Fox Supple (French cooking, `phfina-style)

I hate French cooking, okay? Here's why. It's called 'soufflé,' but it really should called 'French Egg Torture' as opposed to 'Chinese Water Torture,' 'cause that's what it is.

Here's the 'real' recipe for a Soufflé ...

No, wait. I guess I have to explain why I'm writing this recipe. So, I don't work all the time, you know. And I don't just go home and hide under the covers or go to group ... which I'm not anymore. So, like, if I were to become a coffee master at sbux, which I won't, I'd have to know what else is out there, I guess, so I went to Panera and had their soufflé, and the way it went is that they took a 4-cheese soufflé off their hot plate and served it to me. And I was like: 'This is easy! I could do this!'

So I did. That's why. So here's the recipe.

1 1/4 cup milk
3 Tbsp butter
3 Tbsp flour
2 tsp dry mustard
6 large eggs, separated into yolks and whites in two bowls
3/4 tsp salt
ground black pepper
cayenne
1 1/2 cups grated sharp cheddar

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 375°F


2. Make sure eggs are well-separated and beat the whites into a froth.


3. Heat milk (don't boil); set aside


4. Melt butter and mix it together with the mustard and flour


5. beat egg yolks with a fork and pour into heated milk mixture


6. Beat egg whites with a whisk until they form peaks ... make them nice and foamy


7. Fold the egg whites into the sauce, sprinkle in the grated cheese, mix together


8. Bake in a greased pan for 35-40 mins, serve immediately

Sounds simple, right?

But here's the catch, that 'beating the egg whites until foamy''? That's a lie ... or it doesn't tell the whole story. What should really be said is:

Beat egg whites until your arm falls off. Switch arms. Repeat until you run out of arms.

My arm fucking hurts. Even now, hours later.

The French.

My dad is French(-Italian), and so I have my whole experience of the French from him. His strong Gallic face. His joie de vivre. His love of food. His ... 'original' ... sense of humor.

He would create these Dad things in the kitchen, ... mostly pancakes flamés ... and proclaim his victory: "This is chicken coq au vin in wine ... get it? Chicken coq au vin in wine?" And then wait for us to admire his sense of humor.

Well, I had made the soufflé by the book, but I'm not going to do that again. Yes, it was light and airy. For like one minute, and then it deflated: a flat tire.

So here's my 'fox supple' ("faux soufflé") as my dad would say.

1 microwavable bowl, greased.
3 eggs, well-beaten.
cheese, grated (whatever's in the fridge, muenster, usually)
Milk
salt and pepper. garlic powder

1. combine ingredients.


2. microwave for 1 minute


3. It should be a bit runny. Remix in the bowl.


4. microwave for 1 minute


5. serve, don't burn your tongue

You can add sautéed mushrooms or whatever you'd like, but that's it, and the result? Indistinguishable from the 'real vrai egg soufflé.'

Well, there is one difference. About an hour of preparation time not wasted and an arm that doesn't have tennis elbow.

I did put in some flour the first time I tried my faux alternative, but then, you see, I'm sometimes on a health-food kick, and I never get off these things, so I was on the carrot diet so now I have carrots for juicing, and I have wheat bran, unprocessed, and I was on this unbleached, unprocessed, whole wheat flour so I have that instead of that other stuff, so when I did put that in that flour my fox supple (faux soufflé) tasted kinda ... wheaty.

Yuck.

So, live and learn, you know? So I got rid of that ingredient.

Call me Joan d'Arc and burn me at the stake, but my recipe takes all of ten minutes, tops, to make and to eat.

Kay. Nighty-night.

Why? (Silly me)

So, that last post was a doozy.

AND I'm tired.

But gf was all like, you know, Swedish humble with her ... hm, what do I call it? ... 'curiosity.'

"Why do you hate yourself? and Why do you want to die? I've asked you before, but you didn't answer, so you can ignore my questions, but I'll keep asking until I get a satisfactory answer so, ..."

And I could just see her cross her arms and raise her eyebrow, ... waiting. Or give me the big pleading eyes, wanting to know why.

And then ...

Well, and then, I got all ...

Well, you know how, when you're talking with somebody, and they get this thoughtful look on their face? You know what that means, right?

Does it mean they are going to say something thoughtful and intelligent?

No, not really. People know what they know, and don't what they don't, and putting a thoughtful expression on your face (my face) does not bestow instant wisdom. No, the thoughtful look is covering the real look: the 'doi-doi-duh, I'm clueless' look and the 'oh, fuck, she caught me!' look and the 'quick, I gotta think of something smart or witty to say, so I don't look stupid' look.

Yeah. The thoughtful look.

Because anybody can have thoughts. I have tons of them. One of them was "I hate myself! I hate myself! bis-bis I want to die."

That's a thought. It comes unbidden, easily and naturally.

But Saga did what I requested she do. She did the inquiry. She didn't just have a thought, but she thought it through to the conclusions. And the conclusions she made were probably along the lines of: 'Well, that's stupid!'

Me, I just had my thoughts, but did I think them through? No. I didn't do what I've asked you to do. I didn't inquire. I didn't separate my thoughts that I have from reasoning about them, figuring it out to the end. No, I just went, 'wah-wah' and was fine with that.

So, when Saga inquired, it was my turn. She asked, and I had to answer.

But what answer can satisfy "'I hate myself and I want to die' Why?" I mean, really? Why would somebody (I) hate herself (myself)? What reasonable justification can be given for that statement?

I mean, like, there's no satisfactory answer to that.

So, instead, I smiled a little smile. I've been shown up, using my own methods that I've so prided myself on my mastery (What's the feminine form of 'mastery'? Is it: 'miss'-tery?)

Do I hate myself and do I want to die?

Um ... '5th Amendment'?

But under the light of scrutiny, isn't that the funniest statement in the world? Silly, even?

Silly, silly me.

Am I 'all better now'?

Well, I am better now, but a certain reviewer of a certain cathartic story of mine told me my fear will always be with me. Okay. I mean, for now: okay. So maybe I can be friends with my fear ... you know: sometimes. And be like 'oh, I'm afraid; hello, fear, how ya doing?' I mean, I say that now, but even as I say that now, and am not now despairing, I am afraid of being afraid.

But tomorrow becomes today, even as I write, and that today is a better one than yesterday, so I am thankful, and grateful, for that. And tomorrow? That is 'tomorrow-tomorrow' or 'really-tomorrow'?

... I'll have to face that when it comes: I've got plenty on my plate for today, so I'm off to bed now to be able to do that.

Good night.

Taking it personally

You walked into the party
Like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf it was apricot
You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself gavotte
And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner
They'd be your partner, and

You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?

Carly Simon, "You're So Vain" 1973

— `phfina commentary:

You know, I get this all the time. From a goodly number of you, too: "Why are you writing about me in your entries?"

Okay, so you are ready for the one-two sucker punch, right?

Honey, you think this entry is about you, don't you? And you take it so, so personally, don't you? Oh, yes, you do. I know. I smart — still! — at some of the very sharp words I have received about things I have put up about ... "you."

Well, there's several things in that above statement (sez `phfina, wearing her professor tweed blouse) and the first thing that strikes me is, well, how else would you take it?

I mean, really, there's a couple of ways to deal with things, one of them is to be cool as a cucumber about it. "Well," sez you, "that's your point of view, and that's all very well and good, but it really doesn't apply to me. I don't take it personally, and nor should you, when I say the things I so coolly say. I have other concerns, you know, so I don't have the time, really, to engage with you."

You know what I have to say to that.

Well, I could be all impersonal, and say, "Well, fine, and have a great day."

Do you see me wearing that hat? Well, besides all day, that is: "Enjoy your beverage!"

My other response is screamed: "Well, fuck you!"

Some of you have faced that, I guess.

Look. Cool? Me? I was just accused of being 'not cool' ... and I'm like ... have I ever been accused of being 'cool'? And if I have, I would rip your face off.

"Oh, `phfina, you're so cool!"

Excuse me? Excuse me?

I BURN ... okay? I'm burning up, and I DON'T be all like: 'well, there's nothing personal.'

Because why?

Because GUESS WHAT!

It IS personal. Somebody said something to you and you were affected by it, and if you WEREN'T ... well, then go to the hospital, and get your pulse checked 'cause you just may be dead, okay?

"Don't take it personally"? Well, how the fuck else am I supposed to take it?

Excuse me, but if you're forgetting, but I'm a person here, and — newsflash — so are you!

And you just said something to me, and, yes, guess what? I took it personally, and just because you can use everybody else as a doormat, saying that sh!t to them, I am not going to let your shit fly with me, got it?

Like bullying. Like I am now.

*sigh*

Cool as a cucumber? Well, you don't look like a cucumber to me, but if that's the way you want to live your life ... as a cucumber, and not as a person ... then I say: have at it. I won't be able to stop you.

But I grieve, though. I do.

So ...

hm-hm-hm.

So some of you ... a lot of you ... read my posts, and are like, 'well, that's ... interesting.'

(how I detest that word. A cop-out word. A word that commits nothing of the sayer, ... just makes them think that it makes them look intelligent)

... And what do they get from that? Being cool as a cucumber?

What does anybody get from being cool ... instead of being committed?

But some of you go the opposite way, and go all `phfina on me.

Like, okay. I write in 'update soon' that not coming out to your mother is a cop-out, and who took it personally? (edited) And she was furious with me. Furious.

Did I write that post about (edited)?

Like, okay. I write in 'bad news, you win,' how you push around somebody you can own, bullying them until you suck the life out of them, and (edited) got it in her head that I wrote that post about her.

Did I write that post about (edited)?

But what did these girls get out of taking it all `phfina-y?

They got really, really pissed. At me. And took it out. On me.

And that hurt. 'Cause I didn't write those posts about them.

But then they did something. Then they looked in the mirror, and saw where those posts did apply to them, in their lives, and what did they do?

Well, they looked at were they were doing this, and they got to work on themselves. And the rewards, for themselves, on recognizing in themselves something that they didn't see before about themselves, and didn't like, and seeing it, and not liking it, going to work on it now, instead of just automatically lashing out, hurting people ...?

Well, have I given away too much? But when you see something in yourself, that somebody else points out, so rudely, so harshly, with so much love in their heart for you?

(Because otherwise, why would I bother? If I don't love you, why put up with all this pain and hurt of saying these painful and hurtful things?)

New worlds have opened up for them. For them. Plural.

I have opened up new worlds, for at least four girls ... because they took what I wrote ... personally.

And I didn't even write it for them.

Who did I write it for?

Who is the one girl who hasn't benefited from all that I've written, who, writing these words, instead of getting better, shoveling her way out of her shit, just digs deeper and deeper into the morass, finding more and more shit she has to own up to, but instead of getting better, just gets worse and worse and worse.

Who, when asked, 'how are you?' answers, 'I'm fine.'

But who really is in a place where she knows if she says, 'I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I want to die.'

Well, that raises all sorts of issues, problems, that have to be dealt with, but people just don't leave her alone with the 'I'm fine' answer but demand, 'No, really, how are you?'

But we've covered that ground before.

All this stuff I write, you take so personally, and I have to say ...

I'm so proud of you.

I'm so proud of you, taking on yourself and your life. You may think 'you're so vain' for thinking this post is about you. But I have an entirely different view on the matter.

You are so brave, reading yourself in this post. Daring to take yourself on. Being. Living. Daring to be and to live and to face yourself and revel in the things you like about yourself, and be pissed off about the things you hate, and then taking those things on.

When you read a post of mine, and say, 'well, that was interesting ...' look out. Look to your life, because I think you're not living it, if you're merely existing in a smug sense of self-satisfaction. But when you read my post, and you get so, so pissed off at me ...

Well, I could ask you to be gentle with me, the little hypocrite that I am, hitting you so hard with my sucker punches but then hiding under the covers the second you cut loose at me, screaming like a banshee for singing your life with my song.

... and that's me: so cutting, so insightful, so scared of her own shadow, that when somebody wants to put my name on a brochure that lands them millions of euros, all I can think of is people seeing my name, and I get sick, physically ill, just thinking of that.

... and that's not you. You aren't me. Thank God. You've dared to read my stuff, and to cry, or to cum, or ... even to dare to post a review! (Oh, the terror!) Or even dare to tell one of my friends you like reading my stuff (but not dare to say peep to me, God damn it) ('cause you know I'll tear you a new one) (but then you're shocked — shocked, I say — to find out that sometimes (okay, sometimes) I can be sweet, you know).

But what have I dared. Well, today I dared to go out to a museum. Wow. Hooray. Stop the presses. And that's about all I could muster. I mean, I liked it and all. Didn't like Paris. I was like: "City. Ick. People. Scary." Yearned for a forest in the countryside, but here I am, in the metro D.C. area, with all the city-life conveniences, so who am I fooling. I'm not a eel catcher in the forest of Fontainebleau. I'm not an Alsatian girl with a pretty little hat (she did look rather Irish to me. But what do I know?)

And going through the city, I kept my head held high. But all those people. No. Not people. Families. There where tons of them. Families. Mommies and Daddies and babies and children. And it was nice. But it bore down on me. It wore me down. I just ... wherever I looked, I was like, there is something I'm not, and never will be. All those families, so happy together.

And what am I? And what am I?

And know, being what I am, which is nothing, I just draw further and further into my shell, and that hurts you. You wonder how I am, ... but knowing full well that I am not well. So now I have people who care about me, and it hurts them that I'm hurting.

But when I was out, and writing, and getting so much attention, most of it good, but the bad was really bad. Really bad.

'cause I take it personally, your callousness, and your anger, and your righteousness. It's your shit, but I'm the one who gets shit on, for daring to say what she sees. And — oh! — you have made it abundantly clear to me how much you don't like being told things you don't like to hear about yourself.

So I thought writing would ... you know, ... be cathartic, you know? And let me release all this stuff that is tying me down to the past, so I could cut myself free of my suffering and float away into blissful nirvana of living my perfect, perfect life.

But ... look at me now.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones ..."

I'm this little stick. This little reed. And I so wanted to be solid like a stone.

But I ... my body's burning up. I ...

I set out writing, and I ... well, you see this great whatever ... and I'm wasting away into nothing. All these words I've written haven't helped me any at all, they've only made me worse.

And what's worse-worse is that you've subscribed. You've read my stuff and now you care about me. So my hurting now not only hurts myself, but now you hurt a bit, seeing me shrinking into myself. I can't have a good sulk and die all to myself, oh no! I hurt you now, with my silence and sadness.

Would I have written word one, seeing me now?

No.

This hasn't been pretty. This hasn't been pretty for me at all. And I can mirror-time all I want, but I know in my heart of hearts that it's all a big lie. All just another attempt to try to believe in hope when I see that I'm just trying to reach up from the darkness of this pit of despair, when I jolly well know this is my eternal consignment, so the reaching, grasping just shows the glimmer of light for one second before I'm re-immersed in darkness, making it all the more bitter for me, my fate.

If I hadn't written, I wouldn't have all this love and care from you. I wouldn't have you to hurt.

And I can't even manage hurting just myself. It hurts too much.

Hurting you? Seeing you rise above yourself, but then, you turn, having made it, and reach back for me? to pull me up and out?

I think: how sad. You are living the impossible dream. And I beg you to cut the chord. To move on. You've saved yourselves, ... please don't wreck your lives going back into the mire to rescue a lost cause.

I wish ...

I wish you were smart enough to see the reality of it. To take your earnings and to cut your losses (me, that is).

I wish God had answered my prayer a couple of years ago, and spared you, and spared me, all of this that is me.

But I can't go back, and I can't go home.

I can only go forward into tomorrow, until it's today. Again.

Or ... not.

I'm going to bed now. Good night.

Molasses and Moby, "Porcelain"

Moby, “Porcelain”

In my dreams I'm dying all the time
As I wake its kaleidoscopic mind
I never meant to hurt you
I never meant to lie
So this is goodbye
This is goodbye

Tell the truth you never wanted me
Tell me

In my dreams I'm jealous all the time
As I wake I'm going out of my mind
Going out of my mind

— `phfina commentary.

Why didn't Moby just name the song: "Me," that is: "Me," as in: "Melissa"?

Look, I'm sorry, okay? I'm not what you think I am or what you think I can be, even as I try to say it. I'm not this prancing prowling panther who can be strong and powerful. I'm not well. I'm not happy. I'm not fine.

Look, all I am is a little China doll, all Porcelain ... I'm the hero in Unbreakable ... that is: Mr. Glass, as fragile as that. You look at me, you breathe at me, I turn into the dust and ash that I am, and float away, in a million pieces.

So, when you ask me to be strong, when you say, 'I don't believe you're fine like you say you are,' ...

Well, no duh!

And then, ... okay, then you guess the town I live in, and the exact fucking sbux I may or may not have worked in ...

And then, you say, 'oh, I'll just pop by for a visit and say hi ...'

Brenda popped by to say hi at the sbux I worked at ...

... once.

That's when I changed my name and changed where I worked.

After I almost ended back at the hospital.

And what did she do? Nothing! okay? Nothing. But you know, after what happens happened and ... well, she wanted more from me ... she wanted me to be more than I could be, what I can be ...

I can't be her dead husband from Desert Storm, or whatever, okay? I can't be this person that gives you all this strength. I can't be this person who was you so broken over whatever but who overcame her stuff and prevailed and look, `phfina made it, and wrote exactly what I went through, and if I could just talk with her, or not even that, but just order a coffee from her, and say, 'hi, I know who you are, and what you wrote touched me so much, and thank you!' and not be all fan-girly but just say that to her, and maybe touch her hand, and maybe ask was she's doing after she gets off work, and maybe just go out with her to an art gallery this weekend like she so bravely did instead of staying in her apartment, you know? Just go out with her, and hold her when she's got the shakes and pull her hair back when she's puking, and hold her through the night, telling her how much I love her, and how I would take care of her, and check in on her, and make sure she's everything she can be, everything I know she can be, because she's so timid and fragile, that she needs somebody like me to push her out of her shell and push her out into the world, where I'll publish her book and she'll be world-famous and rich, and millions of people will know her like I do so they all can ask for her autograph and her advice on their life and identify with her and scrutinize her every move and advise her what's wrong with everything she does: when she hides, she's withholding, when she talks with the paparazzi, she's stupid (you answer questions right off the cuff about 'your career' or 'the situation in Haiti' or 'politics in Washington D.C.' quote-correctly-unquote every time and perfectly!), when she goes out with a friend, they are going to get married (!?!?), when she goes to a charity thing, she's fake (!?!?!)

Fuck, how can Kristen Stewart or Stephenie Meyer do this?

And you're just one person, deeply touched by my words, caring for me, offering me your advice and your heart. You're just ten people. You're just one hundred people. You're just one thousand people. You're just ten thousand people.

Every month. More than ten thousand people visit my profile, reading my stories, whether I 'update soon' or not. And look, okay? I'm griping, ... AND I'm grateful!

Okay?

Look, Ten-fucking-thousand readers ... every month?!?!

How many ffn writers want that, besides every single one of them? I'm more popular than better writers than me. AND I don't write ExB AU/AH smut fics with a mention of Sartre to get the guaranteed 10K+ review-love. I write fucking Rosalie femslash guaranteed fail-fics.

Who wants to read about that bitch?

You do.

And thank you.

But.

I'm not ...

I'm not win. I'm fail, okay? I'm a fucking loser. And that means I'm not you, bc you're making it, somehow. Maybe you don't know how, and maybe I don't know how, but you're making it.

So ... me? Pinning your hopes on me?

Do you know what you're doing for me? Hoping me into something I'm not? That I'm so not? Wishing me well?

Listen, I'm not "a good example" for the next generation. I'm not somebody to look up to. I'm not a project. I'm not something you can fix or make better.

I'm a lost cause. And when you hope for me, it's so, so sweet of you, and this is my reaction ...

"This is goodbye."

And I look at getting on a plane — something I've never done — and not flying off to another country where I don't speak the language ... like Greece, no: I would get on a plane only with the guarantee that it runs out of fuel over the Atlantic, and everybody on board — especially me! — dies, you got that?

Look, I worked up the courage to wish a fb friend a happy birthday, and my reward for my courage? I got savaged! Okay? She was all like, I have one thousand friends, and "who are you," Miss Nobody? and "Whatever floats your boat." and "lol" and text-speak that I hope nobody in my generation really uses to speak, but there it is.

This is my reward for reaching out, for wishing somebody well?

And you say, "Oh, but it would be different with me."

No, it wouldn't. You so don't understand. You are not the problem, don't you get that?

I know exactly where the problem is. And I know what happens when kind, caring, loving people try to fix it.

I fuck them. I so fuck them up ... that .... that ...

Look. You can't fix what's broken, and you can't make yourself better by making me better, 'cause this is what happens. You get hurt when I pick on your so-visible sores, then you lash out from your hurt, and you get hurt when you see you hurting me.

And I get to say: "See?"

And I shut down.

And I kill you off.

And then you can't do this alone, you need me to be here, and I'm so gone. And you marry a person that is there for you.

Or you say 'fuck off and die, bitch!' and throw the trash out. And I leave, hurt, and you throw me out, furious.

And then you come to your senses, realizing what you did from your hurt, but I'm so long gone already, and have left no forwarding address, and you call my mom every fucking week to ask how I'm doing, hoping I'm doing well.

Hoping. Hoping, hoping, hoping I'm doing well, and maybe, if I'm town again, sometime, I could stop by and ...

Kate, anyone?

Look, you're not up to the job of asking me 'how are you?' or 'I miss you, write something!' or ' ...

Or whatever.

What are you up for? I have no fucking idea, bc if you ... if you dared to be you, and not this constrained, hopeful, helpful, timid person you are ...

Mountains would move out of your way.

But this? Me? This me?

Save your breath, save your effort, save yourself.

You have to be strong enough to be yourself, and be happy with that.

And, honey, most of you aren't, especially those of you who want to know how I'm doing, with the hope that it will make how you're doing better.

How I'm doing won't make you better. How you are doing is the thing. That's what I want to know, and that's what some of you get, sometimes, when you go out and get that gf, or save lives, or say, 'Hey, `phfina, how ya doing? Hey, guess what I just did! I just ...' and you tell me how you moved and changed the world.

Look, I can't save you. The only thing I can do is drag you down to hell with me, and ...

Ha. Hahaha.

The only thing I'm good at doing is writing about it in all its specific and gory details.

I can't save you. You can save you, though. And when you do, you save me. And when you don't, and you depend on me, or fix me, or hope for me, trying to save you by proxy ...

Well, that's all you're left with: a proxy. A proxy is not a rope to pull you out of the sh!t. A proxy is maya, and leaves you stuck down there.

That's all I am, okay? I'm illusion. I'm nothing. I'm chimera. I'm Lila.

And I, Lila, the dance, will dance with you, and it is a wild dance, but it is a dance of death and destruction, and the longer you are in this dance, the more wild it is, for I am quite the dervish, inexhaustible in my ever-enticing novel songs of woe, but the whirling only spins us further down the spiral that has a terminus in only one place.

Hint: you don't need to bring a toaster; it's rather warm down there.

Save yourself. Don't care about me. When I say, 'I'm fine,' don't pursue with inquiry, no: just disengage.

Otherwise ...

I will suck you in and destroy you.

I have proof. Lots of proof. And you may say you are strong, but the strong ones walked away, under their own power, remembering, or not remembering, that wild, sometimes fun, ride they had with that kitten-panther.

How am I doing?

Actually, this is one of my better days. The weather outside is nice and warm with a slight breeze. I think I'll go out for a walk in the park later that is right next to the sbux that I may or may not have or do work at.

Sh!t. Now somebody's going to look that up, figure out it's "Greensprings gardens" and show the fuck up, order a coffee and tell me they know who I am, and how am I doing?

I think I'll move to a State that starts with a "C" ... other than "Connecticut."

... too many dead bodies there, waiting, hoping, for me to come back there.

Or maybe I'll move to a State that starts with "M" ... other than "Maryland," which is too close to where I live now, so you still might find me by expanding your search area by a few miles.

Fuck. I feel sick to my stomach. All I want to do is hide, and there's nowhere to hide, and I can't breathe.

That's how I feel, thank you so much for asking, and why can't you just be fine with 'I'm fine'?

That not good enough an answer, then how about this one: "I never meant to hurt you / I never meant to lie / So this is goodbye / This is goodbye" and as I sing this, I see the glass, the porcelain, that is me shattering into dust and echos.

How's that for an answer?

You not happy with that answer? You not grateful that I'm being honest and open with you?

Guess where that unhappiness is coming from?

... and you're going to make me all better, coming from where that unhappiness is coming from?

It's been tried before. More than several times.

And I am a panther. The predator is lightning-fast in sensing weakness. I do eat my prey.

... In other news, ... I've thought of a new story. A retelling of a fairy tale. It's a 'one-shot.' A `phfina one-shot.

*sigh* ... that sigh means: 'maybe I'll get to it after I reply to all the reviews and PMs and finish all the other incomplete stories I've got dangling, entangling me, snaring me with their need to be finished.'

I think ... I think the only good thing I can do for myself and the world is finish one thing: me.

Yeah, it's a good day, as long as I don't think about myself and how I'm doing. Thanks for asking and caring. I wish I could measure up to a person who could answer your concern worthily.

You wanna know what set all this off? Besides "How are you, ... really?"

Molasses.

I mentioned molasses in my last recipe, and not one of you said one thing about that.

You know what I've made that mean? If I had molasses in my pantry up North, I would be savaged. I would be asked what the fucking hell was that fucking shit and what the fucking hell was it doing in my house?

That's how people up North talk: right in your face and with the eff word used as a verb, noun and adjective, but do you see how fucked up I am? I say molasses, and you didn't say a peep. That means to me that it's situation normal. I'm a sweet little Southern belle to you, aren't I? I don't have a home to go home to now, anymore, because I've acclimatized to my new environs. I can never go back to that cold, austere New England I grew up in, 'cause I would be a stranger in a strange land, looking for molasses. No, I've blended right into the background here, a little barista — littler than you; littler than me — handing you your drink and wishing you well on your day as you're out the door, not even seeing me as you take your cup, not even missing me when I off myself, 'cause somebody else, just like me, will be handing you your cup tomorrow. I'm just a Southern girl, using molasses in her recipes, writing her silly little smutfics, just like Louisa May Alcott, aka Jo March, wrote her smutfics for women's magazines to make a pretty penny turning on all those ladies in their petticoats, wetting their knickers, and I'm not even getting paid for this, what I'm pouring my heart out into and for what reason, for why am I doing this?

I don't know. I don't know.

I don't know anything anymore. All I know is: "As I wake I'm going out of my mind / Going out of my mind."

That's how I'm doing.

Happy?

I ... it's hard to swallow right now ... I don't know how much longer I can hold it together.

And, no, thank you. I don't want your help. One thing help does: it hurts you, irreversibly, and it hastens my leap over the edge of the precipice. My last suicide attempt was acted out when I was in therapy.

So don't come near me to comfort me. I'm terrified already, and I don't need to add to my burdens and yours, saying the things I see from my tunneled vision when I see you approach, talons extended.

I wonder. I wonder how many people are willing to accept an answer they aren't expecting when they ask "How are you?" I wonder how many people are willing to be fine with the answer given from the heart, and not say, 'no, you don't feel that, nobody could be that fucked up,' or 'no, you aren't that, nobody's not nothing, you're better than that, and you know it,' but can just accept where the person is coming from? Can just see the person where they are, and simply be with that? Just be a body and catch a body in the rye? 'Catch' ... or meet a body in the rye. Whatevs.

I know. I know. It's mirror time for me.

"I am beautiful. I am smart. I am loved. I am a writer. I am a writer like no other. I touch people's hearts. I bring happiness to people's lives, and comfort in their despair and loneliness."

Yes. I know. All that's true. I do. I am of service, and, serving, I do bring something to you, that would be missing, lost, if I didn't dare to step out.

And that is a comfort now, when I think on it.

And someday, maybe, I'll have a good, happy, Spring day, where I will walk in that unnamed (sort of) park, and smell the flowers, and look up at the sky, and be, and be happy, and write something sad, or happy, or smexy, or funny, or serious, and will save another person's life, and I will preen and prance, the proud panther that I am. Today is a nice, warm, grey cloudy, New Englandy day. Maybe that day will be today.

Can you be patient with me, when I am sad? So you can rejoice with me when I am glad?