They are just feelings, you know. They will pass. They aren't me. They are just feelings.
"This, too, shall pass."
Like me.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Oh, Melissa, don't hurt yourself!
Just one question for you.
Why?
That's it. Just why?
What is the alternative? Really. "Don't hurt yourself!" sez you. But don't hurt myself so I can ... what?
Look, I'm not going to hurt myself. I'm hurting. You are so stupid. I wouldn't be hurting myself, I'd be stopping the pain.
Do you know what agony is? Do you? Do you?
No, you don't. For if you did, you wouldn't fucking be saying, 'Don't hurt yourself!' you'd be saying ...
No, that's not right. You'd be screaming ...
... that's more accurate ...
You'd be screaming well, anything, even wordless words, even the 'eff' word — over and over and over again — but what you'd be saying to ... well, to whom then, eh, `phfina? to whom? is 'make it stop. please make it stop.'
And you, you dear, sweet, loving, 'don't hurt yourself!' darling cannot make it stop.
But I can.
So, `phfina, my dear, sweet, viperous muse so pleasantly asks me, why don't you quit your whining and just do it, just make it stop?
Because, my dear, sweet constant companion that I have all these lovely conversations with — as you so very well know — I am a spineless, gutless wonder, and I'd rather pull the covers over my head and cry, 'oh, my pussy hurts!' and ... get all this loving, tender affectionate attention ... and go on breathing.
Than make it stop. Than make it all stop.
Because this lovely little agony that I am so attached to, my dearest friend, is so much more familiar and comfortable than what I know is waiting for me, just around the corner, any day now.
You know what's waiting for me?
Yes, you do. You so know what's waiting for me.
And I do, too. I know that whatever I imagine, it will be nothing as to what's really there. I know that I don't know what's waiting for me.
That's what's waiting for me.
And every second here ...
Oh, God, make it stop.
I'm going to bed.
"The sun will come up ... tomorrow ..."
Yay! You go, sun!
Why?
That's it. Just why?
What is the alternative? Really. "Don't hurt yourself!" sez you. But don't hurt myself so I can ... what?
Look, I'm not going to hurt myself. I'm hurting. You are so stupid. I wouldn't be hurting myself, I'd be stopping the pain.
Do you know what agony is? Do you? Do you?
No, you don't. For if you did, you wouldn't fucking be saying, 'Don't hurt yourself!' you'd be saying ...
No, that's not right. You'd be screaming ...
... that's more accurate ...
You'd be screaming well, anything, even wordless words, even the 'eff' word — over and over and over again — but what you'd be saying to ... well, to whom then, eh, `phfina? to whom? is 'make it stop. please make it stop.'
And you, you dear, sweet, loving, 'don't hurt yourself!' darling cannot make it stop.
But I can.
So, `phfina, my dear, sweet, viperous muse so pleasantly asks me, why don't you quit your whining and just do it, just make it stop?
Because, my dear, sweet constant companion that I have all these lovely conversations with — as you so very well know — I am a spineless, gutless wonder, and I'd rather pull the covers over my head and cry, 'oh, my pussy hurts!' and ... get all this loving, tender affectionate attention ... and go on breathing.
Than make it stop. Than make it all stop.
Because this lovely little agony that I am so attached to, my dearest friend, is so much more familiar and comfortable than what I know is waiting for me, just around the corner, any day now.
You know what's waiting for me?
Yes, you do. You so know what's waiting for me.
And I do, too. I know that whatever I imagine, it will be nothing as to what's really there. I know that I don't know what's waiting for me.
That's what's waiting for me.
And every second here ...
Oh, God, make it stop.
I'm going to bed.
"The sun will come up ... tomorrow ..."
Yay! You go, sun!
Holiday ... 'cheer'
Do you want to know what I'm thinking right now? Do you want to know what I'm doing?
Really?
(Fucking leave. Your last fucking chance.)
I'm not drinking bourbon right now.
Do you know why I'm not drinking bourbon right now?
I'll tell you why I'm not drinking bourbon right now. This is why I'm not drinking bourbon right now.
BECAUSE I DON'T FUCKING HAVE BOURBON IN MY GOD DAMN ...
... little dark corner hidden away from my eyes that rest on every FUCKING THING ELSE IN MY 'EFFICIENCY' 'SUITE' but do I HAVE BOURBON THERE?
FUCKING NO!
I had a whole fucking bottle in there. A whole bottle! Where the fuck is it now? I FUCKING NEED THE FULL FUCKING BOTTLE OF BOURBON RIGHT FUCKING NOW!
But do I have it?
I have my 15-year-old Glenlivet there (Scotch for you who don't know your single malts), I have my St. Germaine there, I have my Chartreuse there, I have my ... FUCK CORRECTION ... I HAD — HAD-HAD-HAD — my fucking absinthe there, I have my cognac there (my Louis XIII ... yeah, right, do I look like my dad?) and I have a bottle of vodka, along with a triple sec in the fridge, but do I want ANY of those?
NO!
WHEN I WANT TO DRINK FUCKING BOURBON, I WANT TO DRINK FUCKING BOURBON, and FUCKING VODKA is NOT FUCKING going to DO IT for me when I WANT ... FUCKING ... BOURBON.
Do you know how I got the vodka?
"Oh, putting jalapeños in vodka ... this would really spice up my vodka sauce for my penne dish," says `phfina oh-so-sweetly.
And kind, kind neighbor HANDS ME THE WHOLE 1.75 LITER BOTTLE with a fucking Christmas cheery, 'Oh, here you go.'
And did I say, 'oh, no I couldn't!'
Yes, but how did I say it, as I took the bottle?
yeah.
And now ... that vodka. I don't want it. I don't want it. I WANT FUCKING BOURBON!
Oh, yes, `phfina, you are a mean drunk, aren't you?
HA! FUCKING HA! I FUCKING HAVE TO BE DRUNK TO FUCKING BE A MEAN FUCKING DRUNK!
I have to say, this is the most interesting Christmas I've had in my life.
Right, home-wrecker? Right?
Look. Listen to me. When I say that I'm a shit? That I'm bad, evil, rotten to the core, that I will take you, consume you and spit you out, that I tell you I have a trail of dead bodies behind me ...
Well, it's nice and all that you say, 'Oh, poor baby!' all sympathetically like that.
That's very, very sweet of you.
But you know what's better?
FUCKING. BELIEVE. ME!
God, oh, God, I want that bourbon so bad.
I could just go to the store right now ... it closes in 20 minutes ... and buy as much to last me for the rest of my life. I could just make it.
Hm. I wonder what's cheaper, a bottle of bourbon or a gun.
You know I did read Chuck Palahniuk's book where the main character replaced his home phone number with the suicide hotlines' in bars and such. He was particularly busy around Christmas. His main advice? "Pull the phone away from your ear when you tell them, 'if I were you, I would kill myself.'" He said the sound of the gunshot can be deafening.
And, no, I don't remember the title of the book. You can google it. And, yes, I am just peachy right now. Super great and getting better.
Fuck me.
Ha. hahaha. That's so funny.
Really?
(Fucking leave. Your last fucking chance.)
I'm not drinking bourbon right now.
Do you know why I'm not drinking bourbon right now?
I'll tell you why I'm not drinking bourbon right now. This is why I'm not drinking bourbon right now.
BECAUSE I DON'T FUCKING HAVE BOURBON IN MY GOD DAMN ...
... little dark corner hidden away from my eyes that rest on every FUCKING THING ELSE IN MY 'EFFICIENCY' 'SUITE' but do I HAVE BOURBON THERE?
FUCKING NO!
I had a whole fucking bottle in there. A whole bottle! Where the fuck is it now? I FUCKING NEED THE FULL FUCKING BOTTLE OF BOURBON RIGHT FUCKING NOW!
But do I have it?
I have my 15-year-old Glenlivet there (Scotch for you who don't know your single malts), I have my St. Germaine there, I have my Chartreuse there, I have my ... FUCK CORRECTION ... I HAD — HAD-HAD-HAD — my fucking absinthe there, I have my cognac there (my Louis XIII ... yeah, right, do I look like my dad?) and I have a bottle of vodka, along with a triple sec in the fridge, but do I want ANY of those?
NO!
WHEN I WANT TO DRINK FUCKING BOURBON, I WANT TO DRINK FUCKING BOURBON, and FUCKING VODKA is NOT FUCKING going to DO IT for me when I WANT ... FUCKING ... BOURBON.
Do you know how I got the vodka?
"Oh, putting jalapeños in vodka ... this would really spice up my vodka sauce for my penne dish," says `phfina oh-so-sweetly.
And kind, kind neighbor HANDS ME THE WHOLE 1.75 LITER BOTTLE with a fucking Christmas cheery, 'Oh, here you go.'
And did I say, 'oh, no I couldn't!'
Yes, but how did I say it, as I took the bottle?
yeah.
And now ... that vodka. I don't want it. I don't want it. I WANT FUCKING BOURBON!
Oh, yes, `phfina, you are a mean drunk, aren't you?
HA! FUCKING HA! I FUCKING HAVE TO BE DRUNK TO FUCKING BE A MEAN FUCKING DRUNK!
I have to say, this is the most interesting Christmas I've had in my life.
Right, home-wrecker? Right?
Look. Listen to me. When I say that I'm a shit? That I'm bad, evil, rotten to the core, that I will take you, consume you and spit you out, that I tell you I have a trail of dead bodies behind me ...
Well, it's nice and all that you say, 'Oh, poor baby!' all sympathetically like that.
That's very, very sweet of you.
But you know what's better?
FUCKING. BELIEVE. ME!
God, oh, God, I want that bourbon so bad.
I could just go to the store right now ... it closes in 20 minutes ... and buy as much to last me for the rest of my life. I could just make it.
Hm. I wonder what's cheaper, a bottle of bourbon or a gun.
You know I did read Chuck Palahniuk's book where the main character replaced his home phone number with the suicide hotlines' in bars and such. He was particularly busy around Christmas. His main advice? "Pull the phone away from your ear when you tell them, 'if I were you, I would kill myself.'" He said the sound of the gunshot can be deafening.
And, no, I don't remember the title of the book. You can google it. And, yes, I am just peachy right now. Super great and getting better.
Fuck me.
Ha. hahaha. That's so funny.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Potato pancakes, Phở, and ... p.r.0.n.
Okay, y'all, you really have to stop. I'm supposed to be finishing Bloodbuzz, giving somebody her Birthday, no: Christmas present (*blush*), and helping my beta-ee with hers (today for ch 2, swears!). Pitchforks and brands, girls, right outside my door, but you keep giving me these entries I must write, and I keep on living.
Oh, well.
Anyway.
Latkes
Okay, so, this morning I made myself potato pancakes (latkes). They're so easy to make; here's the recipe:
1 potatoes
½ onion
¼ cup flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
Put the potatoes and onion into a food-processor; grate. Pour mixture into a bowl, stir in flour and salt, then beat and add eggs. Heat frying pan with a thin layer of oil (I used extra-virgin olive oil), then pour in pancakes and brown on each side (like cook for 5 or so minutes per side).
Serve with: sour cream, or applesauce, or fruit preserves (like ... sylt lingon), or nutella.
What's a little Irish girl serving herself latkes? And in the morning, no less? Am I exploring my inner Jewishness? Well, perhaps I am.
(Hi, Lupera!)
In my defense, I do have a character coming into one of my stories, and, well, latkes are made of potatoes and I'm Irish, so that makes it okay, okay? So there!
This brings back several memories. And for me, memories are painful things, and am I ever 'blessed' with a perfect memory. I remember everything, like one time when I was a little girl, and daddy was talking about the huge influx of Irish to the New World caused by the potato famine, and how stupid the Irish were, for they are an island nation, and had all the bounty of the sea, but they wouldn't touch fish, because that means they would have to be fishermen: poor people. So they'd rather starve to death or die of cold or disease crossing the 'pond,' than suffer to eat fish.
And I just took in what he said, so you know what that makes me in my dad's eyes? Little Irish me?
Too proud and too stupid for her own good.
I don't remember what my mom had to say about his lecture, because, well, she didn't say anything. My mom never said anything around or about or to my dad. Ever.
But there's another memory that's even more painful for me, if that's possible, and even more recent.
You know I do go home to visit my mom and, well, my dad, from time to time, don't you? I mean, I don't just go to work and then come home and hide under the covers, you know that, don't you? And what would ever give you that idea?
And, well, it's a dicy affair, going home. 'Cause all those dead bodies I left back in CT? Well, they're still there, you see, and I do, too. I do see them from time to time. And, well, some have moved on, like Angela to Texas, and Karin to Florida with her husband, and Jennifer to ... hm, where is Jennifer? but Carla's still there, and newly divorced and ... looking, and Cate's still there, still going to twelve step, and still ... wild, and Brenda's still there, because, well, OMR, she and mom are such good friends going to book club and everything (oh. my. God! that is so g.d. embarrassing! I so hope to God Brenda never 'slips' in that vicious way ex-g.f.s slip and 'accidently' reveal to my mom), and ... Julia.
So I got this recipe from Jeff. Yes, him. Jeff. Julia's husband. And 'Jewish'? You can't get any more Jewish than Jeff. I mean, not Orthodox, but he's really ... kind, and gentle, and soft-spoken, and they live in Stratford, you know, 'Stratford, CT,' or 'NYC's ultra-rich hang-out place' so I was like 'Doctor, or stock broker?' and he gave me a funny look and said, no, he was in the restaurant business, and I asked what kind of restaurant he owned, and he gave me another look and said kindly that he own several restaurants. And, well, they are so ...
God!
And. and. and. God, Julia and Jeff? You couldn't find a happier couple. I mean, like joyful, peaceful, calm happy. And little Annie? She's not a baby anymore, and if I didn't have my nieces to compare, I would have said you couldn't find a prettier or smarter girl. And I didn't have to ask Julia if she were happy, because I have never seen that soft, heart-shape face smiling so much in my life, and it wasn't because she had me over her CT mansion (although she was happy to see me, and that was so, so sweet, and hurt so much, inside, too), no, it was because she was with Jeff, and when she was with Jeff, she was with Jeff, and Jeff, with his easy way of making the Latkes, showing me how to make them, and the tender looks toward her, Jeff was with her. And they were just so, so happy, being together with each other.
I felt kind of like I was a fly on the wall or something, you know? Not really there; that's how intimate they were with each other, and not in an 'Eww, gross! Get a room!' kind of way, but just in their looks to each other across the room, you know?
And I didn't have to ask how they got along in the other departments. Annie was proof enough that things were going well there. And, well, you know how it is to have me as your lover, so anything's a huge improvement on that.
Yes, Julia's happy ... that is: now.
And as I ate the latkes this morning — I really like them best with the sour cream — I remembered my visit 'Up North' last Christmas. And was I crying this morning, my dears?
Heh. I'm crying now, remembering that cry, and what caused it.
Cute Girl Interlude
You know, I find you beautiful, right? You do know that, and if you don't, it's time for you to do some mirror work, with a good swift kick in the heinder from moiself if you get down on yourself. But I noticed today, like it really struck me, that a beautiful girl, sitting by herself at sbux?
Doesn't that just sit wrong for you, when you see that?
I mean, why is it okay that a guy can come in by himself, order a coffee and stay and work on his computer or go back to the office, and nobody thinks anything about that?
But a girl? She has to be with somebody, and then she's okay, and not just okay, but alive. I mean, she's either with her girlfriend, and they're talking-talking-talking away so happily, or she's with her boyfriend and she's looking at him adoringly, hanging on his every word. Or she's with her children, looking harried, and that's okay, too.
But if she comes in alone? And sits alone?
So, okay, I was on frikken break, okay? And some random blondie is hanging on bf's every word, and then she (well, actually, 'they') comes up to me, and she gives me the g.d. big eyes and says in a wispy voice, 'Would you watch my stuff, so nobody steals it?' and she doesn't even wait for an answer but she and bf go out for a smoke.
Good thing she didn't wait for an answer, 'cause I was all like, 'Yeah, what about me stealing you, sweetheart?'
The 'ladies' was unoccupied. I would've handed her back to bf pretty much unchanged ... if she actually wanted to go back to what's-his-name, which given what I can do (do do ... have done), she may never think straight again.
Nah, I wasn't going to do that (I like 'em with brains), but two things, okay? I was on break! And. Okay, AND! Why the big pleading eyes and breathy voice, for crying out loud? She was just asking me to watch her stuff, and I mean, I wasn't Lauren Bacall and, as far as I know, I'm not starring in a film noir, so why bring out the big guns like that? Was she practicing on me, or something, for goodness sake?
News flash: whatever you were practicing, sweetie ...? It worked, okay?
Jeez!
Phở
I have many comfort foods. And the Washington D.C. area isn't really all that cosmopolitan, did you know that? In fact, the nascent nation was embarrassed to have this backwater city as the Capitol, and it still trails the original (Philly) and NYC, by quite a bit. But we do have some things here ... like sbux, I guess, and a few Phở places. And today I went right after work to one of my favorite haunts ('cause it's close and ... cheap), and for the first time noticed they have 'Happy Hour' from 3 pm to 8 pm.
So I asked.
'Happy Hour' is just for the drinks. $2 beers on tap and $3 labels.
And I was like 'nah,' because ... well ... I can't afford that.
And, also, this'll be my eighteenth day sober.
Christmas pensées interlude
Hm. I wonder how Christmas will go.
Actually, I know how Christmas will go: sbux is open 'til 6pm Christmas day, and guess who's closing?
And some people, some *ahem* partners of mine are bitter about working on Christmas day, but I'm not. I'm actually grateful.
What I really am? I'm scared. 'Cause after I close, there's still another six hours to that day. Six hours. And me, all alone on Christmas day? And what, you say, go over to bb's? Me? And do what? Pretend to be happy? Make small talk with his wife? Who won't be alone in a room with me? And won't even be in touch that she freaks out when I watch their kids? And speaking of whom: shall I watch my nieces open Christmas presents? Seeing them so happy finding what they got? Seeing them so happy in giving me their homemade presents for me? And then do what? After visiting a(nother) happy, happy family? Go home? And do what?
And do what?
You know that suicide hotlines are jammed during this 'most wonderful time of the year,' did you know that?
Heh. That's funny. 'Somebody's thinking about committing suicide, and they call the hotline, and they get a busy signal, or are put on hold for twenty-four minutes.
Not that I have personal experience with that. I'm just saying and ... 'wondering,' is all.
Back to Phở
Anyway, Phở. Phở brings up somebody I met, and thank God, not at sbux, but through bb. Laura is like this really ... hm, how do I say this. She has very strong opinions, which aren't opinions to her, but the way things are, you know? And, oh, it was through Church that I met her, and she was like, 'What do you do, Melissa?'
(I fvcking hate it that she know my name.)
And I told her I was an sbux barista and I had to fvcking explain what 'sbux' is, and she was all like 'Oh, how interesting,' in a very certain, bored way that spoke volumes to me, so I called her on that, and asked her how is that interesting.
She didn't have an interesting answer. 'Oh, I just hearing what people do for work, is all.' Like I was so lower-class trash or something. She doesn't work, you see. She stays at home, doing what, I don't know. Being rich, I guess.
I'm not being very charitable, and I'm sorry about that.
But she was like, 'you're very pretty, but I have this skin treatment system that will really help, it's dermatologically safe and have you heard of the Artistry brand? Would you like to get together to talk about it sometime?'
And I don't know why I agreed to meet her, ... I guess I'm afraid of saying no, you know? And she was kind of insistent.
Anyway, the meeting was like, omr, her husband shows up in a suit and tie! and he goes on for about two hours about this 'business,' and it turns out to be this multilevel, that I'm not going to write the name of, 'cause I don't need to be in a lawsuit, thank you, and they are like, so you want to sign up?
And I'm like, 'no.' I was like definitely no.
And they were like, 'why?'
And, okay, to join their business, I have to sell stuff and I have to talk to people.
Are you laughing yet? Me, talk to people?
Here's me getting read to talk to somebody.
Me, in bathroom: HURL!
Me, running away to another State, and possibly country, before the meeting.
And me, sell stuff?
And Laura was like, but you sell coffee already to lots of people. And I was like, no, I take orders ... they buy the drinks.
So then she wants to sell me this skin care system and the asking price was all for the low, low price of how much? And how much do I make in a week?
But, Melissa she said in that reasonable, irritating nasal whine of hers, this is less than half the price of Lancôme ...
Like I look like the girl who uses Lancôme. You know what kind of girl I look like?
Interlude: group
So, last week in group, we had Donna, this international supermodel and actress, fly in from Hollywood and lead, can you believe it? And she asked for all the young women under twenty-one to stand up, and she made me stand up, and I was like, um.
And so we had a 'conversation' out of that. She made me stand in front of everybody, and said, 'Look at how you're dressed ...'
And I said that shouldn't matter. And she countered right away that it does, and me, in blue jeans and a power blue sweater and sneaks?
She didn't stop there. She brought up a seventeen-year-old girl from Salt Lake City, and this girl was wearing a red cashmere sweater and a black skirt with black pantyhose and black boots. She looked like an office exec, and Donna said that this girl looked mature, somebody you would take seriously and listen to, but me?
And Donna said that I looked like the (immature) seventeen-year-old, and Donna could get away with wearing what I wore, but leading groups? She's had people walk out because she likes mini-minis to show off her long, long legs, but if she's going to reach people where they are at, she has to dress professionally, a minimum of make up, not no make up like me, heels and carry herself like somebody who's up to something, not somebody who's wallowing in suffering, hiding behind that tight smile as she'd being spoken to in front of everybody.
And she looked at me really, really hard and had me sit down.
Yeah. It's been a good week.
Really back to Phở
Whew. Back to Laura. Hm, actually, why did I bring her up?
Oh, yeah, because one day, she made this pronouncement, like, "Oh, do you like fo-o-o-oh, and it's this really good soup, and it's like, fo-o-o-oh!"
And I was like, um, I think it's pronounced Phở (fuh)...
And Laura very decidedly said, "No! It's 'fo-o-o-o-oh!' And it's really good!"
So I was like ... um, ... okay ... (whispered: whatevs)
So today, I ordered Phở Tai Sach, Cha Goi and café suda, and the Vietnamese lady smiled at me and said how well I spoke Vietnamese, and I smiled sadly at her and said now nice she was, because ...
Because when she shouted the order to the cooks, 'Cha Goi' sounded nothing like I said it, but something like 'shza (g)uh' or ... I can't even write it, because there's no way my little Irish mouth can even come close to saying what she said.
Whatever it is, and however it's said, it's a comfort on a cold winter day with an inch of snow still clinging to the ground.
p.r.0.n.
Okay, now, girls, wipe that drool of your chins! So unseemly!
And actually, I'm not that much into p.r.0.n. Really!
(Oh, yeah? How much is 'not that much,' `phfina-dear?)
I do so hate my little Muse when she gets all uppity like that, speaking out of turn. I mean, like, really! Who's in charge here?
Smugly quoth my Muse, soto voce: Me!
ANYWAY!
And Saga is so going to kill me for this reveal, but I did warn her ...
Saga, I did warn you, sweetie, I'm a writer, and what a writer does is she writes.
So, anyway, I mean, really, okay, you want a link? Here, have a link.
You have to be really oblivious to follow that link if you are at work or school, okay?
So, what just happened? Nothing, right? Wasn't that a huge disappointment? All of two minutes and it was just two girls in a tub.
But 'nothing'? Here's what I saw.
You ready? Here's what I told Saga what I saw.
"Did you see me in that vid? I mean, guys are all like, so g.d. serious and ... idk ... about smex, but here were two girls, and they were laughing and having fun and making light of it all, so much so that I smiled, and I wanted to cry.
... And then BOOM. I mean, the subtext. They were having fun, and then all of a sudden, that look of pure lvst crosses her face when n1pple touched n1pple, and wait, was there grinding going on, just instantly, just like that? And then, the playing was over, and now it was time for what was coming next, were it was very, very serious, and needy, and demanding, and loving, and forceful, and tender, and sweet, and longing, and sad, and caring. Did you see that look in her face, that she was trying so hard not to be overcome by, so all she could do is press her lips together, hard, and look, a bit confused, at her lover, and ask, with her eyes: 'what's this?' or 'now? you mean now? are you sure? but I thought we were just playing for each other and for the webcam, and now ...'
So, 'nothing' happening in this vid? Actually, for me, most p.r.0.n, there is absolutely nothing going on in there, except for the actresses trying not to roll their eyes at the ridiculousness of the scenario until actual mutual attraction and bodily need kick-in to help the fantasy.
But here, there was no ridiculousness. I mean, it was ridiculous: 'oh, wow, two girls in a tub; let's fvck.' And they were absolutely fine mocking this absurdity, and that, for me, was so real. They weren't pretending at all: they were making fun and having fun, and then WHAM! it hit them, just like it SO hits me. I'm shy or I'm silly, and then it's suddenly very, very serious and there's no stopping me taking her and her taking me taking her. And her, letting me take her, and letting me into her to take her, past those walls that everyone puts up to keep everyone at bay ... That SO fvcking turns me on.
A short, sweet little vid, that I really liked, ... it talked to me as I am.
... Um. God! I've done it again. A sweet little vid, and I got all ... `phfina."
Do you know how Saga answered me? She told me she wished she had my eyes, even for just a few seconds, to see what I could see, to see beyond the filth and the lies.
And do you know my answer to her, to you, to anybody?
Please.
Please take my eyes. Here, have them. That I could rip my eyes out of their sockets and give them to you, or that I could just cast them from me.
But then what? Be Homer? and be lead about by his teenaged p!mp, wh0ring out the great old man for his stories? Or be Sappho, Lady Melissa's servant, the last thing she saw was her daughter being put to death, before having her eyeballs ruptured by her dead Xeno's dagger?
And ripping out my eyes ... it doesn't make it stop, this seeing.
I'm seeing things now. I'm seeing things now.
I'm hypersensitive to my body right now. I feel everything, standing or sitting or lying down to sleep, and the thinking doesn't stop, eyes wide or eyes wide shut. And I just know sightless `phfina would be even more cursed with clear-seeing.
Because seeing past all the bvllsh!t?
You think that's a gift?
It's a curse, because what if you see past all it? That's not accurate. You see through it ... and through it to what? You ever wonder that?
And seeing through all that ... stuff. Well, ...
You know it doesn't turn off. It doesn't turn off watching p.r.0.n. just trying to blow off some steam but instead seeing two girls suffering poor plot and poor company (that is: each other) and still having to 'put out' for the camera? And ...
And it doesn't turn off in front of the mirror, or when I'm writing a PM, or when I'm reading a PM.
And I see me. I see me so clearly: a little, scared, vicious, poor and lost girl.
And you wonder why I want to die all the time.
And you wonder at how I write Alice so well, ... and Rosalie. My girls. My girls. One who is cursed with clairvoyance ('clear-seeing') and one who sees all the bvllsh!t, and you wish I had my gift for writing, and my gift for seeing.
You know, I wish I could say I wish you had my gift, too, and take it, please, but that's a double-lie.
Firstly, because, well, you do have my gift. You all do. Each of you are living your lives or not living your lives and so aware of that, and so honest and real about that, and lyrical, and poetic, and direct, and honest, and beautiful, and I wish I were the reader and you were the writers, because everything I read from you, dear readers and correspondents, when you get honestly really real about your life, is so, so beautiful, and I want to read that, read you, and not me, and my sh!t.
I hate my sh!t. I hate me.
So that's the first lie: 'I wish you had my gift,' because there's no 'wish' to it. You do have my gift. More than me.
So those of you who have an ounce of self-doubt: put that in your pipe and smoke it!
(Oh! I can't write! you lament. And I'm like, excuse me? What did you just, *ahem* write to me?)
And the second lie is this.
When I was in that hospital bed, and under sedation, and taken care of, and there were no demands on me, I was nothing, I was ...
I was nothing, and nothing mattered, and I was nothing in the matter. I would have been better off dead, and I swear, by God, I will die before anybody puts me back in there, because if I had been dead, at least I wouldn't have been aware that I was 'a ward to society,' 'in the care of ...,' 'convalescing' or whatever you want to call it. If I were dead, at least it wouldn't have mattered that I was just a void, sucking in air and food through an IV at times and excreting fluids that were so kindly removed from me and the sheets by caring healthcare providers, and then I still saw, a little bit, I saw just enough to keep me out of trouble, keep my quiet instead of spouting more nonsense that would extend my stay from weeks to then months to then years.
Yeah, I'm smart. A genius, even, so I learned after my first weeks with me saying stuff that extended my stay, to keep my mouth shut when I wanted to volunteer the 'wrong' answer and then I learned to say the things they needed to hear to nod their head dully and understandingly ... you know, 'in sympathy.'
So, my clear-seeing ... did it put me in the hospital? Maybe. Yes. Yes, I guess it did. And did it abandon me there? No, not really. It showed me what I was when I was there. A vegetable. A potato. A wee Irish potato. And now, it's back, full-force, flooding my poor little brain with so much to say about everything, what I'm doing, and what I'm not, and I can't turn it off, and you say you want this? You're envious of my talent, and grateful to me for daring to say the things nobody else does that touches your heart? So much so you're afraid to review my work, because you're afraid your own sh!t will show, and I'll call you on that?
Yeah, good call, actually.
But do I not want this 'gift'?
You know, Alice would trade her eye-teeth, and more, not to have been clairvoyant. You know, she saw a future where vampires ruled, and fought each other, and she saw Jasper be destroyed in WWV ('World War Vampire') and she saw herself, running toward her reason, her being, her Jasper, and being caught up in that maelstrom, and she saw no way out of it.
She saw that. She saw all the Cullens, dead. She's seen a lot, and you're envious of her because you want that stock tip. And she has to be chipper through all that, and you complain that somebody gave you a funny look in class today.
And then Rosalie would trade what to be human again, and, but, as a human was she happy? Was she ever happy?
Would I trade away my 'gift'?
No.
You cheer. Yay for me.
But being dull? Dimming my senses? I know how that feels like, being dead, walking around, being of no consequence to anybody, being dead, and useless.
And now, seeing, and being a cause in the matter, writing something that touches your heart, saying 'I love you' and being loved in return, and seeing that, and knowing that, and experiencing love, real love, so much so that it hurts, because it means that little lost me does have a place in this cold, callous, careless world, and that place is in your heart?
I really, really, really, wish y'all would leave off so that I could write my stories, and not these heart-wrenching self-revelations.
Yeah, right: and how many times did I check my inbox today, and yesterday, and the day before, and ...
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who met Aphrodite.
Once upon a time, there was a pretty girl who married her Prince Charming.
Once upon a time, there was an sbux barista.
We all find ourselves in history, living our lives.
"And they lived happily ever after."
You know what I'm coming to realize? That ending? That can be said of those who look back on their lives, and, looking back, choose to look at what happened, the good and the bad, happily. Not with Rose-colored glasses, but, 'oh, this happened, and that happened, and now here we are, happily ever after, through that all.'
Alice has something to tell me. She was in the hospital, and now she's happy. She had the hardest life as a human, and as a vampire, with her cursed 'gift,' she's seen the worst that could possibly happen, and she's seen some really bad stuff go down (she does have Jasper Whitlock as her sweetie, after all), and she's living her happily ever after, through it all, despite of it all, and because of it all.
And, well, Esme, right? She lost her child, too, `phfina, right? and then she tried to kill herself, but who is so happy now that nobody know how to write her properly? She's so happy because she is exactly where she is now, right in the now. Being a mommy, being a wife, being so proud of Bella's bravery in just daring to saying hello. Surviving all that to what? Survive? No, prevail and triumph, and not like "so there!" but like, "ah." and just and only that. Esme. Esme and Carlisle. Carlisle and Esme. Who can write them?
Somebody that centered and happy, I guess.
And Rosalie has prevailed, forever, and why? Because she can and she does, and she is rewarded for prevailing, and not quitting, and she's never done it for anybody else or for what anybody else thought, she's always soldiered on, doing the best for herself and, importantly for her, for everybody in her concern, despite what they say to her and about her.
You read ExB reviews with Rosalie chapters on ffn? I have. Saying 'they aren't kind to her' would be stretching the limits of understatement. I bet Rosalie doesn't even bother to read them. Her 'list' is already long enough. Besides, why would she read an ExB fanfic, anyway?
And then there's little me. With something to say. And with the ability to say it well.
And there's you.
It's like ...
*sigh* ... I guess I'm giving myself my Christmas present: a reason to go on. Hope.
So obvious. So simple. All I have to do is not to fight it, but to accept it. And I do. And I don't. I let love in, and then I go have a pity party.
It must be so frustrating, reading me, seeing me struggle so much over something so simple.
Hm. I wonder if they have a recipe for simple acceptance? I am, after all, a simple wee Irish lass, it should go down easily on my tongue.
Oh, well.
Anyway.
Latkes
Okay, so, this morning I made myself potato pancakes (latkes). They're so easy to make; here's the recipe:
1 potatoes
½ onion
¼ cup flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
Put the potatoes and onion into a food-processor; grate. Pour mixture into a bowl, stir in flour and salt, then beat and add eggs. Heat frying pan with a thin layer of oil (I used extra-virgin olive oil), then pour in pancakes and brown on each side (like cook for 5 or so minutes per side).
Serve with: sour cream, or applesauce, or fruit preserves (like ... sylt lingon), or nutella.
What's a little Irish girl serving herself latkes? And in the morning, no less? Am I exploring my inner Jewishness? Well, perhaps I am.
(Hi, Lupera!)
In my defense, I do have a character coming into one of my stories, and, well, latkes are made of potatoes and I'm Irish, so that makes it okay, okay? So there!
This brings back several memories. And for me, memories are painful things, and am I ever 'blessed' with a perfect memory. I remember everything, like one time when I was a little girl, and daddy was talking about the huge influx of Irish to the New World caused by the potato famine, and how stupid the Irish were, for they are an island nation, and had all the bounty of the sea, but they wouldn't touch fish, because that means they would have to be fishermen: poor people. So they'd rather starve to death or die of cold or disease crossing the 'pond,' than suffer to eat fish.
And I just took in what he said, so you know what that makes me in my dad's eyes? Little Irish me?
Too proud and too stupid for her own good.
I don't remember what my mom had to say about his lecture, because, well, she didn't say anything. My mom never said anything around or about or to my dad. Ever.
But there's another memory that's even more painful for me, if that's possible, and even more recent.
You know I do go home to visit my mom and, well, my dad, from time to time, don't you? I mean, I don't just go to work and then come home and hide under the covers, you know that, don't you? And what would ever give you that idea?
And, well, it's a dicy affair, going home. 'Cause all those dead bodies I left back in CT? Well, they're still there, you see, and I do, too. I do see them from time to time. And, well, some have moved on, like Angela to Texas, and Karin to Florida with her husband, and Jennifer to ... hm, where is Jennifer? but Carla's still there, and newly divorced and ... looking, and Cate's still there, still going to twelve step, and still ... wild, and Brenda's still there, because, well, OMR, she and mom are such good friends going to book club and everything (oh. my. God! that is so g.d. embarrassing! I so hope to God Brenda never 'slips' in that vicious way ex-g.f.s slip and 'accidently' reveal to my mom), and ... Julia.
So I got this recipe from Jeff. Yes, him. Jeff. Julia's husband. And 'Jewish'? You can't get any more Jewish than Jeff. I mean, not Orthodox, but he's really ... kind, and gentle, and soft-spoken, and they live in Stratford, you know, 'Stratford, CT,' or 'NYC's ultra-rich hang-out place' so I was like 'Doctor, or stock broker?' and he gave me a funny look and said, no, he was in the restaurant business, and I asked what kind of restaurant he owned, and he gave me another look and said kindly that he own several restaurants. And, well, they are so ...
God!
And. and. and. God, Julia and Jeff? You couldn't find a happier couple. I mean, like joyful, peaceful, calm happy. And little Annie? She's not a baby anymore, and if I didn't have my nieces to compare, I would have said you couldn't find a prettier or smarter girl. And I didn't have to ask Julia if she were happy, because I have never seen that soft, heart-shape face smiling so much in my life, and it wasn't because she had me over her CT mansion (although she was happy to see me, and that was so, so sweet, and hurt so much, inside, too), no, it was because she was with Jeff, and when she was with Jeff, she was with Jeff, and Jeff, with his easy way of making the Latkes, showing me how to make them, and the tender looks toward her, Jeff was with her. And they were just so, so happy, being together with each other.
I felt kind of like I was a fly on the wall or something, you know? Not really there; that's how intimate they were with each other, and not in an 'Eww, gross! Get a room!' kind of way, but just in their looks to each other across the room, you know?
And I didn't have to ask how they got along in the other departments. Annie was proof enough that things were going well there. And, well, you know how it is to have me as your lover, so anything's a huge improvement on that.
Yes, Julia's happy ... that is: now.
And as I ate the latkes this morning — I really like them best with the sour cream — I remembered my visit 'Up North' last Christmas. And was I crying this morning, my dears?
Heh. I'm crying now, remembering that cry, and what caused it.
Cute Girl Interlude
You know, I find you beautiful, right? You do know that, and if you don't, it's time for you to do some mirror work, with a good swift kick in the heinder from moiself if you get down on yourself. But I noticed today, like it really struck me, that a beautiful girl, sitting by herself at sbux?
Doesn't that just sit wrong for you, when you see that?
I mean, why is it okay that a guy can come in by himself, order a coffee and stay and work on his computer or go back to the office, and nobody thinks anything about that?
But a girl? She has to be with somebody, and then she's okay, and not just okay, but alive. I mean, she's either with her girlfriend, and they're talking-talking-talking away so happily, or she's with her boyfriend and she's looking at him adoringly, hanging on his every word. Or she's with her children, looking harried, and that's okay, too.
But if she comes in alone? And sits alone?
So, okay, I was on frikken break, okay? And some random blondie is hanging on bf's every word, and then she (well, actually, 'they') comes up to me, and she gives me the g.d. big eyes and says in a wispy voice, 'Would you watch my stuff, so nobody steals it?' and she doesn't even wait for an answer but she and bf go out for a smoke.
Good thing she didn't wait for an answer, 'cause I was all like, 'Yeah, what about me stealing you, sweetheart?'
The 'ladies' was unoccupied. I would've handed her back to bf pretty much unchanged ... if she actually wanted to go back to what's-his-name, which given what I can do (do do ... have done), she may never think straight again.
Nah, I wasn't going to do that (I like 'em with brains), but two things, okay? I was on break! And. Okay, AND! Why the big pleading eyes and breathy voice, for crying out loud? She was just asking me to watch her stuff, and I mean, I wasn't Lauren Bacall and, as far as I know, I'm not starring in a film noir, so why bring out the big guns like that? Was she practicing on me, or something, for goodness sake?
News flash: whatever you were practicing, sweetie ...? It worked, okay?
Jeez!
Phở
I have many comfort foods. And the Washington D.C. area isn't really all that cosmopolitan, did you know that? In fact, the nascent nation was embarrassed to have this backwater city as the Capitol, and it still trails the original (Philly) and NYC, by quite a bit. But we do have some things here ... like sbux, I guess, and a few Phở places. And today I went right after work to one of my favorite haunts ('cause it's close and ... cheap), and for the first time noticed they have 'Happy Hour' from 3 pm to 8 pm.
So I asked.
'Happy Hour' is just for the drinks. $2 beers on tap and $3 labels.
And I was like 'nah,' because ... well ... I can't afford that.
And, also, this'll be my eighteenth day sober.
Christmas pensées interlude
Hm. I wonder how Christmas will go.
Actually, I know how Christmas will go: sbux is open 'til 6pm Christmas day, and guess who's closing?
And some people, some *ahem* partners of mine are bitter about working on Christmas day, but I'm not. I'm actually grateful.
What I really am? I'm scared. 'Cause after I close, there's still another six hours to that day. Six hours. And me, all alone on Christmas day? And what, you say, go over to bb's? Me? And do what? Pretend to be happy? Make small talk with his wife? Who won't be alone in a room with me? And won't even be in touch that she freaks out when I watch their kids? And speaking of whom: shall I watch my nieces open Christmas presents? Seeing them so happy finding what they got? Seeing them so happy in giving me their homemade presents for me? And then do what? After visiting a(nother) happy, happy family? Go home? And do what?
And do what?
You know that suicide hotlines are jammed during this 'most wonderful time of the year,' did you know that?
Heh. That's funny. 'Somebody's thinking about committing suicide, and they call the hotline, and they get a busy signal, or are put on hold for twenty-four minutes.
Not that I have personal experience with that. I'm just saying and ... 'wondering,' is all.
Back to Phở
Anyway, Phở. Phở brings up somebody I met, and thank God, not at sbux, but through bb. Laura is like this really ... hm, how do I say this. She has very strong opinions, which aren't opinions to her, but the way things are, you know? And, oh, it was through Church that I met her, and she was like, 'What do you do, Melissa?'
(I fvcking hate it that she know my name.)
And I told her I was an sbux barista and I had to fvcking explain what 'sbux' is, and she was all like 'Oh, how interesting,' in a very certain, bored way that spoke volumes to me, so I called her on that, and asked her how is that interesting.
She didn't have an interesting answer. 'Oh, I just hearing what people do for work, is all.' Like I was so lower-class trash or something. She doesn't work, you see. She stays at home, doing what, I don't know. Being rich, I guess.
I'm not being very charitable, and I'm sorry about that.
But she was like, 'you're very pretty, but I have this skin treatment system that will really help, it's dermatologically safe and have you heard of the Artistry brand? Would you like to get together to talk about it sometime?'
And I don't know why I agreed to meet her, ... I guess I'm afraid of saying no, you know? And she was kind of insistent.
Anyway, the meeting was like, omr, her husband shows up in a suit and tie! and he goes on for about two hours about this 'business,' and it turns out to be this multilevel, that I'm not going to write the name of, 'cause I don't need to be in a lawsuit, thank you, and they are like, so you want to sign up?
And I'm like, 'no.' I was like definitely no.
And they were like, 'why?'
And, okay, to join their business, I have to sell stuff and I have to talk to people.
Are you laughing yet? Me, talk to people?
Here's me getting read to talk to somebody.
Me, in bathroom: HURL!
Me, running away to another State, and possibly country, before the meeting.
And me, sell stuff?
And Laura was like, but you sell coffee already to lots of people. And I was like, no, I take orders ... they buy the drinks.
So then she wants to sell me this skin care system and the asking price was all for the low, low price of how much? And how much do I make in a week?
But, Melissa she said in that reasonable, irritating nasal whine of hers, this is less than half the price of Lancôme ...
Like I look like the girl who uses Lancôme. You know what kind of girl I look like?
Interlude: group
So, last week in group, we had Donna, this international supermodel and actress, fly in from Hollywood and lead, can you believe it? And she asked for all the young women under twenty-one to stand up, and she made me stand up, and I was like, um.
And so we had a 'conversation' out of that. She made me stand in front of everybody, and said, 'Look at how you're dressed ...'
And I said that shouldn't matter. And she countered right away that it does, and me, in blue jeans and a power blue sweater and sneaks?
She didn't stop there. She brought up a seventeen-year-old girl from Salt Lake City, and this girl was wearing a red cashmere sweater and a black skirt with black pantyhose and black boots. She looked like an office exec, and Donna said that this girl looked mature, somebody you would take seriously and listen to, but me?
And Donna said that I looked like the (immature) seventeen-year-old, and Donna could get away with wearing what I wore, but leading groups? She's had people walk out because she likes mini-minis to show off her long, long legs, but if she's going to reach people where they are at, she has to dress professionally, a minimum of make up, not no make up like me, heels and carry herself like somebody who's up to something, not somebody who's wallowing in suffering, hiding behind that tight smile as she'd being spoken to in front of everybody.
And she looked at me really, really hard and had me sit down.
Yeah. It's been a good week.
Really back to Phở
Whew. Back to Laura. Hm, actually, why did I bring her up?
Oh, yeah, because one day, she made this pronouncement, like, "Oh, do you like fo-o-o-oh, and it's this really good soup, and it's like, fo-o-o-oh!"
And I was like, um, I think it's pronounced Phở (fuh)...
And Laura very decidedly said, "No! It's 'fo-o-o-o-oh!' And it's really good!"
So I was like ... um, ... okay ... (whispered: whatevs)
So today, I ordered Phở Tai Sach, Cha Goi and café suda, and the Vietnamese lady smiled at me and said how well I spoke Vietnamese, and I smiled sadly at her and said now nice she was, because ...
Because when she shouted the order to the cooks, 'Cha Goi' sounded nothing like I said it, but something like 'shza (g)uh' or ... I can't even write it, because there's no way my little Irish mouth can even come close to saying what she said.
Whatever it is, and however it's said, it's a comfort on a cold winter day with an inch of snow still clinging to the ground.
p.r.0.n.
Okay, now, girls, wipe that drool of your chins! So unseemly!
And actually, I'm not that much into p.r.0.n. Really!
(Oh, yeah? How much is 'not that much,' `phfina-dear?)
I do so hate my little Muse when she gets all uppity like that, speaking out of turn. I mean, like, really! Who's in charge here?
Smugly quoth my Muse, soto voce: Me!
ANYWAY!
And Saga is so going to kill me for this reveal, but I did warn her ...
Saga, I did warn you, sweetie, I'm a writer, and what a writer does is she writes.
So, anyway, I mean, really, okay, you want a link? Here, have a link.
You have to be really oblivious to follow that link if you are at work or school, okay?
So, what just happened? Nothing, right? Wasn't that a huge disappointment? All of two minutes and it was just two girls in a tub.
But 'nothing'? Here's what I saw.
You ready? Here's what I told Saga what I saw.
"Did you see me in that vid? I mean, guys are all like, so g.d. serious and ... idk ... about smex, but here were two girls, and they were laughing and having fun and making light of it all, so much so that I smiled, and I wanted to cry.
... And then BOOM. I mean, the subtext. They were having fun, and then all of a sudden, that look of pure lvst crosses her face when n1pple touched n1pple, and wait, was there grinding going on, just instantly, just like that? And then, the playing was over, and now it was time for what was coming next, were it was very, very serious, and needy, and demanding, and loving, and forceful, and tender, and sweet, and longing, and sad, and caring. Did you see that look in her face, that she was trying so hard not to be overcome by, so all she could do is press her lips together, hard, and look, a bit confused, at her lover, and ask, with her eyes: 'what's this?' or 'now? you mean now? are you sure? but I thought we were just playing for each other and for the webcam, and now ...'
So, 'nothing' happening in this vid? Actually, for me, most p.r.0.n, there is absolutely nothing going on in there, except for the actresses trying not to roll their eyes at the ridiculousness of the scenario until actual mutual attraction and bodily need kick-in to help the fantasy.
But here, there was no ridiculousness. I mean, it was ridiculous: 'oh, wow, two girls in a tub; let's fvck.' And they were absolutely fine mocking this absurdity, and that, for me, was so real. They weren't pretending at all: they were making fun and having fun, and then WHAM! it hit them, just like it SO hits me. I'm shy or I'm silly, and then it's suddenly very, very serious and there's no stopping me taking her and her taking me taking her. And her, letting me take her, and letting me into her to take her, past those walls that everyone puts up to keep everyone at bay ... That SO fvcking turns me on.
A short, sweet little vid, that I really liked, ... it talked to me as I am.
... Um. God! I've done it again. A sweet little vid, and I got all ... `phfina."
Do you know how Saga answered me? She told me she wished she had my eyes, even for just a few seconds, to see what I could see, to see beyond the filth and the lies.
And do you know my answer to her, to you, to anybody?
Please.
Please take my eyes. Here, have them. That I could rip my eyes out of their sockets and give them to you, or that I could just cast them from me.
But then what? Be Homer? and be lead about by his teenaged p!mp, wh0ring out the great old man for his stories? Or be Sappho, Lady Melissa's servant, the last thing she saw was her daughter being put to death, before having her eyeballs ruptured by her dead Xeno's dagger?
And ripping out my eyes ... it doesn't make it stop, this seeing.
I'm seeing things now. I'm seeing things now.
I'm hypersensitive to my body right now. I feel everything, standing or sitting or lying down to sleep, and the thinking doesn't stop, eyes wide or eyes wide shut. And I just know sightless `phfina would be even more cursed with clear-seeing.
Because seeing past all the bvllsh!t?
You think that's a gift?
It's a curse, because what if you see past all it? That's not accurate. You see through it ... and through it to what? You ever wonder that?
And seeing through all that ... stuff. Well, ...
You know it doesn't turn off. It doesn't turn off watching p.r.0.n. just trying to blow off some steam but instead seeing two girls suffering poor plot and poor company (that is: each other) and still having to 'put out' for the camera? And ...
And it doesn't turn off in front of the mirror, or when I'm writing a PM, or when I'm reading a PM.
And I see me. I see me so clearly: a little, scared, vicious, poor and lost girl.
And you wonder why I want to die all the time.
And you wonder at how I write Alice so well, ... and Rosalie. My girls. My girls. One who is cursed with clairvoyance ('clear-seeing') and one who sees all the bvllsh!t, and you wish I had my gift for writing, and my gift for seeing.
You know, I wish I could say I wish you had my gift, too, and take it, please, but that's a double-lie.
Firstly, because, well, you do have my gift. You all do. Each of you are living your lives or not living your lives and so aware of that, and so honest and real about that, and lyrical, and poetic, and direct, and honest, and beautiful, and I wish I were the reader and you were the writers, because everything I read from you, dear readers and correspondents, when you get honestly really real about your life, is so, so beautiful, and I want to read that, read you, and not me, and my sh!t.
I hate my sh!t. I hate me.
So that's the first lie: 'I wish you had my gift,' because there's no 'wish' to it. You do have my gift. More than me.
So those of you who have an ounce of self-doubt: put that in your pipe and smoke it!
(Oh! I can't write! you lament. And I'm like, excuse me? What did you just, *ahem* write to me?)
And the second lie is this.
When I was in that hospital bed, and under sedation, and taken care of, and there were no demands on me, I was nothing, I was ...
I was nothing, and nothing mattered, and I was nothing in the matter. I would have been better off dead, and I swear, by God, I will die before anybody puts me back in there, because if I had been dead, at least I wouldn't have been aware that I was 'a ward to society,' 'in the care of ...,' 'convalescing' or whatever you want to call it. If I were dead, at least it wouldn't have mattered that I was just a void, sucking in air and food through an IV at times and excreting fluids that were so kindly removed from me and the sheets by caring healthcare providers, and then I still saw, a little bit, I saw just enough to keep me out of trouble, keep my quiet instead of spouting more nonsense that would extend my stay from weeks to then months to then years.
Yeah, I'm smart. A genius, even, so I learned after my first weeks with me saying stuff that extended my stay, to keep my mouth shut when I wanted to volunteer the 'wrong' answer and then I learned to say the things they needed to hear to nod their head dully and understandingly ... you know, 'in sympathy.'
So, my clear-seeing ... did it put me in the hospital? Maybe. Yes. Yes, I guess it did. And did it abandon me there? No, not really. It showed me what I was when I was there. A vegetable. A potato. A wee Irish potato. And now, it's back, full-force, flooding my poor little brain with so much to say about everything, what I'm doing, and what I'm not, and I can't turn it off, and you say you want this? You're envious of my talent, and grateful to me for daring to say the things nobody else does that touches your heart? So much so you're afraid to review my work, because you're afraid your own sh!t will show, and I'll call you on that?
Yeah, good call, actually.
But do I not want this 'gift'?
You know, Alice would trade her eye-teeth, and more, not to have been clairvoyant. You know, she saw a future where vampires ruled, and fought each other, and she saw Jasper be destroyed in WWV ('World War Vampire') and she saw herself, running toward her reason, her being, her Jasper, and being caught up in that maelstrom, and she saw no way out of it.
She saw that. She saw all the Cullens, dead. She's seen a lot, and you're envious of her because you want that stock tip. And she has to be chipper through all that, and you complain that somebody gave you a funny look in class today.
And then Rosalie would trade what to be human again, and, but, as a human was she happy? Was she ever happy?
Would I trade away my 'gift'?
No.
You cheer. Yay for me.
But being dull? Dimming my senses? I know how that feels like, being dead, walking around, being of no consequence to anybody, being dead, and useless.
And now, seeing, and being a cause in the matter, writing something that touches your heart, saying 'I love you' and being loved in return, and seeing that, and knowing that, and experiencing love, real love, so much so that it hurts, because it means that little lost me does have a place in this cold, callous, careless world, and that place is in your heart?
I really, really, really, wish y'all would leave off so that I could write my stories, and not these heart-wrenching self-revelations.
Yeah, right: and how many times did I check my inbox today, and yesterday, and the day before, and ...
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who met Aphrodite.
Once upon a time, there was a pretty girl who married her Prince Charming.
Once upon a time, there was an sbux barista.
We all find ourselves in history, living our lives.
"And they lived happily ever after."
You know what I'm coming to realize? That ending? That can be said of those who look back on their lives, and, looking back, choose to look at what happened, the good and the bad, happily. Not with Rose-colored glasses, but, 'oh, this happened, and that happened, and now here we are, happily ever after, through that all.'
Alice has something to tell me. She was in the hospital, and now she's happy. She had the hardest life as a human, and as a vampire, with her cursed 'gift,' she's seen the worst that could possibly happen, and she's seen some really bad stuff go down (she does have Jasper Whitlock as her sweetie, after all), and she's living her happily ever after, through it all, despite of it all, and because of it all.
And, well, Esme, right? She lost her child, too, `phfina, right? and then she tried to kill herself, but who is so happy now that nobody know how to write her properly? She's so happy because she is exactly where she is now, right in the now. Being a mommy, being a wife, being so proud of Bella's bravery in just daring to saying hello. Surviving all that to what? Survive? No, prevail and triumph, and not like "so there!" but like, "ah." and just and only that. Esme. Esme and Carlisle. Carlisle and Esme. Who can write them?
Somebody that centered and happy, I guess.
And Rosalie has prevailed, forever, and why? Because she can and she does, and she is rewarded for prevailing, and not quitting, and she's never done it for anybody else or for what anybody else thought, she's always soldiered on, doing the best for herself and, importantly for her, for everybody in her concern, despite what they say to her and about her.
You read ExB reviews with Rosalie chapters on ffn? I have. Saying 'they aren't kind to her' would be stretching the limits of understatement. I bet Rosalie doesn't even bother to read them. Her 'list' is already long enough. Besides, why would she read an ExB fanfic, anyway?
And then there's little me. With something to say. And with the ability to say it well.
And there's you.
It's like ...
*sigh* ... I guess I'm giving myself my Christmas present: a reason to go on. Hope.
So obvious. So simple. All I have to do is not to fight it, but to accept it. And I do. And I don't. I let love in, and then I go have a pity party.
It must be so frustrating, reading me, seeing me struggle so much over something so simple.
Hm. I wonder if they have a recipe for simple acceptance? I am, after all, a simple wee Irish lass, it should go down easily on my tongue.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Slacker
So, ... I could have been writing that next chapter.
I could have been betaing that next chapter for my ... 'beta-ee' (?)
I could have finished that blog entry about why I believe in God that is so anticipated by someone. Or I could have written that blog entry about how I got my ass kicked so thoroughly this weekend in group, that ... what? That I wanted to scream, or cry, or say a meek little 'thank you' and then! get scolded with 'ah, and there's that tight smile you hide behind, Violet.'
Relentless. They are relentless — and merciless — in group.
I could have been doing any of that. But sometimes you have plans and schemes and hopes, ... and then life happens.
So, you know how to get a day off from work and lounge about having (very) sexy girls named Michele and Rebecca and a very nice good-old boy from Steubenville, Ohio wait on you hand and foot?
Have an insistent complaint of chest pains.
I thought, you know, yesterday maybe it was something I ate? You know: when you eat grilled salmon, you get fish burps, but then still having them waking up this morning? And they are worse?
Now, okay, everything's fine, and I'm fine, okay? Cease and desist all panic attack for me, please and thank you.
It was kind of funny, in a way. I called bb this morning, and I was like, 'So, let's say, you know, you're chest kinda ... hurts? and it's kinda hard to breathe, and ..."
And nothing, because he said he was on his way and he hung up on me!
Jerk.
But, you know, what else did I expect? We have family history. Like two dead uncles in the past few years. A complaint of 'indigestion' and then they were dead before the ambulance came. And stroke, too.
But I was like, no way. Me? I'm 23, but bb in his furious way of talking at you told me about his friend who was 22 when she had a stroke that nearly killed her.
And at the hospital, it was super-funny because they kept asking him to sign stuff for me as I was rushed right through the emergency room and poked and prodded in every which way, and Michele (who had eyes just like mine ... very intense looking into them) said to him, 'Are you the fath...' And I like snarled, 'He's my brother!'
I mean, like: Jeez! Really!
I mean, like, he looks like he's in his twenties, so what does that make me? Did she think I was a twelve-year-old, or something?
I'M NOT, OKAY!?!
And Dr. super-hot Rebecca ...
Is the hospital hiring on the basis of hawtness? Do they have openings for ... assistants? (Female) Doctors need stress-relief, too, right?
And she wore this, like, black corset under her scrubs, for crying out loud! I'm like, what is this? Free advertising? "Come work at our hospital!" I'd ... come, all right! I tell you what!
You know.
And then good old country boy Jim, the RN, comes in, and he's all easy-going and comfortable ... until I say, 'When can I go to work?' And then he gets all didactic with a leaning-in stance and pointing finger and is like 'Acute chest pains? Honey,' (he called me 'honey,' tee-hehe!) 'you're under 24-hour observation here!'
And I'm like, okay, now ...
See, I have this thing about hospitals? So my blood pressure and heart rate were already off the charts? (177/85, I think, and 90 bpm) And they want me to stay? AND WHEN can I get writing in? Because they sure as hell weren't going to provide me a Mac. What? Was I going to be force-fed Winnie the Pooh on the Disney channel all night?
Ugh!
Fortunately for me, I passed all the tests with flying colors. No inflammations nor blood clots anywhere. And, of course! the pain went away after I was sequestered away in an emergency care room. It did return for a bit, but a tylenol and a tums and lots of TLC from the hospital staff made that go away again.
And saying to Jim that I don't like taking medicine as he's handing you the tylenol?
Good old easy-going country boy was replaced by 'Jim, The Registered Nurse and You WILL Take this Medication if You Know What's Good for You!'
If he wasn't so determined to get me well, I was more than a bit convinced he would've wanted to act out his death glare on me.
Getting a sonogram was ...
... well, and then they asked, you know, routinely because of my congestion if did I think I was pregnant ...?
Ouch. Just ouch.
So, but I was given a clean bill of health, which puzzled the doctors mightily, and was allowed to be sent home on my merry way, thank God! ... with the understanding, of course, that I return right away if the pain returns. bb drove me home — not to sbux — and I got a nice nap in.
Do you know what my biggest fear is? I mean, after I found that, no, I wasn't having a heart attack?
I mean, looking back on my life, and yes, I'm young, okay? I know, so back off, okay? But if Drew Barrymore can write her autobiography at 13, then well, I can look back on my life, okay?
Well, I mean, I'm ready. I mean, I'm in the middle of everything, but isn't everybody? And I ... well, I've dared. I've stepped out. I've actually published what I've written. And actually had something come from that, like save lives and made friends. And had friends dare to publish what they've written me. And lives have been touched and saved from their writing, and they've gotten more reviews than I ever have had. So, I've lit the torch and passed it on.
So I'm ready. If today was the day, I would have died happy.
So that's not what I'm scared of.
You know what I'm scared of? I'm scared of what they'll say to me — and what they won't say to me — at work. I mean, 'oh, Violet, are you okay?' or just that look, you know? Or will they try to pretend everything's okay? Or will they be concerned and caring and extra careful around me or ...
I'm getting sick, just thinking about it. What they'll say, and what I'll have to say. Or what they won't say, and what I won't say, you know?
Silly little `phfina, almost maybe dying of a heart attack, and her biggest worry is what other people will think.
*sigh*
I know. I know. 'Live boldly!' 'Who cares what they think?' an' a' that.
And that's true.
So, what I think I'll go do ... no: what I will do is snuggle up in bed under the nice, warm covers and eat some chips and hummus and watch a cute little romcom like Le Placard or Le Valet or Bride and Prejudice ... or, maybe My Big, Fat GR∑∑K Wedding.
Nighty-night all!
I could have been betaing that next chapter for my ... 'beta-ee' (?)
I could have finished that blog entry about why I believe in God that is so anticipated by someone. Or I could have written that blog entry about how I got my ass kicked so thoroughly this weekend in group, that ... what? That I wanted to scream, or cry, or say a meek little 'thank you' and then! get scolded with 'ah, and there's that tight smile you hide behind, Violet.'
Relentless. They are relentless — and merciless — in group.
I could have been doing any of that. But sometimes you have plans and schemes and hopes, ... and then life happens.
So, you know how to get a day off from work and lounge about having (very) sexy girls named Michele and Rebecca and a very nice good-old boy from Steubenville, Ohio wait on you hand and foot?
Have an insistent complaint of chest pains.
I thought, you know, yesterday maybe it was something I ate? You know: when you eat grilled salmon, you get fish burps, but then still having them waking up this morning? And they are worse?
Now, okay, everything's fine, and I'm fine, okay? Cease and desist all panic attack for me, please and thank you.
It was kind of funny, in a way. I called bb this morning, and I was like, 'So, let's say, you know, you're chest kinda ... hurts? and it's kinda hard to breathe, and ..."
And nothing, because he said he was on his way and he hung up on me!
Jerk.
But, you know, what else did I expect? We have family history. Like two dead uncles in the past few years. A complaint of 'indigestion' and then they were dead before the ambulance came. And stroke, too.
But I was like, no way. Me? I'm 23, but bb in his furious way of talking at you told me about his friend who was 22 when she had a stroke that nearly killed her.
And at the hospital, it was super-funny because they kept asking him to sign stuff for me as I was rushed right through the emergency room and poked and prodded in every which way, and Michele (who had eyes just like mine ... very intense looking into them) said to him, 'Are you the fath...' And I like snarled, 'He's my brother!'
I mean, like: Jeez! Really!
I mean, like, he looks like he's in his twenties, so what does that make me? Did she think I was a twelve-year-old, or something?
I'M NOT, OKAY!?!
And Dr. super-hot Rebecca ...
Is the hospital hiring on the basis of hawtness? Do they have openings for ... assistants? (Female) Doctors need stress-relief, too, right?
And she wore this, like, black corset under her scrubs, for crying out loud! I'm like, what is this? Free advertising? "Come work at our hospital!" I'd ... come, all right! I tell you what!
You know.
And then good old country boy Jim, the RN, comes in, and he's all easy-going and comfortable ... until I say, 'When can I go to work?' And then he gets all didactic with a leaning-in stance and pointing finger and is like 'Acute chest pains? Honey,' (he called me 'honey,' tee-hehe!) 'you're under 24-hour observation here!'
And I'm like, okay, now ...
See, I have this thing about hospitals? So my blood pressure and heart rate were already off the charts? (177/85, I think, and 90 bpm) And they want me to stay? AND WHEN can I get writing in? Because they sure as hell weren't going to provide me a Mac. What? Was I going to be force-fed Winnie the Pooh on the Disney channel all night?
Ugh!
Fortunately for me, I passed all the tests with flying colors. No inflammations nor blood clots anywhere. And, of course! the pain went away after I was sequestered away in an emergency care room. It did return for a bit, but a tylenol and a tums and lots of TLC from the hospital staff made that go away again.
And saying to Jim that I don't like taking medicine as he's handing you the tylenol?
Good old easy-going country boy was replaced by 'Jim, The Registered Nurse and You WILL Take this Medication if You Know What's Good for You!'
If he wasn't so determined to get me well, I was more than a bit convinced he would've wanted to act out his death glare on me.
Getting a sonogram was ...
... well, and then they asked, you know, routinely because of my congestion if did I think I was pregnant ...?
Ouch. Just ouch.
So, but I was given a clean bill of health, which puzzled the doctors mightily, and was allowed to be sent home on my merry way, thank God! ... with the understanding, of course, that I return right away if the pain returns. bb drove me home — not to sbux — and I got a nice nap in.
Do you know what my biggest fear is? I mean, after I found that, no, I wasn't having a heart attack?
I mean, looking back on my life, and yes, I'm young, okay? I know, so back off, okay? But if Drew Barrymore can write her autobiography at 13, then well, I can look back on my life, okay?
Well, I mean, I'm ready. I mean, I'm in the middle of everything, but isn't everybody? And I ... well, I've dared. I've stepped out. I've actually published what I've written. And actually had something come from that, like save lives and made friends. And had friends dare to publish what they've written me. And lives have been touched and saved from their writing, and they've gotten more reviews than I ever have had. So, I've lit the torch and passed it on.
So I'm ready. If today was the day, I would have died happy.
So that's not what I'm scared of.
You know what I'm scared of? I'm scared of what they'll say to me — and what they won't say to me — at work. I mean, 'oh, Violet, are you okay?' or just that look, you know? Or will they try to pretend everything's okay? Or will they be concerned and caring and extra careful around me or ...
I'm getting sick, just thinking about it. What they'll say, and what I'll have to say. Or what they won't say, and what I won't say, you know?
Silly little `phfina, almost maybe dying of a heart attack, and her biggest worry is what other people will think.
*sigh*
I know. I know. 'Live boldly!' 'Who cares what they think?' an' a' that.
And that's true.
So, what I think I'll go do ... no: what I will do is snuggle up in bed under the nice, warm covers and eat some chips and hummus and watch a cute little romcom like Le Placard or Le Valet or Bride and Prejudice ... or, maybe My Big, Fat GR∑∑K Wedding.
Nighty-night all!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Le Gasp!
Hm. Was going to comment on the article in the Washington Post about 8th graders binge drinking and how, well, I guess I didn't start all that early (whatever that means, meaning: nothing but excuses, and yes, fourth day dry), but le gasp! bb's started a new story! Excuse me while I try not to faint.
p.s. Yeah, yeah: I'm writing, too, okay?
p.s. Yeah, yeah: I'm writing, too, okay?
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Rubáiyát of `phfina
"A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness —
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!"
Quatrain XII in the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam
`phfina analysis:
Made myself spaghetti for supper tonight with a red sauce and ground beef. Went simple, so used the sauce from the jar. ... Don't tell my Nana, but ... well, she makes sauces like nobody's business, they tasted so good. This sauce was a little sweet and a little tasteless.
And it really needed a cup of wine to go with it, I mean, it really, really needed a cup of red wine.
And, you know, I've fallen twice already, so, I mean, why not give up and give in, since I've already screwed up twice already.
Just give up the game, and no, I don't have any red wine, but a quick exit from my apartment to the supermarket would remedy that in a jiffy (jiffy, n: 1/100th of second). And, why even bother? Cognac would be fine, too, right?
And I really, really miss bourbon in the nights, when I'm writing. And ...
... and on and on and on.
And well, day two, no drinking.
I hate this. I really enjoy drinking, and I really miss it. Why am I doing this? Why do I do anything?
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Little Wee One
My nose is cold.
That was the primary thought I had in Mass today, that, and my cheeks were burning with the cold and probably blushing bright pink since I'm in our poor little parish church that keeps the heat bill low, and did I have a jacket, yes, and were other people wearing theirs, yes, but was shy little me, so worried what other people would think about the little girl in the second pew putting on her jacket and the thought 'what would they think?' kept gnawing at me, so did I put it on or did I just suffer the cold?
Yeah, right.
When ... well, we had an exchange student from Belgium when I was in high school whose name was Jean-Paul which sounds a lot to American ears like 'bean pole,' and so I would get looks when people called out his name.
I am a wee one. One hundred twenty pounds with my clothes on (and shoes) ... on a good day, and oh, so sensitive, yes, in that way (and in other ways) to the cold, it's what? 40°F outside today, and when I was leaving that cold, cold church, I sprinted to my little red car as the 'cold' knifed into me.
Stop laughing at me, please.
And if the cold kills me, the heat is worse. Back in high school near the end of the school year it was one of those hot CT summers were it was 105°F and oh-so-humid, and I was standing in the back listening to the principal, and all the sudden everything spun and then I was looking up at the ceiling and everybody was so tall looking down at me and I was lying on the floor, and I was like, 'oh, God! no, not again!' but it was just pale little nothing me fainting from the heat, was all.
"Walk of shame"? That's me, being escorted to the nurse's office, trying to tell anybody who'd listen that I was fine now.
So, well, I'm nothing to look at, if you're sizing me up, then I'm the featherweight, the push-over, the picked-on nerdy kid with her hand raised every time the teacher asks a question, the 'I could beat her up, the queer,' because, yes, some people have actually thought that.
M.J. for one. He was the school bully, and they were always having to air-brush out his raised middle fingers, in every single class photo. I mean, he was just mean, and mad, his yearbook motto was that he hated 'fags, queers, and teachers.' And I didn't think I was on the radar, his radar, his hate-gaydar, because I wasn't out, you know, at school, but one night ...
I didn't live far from school, so Julia drove over to our house one night, and she and I walked to school, past M.J.'s house with the ravenous, rabid guard dog (skirt, skirt, skirt) and went to a play or a dance or something, don't remember it, don't remember what Julia and I did, 'cause we walked back, in the moonlit night, and we were walking along, Julia and I, laughing and talking, and all the sudden Julia screamed and I felt a 'thud!' on the back of my head and saw three dark blobs. I screamed at Julia to run, and I swung my mag-light and it connected and a thug went down onto the ground.
And stayed there for a few seconds. The other two guys helped the third up, and I backed up in a crouch, and I asked something like, 'who's next?' and one of them said something to me but they kept their distance and I backed away from them and ran home to find Julia in my mom's arms in hysterics, worried that I was dead or hurt or something.
I was like so high from adrenaline I didn't feel a thing, not even the bump on the back of my head, and I drove Julia home that night in her car, and well, she was really, really wound up, you know? And all scared for me and all 'my hero!' (*ahem*: 'heroine'), actually looking up to me with big, big eyes, and she couldn't get to sleep at all and I told her mom that I would look after her tonight, and I called my mom and said I was sleeping over to take care of Julia and ...
... And, well, you do know I 'started early,' right? Julia and I were 'good friends,' you know, up to that point, and I didn't, you know, do anything, because I didn't know her, you know, preference and, well ...
'My hero[ine]' sex is right up there, you know?
That's not the point ... I think (but it was very, very sweet, remembering that night and what it meant).
The point — if there is one — was that M.J. saw me in a certain way, and, looking at scrawny little nothing me, people say to themselves, 'aw, cute.'
Well, 'aw, cute' works out every day (DDR), takes Aikido, has gone to her local police station and has taken 'self-defense for women,' and I'm looking into Escrima, after I saw a demo where this one guy put in six bone-breaking moves on his partner before I could swallow at the impact of seeing the first one.
When I say 'noone will touch me without a lot of pain coming their way,' I'm not joking around. I've read the papers since I was a little girl, and I know what happens to labeled people, we get isolated, then persecuted, then executed. And there are hate crimes happening tonight in this very city.
Somebody wanting to take something out on me or on mine has got something coming at them that's much bigger than what I look like I can deliver. Touch me without my consent? I will fvck you up.
Why do I say all this? Because you think, 'aw' when you see cute little me, don't you? 'How cute! `phfina's acting all panthery, does she need a hug?'
But not everybody thinks that.
And one of those people is my mom.
I just want to say, right here, so I will, I have never hit someone I love ... but there was this one day when everything changed. Again.
I was in the living room, reading, and my mom asked me to do something, you know? Just a nothing something, like put away the dishes or take out the trash, and I ...
And I saw red. I threw my book aside and I ran right at her, screaming at the top of my lungs, and I was right in her face. Actually, for the first time in my life, I noticed I was looking a little bit down at my mother.
And I was looking down at a face that was scared, and a little voice inside me said, 'You are scaring your mother' as I screamed and shouted incoherently at her. And she was completely pale, and looking toward the phone, and I wondered if she was going to call Dad or call 911 and have me put back in the hospital or ...
But she asked me what was wrong, so softly, so patiently, so scared.
And I had no answer for her, just this rage and anger and hate.
I hated my own mom for asking me to do a chore, taking me away from my escape in my book to help her run the house now that Dad was gone, and what was I doing to help?
We never talked about that moment. It happened, and mom tamed the beast with her soft, caring words, and then I did the chore and life went on.
And after church today, a lady in the pew behind me, older than Brenda, I guess, tapped me on the shoulder and said, 'you sing so beautifully!' and I said, 'thank you,' and smiled at her, but then, after a second, I said, 'it was nice of you to say that to me,' and warmed my smile, and she said, 'oh, no: it was so nice to hear you sing!' and then she left with her husband, and I went home with the words John the Baptist: 'I must decrease' ringing in my ears and ...
Well, Fr. P. was angry with me. I mean, he didn't say that, but this was the first time he also didn't say 'good confession.'
I told him that it was hard for me to see God's gifts to me, like he had asked me to do, when all I've been doing this week is getting into fights with people, spoiling for fights, maybe, even. And Fr. said, "As you get older ..." — yeah, look at little baby me — "you begin to appreciate the hardest prayer was Jesus on the cross saying 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.'" And he told me to appreciate God's gifts in other people. He didn't ask 'can you do that?' this time.
And, well, I went to supper with my friend Greg from group. He's an excited little puppy dog, and he and his wife are having their first baby, and all supper it was about that, but also about, you know, life, and work and stuff, and he thanked me for being a friend, and listening and also not letting him get away with the bvllsh!t, you know? the lies he tells himself about himself.
And I could have told him that I wasn't drinking anymore, but he wanted and ordered a blue moon, and then he rhapsodied about single-malt Scotch and ordered the 12-year Glen Livet and ... well ...
God, I love Scotch.
Starting over — again: day one.
And "I must decrease" is burning my (cold) ears right now, and I remember the time when that actually did happen.
But that's another entry for another time addressing the question as to 'why I believe in God?'
Goodnight, my loves
That was the primary thought I had in Mass today, that, and my cheeks were burning with the cold and probably blushing bright pink since I'm in our poor little parish church that keeps the heat bill low, and did I have a jacket, yes, and were other people wearing theirs, yes, but was shy little me, so worried what other people would think about the little girl in the second pew putting on her jacket and the thought 'what would they think?' kept gnawing at me, so did I put it on or did I just suffer the cold?
Yeah, right.
When ... well, we had an exchange student from Belgium when I was in high school whose name was Jean-Paul which sounds a lot to American ears like 'bean pole,' and so I would get looks when people called out his name.
I am a wee one. One hundred twenty pounds with my clothes on (and shoes) ... on a good day, and oh, so sensitive, yes, in that way (and in other ways) to the cold, it's what? 40°F outside today, and when I was leaving that cold, cold church, I sprinted to my little red car as the 'cold' knifed into me.
Stop laughing at me, please.
And if the cold kills me, the heat is worse. Back in high school near the end of the school year it was one of those hot CT summers were it was 105°F and oh-so-humid, and I was standing in the back listening to the principal, and all the sudden everything spun and then I was looking up at the ceiling and everybody was so tall looking down at me and I was lying on the floor, and I was like, 'oh, God! no, not again!' but it was just pale little nothing me fainting from the heat, was all.
"Walk of shame"? That's me, being escorted to the nurse's office, trying to tell anybody who'd listen that I was fine now.
So, well, I'm nothing to look at, if you're sizing me up, then I'm the featherweight, the push-over, the picked-on nerdy kid with her hand raised every time the teacher asks a question, the 'I could beat her up, the queer,' because, yes, some people have actually thought that.
M.J. for one. He was the school bully, and they were always having to air-brush out his raised middle fingers, in every single class photo. I mean, he was just mean, and mad, his yearbook motto was that he hated 'fags, queers, and teachers.' And I didn't think I was on the radar, his radar, his hate-gaydar, because I wasn't out, you know, at school, but one night ...
I didn't live far from school, so Julia drove over to our house one night, and she and I walked to school, past M.J.'s house with the ravenous, rabid guard dog (skirt, skirt, skirt) and went to a play or a dance or something, don't remember it, don't remember what Julia and I did, 'cause we walked back, in the moonlit night, and we were walking along, Julia and I, laughing and talking, and all the sudden Julia screamed and I felt a 'thud!' on the back of my head and saw three dark blobs. I screamed at Julia to run, and I swung my mag-light and it connected and a thug went down onto the ground.
And stayed there for a few seconds. The other two guys helped the third up, and I backed up in a crouch, and I asked something like, 'who's next?' and one of them said something to me but they kept their distance and I backed away from them and ran home to find Julia in my mom's arms in hysterics, worried that I was dead or hurt or something.
I was like so high from adrenaline I didn't feel a thing, not even the bump on the back of my head, and I drove Julia home that night in her car, and well, she was really, really wound up, you know? And all scared for me and all 'my hero!' (*ahem*: 'heroine'), actually looking up to me with big, big eyes, and she couldn't get to sleep at all and I told her mom that I would look after her tonight, and I called my mom and said I was sleeping over to take care of Julia and ...
... And, well, you do know I 'started early,' right? Julia and I were 'good friends,' you know, up to that point, and I didn't, you know, do anything, because I didn't know her, you know, preference and, well ...
'My hero[ine]' sex is right up there, you know?
That's not the point ... I think (but it was very, very sweet, remembering that night and what it meant).
The point — if there is one — was that M.J. saw me in a certain way, and, looking at scrawny little nothing me, people say to themselves, 'aw, cute.'
Well, 'aw, cute' works out every day (DDR), takes Aikido, has gone to her local police station and has taken 'self-defense for women,' and I'm looking into Escrima, after I saw a demo where this one guy put in six bone-breaking moves on his partner before I could swallow at the impact of seeing the first one.
When I say 'noone will touch me without a lot of pain coming their way,' I'm not joking around. I've read the papers since I was a little girl, and I know what happens to labeled people, we get isolated, then persecuted, then executed. And there are hate crimes happening tonight in this very city.
Somebody wanting to take something out on me or on mine has got something coming at them that's much bigger than what I look like I can deliver. Touch me without my consent? I will fvck you up.
Why do I say all this? Because you think, 'aw' when you see cute little me, don't you? 'How cute! `phfina's acting all panthery, does she need a hug?'
But not everybody thinks that.
And one of those people is my mom.
I just want to say, right here, so I will, I have never hit someone I love ... but there was this one day when everything changed. Again.
I was in the living room, reading, and my mom asked me to do something, you know? Just a nothing something, like put away the dishes or take out the trash, and I ...
And I saw red. I threw my book aside and I ran right at her, screaming at the top of my lungs, and I was right in her face. Actually, for the first time in my life, I noticed I was looking a little bit down at my mother.
And I was looking down at a face that was scared, and a little voice inside me said, 'You are scaring your mother' as I screamed and shouted incoherently at her. And she was completely pale, and looking toward the phone, and I wondered if she was going to call Dad or call 911 and have me put back in the hospital or ...
But she asked me what was wrong, so softly, so patiently, so scared.
And I had no answer for her, just this rage and anger and hate.
I hated my own mom for asking me to do a chore, taking me away from my escape in my book to help her run the house now that Dad was gone, and what was I doing to help?
We never talked about that moment. It happened, and mom tamed the beast with her soft, caring words, and then I did the chore and life went on.
And after church today, a lady in the pew behind me, older than Brenda, I guess, tapped me on the shoulder and said, 'you sing so beautifully!' and I said, 'thank you,' and smiled at her, but then, after a second, I said, 'it was nice of you to say that to me,' and warmed my smile, and she said, 'oh, no: it was so nice to hear you sing!' and then she left with her husband, and I went home with the words John the Baptist: 'I must decrease' ringing in my ears and ...
Well, Fr. P. was angry with me. I mean, he didn't say that, but this was the first time he also didn't say 'good confession.'
I told him that it was hard for me to see God's gifts to me, like he had asked me to do, when all I've been doing this week is getting into fights with people, spoiling for fights, maybe, even. And Fr. said, "As you get older ..." — yeah, look at little baby me — "you begin to appreciate the hardest prayer was Jesus on the cross saying 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.'" And he told me to appreciate God's gifts in other people. He didn't ask 'can you do that?' this time.
And, well, I went to supper with my friend Greg from group. He's an excited little puppy dog, and he and his wife are having their first baby, and all supper it was about that, but also about, you know, life, and work and stuff, and he thanked me for being a friend, and listening and also not letting him get away with the bvllsh!t, you know? the lies he tells himself about himself.
And I could have told him that I wasn't drinking anymore, but he wanted and ordered a blue moon, and then he rhapsodied about single-malt Scotch and ordered the 12-year Glen Livet and ... well ...
God, I love Scotch.
Starting over — again: day one.
And "I must decrease" is burning my (cold) ears right now, and I remember the time when that actually did happen.
But that's another entry for another time addressing the question as to 'why I believe in God?'
Goodnight, my loves
Thursday, December 2, 2010
I wish I were ...
I wish I were Lila (लीला), but I'm actually too scared to write that post.
Actually, that's a lie. I did write that post, but I'm too scared to publish it. It doesn't make any sense — even to me — so ... well, it's just too scary and weird for me to face right now: that maybe I actually am Lila, and my 'wishing' for it is just my desperate grasp on the Maya (माया) of what I think is 'my' identity.
And Lila, "the dance"? It was supposed to be this joyful, carefree thing, and instead it came out all ... `phfina. *sigh*
So I wish I were ...
What?
Do I wish I were a wee Irish lass back in old Éire? Do you know, `phfina, what kind of life that would be? I mean watch that Mel Gibson Scottish flick. I mean it was Scottish, not Irish, but do I know the difference? and was there any between living conditions of Scotland and Ireland at the time? No.
I would be a pale thin cold hungry barefoot girl who's exotic black Irishness would be a magnet for only one thing, that is if I weren't a gypsy anyway, wandering from place to place, persecuted everywhere. And where would I live? In a 'hut' which was more like a lean-to or a teepee with a central fire pit which we would all sleep around on the ground, bundled together for warmth, which of course would make my bundled partner more than a bit eager and what would I do, say 'no, thanks, you're not my type, and have you brushed your teeth?' And if I did tell him that, what would he say, besides: "Ha-ha, all you girls say the funniest things!"
That is if he could manage that while he's busy getting getting it into me before he comes and then immediately falls into a contented sleep, and leaving me what? grateful that I have a bit of warmth next to me and inside me?
And then nine months later, it's harvest season, and, well, here I am a fourteen year old girl, and I've ripened nicely myself, and it's time for me to bear fruit, right? And that's it? Year after year? Cold, tired, hungry, sick?
And then there's άσπροτριαντάφυλλο. Yes, she's an Anglish, not Éirish, but still the Vikings and Gauls came across the Channel, killed her family, raped her, and brought her back to the Continent to be their slave until the Romans came along, and said, "hm, she's pretty. Okay, guys, let's not kill this one just yet ..." and brought her along with their legion to the delegation in the Hellenistic isles.
So if my life were ordinary, I'd be in a cold, leaky hut working day and night just to be able to feed myself and the others in my ... what? "Village"? That's almost a too civilized word for a group of hunter/gathers eking a living out of the bog they are in, burning smoky peat for warmth. And if my life were exciting, it would be ended on the tip of a Nordic spear, either the steel kind or the fleshy kind.
And before I was like, "Oh, woe is me, some girl said something mean to me! Oh, boo-hoo!" But would I rather be her? That girl one- or two-thousand years ago, who would look at me now and probably die, just die, at all the gifts and blessings I have.
I mean: coffee?!? a hot, clean drink to keep me warm in my warm place of work were people don't come up to me to steal the food in my hands or to steal the innocence of my body, but come up and say 'hi' and give me a smile and give me money. And then I have a blanket on a raised, cushioned platform (which is called a 'bed') and I have water magically transported to my body for washing, which I do more than once a life time, once a day, in fact, and it's heated? And I have time to read and to write?
And I can pout, oh, my stuff is so hard to write! or oh, my stuff is just hack work!
But what did J.K. Rowling say, living in a friend's basement with no money and three kids? And how about that woman who wrote the Hunger Games, year after year, writing with some small appreciation from her few fans (sound familiar, `phfina?) but so totally eclipsed by Steph, she probably more than a few times thought: what's the point, and hasn't this been written before, and besides, I sell books, but who cares?
You know: like me with my thoughts, looking at all these great writers, and looking down my nose in a bookstore at writers of sci-fi or fantasy writing their 'first book in the trilogy' that looks exactly like a Tolkien rip-off or another pointless sci-fi book or, God! Not another romantic vampire novel! Isn't the market flooded already!
I mean, people are already tired of vampire parodies!
And now it's zombies, and what next and who cares?
And why should I write my chapter when it's fan fiction! of a tired genre, and everything I've said Sappho and Rushdie and Kundera and Austen and Kafka and Salinger and Solzhenitsyn and Gaiman and Zelazny and Palahniuk and DeWitt have said much, much, much better.
I wish I were great.
But all of them, the greats. I mean, God! Rushdie has a price on his head and he can't be seen without the fear of not only getting killed but getting those around him killed. And Kafka? Lived misunderstood (Max Brod anyone?) and died in obscurity, and the whole time, probably thinking himself a sick, twisted fvck for thinking the thoughts he thought and for the words he wrote — my spiritual twin: Kafka. And Austen, writing and writing and writing, the same story, over and over again, mildly popular, so that she could get just a little bit of money to buy sugar. How hard that must have been! Doing what she loved, and ... mildly liked for it.
And when they achieve that greatness, that fame, oh, the price they pay for it. Some of you know what I'm talking about, publishing your story, or your chapter, or even your review, and suddenly you are under the spotlight, and hundreds, no, thousands of people are waiting on your next words, and suddenly you are in the spotlight, and scared to death, scared to death of saying the next thing, because it might be the wrong thing, or it may just be the meh thing, which, for me, is so much worse.
I wish I were ...
What? Something different? What different? 'Normal'? And don't you dare challenge me on that, asking the platitudinous 'but what's normal, `phfina?' You know what's normal, and so do I. And I know I'm not normal. I'm just too fvcking smart for even trying to pretend at normal, middle, wholesome America normal normal.
Do I want that? Obviously not. If I did, I'd so be there and be that. Do I want my roots of a little celt girl in her little celt bog, with no choices in life of where or how she lives and who fvcks her? 'Gender preference'? Good luck with that one. Homosexuality doesn't develop first, civilization does, 'cause without civilization, you have to band together to survive and women are property and spoils to be used when their masters desire it. "Free spirit will-o-the-wisp"? Selkies? Nice dreams and myths, but reality is cold, hard and unforgiving.
And what if I were something different, or somebody different? Who would I be? Kristen Stewart? We're actually about the same age, right? (Shocking to know she's just a couple of years younger than me!) How did she get there? And now that she's 'there,' is she happy, with all her stuff, and all the paparazzi and how many interviews each day where she has to answer the same questions, over and over again, and not say one word wrong, and if somebody asked me some of those questions, do you know what my answers would be?
Yes, you do, you read about them in the "parade of angry thoughts from hypersensitive b!tch" that is my blog.
So she can have her life, and I can't even wish for her perks, 'cause her perks only come because she's willing and strong enough to endure the daily grind and torture that is her life. Just like Steph. I mean, stalkers and everything!
And if I weren't me, where does that leave you?
If I weren't me, I would've never have touched you with my writing, would I? Just as if you weren't you, you wouldn't touch the people you do, being you. I know. I see people I cannot touch, being touched by you. I'm one of those people, did you know that? If you were me (as maybe some of you wish you were: "oh, I wish I were as smart as `phfina!" "oh, I wish I wrote as well as `phfina!" "Oh, I wish I were as brave (brazen?) as `phfina!" "Oh, I wish I had a heart that felt as deeply as `phfina's!" [no, you don't; God! no, you don't!]), then, let me tell you, there is no way you would've touched me as you do. When I'm being me, I just can't stand me: the little snivelling strange self-righteous stuck-up smart-@$$ b!tch that I am.
If you were me, do you know how many you wouldn't be able to touch? including me? So I'm glad you are you, and please, be glad you are you, too.
And ... well, Miss Dispenser-of-free-advice, I'm ... (God, this hurts) glad I'm me. I'm glad I'm me, now, here, writing my fvcking sh!t stories that still are just good enough to touch your hearts, and to give you hope, just like Jubal Harshaw, dictating his self-proclaimed maudlin crap (that he wrote daily, and loved to write daily) for instantaneous and vociferous consumption by his adoring fans.
Hm, does that mean I get my own harem of deliciously sexy secretaries to take dictation the instant I shout an imperious 'Front!' and to give me back rubs — and more! — when it's past my bed time? oh, the possibilities!
*AHEM!* [I have no idea! where that errant and spurious thought came from!]
*rolls eyes*
Where was I?
Oh, yes ... so I'd better start living — and writing — like that's so, that I'm glad I'm me, and that I'm glad I'm writing what I write, because the truth of the matter, my dear girl (my muse has this funny voice: she sounds just like me), is that you chose this life, and, if you looked really hard, you love this life, you love that your words touch others, and that you are of service to others, and that what you do actually helps others, giving them a better day and happiness, be it in your writing, in your smile, or in one cup of coffee at a time.
So, deal with that, Miss I-wish-I-were ... deal with that you wished yourself right here into the D.C. area and that you are the authOress of more than a few stories, and you love to write, and you love what you've written and are writing. Deal with the fact that you are living the life many girls could never dream of wishing to live, and you are living that life.
You chose the stage, you chose the song, the audience is assembled and looking to you expectantly, filled with anticipation of another delightfully sorrowful solo from our sweet little nightingale, so cut this moaning hemming and hawing crap and sing your song only as you can sing it.
*sigh* yes, ma'am.
I don't so much mind my muse being so right about everything all the time, but her self-satisfied smirk as she delivers her smug sermons can be rather trying at times.
oh, and, mais, bien sûr, seven days, alcohol-free.
That's not accurate, either, is it? Nothing 'sure' about it, although it is reassuring, and anyway, I'm not 'alcohol-free.' I think about wanting to drink every day, so I'm very much 'alcohol-bound' in my thoughts and in my mind, so 'alcohol-free'? That's a lie; it's more accurate is this: 'It's been seven days since my last drink.'
Actually, that's a lie. I did write that post, but I'm too scared to publish it. It doesn't make any sense — even to me — so ... well, it's just too scary and weird for me to face right now: that maybe I actually am Lila, and my 'wishing' for it is just my desperate grasp on the Maya (माया) of what I think is 'my' identity.
And Lila, "the dance"? It was supposed to be this joyful, carefree thing, and instead it came out all ... `phfina. *sigh*
So I wish I were ...
What?
Do I wish I were a wee Irish lass back in old Éire? Do you know, `phfina, what kind of life that would be? I mean watch that Mel Gibson Scottish flick. I mean it was Scottish, not Irish, but do I know the difference? and was there any between living conditions of Scotland and Ireland at the time? No.
I would be a pale thin cold hungry barefoot girl who's exotic black Irishness would be a magnet for only one thing, that is if I weren't a gypsy anyway, wandering from place to place, persecuted everywhere. And where would I live? In a 'hut' which was more like a lean-to or a teepee with a central fire pit which we would all sleep around on the ground, bundled together for warmth, which of course would make my bundled partner more than a bit eager and what would I do, say 'no, thanks, you're not my type, and have you brushed your teeth?' And if I did tell him that, what would he say, besides: "Ha-ha, all you girls say the funniest things!"
That is if he could manage that while he's busy getting getting it into me before he comes and then immediately falls into a contented sleep, and leaving me what? grateful that I have a bit of warmth next to me and inside me?
And then nine months later, it's harvest season, and, well, here I am a fourteen year old girl, and I've ripened nicely myself, and it's time for me to bear fruit, right? And that's it? Year after year? Cold, tired, hungry, sick?
And then there's άσπροτριαντάφυλλο. Yes, she's an Anglish, not Éirish, but still the Vikings and Gauls came across the Channel, killed her family, raped her, and brought her back to the Continent to be their slave until the Romans came along, and said, "hm, she's pretty. Okay, guys, let's not kill this one just yet ..." and brought her along with their legion to the delegation in the Hellenistic isles.
So if my life were ordinary, I'd be in a cold, leaky hut working day and night just to be able to feed myself and the others in my ... what? "Village"? That's almost a too civilized word for a group of hunter/gathers eking a living out of the bog they are in, burning smoky peat for warmth. And if my life were exciting, it would be ended on the tip of a Nordic spear, either the steel kind or the fleshy kind.
And before I was like, "Oh, woe is me, some girl said something mean to me! Oh, boo-hoo!" But would I rather be her? That girl one- or two-thousand years ago, who would look at me now and probably die, just die, at all the gifts and blessings I have.
I mean: coffee?!? a hot, clean drink to keep me warm in my warm place of work were people don't come up to me to steal the food in my hands or to steal the innocence of my body, but come up and say 'hi' and give me a smile and give me money. And then I have a blanket on a raised, cushioned platform (which is called a 'bed') and I have water magically transported to my body for washing, which I do more than once a life time, once a day, in fact, and it's heated? And I have time to read and to write?
And I can pout, oh, my stuff is so hard to write! or oh, my stuff is just hack work!
But what did J.K. Rowling say, living in a friend's basement with no money and three kids? And how about that woman who wrote the Hunger Games, year after year, writing with some small appreciation from her few fans (sound familiar, `phfina?) but so totally eclipsed by Steph, she probably more than a few times thought: what's the point, and hasn't this been written before, and besides, I sell books, but who cares?
You know: like me with my thoughts, looking at all these great writers, and looking down my nose in a bookstore at writers of sci-fi or fantasy writing their 'first book in the trilogy' that looks exactly like a Tolkien rip-off or another pointless sci-fi book or, God! Not another romantic vampire novel! Isn't the market flooded already!
I mean, people are already tired of vampire parodies!
And now it's zombies, and what next and who cares?
And why should I write my chapter when it's fan fiction! of a tired genre, and everything I've said Sappho and Rushdie and Kundera and Austen and Kafka and Salinger and Solzhenitsyn and Gaiman and Zelazny and Palahniuk and DeWitt have said much, much, much better.
I wish I were great.
But all of them, the greats. I mean, God! Rushdie has a price on his head and he can't be seen without the fear of not only getting killed but getting those around him killed. And Kafka? Lived misunderstood (Max Brod anyone?) and died in obscurity, and the whole time, probably thinking himself a sick, twisted fvck for thinking the thoughts he thought and for the words he wrote — my spiritual twin: Kafka. And Austen, writing and writing and writing, the same story, over and over again, mildly popular, so that she could get just a little bit of money to buy sugar. How hard that must have been! Doing what she loved, and ... mildly liked for it.
And when they achieve that greatness, that fame, oh, the price they pay for it. Some of you know what I'm talking about, publishing your story, or your chapter, or even your review, and suddenly you are under the spotlight, and hundreds, no, thousands of people are waiting on your next words, and suddenly you are in the spotlight, and scared to death, scared to death of saying the next thing, because it might be the wrong thing, or it may just be the meh thing, which, for me, is so much worse.
I wish I were ...
What? Something different? What different? 'Normal'? And don't you dare challenge me on that, asking the platitudinous 'but what's normal, `phfina?' You know what's normal, and so do I. And I know I'm not normal. I'm just too fvcking smart for even trying to pretend at normal, middle, wholesome America normal normal.
Do I want that? Obviously not. If I did, I'd so be there and be that. Do I want my roots of a little celt girl in her little celt bog, with no choices in life of where or how she lives and who fvcks her? 'Gender preference'? Good luck with that one. Homosexuality doesn't develop first, civilization does, 'cause without civilization, you have to band together to survive and women are property and spoils to be used when their masters desire it. "Free spirit will-o-the-wisp"? Selkies? Nice dreams and myths, but reality is cold, hard and unforgiving.
And what if I were something different, or somebody different? Who would I be? Kristen Stewart? We're actually about the same age, right? (Shocking to know she's just a couple of years younger than me!) How did she get there? And now that she's 'there,' is she happy, with all her stuff, and all the paparazzi and how many interviews each day where she has to answer the same questions, over and over again, and not say one word wrong, and if somebody asked me some of those questions, do you know what my answers would be?
Yes, you do, you read about them in the "parade of angry thoughts from hypersensitive b!tch" that is my blog.
So she can have her life, and I can't even wish for her perks, 'cause her perks only come because she's willing and strong enough to endure the daily grind and torture that is her life. Just like Steph. I mean, stalkers and everything!
And if I weren't me, where does that leave you?
If I weren't me, I would've never have touched you with my writing, would I? Just as if you weren't you, you wouldn't touch the people you do, being you. I know. I see people I cannot touch, being touched by you. I'm one of those people, did you know that? If you were me (as maybe some of you wish you were: "oh, I wish I were as smart as `phfina!" "oh, I wish I wrote as well as `phfina!" "Oh, I wish I were as brave (brazen?) as `phfina!" "Oh, I wish I had a heart that felt as deeply as `phfina's!" [no, you don't; God! no, you don't!]), then, let me tell you, there is no way you would've touched me as you do. When I'm being me, I just can't stand me: the little snivelling strange self-righteous stuck-up smart-@$$ b!tch that I am.
If you were me, do you know how many you wouldn't be able to touch? including me? So I'm glad you are you, and please, be glad you are you, too.
And ... well, Miss Dispenser-of-free-advice, I'm ... (God, this hurts) glad I'm me. I'm glad I'm me, now, here, writing my fvcking sh!t stories that still are just good enough to touch your hearts, and to give you hope, just like Jubal Harshaw, dictating his self-proclaimed maudlin crap (that he wrote daily, and loved to write daily) for instantaneous and vociferous consumption by his adoring fans.
Hm, does that mean I get my own harem of deliciously sexy secretaries to take dictation the instant I shout an imperious 'Front!' and to give me back rubs — and more! — when it's past my bed time? oh, the possibilities!
*AHEM!* [I have no idea! where that errant and spurious thought came from!]
*rolls eyes*
Where was I?
Oh, yes ... so I'd better start living — and writing — like that's so, that I'm glad I'm me, and that I'm glad I'm writing what I write, because the truth of the matter, my dear girl (my muse has this funny voice: she sounds just like me), is that you chose this life, and, if you looked really hard, you love this life, you love that your words touch others, and that you are of service to others, and that what you do actually helps others, giving them a better day and happiness, be it in your writing, in your smile, or in one cup of coffee at a time.
So, deal with that, Miss I-wish-I-were ... deal with that you wished yourself right here into the D.C. area and that you are the authOress of more than a few stories, and you love to write, and you love what you've written and are writing. Deal with the fact that you are living the life many girls could never dream of wishing to live, and you are living that life.
You chose the stage, you chose the song, the audience is assembled and looking to you expectantly, filled with anticipation of another delightfully sorrowful solo from our sweet little nightingale, so cut this moaning hemming and hawing crap and sing your song only as you can sing it.
*sigh* yes, ma'am.
I don't so much mind my muse being so right about everything all the time, but her self-satisfied smirk as she delivers her smug sermons can be rather trying at times.
oh, and, mais, bien sûr, seven days, alcohol-free.
That's not accurate, either, is it? Nothing 'sure' about it, although it is reassuring, and anyway, I'm not 'alcohol-free.' I think about wanting to drink every day, so I'm very much 'alcohol-bound' in my thoughts and in my mind, so 'alcohol-free'? That's a lie; it's more accurate is this: 'It's been seven days since my last drink.'
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