Rape That Smile Right Off of Your Face

When she first saw him, he was half-naked hanging sideways on a shopping bag. He was heading East, swinging back-and-forth in the pudgy hand of the Last of This Century's Soccer Moms. Brenda wanted him to stay, but knew any effort put forth by her at this point would be deemed too futile. All she could do was watch as his well defined pecs blurred to gray and then disappeared behind a stand of fake plants.
She knew it wouldn't last forever. Nothing ever did. Not when you are twenty-eight and working the closing shift at a poor excuse for a sandwich stand tucked cleverly between the restrooms and the soda machines.
However, she thought, every ending has its promise of a new begining.
She kept telling herself that.
Brenda adjusted her hairnet and wondered if it would keep her brains from falling out if she fired a gun in her mouth.
It's going to be a long night.

POST SCRIPT:
I am trying desperately to finish my screenplay. I have to present it this Thursday at the LOFT, and I'm afraid that what I will have won't be a second draft, but Draft 1.5. I don't care. Right now, all my concern is headed towards finding some decent music to type to. I'm going to make a run to CHEAPO and buy Beck's GUERRO, because if I don't, then I'll wear out my Fiona Apple CD. I may be up until three a.m tonight, thanks to a horrific waste of writing time last weekend.

There isn't enough time, but I'm happy with the time I have, spending it with my shitty Screenplay. I'd rather be writing a shitty screenplay than not writing anything at all. Please pray that the Gods of horrible writting look favorably on me tonight.

In the words of Robert Frost...
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Good night y'all. noah.