See, I wanted to start a men’s magazine. Something along the lines of maxum, playboy, sports illustrated, but you know, with my own spin to it. There would be articles, I’m not just looking to have a porn mag. NO vagina shots or putting fingers in your cooter or licking someone else’s box. I wanted a complete variety of women. Short, tall, plain, modified, thin, voluptuous, top heavy, bottom heavy. And I wanted NO editing done, unless of course if there’s a pimple or a funny shadow that makes the picture look weird. I just didn’t want people getting photo-shopped thinner, buffer, I don’t want people looking fake. Also, I would not have fake boobs in it.

I’m not sure if I want it one word, or two, or an abbreviation. I’m really stuck.
Other languages are fine :]

We have to write a story for english and I chose to write this. How does it sound to you?

Premonition: September 9, 2008, 3:22 a.m.
I was laying across broken glass, my body quivering. I tried to come up for air, but I was trapped by the turned over car. My heart was pounding. I started to move, but a sharp pain ricocheted off my skull, leaving me speechless. My lids were heavy, but the sirens kept me from dosing. The pain was unbearable. I kept forcing my body to move from the leaking car and to safety, but I couldn’t budge. I opened my eyes again and tried to make out the blurry movement around me. In the crowd, I could see my boyfriend standing there his eyes wide and screaming. I yelled, but he didn’t hear me. My voice was horse.
I smelt the leaking gas and felt the heat against my skin. Heat? The car was on fire. I pulled at my seatbelt, my fingers numb and my movement slow. The voices were slowly fading.
And then the entire car was consumed by fire, trapping me in it.

Wake
September 9, 2008, 3:25 a.m.
I wake up abruptly, my eyes peering through the darkness. My hair sticks to the nape of my neck as I wipe sweat from my forehead. I press my knees to my chest and rock back and forth, trying to calm my ragged breathing. While I’m concentrating on the wind shaking the shingles, my cell rings. I look at the main screen, seeing Jason’s name pop up.
I answer on the first ring.
“Hey, are you okay?” He asks.
I nod, even though I’m still trembling and my mind is spinning.
“I just had another dream about the same car accident. It felt different this time, like I was actually there,”
“Do you want me to come over? I’m only miles away if you need me.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “It’s just…”
I keep quiet, replaying the dream over in my head. It was just a matter of seconds that it will happen for real. I roll onto my side and press the receiver closer to my ear.
“I’m worried. What if it’s someone I know? All I know is that there will be a wreck and I’m scared that it will be someone I’m close to,”
I hear keys jingle.
“I’m comin’ over. Leave the window unlocked.” He whispers.
I smile, knowing I will be safe and sound once he gets here.
“I love you,” I say.
He chuckles on the other end and repeats those simple words, making my heart jump. I hang up and run my fingers through my bed-heaped hair. I stretch across the bed and grab the box full of things I’ll never forget. A reminder of the gift I was born with. Precognition.
The box is an old shoebox with construction paper taped on the sides. It is an ordinary box, except for what’s inside. I pull off the top and rummage through pieces of newspaper articles. Almost every article involving the death of strangers (Drownings, suicide, murder) was stuffed inside my dream journal. I grab a pen from my nightstand and write down the dream I just had. I describe in detail what I felt and where I was. I even try to remember if I saw any kind of street sign. When I’m done, I lay back down and close my eyes. I make sure I don’t drift again. I don’t want to dream of the future.
I become impatient. Jason should have been here by now. I grab my cell and press the one button. I have his number on speed dial.
“Hey, this is Jason. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you,” his voicemail says.
I hang up and move across the bed and stare out the window.
That’s when my vision blurs and my throat tightens.
I see Jason’s face and many others swirled in shades of black. Black=death. I grip the bed rail, my fingers becomes slippery.
Jason is in pain and he’s surrounded by glass. The street sign is blurry, but I can make out three letters. D…I…E.
No, no. This can’t be happening.
The vision wipes clean like a slate board. I’m left with nothing.
I don’t wait to take in the information. I run across the room, grab my car keys and race downstairs, not caring if I wake my parents. I get into my car, slam the door shut, and put the key into the ignition.
I hear the sirens, blaring. Tears stream down my cheeks. My throat has clogged up and I can barely breath.
I drive as fast as I can, knowing that I’m too late to save him.

Today our school newspaper talked about how pencil spinning, leg shaking, repeating the word like, and eating in class was annoying. I pencil spin however and a student quotes in the article that it’s a form of dark art or witchcraft (retarded reason) and it causes carpel tunnel syndrome. Is that true? I’ve been pencil spinning for 1 1/2 years and I don’t feel any pain or numbness in my fingers.
For you people who don’t know what carpel tunnel syndrome is and you are too lazy to search it up, here’s a link about it –>https://health.google.com/health/ref/Carpal+tunnel+syndrome
I also want to ask if pencil spinning is a voodoo, dark art, or witchcraft. It’s sounds so unbelievable if it is (I’m much of a non-believer because I’m lost). How is it a dark art?