My Cardboard Balcony

Tonight, I am not going to talk too much about my life. I am not going to go into too much detail about my first summer class (which was, of course, fun and worthwhile and it ended a couple days ago), or my work (which is fine), or my relationship (which is and has always been awesome). I don't want to talk about my catastrophic anxiety or my existentialist nonsense or scratch away at my cerebrum hoping that something creative bubbles up as a result. Instead, I want to tell a story of what happened to me today. I'm not going to hammer a message into it. I'm not going to influence any sort of "moral." I simply want to tell a story. I am not "poor." At least, not in the societal sense of the definition. However, I don't make a lot of money. I don't have a lot of savings. I do have to scrape by some months after I pay off student loans, bills, and other credit build-up. My income, in fact, does not allow me to pay an adequate amount of rent, so

This is an untitled, unfinished novel that was technically left alone in late 2008. However, the last time it was modified and checked for errors was 2011, where upon I decided that the absurdity of the plot combined with the sloppy British research was too much for the story to continue. However, seeing as this is Whims of the Time Traveler, it's a perfect example of my first attempt at long fiction, so I've decided to unabashedly display it. Have fun. Untitled: Chapter Four by Belinda Roddie If you asked about me to people who met me over the years that I spent in Reading, they would say that, back then, Joan Engel was a completely and totally average girl. Those who would befriend me would later change their minds, saying that I wasn’t totally average, but special in a positive way. Cheerful, they said, bright, and terribly outgoing. That was who Joan Engel was. Over the summer of my first year living in Reading, I worked hard in order to adapt to my surroundings. I le

So you want to be an instigator, in more ways than one. You want to set an idea on fire, but you want the fists to fly. You want a boxing match where each traded jab, each exchanged blow to the jaw or cheek incites some sort of inspiration. You're an interesting mish-mash of violent dreaming, of a rather bully-like, intimidating influencer. It's intriguing to see how, in some way, you make it all work out. But now it's time you met an expert.