He Collects Girls like he Collects Action Figures

He collects girls like he collects action figures.

A Story by Chloe Dow


“He collects girls like he collects action figures” You say in between laughs. All your friends who said you weren’t funny laughed at your joke; it feels good, doesn’t it? You feel as though the sun shines out of your ass and you’re walking on sunshine.

Until the guilt reaches its grubby hands out of the dark and wraps it’s gross and decaying hands around your neck and squeezes like a python does to its prey.

You’re 12, and you’re lying on the bed room floor of The boy who collects girls like he collects action figures, you’re talking, you know about ‘guy things’; cars and comic books. Just like usual and then The Boy who collects girls like he collects action figures changes the topic to something you’re not so comfortable about nor have much interest in…


You know, girls with blonde hair, brown hair. Girls with b***s; large and small. Girls with tan skin, girls with pale skin. Every weird and strange detail about them. Then he shows you something you thought you could go your whole innocence not knowing about. His dad’s magazines.

He shows you every dog eared page of the magazine each decorated with pictures of women partially and also entirely lacking clothing. Each next to a car or a motor bike.

He then leaves to take a shower. You nose around his room, curious, it’s ok, anyways everybody does it, don’t they? You open the wardrobe door and inside are shelves upon shelves of action figures.

‘Whoa’ you gasp in amazement. Never in your young life had you seen so many action figures! There was Batman ones! Spiderman ones and even Aqua man! Your eyes light up as though you had seen the Holy Grail, even drool escapes your mouth. You hear The boy who collects girls like he collects Action Figures returning from his shower, you close the wardrobe door immediately and hide in your sleeping bag. The boy opens the door to find you, his best friend  pretending to be asleep, so you won’t have to hear his stories about him and his girlfriends.

You’re 14, and you’ve had a few girlfriends yourself, just not as many as The Boy – and it destroys your mind, thinking about how is it possible that some one as strange and nerdy as him can get more girls than you can. You hate it that the amount of girls he has, well, bothers you. It makes you feel shallow, like all the other boys The Boy is friends with.

You and he still hang out, just not as much as you did when you started school together. You still talk when you sit together in class, but its more just small talk to exterminate the awkward silence you radiate from your awkwardness and the boredom. Not friends, just acquaintances.

You’re 12 years old and you’re lying on the bedroom floor of The Boy who collects girls like he collects action figures. It’s as dark as the devils’ soul, except for the glow in the dark stickers of cars on the roof. You think that it looks cheesy but tell The Boy  that you think it’s cooler than stupid glow in the dark stars. You lied, you love the glow in the dark star stickers. His sheets rustle noisily as The Boy tosses and turns as though he’s having an epileptic fit, trying to get comfortable.

Upon finishing thrashing around his bed like a fish out of water in an attempt to find comfort and finding that comfort, he sleepily asks you who you have a crush on. You panic, you don’t have a crush on any one. But you cant say that to him, he’ll laugh at you if you don’t. You step it up a notch. You put on the most confident sounding voice your 12 year old self owns and say; “I don’t have a crush” You pause. “I have a girlfriend” You desperately hope that The Boy believes you.

He sits up in his bed, although you can’t see him you could hear his crisp and clean sheets rustle as he moves to sit up. He turns the lamp on that has a base of a car with a girl in a bikini on top of the bonnet and a red cylinder lampshade surrounding the light bulb, which cast a reddy glow over the room.

“You do not!” Cries The Boy in disbelief.

“I do too!” You shout, sounding rather offended.

“Go on then” He says. “Tell us her name then” he challenges you.

You freeze; you didn’t think to think up a name for her! You can’t think of a good name and you racked your brain harder than your father shakes his protein shake shaker. Then suddenly you started to make words with your mouth, completely working against your brains orders.

“Actually, she didn’t tell me” you said. The boy opened his mouth to speak until you said with your voice dripping in confidence in what you were saying; “I met her at a masquerade themed birthday party and after we kissed she left. I didn’t catch her name and I’ve been looking for her since”

The Boy who collects girls like he collects action figures jaw dropped in disbelief. He believes your far fetched story and shows you the shelves upon shelves of action figures of his that you had

already seen and you are amazed for the second time. Its like the second time was better than the first! ‘Maybe’ you think to yourself, ‘its because i don’t feel so guilty this time round’ The voice in your head shuts up and you continue to look at the action figure collection as though you had seen a fan fiction from Sherlock you had read become a reality with your very own Fan Boy eyes.

The boy’s mother poked her head through his bedroom door. “Beddy byes, boys” she coos. He rolls his eyes at you. “Yes mmuum” he says.

He closes the wardrobe doors and you walk back to your sleeping bag on the floor.

“Awh mate!” says the Boy. “You’re not actually gonna sleep on the floor, are ya?”

“Uhh” You pause. “Yeah?” You say, rather unsure of where the conversation was going.

“You’ll screw up ya back, mate!” he says. “Well where else am I meant to sleep?” You ask.

“In my bed, idiot!”

“Where… where would you sleep…?” you stutter.

“In my bed as well!” he says, as though it was obvious where he was going with that conversation.

“Oh, ok” You say.

You grab your pillow and bring it to the foot of The Boys’ bed. “What are you doing?” he laughs. “Preparing my end of your bed” You say as though it was obvious.

“Mate, don’t be homophobic! Next to me! So we can talk in whispers”

“Oh, ok” You say.

You’re rather confused by what just happened. Homophobic? Why would that make you homophobic? You shake it off and you continue to talk about girls. Ugh, you cant stand them! You hate them as much as a cat hates a dog, or even as much as teenage girls hate teenage girls! You just cant stand them! With their stupid constant dramas or worries of messing up their hair…

The Boy comes closer to you. His leg accidently touches your leg and you for some reason can’t help but blush.


Bad Sentences in Classic Literature: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

Dysfunctional Literacy

Pride and Prejudice 2

It’s difficult to make the case that Jane Austen wrote bad sentences in her novels, especially in Pride and Prejudice.  Jane Austen was known for many qualities: her wit, her sarcasm, movie adaptations that put guys like me to sleep (but that’s not her fault).  One thing that Jane Austen is NOT known for is writing bad sentences.

Since writing is so subjective, it’s tough to define what makes a bad sentence.  The lazy approach would be to treat a bad sentence like pornography; you can’t define it, but you know it when you see it.  Unlike a certain former United States Supreme Court judge whose name I can’t remember, I can define pornography (if certain body parts are involved and mix in with other body parts, it’s pornography).

The same applies to bad writing (having the standard, not the body parts).  Once you have a set standard, it’s…

View original post 898 more words


Rejection letter after rejection letter

“Hi there, I am a poor university student looking for a -”

“To whom it my concern, I’m a full time university student looking for a –”
“Your background is impressive, but no”

“Hi there, I was just –”
“But I -”

Looking and searching for employment, like an animal for food or a person looking for water in the desert.
Job opportunities are like a mirage in the oppressive heat of the desert. They appear when you’re most desperate. You widen your tired eyes, rub them once or twice, just to see if what you’re seeing is real and then you run, and you run with hope in your thoughts and resume in hand to apply and you get there, and it keeps getting further and further away until it fades into nothing but disappointment.

And its like you never learnt or just forgot, because you keep going and going and trying and trying, even if you know its going to turn into nothing – because it felt so real, you could almost hear “You’re hired” escape from your potential employers lips, but yet, to no avail you get the same generic email over and over again, week by week, month by month and soon enough, year by year.


It stares you in the face; those who are cosily employed laugh in your face or whinge and whine about how horrible their life is. It stares you down, until you feel no longer valuable.

Friends and family treat you like a charity case – you have little to no choice to let your partner buy dinner, you have little to no choice to let your parents pay your bills.

You have little to no choice.
You are little and are nothing – just a statistic.
We’re all just statistics – an expense; a number