My Cardboard Balcony

Hi everyone! This is Arden doing a guest introspection because Belinda is busy and tired and it was our anniversary yesterday, so I'm hijacking this post. Muahahaha! Wow... that was something I haven't done since high school... Anyway, we just took a very long walk and talked about very introspective things. What were those things? Wouldn't you like to know. In any case, pie is good. And I only typed that because Belinda suggested it. There is no writer's quotation tonight because I can't think of any off the top of my head and I'm too lazy to look one up. Have a great night and a safe weekend, everyone.

Celebrity Bible by Belinda Roddie There’s a small, nondescript book that you can find in your local run-of-the-mill bookstore on the back room shelf, called the Celebrity Bible. But it’s not some national treasure. It’s not bound with gold thread or stamped with a royal red emblem of approval. No, the Celebrity Bible just looks like your average bible. No glossy magazine cover, no over-the-top wind-blown self portraits of self-indulgent splendor, because the Celebrity Bible is not about celebrities. It’s not a book for the average, adoring reader. No, this book is for celebrities, not about them, and it doesn’t cater to one specific person, just as an astronomer doesn’t focus on a single star in his brass telescope. And when you open the Celebrity Bible, its binding hisses and breathes, a deep exhalation, a long, heavy sigh as you crack its spine and pop it back into place, straightening out the vertebrae. Then you’ll notice that the Celebrity Bible is like every other bible in the ...

"Where's my leading lady?" cried out Stewart Marx the Third, brandishing his empty champagne flute like a knife as the crowds of black tuxedos and silvery gowns pulled away. She was on the stairwell, left hand delicately caressing the banister - as the tradition always was at the ballets and the operas. Show them off, everyone said.

One Year Has Been A Dream by Belinda Roddie One year has been a dream - a near surreal escapade starting with a nervous "Hi" and "Nice to meet you." As anxiety lifted, then came the sushi, delicious and preceding a walk with warm hands held. We kissed while the sun set. We fell hard and fast. We nearly crashed and burned. We both knew we would be far away most of the time. But now, after San Francisco trips, song, dancing, pictures, kisses and embraces, we know no matter what, our love is tough, sweet, hungry, war-ready, and powerful. So we have loved each other for a year, and for many more if we wish to, dear.

As Harriet bent down to retrieve the scrap of paper that had flown out of her empty backpack, she recoiled at the sound of laughter. The three most popular girls in school - Lucy, Lisa, and Leslie - were all skipping toward her, pointing at her. "Getting your letter from your boyfriend?" they teased before dancing away.

Red Bile by Belinda Roddie When you blow your nose into the rug, wipe away the dark residue of sorrow on your clean-trimmed denim. Your husband heaves and masturbates to an old 80s porno while the decaying flesh makes your hair glow with decaying white TV screen light. The art of love does not come with a brush, nor does the temptation of sex come with a paperback manual with smiley face pictures and happy black text. We are going to see the king tonight, dear, hovering in a constellation above the estranged's head, and my tiny face in your corduroy pants pocket reminds you that there is more to puddles of lactated sad sweat and shitty futures and sepia pasts, and your nostrils gleaming crimson from the times you vomited into a porcelain bowl, hoping if you took the pills, he'd love you again.

We settled into a small "log" lodge just on the outskirts of the ski resort, its pseudo-rustic appearance giving way to pseudo-comforting interior design. Plush green couches, a bristling fire with a overly fur-bedecked mantelpiece (making me worry that the hairs would be set ablaze, though they'd burn out very easily), and a small table with lukewarm coffee to drink.