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Hello no one, sorry I forgot about you. I had an inspiration:

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Lisette stood in a room with 4 white walls, and one black door. In front of her stood 3 girls giggling to themselves before Lisette entered. They turned to look at her. The one in the back quickly looked away, the fluorescent lights flashing against the buttons sewn over her eyelids. The girl on the left pointedly glanced at the girl on the right, showing off her buttons. The thread was black. The girl on the right judged Lisette with her buttons, sporting green thread. She still gave a judging look despite her eyes being shut. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her at the moment. Lisette held out her right hand. As she open her fist she revealed two identical buttons. The girl on the right took them with slight hesitance. Lisette held out her left hand, holding a rose. It was dead, now black. Again the girl took it. Lisette looked at them for a moment. The girl in the back looked annoyed, and stared off at a wall. Lisette turned around, and walked through the black door, leaving the three in the room.

Blank

You are walking through a hallway.
The footsteps echo on the pristine linoleum floor. The sounds seem to belong to themselves, as though they are there with you, not being made by you.
There are doors on either sides of the straight, extensive hallway.
They display numbers in black uniform type as you pass by them.
1279.
1280.
1281.
You are looking for 1316. Supposedly at the end of the hall.
The overhead fluorescent lights cast fanciful, almost imperceptible
shadows across the walls. The sound of your footsteps is the only one you can hear. Silence, except for yourself.
Finally, door 1316 approaches. You hesitate momentarily. You reach for the silver perfect spherical knob, and turn it.
The door opens without a sound, the hinges perfectly oiled.
It reveals a blank room, with nothing but asylum white covering all the walls and ceiling. a plastic looking white desk stands alone in the middle. On it, is one lonely piece of blank paper, and in its corner is one black telephone. Just beyond the desk, a white swivel chair is resting on the strangely unscuffed linoleum floor. The chair's high back is facing you.
Suddenly the chair spins around at a confident speed.
A man is sitting in it. The fluorescent lights cast an eerie sheen on his white hair. He appears to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties. His arms rest on the arms of the chair. He sits there staring at you, gargoyle-like.
Suddenly he smiles, revealing in his mouth 2 rows of perfect teeth. He speaks.
"Hello."

* * * * * *
Chills?
Boo!

Some Grow up to Die.

A 5 year old child plays with her best friend. A promise to never part.

At 9, she fights with that best friend, and refuses to speak to him ever again.

At 12, she lies in darkness with her current best friend. They make a pact; change the world; do something good.

At 15, she is rebellious and has new friends. Plans to do something with her life, when she’s done partying and living it out.

At 19, she enters college, still unsure of a life path. She dumps her thousandth boyfriend, eats a tub of ice cream to feel better.

At 22, she insists she’s madly in love. She gets a degree in psychology because her friends are, but she still doesn’t know what she wants to really do with life.

At 26, she is married to the “man of her dreams.” She works in an accounting firm, with plans to travel the world as soon as her husband finishes grad school.

At 30, she is pregnant with their first child. The baby keeps them awake all day and night, but brings smiles to everyone’s face.

At 36, her third child rots in her wrinkled and worn stomach. Two children already have kept both parents on their toes. Life revolves around their “little angels”.

At 42, she has a steady and well paying job at the accounting firm. The husband is a therapist and also makes good money. The kids throw minimal tantrums in the minivan; all consider themselves lucky.

At 45, a rebellious teenager, an angsty tween, and a curious child are raking her nerves. Her cheeks beginning to sag, her eyes growing lines, her waistline expanding, she covers herself in expensive make-up and in-style clothing to go out with her friends; the moms of her children's friends.

At 49, her stomach covers all but her toes when she looks down. Those quick fixes at the fast food restaurants did not end up well, even with all the exercise she gets in a rapidly shrinking cubicle. But her husband, hair graying, still loves her. More make-up.

At 53, her bathroom is adorned with beauty products, anything on the TV that says it can help her degressing state. The other moms are aging just as quickly as she looks around, but soon all the kids will be gone. The accounting firm keeps a steady inflow of cash, at least she can buy happiness.

At 57, she goes for monthly hair dying, not for show now, but to cover up her silver roots. Her kids are long out of the house, and her husband has starting planning a retirement trip to Europe. As she reapplies make-up, she hopes he still loves her. At least they have money.

At 62, their unacted trip to Europe long in the past, their nest egg can’t take the strain of that and college for 3 kids, one of which has drugs problems, and the other two constantly need money. She begins to grow suspicious of her partner, would he really put his arms around someone else’s waist if he can’t fit his around hers?
At 66, she finally retires late, with extra money. Always worth the extra years of work. Finally given into her new hair colour, she sports a silver top cut in the standard old-lady fashion. Her husband is still faithful (she's pretty sure.)

At 74, her husband dies. Gone forever, she is now alone in the house, except the cat. She doesn’t have much to do either. Her skin is wrinkled, dimpled and discoloured. She is the old lady who gives out good candy at Halloween.

At 77, she lies in a coffin. Her only mark on the world is the damp earth over her grave, and the soon forgotten memory of a doting mom. She has forgotten the world, and in turn, it forgot her.

* * * * * *

I'm really an optimistic person, I swear. It's just sometimes I can't imagine how adults can go through life, knowing they don't have every option in the world in front of them. So many people vow to make a difference, or be famous, so few of them actually follow through. Failure is a sobering thought.

If I should Write a Blog, Who would Listen?

is the question I asked myself not 5 minutes ago. The answer I came up with was "no one". But then I thought, really? I'll bet I could get at least a few people... I mean, isn't that what blogging is all about? Am I the only person who read others' blogs at random? Maybe not. Maybe, just maybe, I can snag a few followers.
Why not try?
As I am not one to back away from a challenge...
I made a blog.
Et voila!