Alan G's Online portfolio

     “Procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate.  Whatever I can do besides this essay”.  These are the thoughts racing through Eddie Klum’s mind as he sits at his desk listening to Creep by Stone Temple Pilots.  Ed has been listening to this song a lot lately most likely because the simple chorus represents his life.  “I’m half the man I used to be”.

     Around six and a half months ago Ed had a wonderful life.  He was a determined young man with a beautiful girlfriend, a nice middleclass home, and a 4.0 g.p.a. at the college he was attending.  Ed’s soul intention was to graduate with a master’s degree in creative writing.  He has always been an excellent writer and was many steps above all the other students in his previous writing classes.  It came natural and his stories were always good and very easy for him to write.

      One day Ed sat down at his desk and he couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t write.  Not for the life of him.  This lasted for a couple of days and eventually led up to his grades dropping.  After working so hard his whole life only to get to this point was devastating.  Soon after Eddie fell into a depression.  Followed by a Massive relapse.  BAM! Just like that.  Gone.  Everything.  That’s what happens when your best friend is a needle that will soon collapse your life as it has your veins.

      See, Mr. Klum is a world class drug addict who’s only goal in life is to never admit he’s addicted.  He spends countless hours alone at his 330$ a month apartment hearing voices, licking TVs, and hiding in his closet.  If only he could write again all his pain would vanish and his life would be back on track.

      For now Eddies Klum’s life is a dark room with a whole mess of needles in the way to the light switch.  And he realizes it.  Last week he purchased a nine millimeter handgun along with the usual eightball from his dealer.  Eddie’s a valued customer.

      He sits at his desk.  Pencil in his right hand.  Locked and loaded pistol in left.  Organized white lines laid out next to his messy papers.  He looks at the mirror above his bed stand.  He stares at himself.  Dusty white nostrils, bloodshot eyes, gun in hand.  Painfully he presses his pencil against his paper.  He begins to write.

     “Procrastinate, procrastinate, procrastinate.  Whatever I can do besides this essay”.  These are the thoughts racing through my mind as I sit at my desk listening to…