So, ... I like to eat. And to cook. And to eat.
So, but I'm not a like health nut, but I'm not a junk-food junkie.
ARG! This post is just so hard to start.
Okay, so certain foods remind me of certain ... girls.
So, like, for Julia, there's the potato pancakes, because her husband, Jeff, made them when I visited two Christmases ago. But there's also carrots, because Julia was a red head, a carrot top, just like (that Wild) Cate. So I like to juice carrots with an apple and then, from the separated, shredded, carrot leavings, I make carrot-nut-raisin bread:
Preheat oven to 350°F
In a bowl combine:
1½ cups flour
½ teas salt
1 teas cinnamon
1 teas baking powder
In another bowl, mix together
1 cup vegetable oil
3 eggs
½ cup sugar
¼ cup molasses
½ teas vanilla
1½ cup shredded carrots
1 cup raisins
1 cup chopped walnuts
(optional: ½ cup chocolate chips)
Stir in the flour mixture into the carrot one, pour contents into a bread pan, and bake for 1 hour.
This recipe has been a work in progress. The last time it was too salty, so this time I reduced the salt from 1 teas to ½ teas and that worked much better.
And I have yummy, (sorta) healthy, carrot-nut-bread dessert.
Kate also gave me radishes. She always had a fresh bag of radishes, and she would just take one out, wash it, and eat it, raw, just like that, at her apartment, when I was ... visiting her. So I have a bag of radishes with me, and whenever I eat one, I think of her.
She would have a cigarette after sex, too, and she just thought it was so funny when I took a drag from her fag and coughed and coughed. It tasted minty. She wouldn't let me smoke after that one drag.
Both Kate and Julia were shorter than me.
So, what's my type?
Red heads? Shorties?
I had a fifth grade teacher, and he would always proclaim: "I'd rather be dead, then red ... on the head!" He grew up during bomb-shelters and the Cold War. I just thought that was so mean to Julia, but Julia and I were just friends in 5th grade, so I never did nor said anything.
Or, I must have an infatuation with blondes, right? 'Cause of my Rosalie-fixation and that film noir post. I was just about to say I never had a blonde, you know, as a ... special friend, but then I remember Brenda.
Brenda was a blonde, in every sense of the word: leggy, curvaceous. Brenda introduced me to wine, and cooked me these lavish dinners, like grilled steak served with brussels sprouts. She would say, 'have another glass of wine, Melissa,' you know, in that pleading, possessive, hopeful voice of hers, which, reflecting on how she said that, she really meant, 'stay a bit longer.'
And now I know she meant, 'don't leave me.' That is: 'don't leave me to be alone.'
Brenda ... loved me. They all did. They all do. She loved me as a mother loves a child, and she taught me so many things in the bedroom. She would curl me around her and I would hold onto her for dear life and I would just lose my mind, and then she would turn around and hold me so tightly for a moment, and then turn me away and just hold me as I fell asleep in her arms.
I never really felt that until Brenda. I mean, she was a total femme, and she just wrapped me in her embrace, and I never felt so ... what is the word? protected? just cocooned in her arms like that. It was like I was her baby girl and her teenaged daughter and her lover all at the same time, and she just so needed that, after her husband died, I guess, she just so needed me.
And I did leave her. I did leave her to be alone.
So, it's white girls, then, that are my preference? No, because there was Melanie. And yes, nothing happened, but it very nearly did and it wasn't for the want of desire on either party's part, let me tell you.
So, then you don't go after the Asian chicks, then, eh?
Oh, my goodness. You would not believe the number of Asian girls in college that were ... exploring their sexuality, being away from home for the first time and all that. In fact, I was accused of being an asian-lover in school! They called me an 'egg'! You know: white on the outside, yellow on the inside. I mean, there was Grace, and Amy, and Sue, and ...
And ... *whew*! Um, excuse me a moment ...
Okay, I'm back now.
Um.
So, a type? Okay, so, now you've got me: I only go for the brainy ones.
Yeah, okay. There was this knock-out girl who instantly turned me off when she opened her mouth and out came all this racist stuff. Two girls, actually: Tanya and ... hm, forgot the other girl's name. So, brainy girls, right?
Well, okay, so how do you explain Brenda? She was matriculating, and her prof told her that all she could ever be was a B-student.
Good thing I never met her prof. I would have kicked his teeth in. Or hers. I was furious when Brenda told me that. Listen, if you're a prof, don't do that to a student, okay? And if you're a student, and a prof does that to you, take those words and say: 'okay, I'll show you!' And show him. Or her.
Brenda wasn't smart in that she claimed she wasn't smart. But she was kind. And motherly. And ... well, a survivor, and ... she took care of broken little me when I was so far down and made me feel special and wanted.
And, so, well, beautiful, then, `phfina?
Sure, looks can draw me in. I'll admit that.
But, funny thing. Beauty, ... well. So I went back home after college and I ran into Chris (no, not Chris) and I always looked at him (yes: him) as this big, dumb sports jock. And always in the hunt, cruising for chicks for an easy lay.
He never hit on me. I guess I wasn't an easy lay. For him.
Anyway, he met this kindergarden teacher at a bar, and next thing you know, when I met him again, he was just gushing, you know, and they got married and had a kid and he's now a proud papa.
Anyway, I said hi, and we talked and I mentioned something about Julia, and he say, 'Oh, yeah, you two were like ... you know? weren't you?'
I was like shocked. I mean, Julia was my world, but to other people they could care less and totally forgot about it.
And then he said the real shocker: 'She was kinda skanky.'
I was like, what?
And he was like, 'Yeah, that nasty, freckled, red-headed thing!'
And ... well, the conversation moved on, but that was the first time I ever saw Julia from somebody else's eyes. Somebody who didn't love her or care about her. Julia, to me, is beautiful, and that's all how I'll ever see her.
And maybe that's all how I ever see anything. I look and, yes, I have my prejudices, but when I see you, and I love you, and you love me, does it matter what type you are? how smart you are? how (ill-)tempered you are? I am me. You are you. And I love you for you being you, and I get so, so furious when you don't see me as me, or when you refuse to see you as you.
I'm going to go off now and have a salad with grilled salmon steak. Salmon: smart-people's food.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Credo in unum Deum
... the Father Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth.
I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirt,
born of the Virgin Mary ...
I believe it all, folks. I bought the bridge. I took the bait: hook, line, and sinker. I'm a cradle Catholic who hasn't gone sour, no, I've drunk the Kool Aide and said, 'yummy, please, sir, may I have more?' clunk!
'Why?' you ask incredulously. You know I'm smart, so why would I so docilely drink the Kool Aide?
Okay.
So.
This post isn't going to do anybody any good. Not you, and not me. In fact, you can use this in court to invalidate any testimony I give. If I were to see somebody murder somebody, everything I say to convict the killer would be thrown out, simply by citing this post.
Yup, I'm certifiable, as you shall see.
AND, on top of that, you won't get anything out of it. At all.
So, why am I writing my own doom?
'cause you asked. 'cause I love you. And I know that it's pointless. And I know you'll say, 'well, that was random,' and walk away, shaking your head at silly little `phfina, not convinced of anything, so I failed in my evangelization, and that's another strike against me, so this post will also reserve a special place in hell for me, 'cause I failed to move your heart where I could have been a better person and done better but no, I'm just me, speaking what I see, as always, and what does it do, nothing, and you say, ...
well, anyway.
I believe in God.
You do, too. Or you should. And I can give you all the reasons in the world. There are a lot of them. Especially in today's world, so filled with despair, that whole countries have given up and do drugs, so that creates a whole market place where basically Latin America is being destroyed from within by drug production.
Drugs not your thing? Well, then, there's sex, right? So now you have the Old World creating a new tourism, and look what it's doing to people. "Oh, I'll go have sex with this person" who's not a person any more, but a 'flesh light' that you dump your despair on and it not only affects her (or him) but it affects all the people around you who destroy this person or who allow this destruction to go on.
And why? It's just a rephrase of 'my heart is restless until it rests in Thee.' And since there's no more God, no more Thee, for ... well, anyone, right? Who really believes in God, hook, line and sinker, except us gullible ones, us insane ones, us radical terrorists or whatever? And look at all the damage we've done, us God-believers, so let's let rationality rule, just like Stalin, 'cause we can do better when God is taken out of Humanism.
... 60 million deaths later ...
And, oh, I'm one to speak (God, am I on a tear here!), `phfina, 'restlessness, it art thou!'
Well, yeah. Pick up a stone, and accuse me of a sin, including sadness, and despair, and hopelessness, and infidelity, meaning everything there, like not keeping my word, like I'm not supposed to have been drinking that Scotch, eh, `phfina, and why were you?
So, yeah, cast your stone, and say, smugly: 'Aha, aha! She believes in God, but look at her, therefor there is no God.'
That all works up until the last part. And you know it, 'cause as an atheist you have to be smart, and brave, and you have to be unflinching in your gaze, except where you're so fvcking blind.
Then there's the Augustine wager. There's everything to lose not believing God, and everything to gain to believe in Him.
Then there's the Aquinas proof, that no atheist I've debated with has been able to refute.
Yeah, there's PhD's in sbux, physicists even, and do you think I fear their intellect? HA! I ate my professors for breakfast! 'What She Said' may or may not have been based on actual experience (well, actually, the little exchange between Bella and her prof happened in another story, but anyway).
So I could get all intellectual on you and prove to you God exists, and anyway, the alternative is despair and we are reaping those fruits around the world this very moment, and the cost to ... our children, this despair ... you want your children to pay the price of following Ayn Rand and Objectivism? ... or you despair and won't even have children because this world has gone to sh!t, so you'd rather swim in the cesspool and die alone then do this very simple, complete, thing, and believe, and hope.
Don't you dare look at me, please. I'm getting to my confession, okay?
But God, well, I suppose you can go the intellectual route — many have — but I think, from my experience, it boils down to your choice. You can choose just to give up whatever you're holding onto and do an honest inquiry, not a fake inquiry, but an honest inquiry, and go from what is there to what that means. 'There is no God, only my choices. And I choose to live my life my way.' Why? 'Because I choose that.' Why? 'Because it's the best for me in the world.' What's best? What makes something better or worse?
Hm. 'Good' is an old English word derived from the root word ... wait for it: 'God.' There is no 'best' without God. Try it and see.
Or hold onto your hate and fear, and refuse to follow the line of inquiry, and live and die knowing ... what? That you're right?
If there is a right, then there is a wrong. Uh, oh! Right and wrong ... hm. (Follow the inquiry.)
Like I say, it's a matter of Faith, so what I say does nothing, and adds nothing. It only makes me a big walking target for both sides: '`phfina, you so screwed it up, the argument, and you pissed them off! Double strike against you, biatch!'
To summarize so far: believe in God. There are solid arguments for the case, and believing, not despairing, is a pragmatic good on the world, in countries, for people and families. (You want your daughter or son, niece or nephew, to be a sex slave or drug addict?)
All the above side-steps the real question.
That is, to me.
'Why do you believe in God, `phfina?'
Being who I am, is the subtext, right?
I'm a smart girl, right? I see things. Right? And I make choices.
Right?
And those choices I make ...
... yet I still choose to believe in God.
Why?
All of the above. And I've done some experimentation, you know.
(Oh, really! Shocking!)
Thanks for that, Ms. Muse.
So, you may see me as a gullible, naïve little thing, and, yes, I am, but I've seen some alternatives.
And I've seen some things.
And believing in God just makes sense. Really. It does.
And ...
My confession
So. Here it is.
Okay, just get it over with.
So, I was like, ... 12? And we lived a block from church, so I would walk to daily Mass before I walked to school, see? And so one morning I was walking along to Mass and ...
Well, remember Alice's vision in Christmas Surprises? How the whole world tilted on its side?
So, yeah.
And then ... I wasn't anywhere anymore.
God, I'm crying.
And then. I saw Mary, and she was like, bigger than the whole world, bigger than the whole universe. And I was nothing. I wasn't even an ant that she didn't notice that she crushed under her foot, because an ant would be too big to the absolute nothing that I was.
And then she turned her gaze to me.
And I disintegrated.
And ...
And that was it.
And I was looking up, and there were a crowd of adults around me, and I realized I was on the sidewalk, and they were asking me if I was okay.
And I ran. I ran to school. I got there early.
And I tried to pretend everything was okay. That I was okay.
But.
But I couldn't hold it together. Not for long. I kept waiting for Mary to show up again, and what would happen, and I didn't know.
And one day, the teacher asked a question. And I knew I knew the answer to it ... I had studied all night, just trying, just trying to be a good girl and get good grades, and maybe daddy would love me and come back if I were a good girl and didn't have any bad thoughts and did well in school.
And I couldn't speak. And I couldn't breathe.
So I started screaming.
And I saw them, the EMTs, come, and they took me, that is the body screaming on the floor of the evacuated school room, I saw them take me away.
And I spent a long, long time in the hospital, 'getting better.'
And there were psychologists, when there weren't psychiatrists, and panels.
And one time they asked me, 'Do you hear voices in your head?' and they looked and waited, patiently.
And well, Mary actually didn't say anything to me, and ... but I did hear a voice then, and it was my voice, eh, Ms. Muse, and she said, 'be very, very careful.'
So, I said, firmly, with conviction, 'no,' as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.
Besides, Mary wasn't a voice in my head, she was outside my head. She was outside the universe.
Rosalie isn't a voice in my head, she just visits me in my bed, sometimes.
I don't hear voices in my head.
Do I have to go to confession now?
So, anyway, six months later, I was back in school, and I was treated...
Oh, I was treated like ...
I was treated like nothing happened, but everything was different, because you know that false sincerity where 'everything's okay' but don't upset her, 'cause she could just lose it and ...
And, well, me insisting that I not be called by my first first name anymore, but by my second first name didn't help any.
And that was so hard for Dad, ... he kept wanting to call me 'Mary' and ... but that name now ... would Mary show up when her name is called, ... I just kept trying not to freak out ... so I kept demanding my name is 'Melissa' now and that's what I should be called, and he tried, oh, he tried, but he looked lost around me when he visited, and I realized ...
I realized, I'm the one who pushed him out of the house. My older sisters share, you know? and I guess Dad really freaks out around girls around puberty, you know, when a girl gets ... you know more ...
God, writing this post during my period IS NOT HELPING!
... and then with me changing my name on him like that and who is he talking to and oh, I'm a queer now, too?
And, so, why would Mary come to me, when just around the bend, Dad leaves, so we're a broken family, then I get packed away to the loony bin and then I'm a flaming homo, a fag, a dyke b!tch that ...
That'd be a good one to bring up to my Bishop. 'Oh, I saw Mary, and she didn't say anything, and look at who she picked to reveal herself to and why?'
The Bishop would have the secretary on the phone in a heartbeat, and not to the Vatican, nosirree!
And what's the point anyway?
God, this Scotch is so good! It's just like velvety smooth, you know?
But I digress.
I believed in God before I saw Mary? Yes. I believed in God afterward? Yes. Did seeing Mary make me more fervent a believer?
Nah, I think I got scared sh!tless and hid, and am still hiding.
I mean, really, I should've gone to the Bishop in CT, and martyred myself. Really. 'I saw Mary.' 'You're seeing things, you're not stable.' 'Doesn't matter, I saw Mary.' And they would have locked me away forever. I should have martyred myself.
And I didn't.
I wimped out, and hid, cowardly, and there's only one reward for people who turn away from martyrdom, and it doesn't matter what age I was, 'cause a three year old boy just a few weeks ago went up to those Muslim terrorists killing those Catholics, and said, 'Enough, enough,' and they shot him, and now that little boy is in Heaven, because he was ...
Because he followed God to the very end, and when I saw Mary, I ran, and I'm still running, and I will run, with all my might into a knife or away from you or away from Mary or away from anyone and anything, because ...
because if I don't I'll have to look at the reflection of me in your eyes, be you Mary, or be you a mirror or be you a person I've betrayed because I've loved you and reached out in hope and weakness but then I show up and I do what I do.
There are the Elect. Augustine did what he did, then, but he was Elect, so he turned his whole life around, and went to Heaven.
The Elect go to Heaven, no matter what, cause it's in God's Plan, and God knows everything.
So, if there are the Elect, then are there the Damned? The ones who, no matter what they do, are destined for a final doom?
Yes. I know. I've seen her.
'And still you believe in God, `phfina?'
Yes. Satan, Lucifer, he doesn't have to work at believing in God. God is like so there for him, it's like asking you to disbelieve in air or gravity. 'Oh, doi-doi-duh, I'll disbelieve in gravity now and just walk off this skyscraper.'
Yeah, say that. And you so know you're gonna splat anyway.
Look, I saw Mary, and this wasn't a vision, this wasn't some delusion. This was real. Mary is real, and she's more real than me. She's so more real than me, that me, confronting her, face to face, I went away.
And that's just Mary. I didn't get the pleasure of meeting Jesus or God the Father or the Holy Ghost, I just met the little 14 year old girl who an angel visited and said 'Hail, full of Grace' to.
Mary was conceived without original sin, and she never sinned. You know what sin does? I do. It binds you. Mary is unbound.
I'm not a theologian, okay? I don't speak for the Church. In fact, this post will probably get me excommunicated.
And I say this to you. I believe in God.
And I say this to you.
I've felt God, and his angels. God has actually picked me up, by the scruff of my neck, and has kept me alive ...
... up to today, so far.
"The fool in his heart says, 'There is no God.'"
'There is no God' ... if that were true, I would have been dead now, several times. Several times.
And not always by my own hand, or the knife in it, but that truck. I felt ...
Look, there was no way it could have stopped, okay? On that slick road? As fast as it was going? That big truck? There was no way.
And it stopped so close to me I could feel the radiator breathing its heat on me.
That's it.
Great proselytization, `phfina: 'you should believe in God 'cause it's good [weakest argument in the world] and I saw Mary [proving I'm insane, so nothing I say, by definition, has any weight, meaning, or pull] ...'
... and it's a great comfort to me, that God is there, and that He ... well, even though He made just one mistake, that's a really good track record, and He even still loves me, although I have no idea why, but sometimes I just cry out 'God, God, please make it stop,' and it doesn't stop, but God is still there, and somehow I'm still there, and I know He carried me through that ... well, few hours where I couldn't even see although my eyes were open and I couldn't even breathe through my desperate gasps.
Yay.
And is this, all this, any of this, why I believe in God?
I dunno. I guess ... I believe in God 'cause I believe in God.
And I pray. I pray for me and I pray for you. All the time.
I love you.
I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirt,
born of the Virgin Mary ...
I believe it all, folks. I bought the bridge. I took the bait: hook, line, and sinker. I'm a cradle Catholic who hasn't gone sour, no, I've drunk the Kool Aide and said, 'yummy, please, sir, may I have more?' clunk!
'Why?' you ask incredulously. You know I'm smart, so why would I so docilely drink the Kool Aide?
Okay.
So.
This post isn't going to do anybody any good. Not you, and not me. In fact, you can use this in court to invalidate any testimony I give. If I were to see somebody murder somebody, everything I say to convict the killer would be thrown out, simply by citing this post.
Yup, I'm certifiable, as you shall see.
AND, on top of that, you won't get anything out of it. At all.
So, why am I writing my own doom?
'cause you asked. 'cause I love you. And I know that it's pointless. And I know you'll say, 'well, that was random,' and walk away, shaking your head at silly little `phfina, not convinced of anything, so I failed in my evangelization, and that's another strike against me, so this post will also reserve a special place in hell for me, 'cause I failed to move your heart where I could have been a better person and done better but no, I'm just me, speaking what I see, as always, and what does it do, nothing, and you say, ...
well, anyway.
I believe in God.
You do, too. Or you should. And I can give you all the reasons in the world. There are a lot of them. Especially in today's world, so filled with despair, that whole countries have given up and do drugs, so that creates a whole market place where basically Latin America is being destroyed from within by drug production.
Drugs not your thing? Well, then, there's sex, right? So now you have the Old World creating a new tourism, and look what it's doing to people. "Oh, I'll go have sex with this person" who's not a person any more, but a 'flesh light' that you dump your despair on and it not only affects her (or him) but it affects all the people around you who destroy this person or who allow this destruction to go on.
And why? It's just a rephrase of 'my heart is restless until it rests in Thee.' And since there's no more God, no more Thee, for ... well, anyone, right? Who really believes in God, hook, line and sinker, except us gullible ones, us insane ones, us radical terrorists or whatever? And look at all the damage we've done, us God-believers, so let's let rationality rule, just like Stalin, 'cause we can do better when God is taken out of Humanism.
... 60 million deaths later ...
And, oh, I'm one to speak (God, am I on a tear here!), `phfina, 'restlessness, it art thou!'
Well, yeah. Pick up a stone, and accuse me of a sin, including sadness, and despair, and hopelessness, and infidelity, meaning everything there, like not keeping my word, like I'm not supposed to have been drinking that Scotch, eh, `phfina, and why were you?
So, yeah, cast your stone, and say, smugly: 'Aha, aha! She believes in God, but look at her, therefor there is no God.'
That all works up until the last part. And you know it, 'cause as an atheist you have to be smart, and brave, and you have to be unflinching in your gaze, except where you're so fvcking blind.
Then there's the Augustine wager. There's everything to lose not believing God, and everything to gain to believe in Him.
Then there's the Aquinas proof, that no atheist I've debated with has been able to refute.
Yeah, there's PhD's in sbux, physicists even, and do you think I fear their intellect? HA! I ate my professors for breakfast! 'What She Said' may or may not have been based on actual experience (well, actually, the little exchange between Bella and her prof happened in another story, but anyway).
So I could get all intellectual on you and prove to you God exists, and anyway, the alternative is despair and we are reaping those fruits around the world this very moment, and the cost to ... our children, this despair ... you want your children to pay the price of following Ayn Rand and Objectivism? ... or you despair and won't even have children because this world has gone to sh!t, so you'd rather swim in the cesspool and die alone then do this very simple, complete, thing, and believe, and hope.
Don't you dare look at me, please. I'm getting to my confession, okay?
But God, well, I suppose you can go the intellectual route — many have — but I think, from my experience, it boils down to your choice. You can choose just to give up whatever you're holding onto and do an honest inquiry, not a fake inquiry, but an honest inquiry, and go from what is there to what that means. 'There is no God, only my choices. And I choose to live my life my way.' Why? 'Because I choose that.' Why? 'Because it's the best for me in the world.' What's best? What makes something better or worse?
Hm. 'Good' is an old English word derived from the root word ... wait for it: 'God.' There is no 'best' without God. Try it and see.
Or hold onto your hate and fear, and refuse to follow the line of inquiry, and live and die knowing ... what? That you're right?
If there is a right, then there is a wrong. Uh, oh! Right and wrong ... hm. (Follow the inquiry.)
Like I say, it's a matter of Faith, so what I say does nothing, and adds nothing. It only makes me a big walking target for both sides: '`phfina, you so screwed it up, the argument, and you pissed them off! Double strike against you, biatch!'
To summarize so far: believe in God. There are solid arguments for the case, and believing, not despairing, is a pragmatic good on the world, in countries, for people and families. (You want your daughter or son, niece or nephew, to be a sex slave or drug addict?)
All the above side-steps the real question.
That is, to me.
'Why do you believe in God, `phfina?'
Being who I am, is the subtext, right?
I'm a smart girl, right? I see things. Right? And I make choices.
Right?
And those choices I make ...
... yet I still choose to believe in God.
Why?
All of the above. And I've done some experimentation, you know.
(Oh, really! Shocking!)
Thanks for that, Ms. Muse.
So, you may see me as a gullible, naïve little thing, and, yes, I am, but I've seen some alternatives.
And I've seen some things.
And believing in God just makes sense. Really. It does.
And ...
My confession
So. Here it is.
Okay, just get it over with.
So, I was like, ... 12? And we lived a block from church, so I would walk to daily Mass before I walked to school, see? And so one morning I was walking along to Mass and ...
Well, remember Alice's vision in Christmas Surprises? How the whole world tilted on its side?
So, yeah.
And then ... I wasn't anywhere anymore.
God, I'm crying.
And then. I saw Mary, and she was like, bigger than the whole world, bigger than the whole universe. And I was nothing. I wasn't even an ant that she didn't notice that she crushed under her foot, because an ant would be too big to the absolute nothing that I was.
And then she turned her gaze to me.
And I disintegrated.
And ...
And that was it.
And I was looking up, and there were a crowd of adults around me, and I realized I was on the sidewalk, and they were asking me if I was okay.
And I ran. I ran to school. I got there early.
And I tried to pretend everything was okay. That I was okay.
But.
But I couldn't hold it together. Not for long. I kept waiting for Mary to show up again, and what would happen, and I didn't know.
And one day, the teacher asked a question. And I knew I knew the answer to it ... I had studied all night, just trying, just trying to be a good girl and get good grades, and maybe daddy would love me and come back if I were a good girl and didn't have any bad thoughts and did well in school.
And I couldn't speak. And I couldn't breathe.
So I started screaming.
And I saw them, the EMTs, come, and they took me, that is the body screaming on the floor of the evacuated school room, I saw them take me away.
And I spent a long, long time in the hospital, 'getting better.'
And there were psychologists, when there weren't psychiatrists, and panels.
And one time they asked me, 'Do you hear voices in your head?' and they looked and waited, patiently.
And well, Mary actually didn't say anything to me, and ... but I did hear a voice then, and it was my voice, eh, Ms. Muse, and she said, 'be very, very careful.'
So, I said, firmly, with conviction, 'no,' as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.
Besides, Mary wasn't a voice in my head, she was outside my head. She was outside the universe.
Rosalie isn't a voice in my head, she just visits me in my bed, sometimes.
I don't hear voices in my head.
Do I have to go to confession now?
So, anyway, six months later, I was back in school, and I was treated...
Oh, I was treated like ...
I was treated like nothing happened, but everything was different, because you know that false sincerity where 'everything's okay' but don't upset her, 'cause she could just lose it and ...
And, well, me insisting that I not be called by my first first name anymore, but by my second first name didn't help any.
And that was so hard for Dad, ... he kept wanting to call me 'Mary' and ... but that name now ... would Mary show up when her name is called, ... I just kept trying not to freak out ... so I kept demanding my name is 'Melissa' now and that's what I should be called, and he tried, oh, he tried, but he looked lost around me when he visited, and I realized ...
I realized, I'm the one who pushed him out of the house. My older sisters share, you know? and I guess Dad really freaks out around girls around puberty, you know, when a girl gets ... you know more ...
God, writing this post during my period IS NOT HELPING!
... and then with me changing my name on him like that and who is he talking to and oh, I'm a queer now, too?
And, so, why would Mary come to me, when just around the bend, Dad leaves, so we're a broken family, then I get packed away to the loony bin and then I'm a flaming homo, a fag, a dyke b!tch that ...
That'd be a good one to bring up to my Bishop. 'Oh, I saw Mary, and she didn't say anything, and look at who she picked to reveal herself to and why?'
The Bishop would have the secretary on the phone in a heartbeat, and not to the Vatican, nosirree!
And what's the point anyway?
God, this Scotch is so good! It's just like velvety smooth, you know?
But I digress.
I believed in God before I saw Mary? Yes. I believed in God afterward? Yes. Did seeing Mary make me more fervent a believer?
Nah, I think I got scared sh!tless and hid, and am still hiding.
I mean, really, I should've gone to the Bishop in CT, and martyred myself. Really. 'I saw Mary.' 'You're seeing things, you're not stable.' 'Doesn't matter, I saw Mary.' And they would have locked me away forever. I should have martyred myself.
And I didn't.
I wimped out, and hid, cowardly, and there's only one reward for people who turn away from martyrdom, and it doesn't matter what age I was, 'cause a three year old boy just a few weeks ago went up to those Muslim terrorists killing those Catholics, and said, 'Enough, enough,' and they shot him, and now that little boy is in Heaven, because he was ...
Because he followed God to the very end, and when I saw Mary, I ran, and I'm still running, and I will run, with all my might into a knife or away from you or away from Mary or away from anyone and anything, because ...
because if I don't I'll have to look at the reflection of me in your eyes, be you Mary, or be you a mirror or be you a person I've betrayed because I've loved you and reached out in hope and weakness but then I show up and I do what I do.
There are the Elect. Augustine did what he did, then, but he was Elect, so he turned his whole life around, and went to Heaven.
The Elect go to Heaven, no matter what, cause it's in God's Plan, and God knows everything.
So, if there are the Elect, then are there the Damned? The ones who, no matter what they do, are destined for a final doom?
Yes. I know. I've seen her.
'And still you believe in God, `phfina?'
Yes. Satan, Lucifer, he doesn't have to work at believing in God. God is like so there for him, it's like asking you to disbelieve in air or gravity. 'Oh, doi-doi-duh, I'll disbelieve in gravity now and just walk off this skyscraper.'
Yeah, say that. And you so know you're gonna splat anyway.
Look, I saw Mary, and this wasn't a vision, this wasn't some delusion. This was real. Mary is real, and she's more real than me. She's so more real than me, that me, confronting her, face to face, I went away.
And that's just Mary. I didn't get the pleasure of meeting Jesus or God the Father or the Holy Ghost, I just met the little 14 year old girl who an angel visited and said 'Hail, full of Grace' to.
Mary was conceived without original sin, and she never sinned. You know what sin does? I do. It binds you. Mary is unbound.
I'm not a theologian, okay? I don't speak for the Church. In fact, this post will probably get me excommunicated.
And I say this to you. I believe in God.
And I say this to you.
I've felt God, and his angels. God has actually picked me up, by the scruff of my neck, and has kept me alive ...
... up to today, so far.
"The fool in his heart says, 'There is no God.'"
'There is no God' ... if that were true, I would have been dead now, several times. Several times.
And not always by my own hand, or the knife in it, but that truck. I felt ...
Look, there was no way it could have stopped, okay? On that slick road? As fast as it was going? That big truck? There was no way.
And it stopped so close to me I could feel the radiator breathing its heat on me.
That's it.
Great proselytization, `phfina: 'you should believe in God 'cause it's good [weakest argument in the world] and I saw Mary [proving I'm insane, so nothing I say, by definition, has any weight, meaning, or pull] ...'
... and it's a great comfort to me, that God is there, and that He ... well, even though He made just one mistake, that's a really good track record, and He even still loves me, although I have no idea why, but sometimes I just cry out 'God, God, please make it stop,' and it doesn't stop, but God is still there, and somehow I'm still there, and I know He carried me through that ... well, few hours where I couldn't even see although my eyes were open and I couldn't even breathe through my desperate gasps.
Yay.
And is this, all this, any of this, why I believe in God?
I dunno. I guess ... I believe in God 'cause I believe in God.
And I pray. I pray for me and I pray for you. All the time.
I love you.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Sun and Moon
What are we?
I won't ask that of you. You can ask that of you for yourself.
I ask that of myself, though, and all the time, too. Or often enough, when I get to thinking.
What I am?
Here's something to think about: Solaris and Moon.
Moon, first. What does Sam (Sam, I love that name, Sam! ... and I loved ... 'her' in College, she was such a panther ... I wonder where she went to) ultimately discover what he is? A person? What is that?
Who are you? Can you point to yourself? Can you?
Then ... Solaris.
Dr. Kris Kelvin. He had all the answers to make everybody else better. Or so he thought.
Except his wife, Rhea ... and why was that?
Because he didn't have any answers for himself. He just had his hubris, and he took it out on her, because he took it out on himself.
And then, he goes to Solaris, and he gets to confront what he really is, when he meets Rhea again, years later after she did what I seem unable even to try to do.
And she's there again, the love of his life, but can he just accept this gift and be happy?
Can I just accept this gift, my existence, and be happy?
What do you think?
... I mean for Kris Kelvin ... you leave me alone.
And then, well, he asks what Solaris — which is just a planet, you know, just in existence — he asks what it wants.
That's the insanity of it, you know? Assigning meaning to existence. Existence is. That's all that it is. It just is, there's no why or wherefore to it, it just is, and the agony, my agony, your agony, comes from saying, 'well, it should be ...' and you, and I, say what should be that isn't, and try with all our might to fix or to change what's there and perfectly perfect being there because it is, and there's no how or why or want to it, it just is, and we, well, I try to change it, and ... well, look where it lands me.
Look where it lands me.
What am I?
Solaris and that satellite farmed by Lunar Enterprises, Inc.
I am Sam. I am Rhea.
'There are no answers, only choices.'
I am nothing.
I am nothing. I am nothing. I am the space of existence through which events happen and time passes ... a context, ... a way of seeing things transpire, and the judgements I make as they have occurred. I am a walking shadow, not even form, not even substance. I am nothing, just the choices I make and the words I speak and write that make me what I am.
I am nothing.
And, so, you see? Do you see? How so, so happy I am when you make something of yourself? When you stretch beyond what you've said yourself to be, and become this something, this impossible something.
Because why?
Because, then, you've created yourself. You've created yourself from the nothing that you are (were) into something that has created this happiness, this relationship, this story, this hope, this joy, and where did it come from? Nowhere! Don't you see? It came from nowhere, because it came from you, and only you. You created this thing, and look what it's done, it's touched other lives, including hopeless mine, and shined a light, and given hope, and yes, you did it.
And I look at me, nothing me, and I look at you, and see you, and what you've done, that is, from nothing, created everything in this moment, and I'm inspired.
You, by your act of creation, by your bravery, have inspired me, and given me hope, to face this minute, one more time, maybe just one more time, and in that little bit of time you've given me, maybe I can do something, and give hope, and inspire, and save another life, and make somebody laugh or cry, and you did that, and I did that.
I know what I am. I am nothing. I am nothing.
And I know what I can be. I can create myself to be anything that I choose to be. No answers, I can just choose, and be it.
You know how I know this?
I've seen you do it. Over and over and over again.
And each time you do it, it's impossible, isn't it? It's so hard, approaching the choice, but then you make it, and it's so easy, isn't it?
And each time you do it, each time you choose, and create, o, so bravely, I am ...
I am awed. And grateful. And moved.
You've done the impossible, you know, when you dare to be. You've moved nothing, that is me, and made something that touched me, and moved me.
And you find, doing that, creating, from nothing, there's no 'me' to impress. You are creative, because you take on being creation, and everything comes from it, and everybody you touch takes it in in their own way, yes, and why? because they re-create it so it has meaning for them, but if you didn't make it for them, what would they have?
Sun and Moon.
They are up in the sky, just existing and being, not wanting, not caring, not meaning anything, just nothing nothings up in the nothingness.
And then there's me and you. Me: nothing, just a space. And you, and you create something, and you fill the emptiness that is me.
You will create, or you will choose not to create, and give into fear or ennui or the daily routine, the daily grind that will grind you down to the dust again after years and years and years of grinding on that grindstone, and for what purpose? to what end?
No end. No answers. Just choices.
I have to go pick up my car from the shop. Again. And then I have to make some choices.
As I have to do, every minute, of every day.
I love you.
I won't ask that of you. You can ask that of you for yourself.
I ask that of myself, though, and all the time, too. Or often enough, when I get to thinking.
What I am?
Here's something to think about: Solaris and Moon.
Moon, first. What does Sam (Sam, I love that name, Sam! ... and I loved ... 'her' in College, she was such a panther ... I wonder where she went to) ultimately discover what he is? A person? What is that?
Who are you? Can you point to yourself? Can you?
Then ... Solaris.
Dr. Kris Kelvin. He had all the answers to make everybody else better. Or so he thought.
Except his wife, Rhea ... and why was that?
Because he didn't have any answers for himself. He just had his hubris, and he took it out on her, because he took it out on himself.
And then, he goes to Solaris, and he gets to confront what he really is, when he meets Rhea again, years later after she did what I seem unable even to try to do.
And she's there again, the love of his life, but can he just accept this gift and be happy?
Can I just accept this gift, my existence, and be happy?
What do you think?
... I mean for Kris Kelvin ... you leave me alone.
And then, well, he asks what Solaris — which is just a planet, you know, just in existence — he asks what it wants.
That's the insanity of it, you know? Assigning meaning to existence. Existence is. That's all that it is. It just is, there's no why or wherefore to it, it just is, and the agony, my agony, your agony, comes from saying, 'well, it should be ...' and you, and I, say what should be that isn't, and try with all our might to fix or to change what's there and perfectly perfect being there because it is, and there's no how or why or want to it, it just is, and we, well, I try to change it, and ... well, look where it lands me.
Look where it lands me.
What am I?
Solaris and that satellite farmed by Lunar Enterprises, Inc.
I am Sam. I am Rhea.
'There are no answers, only choices.'
I am nothing.
I am nothing. I am nothing. I am the space of existence through which events happen and time passes ... a context, ... a way of seeing things transpire, and the judgements I make as they have occurred. I am a walking shadow, not even form, not even substance. I am nothing, just the choices I make and the words I speak and write that make me what I am.
I am nothing.
And, so, you see? Do you see? How so, so happy I am when you make something of yourself? When you stretch beyond what you've said yourself to be, and become this something, this impossible something.
Because why?
Because, then, you've created yourself. You've created yourself from the nothing that you are (were) into something that has created this happiness, this relationship, this story, this hope, this joy, and where did it come from? Nowhere! Don't you see? It came from nowhere, because it came from you, and only you. You created this thing, and look what it's done, it's touched other lives, including hopeless mine, and shined a light, and given hope, and yes, you did it.
And I look at me, nothing me, and I look at you, and see you, and what you've done, that is, from nothing, created everything in this moment, and I'm inspired.
You, by your act of creation, by your bravery, have inspired me, and given me hope, to face this minute, one more time, maybe just one more time, and in that little bit of time you've given me, maybe I can do something, and give hope, and inspire, and save another life, and make somebody laugh or cry, and you did that, and I did that.
I know what I am. I am nothing. I am nothing.
And I know what I can be. I can create myself to be anything that I choose to be. No answers, I can just choose, and be it.
You know how I know this?
I've seen you do it. Over and over and over again.
And each time you do it, it's impossible, isn't it? It's so hard, approaching the choice, but then you make it, and it's so easy, isn't it?
And each time you do it, each time you choose, and create, o, so bravely, I am ...
I am awed. And grateful. And moved.
You've done the impossible, you know, when you dare to be. You've moved nothing, that is me, and made something that touched me, and moved me.
And you find, doing that, creating, from nothing, there's no 'me' to impress. You are creative, because you take on being creation, and everything comes from it, and everybody you touch takes it in in their own way, yes, and why? because they re-create it so it has meaning for them, but if you didn't make it for them, what would they have?
Sun and Moon.
They are up in the sky, just existing and being, not wanting, not caring, not meaning anything, just nothing nothings up in the nothingness.
And then there's me and you. Me: nothing, just a space. And you, and you create something, and you fill the emptiness that is me.
You will create, or you will choose not to create, and give into fear or ennui or the daily routine, the daily grind that will grind you down to the dust again after years and years and years of grinding on that grindstone, and for what purpose? to what end?
No end. No answers. Just choices.
I have to go pick up my car from the shop. Again. And then I have to make some choices.
As I have to do, every minute, of every day.
I love you.
My Little Kitten
I have a little kitty. Black, 'short hair,' is the designation, right? I actually wish my last name was 'Black,' so I could name her 'Jett.'
'Jett Black' ... get it?
Or I wish my last name was 'Jett,' so I could name her 'Joan.'
Yeah, she's a bit snarly, a bit feisty.
She's a frisky thing, a playful puss, always, — always, always, always — getting me into trouble.
And so demanding. Just ... such a jealous thing, I mean, she demands my attention all the time.
But she's nice, I suppose, for a pet. And she likes that ... pets, well: pats, that is. And when I pat her, she purrs and purrs and purrs, and it feels so nice, to feel her purring, it's so ... um ... soothing? when she purrs like that, and it puts me right to sleep, her purring like that.
And she's friendly, very friendly, when she isn't shy. And she is so super shy, she just clams up and hides at, ... well, shadows even. She's a tiny thing, so that's understandable, such a little, young kitty. I ... you know ... I was hoping for a fierce guard-cat like a ... I don't know ... panther or something, but she's just a little scaredy kitty. I mean, she's so shy, visitors think I make it up when I say I have a kitty.
And, well, and this is so embarrassing, but I don't really have a name for her. You're supposed to name your kitty, right? But what do I call her? I don't know. I mean, I'm very affectionate with her, but I just ... balk when it comes to out and out naming her.
So I call her 'kitty,' or 'puss' or ...
... or some other things, and sometimes I don't even use words when I 'talk' with her, I just coo as she purrs as I pat her, and she snuggles right up to me and I curl myself around her, and it's like we're so close and intimate that you'd think we're part of each other.
My little black short haired kitty and me.
And I love her, properly and improperly, no matter how much trouble she's been to me and when she's gotten me into, and she loves me, even with my disregard at times, when I can't tend to her needs when I'm at work, or when ... well, ... I pay attention to other people's pets. She's not even (too) (super) jealous of it.
And, well, I have an embarrassing secret.
My kitty? She likes kisses, and ... well, yes, pats but ... nuzzles, too.
And some people would say, 'Ew! Unsanitary!' but I make sure my little kitty is well-groomed, and, well, you may think I'm a bit (a bit?) retentive about this, but I make sure she's cleaned, you know? Nice and clean, all the time, with a pH-balanced wash, you know.
My kitty. It may be boasting on myself, — you know how it goes when parents brag on their kids, and you're like, 'boring! change the topic, please, before I scoop my eyeballs out with this soup spoon!' — but I have to say she's pretty, and I like her, you know, most of the time, even though she's a little, hiding thing, and unremarkable in every respect, even when she comes out for a pat. Why? Well, because she's mine, and I may not take care of myself all that well, but I, like Rosalie, try to take care of what's beholden to me, as best as I can.
... and (oh, god, this was supposed to be a silly-funny post, and now I'm crying! Sh!t) okay, so I may not be the best caretaker in the world, and, okay, so maybe I'm the worst, but I ... but I'm trying, and, like my little kitty, I'm a shy, scared little thing, trying to be a panther, but running even before you say 'boo!' and my kitty gets hurt and does hurt others,... her bite is worse than her meow, and her claws, that sink into you and never let you go can hurt like the dickens (but no infections, so far, crossed fingers)
(there, I'm smiling again, at my own sad stupid little jokes)
... just like me.
But we try, my little kitty and me. We try. And our trying? It amounts to a whole big pile of what we are ... which is nothing.
But, sometimes, ... a lot of the time ... my little kitty is all I have, and she ... well, she's a lot more patient and understanding and kind with me, a lot more so than I am to her, or to anybody else in the world, particularly to myself.
And ... that.
And.
And someday, she's grow old and die out, much sooner than me. Unless she sneaks out somehow and jumps out the window ... cats do that you know ... or gets hit by a truck.
Or, ... dies some other way, and there are so many ways a scared little kitty can die in this big, big world. I mean, even just a look, because you know looks can kill.
So, any moment ...
But, well, I have her now, and she has me, and, well, you know me, and maybe she regrets that she doesn't have a better owner, but, ha!, who am I fooling, she's just a little black kitty with no brain. She doesn't care, she just gets pats from me (most of the time), gets into trouble, and then gets more pats, and that's a good enough life for her. All and all she's a happy little kitten.
Life is so simple, so uncomplicated, looking at it through my little kitty's eyes.
And I'm asked if she's ... you know ... fixed, and that's supposed to be the humane thing to do, but I just don't have the heart for it, to take away something that's what is her. So, you know, there's more trouble sometimes than others. Boy, does she ever get into so much trouble being that randy feral little ball of short black fur that she is, but she is what she is, and I could wish or hope that, but this is what it is, and that's how I take her, and I don't think beyond that, at all. I don't compare her, I don't hold expectations on her, I just take her, for what she is, moment by moment, and, well, she's like that with me: she doesn't take me for anything that I'm not, and she only deals with what I am, moment by moment. When I'm a angry, furious b!tch, screaming into my pillow and throwing punches on my bed, she pretty much leaves well enough alone, when I'm crying and crying and crying just looking at the knife, she just looks and looks and looks at me, but won't come close to comfort me, and that hurts, but she's smarter than me, by half, even though she doesn't have a brain, and when I'm affectionate, well, she can be very playful, even joining in games when I'm playing with another puss ... she may even rub up against another girl's cat, friendly-like, and if there's no visitor with their pet, well, then we have private time to amuse ourselves, then, don't we?
My kitty. My kitty and me. She has me, and I have her, and sometimes that's nice, and sometimes it's pure hell, but we make it work.
I wish I treated myself as well as my kitty. Maybe someday, eh?
Ha! That's funny. I knew I would end up writing a comedic piece.
Hehehe. Haha. Look at little `phfina. So funny. I should go into improv.
Except for the fact that there'd be all these lights on me and everybody would be looking at me.
God, I think I'm gonna be sick now. Excuse me. I'm gonna puke, and then hide under the covers, snuggling with my little black kitty.
... and maybe some Scotch. A lot of Scotch. I just need the world to go away for a while.
A long while.
'Jett Black' ... get it?
Or I wish my last name was 'Jett,' so I could name her 'Joan.'
Yeah, she's a bit snarly, a bit feisty.
She's a frisky thing, a playful puss, always, — always, always, always — getting me into trouble.
And so demanding. Just ... such a jealous thing, I mean, she demands my attention all the time.
But she's nice, I suppose, for a pet. And she likes that ... pets, well: pats, that is. And when I pat her, she purrs and purrs and purrs, and it feels so nice, to feel her purring, it's so ... um ... soothing? when she purrs like that, and it puts me right to sleep, her purring like that.
And she's friendly, very friendly, when she isn't shy. And she is so super shy, she just clams up and hides at, ... well, shadows even. She's a tiny thing, so that's understandable, such a little, young kitty. I ... you know ... I was hoping for a fierce guard-cat like a ... I don't know ... panther or something, but she's just a little scaredy kitty. I mean, she's so shy, visitors think I make it up when I say I have a kitty.
And, well, and this is so embarrassing, but I don't really have a name for her. You're supposed to name your kitty, right? But what do I call her? I don't know. I mean, I'm very affectionate with her, but I just ... balk when it comes to out and out naming her.
So I call her 'kitty,' or 'puss' or ...
... or some other things, and sometimes I don't even use words when I 'talk' with her, I just coo as she purrs as I pat her, and she snuggles right up to me and I curl myself around her, and it's like we're so close and intimate that you'd think we're part of each other.
My little black short haired kitty and me.
And I love her, properly and improperly, no matter how much trouble she's been to me and when she's gotten me into, and she loves me, even with my disregard at times, when I can't tend to her needs when I'm at work, or when ... well, ... I pay attention to other people's pets. She's not even (too) (super) jealous of it.
And, well, I have an embarrassing secret.
My kitty? She likes kisses, and ... well, yes, pats but ... nuzzles, too.
And some people would say, 'Ew! Unsanitary!' but I make sure my little kitty is well-groomed, and, well, you may think I'm a bit (a bit?) retentive about this, but I make sure she's cleaned, you know? Nice and clean, all the time, with a pH-balanced wash, you know.
My kitty. It may be boasting on myself, — you know how it goes when parents brag on their kids, and you're like, 'boring! change the topic, please, before I scoop my eyeballs out with this soup spoon!' — but I have to say she's pretty, and I like her, you know, most of the time, even though she's a little, hiding thing, and unremarkable in every respect, even when she comes out for a pat. Why? Well, because she's mine, and I may not take care of myself all that well, but I, like Rosalie, try to take care of what's beholden to me, as best as I can.
... and (oh, god, this was supposed to be a silly-funny post, and now I'm crying! Sh!t) okay, so I may not be the best caretaker in the world, and, okay, so maybe I'm the worst, but I ... but I'm trying, and, like my little kitty, I'm a shy, scared little thing, trying to be a panther, but running even before you say 'boo!' and my kitty gets hurt and does hurt others,... her bite is worse than her meow, and her claws, that sink into you and never let you go can hurt like the dickens (but no infections, so far, crossed fingers)
(there, I'm smiling again, at my own sad stupid little jokes)
... just like me.
But we try, my little kitty and me. We try. And our trying? It amounts to a whole big pile of what we are ... which is nothing.
But, sometimes, ... a lot of the time ... my little kitty is all I have, and she ... well, she's a lot more patient and understanding and kind with me, a lot more so than I am to her, or to anybody else in the world, particularly to myself.
And ... that.
And.
And someday, she's grow old and die out, much sooner than me. Unless she sneaks out somehow and jumps out the window ... cats do that you know ... or gets hit by a truck.
Or, ... dies some other way, and there are so many ways a scared little kitty can die in this big, big world. I mean, even just a look, because you know looks can kill.
So, any moment ...
But, well, I have her now, and she has me, and, well, you know me, and maybe she regrets that she doesn't have a better owner, but, ha!, who am I fooling, she's just a little black kitty with no brain. She doesn't care, she just gets pats from me (most of the time), gets into trouble, and then gets more pats, and that's a good enough life for her. All and all she's a happy little kitten.
Life is so simple, so uncomplicated, looking at it through my little kitty's eyes.
And I'm asked if she's ... you know ... fixed, and that's supposed to be the humane thing to do, but I just don't have the heart for it, to take away something that's what is her. So, you know, there's more trouble sometimes than others. Boy, does she ever get into so much trouble being that randy feral little ball of short black fur that she is, but she is what she is, and I could wish or hope that, but this is what it is, and that's how I take her, and I don't think beyond that, at all. I don't compare her, I don't hold expectations on her, I just take her, for what she is, moment by moment, and, well, she's like that with me: she doesn't take me for anything that I'm not, and she only deals with what I am, moment by moment. When I'm a angry, furious b!tch, screaming into my pillow and throwing punches on my bed, she pretty much leaves well enough alone, when I'm crying and crying and crying just looking at the knife, she just looks and looks and looks at me, but won't come close to comfort me, and that hurts, but she's smarter than me, by half, even though she doesn't have a brain, and when I'm affectionate, well, she can be very playful, even joining in games when I'm playing with another puss ... she may even rub up against another girl's cat, friendly-like, and if there's no visitor with their pet, well, then we have private time to amuse ourselves, then, don't we?
My kitty. My kitty and me. She has me, and I have her, and sometimes that's nice, and sometimes it's pure hell, but we make it work.
I wish I treated myself as well as my kitty. Maybe someday, eh?
Ha! That's funny. I knew I would end up writing a comedic piece.
Hehehe. Haha. Look at little `phfina. So funny. I should go into improv.
Except for the fact that there'd be all these lights on me and everybody would be looking at me.
God, I think I'm gonna be sick now. Excuse me. I'm gonna puke, and then hide under the covers, snuggling with my little black kitty.
... and maybe some Scotch. A lot of Scotch. I just need the world to go away for a while.
A long while.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
`phfina Sjöjungfru, private eye
Ooh! I'm in such an excited tizzy I think I have to change my panties!
... oh ... um ... TMI?
So, okay, like, I was in this Swiss bakery, and they had this clever review on yelp written in a film noir parody style with a bombshell (is it the law that all bombshells have to be blond?) by this Dirk Gently type? And the 1940's film noir répartée was all about what flavor of home-made ice cream he should buy? And he throws three bills on the countertop and says to her, "Angel, if you were ice cream, what flavor would you be?"
And she, cool as a cucumber, and hot as a supernova, answers: "I can be the sweetest spicy cinnamon or I can be the milk in your chocolate."
And he goes for the chocolate. She says: "That'll be $2.99."
He looks down at the three bills on the countertop and tosses off a "Keep the change, babe" as he saunters off into the sunset.
Cheapskate!
But OOH!
I saw myself, see? NOT like that d00d, but ...
But what if I were this private eye, ... I'd have to wear a fedora, and get this really long beige trench-coat, and carry a lady's magnum and have this dank, dark office, next to a train station that only has the occasional derelict or lost soul amble across the street.
But then ... well, aren't the girl private eyes all blond bombshells?
I SO TOTALLY don't look the part. I mean, I have the blue eyes, but ... the hair. What do I do about my jet black hair?
And then! I mean "bombshell" means "curvaceous" ... and there's no wonder under my wonderbra ...
... you know?
But I can do intense and, so ... well, maybe this wee Irish lass can be exotic and mysterious.
So here's the start of my novel!
"It was a dark and stormy night!"
[of course!]
... ""I was sitting at my desk in the only chair the repo men hadn't yet taken from my office with my feet up and a shot of whiskey down ... my throat when in walks 'Trouble' with a capital 'T' and tear-stained eyes and a killer body (probably literally) and legs that went all the way to Heaven and came right back down to Earth like a ton of bricks on me, and she sez to me, she sez, '`phfina, I need your help!' ... they all do, those super hot babes, and I'm the one to give it to them ... help, that is ..."
Yeah! And this damsel in distress will come into my office, with more money than sense, and lay out her tragic sob story about how her husband is such a jerk, and maybe he's having an affair, and ...
And I'll be all sympathetic, you know? Like, really callous as I'm handing her the tissue box, saying: "Honey, your husband's a guy, what did you expect?"
And she'll be all righteously furious, which makes this older bombshell all the more super fine to the panther she's talking to, and she's fume for a second and exclaim "Men!" as she stamps her foot.
And I'll have to work really hard not to stair down at that perfectly pedicured stamping foot fitted into hand-tailored heels by the super-exclusive Salvatore Ferragamo Spring 2009 collection.
And ... but I'll forcefully guide myself back to the business at hand, ... especially as she throws down a business-sized envelop on my super messy desk, and it's so heavy with bills that the very heavy-sounding Thump! of it hitting my desk echoes through my (so tiny as to be claustrophobic) office, that does have a couch and oh! the tales that couch could tell ... and has been made on it ...
... you know?
Uh-huh! But I digress ...
And the case, that I gladly accept (hey, I need the money to buy ramen noodles!), leads to intrigue and double crossing and double crossing of the double crossing, and I'm in WAY over my head, and I can't even find a way to shoot my way out of Trouble (with a capital 'T') because the police are involved and the mayor and the crime syndicate, so there's be too many bodies strewn about for me to hide in too many closets once the shooting starts.
And the bombshell offers me herself, "Oh, `phfina, my hero! Take me now!"
And I'd be all like *SLOBBER!* but I'd be like: "No."
And she'd be shocked and offended and demand an explanation, and I'd be like: "First of all, sweet cheeks, it's 'heroine' not 'hero.' And secondly, I like the long, leggy blonds like you to be with brains in their heads and a few less hidden agendas and a few less skeletons in the closet."
And she said, "Oh, I didn't know you found that closet."
Me: *facepalm.*
And she'd be like ...
... Like that! See! Isn't that so neat? I mean, film noir had it all: grainy black and white stills (so you know you were in for something classy ... or at least classic!
[ed: old black-n-white films noir, classic, if not classy, get it?]
... *sigh!*
... oh ... um ... TMI?
So, okay, like, I was in this Swiss bakery, and they had this clever review on yelp written in a film noir parody style with a bombshell (is it the law that all bombshells have to be blond?) by this Dirk Gently type? And the 1940's film noir répartée was all about what flavor of home-made ice cream he should buy? And he throws three bills on the countertop and says to her, "Angel, if you were ice cream, what flavor would you be?"
And she, cool as a cucumber, and hot as a supernova, answers: "I can be the sweetest spicy cinnamon or I can be the milk in your chocolate."
And he goes for the chocolate. She says: "That'll be $2.99."
He looks down at the three bills on the countertop and tosses off a "Keep the change, babe" as he saunters off into the sunset.
Cheapskate!
But OOH!
I saw myself, see? NOT like that d00d, but ...
But what if I were this private eye, ... I'd have to wear a fedora, and get this really long beige trench-coat, and carry a lady's magnum and have this dank, dark office, next to a train station that only has the occasional derelict or lost soul amble across the street.
But then ... well, aren't the girl private eyes all blond bombshells?
I SO TOTALLY don't look the part. I mean, I have the blue eyes, but ... the hair. What do I do about my jet black hair?
And then! I mean "bombshell" means "curvaceous" ... and there's no wonder under my wonderbra ...
... you know?
But I can do intense and, so ... well, maybe this wee Irish lass can be exotic and mysterious.
So here's the start of my novel!
"It was a dark and stormy night!"
[of course!]
... ""I was sitting at my desk in the only chair the repo men hadn't yet taken from my office with my feet up and a shot of whiskey down ... my throat when in walks 'Trouble' with a capital 'T' and tear-stained eyes and a killer body (probably literally) and legs that went all the way to Heaven and came right back down to Earth like a ton of bricks on me, and she sez to me, she sez, '`phfina, I need your help!' ... they all do, those super hot babes, and I'm the one to give it to them ... help, that is ..."
Yeah! And this damsel in distress will come into my office, with more money than sense, and lay out her tragic sob story about how her husband is such a jerk, and maybe he's having an affair, and ...
And I'll be all sympathetic, you know? Like, really callous as I'm handing her the tissue box, saying: "Honey, your husband's a guy, what did you expect?"
And she'll be all righteously furious, which makes this older bombshell all the more super fine to the panther she's talking to, and she's fume for a second and exclaim "Men!" as she stamps her foot.
And I'll have to work really hard not to stair down at that perfectly pedicured stamping foot fitted into hand-tailored heels by the super-exclusive Salvatore Ferragamo Spring 2009 collection.
And ... but I'll forcefully guide myself back to the business at hand, ... especially as she throws down a business-sized envelop on my super messy desk, and it's so heavy with bills that the very heavy-sounding Thump! of it hitting my desk echoes through my (so tiny as to be claustrophobic) office, that does have a couch and oh! the tales that couch could tell ... and has been made on it ...
... you know?
Uh-huh! But I digress ...
And the case, that I gladly accept (hey, I need the money to buy ramen noodles!), leads to intrigue and double crossing and double crossing of the double crossing, and I'm in WAY over my head, and I can't even find a way to shoot my way out of Trouble (with a capital 'T') because the police are involved and the mayor and the crime syndicate, so there's be too many bodies strewn about for me to hide in too many closets once the shooting starts.
And the bombshell offers me herself, "Oh, `phfina, my hero! Take me now!"
And I'd be all like *SLOBBER!* but I'd be like: "No."
And she'd be shocked and offended and demand an explanation, and I'd be like: "First of all, sweet cheeks, it's 'heroine' not 'hero.' And secondly, I like the long, leggy blonds like you to be with brains in their heads and a few less hidden agendas and a few less skeletons in the closet."
And she said, "Oh, I didn't know you found that closet."
Me: *facepalm.*
And she'd be like ...
... Like that! See! Isn't that so neat? I mean, film noir had it all: grainy black and white stills (so you know you were in for something classy ... or at least classic!
[ed: old black-n-white films noir, classic, if not classy, get it?]
... *sigh!*
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Hot Water
... that's me: I'm either getting into hot water, or I'm fearfully tiptoeing around the edge of the cast iron pot, scared to death that I'm gonna fall in.
No, that's not right, I'm not scared that I'll fall in. I know I'll fall in, it's just a matter of when.
It seems my life is defined by my troubles, or, if I'm not in trouble, then I'm (not) living in dread of with is to come, and that in-between time, that dreading that something's going to happen? That's not living: that's waiting for fate to deliver me my doom.
ick.
... but then.
Well, so, okay. So I have my troubles. Bummer.
Or.
Well, there are people who don't have troubles, I'm told, and those people are resting six feet under their gravestones. I am troubles. Okay. That means I'm alive.
So I suppose another way to look at my troubles is to be thankful for them. I know you are thankful for my troubles, eh? It produces such lovely writing that you enjoy reading.
So I should be grateful for my troubles.
Just like the hot water I'm in.
I realized this, while showering after swimming in the pool after work yesterday. And I showered and showered and showered and let the heat of that water heat my very being.
Helpful, don't you know. We had an ice storm, and it was 'bitterly cold' at 0°C, and little me, slipping and skipping from my car to the pool ... well, yes, I was grateful for the hot water.
Which brings us to today's .... 'poem'
In the Dirt, by S. Carey.
"Don't leave,
'cause I believe
we were meant to sleep in the dirt.
If you doubt that I'll be there,
Don't despair
Don't you dare."
— `phfina commentary
This song is this week's download from a certain little coffee shop. Not much there. Modern music ... *sigh!*
But it's very nice to listen to: the driving beats and the alternative, chant-like quality of the music.
And then, well, I see the lyrics as my dialog. "Don't leave, 'cause I believe ..." and then: "If you doubt that I'll be there, don't despair, don't you dare."
Because I do want to leave. I want to run away. All the time.
And I do despair.
All the time.
But maybe ... I can dare. And maybe, there's somebody there.
So I don't have to despair. I can turn to others. I can turn to you, and bear my hear, and bare my heart, and get hurt, yes, but then I can hope, too, and I can know that I am not alone in my loneliness and sadness.
No, that's not right, I'm not scared that I'll fall in. I know I'll fall in, it's just a matter of when.
It seems my life is defined by my troubles, or, if I'm not in trouble, then I'm (not) living in dread of with is to come, and that in-between time, that dreading that something's going to happen? That's not living: that's waiting for fate to deliver me my doom.
ick.
... but then.
Well, so, okay. So I have my troubles. Bummer.
Or.
Well, there are people who don't have troubles, I'm told, and those people are resting six feet under their gravestones. I am troubles. Okay. That means I'm alive.
So I suppose another way to look at my troubles is to be thankful for them. I know you are thankful for my troubles, eh? It produces such lovely writing that you enjoy reading.
So I should be grateful for my troubles.
Just like the hot water I'm in.
I realized this, while showering after swimming in the pool after work yesterday. And I showered and showered and showered and let the heat of that water heat my very being.
Helpful, don't you know. We had an ice storm, and it was 'bitterly cold' at 0°C, and little me, slipping and skipping from my car to the pool ... well, yes, I was grateful for the hot water.
Which brings us to today's .... 'poem'
In the Dirt, by S. Carey.
"Don't leave,
'cause I believe
we were meant to sleep in the dirt.
If you doubt that I'll be there,
Don't despair
Don't you dare."
— `phfina commentary
This song is this week's download from a certain little coffee shop. Not much there. Modern music ... *sigh!*
But it's very nice to listen to: the driving beats and the alternative, chant-like quality of the music.
And then, well, I see the lyrics as my dialog. "Don't leave, 'cause I believe ..." and then: "If you doubt that I'll be there, don't despair, don't you dare."
Because I do want to leave. I want to run away. All the time.
And I do despair.
All the time.
But maybe ... I can dare. And maybe, there's somebody there.
So I don't have to despair. I can turn to others. I can turn to you, and bear my hear, and bare my heart, and get hurt, yes, but then I can hope, too, and I can know that I am not alone in my loneliness and sadness.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Little one
So how do I sing the peanut butter song I invented?
Well, of course in my little ingénue girl-girly voice, of course!
Okay, look, I am NOT twelve, okay?!?
FINE! pick on the little wee one while she's down! See if I care!
Look, just because I have little girl titties and little girl kitty and little choir girl voice does NOT mean ...
*sigh*
It does have, well, one advantage, and that is, when I'm insane ...
... and when are you not, `phfina?
Oh, so thank you, Ms. Muse!
ANYWAY! ... when I'm insane and actually answer the phone (I so have to get caller ID!) and I say, 'Hello?' in my shy little girly voice that I'm so blessed to have, the telemarketer invariably asks in kind, mothering tones, 'Is your mommy home?'
And I can honestly answer, 'Um, no?'
And that spares us both the next few minutes of torture of her trying to sell me stuff and me trying to say 'no, thank you' politely without hurting her feelings.
(Hey, telemarketers have feelings, too, you know, even when they are reading that infernal script!)
Yes, and more than some of my lovers have had to explain to all, far and wide, that I am not her daughter nor her niece nor her ward, and some of my lovers have delighted, more than inordinately, in allowing that misunderstanding to persist.
It doesn't help me that I ... 'prefer' older women. Is this a phase or a stage? I thought high school girls went through that and then got over it, but ...
HEY! do NOT go there! Yes, thank you, I have graduated high school. I'm actually matriculating, thank you very much.
*sigh*
So, yes, yes, so, anyway, yes, you may entertain your willful childish-fulfillment thoughts when you see me prancing about my flat applying the jam and the peanut butter to what you foreigners (we say 'ferriners') stare in shocked disbelief at ('You call that bread? In our country, you don't poke holes through that half-cooked dough, you know'), singing in my little girl not-at-all-whispy-nor-breathy voice:
"Peanut butter, peanut butter,
I love you, oh, peanut butter,
so rich and creamy, so smooth and nutty.
Peanut butter, peanut butter, oh, I love you, peanut butter."
But don't be surprised when you get a petulant pout from the waif-nymph with big blue eyes.
*blink-blink*
:p
And, no, no pics. I don't need 'bean pole' nor 'stick figure' comments to rub salt in the wounds, thank you.
And the 'oh, you really aren't twelve, are you sure?' don't help either, thank you!
Well, of course in my little ingénue girl-girly voice, of course!
Okay, look, I am NOT twelve, okay?!?
FINE! pick on the little wee one while she's down! See if I care!
Look, just because I have little girl titties and little girl kitty and little choir girl voice does NOT mean ...
*sigh*
It does have, well, one advantage, and that is, when I'm insane ...
... and when are you not, `phfina?
Oh, so thank you, Ms. Muse!
ANYWAY! ... when I'm insane and actually answer the phone (I so have to get caller ID!) and I say, 'Hello?' in my shy little girly voice that I'm so blessed to have, the telemarketer invariably asks in kind, mothering tones, 'Is your mommy home?'
And I can honestly answer, 'Um, no?'
And that spares us both the next few minutes of torture of her trying to sell me stuff and me trying to say 'no, thank you' politely without hurting her feelings.
(Hey, telemarketers have feelings, too, you know, even when they are reading that infernal script!)
Yes, and more than some of my lovers have had to explain to all, far and wide, that I am not her daughter nor her niece nor her ward, and some of my lovers have delighted, more than inordinately, in allowing that misunderstanding to persist.
It doesn't help me that I ... 'prefer' older women. Is this a phase or a stage? I thought high school girls went through that and then got over it, but ...
HEY! do NOT go there! Yes, thank you, I have graduated high school. I'm actually matriculating, thank you very much.
*sigh*
So, yes, yes, so, anyway, yes, you may entertain your willful childish-fulfillment thoughts when you see me prancing about my flat applying the jam and the peanut butter to what you foreigners (we say 'ferriners') stare in shocked disbelief at ('You call that bread? In our country, you don't poke holes through that half-cooked dough, you know'), singing in my little girl not-at-all-whispy-nor-breathy voice:
"Peanut butter, peanut butter,
I love you, oh, peanut butter,
so rich and creamy, so smooth and nutty.
Peanut butter, peanut butter, oh, I love you, peanut butter."
But don't be surprised when you get a petulant pout from the waif-nymph with big blue eyes.
*blink-blink*
:p
And, no, no pics. I don't need 'bean pole' nor 'stick figure' comments to rub salt in the wounds, thank you.
And the 'oh, you really aren't twelve, are you sure?' don't help either, thank you!
Calendar Girl
"Yeah, yeah, my heart's in a whirl,
I love, I love, I love, I love my calendar girl,
Every day, every day of the year!
January, you start the year off fine ..."
— `phfina commentary:
*sigh* Life, so fun, so sweet, so simple, so delightful, so lovely!
Whereas here, on this Earth, little `phfina has a head-cold so bad that I feel like a bobble-head, you know? I feel my head is so stuffed up that it's three times larger than what it normally is (okay, y'all, lay off the big-head and fat-head comments, please, I'm not feeling very pretty right now), and I feel myself trying to push myself out through my eyes!
Yeah, ugh!
And nothing — nothing! — is helping: not showers, not blowing nose, not hot tea, not matzo ball soup, not lying in bed moaning 'woe, woe is me!' (I actually tried that ... it was ... 'helpful' for a silly moment or two and then the yucky-stuffy headache returned.) I mean, not even images of an ingénue is much consolation! (um, you do know that image is SO WAY! NSFW, right? And why am I looking at images of ingénues, you ask? Well, Esmé is described as such, so it's like, um, research, getting into her character, and ... stuff (and yes, I do so want to 'get into' my mommy character ... *sigh* I hate being sick!))
I have another song, I just made it up yesterday as I was having supper:
"Peanut butter, peanut butter,
I love you, oh, peanut butter,
So rich and cream, so sweet and nutty!
So yummy-yummy with strawberry jam!"
I had a PBJ with some India hot-curry lentil stew-like dish.
I have to say, all together with Earl Grey tea, it was ...
... well, it was a whole lot yummier going down than when it came back up during group.
Don't worry, I was in the bathroom at the time, but those genuine, kind, caring people eventually missed me and came looking for me.
I think I died of embarrassment then, but then they drove me home, too!
Ugh! In bed, funky, so not pretty!
... but loving you all, my dears, and hoping your post-holiday recovery is going so-the-much-better than mine.
I love, I love, I love, I love my calendar girl,
Every day, every day of the year!
January, you start the year off fine ..."
— `phfina commentary:
*sigh* Life, so fun, so sweet, so simple, so delightful, so lovely!
Whereas here, on this Earth, little `phfina has a head-cold so bad that I feel like a bobble-head, you know? I feel my head is so stuffed up that it's three times larger than what it normally is (okay, y'all, lay off the big-head and fat-head comments, please, I'm not feeling very pretty right now), and I feel myself trying to push myself out through my eyes!
Yeah, ugh!
And nothing — nothing! — is helping: not showers, not blowing nose, not hot tea, not matzo ball soup, not lying in bed moaning 'woe, woe is me!' (I actually tried that ... it was ... 'helpful' for a silly moment or two and then the yucky-stuffy headache returned.) I mean, not even images of an ingénue is much consolation! (um, you do know that image is SO WAY! NSFW, right? And why am I looking at images of ingénues, you ask? Well, Esmé is described as such, so it's like, um, research, getting into her character, and ... stuff (and yes, I do so want to 'get into' my mommy character ... *sigh* I hate being sick!))
I have another song, I just made it up yesterday as I was having supper:
"Peanut butter, peanut butter,
I love you, oh, peanut butter,
So rich and cream, so sweet and nutty!
So yummy-yummy with strawberry jam!"
I had a PBJ with some India hot-curry lentil stew-like dish.
I have to say, all together with Earl Grey tea, it was ...
... well, it was a whole lot yummier going down than when it came back up during group.
Don't worry, I was in the bathroom at the time, but those genuine, kind, caring people eventually missed me and came looking for me.
I think I died of embarrassment then, but then they drove me home, too!
Ugh! In bed, funky, so not pretty!
... but loving you all, my dears, and hoping your post-holiday recovery is going so-the-much-better than mine.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A new year's present for you.
You know, that day? When I wanted a shot of bourbon, more than anything in the world, ... well, did I go out and buy a bottle of bourbon.
No.
Did I have a drink from my secret space?
No.
Why?
'Cause I'm strong, and powerful, and a girl of her word?
No.
No. Not that. Do you know the only reason why I didn't have that shot of bourbon, or a drink of any kind?
It was because of you.
Because I just know, when I write, 'Oh, I'm a shit,' you are so gonna write back, 'oh, you poor baby, and you're so not!' (because you are so you, and you are so sweet that way, that way you just don't listen to me!)
AND you're going to demand I step up, like, 'where's that next chapter you promised yourself you'd write?' or 'where's that next chapter you promised me you'd beta?' [ed: okay, okay, okay! Can I please deliver ch 3 tomorrow, huh?] or 'luv ur story, update soon!'
And I was like ... well, I was like this:
Leave. Me. The FUCK. ALONE!
But, no. PM after PM came: 'RU ok, `phfina?' and 'You hurt yourself, you hurt your family and you hurt me, bitch! Think about that!' and 'Well, you know the gun is messier and more permanent that the bourbon, but it's your choice, smart girl, and I love you.' and on and on and on.
And, you know what I realize?
I'm not me, without you. I don't see who I am at all. Not at all. I only see me, who I am, and who I can be, through your eyes.
And, well, you know, I really hate that. I mean, like, look, FINE! FINE! OKAY! So I AM smart and I AM beautiful and I AM loved and I AM lovable!
FINE!
But can't you just give me some room here? It's New Year's, for God's sake! Can't you just leave me alone?
And you're like, no. And, anyway, leave me alone to what? to wallow? That's nice.
So today I went to the mall. Yeah, on a Sunday after the holidays (so, really, still during the holidays), and I got to really be with TONS of people being with people, families, young (cute) girlfriendies, tough guys pushing baby strollers, mommies with daughters, zillions of people in line at sbux (that I don't work at ... HA!)
Just, you know, hang, and be with everybody being with everybody, with the parking garage so full, they needed police to direct traffic.
And so here's my present to you.
No, it's not me (although I am a HOT little thing!) and no, it's not my next chappy (yet).
No, my present to you is you.
Now, I am talking particularly to you who've read my stuff and never PMed me or reviewed me.
I know you are there. I so know it. I see the stats on page views by locations. I know you're reading me and I know where you live, sweetheart, ... and bf, too, for that matter. (Hi, guys reading ffn! You rock!)
And you know what? Me, knowing that? Do you think you're getting away with anything? No. Do you know what you're doing?
You're giving me hope.
Did you know that?
You, silently, being there, for me. Month after month, in productive months and in ... these last few months. You're giving me hope and a reason to go on.
Do you know what a contribution to my life that you are?
Do you know I didn't drink on New Year's because of you? Yes: you. I couldn't stand the thought of saying — again! — 'yup, I screwed up again.' And you can be a drinker or not a drinker or not care either way, but you are reading me, and somehow, I know that you care about me, you care about me enough to read my words, and to come back here, time and again, and check up on me, to see if I'm still alive, and still fighting, and still hoping.
You, thousands of you, all around the world, looking at me, looking for me.
Thank you.
And you think to yourself: 'oh, I have nothing to offer, and look at her other reviewers, so smart and witty and brave, and some have even done this and that for her, or have done that for their own lives, reading her stuff, and I could never do that. What could I have to give `phfina?'
And, well, okay.
Really: it's okay.
You, simply by being there, not even aware what you are doing for me, have helped me go on, month after month.
You are perfect, as you are, even if you are hiding from me, even if you're 'too busy' to leave a review or a comment of a chapter, even if you don't know what to say or how to say it, even if that comment is simply, 'wow!' or 'I really liked this chapter,' or 'Bella is so stupid; I hate her,' or 'I so love your Bella; I just wanna hug you ... HER I MEANT HER! *EEK!*' ... whatever's on your heart, whatever touched you when you read what I wrote ... for you.
You are perfect.
And.
Well, okay, you asked (by reading this).
Just imagine what would happen if you did leave me a comment.
Just imagine.
You don't have to. I have a list of what's happened, with people who've talked with me. And that list is NOWHERE as all-inclusive as I'd like it to be. It should also include the girl who was never, ever going to review my work, screwing up her courage to do so, and what happened?
Well, that applies to several girls, but uniformly, they found their voices, they found themselves, by daring to do the undareable: talk to the `phferocious `phfina, and what did it get for them?
They got their lives.
You have your life already. Imagine what daring to do, or MAKING the time, or finding the words or whatever will do for you, when you know what you've done, and that you've done it.
Like I said, you are already my gift to me. You. You are my gift to me.
And this New Year, my wish is that you see what a gift you are to me, and in so seeing, see what a gift you are to people in your life.
And when you see that, then you will see what a gift you are to you.
You are so, so precious, in somebody's eyes. Know that. You are so, so precious in my eyes, and I love you.
Happy New Year!
No.
Did I have a drink from my secret space?
No.
Why?
'Cause I'm strong, and powerful, and a girl of her word?
No.
No. Not that. Do you know the only reason why I didn't have that shot of bourbon, or a drink of any kind?
It was because of you.
Because I just know, when I write, 'Oh, I'm a shit,' you are so gonna write back, 'oh, you poor baby, and you're so not!' (because you are so you, and you are so sweet that way, that way you just don't listen to me!)
AND you're going to demand I step up, like, 'where's that next chapter you promised yourself you'd write?' or 'where's that next chapter you promised me you'd beta?' [ed: okay, okay, okay! Can I please deliver ch 3 tomorrow, huh?] or 'luv ur story, update soon!'
And I was like ... well, I was like this:
Leave. Me. The FUCK. ALONE!
But, no. PM after PM came: 'RU ok, `phfina?' and 'You hurt yourself, you hurt your family and you hurt me, bitch! Think about that!' and 'Well, you know the gun is messier and more permanent that the bourbon, but it's your choice, smart girl, and I love you.' and on and on and on.
And, you know what I realize?
I'm not me, without you. I don't see who I am at all. Not at all. I only see me, who I am, and who I can be, through your eyes.
And, well, you know, I really hate that. I mean, like, look, FINE! FINE! OKAY! So I AM smart and I AM beautiful and I AM loved and I AM lovable!
FINE!
But can't you just give me some room here? It's New Year's, for God's sake! Can't you just leave me alone?
And you're like, no. And, anyway, leave me alone to what? to wallow? That's nice.
So today I went to the mall. Yeah, on a Sunday after the holidays (so, really, still during the holidays), and I got to really be with TONS of people being with people, families, young (cute) girlfriendies, tough guys pushing baby strollers, mommies with daughters, zillions of people in line at sbux (that I don't work at ... HA!)
Just, you know, hang, and be with everybody being with everybody, with the parking garage so full, they needed police to direct traffic.
And so here's my present to you.
No, it's not me (although I am a HOT little thing!) and no, it's not my next chappy (yet).
No, my present to you is you.
Now, I am talking particularly to you who've read my stuff and never PMed me or reviewed me.
I know you are there. I so know it. I see the stats on page views by locations. I know you're reading me and I know where you live, sweetheart, ... and bf, too, for that matter. (Hi, guys reading ffn! You rock!)
And you know what? Me, knowing that? Do you think you're getting away with anything? No. Do you know what you're doing?
You're giving me hope.
Did you know that?
You, silently, being there, for me. Month after month, in productive months and in ... these last few months. You're giving me hope and a reason to go on.
Do you know what a contribution to my life that you are?
Do you know I didn't drink on New Year's because of you? Yes: you. I couldn't stand the thought of saying — again! — 'yup, I screwed up again.' And you can be a drinker or not a drinker or not care either way, but you are reading me, and somehow, I know that you care about me, you care about me enough to read my words, and to come back here, time and again, and check up on me, to see if I'm still alive, and still fighting, and still hoping.
You, thousands of you, all around the world, looking at me, looking for me.
Thank you.
And you think to yourself: 'oh, I have nothing to offer, and look at her other reviewers, so smart and witty and brave, and some have even done this and that for her, or have done that for their own lives, reading her stuff, and I could never do that. What could I have to give `phfina?'
And, well, okay.
Really: it's okay.
You, simply by being there, not even aware what you are doing for me, have helped me go on, month after month.
You are perfect, as you are, even if you are hiding from me, even if you're 'too busy' to leave a review or a comment of a chapter, even if you don't know what to say or how to say it, even if that comment is simply, 'wow!' or 'I really liked this chapter,' or 'Bella is so stupid; I hate her,' or 'I so love your Bella; I just wanna hug you ... HER I MEANT HER! *EEK!*' ... whatever's on your heart, whatever touched you when you read what I wrote ... for you.
You are perfect.
And.
Well, okay, you asked (by reading this).
Just imagine what would happen if you did leave me a comment.
Just imagine.
You don't have to. I have a list of what's happened, with people who've talked with me. And that list is NOWHERE as all-inclusive as I'd like it to be. It should also include the girl who was never, ever going to review my work, screwing up her courage to do so, and what happened?
Well, that applies to several girls, but uniformly, they found their voices, they found themselves, by daring to do the undareable: talk to the `phferocious `phfina, and what did it get for them?
They got their lives.
You have your life already. Imagine what daring to do, or MAKING the time, or finding the words or whatever will do for you, when you know what you've done, and that you've done it.
Like I said, you are already my gift to me. You. You are my gift to me.
And this New Year, my wish is that you see what a gift you are to me, and in so seeing, see what a gift you are to people in your life.
And when you see that, then you will see what a gift you are to you.
You are so, so precious, in somebody's eyes. Know that. You are so, so precious in my eyes, and I love you.
Happy New Year!
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