Murphy's Law

10 Generations of real life problems.

This was supposed to be a legacy but it's turned into a story...

Anyway, this story is inspired by favorite books, movies, television shows and personal experiences.

Life is not a fairy tale but that doesn't mean it's not beautiful. After all, you love people in spite of their flaws, and sometimes their flaws make you love them even more.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Chapter 2.7 Timing Is Everything

***Hello!  I recently asked someone close to me to read my legacy.  Instead of constructive criticism, he went on to personally attack my intelligence.  It hurt a lot.  I am one of those people who cannot read spelling and grammar errors and text speak without cringing.  However, I adore my sentence fragments.  I already warned readers of this here.  The writer I admire also is quite fond of sentence fragments.  If you want to leave feedback, comments or concerns, please feel free.    I hope to share with you a story that means a great deal to me.  But I'm not doing this for popularity, fame or likes.  At the end of the day, I do this for myself and no one else.  So if you have nothing nice to say or you just want to hurt my feelings, then don't fucking read!***

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Some people refuse to acknowledge depression as a sickness.  They assume that when you fall, you can pick yourself up.  But what if you can't even get on your feet before you get knocked back down?  And what if you can't even make it out of bed in the morning because even standing up and getting dressed, is too hard?  That you have to fight for every breath you take, struggle with the voice inside your head that constantly is screaming, "it's not worth it".

There are a few people who might encourage you to keep living, who profess that they would miss you when you're gone but their voices are drowned out by demons.  The demons are always there, clawing at your brain, pounding at your skull, blurring the lines between what is real and what is imagined.  But they're probably not even demons because that would mean there would have to be angels and I have never witnessed such a phenomenon.  They're probably not demons at all.  In fact I know they're not.  Because the voices inside my head that tell me life isn't worth it, every last one of them belongs to me.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

It seemed like everyone in my life had found happiness in the shape of someone else. 

My parents, who were in their late forties, still went on dates every week and held hands in public.

Isabelle, who had gotten her trust after my Grandmother agreed to sell the theatre to her mother, had finally moved out and was now engaged to David Clark.

Even my baby sister, Lilly, had found love in Asher Horowitz.  That's right, Lilly, all of seventeen years old, was now dating my childhood arch nemesis.  

He was always here.  They didn't even have the decency to take it to her bedroom.  Those two exhibitionists were constantly sucking face all over the house.  When they were practically doing it by the front door, it was unavoidable that I should see it.  If I could burn the images out of my brain, I would.    

Everyone was happy but me.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

It bugs me when people talk about heartbreak.  Or souls.  My heart had been "broken" and I was still very much alive, (despite my best efforts).  All that work and for what?  Yeah, when I was younger, I had put stock into that same bullshit, too.  I had humiliated myself "in the name of love", when I didn't even know the stupid bitch's name.  I had bought the lies that sappy rom-coms taught us, that the dream girl really didn't want the jock.  Oh, what's that?  She wanted the geek because she was "more than a pretty face".  Bull-shit.  It's a well-known fact that only geeks and women write crap like that.  Penelope had accused me of not actually liking her because I didn't see her personality.  After I met her, I was still asking the same question: what personality?

Even if I found someone who cared about me, would that be enough?  I had thought my heart was missing a Penelope-shaped piece, that if I could just be with her, I would find some reason for my existence.  Even if I hadn't struck out at P.U.R.E., I'm fairly certain that I would still feel this way.  Love is an emotion, just like being hungry or tired.  It's not sentiment, it's comfort.  It's choosing to have someone in your life because you're better off having them around.  If love exists, it's selfish.  

All relationships end badly.  You either break up or you die.  So why put the time and effort into it?  For every happy moment you have with that person, there are a million sad moments that you don't have them.  You spend more time missing that person than you actually get to enjoy them.  Like my mom.  I know that she thinks she loves me - she drives the word down my throat every single day.  I choke on it and have to return the affection or her feelings get hurt.  Shouldn't you know if someone loves you regardless of whether or not they tell you?  She might guilt me into saying it back but that doesn't make it any more true or untrue.   My mom spends more time hurting over the person I can't be than enjoying who I am.  And that, my friends, is not love. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

I used my trust money to buy a small building, which I intended to use as an art gallery.  I had brought only a couple of pieces so the walls felt bare.  The picture I had painted of Penelope had been burned years ago but the ones hanging up were my best  work and I was hoping to sell them.

I knew that successful artists didn't just emerge from nothing and become famous overnight.  I had a chance to make an impression and even then could fade into obscurity once the novelty wore off.  I needed to find a curator to manage the gallery in my absence and also someone who could take care of the advertising and promoting.  Most amateurs had to display their artwork in coffee shops and other public places before finally settling on the right gallery so it was nice to have one advantage.  But I still needed to network, to find clients who appreciated my particular style and that would all happen at the grand opening in two weeks.

Every morning, I sat in my office, staring at the empty chairs that would hopefully soon be occupied by rich customers.

I had no wife or girlfriend to occupy my time.  The gallery was my mistress.  Everything I did was for her.  And yet, each night when I went to bed, I felt an indescribable emptiness.  I sighed as I left the office for the day.  I wasn't quite ready to go home yet so I decided that maybe a drink would be nice.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

There was a new bartender at P.U.R.E., a girl who looked somewhat familiar.  She had a beautiful face although I had never been one for thick girls.  

"I'd like whatever you've got on special," I mumbled, uncomfortable as always when speaking to pretty girls.

"Wow, you're not cheap or anything!" she laughed.

"I don't really know what to order," I confessed.  "I've only drank a couple of times."

She gave me a knowing look.  "So you've decided to start tonight.  Girl problems?  Family problems?  Problem problems?"


The bartender raised an eyebrow.  "Oh my bad.  Boy problems?"

"Girls don't like me," I blurted out, "and I'm opening an art gallery in two weeks but I think it's going to fail."  There was something about the girl that made it easy to talk to her.

"You want some advice?" she asked in a stage whisper, as if preparing to divulge a great secret.

"Why not?"  I bent over the bar so we were at eye-level.

"Just forget all of your problems for the night.  What you need to do is get shit-faced, find a cute girl and get laid."

I was a little taken aback.  "But how?  I just told you that girls don't like me."

"Look kid, a lot of girls go out just to have sex.  They're drunk and they probably pick a different guy each night.  So all you have to do is pick one."

"The name's Go," I told her.  

She smiled.  "I know," was all she said.

That night, I drank at least five of whatever the special was.  I fist-pumped, gyrated to Michael Jackson and even challenged some hipster to a dance-off.  I was completely tanked and didn't have a care in the world.  When last call was announced, I went back to where the nameless bartender was working, but was stopped by a strawberry blonde.

"Why hello there", she greeted me drunkenly.

"Hello," I slurred back, equally as drunk.  "My name's Go."

"Cassidy."  She hiccupped.

"So, Cassidy, what are you doing tonight?" 



  1. I see your short (not fragmented) sentences as a stylistic choice. I use dashes like they're free - I'm sure a lot of people find that annoying. Screw non-constructive and just insulting criticism. In the ear. (There's a sentence fragment for you.)

  2. Haha, thanks Nico. I've been pretty depressed about this.

  3. Well written Lauren; good chapter and I hope you keep them coming so I can find out more about Go and his new lady toy. Don't worry about your hubby... I am sure he will get the clue eventually that he hurt your feelings and maybe even apologize.

    I know how you feel about not really wanting to be big as I am content with the small amount of followers I have. People stealing ideas from other people's stories just proves they have no originality and they are doomed to fail because people tend to notice things like that and will stop liking or reading their work.

  4. Thanks Cristobal. I just agree with what you said, about writing for yourself. If anyone tried to recreate my story or anyone else's and I caught them, it would be very ugly. I hope the Sims community takes notice of things like that and would make the person stop. I know it's only a game but when you put a lot of time into something, it's a slap in the face for someone else to take the credit.

  5. Well, I know it's late, but for all it's worth, I think your writing is one the wittiest I've come across in the Sims community in a long time, don't change a thing about it, and like you said, it's for your personal enjoyment, so don't let others steal the joy out it.

    As for Go and Cassidy, I can't wait to see how the rest of their drunken meeting will turn out.