"I fell down some steps"

I fell down some steps.

People are very curious about this. Why? Is it like watching a train wreck? So the fuck what! Who the fuck cares! I fell down some steps. Big deal.

I fell down a whole flight of steps. The very first step on my cheap second, that is top, floor, of my cheap apartment, my foot didn't catch on that little metallic thingie/edge, that would have had me slide down face first on my belly down the steps, no: my heel landed exactly where it would slide, skid over the top of that metal thingie, and I spend a whole flight trying to catch hold of anything as I screamed, "oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!" as my whole body tensed itself, trying to save itself from this unremitting agony, until I finally did flip over and land on the floor with my face -- BANG! -- and cried and cried and cried until some nice Korean people from the ground floor came rushing out with their cell phones calling emergency.

Boy, did I scream then! I screamed that I was okay, and I wasn't hurt, and I was okay, and I dragged my sorry ass back up those self-same steps back to my tiny, shitty, oops I meant: 'efficiency' place and pull the covers over my head and went to sleep and didn't wake up for a day. A whole day.

Why was I going out?

Well, when your girlfriend tells you she wants to be friends now, and she wasn't your girlfriend, she was the reason you were alive for a whole year, and ...

Well, I was a little ... euphoric ... from emotion, so I decided to self-medicate. Alcohol is a depressant, you see, so I could be back on an even keel after a few drinks. The dive they call a restaurant/bar in our little dive town has 'happy' hour where they serve mixed drinks for one dollar.

By the way: I'm a cheap date. One beer, and I'm drunk. A few drinks? You ever read Salinger? He wrote Sappho's poem: "Raise High the Roofbeams, Carpenters!" as only he could write it. THAT's what'd happen to me. What happened to Buddy after one, very strong, Tom Collins.

Yeah, I was going to self-medicate, then maybe cross the street, and maybe this time God wouldn't stop that oncoming truck, and then everybody's problems would be solved, and it wouldn't even be a suicide, it'd just be some stupid fucking drunk girl crossing the street, crushed under a moving van.

Happens every day.

So, God might've taken preemptive measures, again, on my sorry ass, and had one angel push me down the stairs, and ... but it was okay, I was fine, because the floor caught my fall.

I had a big black and blue shiner that screamed 'SPOUSE ABUSE!' for any and all on-lookers for a few days.

And, well, tensing up like that, and having stair after stair hit tensed muscles like that.

And my tailbone.

Yes, my pride was injured, but then, I couldn't walk for a day, and then running? jogging?

I tried, but I couldn't the pain was general: all over my body, and then 'specific': like, super intense in my neck and back. It was fine walking, but when I tried to push myself, even a little bit, I saw stars through my tears.

And the bruises on my knees and hips.

But why didn't I go (back) to the hospital?

"I fell down some steps."

I fell down some steps.

Yeah, right.

How many times a day do the orderlies hear that lie? In Fight Club, you know: the movie that Saga quoted the 'I haven't been fucked like that since grade school' line, the protagonist used that line, that lie, to justify his beatings, on himself.

In 'Fried Green Tomatoes,' there was some falling down some steps, right, Ruth? But it was because her husband pushed her down them, and she almost lost her baby that way.

And let's not forget the best seller, 22 million copies at last count a few years ago, where Alice DID fall down some steps and crash through a window to cover up the fact that Bella was tortured by James, ... remember how he snapped her leg in half? ... so that she and Edward could live happily ever after?

Stairs, and falling down them, cover up a whole host of sins, of evils.

"I fell down some steps."

I go to the hospital, and say that line, and you know what they would think, and you know what they would do. And they I would have the police over at my house, and more people would be in my life, in my shit, and see just another example of an aborted abortion: poor white trash just taking up space, living in the ghetto.

You know what 'ghetto' is? No, it's not where (now) the Koreans live. It's not where the Black lived in Harlem. No, it's where the Nazis gathered the Jews ...

... collecting them, so they could exterminate them.

And the questions they would ask: "Please give the name of your cohabitating partner. Has he assaulted you before?" He? HE? HE?

Or: "What are the names of your parents? Are you house sitting here? Have you been disciplined by them before this badly? What high school do you go to? Wait: did you graduate grade school yet?"

Yeah: I fell down some steps.

Oh, but I'm fine now. You know why: because I didn't go to the hospital, and have a police report filed against me: Jane Doe, poor white trash, so nobody knows that I can't pay the rent, that I can't go out with the gang from work for lunch, cause I can't pay with credit card and I don't have cash, and if I lose my fare card, I don't have cash to get a bus ride then catch the metro rail, then catch the next bus: two and a half hours to get to work, two and a half hours to get home to get paid a 'fuck me up the ass, boss' secretary's pay that doesn't pay the rent, so, no I don't go to sbux anymore for that $4.25 cup of coffee I don't have the money to buy.

You see: I'm fine. Nobody knows about me; nobody cares, so I can just be a little mouse, shivering in the barn; getting by.

Out of sight. Out of mind.

So, now, when I go down the steps, what I don't do is this: I don't check my email on my phone, I'm not getting any I need to read, like when I needed to read the email when Saga sent it. I don't think thoughts that cloud my sight. Like nearly every thought I think to myself and how I deserve this life I'm living, and I don't even deserve that. No, I grasp firmly on the rail with one hand, and hold the wall with the other, and nudge out my foot, reach out to that first step, and then I tentatively rest my foot on the first step, testing to see whether I rest there, or if I go flying, high as a kite, bonk-bonk-bonk, all the way down.

If I rest there, nobody comes running out their doors, nobody notices. Nobody cares. Nothing to care about.

Being noticed, falling, flying down a flight of stairs, get you noticed, and being noticed ...

I'm tired, and it's not even noon yet. This writing stuff. Wheee! So fun!

And a little tiny voice just now, just fucking right now, whispered in my head: "Saga noticed you."

I have to go to the bathroom now. I don't want my coworkers seeing me crying. They might notice.

`phfina and her boyz

So.

So Saga said ... something. Something like, 'let's be friends.'

Something that sounded to me, in my soul like I'm dying.

So.

So for two weeks now, she hasn't written me. Maybe she thinks about me. Maybe she doesn't. Maybe she thought she'd think about me, but then 'life goes on,' and she doesn't think about me for two days, and praying at night, and reflecting on her day, she realizes she hasn't thought me for two days, and then dies, a little, inside, realizing she hasn't thought about me for two days, meaning to write, wanting to write, but what to write, 'I miss you'? 'It hurts, missing you'? ...

... 'I love you'?

Or maybe I'm writing about me, not about her. And maybe she and I are so much alike, each in our own way, that writing about my loss of her is writing about her loss of me.

I don't know.

So.

So, I've been keeping busy.

No, not writing. Because writing requires a couple things: like honesty, like clairvoyance. Meaning 'clair' and 'voyance.' 'Seeing' 'clearly' ... and to see clearly, you have to look, and to look, and to see, you have to say what is, and what isn't, and you can't wallow, when you say what is, and what isn't.

Like me, what is ... and mostly: what isn't.

I'm ... not.

I'm not anything. I'm nothing. And without Saga, this emptiness, this nothingness, this ... me... hurts. She saw me for what I was and what I wasn't and laughed at my silliness, and scolded my nihilism, and gave me a reason to go on living, for a year, to have my heart beat so painfully hard, to have my toes curl until my (tiny) feet cramped, with the anticipation of getting an email from her, and reading what it says. What did it say? Didn't matter, it killed me every time. Every single time.

And I haven't received an email from my friend, now, for two weeks now.

She's moved on.

I'm left behind: a pair of jeans and sneaks on the side of an abandoned road, not even a ghost to eat the bitter despair of her regrets, and what did I do, besides nothing to ever deserve her and everything in my power to lose her.

"`phfina, why aren't you writing?"

Yeah, I just SO LOVE this self-examination! Thanks for encouraging me. Yeah, it hurts like hell, thanks for caring so much about wanting to read what I write, and not giving a shit how I feel writing it, like I've said over and over again, but does anybody ever listen? No.

I may as well go a buy a gun and shoot myself in the head. If that doesn't kill me, at least all my worries will be gone with the free lobotomy. Happy-happy, joy-joy. Then it won't matter if people listen to me or they don't.

So.

So, I've been online, playing Halo. Why? Why not. My brothers do, and I can kick their asses. Or at least throw it down.

Let me tell you something about girls playing Halo.

Hm. Wrong start? Let me tell you something about boyz playing Halo.

You know the male gender? Yes, you do.

I didn't, however. I mean, I 'knew' ... like in the Biblical sense, the male gender ... you know: Nelson, and ... others.

'I haven't been fucked like that since grade school!' was the line from Fight Club that Saga introduced herself to me, reading one of my chapters. And I responded to her review with 'well, I have.'

Well, I have.

Anything to get Daddy back. See, Daddy? I'm not a queer, right?

Anyway. So I had this rather limited and limiting view of boyz. You know: them, the enemy, and me, the victim.

(You can say I have a rather limiting view of myself, but I can answer, 'shut the fuck up.' Thank you very much)

But a girl, playing Halo?

Let me tell you a little bit about this girl named 'phfina' playing Halo. See, I have two brother who've played Halo since even before it came out, one of them is one of the best players in the world.

I have some good training.

So, my 'BPR' ('Battle Proficiency Rating') is in the 90th percentile. It doesn't mean that in 10 battle I come out the winner 9 of them. No. But I do tend to pick my battles, instead of them picking me, so it's more likely if you see me in your reticle, and I see you (usually I see you, and you don't see me), you're dead.

Because boyz? This is how boyz fight: 'ARRRG! CHARGE!' and they all go at each other, toe-to-toe.

This is how phfina fights. She picks a hidden perch, and she waits. She waits for the boyz to run out into the open straight at each other, and she picks them off with headshots, one by one, as they ignore her, clubbing each other to death.

One fight, I picked up the sniper rifle, climbed a cliff overlooking the entire battlefield, and picked off boyz, one by one. Until they noticed, and came at me in force. So I jumped down from the cliff (banana-roll, phfina!) ran for about 50 meters, turned around, and sniped the boyz taking ineffective pot-shots at me with their magnums.

Some boyz, understandably, don't like this.

That is: a girl who dies the least and kills the most in fight after fight after fight. Girls aren't supposed to fight back, and especially aren't supposed to win fights. That's a rule, or something.

So, there are several reactions from boyz.

A common one, when the do kill me (which is often: boyz are boyz, so they charge and overwhelm me, and bang, I'm dead), then stand over my corpse, 'teabagging' me, and screaming, 'Get back into the kitchen, bitch!'

This has happened more times than I care to remember or to recount.

And, yes, I let them know, by killing them back, after the respawn, and NOT teabagging them, and sending them a message about their behavior.

You know what teabagging is? It's rape. A guy kills a girl, then he humps her corpse. I mean, what? Was that guy unloved as a child? Is that they only way he can get any?

I send them feedback, and a very carefully, and strongly worded, message as to what their behavior means about their character.

That's one type of boy.

But boyz, I have found, can be complex.

Some come right back at me, unrepentant, mouthing profanities.

Those are reported.

Some come back, and say, 'Hey, we're not jerks!'

And I'm like, 'yeah, right.'

But some actually aren't jerks ... they're just boyz, being boyz. And they endeavor to amend their ways, and prove themselves to me.

And I give them a second chance.

So I have three friends on my friend list that are boyz that I called jerks, but came right back at me and asked for a second chance.

I can call out shit, ... and I can forgive.

Other boyz, I go toe-to-toe with, and, sister, they are better than me. WAY better than me. One of those boyz, 'MAD DEZINEZ' he stayed off, and shot me, better than I shot him. So I messaged him after the game, saying he was better, even though he annoyed the hell out of me, how he would shoot, then fade, then shoot, and kill.

And he messaged back, 'I only go after the best players on the other team, and you're really good.'

We've been friends for a while now. And he puts up with my shit, with good grace, which is rather amazing to me.

Another boy, GRAVITY, is the number one player in the world in the game type 'Invasion' (my favorite type. It has everything: a goal, vehicles, tactics, teamwork, everything). You play against his team, you die: it's that simple. Why? He's not that good. He is, but he's not like some I've faced, who, at DMR distance become a blur, hopping from foot to foot, making headshots very difficult, or who, at close range, evade, and turn and twist, so you're dizzy trying to melee them, but you just hit air when they snap the back of your neck. No, he's not like that, he simply plays well and plays with a team that plays well, game after game.

Well, I fangirled him. 'My brother, geophf, told me you're the best invasion player in the world!' And he gave me a '^^' back. And then, one time, our team beat his, and I squeed and did a happy dance, and PMed him right away, and he friended me.

So I have the best invasion player in the world on my friend list. So there's that.

So there's those type of boyz, the ones on my friend list. Good: better than me, but nice to me.

"`phfina always gets at least a killing spree every game."
"Nice snipes"
"A girl that kicks ass at Halo ... I think I'm in love!"

And are still boyz: "faggot assed motherfucker!" (after I said I'm a 'faggot' and don't like that language)
"You have to be mean to girls, 'cause they leave you if you're nice" (um, what? You're obviously seeing the wrong kind of girls if they leave you the opinion you have to be mean to girls, because you pull that shit on me ...)

and all that.

Then there are the third type of boyz who are better than me: Halo gods.

There is a rank called 'Inheritor' as in 'inherit the earth,' but they are not meek at all, oh, no!

They get teased a lot before a battle: "Hey, buddy, how much you pay for that rank?"

They don't deign to laugh in return: "You messing with me, punk?"

And then, in the battle, ... it's like, there is water, and they are walking on it, as the rest of us drown. They move into a fracas, and kill everyone fighting each other, and walk away, unscathed. They run halfway across the field, a blur of motion, to single you out, and take you out with ease. They stand off, and snipe, and snipe, and snipe, and every shot is an impossible headshot if it were you on the sniper rifle. And the end score is them, 25, and the next closest person is like 12 ... not even close. And post-game, they don't even bother to set you down, they just go to the next battle, to kick more n00bs ... behinds.

Those kinds of boyz, I have no dealings with. They kill me, over, and over, and over again, and could care less, cause I ... my level of skill isn't worth their notice, and when I do kill them, I'm like WOOT! and they respawn, and kill me, just because I'm in their sights, not because they want revenge or give a fig that I was one of the very few people able to land a killing shot on them.

Those are the kinds of boyz I meet on line, some nice, some not, and some don't bother to care about 'nice.'

The girls? Across the spectrum. You've already seen how one girl fights in me, but other girls, like lilred and I Love Decline, they'll kill you, kill you dead.

But there aren't that many girls online, so I have to hang with the boyz. It's been educational, realizing I have a rather one-dimensional view of boyz, and with good reason, for most of them: jerks and assholes to a 'T'. But not all boyz are like most boyz, some are kind, and caring, and have families or consideration or both, and have mad skilz, too, and tactics, and dedication, and ... friendship.

And it's been two days, now, that I haven't thought of Saga, that I haven't ached, checking my email, and not seeing a message from her, because I've forgotten, after two weeks, what it feels like to receive a message from her.

And that hurts.

It hurts a lot.

Um, Happy New Year?

Nothing to see here, Ladies and Gentlemen.

(Literally: 'Nothing,' that is: 'me').

Move along.

Oh, you're the type that loves train-wrecks? Great! You've come to the right place.

I'm not eating.

I had a bit of apple for breakfast, with some tea.

I had some pineapple slices for lunch, with some tea. To go along with my lunch: I ate half of the roasted quarter chicken and two brussels sprouts.

I feel stuffed. Bloated.

I wonder how long this will go on.

Hm. Not long, I suppose. I'll get better, or I won't. Whatever.

Happy New Year!

Okay, okay (`phfina relents), here's a Happy image for you:

Me, skip-di-skipping down the road to Rhinestone Eyes ... you have the admit (so: admit it. Go on, then!) that when the chorus comes in, it's very skip-di-skippy-y.

And, after skipping, you just can't plod along, after that; no: a girl has to run, run with a big, huge smile on her face.

Not bad for a girl who, this month, fell down a flight of stairs.

Not bad.