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How to Brush Your Teeth     Your mouth is dirty, nasty, filled with acid defecating bacteria.  You need to brush your teeth!  But how does a person go about brushing their teeth?  Well, luckily, it's not that complicated!     The First, and arguably, the most important step, is to step up to the sink.  Chances are this is a bathroom sink, however in some occasions it may be a kitchen sink.  On some rare occasions you will find yourself without a sink. This is OK! A cup of water will work quite well.     Once near the sink, if you have that luxury, reach ahead and firmly grasp the toothbrush. Before closing the distance between you and y

With every touch we grow closer Though you don't want us to be I'm not Him and you aren't Her This we know, we feel, we see I apologize for my errant hands They seem to appreciate overly so The feel of your soft skin and How your hair smells of grass below Ah, look at me, here talking of the forbidden. Think not smooth, not grass, but dirt and rough. Your opposites, doing little to sooth. There, I am calm now, my yearning Abated for the moment. Tomorrow I will set about my heart stitching so that I might contain the sorrow.

We stand here together in our spot beside the glass doors. Through them we can see the commons area, empty as it usually is this time of the morning. We are holding hands, standing closer than any teacher would approve. Nothing is being said between us; we are content to just wait for the bell and listen to the chatter of the rest of the student body in the courtyard. Suddenly, that chatter is punctuated by a scream. We turn our heads as one, but the courtyard proper is blocked from view by a short brick extension on the building, our reason for choosing this spot to stand. A few students come into view around the wall, running. Then somethi

Blank pages are mocking me. They cry out to me, wanting me to come create, wanting me to bring forth a life, an entity, a thing of beauty. They know that I can't. The bastards. The blank pages lie next to my pen, almost dry with disuse and I wonder what I'm doing wrong. The white pages no longer comforting, they seem empty and my pen is a spurned lover, lonely, abandoned and spiteful. While my muse (what muse?) has gone into hiding, convinced I'm not worth it anymore. I feel         Incompetent No, not that,         Worthless Well, that.    &#