Kelly, I Was Drunk

They were going in the opposite directions. It wasn't just a metaphor. As She left the terminal, He skipped in. His head was down, looking at a stain on his lapel. He began to blush, immediately embarrassed at the prospect that he had been wearing the blotch for the whole day without noticing. He racked his brain matching the color of his beverages to that of the stain. She never saw him, and they never met.
The pilot and the stewardess just didn't know they were a love story. Truly, they were star-crossed lovers. If he hadn't managed to smear his lapel (it was lasagna, but he was satisfied to believe it wine) and she hadn't been so concerned with finding her hotel, it might have been different, but likely wouldn't have.
The pilot was happy. The stewardess was not. It wouldn't be long before they both went south. One to Atlanta, the other to Houston. It was hardly worth mention, were it not for the misnomer. In fact, her life was very near a remarkable breakthrough. She was a commodity at the time. A beautiful, cheery, personable young stewardess in a world with an increasing obsession with customer service. He was a drunk, and the airline knew it. She stayed humble by remembering the two things her father had told her before she moved out of her parents' home: Stewardesses amount to nothing, and you are going to die. She believed both of these things without question, and also believed that her father was something of an insufferable prick. In neither of these beliefs was she explicitly mistaken.
He stayed humble by waking up every morning. He was a sad shell of a man, the type that you would expect Kevin Spacey to play in a movie. Missing from his bio, however, were the basic intelligence and general depth that seemed prerequisites for a movie character. He had never considered any of this, and was not explicitly mistaken to ignore the rare possibility that Kevin Spacey play his role in a movie.
None of it mattered. They had a love story the universe didn't want to tell (as you know, the universe is very much ambivalent to love stories of all kinds and only tells the ones it does begrudgingly). They had a love story they weren't ready to tell themselves, for love stories never actually begin in passing, on the street, or in airport terminals. But they had a love story.
They didn't miss much.
If that you could be so lucky.

Reaction

My mother is sweeping the floors
It is  4:10 AM
From the glances I have snuck, she is not crying, not distraught, but in no way normal
It is as if some computer has poorly recreated her from a collection of photographs of her
My mother is handling this whole situation well and I suspect foul play
I am safe now
I am in my home
After standing in a ditch for an hour, my situation has resolved itself incredibly quickly
I take his cue and drive cautiously
My father says "see you at home"
I worry that I will back into the truck and apply the brakes liberally
Will my parents go on their trip to Montreal?
The chain snags and I feel the car being lifted out of the ditch, but I don't know how much gas to give the car
How hard did I hit it
The broken plastic is from the console under the steering wheel
Suddenly the car and the truck are tied together
He says nothing
My father is here now
Lights finally arrive
I can't take credit
The boot is off center, I can't find my balance now
That ruins a long run
I notice my foot has moved
How long have I been here
I have been standing in the same exact spot for half an hour
My brain churns
What now
There is no lying to do
My father knows
I put down the phone, slowly
The words barely make it out of my mouth
I accept fault and give a phony excuse
He is worried
I pick up
Now, my father calls me
He must know
The texts asks where the car is
I look at the bent front end of the civic
My phone buzzes
There is no way I can fix this. I do not want to get back in
My dad is awake
My phone buzzes
There is plastic littered across the two front seats
I hope this is rock bottom
I am in a ditch
The car won't stop, but it screeches

An Admittance Of Fault

Make sure you know who the main character in your story is
Greater people, better protagonists, have failed at the same task
No doubt, I have as well

The Mortality Of Sensuality (Pronouns Wanted)

She had such full thighs. Yossarian had heard it time and time again from half of the squadron, and it was always in a flattering tone, without question. When he was inside them, though, he hadn't a clue where to start. They were too full, even. He guessed to run his hand from her knee up to the back of her thigh, right up to the point where her buttock sprung from the leg into a quivering arch. He guessed right. A moan escaped her lips and she pulled him harder into waist by his hips. It was the first that he had noticed she was touching him. He obliged her gravity, but turned his head to the side as he sunk into her shoulder. She was surprisingly alert to his despondence and, with her finger under his chin, spun his head to face her. Meeting her hurt eyes, he quickly became aware of his mistake and offered a sadistic smile before sliding down her body, splitting her legs first with a subtle dip of his chin, and then further with the backside of his hands. As he looked at her now, she didn't look hurt. Her cheeks had a blush that gave away her embarrassed excitement, and he did his best not to roll his eyes as he dutifully buried himself. He thought of Nurse Duckett as he worked. Lieutenant Scheisskopf's wife wasn't altogether unlike her, but could never keep his attention, even when she had his member at attention. It was when he was with Lieutenant Scheisskopf's wife that he managed to convince himself that he loved Nurse Duckett, and at no other point. With a clear head, he wouldn't hesitate to reject such a notion, even when he was with her. Something about the way Lieutenant Scheisskopf's wife was so easily regaled by his dark musings and satisfied with the same routine, generic sex made Yossarian desperate to feel something more. Yossarian allowed himself a smile as Lieutenant Scheisskopf's wife's shaking hand grasped his hair, confirming that he had unconsciously finished her. As he entered her, he lamented internally. He knew he was going to have to fuck Nurse Duckett again in order to regain interest in Lieutenant Schiesskopf's wife, as had become his system. Catching himself, he indulged himself in an ephemeral moment of lust. Luciana, if she was even out there, was going to have to wait.

Let Me Make It Up To My Conscience

I think this is a good time to write something happy

I love space

I think of it like a national park

Because it's a lot bigger than where you live

And you think: how cool would it be if I explored all of this

But you just can't - and that's not a bad thing - you just can't

So you have a new place to have an adventure every time

It's like a book that you know you like, but never ends

You don't even have to pay attention to the plot it's like the fucking Giving Tree of books

Just let it make you happy and love it

I think probably the same people that go to national parks like space

Maybe not

I do like space though

Space is rad