I actually sat down and wrote this of my own volition today. I just decided it was time to write something, good or bad, just to get the words flowing again. Also, the focalin helps and by helps I mean gives me the focus to complete something....

Not sure how good it is, but here goes:

He sat with his blue shirt, white pinstripes, and his off white, beige, pants looking at me smugly. He brought his glass slyly to his lips, coaxing a small sip of gin from it before setting it down again. His face, smile, cracked as he inhaled. Hiss.
“You know I’m sorry about this, Jonathan, truly, but I can’t do a thing about it.” His southern drawl made every word excruciatingly long. “I’m just the bank’s advocate in business; what can I do?” He sipped again.
This is what happens when you get in bed with the devil. I sold my soul in the form of my land and the blood of mine that had spilled upon it all these years I tilled, kept and loved it. I sold the blood that had spilled and now pulsed through it as its own blood; I had rained it down like water and the field gladly took it, me, and became beautiful and fertile.
That was over now. I mortgaged my eternity in hopes of more. No longer was my land good enough; no longer was her bounty sustaining to me as it once was; no longer was contentment enough. I wanted money to surge in her veins, not myself and my weakness. But we were so entwined that she knew when my faith had left. It was as though the day I signed her away as collateral she stopped producing. She spited me and I deserved it.
“As I’ve stated, we expect you off the land soon; tomorrow or the next day latest.” I had slept with the devil and he sent a gin sucking Mephistopheles to collect. “The only thing you still own is that beat down automobile,” he let the word slowly fall from his lips, “and the clothes,” he paused to show that he thought he has stretched its definition for my beaten jeans and dirty shirt, “on your back.”
I just stared at him and a walking, breathing embodiment of condescension and superiority stared back. I didn’t say a word to him; it was unnecessary and would have broken his self loving rhythm. Though I’m not sure he would have even heard me so far up on his pedestal.
I was undone as he walked away; broke and exhausted I fell to the dirt who had loved me and I had sold selfishly in return. She felt cold and lifeless, unable to return the embrace, unable recreate the love she had given for so long. I was undone and so was our once reciprocated love.
As he walked away the child in me came out; I wanted to destroy and hurt everything that I couldn’t have just because I couldn’t have it. I walked back to the sun room where we had sat and gulped the rest of his gin and threw the glass against the wall shattering the glass and breaking the wooden siding weakened by years of dry rot. I cursed, yelled and stomp with tears in my eyes and, walking to the barren field, tried to bring myself to spit upon the land that had forsaken me.
But I couldn’t. I had done so much for the land and spilled so much of my life and soul upon it that I couldn’t give it any more. I tried so hard to collect the moisture in my mouth and to spit on the land but my body wouldn’t let me. I just fell to the ground and cried a dry, tearless lament. I would never give another thing to this land; my body restored to the land the spite it had given us by not letting me quench its thirst in anyway.

So, this was what I did at our little free writing thing. It's a bit dense and a little hard to read but it's been a while so you can shut the fuck up.
What we were to do was draw two sentences written by someone in the group from a hat. The first one was the first sentence was out first line. The second, our last. We just filled the gap in.
It was mediocre-ish. Unrevised. *Revisions in bold.
It helps if you approach this as an acid trip but also it is very interesting if you don't.

“What does Pinocchio have to do with George Clooney?”
“What?”
“What does Pinocchio have to do with George Clooney?”
All of our conversations had been like this recently. I loved her so I never really said anything but the repetition and absurdity took their tolls. I am now half the man I was when I started and a fourth of any man. But I loved her.
“You still haven't answered.” She looked so dejected as I stared openly at her. Blink. Blank. Blunk? “Sam, I'm really at a loss for words. I think that you should, we should, I should be laying down. Is it lying down? I shouldn't be vertical either way. Eeeether. Ayether.”
“They're both fake, Jim-Jim-Jimmy boy. One's drawn, one's computer animated. But not the ones you think for what you're thinking. George Clooney is the cartoon. A fabrication, ink and facsimile” The ceiling was so imposing as Sam talked. It ebbed with the inhalations, drawing in and suffocating me with claustrophobia. Hard blink. Hhhaarrrrrrddd. Very hard. I have to keep my eyes in.
“Come on Jay-Jay-Jimmy. Feel it? Gravity is going to stop.” I loved her but it was so tiring sometimes. Standing on a pencil's point she twirled and balanced like a ballerina, tempting the pull to stop. I sat up, bending through a full ninety degrees of effort. Gravity may be enamored enough with her to pause it's pull but for me it worked double. We were rivals in affection and he, Gravity, pulled me hard as if to keep me from her. She was mine but he was covetous.
Inner monologue.
Outer monologue. “I don't think gravity is going to stop for me. It may for you but never for me. You're spinning so quickly that you have to leave the ground, like a helicopter. Whenever you decide you want to come down the earth will call to you and you will fall like a maple seed. The world will be your soft bed and hearth.
If you are so inclined you may stay up there; floating with the moon. I don't care.” I lie sometimes. I'm like Holden- I can't stop it. “You will be an astronaut. I hate astronauts.” I lie sometimes. Every kid wants to grow up to be an astronaut and I was no different. “Have fun with your lonely, unhindered spinning while I-” I couldn't think what to say.
Inner. Outer. Inner. I don't know what I would do without her. I love her so much and she is so ambivalent. If she actually loved me I don't think I would have been interested; I hope she doesn't grow to love me because then I'll have to leave. Love is mine. She is mine. But if she loved me I would be hers and I would be stuck spinning with the moon. Inner. Inner. In her.
“My teeth are magnets pulling my jaws together. Juh-Juh-Jimmy, do you feel it? Do you feel the magnets in your head? They are the little things you chew with but really they're magnets.” She tilted her head moving her jaw back and forth. No spin. One leg but no spin. When she stopped it was like the world stopped. When she stopped it's like she pulled the cosmos with her.
The astronaut pulled the black sheet down and filled it with an explosion. Boom boom bang. Pow it hits again. And she's spinning again. The black fills the void again and the white fires fly from her back to where they should be. Except the moon.
She's holding the moon. It fell, following her, it's dance partner, to the ground. It fell right into her hand. Standing there, looking at me with genuine inquisitiveness, she tossed the moon and caught it, like a pitcher.
Everything changed the day the moon fell from the sky.

Ecstasy

Thank you SO much for responding lucy!

Really, that just raises my confidence in xanga like...10 fold.

Maybe I was wrong about you xanga, maybe our relation ship CAN continue, i mean, this has just brought back my confidences. So, we'll see.