The perfect home for the most discerning of buyers. Two tiny bedrooms barely big enough for a double bed with no built in storage so you’re sure to run out of room quickly. A dark and damp living area that might be enough to be a small dinning and lounge room if you’re lucky, bust most likely you’ll have to eat on the lounge with tv tables. Poky and hard to use kitchen with no real space for appliances or white goods, and a rat infestation you’re sure to struggle to remove. Offers uncomfortable living and horrible entertaining at a price you’re sure to bawlk at, this home is truly one in a million.
The Kingdom of Hearts.
That place in my soul.
Where you walk, you run, you thrive like so many others.
Mother, father, sister and you filling up inside of me like I am a balloon and you are the air that I breathe.
Sometimes I feel as if I could drink nothing else but you, like I could quit life and replace it with you and be endlessly happy.
Life doesn’t work like that.
Most days you are not there.
Life is life, it is normal, regular, and you are just you and we are seperate.
But lately, lately its like you are me and without you near I am dieing.
I am dieing to be with you.
I just want to be with you all the time.
Please, please can i be with you?
But no, I can’t.
How do I get over this?
How do I return to me and love you like normal, instead of it filling me so much I’m about to burst, so much that it hurts, it hurts, SO MUCH!
I miss you.
I love you.
Journal Entry 226 August 23rd 2012
I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to write this journal. The war is getting intense. If the fighting doesn’t end soon, all will be lost. I’m keeping it short. I want to keep as much as possible and use as few words as possible. We need the fighting to end soon.
I read over my entry from yesterday, looking for blank spots. I could see none and heaved a sigh of relief. But how much longer could we go on like this? I looked around my apartment and scanned the room, thinking how at first glance the war did not affect my home. The comfy lounge room with its cushy chairs and dusty free widescreen looking as inviting as ever, the small kitchenette clean and tidy and ready to cook up a storm, overall there really wasn’t much you could see. But all you had to do was look at the petite bookshelf and you’d notice something a little odd. Lots of books with blank titles and no authors. I shuddered to think that this is the world we are living in, look at where technology has gotten us now?
It started with the upgraded prison system, keep them all locked away using technology; bright idea till they all break loose! Every word in the English language locked into one big prison, living in relative ease, with obvious words confined to solitary such as War, Fight, Hate, but overall the system worked well. They lived our lives and we lived ours. But when they broke out, all hell broke loose. The most malicious banded in teams – War, Fight, Hate and all the rest – and started to argue about how they would take over the world. Peace, Love and Unity formed a peace party, trying to establish harmony amongst the words, but they would take none of that. Eventually the fighting escalated as the teams argued over who should rule the world until we were faced with the worst war in history; the War of Words. They chose their battlefield and began raging war, sending countless troops out to fight, weaker words being used as cannon fodder. It has been theorised for many centuries what would happen if a word was killed, how it would affect our culture, but no-one ever knew.
After the first day of fighting, people searched for signs of changed but could find none. We knew words had died but without knowing which ones, how could we know what had happened? After a few days of fighting, and a few 100 causalities, it became known the effects and spread on news throughout the world. When a word dies, all knowledge of that word dies, all history of that word dies; it is gone forever. Any written version of the word disappears, any memory of the word disappears, and we are unable to speak, write or even think of the word. Of course the reports were hard to believe at first; you’re telling us a word is dead but you can’t tell us which word and even if you could we wouldn’t remember it or be able to find it written anywhere? Like that doesn’t sound like the biggest bullshit-cover-up ever! But slowly and surely we began to notice words missing. Our books had blank tittles, blank spots all over the pages, when yesterday they were full. And in films, actors would suddenly stop mid-sentence, gaps appearing throughout all films and TV. Some of us start to panic at the realisation of the danger we were facing; we could loose language, loose the ability to speak, write, create! Others were less concerned. Most the words lost in the early war were superfluous, they said. Synonyms for words often used, synonyms for words protected by the big powers in the war, I mean who cares right? But how could we know that? With no knowledge of which words had died, we were literally in the dark, unable to realise our loss even when it is too late! But what could the authorities do? Send in our own troops and risk more word causalities, send in aids to help the wounded? None of these methods were agreeable, and with Peace, Love, Unity and their team in hiding negotiation to settle the war seemed only a dream.
“Take a powerful memory from your early experience (traumatic or otherwise). Describe not the event, the narrative context, or the emotion experienced, but what you can recall with your senses - what you saw, heard, smelled, touched, tasted. This could be achieved by building up a ‘word bank’: a list of words which you associate with the memory. Try to evoke the emotion in the reader by this poetic rendition of the moment.”
Heavy weight on chest.
Bed soft beneath.
The taste unmistakable
like sweaty skin, grimy, not cleaned.
Not like your arm tastes,
not like your lips,
the unmistakable taste of your most private extremity.
Or maybe it’s the smell that is unmistakable.
The smell of arousal,
of pubic hair,
of what lies beneath,
like sweaty ass crack.
The smell, the taste, they mix into one.
Dogs bark in the background.
Shut up you mangy shits
the neighbours voice rings out.
His skin feels taught under nails
sharp nails, it grates against them as they drag.
The burning effort of pushing,
muscles feeling futile,
his muscles resist against force.
Arms feel tired.
All that looms above flesh, mangy hair close eyes!
His voice above “Take it you slut!”
Deep. Loud. Aggressive.
Feel it hitting the throat, sliding down.
Convulsions, gag reflexes, bringing up lunch.
Or lack there of.
The taste of stomach acid
of sweaty skin grimy not cleaned
the pubic smell
sweaty ass crack
Tastes mix together, mix with the smell.
Nostrils flaring as air rushes in and out in rapid waves.
Eyes closed eyes sting,
cheeks feel wet.
Then it shoots out and hits the throat
convulsions gag reflexes keep it down!
Nostrils flaring as air rushes in and out in rapid waves.
Chest burning, feels like it will explode.
Heart hammering in ears
can you hear it or can you feel it I don’t know.
The pain tight tension
make it happen
make the swallow.
Eyes sting more.
Cheeks even wetter.
Slower, slower now.
Feel heart less, feel smoother air flow.
Chest still feels heavy.
Chest being rocked.
But muscles relax.
Feel of dead weight sinking into the bed.
Mouth left dry, taste milky, sickly, acidic.
Muscles ache and strain to close mouth.
Fresh air pilling in smelling sweet and clean.
Chest freely moving.
Fresh air pilling in feeling sweet and clean.
Bed shifts beneath.
Eyes still shut.
Cheeks still wet.
Body still feel of dead weight.
Did you enjoy that baby?
“Choose a photograph or painting and use this as the starting point for a poem: you can either try to describe the image, or use it as the departure for an imagined narrative, or trace the associations the image triggers in you.”
Smiley Ball, smile no more.
It hurts when you smile,
Please Smiley Ball, smile no more.
“Choose a well known fairy tale and use this as the basis for a narrative poem, perhaps commwnting on/subverting the fairy tale, or employing it to make a comment about contemporary culture.”
Tale as old as time,
song as old as rhyme,
beauty and the beast.
A beautiful woman,
trapped in a dead-end job,
finds a beast, wild and untamed.
She brings it home,
caring for it despite its hideous nature,
too sweet to let a stray dog die.
It rips apart her home,
it shits on everything,
there is no appreciation of her efforts.
Barely even friends,
then somebody bends,
She starts to love it and treat it like a pet,
it starts to behave and treat her like a friend,
suddenly they are pet and owner.
Time goes past and their best friends,
but she’s lonely without a man to call her own,
her beast her closest companion.
It doesn’t take long before her needs become too great,
she cant take it anymore,
she needs company.
It starts off by accident,
he nudges her groin,
she can’t deny it feels good.
Suddenly she’s doing it whatever it takes to feel it again.
Peanut butter on exposed flesh,
He just can’t resist.
Then she finds it can be more than that,
he’s in heat, so is she,
and it’s just so easy to slip it in.
It’s not weird because he wants it to,
she sees the man inside,
more capable of love than you could ever imagine.
She doesn’t hide it because it’s wrong,
she hides it cause they wont understand,
who could understand their love?
Tale as old as time,
song as old as rhyme,
beauty and the beast.
“Write a ‘found’ poem by taking lines from a variety of sources (newspapers, instruction manuals, advertising copy, etc) and compiling them in some sort of rythmic order. Try to imagine what symbolism or linguistic statement could arise from your arrangment before redrafting. Try incorporating (perhaps in paratactic fashion), you own lyric descriptions, metaphors or statements about poetry. Try to play with devices such as enjambment, the slash, stanzaic form, etc.”
She first heard about Romance through director John Galliano.
“I loved it I absolutely love it” Ken Downing, fashion director of Neima Marcus, gushed.
A few days later.
“I love to see myself in a new Light”.
Colin’s bubbly personality is as bright as the jewels and clutch bags she designs.
If you have had sexual intercourse during that time, there is a possibility.
And you may need emergency contraception, perfect to treat yourself or share with family and friends!
System recommendation – use the Swartzkopf 3-Step System.
The repair formula with active Coenzyme Q10 stimulates. You will be protected against pregnancy.
NOT TO PRIME IS A CRIME.
She might be a grown woman but Collins imagination is still just as.
This lavish mood has also infiltrated the world of beauty where it suddenly seems we no longer need to apologise for embarrassing luxury.
Cough up blood, available in a range of mouth watering flavours to suit any occasion!
How to use:
Take the tablet you missed AND complete the pack as normal.
If you miss your period twice in a row, you may be pregnant and should seek advice from your doctor.
“This exercise encourages you to consider the perennial and omnipresent distinction between showing and telling. Write a micro-fiction in which you tell someone’s life story from birth to death in 250 words. Then take one event from that character’s life and construct a 250 word scene in which you show the action of the event. To what extent can this scene be emblematic of that person’s life?”
Crystal’s life started and ended at 14 when she first started using drugs. Everything before that was inconsequential and everything afterwards a downward spiral. She got pregnant with Dean at the age of 16, when she hooked up with a couple of guys at a party, and couldn’t remember which ones had used protection, or for that matter if any had. So she raised the child alone. At 18 her mother died of a drug overdose and Crystal found alternative means of income, to support both the child and her drug addiction. It wasn’t until he was four years old that she first hit him, lashing out because he was crying and upset that she had sold his toys for drug money. But after that their relationship only deteriorated as she continued to do whatever it took to get the drugs she needed. When dean was 16 he moved out and didn’t see her again for another 12 years. In that time she had done not much else except sell more belongings and more of herself to feed her addiction. When they did meet he gave her money to go into rehab, get help and fix herself up. Three years later he returned to find she’d used all the money for drugs, and was living in a rat infested hell hole. He screamed at her and hit her and she knew she’d never see him again. After the fight she was reduced to nothing and ended up living on the streets, dying of an overdose two years later.
Action Scene (Showing)
Dean slid through the hall, his gag reflex almost failing him. A rat ran over his foot as lights flickered above. When he faced her door his hands were shaking and his breathe came out raggedly. His knuckles wrapped against the door. He stood tapping his feet for a few seconds before he turned away. Behind him he heard the click of the door opening.
“Dean?” she croaked out. He turned back his eyes running over her figure; taut face, dark circles under her eyes, her flesh non-existent. He swallowed hard, unable to stop his eyes widening considerably.
She averted her eyes, shuffling back into the apartment and dragging the door shut behind her. He reefed his hand out and stopped the door. Inside his eyes scanned the studio apartment; mattress on the floor, clothes scattered around it, and the kitchenette overflowing with dirty dishes and cockroaches. He clenched his fist and gritted his teeth before turning to her.
“Where is it?” he demanded. Her eyes flew up; she took a step back and stared at him, shaking her head slightly.
“The money, where is the money? Where has it all gone? What happened to rehab? What happened to a better apartment? What happened to getting better? Three years and 50 grand, where the hell is the fucking money Mum?” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth as he waved his hands around.
She swallowed hard. “Gone.” She breathed out in a barely audible whisper.
He threw his fist into her face then turned on his heels and slammed the door behind him, never to return.
“Write a piece which deliberately breaches narrative conventions, such as: a first person narrator who knows more than they could possibly know (ie omniscient access to the thoughts of other characters, or the the future); a third person narrator who enters the fictional world to become a character; switiching narrative voice and focalisation within the same paragraph, etc.”
In a world not too unlike our own, the only real difference being some advancements in technology, there was a woman who’s life was fraught with the same problem’s as any modern woman’s is; monthly hormonal imbalances requiring expensive ice-cream and many boxes of tissues, relationships with men who didn’t respect her enough, men who expected to much and gave too little, and men who were just simply dicks.
Living directly across the hall from her in the second story of her apartment complex was a man, smart sophisticated, and dealing with pretty much the same problems of the modern man; not enough sex, not enough alcohol, and too many crazy, psycho girls who wanted love or commitment or your toe nail clippings to add to their shrine.
The two of them were completely oblivious to each other despite all the opportunities to get to know each other. They saw each other in passing quite frequently – a small smile from her, an acknowledging raised hand from him – and of course living across from each other they had ample opportunity to have a real greeting, to really say hello, to even learn each others names, but alas they never really did.
Instead they went about their business, unaware that their perfect match was really just a few metres away. Sarah went about her business as an interior designer, ordering material, showing clients samples, outlining homely yet efficient designs for hotels and working madly whilst still finding time to daydream about the perfect man, the perfect marriage and the 3 dream kids; Oliver, Raymond and Angelica who were perfect angels of course.
Greg went about his day, the long travel to the boring desk job, sitting in the office pointedly ignoring his paperwork as it piled up, in favour of play Texas Holden online, as he imagined some kind of action adventure job where he’d wrestle bears or survive like Bear Grills in some wild location or maybe even rescue a lot of people from some ungodly death and be forever known as a hero. Both of them too busy daydreaming to seeing anything in front of there eyes.
That is until I came along. I didn’t really know either of them, I didn’t really have to. I already knew that he was the man she dreamed of, and she would lead him to the action adventured he waited all his life for. Maybe not exactly what he dreamed of, but certainly an action adventure all the same. All it took was one little push – quite literally. Both walking towards their apartments, both coming home from work tired and lonely, and I just push her to the ground and like a clumsy woman tumbling all over herself, they tumbled in love. And he had his chance to be the protective man as he stood up against me, the rude stranger.
“Hey mate, watch where your going! You could have really hurt her!” he yelled at me. He then turned to her, his voice softening considerably, almost a whisper, and his tone full of concern, asking if she was ok, if she was hurt. She nodded and smiled up at him, their eyes locking, their hands accidently brushing.
And then when he looked up again and saw I was walking away he stood up, his rage instantly swelling again. “Hey, don’t just walk off! What’s your problem? Fucking Dick!” he yelled after me as I turned and left the hallway. So he turned back to her and helped her up and that began their long and happy relationship. Of course it was never easy for them; there were fights with screaming and crying and hysterics, but who ever said it would be easy? I certainly didn’t.
“Write a piece in which a first person narrator offers a viewpoint at odds with contemporary social or moral standards (racial prejudice, sexual harrassment, stalking or spying, disliking one’s own child, etc). Link this viewpoint to a scebe in which the narrator recounts his or her actions or relays an observation of events. you may wish to invest the writing with irony so that the narrator condems him or herself in the process of narrating (by ignorance or attempts at self-justification). Or you may wish to make readers uncomfortable by engaging our sympathy for this narrator.”
I slapped her across the face and she whimpered into the gag.
“Filthy whore!” I shouted, because that’s what she was, and she needed to know it. Strutting around in a skirt that barely covered her ass, her cheeks just poking out making it obvious she was either wearing a g-string or nothing at all, and that halter top with her breast barely contained, she was presenting herself like a whore when I found her, and so I treated her like one.
I looked down at her, tears rolling down her cheek, her eyes puffy and pleading, and I was filled with disgust. Pleading for her life and she still didn’t understand, still couldn’t get it through her thick skull; there was no way I was going to let her go if she didn’t learn her place.
Like many woman she was under the impression feminism had been a good thing, a positive movement. But feminism just destroyed the natural order of the world. A woman’s place is at the foot of a man, his toy, his maid, his to own and to order. And he should be worshipped for everything he does for her; for being her provider, protector. And if she behaves there’s no need for violence. But they never behave.
Amber had been with me a week and it was obvious there was no more I could do for her. The way she looked at me said it all: confusion, anger, disbelief – clearly she did not understand me or my work. After everything I had done for her she still didn’t understand. Sadly it was time to say goodbye. I stood behind her grasping her head in my hands, and twisted her neck, knowing there was no hope for her.
At that exact moment their came a knock on the basement door.
“Darling, dinner is ready”, Jamie’s voice rang out. Jamie never came in the basement while I was working with a girl, not out of fear of course but because it was a shared agreement between us that I was left alone to continue my work. There was respect between us, I am sure of it.
Yet still it puzzles me how things played out. That night was like no other night, that week like no other week, and Melissa, the next girl I took, was just like any of the other girls. I had found her one night, fairly moderately dressed, but still somehow showing herself to be promiscuous. I had taken her just like the others, drugged and the tied up in my basement ready to learn her lessons. I will admit perhaps I was a little harder on her than I had been before, but she was stubborn she tried to fight against me, it was clear she really needed my help. I tried to teach her the roles she should play, the respect she should give, but still she fought on. When she bled and stained my floors, I made her clean it up. When she hungered I made her cook for herself. And she practiced daily how to properly please a man. But still it seemed she would not learn.
I complained to Jamie, that this one was tough and was taking a lot from me. The response was not negative, no I’m sure it wasn’t, it just wasn’t necessarily positive.
But still I wonder; it still puzzles me how things played out.
On the fifth night with Melissa I grew wary. Her spirit had not yet broken, and I myself was tiring of the physical labour of it. It really wasn’t fair that I was the only one given this task; there should have been more out their educating women. But still I staggered on.
And I remember, it was whilst I was using the electrodes, when I was concentrating hard on the task at hand, when the basement door opened. And it was odd because Jamie knew never to interrupt me. And I heard Jamie’s voice “She’s in here” and looked up wondering what on earth Jamie was on about, when I caught sight of them all, there must have been at least 10, cops piling in on me. My heart stopped and my eyes looked on Jamie with disbelief, and I remember almost being detached from my body as I was dragged away, my eyes still on Jamie, not understand how this could happen. I stared at those eyes and there was love and respect in them, as always, but I saw hurt, I saw devastation, as if Jamie had never wanted this to happen.
I still believe the police had somehow taken hold of Jamie, some kind of demonic possession. My Jamie loved me; my Jamie would never do this.
And at the police station they left me alone in the room. I know they did it on purpose to hurt me; all alone with that mirror, and they knew I hated mirrors they must have known. It was some kind of torture.
I started at the mirror, the glass that took up one wall. And I stared at the woman in it. I spat at her. She disgusted me. “On your knees!” I yelled, “Respect you filthy whore! Know your place!” And her arms rose up in anger. I looked along them at the scars, the signs of abuse and smiled to her. “See you do know your place, you receive the punishment deserving. Now on your knees!” and with a demure look downwards, she bent on down on her knees. I bent down on my knees.
And now here I sit, in the hole they keep me in, this home for the mentally unstable, as if something is wrong with me. But I know this is not the case. Jamie comes and visits me, and he says he did it for me, to help me, but I still do not believe he really did it. I still think it was someone else, coercing him or something. He says he will wait for me to get better, and be there for me. But I ask him “Better? What on earth do you mean?” and he looks at me with a sad face. I press him further though “Jamie, Jamie have you continued my work for me? Have you taught others? Jamie please, don’t let it stop. They must know their place, like me. I know my place. Don’t you see Jamie, I’m in my place, I’m yours for whatever you need.” But he turns away from me. “Jamie where are you going? Come back Jamie! Come back!”
This particular story i have reworked a few times since this first draft and intend to extend on with various ideas of how to do so.
“Produce a ‘discontinuous narrative’ by writing a paragraph or two of free association under each of the following headings, but without trying to link the sections: Please leave a message, this is a rare sign of emotion from a prime minister accused of being wooden, blue moon, washing day, shoes.”
Please Leave A Message
Beep. “Hi, its Marie again, I’m starting to worry that you haven’t answered any of my calls, look ok you’re avoiding me I get it, whatever, but at least give me a sign of life, or at least have the balls to actually dump me and not just blow me off … just call me back ok?” she sighed as she hung up the phone. All her friends told her she was too full on, too needy, but Marie didn’t care. A fight because she’d made out with some chick in the city was a ridiculous fight to begin with, but seriously ignoring her like this? It was childish.
In any case, she was honestly beginning to worry. It had been a week since she heard from Dean, and although she’d accused him of trying to dump her by simply not talk to her, she knew well enough that he wouldn’t let anyone rob him of the satisfaction of blowing up at her, blaming her and eventually coming off somehow “stronger”. And his profession – his night time profession not the accounting crap he called a “job” – wasn’t exactly the safest profession in the world. Some girl chokes it, and suddenly his drugs are at fault; she could definitely see an angry dad coming and blasting him for it. Or he could have taken one too many himself, after all, for a smart guy he could be really dumb sometimes.
Anyway she wasn’t desperate or needy. She just had some compassion, and what the hell is wrong with that? Maybe she’d try his neighbour again… surely Mrs Crawford would know if he was lying in a pool of blood in his own apartment. She picked up the phone again and began dialling.
This is a rare sign of emotion from a prime minster accused of being wooden
“This is good sir, this is very good!” Jeffery exclaimed to me. I nodded meekly and waved him out. It was all over the news of course; how I had ventured into the dangerous, dark suburbs, how I’d fought my way through the line of protesters and rescued the poor woman who was just trying to execute her right to choice, her right to do what was best for her and her baby, and how’d I’d shown such compassion and finally, finally showed my stand point on the issue.
It was all bullshit of course. I’d gone to the dark, dangerous suburbs hoping I wouldn’t be seen, I’d gone to make sure the abortion has been done, and that my scandal wouldn’t be spread all over the news, and by sheer chance that stupid woman fell on me. Almost crinkled my suit too!
Really I was lucky that she had fallen on me and created the cover; I was lucky the press took it they way they did and didn’t question why I was there in the first place. But the situation is getting out of hand and the chances of my dirty laundry coming out are just getting too high. As unfortunate as it is, the woman has to be taken out of the picture. I will not have some fling ruin my career. And she can’t be trusted. No woman can be trusted.
Margaret wasn’t your average, everyday gardener. She had devoted her whole life, whole career, to the production and maintenance of flowers, trees, bushes; you name it she’d dealt with it. It had taken her almost 15 years to get her nursery solidified as a business, but it had been well worth the work.
She could have retired last year, passed the nursery on and spent her days doing whatever she wanted but the truth of the matter was the only thing she really wanted to do was gardening, and there was only so much she could do in her own garden. So she spent her days in the nursery she’d raised like a child, tending to everything of course, but mostly she spent her time with the roses; she loved roses. Some of her favourites were Golden Celebration, Double Delight and Royal Amethyst but her absolute, number one favourite was Blue Moon. She always had plenty in stock at the nursery, and had planted quite a few in her own garden. And as she worked on them she’d sing “Blue moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own”.
Sarah watched as Bailey picked up a building block in one had, a dinosaur in the other, and began banging them together yelling “Roar, roar, roar”. She smiled to herself thinking that, even though he was such a terror sometimes, there was nothing quite like watching him play on the lounge room floor. With great strain she lifted herself off the couch, grunting as she lifted the extra weight of Bailey’s soon to be sister, Chelsea or Miranda or Amelia. They hadn’t decided yet.
“Bailey, do you want to help mummy with the clothes?” she asked him in the usual baby tone she unconsciously used. He looked up at her excitedly and began vigorously nodding his head; Bailey loved helping mummy do anything, everything.
With Bailey trailing along behind her, Sarah stepped out into the cramped backyard and with great difficulty made her way into the tiny laundry that was separated from the rest of the unit. After heaving the washing out of the machine she walked out to the small, wire clothes line. She was lucky this load was mostly full of blue shirts that said “ I Love Daddy” or “Daddy’s Little Boy”, instead of extra-large black shirts that said “A Hard Man Is Good To Find”. The thought made her chuckle; her hubby was a little rough around the edges, but always good for a laugh.
Marina watched the gold-digging moron try on her 6th pair of shoes.
“These are sooooo hot on me. Any man would die to see me in the heels. Just these heels of course, nothing else” she said, winking at Marina. It took all Marina’s will power not to vomit, but instead to laugh and say in a fake, high pitched tone “You’re so right!”.
Sometimes thinking about the amazing commission money she got when women like this walked in still wasn’t enough to take her mind of just how much she hated serving people like her. It wasn’t that Marina was a bitch; she just hated this world of people who had more money the sense. Would it kill them to give to a charity once in a while? Help some homeless people off the street? But she knew that wasn’t their style, wouldn’t match with their Gucci bags or whatever they had.
Well it was Marina’s style; it was why she worked so hard. Not to buy herself a new TV or hot clothes, but so that she could help those around her, and save up for her future. In a round-a-bout way these customers were giving to charity; by giving to the store, which gave to her, and then she gave to charity. In the grand scheme of things it worked out ok.
“Oh yes, I’ll definitely get these ones! Now what about boots? Have you got any hot, high-heeled boots? They go great with some lingerie and a trench coat.”