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... who says she can't have a single bite of some wonderful cheesecake because she is "on a diet" but is obviously healthy (if not a little on the thin side) I think that I am going to re-create that scene from the movie "Seven."

Either that or eat a ton of cheesecake in front of her forever. And call her fat.

I have this quote that I need a source for. I am not ever sure if I have it 100% correct either, but I figured that someone might have heard it before.

Freedom is hallucination created by a pathological lack of paranoia!

For those who need more visual stimulation:

This one.
And this one.

Yeah so... I am putting my life on the line and posting a story that I wrote. I'd just be happy knowing that someone has read it, rather then it sitting forever in my documents file collecting dust.

The Mirror

   Pristine images flooded through her mind as she gazed, lost in the mirror. Perfection stared back. Not a single hair fallen out of place, nor a speck of lint upon her cream-coloured sweater. That simply would not have been acceptable. Any fault, anything out of place, was not allowed. She reflected innocence and purity; and that was how things had always been. Her mother had always insisted that she be the angel, anything less than perfect would have brought her family shame. Even at her  present age, she was the essence of youth, the image she had always sustained. Her mother would have been proud. Yet, things had become more difficult with time, and she was required to devote every moment to her reason. Not even the wrinkled hand of time would cause her perfection to decay.
   Slowly she brought an antique silver brush to her hair, as she had done countless times before. Her eyes constantly peered from behind thick lashes, observing her reflection, watching for something out of place. Pale white skin, soft and creamy like that of a child,Äôs; mossy green eyes that peered in a condescending manner; and thick golden locks of hair, that glistened like rays of sunlight. Pure white was what she desired to be, the colour of angels wings, the clouds of heaven, and surely that of God himself. Softly, she placed the heavy brush on top of what had been her mother,Äôs vanity. Critically she searched again for flaws. Nothing was out of place, everything was perfect.
   ,ÄúBianca?,Äù the distant voice of her husband thundered. A frown creased her brow and she closed her eyes, blocking him from her thoughts. David was below her.
   ,ÄúHello?,Äù he called again, his voice, like the sound of a sputtering engine. He was short and cumbersome, his mannerisms were lethargic and his appearance left something to be desired. The thought of him filled her with disgust, rather than the affection she should have felt. Her mind, her nature, would not allow her to think of him in any other light.
   Awkward and dirty, he clomped his way through life. Anything that touched him became clouded with his filth. It had been a long time since she had allowed him near her, lest his ,Äòdisease,Äô consume her as well. A rather dull knock sounded at the door and an older man shuffled into her room. She watched him through the reflection of the mirror and stared coldly for a brief moment.
   ,ÄúYes, David?,Äù she said softly, her voice like a tiny silver bell. She studied him, gaining what knowledge she needed. Much like a childrens book, he was easy to read and before he spoke she knew what he had upon his mind. He wrung his hands, the filth moving back and forth between them. He glanced away and scratched the back of his balding head. So dirty and unattractive. She thought back to when they had met and wondered if he had ever been anything else. He wanted to ask her something, and the idea of conversing with her made him nervous. She had long since set him in his place.
   ,ÄúI wondered if we could go out to dinner or perhaps to a movie or something like that?,Äù he paused staring down at his feet. ,ÄúIt,Äôs been sometime since we,Äôve last been out someplace, you know.,Äù he mumbled. Again he clutched his hands tightly together and looked up to her, a moment,Äôs light in his empty eyes.
   She chuckled softly at his dullness.
   ,ÄúWhy David, you are the perfect idiot. Now please, run-a-long, you are absolutely revolting at this particular moment.,Äù She stared harshly at him, picking out his many flaws, faults and imperfections. His expression changed slightly and, despite the disappointment that seemed to paint his face, he made little reaction.
   ,ÄúOh,Ķ,Äù he sputtered, his voice sounding clogged with disease. ,Äú,ĶI,Äôm sorry.,Äù
   She continued to stare hard for a moment, waiting for him to cower away like a scolded puppy. They had partaken in this routine an infinite number of times, and each had ended in such a manner. She glanced for a moment to her reflection, irritated to see him still standing behind her.
   ,ÄúWhy are you still here?,Äù she said sharply. Rather annoyed she decided to simply ignore him. Anger flushed though her and she felt her cheeks burn slightly. She breathed deeply and sighed loudly, looking back at herself. Delicately, she brought a fingertip across the warmth of her cheeks, then suddenly stopped. She blinked and stared harshly. Staring back at her, a small blemish - a mole. Panic rushed through her and, with a loss of composure, she scrubbed madly at the spot.
   Images of purity vanished as she saw the mark grow in her mind. It may have been small now, but like a cancer it would spread. Her hands shook and she reached slowly to a compact, which sat on her vanity. Quickly she opened it and reached for the small puff, smoothing over the mark with the fine, white, powder.
   ,ÄúThis,Ķ this cannot be!,Äù she cried. The mole did not vanish. The mole did not fade away. Her body convulsed, tears streamed down her face. When had she allowed such filth to come near to her? Where had such disgust come from? For a brief moment everything paused, her thoughts, her actions.
   
Him.
   
,ÄúYou did it,,Äù she said lowly, an odd fire burning in her eyes. She spun around quickly, grabbing an antique letter-opener that lay on the vanity,Äôs glossy surface.
,ÄúI did what Bianca?,Äù David asked, seeming a bit shocked by her irrational behaviour. He took a step closer to her and looked to her with deep concern. He extended a hand towards her, as if to pull her to safety.
,ÄúYou,Ķ,Äù she growled, ,Äú,Ķ did this,Ķ,Äù Her hand rested on her cheek, next to the mole. ,Äú,Ķ Your filth, your disease! It,Äôs on me!,Äù Rage pulsated throughout her body as he stepped closer once more. ,ÄúStay away!,Äù she cried out, holding the letter-opener defensively.
David looked at her critically for a moment, eyes squinted in a stare. ,ÄúThere isn,Äôt a mole on your face,Ķ you just look pale,Ķ real pale,Ķ,Äù
,ÄúIDIOT!,Äù she cried, ,ÄúYou,Äôve done this,Ķ you,Äôve made me hideous and you won,Äôt even admit it!,Äù Her body twitched and in a single motion, she lunged towards him, the letter-opener held high in her hand. ,ÄúDamn You!,Äù
Blood poured from the wound in David,Äôs chest as she knelt, exhausted, beside him. His eyes stared off in the distance and the expression on his face was crude. Even after his death he was ugly, vile.
She stood and walked out from her bedroom, to the adjoining bathroom. Her steps echoed on the cold floor tile, her distorted image reflected in its shine. Slowly, she ran hot water into a clean, white, porcelain sink. The steam dissipated into the air. Carefully, she washed his putrid blood from her fingers, slowly turning the water into a soft pink. Her mind strayed for a moment from her task, to that of her mole. With caution, she glanced into the overhead mirror and held her breath. Pale skin, slightly flushed, green eyes that had darkened with anger, golden curls that fell wildly down her shoulders. Chaotic purity. No mole.
She dried her hands on the soft towels and removed the blood stained sweater, tossing it into a garbage bin. As she walked back to her room she passed by her husbands corpse without concern. The vanity was calling to her, beckoning her to sit down.
She obeyed, staring at her regained perfection, to the mole which re-appeared under her left eye. Slowly, she extended a finger to the mirror, to her reflection, to the mole. A delicately shaped nail scratched gently at the glass, removing a small speck of brown paint. Once more she was pristine.
Her husband lay in the reflection of the mirror and again she reached to the glass. In desperation she tried to scratch him away too.

I was re-reading some of the collections of short stories that I have on my bookshelves when I came across "'Beloved Disciple' by S. P. Somtow," a story in a book called "Dark Destiny" published by White Wolf.

Anyways the first line in this story goes, "First off, I've never fucked him." (or very close to that). Seeing as it's a story about Jesus it's a wonderful introduction.

Anyone else have a great opening line from a favorite story/novel?