie. The top drawer, the one in women's bedroom suites which is universally accepted as the receptacle of the indecent and rarely functional under garments, was open as far as it could go without capsizing my entire operation; but no matter how much I riffled through it, I could find no hint of lace. Sometimes I wondered if my lack of love life was connected to the lack of matching whimsical bra and panty sets; as if men's minds were psychically linked to my inventory of comfortable cotton sports briefs. I am not ashamed of ever having such a collection. I once lined my panties across my bed, mentally spelling out ROY G BIV.

        Staring at the rainbow, I almost laughed out loud imaging the look of astonishment on a sadly unattractive early thirties woman named Ms. Mitchel; and then, I realized that she probably only wore cotton briefs. What if I was doomed to become an unhappy earth science teacher, who's students made fun of for her Scarlett O'Hara obsession and braces? Of course, in order to be a teacher I would have had to both gone and graduated college with a degree, so that couldn't happen...

      • answered by praytel on 07/24/2010
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