Being Sick Sucks.

In about four days, the boyfriend and I will be making our way on an airplane to Jamaica for a week. It will be his first time to an all-inclusive resort. I'm so excited to spend seven days on a beach with him and a couple of friends. It's definitely a good way to end four years of university.

Before then, though, I do promise to get back on the writing track. I've been battling the flu for a few days and have decided to stay in bed for the majority of that time. Tomorrow, though, I will get out of the house and do some much needed vacation shopping.

I will also get some much needed creative entries in for sure before I depart. I will make it my goal because I feel as if I have become disconnected, for some time, from what has made me the happiest. Taking creative writing classes has made writing become a chore rather than something I depended on for sanity. I guess school makes that happen, especially when you are an English major. Reading, another favourite past-time quickly became one as well.

Just as a quick note/side questions: I work at a book store and I have noticed that a lot of people are coming in for a juicy beach read to take with them on vacation. Many of the women I have talked to have asked for recommendations of the smutty nature. You know, things to read after 50 Shades of Gray and whatnot. This made me think of what I would bring on my week long beach stay. I, the polar opposite of my customers, decided on Chuck Palahnick's Fight Club. Short, intense and yet a read that makes your seamlessly flow from the first to the last page. So, to my question, What is your idea of a perfect beach read, genre or book alike?

Let me know!

Oneword: Flour.

She was concentrating hard on the credit card. Smooth, blue and expired in three months. Did he ever really use it the normal way? Online vinyl purchases, resort trips, coffee when he realizes that he's left all his change in the car?

He takes the bag out of his breast pocket. She had never seen anyone use that before. Usually it was a place for pens, pennies, maybe a mint. She doubts he would ever use it to carry those anyways. He shakes it in front of her face, showing off.

The white floury substance spills out on the glass table like grated chalk particles. Smells like nothing, and would probably leave a dry, pasty taste on your tongue. The group comes alive as if the flour substance is the only lifeline of the night.

Visa takes care of the lines. Five in total, one for her.

"Go," is all he says, handing her a rolled dollar bill.

She bows her head. The table smells like a wet bar rag soaked in stale beer. Rejecting the urge to gag, she plugs her right nostril, sticks the bill up the left and inhales.

Palms clamy, heart breaking through her chest, intense exhilaration.

She looks at him, pleading, "More."

Goodbye York.

This is it. Don't be scared now.