Superman on Crack

I have a lot of things to do. Sort of. I have finals tomorrow. Wait, singular that, just religion. I should be doing something. Like studying or something. But I am not. I have this daydream, about one of my books, and it keeps coming into my head. It is about Lorelei, from Anger, being in hell, like she is later in the story. She comes out of her room and is suddenly in a smaller room with this one woman who is smoking a cigarette in a plain black dress that buttons up the front. Lorelei doesn’t really know what is going on. There is the pane of glass that separates this room from this beautiful place, with a waterfall. So she takes a seat and looks down to see that she is wearing a wedding dress. But not just any old wedding dress, the dress that her mother picked out for her to wear on the wedding day she never made it to. And then the woman asks her why she is wearing it. Lorelei says, “I don’t know.”
“Well,” says the woman in black, “you must be wearing it for some reason. This is hell.”
“It was the dress I was supposed to wear on my wedding day.”
The woman laughs. “David really is losing some of his creativity, really, just a sense of loss?”
“What do you mean, who is David?”
The woman in black smiles again. “The devil darling.” She looks down at what she is wearing. “This dress used to be my mother’s. She hated me, but I loved her.” The woman laughs. “Every time I look in the mirror I am reminded of her, and how much of I disappointment I was to her.” The woman in black smiles to herself again, and lifts up the side of the skirt up to her thigh. She puts out the cigarette on it, and it leaves a burning hole, among many others.
So yeah, I don’t know why I liked this idea so much, but I needed more to happen while Lorelei was in hell, so I was just testing this one. It doesn’t sound as good when I write it out so quickly, I will add it to the story soon, and then maybe it will sound better.
So anonymous friend JS is cracking. She called me up and was screaming about something or another. I just laughed at her and hung up, ‘cause I am just like that. And she called me back later to tell me she was over it, like I cared. She is fine now, not that I was particularly worrying. I always tell her to call the suicide hotline if she is ever unhappy, instead of me. But she always says that we are friends and she feel like she can talk to me and I will care or something. I think she should call people who get paid to listen; at least they will care a little bit more than I do. Do the people at the suicide hotline get paid? I hope so. I wouldn’t want to listen to people complain for nothing. Although, I’ve heard some people like helping others just because it makes them feel like superman on crack. I would just prefer a red cape and a shifty looking part of town.