You remember the day when they didn't have Skype to Afghanistan? Or email, even? Or running water, so laundry service, for our troops over there?
Forget it.
And Sophie is fretting over how she can skype Lauren and why is it taking so long? SO LONG? LIKE DAYS? HA! TRY THREE MONTHS BY INTERNATIONAL SNAIL MAIL!
Sophie DOES have it so much better. The problem with having it better, WAY BETTER, is that you don't appreciate it unless you had it worse before.
Sophie, having it better now, is having the worst time in her life, the poor girl, because she doesn't know fuck-all about skype to skype Lauren, so screaming: "Just skype Lauren, Sophie; Jeez!" would only make her feel worse, because she would say, in a very small voice: "but how?" and probably just crawl away and hide under her covers, feeling like a shit.
Not that she doesn't deserve that, for not acting when she should have, so some us are granted the ability to see and to know what to say and when so we don't have these problems down the road. "Oh, Lauren, how do I skype you when you get over there?"
Simple as that.
But then, if she DID say that, she knows, and you do, too, exactly what Lauren would say: "So, okay, and you want to skype me ... why?"
And then Soph is caught, isn't she, because then she has to lie her ass off, or, worse, she has to tell the truth, and she just doesn't ... want to face certain truths right now. Some truths are way too much to face when we believe we're in a certain place in our lives, aren't they?
Or maybe you don't feel these truths hitting you, as they are knocking at Sophie's door. I know I never like facing the truth. Ever. Truth is a hard, hard mistress, telling you, "You know, `phfina, you're out of a job now, and who's fault is it that you don't have one, right now, today?"
Or: "You know, `phfina, you're going to sleep alone tonight, and you're waking up alone tomorrow, and why? Every single one of the relationships you've been in, you've royally screwed up, haven't you, `phfina, and you've left how many girls' hearts broken up and down the East Coast? How much longer are you going to run from what you've done and who you are? Running is such good exercise, you cross-country runner, isn't it? You like to run, don't you? You gonna ever run back to Brenda, your mom's friend? or Wild-Cate with her hennaed hair or ... not Julia anymore, she's happily married with kid now, too late for you to unfuck up that failed relationship, your first, nor with Saga, now, still, unhappily married with three kids and one prevented suicide attempt and because of whom, `phfina?"
Yeah, I just so love facing these truths, and the mirror, every single day, knowing I'm exactly where I am in my life right now because I know who put me there.
Um. Wow. TMI, right? But that's truth: Soph wants to skype; Soph 'can't' skype, but why? Because she set herself up not to, because setting herself up to skype with Lauren entails facing the mirror.
And the truth is ...
The truth is ... I could be better than I am right now. I could be happier. I could be a blessing to myself and my family and my friends, not be the broken little burden that I am to them. Sure, I'm doing a good thing with my writing, but that doesn't mean I could be a million times better than I am.
Soph is (moderately) rich (not 'Rosalie rich') and content, but is happiness contentment? If it is, shouldn't she be happy? Why is she sad?
Because her contentment is a lie: it's just going along with how she thinks she's supposed to be, and she's content in that little box she's constructed for herself.
But it's a little box, and she constructed it, and now, she's beginning to see the outlines of the box.
But to face the 'Truth' the whole big world outside of the box ... well, that involves thinking outside the box, and maybe, or maybe not, Sophie's ready to start thinking about thinking about thinking outside the box.
But thinking doesn't make one happy. Nor does doing (like actually skyping Lauren, like a conversation with Lauren ever made ANYONE happy?) (or baking cookies) (the second time) (when she didn't). No: being is happiness, that is the universal truth. Being is happiness, happiness is being, but really being, not faking it (a fake-o is a happy-o for whom?), and not being is sadness and loss. But how can Sophie be when all she can do is think about thinking about how to skype because why, to tell Lauren off? And then she'll be happy?
I envy Sophie. She's daring. She's on a journey, and she has not fucking clue one where this is going, and it's weird and it's wild, but when she actually starts going down the path, she's smiling so hard it hurts her cheeks, even as it scares the shit out of her.
"How about you, `phfina?" I need to get a job. I need to get a job because I need to get a job. So I can pay the bills and eat so I can go to work on my job.
Do you see how limited my world-view is?
And as tiny-small as my view is, I see it, and I see so many people not seeing it. The vast majority of people in the world are living lives as small as mine, even HAPPY to work for the Man, because that's what they're supposed to do ...
Oh, really? And people Live, Learn, Love, and Leave a Legacy by working at a job 9-to-5?
Maybe some do, maybe there're some saints in the workplace, but it's not because they have a job and do their job well, it's because they ARE saints. They BE sanctified, and they bless us with their holiness, their coworkers, at the job, and, when they return home, they bless their families.
I 'need' a job, not to be sanctified, but because I'm a tiny little box that defines my universe around 8 hours a day that I will freely give to somebody else so they can tell me what to do.
Sophie is not constrained that way, but she's just as constrained in other ways, her 'world-view,' but she's starting the journey of 1,000 miles. Me? I don't even dare to look at the 8-fold paths in front of me. I'm too scared to, because starting a journey like that involves risk, and hope, and growth.
And that's too scary for this little girl.
Besides. I don't have anybody to skype with. I made sure of that.
Have you heard about the lonesome loser?
Beaten by the Queen of Hearts every time?
Have you heard about the lonesome loser?
She's a loser, and she just gave up trying.
Sometimes, skype is more than skype, isn't it?
... and, sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar, after all ... for those people blessed with seeing the world simply as it is, and not complicating it more than it needs to be.
Showing posts with label appreciation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label appreciation. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
How to Write (a review): Recognize. Describe. Share. Appreciate.
How to write?
There are three levels of writing: recognizing, describing, and then sharing.
Good, better, best.
And there are two approaches to writing: indifference and appreciation.
Or (very) bad, and good.
Levels of writing.
Recognize: "Your writing is different."
Describe: "Bella in your story isn't a pushover, although Rosalie bosses her around, but I think Rosalie really loves Bella, too, even though she won't admit that to herself. Also, other femmeslash I read, one girl is mannish and the other girly, but your story, you don't take away Rosalie's femininity, and I like reading that, for a change."
Share: "I had a really shit New Year's and reading your story, seeing two girls who really love each other and are happy with each other? I like being with couples who are happy and strong people but also bend and depend on each other, it gives me hope that I can be happy like that, too."
Then, the two approaches.
Indifference: "Update soon." (What, am I your fvcking b!tch? "Fetch, Lassie! Fetch!")
Appreciation: "You really put your heart into this chapter, and it must have been hard writing it, and, with the material, brave of you to publish it. I liked this chapter. You are one of (if not the) best writers on ffn for being able to write a Lauren fic (a character I hated in the series) and you made me like her."
My advice.
It's safe to recognize something, but it takes hard work to describe how to distinguish it from all the rest of the crap out there, and then it takes courage to share what it meant for you.
It's ... fvcking rude to be indifferent, by not leaving a review after you've read a chapter that made you say 'Huh. Wow.' (Recognize that: "This chapter made me say 'Huh. Wow!' Then DESCRIBE WHAT made you say 'Huh. Wow.' then FVCKING SHARE WHY THAT MEANS ANYTHING TO YOU, for FVCK's SAKE!) It's fvcking rude to say: "More, more, gimme more!" and not FVCKING APPRECIATE WHAT YOU JUST GOT! WHY THE FVCK WILL I GIVE YOU MORE IF YOU DON'T SAY HOW WHAT I JUST GAVE YOU TOUCHED YOU? You are a fvcking selfish, rude, little pig.
Recognize that. You are a fvcking selfish, rude, little pig. Now read that PM or that review you just wrote.
Did you just recognize some sh!t out there, or did you distinguish it, and then, did you dare to share what it meant for you?
Did you appreciate what you were just given, little piggie, or did you put your fat fingers into the dessert tray, stuffed your mouth full of chocolates and then say, 'More!'
If you sent this PM or review to yourself, would it make sense? Did it help? Would you have been pleased to have received it?
Or, since you just sent it to yourself, do you now want to b!tch-slap yourself silly?
I recommend you start b!tch-slapping yourself, right now, and take your review or your PM and rewrite it. Keep b!tch-slapping yourself until you get to a rewrite that doesn't want to make me puke.
So, yeah: keep b!tch-slapping yourself.
I recommend you take that bullsh!t chapter you just wrote, and get fvcking real with yourself and with your characters. Nineteen-nine percent of the problems on ffn is that the writing out there has the fvcking CHARACTERS in THEIR STORIES EMBARRASSED TO SAY THE LINES THEY ARE GIVEN and TO DO THE FVCKED UP SH!T the AUTHORESSES MAKE THEM DO.
Don't be one of the 99%. And you know how you will rise above the crowded cesspool? Put just 1% more effort into your story. That's fucking it. And fucking put your heart into the story.
And then, before you publish the motherfucker, fucking proof read it. I proof read each chapter seven time. You hear me? SEVEN FUCKING TIMES!
"`phfina, you want me to beta your stuff for you, so you can have good grammar, like my stories don't?"
Uh, no. I want you to read Strunk and White's Elements of Style. Now. And I want you to spell-check your document. Now. And I want you to, when you don't know what word to put there, to mark that place, keep writing, and come back to that snag and get the exact word and the right word, and not publish your chapter until you do put the exact word and the right word needed right there.
And I want you not to use the words 'stuff,' 'good,' 'bad,' 'interesting,' and 'different.' Ever.
Never, ever use those words again.
Thank you.
Oh, and if you write 'summary sucks,' guess what sucks even more: your story. Write a fucking summary that doesn't fucking suck. No: write a summary that rocks your readers' world.
There are three levels of writing: recognizing, describing, and then sharing.
Good, better, best.
And there are two approaches to writing: indifference and appreciation.
Or (very) bad, and good.
Levels of writing.
Recognize: "Your writing is different."
Describe: "Bella in your story isn't a pushover, although Rosalie bosses her around, but I think Rosalie really loves Bella, too, even though she won't admit that to herself. Also, other femmeslash I read, one girl is mannish and the other girly, but your story, you don't take away Rosalie's femininity, and I like reading that, for a change."
Share: "I had a really shit New Year's and reading your story, seeing two girls who really love each other and are happy with each other? I like being with couples who are happy and strong people but also bend and depend on each other, it gives me hope that I can be happy like that, too."
Then, the two approaches.
Indifference: "Update soon." (What, am I your fvcking b!tch? "Fetch, Lassie! Fetch!")
Appreciation: "You really put your heart into this chapter, and it must have been hard writing it, and, with the material, brave of you to publish it. I liked this chapter. You are one of (if not the) best writers on ffn for being able to write a Lauren fic (a character I hated in the series) and you made me like her."
My advice.
It's safe to recognize something, but it takes hard work to describe how to distinguish it from all the rest of the crap out there, and then it takes courage to share what it meant for you.
It's ... fvcking rude to be indifferent, by not leaving a review after you've read a chapter that made you say 'Huh. Wow.' (Recognize that: "This chapter made me say 'Huh. Wow!' Then DESCRIBE WHAT made you say 'Huh. Wow.' then FVCKING SHARE WHY THAT MEANS ANYTHING TO YOU, for FVCK's SAKE!) It's fvcking rude to say: "More, more, gimme more!" and not FVCKING APPRECIATE WHAT YOU JUST GOT! WHY THE FVCK WILL I GIVE YOU MORE IF YOU DON'T SAY HOW WHAT I JUST GAVE YOU TOUCHED YOU? You are a fvcking selfish, rude, little pig.
Recognize that. You are a fvcking selfish, rude, little pig. Now read that PM or that review you just wrote.
Did you just recognize some sh!t out there, or did you distinguish it, and then, did you dare to share what it meant for you?
Did you appreciate what you were just given, little piggie, or did you put your fat fingers into the dessert tray, stuffed your mouth full of chocolates and then say, 'More!'
If you sent this PM or review to yourself, would it make sense? Did it help? Would you have been pleased to have received it?
Or, since you just sent it to yourself, do you now want to b!tch-slap yourself silly?
I recommend you start b!tch-slapping yourself, right now, and take your review or your PM and rewrite it. Keep b!tch-slapping yourself until you get to a rewrite that doesn't want to make me puke.
So, yeah: keep b!tch-slapping yourself.
I recommend you take that bullsh!t chapter you just wrote, and get fvcking real with yourself and with your characters. Nineteen-nine percent of the problems on ffn is that the writing out there has the fvcking CHARACTERS in THEIR STORIES EMBARRASSED TO SAY THE LINES THEY ARE GIVEN and TO DO THE FVCKED UP SH!T the AUTHORESSES MAKE THEM DO.
Don't be one of the 99%. And you know how you will rise above the crowded cesspool? Put just 1% more effort into your story. That's fucking it. And fucking put your heart into the story.
And then, before you publish the motherfucker, fucking proof read it. I proof read each chapter seven time. You hear me? SEVEN FUCKING TIMES!
"`phfina, you want me to beta your stuff for you, so you can have good grammar, like my stories don't?"
Uh, no. I want you to read Strunk and White's Elements of Style. Now. And I want you to spell-check your document. Now. And I want you to, when you don't know what word to put there, to mark that place, keep writing, and come back to that snag and get the exact word and the right word, and not publish your chapter until you do put the exact word and the right word needed right there.
And I want you not to use the words 'stuff,' 'good,' 'bad,' 'interesting,' and 'different.' Ever.
Never, ever use those words again.
Thank you.
Oh, and if you write 'summary sucks,' guess what sucks even more: your story. Write a fucking summary that doesn't fucking suck. No: write a summary that rocks your readers' world.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Rosalie and Lauren ... and Jess
So, I was asked this.
How easy is it to get into the minds of your characters, `phfina, then to step back out?
I don't get it. Or you don't.
Or something.
See, I don't get into the minds of my characters, then get out. I think ... I think a lot of writing is exactly that, however.
"Oh, Bella needs to fall down some steps, then Edward needs to say, 'Silly Bella' and dazzle her, so they can fuck and I can get my rocks off writing that and rereading it, and then I can get 10k+ reviews."
Right? Well, not exactly like that, but that's what you read, story after story. Bella has to go to the Lakota store, so the Native there has to hand here the one and only book in the entire book store that says "Edward (or Alice) is a Vampire, so tell them and make passionate Bella-squeaks when you get it on."
How many stories have you read that? People do just off-the-wall things because the plot has to move forward and because it's Bella, so she has to know, although this is the first time these two are ever meeting.
I don't read fanfiction fics anymore, not even the good ones, not even the ones rec'd to me. Not even yours, because you want me to.
Because they're filled with that, things (bad things) happen to Bella, because things (bad things) happen to you, and you take it out on her, but she, somehow stupidly, makes it in the end, because she's Bella, and if things turn out okay for her, they'll turn out okay for you. You know what I mean. You read it all the time: stories with bad things like Bella cutting herself because you, dear authoresse, hate yourself so much you have to hurt yourself to breathe, or daddy Charlie rapes Bella because your dad raped you. Or ... winner! Edward rapes Bella, forces her to have an abortion to save her life, and she's hopelessly in love with him, because he treats her like shit, rapes her and makes her have an abortion she didn't want, because Edward knows best and is a whole lot smarter than stupid, clumsy you, I mean, Bella, and if she doesn't love him, he'll leave her, and that would be bad, for some reason.
See, you can read my stuff and see all that in there, yes?
Or no?
Why is my stuff, where bad things happen to the characters ... why is my stuff compelling? Is it compelling for you in the same way that you can't take your eyes off the people going into the ambulances that happened at that three-car pile-up you passed today?
Or, is it compelling to you because you're going through the same shit I'm going through, but instead of me saying 'oh, this bad thing happened, but it's okay, because it'll turn out well in the end, because it's Bella.'
I write instead, 'this shit happened, and now Bella has to deal with it.'
This shit happened, and now Bella has to deal with it.
This shit is happening, and now I have to deal with it, because I'm writing about it, and I'm crying like the little baby I am, and that's all I can do to deal with it, write about it, and cry.
But I'm not writing about it where it's going to be okay, because it isn't okay. Bella's dealing with real issues and she's really hurting.
And you're dealing with real issues, and you're really hurting.
Or you're not dealing with real issues, and you're really hurting, but you see Bella dealing with it, as best as she can, and she sucks at dealing with her issues, but she's trying.
And if Bella can try, maybe you can try. And maybe I can, too.
That's a rather long route for me to say what's the appeal of my writing. Ick.
But, so, if I don't push my characters around in the plot, then what am I doing?
Having a conversation with them? Having them drive the plot?
Nope, not really.
Here's what I'm doing. Here's the secret to my writing.
I am my characters. Every single one of them that show up on the page, I am them.
I am fucking Lauren.
See, nobody understands Lauren because nobody wants to think of themselves as her. She's the bk, the bad kid, and if you think of yourself as her, you're a bk. And you can't possibly be a bk.
I'm Lauren.
I so didn't want to write this chapter, because I never 'got into the mind' of Lauren. I didn't want to. I don't want to bring up all her shit and now that I have, I have to deal with it.
You don't. You don't write Lauren fics, you don't read them. Too much shit in them for you to 'deal' with, so why bother?
Except for the little fact that you have too much shit in your life you have to deal with, and you don't want to bother with it. You just want to leave it on the floor and have somebody else: your mom, your friends, me, deal with it, and say you're 'fine' and that you 'don't want to talk about it, because it's private.'
And you go on sticking that knife in the back of your mom and your friends and me in everything you say and do, because you have all that undealt-with shit in your life, and you think you can push the people around in your life like you push around Bella in the fics that you read and write.
You are Lauren.
I am Lauren. The difference is: I acknowledge it and now I have to deal with it.
You don't, so you don't have to deal with that dirty little shit that you are ... just everybody else does in your life.
"You don't know what you're talking about, `phfina."
Yeah, whatever. And nor does your therapist, even though there's over one-hundred years of studies into your fucked-up psyche, but you know better about you, because you're you, and all those psych-os are old fogey-pervs.
Whatever. Keep at it, Lauren.
But, okay, that's not very empowering to you, the one or two people (still?) reading this. What is?
Rosalie is Lauren.
Everything, pretty much, that Lauren has gone through, Rosalie has gone through.
But what's the difference? None, really, Lauren's hurting, Rosalie's hurting.
It's just perspective and what they do with their past. They are both living in their past, it's just that Lauren uses her past to hurt other people, because she's hurting.
Rosalie uses her past to fuck-all everybody else, and do what she wants (just like Lauren, by the way), but Rosalie is functioning, in her fucked-up-ed-ness, whereas Lauren is frozen in it.
I'm fucked up, you're fucked up, we can either function or freeze. Our choice. We can either lash out and say "I'm dealing with some shit here, leave me alone in my misery" or we can comfort.
And we can comfort codependently ("Love me because I'm crying and holding you") or freely.
There are so many layers to living. You can be hurting and hurt people from that hurt, or be hurting and help, but then be all weird about it, or be hurting and help and really make a different in somebody else's life.
That's the measure. Not how you're dealing with your shit. Everybody has their own shit, but some people actually are like, wow, I want to be with them! I want to be like them! They are so nice, genuine, friendly, helpful, sweet, loving, caring ...
And they, being all that, still have to get through their day, every day, same as you and me.
And they do.
Just (un)like Rosalie, just (un)like Bella, just so unlike Lauren.
But Rosalie and Bella and even Lauren try to make it through their day. They have alternatives: they can check out, big-time, or they can check out of the conversation, but they can also try to make it through the day.
So, in that regard, Rosalie, Bella, and even Lauren deserve a measure of respect from me.
I have to treat them as persons, with thoughts, feelings, hopes and fears, and so when somebody says or does something, it affects them. Don't you see that?
When you say or do something, it affects the people in your life.
Try that on for size.
Now, ...
The real surprise for me is Jess.
Because I so ...
There's one in every school, isn't there? There was one in my school, which may or may not have been Tolland High where I may, or most definitely was not, a cheerleader.
Just like Bella. eheh. ;)
But, so I just so dismiss the Jess's in my life. Fucking thoughtless ditzes, laughing at everything, popular, and so not deserving it. I work for my grades, I don't sell out my feelings, my emotions, my opinions, my ... body just because I want to be liked.
But I did.
I so want to be liked, and I so sell-out, by checking out, when I'm not liked, and when somebody likes me, I so...
Sell myself.
I would do anything, with anybody, when they like me. You know that feeling, being liked? And you know what you're willing to do to keep them liking you, and not to be alone?
Anything. Right? Anything.
And, yes, I mean anything, and yes, you can read all about it in my blog, my useless, wasted, empty life in my blog, if you want to. Read about me, and read about that girl who ...
Well, you know. Maybe even personally. We do things, sometimes, to feel this now, and we know we're going to pay, but that's later, not now, and we so, so want to be loved. Now. Because we so, so know we're going to be alone later, and maybe this now will make later a little bit more bearable, that we were liked now. And felt something, and was connected to somebody else.
Even if it's just going for lattes at sbux with your friends.
Go to sbux and have a latte with your friend. It means so, so much to her.
And Jess. I hated her. I hate her. Because she's a sell-out, and she does it without thinking.
But no, she's not a sell-out, and, yes, she thinks, and she worries about it, too. God gave her a brain and an conscience.
No, the reason why I hate Jess is because all I have to do is to look in the mirror to see her, now that I've written her, and recognized her in me.
I am Jess.
And I love her. And my heart hurts for her. Because I know what it is to be liked, and I know what it is to be alone.
And I hate Jess so much, because she is surrounded by her friends all the time. She's not alone. She's never alone.
Because she can't handle being alone. She knows what that feels like, and it sucks.
I know what it feels like, to be alone, and it sucks.
I don't 'get into the mind' of my characters, and get out.
I am my characters, and my characters are me, and when I write them, I love them, understand them, and respect them.
When I write to you, I love you, I understand you, and I respect you. And it so hurts when you don't to me, so I know it so hurts when I don't to you, yet I do it over and over and over. It's just too much, isn't it, to really listen to someone and open your heart to them.
But I see the alternative every day at work, in PMs and in stories and reviews. And ...
And not listening? It hurts me so much when I'm not listened to. And when I tune someone else out, I hurt them. I see it. And I hurt me.
Rosalie is Lauren, Lauren is Rosalie. And they have their best friend Jess, who needs them more than the next breath, although she's cool about it, everything's good. And, actually, Lauren, you need Jess back. Can you admit that? Can you admit you need a friend, too?
Good morning, my lovelies.
How easy is it to get into the minds of your characters, `phfina, then to step back out?
I don't get it. Or you don't.
Or something.
See, I don't get into the minds of my characters, then get out. I think ... I think a lot of writing is exactly that, however.
"Oh, Bella needs to fall down some steps, then Edward needs to say, 'Silly Bella' and dazzle her, so they can fuck and I can get my rocks off writing that and rereading it, and then I can get 10k+ reviews."
Right? Well, not exactly like that, but that's what you read, story after story. Bella has to go to the Lakota store, so the Native there has to hand here the one and only book in the entire book store that says "Edward (or Alice) is a Vampire, so tell them and make passionate Bella-squeaks when you get it on."
How many stories have you read that? People do just off-the-wall things because the plot has to move forward and because it's Bella, so she has to know, although this is the first time these two are ever meeting.
I don't read fanfiction fics anymore, not even the good ones, not even the ones rec'd to me. Not even yours, because you want me to.
Because they're filled with that, things (bad things) happen to Bella, because things (bad things) happen to you, and you take it out on her, but she, somehow stupidly, makes it in the end, because she's Bella, and if things turn out okay for her, they'll turn out okay for you. You know what I mean. You read it all the time: stories with bad things like Bella cutting herself because you, dear authoresse, hate yourself so much you have to hurt yourself to breathe, or daddy Charlie rapes Bella because your dad raped you. Or ... winner! Edward rapes Bella, forces her to have an abortion to save her life, and she's hopelessly in love with him, because he treats her like shit, rapes her and makes her have an abortion she didn't want, because Edward knows best and is a whole lot smarter than stupid, clumsy you, I mean, Bella, and if she doesn't love him, he'll leave her, and that would be bad, for some reason.
See, you can read my stuff and see all that in there, yes?
Or no?
Why is my stuff, where bad things happen to the characters ... why is my stuff compelling? Is it compelling for you in the same way that you can't take your eyes off the people going into the ambulances that happened at that three-car pile-up you passed today?
Or, is it compelling to you because you're going through the same shit I'm going through, but instead of me saying 'oh, this bad thing happened, but it's okay, because it'll turn out well in the end, because it's Bella.'
I write instead, 'this shit happened, and now Bella has to deal with it.'
This shit happened, and now Bella has to deal with it.
This shit is happening, and now I have to deal with it, because I'm writing about it, and I'm crying like the little baby I am, and that's all I can do to deal with it, write about it, and cry.
But I'm not writing about it where it's going to be okay, because it isn't okay. Bella's dealing with real issues and she's really hurting.
And you're dealing with real issues, and you're really hurting.
Or you're not dealing with real issues, and you're really hurting, but you see Bella dealing with it, as best as she can, and she sucks at dealing with her issues, but she's trying.
And if Bella can try, maybe you can try. And maybe I can, too.
That's a rather long route for me to say what's the appeal of my writing. Ick.
But, so, if I don't push my characters around in the plot, then what am I doing?
Having a conversation with them? Having them drive the plot?
Nope, not really.
Here's what I'm doing. Here's the secret to my writing.
I am my characters. Every single one of them that show up on the page, I am them.
I am fucking Lauren.
See, nobody understands Lauren because nobody wants to think of themselves as her. She's the bk, the bad kid, and if you think of yourself as her, you're a bk. And you can't possibly be a bk.
I'm Lauren.
I so didn't want to write this chapter, because I never 'got into the mind' of Lauren. I didn't want to. I don't want to bring up all her shit and now that I have, I have to deal with it.
You don't. You don't write Lauren fics, you don't read them. Too much shit in them for you to 'deal' with, so why bother?
Except for the little fact that you have too much shit in your life you have to deal with, and you don't want to bother with it. You just want to leave it on the floor and have somebody else: your mom, your friends, me, deal with it, and say you're 'fine' and that you 'don't want to talk about it, because it's private.'
And you go on sticking that knife in the back of your mom and your friends and me in everything you say and do, because you have all that undealt-with shit in your life, and you think you can push the people around in your life like you push around Bella in the fics that you read and write.
You are Lauren.
I am Lauren. The difference is: I acknowledge it and now I have to deal with it.
You don't, so you don't have to deal with that dirty little shit that you are ... just everybody else does in your life.
"You don't know what you're talking about, `phfina."
Yeah, whatever. And nor does your therapist, even though there's over one-hundred years of studies into your fucked-up psyche, but you know better about you, because you're you, and all those psych-os are old fogey-pervs.
Whatever. Keep at it, Lauren.
But, okay, that's not very empowering to you, the one or two people (still?) reading this. What is?
Rosalie is Lauren.
Everything, pretty much, that Lauren has gone through, Rosalie has gone through.
But what's the difference? None, really, Lauren's hurting, Rosalie's hurting.
It's just perspective and what they do with their past. They are both living in their past, it's just that Lauren uses her past to hurt other people, because she's hurting.
Rosalie uses her past to fuck-all everybody else, and do what she wants (just like Lauren, by the way), but Rosalie is functioning, in her fucked-up-ed-ness, whereas Lauren is frozen in it.
I'm fucked up, you're fucked up, we can either function or freeze. Our choice. We can either lash out and say "I'm dealing with some shit here, leave me alone in my misery" or we can comfort.
And we can comfort codependently ("Love me because I'm crying and holding you") or freely.
There are so many layers to living. You can be hurting and hurt people from that hurt, or be hurting and help, but then be all weird about it, or be hurting and help and really make a different in somebody else's life.
That's the measure. Not how you're dealing with your shit. Everybody has their own shit, but some people actually are like, wow, I want to be with them! I want to be like them! They are so nice, genuine, friendly, helpful, sweet, loving, caring ...
And they, being all that, still have to get through their day, every day, same as you and me.
And they do.
Just (un)like Rosalie, just (un)like Bella, just so unlike Lauren.
But Rosalie and Bella and even Lauren try to make it through their day. They have alternatives: they can check out, big-time, or they can check out of the conversation, but they can also try to make it through the day.
So, in that regard, Rosalie, Bella, and even Lauren deserve a measure of respect from me.
I have to treat them as persons, with thoughts, feelings, hopes and fears, and so when somebody says or does something, it affects them. Don't you see that?
When you say or do something, it affects the people in your life.
Try that on for size.
Now, ...
The real surprise for me is Jess.
Because I so ...
There's one in every school, isn't there? There was one in my school, which may or may not have been Tolland High where I may, or most definitely was not, a cheerleader.
Just like Bella. eheh. ;)
But, so I just so dismiss the Jess's in my life. Fucking thoughtless ditzes, laughing at everything, popular, and so not deserving it. I work for my grades, I don't sell out my feelings, my emotions, my opinions, my ... body just because I want to be liked.
But I did.
I so want to be liked, and I so sell-out, by checking out, when I'm not liked, and when somebody likes me, I so...
Sell myself.
I would do anything, with anybody, when they like me. You know that feeling, being liked? And you know what you're willing to do to keep them liking you, and not to be alone?
Anything. Right? Anything.
And, yes, I mean anything, and yes, you can read all about it in my blog, my useless, wasted, empty life in my blog, if you want to. Read about me, and read about that girl who ...
Well, you know. Maybe even personally. We do things, sometimes, to feel this now, and we know we're going to pay, but that's later, not now, and we so, so want to be loved. Now. Because we so, so know we're going to be alone later, and maybe this now will make later a little bit more bearable, that we were liked now. And felt something, and was connected to somebody else.
Even if it's just going for lattes at sbux with your friends.
Go to sbux and have a latte with your friend. It means so, so much to her.
And Jess. I hated her. I hate her. Because she's a sell-out, and she does it without thinking.
But no, she's not a sell-out, and, yes, she thinks, and she worries about it, too. God gave her a brain and an conscience.
No, the reason why I hate Jess is because all I have to do is to look in the mirror to see her, now that I've written her, and recognized her in me.
I am Jess.
And I love her. And my heart hurts for her. Because I know what it is to be liked, and I know what it is to be alone.
And I hate Jess so much, because she is surrounded by her friends all the time. She's not alone. She's never alone.
Because she can't handle being alone. She knows what that feels like, and it sucks.
I know what it feels like, to be alone, and it sucks.
I don't 'get into the mind' of my characters, and get out.
I am my characters, and my characters are me, and when I write them, I love them, understand them, and respect them.
When I write to you, I love you, I understand you, and I respect you. And it so hurts when you don't to me, so I know it so hurts when I don't to you, yet I do it over and over and over. It's just too much, isn't it, to really listen to someone and open your heart to them.
But I see the alternative every day at work, in PMs and in stories and reviews. And ...
And not listening? It hurts me so much when I'm not listened to. And when I tune someone else out, I hurt them. I see it. And I hurt me.
Rosalie is Lauren, Lauren is Rosalie. And they have their best friend Jess, who needs them more than the next breath, although she's cool about it, everything's good. And, actually, Lauren, you need Jess back. Can you admit that? Can you admit you need a friend, too?
Good morning, my lovelies.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
The Color Purple
There was a little Jew-boy, and he touched millions of people around the world.
I'm not talking about Jesus ... He was one of Us, remember that my Jewish brothers and sisters? You don't have to, you just know. Everything Jesus did was Jewish. He was a Jew down to his bones and marrow, and He didn't come to overthrow the Law (the Torah), not one jot nor tiddle. He didn't.
Jesus was Jew, and you don't need to remember that. You know that. But who were raised not to be Jews, we have to remember that, every day. Jesus came from the Chosen People. You.
Hi, Eli. I miss you. How are you? (I think if she weren't in Israel right now, on the fucking front, she'd be raping my bones ... right in front of her mother, too, and that's saying something).
But, no, I'm talking about another Jew: Steven Spielberg.
Okay, it's wrong how that guy gets it so right all the time, from Jurassic Park to Schindler's List to The Color Purple. But he does.
So, there it is. Proof that God exists: the Color Purple. God invented the color purple to show us that there's something good, and pure and beautiful in the the world, and if we just stopped, just for one second, and looked, we'd see it. We'd see God and His creation, and we'd see God in His creation, and we'd see it as He sees it: good ... and beautiful.
But we don't, do we. We never, ever do anything ... except rush to get to the next thing, and while we're stuck in that next thing, we fidget until we get to that next, next thing.
But ... purple. So beautiful. You could fall in love with it, couldn't you? It is God's color, after all, so what's not to love.
Nothing. Go for it.
But, as for me, I disagree. Purple is nice and beautiful and elegant and pretty ...
... but I like ... beige, and tan, and pale, creamy white, and mocha, and dark chocolate ...
that is ... I like, flesh tones, uncovered from purple cloth.
Just me, and her, and no purple between us.
...
So, whacha think, huh? That was me, raggin' on purrpleluver19 and her, okay, her obsession with purple. So, snaps for me, amirite?
But this is what she wrote back:
Oh, man! `phfina went for the shot, thinking she was all that, and she got stuffed by purrpleluver19.
Um, so, I guess: go team purple! sigh
...
Oh, and this was purrpleluver19's blessing to quote her in this post:
Uh, um ... `phfina reels and everything dims. THUD! (`phfina faints or has a heart attack, I don't know which)
I'm not talking about Jesus ... He was one of Us, remember that my Jewish brothers and sisters? You don't have to, you just know. Everything Jesus did was Jewish. He was a Jew down to his bones and marrow, and He didn't come to overthrow the Law (the Torah), not one jot nor tiddle. He didn't.
Jesus was Jew, and you don't need to remember that. You know that. But who were raised not to be Jews, we have to remember that, every day. Jesus came from the Chosen People. You.
Hi, Eli. I miss you. How are you? (I think if she weren't in Israel right now, on the fucking front, she'd be raping my bones ... right in front of her mother, too, and that's saying something).
But, no, I'm talking about another Jew: Steven Spielberg.
Okay, it's wrong how that guy gets it so right all the time, from Jurassic Park to Schindler's List to The Color Purple. But he does.
So, there it is. Proof that God exists: the Color Purple. God invented the color purple to show us that there's something good, and pure and beautiful in the the world, and if we just stopped, just for one second, and looked, we'd see it. We'd see God and His creation, and we'd see God in His creation, and we'd see it as He sees it: good ... and beautiful.
But we don't, do we. We never, ever do anything ... except rush to get to the next thing, and while we're stuck in that next thing, we fidget until we get to that next, next thing.
But ... purple. So beautiful. You could fall in love with it, couldn't you? It is God's color, after all, so what's not to love.
Nothing. Go for it.
But, as for me, I disagree. Purple is nice and beautiful and elegant and pretty ...
... but I like ... beige, and tan, and pale, creamy white, and mocha, and dark chocolate ...
that is ... I like, flesh tones, uncovered from purple cloth.
Just me, and her, and no purple between us.
...
So, whacha think, huh? That was me, raggin' on purrpleluver19 and her, okay, her obsession with purple. So, snaps for me, amirite?
But this is what she wrote back:
Aww but wait she wears that purple for me only and guess whats under that first layer of purple is purple sexy purple underwear that she lets only me take off so sorry I guess all your girls should probbly hate purple or ill find them. LOL
Oh, man! `phfina went for the shot, thinking she was all that, and she got stuffed by purrpleluver19.
Um, so, I guess: go team purple! sigh
...
Oh, and this was purrpleluver19's blessing to quote her in this post:
That was AWESOME I LOVED it. Plus i didnt mind it at all it blew me away.
P.s. it always takes about hw long you can write out the alphabet with your tongue to get to the center......LOL
Uh, um ... `phfina reels and everything dims. THUD! (`phfina faints or has a heart attack, I don't know which)
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Right Now
Right now.
You know, and you do know, I've come this close. A few times, and more than a few times.
I've come this close to ending it all, calling it a day, saying 'bye-'bye, goodnight, sweet prince(ss), andiamo. Like the Raven, quothing: nevermore.
But...
Today. Right now. There's a war going on, and I'm not talking metaphorically, I'm saying there's a war going on and people are killing each other, and people are dying, and there's a girl there, right in there, right in there that my imagination will never do justice to her reality, but she's there, and she has a gun in her hand, or she doesn't, and she's killing somebody, knowing that she's pulling the trigger, and having that on her soul for the rest of her life, or, she's being killed, and dying, quickly, oh, so quickly in an instant of shock, or slowly, in a combat zone, watching her life-blood bleed out around her mortal wound, and being able to do nothing about it, just watch herself bleed out, as she seen others do, and why did she have to read Wilfred Owen before getting into this shit?
So, I can't imagine what she's going through, ... I can't even touch what she's going through. And I think I have problems. And you think you have problems.
But I do know one thing.
She PMed me, and told me, when she's going through her life crisis, or just going through her day, being so scared that she won't be able to marry the 'man of her dreams' because her 'man' is looking more and more to her like her 'woman' of her dreams, but terrified, scared out of her mind, that her family will out-right reject her, disown her, that she can't even think to herself the words 'gay' or 'lesbian,' and now she's in a place where she's ending somebody's life, or her life is being ended, or she's a clerk behind the front line, but she knows there's no front line when her 'enemy' works right alongside her and she could be getting that next report on that clipboard, or end up as another statistic on that chart labeled 'suicide bombing victim count.'
Civil war. Lovely, isn't it? 'Hate thy neighbor,' and 'eye for an eye' in action, right in front of her.
But I digress.
She PMed, and told me, that ... she writes me little notes, during her day. That my voice, my words, ... me ... I'm the only one she can talk to freely, and share her concerns, and be heard, and know that someone cares and understands, and in knowing this, she has hope.
She has hope, to go through her day, and face her family, or now, face the facts that her decision comes down to her living, because somebody else doesn't, or her dying, just because.
And she can face that.
Right now.
Today, in fucking November when it's not the most pleasant out, and even if it were, you gonna take a shower today? drink clean water? not get shot at? not shoot somebody and watch them die, oh, so slowly crying as they try and fail to hold their guts in or just like that: bang, they fall down and never get up again, and you pulled the trigger? Are you going to do that?
... and, she wrote me and apologized for 'dumping' on me, saying I'm the only one who she can talk to. She apologized for telling me I'm the only one who can give her hope. Right now.
And I think to myself, suicide queen, do I have any right to take that away from her? You. You love me, or you hate me, you think that I am the most wretched, despicable creature God ever created on this planet.
But do you have the right to silence me? To take away the hope of a girl too scared to ask a girl out, but because I PMed her and screamed 'Ask her! Ask her! ASK HER! It'll only weird her out if you don't and keep it to yourself, and all she can say is 'yes' or 'no'" so she asked that pretty girl in her class and that pretty girl said 'yes.' Or she's scared to talk to her family, so she thinks she can only talk to me. Will I silence myself so that she now has nobody to talk to? Will you?
Or she's in a combat zone, and she gets a PM from the girl who's kept her alive all this time quoting Ecclesiastes wondering what's the point, and she's in a fucking combat zone and she reaches out to comfort her friend from the hell and squalor that she's in? Because why? Because even in that, her life is worth living, because she has hope, because she thinks she can talk to me, and she can, and she does?
Do I have the right to take that away from her?
Yes, I do.
I have the right to remain silent. And I have the ability to snuff this, what I am, into nothingness forever.
I can do that, so easily.
And you have that right, too.
It's funny, how sad it is. I got a PM from a reviewer, saying she liked my Chez Melissa but couldn't stand my Rosalie and Me. When I asked her why, she said that when people reveal their personal problems to her, she tells them to man up and quit whining and that's what Rosalie and Me was to her, but it's always nice to have fun baking with friends in the kitchen, because she gets something good out of it.
Think about that, for yourself. When people come whining to you, do you roll their eyes, and say, 'there, there' as you look at your watch? You do know what you're telling them. You're telling them, that you, like everybody else they've gone to before you, has no time nor patience for them, because they are worthy of neither.
Proving to them, again, that they are all alone, unloved, even by their own family.
One more lost person, taken out with the Monday morning trash after the coroner calls it when he doesn't detect her heartbeat anymore. Just another victim, be it suicide, or war, or neglect.
Just like you neglected her.
'Oh, okay, I'll care!' you throw up your hands.
But you don't get off that easily. Nor do I.
I have this friend, all the way across the world, and I helped her live, day to day, year to year, in a marriage she's trapped in, because my words were her only balm, her only beacon of hope. I have this friend, all the way across the country, whose mother sold her daughter's virginity to a hard, callous man who liked fucking the mom, so let's try her fresh teen just because a little rape sounds like fun to him. I have this friend in a combat zone. Right now.
You know how I have these friends?
'Edward and Bella were skipping down the lane ...' sound so fucking trite to me that 21 million girls could fall for a guy who, as far as I could see, was a totally stuck-up asshole who treated Bella worse than shit because at least he doesn't walk all over shit.
So instead, I wrote what I wrote. About Rosalie and Bella, and how they fucked like rabbits, all the time, but at least they cared for each other, enough to love each other, to listen to each other, to make sure their teeth were brushed and hold each other through the laughter and through lots and lots of tears. And I put my heart into every chapter.
... and it hurt, ladies and gentlemen. It hurt, every time I wrote a chapter, and it terrified me to press that 'submit' button. But I did. I put my heart on the line, and I put it right out there, and no, it wasn't cathartic, because instead of getting better, it just got worse and worse.
But I held on. Held onto something. Held onto my words, and when you wrote, held onto you, and I cried. And you cried, and we both ... made it through, when nobody else seemed to care, and you went back to your life, and I kept that in my heart, that you could, and because I wrote, and shared my heart, and cared, you could go back to your life, and live. And hope.
And I have these friends, across the world, at least one, and more, who are alive today, who wouldn't have been if I had exercised my right, and remained silent. Or took away all my toys, forever, because I'm that selfish.
It's your turn now. You can, and you do, exercise your rights.
Whose life did you save today? Whose life changed, forever, because you choose to be 'strong,' and to tell them to fuck off and man up for God's sake, you little crybaby, and can't you see I have enough problems already?
We all have enough problems already. And one of those problems is that we fix other people's problems when they don't want to be a thing to be fixed, they want a shoulder to cry on, someone to listen, really to hear them from the depths of their loneliness, they want to know somebody out there is really out there, dealing with the shit their dealing with, and is trying, and failing, just like them, and cares.
And how can they know this, when you 'don't give a shit' or you say that you do, but you 'don't deal with personal issues.' It's not your problem, after all, right? 'You have a drug problem, not me, go fix yourself,' and you refuse to drive her to 12 step, because you just don't want to get involved, so her only solace is the chemical high that drives her further into despair, because you made it plain: you're not it for her. 'Stay away from me until you get cleaned up.'
It's not your problem that today, right now, somebody else is literally dying, and you have the means to help, but you won't. Don't get involved. It's risky. And it hurts. A lot. I know.
Or you can write, from the heart. And save somebody's life. Somebody that you didn't know until you wrote down your words and saved her life. How much are your words worth? And you don't write, because of any excuse you give yourself to justify your fear and selfishness?
You have that choice.
And so do I. I have that choice to take my ball, walk away from it all, and just play with myself from now on.
Or I have that choice to send a PM to a girl, right now, in the real shit, and hope, and pray, that she's still alive to receive it. To receive my thanks that today, she chose to reach out to me to tell me that she's thinking of me, and that she cares.
Right now.
You know, and you do know, I've come this close. A few times, and more than a few times.
I've come this close to ending it all, calling it a day, saying 'bye-'bye, goodnight, sweet prince(ss), andiamo. Like the Raven, quothing: nevermore.
But...
Today. Right now. There's a war going on, and I'm not talking metaphorically, I'm saying there's a war going on and people are killing each other, and people are dying, and there's a girl there, right in there, right in there that my imagination will never do justice to her reality, but she's there, and she has a gun in her hand, or she doesn't, and she's killing somebody, knowing that she's pulling the trigger, and having that on her soul for the rest of her life, or, she's being killed, and dying, quickly, oh, so quickly in an instant of shock, or slowly, in a combat zone, watching her life-blood bleed out around her mortal wound, and being able to do nothing about it, just watch herself bleed out, as she seen others do, and why did she have to read Wilfred Owen before getting into this shit?
So, I can't imagine what she's going through, ... I can't even touch what she's going through. And I think I have problems. And you think you have problems.
But I do know one thing.
She PMed me, and told me, when she's going through her life crisis, or just going through her day, being so scared that she won't be able to marry the 'man of her dreams' because her 'man' is looking more and more to her like her 'woman' of her dreams, but terrified, scared out of her mind, that her family will out-right reject her, disown her, that she can't even think to herself the words 'gay' or 'lesbian,' and now she's in a place where she's ending somebody's life, or her life is being ended, or she's a clerk behind the front line, but she knows there's no front line when her 'enemy' works right alongside her and she could be getting that next report on that clipboard, or end up as another statistic on that chart labeled 'suicide bombing victim count.'
Civil war. Lovely, isn't it? 'Hate thy neighbor,' and 'eye for an eye' in action, right in front of her.
But I digress.
She PMed, and told me, that ... she writes me little notes, during her day. That my voice, my words, ... me ... I'm the only one she can talk to freely, and share her concerns, and be heard, and know that someone cares and understands, and in knowing this, she has hope.
She has hope, to go through her day, and face her family, or now, face the facts that her decision comes down to her living, because somebody else doesn't, or her dying, just because.
And she can face that.
Right now.
Today, in fucking November when it's not the most pleasant out, and even if it were, you gonna take a shower today? drink clean water? not get shot at? not shoot somebody and watch them die, oh, so slowly crying as they try and fail to hold their guts in or just like that: bang, they fall down and never get up again, and you pulled the trigger? Are you going to do that?
... and, she wrote me and apologized for 'dumping' on me, saying I'm the only one who she can talk to. She apologized for telling me I'm the only one who can give her hope. Right now.
And I think to myself, suicide queen, do I have any right to take that away from her? You. You love me, or you hate me, you think that I am the most wretched, despicable creature God ever created on this planet.
But do you have the right to silence me? To take away the hope of a girl too scared to ask a girl out, but because I PMed her and screamed 'Ask her! Ask her! ASK HER! It'll only weird her out if you don't and keep it to yourself, and all she can say is 'yes' or 'no'" so she asked that pretty girl in her class and that pretty girl said 'yes.' Or she's scared to talk to her family, so she thinks she can only talk to me. Will I silence myself so that she now has nobody to talk to? Will you?
Or she's in a combat zone, and she gets a PM from the girl who's kept her alive all this time quoting Ecclesiastes wondering what's the point, and she's in a fucking combat zone and she reaches out to comfort her friend from the hell and squalor that she's in? Because why? Because even in that, her life is worth living, because she has hope, because she thinks she can talk to me, and she can, and she does?
Do I have the right to take that away from her?
Yes, I do.
I have the right to remain silent. And I have the ability to snuff this, what I am, into nothingness forever.
I can do that, so easily.
And you have that right, too.
It's funny, how sad it is. I got a PM from a reviewer, saying she liked my Chez Melissa but couldn't stand my Rosalie and Me. When I asked her why, she said that when people reveal their personal problems to her, she tells them to man up and quit whining and that's what Rosalie and Me was to her, but it's always nice to have fun baking with friends in the kitchen, because she gets something good out of it.
Think about that, for yourself. When people come whining to you, do you roll their eyes, and say, 'there, there' as you look at your watch? You do know what you're telling them. You're telling them, that you, like everybody else they've gone to before you, has no time nor patience for them, because they are worthy of neither.
Proving to them, again, that they are all alone, unloved, even by their own family.
One more lost person, taken out with the Monday morning trash after the coroner calls it when he doesn't detect her heartbeat anymore. Just another victim, be it suicide, or war, or neglect.
Just like you neglected her.
'Oh, okay, I'll care!' you throw up your hands.
But you don't get off that easily. Nor do I.
I have this friend, all the way across the world, and I helped her live, day to day, year to year, in a marriage she's trapped in, because my words were her only balm, her only beacon of hope. I have this friend, all the way across the country, whose mother sold her daughter's virginity to a hard, callous man who liked fucking the mom, so let's try her fresh teen just because a little rape sounds like fun to him. I have this friend in a combat zone. Right now.
You know how I have these friends?
'Edward and Bella were skipping down the lane ...' sound so fucking trite to me that 21 million girls could fall for a guy who, as far as I could see, was a totally stuck-up asshole who treated Bella worse than shit because at least he doesn't walk all over shit.
So instead, I wrote what I wrote. About Rosalie and Bella, and how they fucked like rabbits, all the time, but at least they cared for each other, enough to love each other, to listen to each other, to make sure their teeth were brushed and hold each other through the laughter and through lots and lots of tears. And I put my heart into every chapter.
... and it hurt, ladies and gentlemen. It hurt, every time I wrote a chapter, and it terrified me to press that 'submit' button. But I did. I put my heart on the line, and I put it right out there, and no, it wasn't cathartic, because instead of getting better, it just got worse and worse.
But I held on. Held onto something. Held onto my words, and when you wrote, held onto you, and I cried. And you cried, and we both ... made it through, when nobody else seemed to care, and you went back to your life, and I kept that in my heart, that you could, and because I wrote, and shared my heart, and cared, you could go back to your life, and live. And hope.
And I have these friends, across the world, at least one, and more, who are alive today, who wouldn't have been if I had exercised my right, and remained silent. Or took away all my toys, forever, because I'm that selfish.
It's your turn now. You can, and you do, exercise your rights.
Whose life did you save today? Whose life changed, forever, because you choose to be 'strong,' and to tell them to fuck off and man up for God's sake, you little crybaby, and can't you see I have enough problems already?
We all have enough problems already. And one of those problems is that we fix other people's problems when they don't want to be a thing to be fixed, they want a shoulder to cry on, someone to listen, really to hear them from the depths of their loneliness, they want to know somebody out there is really out there, dealing with the shit their dealing with, and is trying, and failing, just like them, and cares.
And how can they know this, when you 'don't give a shit' or you say that you do, but you 'don't deal with personal issues.' It's not your problem, after all, right? 'You have a drug problem, not me, go fix yourself,' and you refuse to drive her to 12 step, because you just don't want to get involved, so her only solace is the chemical high that drives her further into despair, because you made it plain: you're not it for her. 'Stay away from me until you get cleaned up.'
It's not your problem that today, right now, somebody else is literally dying, and you have the means to help, but you won't. Don't get involved. It's risky. And it hurts. A lot. I know.
Or you can write, from the heart. And save somebody's life. Somebody that you didn't know until you wrote down your words and saved her life. How much are your words worth? And you don't write, because of any excuse you give yourself to justify your fear and selfishness?
You have that choice.
And so do I. I have that choice to take my ball, walk away from it all, and just play with myself from now on.
Or I have that choice to send a PM to a girl, right now, in the real shit, and hope, and pray, that she's still alive to receive it. To receive my thanks that today, she chose to reach out to me to tell me that she's thinking of me, and that she cares.
Right now.
Friday, February 3, 2012
A panther from a pvssy's view
Hm, how do I write a post that I didn't write?
So, you want to know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?
Besides ask her? (And if she says, 'no' that means: no. It doesn't mean: slip a date-r4pe drug into her drink).
For me: I'm easy (and I'll write that post, too, my dears), all you have to do is to listen, to tell me what I've said, and then to say you understand.
That's how I write this post.
So, I got this PM. And I got permission to post it here. Here it is:
-.-.-.-
"Hey, it is I pussyninja.
I was skimming through a long list of pms after a few months of disappearing, wallowing in my own fucking darkness, and I noticed you pm'd me back. Thats a treat. So as I said, im skimming through these pm's and it just amazes how so many people on here "pretend" like they know you, like they care but turn around and say,"hey, sorry to hear about so and so, when are you going to update?"
Shakes head. The masses, these sick, selfish individuals who refer to themselves as human beings have no regard towards others whatsoever. Its a slap in the face when you think your getting encouraging pms, words, but instead you get threats, pleas, and utter bs.
I think the funniest thing ive read so far is,"Hey, so sorry to hear that you broke up with your girl, but if your still alive, can you update?"
If you're still alive can you update. In other words, if I havent blown my fucking head off, can you please humor me with an update.
No, I cant. Why? Because im not alive, im dead.
Its not their fault though, that their selfish and ignorant towards the things around them. Like the world, like my fucking time and schedule is suppose to coincide with theirs. I'll update when I fucking feel like it. I'll update when im happy. When my every waking thought is not of her, the selfish fucking bitch that made me fall in love. Made me think she cared and then ripped my heart out. Made me this, a waste of fucking space.
But its not her fault though. No, its human nature. Its human nature to be selfish, self-absorbed. Its human nature, more so for us, for women, to lure naive little lambs in to their world, make me, I mean them, think you care, cause really, why would they think otherwise after a year of I loves you, I miss yous and a bunch of other bullshit? Why would they think otherwise when after you decide you're done playing games, after you change your "in a relationship" status to "single"? Why the fuck would they think otherwise when that same status goes from "Single" to "in a relationship" not even a month later? No, no, why on earth would I think otherwise?
Fucking bitch.
Ive come to the conclusion that our gender, females, are so much more selfish then men. We take what we want with a touch, a whisper, a lie, with whatever need be, and when we're done, when we've got what we wanted we leave. We abandon without remorse. I dont know, maybe im wrong? Maybe im just mad cause im hurting? Who cares? I dont, and im pretty sure you dont either. I dont even know why im venting to you, you probably have more important things to do. I dont. Nope, I have all the time in the world to just sit in my lonely fucking corner, breathe in the darkness until I can practically taste the hollow shell/brains on in my mouth. My hand is practically reaching for the invisible gun right now, but ya know? I couldnt pull the trigger. Why? Because im pussy, because I care too much. I care too much about who and what id leave behind.
You know what my mom said to me the other day? She said "what happen to the happy girl I knew? The one you used to be.."
That girl is dead. Thats whats happens when you a years worth of love, happiness, 10 page fucking love letters and countless expensive gifts to someone, only to have it spit back in your face. You wanna know whats much worse than wiping lies off your face? The memories.
"Whats happiness to you?" She asked, and like an idiot I said her. I said what was in my heart, cause I was love stricken fool.. so in love with a idea of love. I suppose its always like that you first time around though, but I wished now that I had said," Happiness to me would be erasing you from my mind. Its be going back in time, not stumbling upon your shitty story and not pming you every fucking day."
Thats happiness to me. A world of happiness.
Its probably for the best anyway, or least that what she said. That she couldnt be honest with her parents and neither could I. And maybe so, but why start another relationship with another girl if thats the fact. Why "pretend" with that girl, when you know you're just gonna do the same thing?
Sigh.
I used to like to pretend. Pretend that i was happy behind a big smile. Pretend that everything was okay, by laughing, by telling jokes and writing mediocre stories for "fun." Pretend that I was normal, that I didnt notice how fair the female species was, but like so many other things in life, theres comes a time when you have to stop pretending, when you gotta wake up.
Am I ready to wake up? I dont know. All I know is suffering, pain, misery, sorrow. And im tired. You ever been depressed for no apparent reason? I suffer from that sometimes, way before any of this, and more so now. But I'll endure it like I always do. Smile and laugh through it all.
But enough of my dreary ass life. How are you doing? How are things with the one chick? I forgot her name, but the one that stole you from me lol, that hurt. The laughing out loud I mean. I do hope you're doing way better than me. I hope you're alive, well, and happy. I could use some happiness. Maybe you could reflect some of your on to me? Well despite this awkward, somewhat therapeutic rant, I must say I feel a little better lol. So sorry to take up your time. Guess I'll go tend to the greedy masses and update."
-.-.-.-
What do you think?
You know what? I don't care what you think.
What I think is this: I wish I was half a pussyninja. I wish I had half her insight, half her heart, half her burning passion, half her bold (and bald) (and ribald) honesty. I wish.
And I'm grateful I have the eyes to see these admirable traits in her. I'm grateful I'm alive now, so I could read this. I'm grateful I have the courage to respond to her (in a very `phfinaescque way), and get her analysis of me, which follows:
-.-.-.-
You are beyond naughty phfina, lol. Smh, I totally smack myself reading this a did a bit of laughing, though it hurt, myself. In a good way of course.
Was it good for me? Lmao, I wasnt aware that we were acting upon our undisclosed desires. But from what I gather, you made it good enough for the both of us. Lol, smh.
Glad I could make someone erm...happy for the time being. Especially after actually reading your profile.
You are, well, a very deep individual. Is what I will say since there arent really words that can describe you, your thoughts and personality. And I like you like that, the way you are. Your honest. You speak from the heart and dontgive a shit what people think.
Thats hot, lol.
[edited]
And okay, dont take this the wrong way, but I kinda laugh when I read the part about the stairs. I know, I know, im an ass. Its true, asks my friends. I laugh at shit like that. I feel so bad too. So after I got all my giggles out,
I wonder to myself, "Is she okay?"
Smh, im an ass. But you are okay right? Nothing broken? I stubbed my toe a few days ago and it hurt like a bitch, so I can only imagine what something like that feels like.
Smh, still, im an ass for laughing.
Do forgive me.
so, one random thought. A couple just came into my job a a little whiles ago. Ya know, the typical young and in love, gotta hold hands and cheese like theres no tomorrow?
Yeah, that bad. It was like a slap to the face. I wanted to throw up, regurgitate and throw up again.
Pathetic, I know.
Then I thought to myself,"Why am I raining on their happiness? Its not their fault that their idiot. That they have no clue as to what they got themselves into."
And then I sighed. And prayed that it wouldnt be like this forever, that I wouldnt be all anti and "I hate love".
Anywho, can you post my little rant?
Sure, phfina. You can have anything you want from me. And take that however you want sweetness, EXCEPT, for in a sarcastic or mean way. I would never be mean to you;)
Did I mention that im tired? Cause I am, im tired as shit and insomnia, smh, insomnia is a bitch
-.-.-.-
Did you get that she wrote her first PM to me before she read my posts where we both said the exact same things, me saying them in my way, she, in hers?
Reading her words, I'm filled with ... hope.
Hope.
I mean, okay, I'm hot? (Damn straight! (Or 'gaie' as the case may be))
And I 'don't give a fuck what people think'? Actually, I do give a fuck. I care, very deeply, about you and about what you think.
I also take fucks.
Happily, in fact, as it's been, oh ... um, well, never mind.
But not that ... (I'm hot?)
But that, what, she is living in her stew, yes? Yes. But what does she do? Rain on some happy couple's parade?
No. She looks beyond herself, by looking into herself and seeing who she's being, and then she chooses to let other people have their happiness.
Oh, ... my God!
Do you know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?
You know: your world is all you, and your suffering and your pleasures. I know it too: I hear it all day, every day from everybody I meet. How very interesting, your concerns about you and your mistreatment. Must be, the way you go on about them to yourself and to every poor schmuck forced into hearing range of you.
But rise above, and see other people. Really see them, and then reach out, reach out of yourself, and ...
And, suddenly, your world isn't only more than twice as big as it was, with whole new vistas to explore, and the sun has finally come out and you feel its heat and its warmth by the glow suffusing your face, ...
Yes, all that happens, too.
But.
But you've just, by dropping that woe-is-me cold and cloudy demeanor, and replacing it with actual joy, self-discovery, ... actually living, right here, right now, ... you've just illuminated at least one other person's life, and maybe you've changed the course of history, because what can that one other, or several other, or many other, person(s) do?
Oh, and she wrestled in school, so she's got a hard body, so she has that going for her, too.
'LOL' smh and :p
p.s. smh, gerund: look it up in urban dictionary.
p.p.s. I like the 'svck my hair' definition, not the one everybody else 'like'd. I'm a very visual person, so I ... visualized what that would be ... you know ... like.
p.p.p.s. oh, and if she thinks she can wrestle the `phfina down, then I'll just have to aikido her ass into submission; I've dealt with plenty of bigger, stronger girls who thought they could easily have a turn on top of weak, frail, little, toppy `phfina. School was in session for them, and prof. `phfina learned them real good. I tell you what. After all, I fvcked nearly the entire girls' rugby team in school (not at the same time, mind you, but ...), and they were ... you know, mean, tough girls on the field, and total putty in my (very naughty) hands. I can just as easily rename this post as '`phfina verses pvss-in-boots ninja' but that would be a one-liner: '"I win; no surprise. Questions? No questions, just see the 'I win' part."
That's just an FYI for ya, Ms. thinks-she's-all-that-Ninja.
Oh, and she did correct the 'regurgitate' comment, which was very sweet and shy of her.
I LIKE sweet and shy girls.
Mm-hm.
Um, where was I? Oh, yeah, but I was like, 'honey, you can spit (regurgitate) but with you, 'smh' 'cause my hands wrapped around your head are pushing it right. in. there, ... all you are gonna do is swallow, babes.'
I think maybe that's when her bulging eyes popped out of her head.
Any questions? No questions: see the 'I'm hot' part of this post.
Steamy, in fact. TsSsSsSsSsSs!
p.p.p.p.s. :p
So, you want to know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?
Besides ask her? (And if she says, 'no' that means: no. It doesn't mean: slip a date-r4pe drug into her drink).
For me: I'm easy (and I'll write that post, too, my dears), all you have to do is to listen, to tell me what I've said, and then to say you understand.
That's how I write this post.
So, I got this PM. And I got permission to post it here. Here it is:
-.-.-.-
"Hey, it is I pussyninja.
I was skimming through a long list of pms after a few months of disappearing, wallowing in my own fucking darkness, and I noticed you pm'd me back. Thats a treat. So as I said, im skimming through these pm's and it just amazes how so many people on here "pretend" like they know you, like they care but turn around and say,"hey, sorry to hear about so and so, when are you going to update?"
Shakes head. The masses, these sick, selfish individuals who refer to themselves as human beings have no regard towards others whatsoever. Its a slap in the face when you think your getting encouraging pms, words, but instead you get threats, pleas, and utter bs.
I think the funniest thing ive read so far is,"Hey, so sorry to hear that you broke up with your girl, but if your still alive, can you update?"
If you're still alive can you update. In other words, if I havent blown my fucking head off, can you please humor me with an update.
No, I cant. Why? Because im not alive, im dead.
Its not their fault though, that their selfish and ignorant towards the things around them. Like the world, like my fucking time and schedule is suppose to coincide with theirs. I'll update when I fucking feel like it. I'll update when im happy. When my every waking thought is not of her, the selfish fucking bitch that made me fall in love. Made me think she cared and then ripped my heart out. Made me this, a waste of fucking space.
But its not her fault though. No, its human nature. Its human nature to be selfish, self-absorbed. Its human nature, more so for us, for women, to lure naive little lambs in to their world, make me, I mean them, think you care, cause really, why would they think otherwise after a year of I loves you, I miss yous and a bunch of other bullshit? Why would they think otherwise when after you decide you're done playing games, after you change your "in a relationship" status to "single"? Why the fuck would they think otherwise when that same status goes from "Single" to "in a relationship" not even a month later? No, no, why on earth would I think otherwise?
Fucking bitch.
Ive come to the conclusion that our gender, females, are so much more selfish then men. We take what we want with a touch, a whisper, a lie, with whatever need be, and when we're done, when we've got what we wanted we leave. We abandon without remorse. I dont know, maybe im wrong? Maybe im just mad cause im hurting? Who cares? I dont, and im pretty sure you dont either. I dont even know why im venting to you, you probably have more important things to do. I dont. Nope, I have all the time in the world to just sit in my lonely fucking corner, breathe in the darkness until I can practically taste the hollow shell/brains on in my mouth. My hand is practically reaching for the invisible gun right now, but ya know? I couldnt pull the trigger. Why? Because im pussy, because I care too much. I care too much about who and what id leave behind.
You know what my mom said to me the other day? She said "what happen to the happy girl I knew? The one you used to be.."
That girl is dead. Thats whats happens when you a years worth of love, happiness, 10 page fucking love letters and countless expensive gifts to someone, only to have it spit back in your face. You wanna know whats much worse than wiping lies off your face? The memories.
"Whats happiness to you?" She asked, and like an idiot I said her. I said what was in my heart, cause I was love stricken fool.. so in love with a idea of love. I suppose its always like that you first time around though, but I wished now that I had said," Happiness to me would be erasing you from my mind. Its be going back in time, not stumbling upon your shitty story and not pming you every fucking day."
Thats happiness to me. A world of happiness.
Its probably for the best anyway, or least that what she said. That she couldnt be honest with her parents and neither could I. And maybe so, but why start another relationship with another girl if thats the fact. Why "pretend" with that girl, when you know you're just gonna do the same thing?
Sigh.
I used to like to pretend. Pretend that i was happy behind a big smile. Pretend that everything was okay, by laughing, by telling jokes and writing mediocre stories for "fun." Pretend that I was normal, that I didnt notice how fair the female species was, but like so many other things in life, theres comes a time when you have to stop pretending, when you gotta wake up.
Am I ready to wake up? I dont know. All I know is suffering, pain, misery, sorrow. And im tired. You ever been depressed for no apparent reason? I suffer from that sometimes, way before any of this, and more so now. But I'll endure it like I always do. Smile and laugh through it all.
But enough of my dreary ass life. How are you doing? How are things with the one chick? I forgot her name, but the one that stole you from me lol, that hurt. The laughing out loud I mean. I do hope you're doing way better than me. I hope you're alive, well, and happy. I could use some happiness. Maybe you could reflect some of your on to me? Well despite this awkward, somewhat therapeutic rant, I must say I feel a little better lol. So sorry to take up your time. Guess I'll go tend to the greedy masses and update."
-.-.-.-
What do you think?
You know what? I don't care what you think.
What I think is this: I wish I was half a pussyninja. I wish I had half her insight, half her heart, half her burning passion, half her bold (and bald) (and ribald) honesty. I wish.
And I'm grateful I have the eyes to see these admirable traits in her. I'm grateful I'm alive now, so I could read this. I'm grateful I have the courage to respond to her (in a very `phfinaescque way), and get her analysis of me, which follows:
-.-.-.-
You are beyond naughty phfina, lol. Smh, I totally smack myself reading this a did a bit of laughing, though it hurt, myself. In a good way of course.
Was it good for me? Lmao, I wasnt aware that we were acting upon our undisclosed desires. But from what I gather, you made it good enough for the both of us. Lol, smh.
Glad I could make someone erm...happy for the time being. Especially after actually reading your profile.
You are, well, a very deep individual. Is what I will say since there arent really words that can describe you, your thoughts and personality. And I like you like that, the way you are. Your honest. You speak from the heart and dontgive a shit what people think.
Thats hot, lol.
[edited]
And okay, dont take this the wrong way, but I kinda laugh when I read the part about the stairs. I know, I know, im an ass. Its true, asks my friends. I laugh at shit like that. I feel so bad too. So after I got all my giggles out,
I wonder to myself, "Is she okay?"
Smh, im an ass. But you are okay right? Nothing broken? I stubbed my toe a few days ago and it hurt like a bitch, so I can only imagine what something like that feels like.
Smh, still, im an ass for laughing.
Do forgive me.
so, one random thought. A couple just came into my job a a little whiles ago. Ya know, the typical young and in love, gotta hold hands and cheese like theres no tomorrow?
Yeah, that bad. It was like a slap to the face. I wanted to throw up, regurgitate and throw up again.
Pathetic, I know.
Then I thought to myself,"Why am I raining on their happiness? Its not their fault that their idiot. That they have no clue as to what they got themselves into."
And then I sighed. And prayed that it wouldnt be like this forever, that I wouldnt be all anti and "I hate love".
Anywho, can you post my little rant?
Sure, phfina. You can have anything you want from me. And take that however you want sweetness, EXCEPT, for in a sarcastic or mean way. I would never be mean to you;)
Did I mention that im tired? Cause I am, im tired as shit and insomnia, smh, insomnia is a bitch
-.-.-.-
Did you get that she wrote her first PM to me before she read my posts where we both said the exact same things, me saying them in my way, she, in hers?
Reading her words, I'm filled with ... hope.
Hope.
I mean, okay, I'm hot? (Damn straight! (Or 'gaie' as the case may be))
And I 'don't give a fuck what people think'? Actually, I do give a fuck. I care, very deeply, about you and about what you think.
I also take fucks.
Happily, in fact, as it's been, oh ... um, well, never mind.
But not that ... (I'm hot?)
But that, what, she is living in her stew, yes? Yes. But what does she do? Rain on some happy couple's parade?
No. She looks beyond herself, by looking into herself and seeing who she's being, and then she chooses to let other people have their happiness.
Oh, ... my God!
Do you know how to get into a girl's pant(ie)s?
You know: your world is all you, and your suffering and your pleasures. I know it too: I hear it all day, every day from everybody I meet. How very interesting, your concerns about you and your mistreatment. Must be, the way you go on about them to yourself and to every poor schmuck forced into hearing range of you.
But rise above, and see other people. Really see them, and then reach out, reach out of yourself, and ...
And, suddenly, your world isn't only more than twice as big as it was, with whole new vistas to explore, and the sun has finally come out and you feel its heat and its warmth by the glow suffusing your face, ...
Yes, all that happens, too.
But.
But you've just, by dropping that woe-is-me cold and cloudy demeanor, and replacing it with actual joy, self-discovery, ... actually living, right here, right now, ... you've just illuminated at least one other person's life, and maybe you've changed the course of history, because what can that one other, or several other, or many other, person(s) do?
Oh, and she wrestled in school, so she's got a hard body, so she has that going for her, too.
'LOL' smh and :p
p.s. smh, gerund: look it up in urban dictionary.
p.p.s. I like the 'svck my hair' definition, not the one everybody else 'like'd. I'm a very visual person, so I ... visualized what that would be ... you know ... like.
p.p.p.s. oh, and if she thinks she can wrestle the `phfina down, then I'll just have to aikido her ass into submission; I've dealt with plenty of bigger, stronger girls who thought they could easily have a turn on top of weak, frail, little, toppy `phfina. School was in session for them, and prof. `phfina learned them real good. I tell you what. After all, I fvcked nearly the entire girls' rugby team in school (not at the same time, mind you, but ...), and they were ... you know, mean, tough girls on the field, and total putty in my (very naughty) hands. I can just as easily rename this post as '`phfina verses pvss-in-boots ninja' but that would be a one-liner: '"I win; no surprise. Questions? No questions, just see the 'I win' part."
That's just an FYI for ya, Ms. thinks-she's-all-that-Ninja.
Oh, and she did correct the 'regurgitate' comment, which was very sweet and shy of her.
I LIKE sweet and shy girls.
Mm-hm.
Um, where was I? Oh, yeah, but I was like, 'honey, you can spit (regurgitate) but with you, 'smh' 'cause my hands wrapped around your head are pushing it right. in. there, ... all you are gonna do is swallow, babes.'
I think maybe that's when her bulging eyes popped out of her head.
Any questions? No questions: see the 'I'm hot' part of this post.
Steamy, in fact. TsSsSsSsSsSs!
p.p.p.p.s. :p
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Remembrance
Remember that girl who said she was hot in her last post.
Well, it's true. I'm hot.
Hot pink now.
Oh, goodness, am I going to pay for today.
Okay, I ask you: how is it legal that the sun gets to turn me into pink lemonade served at red lobster when I had gobs of sunblock on AND I wore not spaghetti-straps, not a halter top but a pretty little flowery number that covers shoulders and arms (well, upper arms ... well, the top half of upper arms). I even wore a large-brimmed white sun hat, getting into the spirit of the thing, but did it preserve me from getting these red-raccoon eyes and ... oh, God, I'm a stereotype: red neck?
Noooooooo!
And, yes, if you've noticed the trend in the dresses I wear: I like flowers. Like Alice, who likes arranging them (although arrangements're not my specialty) and seeing them and holding them very delicately and breathing them into my being when I pass by them. Problems? Talk to the elbow, 'cause the hand's tired of listening and is now out to lunch!
Hm. I don't think I can defend me being a lipstick lesbian. Oh, well; there goes that career path!
But look at me: talking about myself, when I sat in the bleachers, along with eleven thousand other spectators melting in the sun, even as we wore a black tee that said "New American; Old Irish: One and Inseparable" with short-short jean shorts.
[God, did I want to scream, "THANK YOU!" to that girl, SUCH a cutie! Then I would've kissed her hard, and threw her right on to the ground and fucked her brains out, regardless of what her husband/boyfriend/brother would have had thought about the situation. It was hot outside ... she was hotter! ... and Irish-American!]
But here everybody was, in various states of undress, watching all those manly men and boys march right into battle carrying not just their canteens and muskets and pill-box hats (stuffed with ice cubes! Smart!). But they were also wearing worsted-wool OVERCOATS?!?! ... and BOOTS?!? and layers and layers and layers of clothes, to march right out to face the better armed and overwhelming Union troops, less than 100 yards away so they could stand face to face and get the Hell blasted out of each other?
And the shocking thing, besides the carnage (boys were falling to the ground like flies), was that they would amiably turn to us, ask after our day, hope that we were enjoying ourselves, and be concerned about how we were taking the heat and 'make sure you drink plenty of water!'
I mean, like, they cared more for us than they cared for themselves.
Luckily for me, I didn't get lucky. I mean, how could I? They were all packed together like sardines in these sweltering little pup tents when they were amongst themselves, and when they weren't they were swarmed by hordes of fans, taking pictures, asking questions, and being told how hot it was today.
And in the heat, I was concentrating more on staying hydrated than anything else, and putting one foot in front of the other. We had to walk miles! to get to the battleground, in the sweltering sun (obscured by cooling clouds, thank God!), and ...
And that's exactly what they did, 150 years ago. They marched for miles, and then at 6 am, a little fight broke out between the opposing sides, and then, at the end of that weekend there were hundreds dead. Hundreds.
I watched a corpsman run out to aid a wounded soldier, screaming in pain, and then I watched that corpsman running, and then suddenly drop, hard, onto the ground, ... and not move anymore, and not get up.
... and that happened 150 years ago: angry Americans, again, too fiery tempered to talk over things and settle things amicably, like how Canada mutually declared independence from British Rule, no, we had to piss on their representatives, literally, who happened to be our neighbors, literally, and then rattle swords and watch our boys and their boys kill each other.
And then we had to do it to ourselves.
And now we remember that. Our dead.
Ours are not the only dead.
In today's paper, there's Norway.
And one 'Christian extremist' bombed the capital and then when on a shooting rampage that left more than 80 dead on a labor party retreat ... most of the dead were school children in their teens.
And I glanced at that headline as I was getting my espresso, and read the article, and I thought: Saga could have been there.
And she was.
Somewhere in that multitude of people who will never surface from the water they dived into to escape a 'Christian Fundamentalist' who apparently opposed 'multiculturalism' was a girl or a boy that loved and was loved. Leaving a bereaved family behind.
And the take-away from this?
I'm scared.
I'm scared that people will start thinking about Christianity, in general, like people over here started thinking about Islam after 9/11, and they'll start enacting laws, and you ...
You'll think, 'Oh, Christianity breeds that sort of person.' Like him.
Like me.
`phfina, the little extremist Christian fundamentalist.
Put an AK-47 in my hands, and I'll tear through my high school, all whacked out on drugs and my idealism, and I pull the trigger but trip over my own feet and shoot myself up, fully automatic, so there'd be more lead than little fundamentalist, and everybody would laugh at me as my lungs filled with liquid and my vision grayed out to nothing, and their laughter would be the last thing I heard before oblivion overtook me.
But the thing of it is ...
I am a little Christian Fundamentalist.
Because, beside Columbine, there was a man who went on a shooting rampage right here in Virginia.
In an Amish school.
And you know what happened?
One girl broke line, and approached the man, holding them all hostage, and said 'Shoot me first.'
And you know what happened?
He shot, and killed, her first.
And you know what else happened?
Her sister, her only sibling, went up to him next and said, 'Shoot me next.'
And he shot her next. And she died.
They gave their lives so that he would use his bullets on them, so that the other girls in the classroom would have a shot at living.
And you know what? If he came to my high school, you know what I would do?
I would march right up to him, barely able to speak, because I'd be so terrified, and I'd say...
I'd say, "Shoot me first."
Why?
Because, one time, God offered me a shot. He showed me something, and I ran.
And if I was confronted with this? Or if I were on a plane, and a guy pulled a gun and screamed, 'You're all gonna die, you corrupt generation' of whatever twisted belief he holds, be it Christian or Muslim or something else that he believes is telling him to go out in a blaze of glory and to take as many sinners/infidels with him ...
I would say, scared out of my mind, 'thank you, God! Thank you, God, for giving me this chance to accept martyrdom this time, to stay and to stand, and to spare anybody, everybody else from this lunatic,' and I'm not talking about the lunatic holding the gun.
I'm talking about the lunatic facing the gunman.
Selfish, isn't it?
I mean: besides insane, of course.
But who am I thinking of the whole time? Me. Me, and how I can make reparation with God for my earlier cop-out, like I could possibly redeem me, and my wretched life with my glorious blaze-out.
And what was I thinking about on the battleground? Me and how I'm just wilting under the sun, and how the bed sheets are going to feel like razor blades on my skin tonight, and how this walk is just murderous to whom? To me.
And in my last post I put up my petty little concerns that affect nobody but me, and today more than 80 people died, and what are my whinings to that? A daughter/lover/friend is dead today, and she'll never get the chance to say one last, 'Mum, I'm sorry. Mum, I love you.' All she got to do was dive into that stormy cold water, feel the lead hammer into her back and breathe in salt and die, scared, screaming, helpless, and I worry about what?
But what can I do?
Really, what can I do?
I'm not asking this as 'oh, one person makes no difference,' no, I'm saying: this happened. This didn't happen to me.
God is giving me a gift of being alive, right now, today.
What am I going to do with this gift?
Because this gift? It was earned. Not by me. It was earned by two little Amish girls and their parents, now childless, who went to the guy and forgave him! It was earned by those brave, idealistic, stupid boys marching off for Country or Freedom or both and gave me this country today. It was earned by those boys and girls in Norway, who each gave their lives for me, who each died for me, and are telling me, right now, that now is all I have, so am I just going to sit here at my keyboard and cry for them, and is that a way to honor them?
Or will I honor them by being? Or by writing that next chapter? And saving one more life, letting one more person know that she (or he) is not alone, that there is this crazy little nut-case that feels exactly as she does, and has this magical ability to express these thoughts and feelings in words as she could not, and that there is beauty and hope in this world.
Even in this world of cruelty, randomness and despair.
And it starts, this hope, with me, and how I carry on, and how I ...
Shit. Life, living is so, so hard. It's just so hard sometimes to go on being into tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow as it creeps out its petty pace. And going out in a blaze of glory in front of a suicider's gun is just so terrifying, ...
and so tempting: "Boom!" goes the gun, and "HAHA! I WIN!" crows the `phfina, for the game is over.
Like I said, a cop-out. Because little me? There's another game, and it's called winning this next minute. NOT taking a drink from the bottle. Instead, picking up the figurative pen, looking hard and long into the mirror, into my soul, and writing something for someone who needs these words right now. And hearing her say to me, again, 'I'm alive now because your words gave me hope.'
And the swelling in my throat as I read what you do with your life because of something I wrote inspired you?
God, that hurts. It hurts so much, and that hurt is so good. I did nothing. I wrote something, and then you took on something and did something with your life.
And I remember that. I remember you, and honor you.
Well, it's true. I'm hot.
Hot pink now.
Oh, goodness, am I going to pay for today.
Okay, I ask you: how is it legal that the sun gets to turn me into pink lemonade served at red lobster when I had gobs of sunblock on AND I wore not spaghetti-straps, not a halter top but a pretty little flowery number that covers shoulders and arms (well, upper arms ... well, the top half of upper arms). I even wore a large-brimmed white sun hat, getting into the spirit of the thing, but did it preserve me from getting these red-raccoon eyes and ... oh, God, I'm a stereotype: red neck?
Noooooooo!
And, yes, if you've noticed the trend in the dresses I wear: I like flowers. Like Alice, who likes arranging them (although arrangements're not my specialty) and seeing them and holding them very delicately and breathing them into my being when I pass by them. Problems? Talk to the elbow, 'cause the hand's tired of listening and is now out to lunch!
Hm. I don't think I can defend me being a lipstick lesbian. Oh, well; there goes that career path!
But look at me: talking about myself, when I sat in the bleachers, along with eleven thousand other spectators melting in the sun, even as we wore a black tee that said "New American; Old Irish: One and Inseparable" with short-short jean shorts.
[God, did I want to scream, "THANK YOU!" to that girl, SUCH a cutie! Then I would've kissed her hard, and threw her right on to the ground and fucked her brains out, regardless of what her husband/boyfriend/brother would have had thought about the situation. It was hot outside ... she was hotter! ... and Irish-American!]
But here everybody was, in various states of undress, watching all those manly men and boys march right into battle carrying not just their canteens and muskets and pill-box hats (stuffed with ice cubes! Smart!). But they were also wearing worsted-wool OVERCOATS?!?! ... and BOOTS?!? and layers and layers and layers of clothes, to march right out to face the better armed and overwhelming Union troops, less than 100 yards away so they could stand face to face and get the Hell blasted out of each other?
And the shocking thing, besides the carnage (boys were falling to the ground like flies), was that they would amiably turn to us, ask after our day, hope that we were enjoying ourselves, and be concerned about how we were taking the heat and 'make sure you drink plenty of water!'
I mean, like, they cared more for us than they cared for themselves.
Luckily for me, I didn't get lucky. I mean, how could I? They were all packed together like sardines in these sweltering little pup tents when they were amongst themselves, and when they weren't they were swarmed by hordes of fans, taking pictures, asking questions, and being told how hot it was today.
And in the heat, I was concentrating more on staying hydrated than anything else, and putting one foot in front of the other. We had to walk miles! to get to the battleground, in the sweltering sun (obscured by cooling clouds, thank God!), and ...
And that's exactly what they did, 150 years ago. They marched for miles, and then at 6 am, a little fight broke out between the opposing sides, and then, at the end of that weekend there were hundreds dead. Hundreds.
I watched a corpsman run out to aid a wounded soldier, screaming in pain, and then I watched that corpsman running, and then suddenly drop, hard, onto the ground, ... and not move anymore, and not get up.
... and that happened 150 years ago: angry Americans, again, too fiery tempered to talk over things and settle things amicably, like how Canada mutually declared independence from British Rule, no, we had to piss on their representatives, literally, who happened to be our neighbors, literally, and then rattle swords and watch our boys and their boys kill each other.
And then we had to do it to ourselves.
And now we remember that. Our dead.
Ours are not the only dead.
In today's paper, there's Norway.
And one 'Christian extremist' bombed the capital and then when on a shooting rampage that left more than 80 dead on a labor party retreat ... most of the dead were school children in their teens.
And I glanced at that headline as I was getting my espresso, and read the article, and I thought: Saga could have been there.
And she was.
Somewhere in that multitude of people who will never surface from the water they dived into to escape a 'Christian Fundamentalist' who apparently opposed 'multiculturalism' was a girl or a boy that loved and was loved. Leaving a bereaved family behind.
And the take-away from this?
I'm scared.
I'm scared that people will start thinking about Christianity, in general, like people over here started thinking about Islam after 9/11, and they'll start enacting laws, and you ...
You'll think, 'Oh, Christianity breeds that sort of person.' Like him.
Like me.
`phfina, the little extremist Christian fundamentalist.
Put an AK-47 in my hands, and I'll tear through my high school, all whacked out on drugs and my idealism, and I pull the trigger but trip over my own feet and shoot myself up, fully automatic, so there'd be more lead than little fundamentalist, and everybody would laugh at me as my lungs filled with liquid and my vision grayed out to nothing, and their laughter would be the last thing I heard before oblivion overtook me.
But the thing of it is ...
I am a little Christian Fundamentalist.
Because, beside Columbine, there was a man who went on a shooting rampage right here in Virginia.
In an Amish school.
And you know what happened?
One girl broke line, and approached the man, holding them all hostage, and said 'Shoot me first.'
And you know what happened?
He shot, and killed, her first.
And you know what else happened?
Her sister, her only sibling, went up to him next and said, 'Shoot me next.'
And he shot her next. And she died.
They gave their lives so that he would use his bullets on them, so that the other girls in the classroom would have a shot at living.
And you know what? If he came to my high school, you know what I would do?
I would march right up to him, barely able to speak, because I'd be so terrified, and I'd say...
I'd say, "Shoot me first."
Why?
Because, one time, God offered me a shot. He showed me something, and I ran.
And if I was confronted with this? Or if I were on a plane, and a guy pulled a gun and screamed, 'You're all gonna die, you corrupt generation' of whatever twisted belief he holds, be it Christian or Muslim or something else that he believes is telling him to go out in a blaze of glory and to take as many sinners/infidels with him ...
I would say, scared out of my mind, 'thank you, God! Thank you, God, for giving me this chance to accept martyrdom this time, to stay and to stand, and to spare anybody, everybody else from this lunatic,' and I'm not talking about the lunatic holding the gun.
I'm talking about the lunatic facing the gunman.
Selfish, isn't it?
I mean: besides insane, of course.
But who am I thinking of the whole time? Me. Me, and how I can make reparation with God for my earlier cop-out, like I could possibly redeem me, and my wretched life with my glorious blaze-out.
And what was I thinking about on the battleground? Me and how I'm just wilting under the sun, and how the bed sheets are going to feel like razor blades on my skin tonight, and how this walk is just murderous to whom? To me.
And in my last post I put up my petty little concerns that affect nobody but me, and today more than 80 people died, and what are my whinings to that? A daughter/lover/friend is dead today, and she'll never get the chance to say one last, 'Mum, I'm sorry. Mum, I love you.' All she got to do was dive into that stormy cold water, feel the lead hammer into her back and breathe in salt and die, scared, screaming, helpless, and I worry about what?
But what can I do?
Really, what can I do?
I'm not asking this as 'oh, one person makes no difference,' no, I'm saying: this happened. This didn't happen to me.
God is giving me a gift of being alive, right now, today.
What am I going to do with this gift?
Because this gift? It was earned. Not by me. It was earned by two little Amish girls and their parents, now childless, who went to the guy and forgave him! It was earned by those brave, idealistic, stupid boys marching off for Country or Freedom or both and gave me this country today. It was earned by those boys and girls in Norway, who each gave their lives for me, who each died for me, and are telling me, right now, that now is all I have, so am I just going to sit here at my keyboard and cry for them, and is that a way to honor them?
Or will I honor them by being? Or by writing that next chapter? And saving one more life, letting one more person know that she (or he) is not alone, that there is this crazy little nut-case that feels exactly as she does, and has this magical ability to express these thoughts and feelings in words as she could not, and that there is beauty and hope in this world.
Even in this world of cruelty, randomness and despair.
And it starts, this hope, with me, and how I carry on, and how I ...
Shit. Life, living is so, so hard. It's just so hard sometimes to go on being into tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow as it creeps out its petty pace. And going out in a blaze of glory in front of a suicider's gun is just so terrifying, ...
and so tempting: "Boom!" goes the gun, and "HAHA! I WIN!" crows the `phfina, for the game is over.
Like I said, a cop-out. Because little me? There's another game, and it's called winning this next minute. NOT taking a drink from the bottle. Instead, picking up the figurative pen, looking hard and long into the mirror, into my soul, and writing something for someone who needs these words right now. And hearing her say to me, again, 'I'm alive now because your words gave me hope.'
And the swelling in my throat as I read what you do with your life because of something I wrote inspired you?
God, that hurts. It hurts so much, and that hurt is so good. I did nothing. I wrote something, and then you took on something and did something with your life.
And I remember that. I remember you, and honor you.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Happy Birthday To Me!
So, it's my birthday. Usually the most dreaded day of the year, beside Christmas, 'cause I have to be pretending to be happy about my existence, and stuff.
But this birthday I'm feeling light and fluffy, like a soufflé, perhaps.
I decided to give out birthday presents. Hey, it's my birthday, so I can give out presents, too, you know.
The MAJOR recipient of my presents are the people whom I touch.
'Cause I've decided to give myself the present of kindness.
I'm gonna be kind to myself today. Things will go my way, or they won't, but that's okay, either way. It's been a lovely day, and I've worn a sunny smile for myself and everybody I see.
And I'm giving myself the gift of appreciation. Goes right along with kindness.
My Dad's always saying, "Oh, could you do this, and I'll appreciate it."
This statement, in my hearing and experience, invariably meant, 'if you don't do it, and cheerfully, too, I'll be in a mood so black, you'll regret it for days.'
Seriously. (obviously).
But now I'm appreciating just simple appreciation. Just taking things as they are, and saying, 'hey, that's cool.'
My day has been really, really nice. I've met nice, friendly people and have had a lovely day.
The surprise birthday present from Dad ... it was nice. Very nice. And kind. And thoughtful. And helpful. And I appreciated it, and how generous he is, all the time, to everybody.
So, I'll just appreciate me for being me, no more, no less. And not beat myself up for being or not being anything or something that I am or am not. ... And when I do beat myself up about that ...
*sigh*
... when I do attack myself for my real or imagined inadequacies, well, ... I won't beat myself up for beating myself up. Not today. I'll notice that I'm down on myself. And stop it. Or not, and just let it pass, or have a good sulk and be okay with that.
I haven't had a good sulk today, and that's rather a pleasant surprise.
And how long do you think you can keep that up?
Ah, Ms. Muse, hello. Dunno. For as long as I do, I suppose.
You're not fighting with me ...
Yeah, 'cause I'm appreciating you, just as you are.
You know that's bullshit. I'm a lot smarter than you. You can't fool me.
I know. And, today, that's okay. You can snip at me if you want, or you can take a break if you want, and it's okay.
But you're not. You're not okay, and you never will be.
Well, okay. That's okay. I'm one day older, and I'm okay, or I'm not okay, and today will come to an end, and tomorrow will come, or it won't, and whatever comes, comes.
Look at that. Easy. My thoughts come, I beat myself up, and I react to them, and I get to chose how I react, if I want to.
Pretty neat, this kindness and appreciation stuff.
So, if somebody comes and says 'I know who you are,' you're going to be all light and fluffy with them about it?
... well, ... hm. Well,
Hm, I'm getting nervous. Well, we can give that a try, and if it works, ...
... nah, it's not gonna work, I'm getting sick, already, just thinking about it. So, okay: fail.
How am I?
A little shaken, but ... still breathing, still here, still writing, and thinking about writing, still getting ready for bed, after a nice day out, and a not too embarrassing birthday sitting-around-the-table-being-sung-to-happy-birthday party, so ... okay, I'm okay. I'm okay.
I'm okay.
It's my birthday, and ... I'm okay.
And that's a really nice present for me.
But this birthday I'm feeling light and fluffy, like a soufflé, perhaps.
I decided to give out birthday presents. Hey, it's my birthday, so I can give out presents, too, you know.
The MAJOR recipient of my presents are the people whom I touch.
'Cause I've decided to give myself the present of kindness.
I'm gonna be kind to myself today. Things will go my way, or they won't, but that's okay, either way. It's been a lovely day, and I've worn a sunny smile for myself and everybody I see.
And I'm giving myself the gift of appreciation. Goes right along with kindness.
My Dad's always saying, "Oh, could you do this, and I'll appreciate it."
This statement, in my hearing and experience, invariably meant, 'if you don't do it, and cheerfully, too, I'll be in a mood so black, you'll regret it for days.'
Seriously. (obviously).
But now I'm appreciating just simple appreciation. Just taking things as they are, and saying, 'hey, that's cool.'
My day has been really, really nice. I've met nice, friendly people and have had a lovely day.
The surprise birthday present from Dad ... it was nice. Very nice. And kind. And thoughtful. And helpful. And I appreciated it, and how generous he is, all the time, to everybody.
So, I'll just appreciate me for being me, no more, no less. And not beat myself up for being or not being anything or something that I am or am not. ... And when I do beat myself up about that ...
*sigh*
... when I do attack myself for my real or imagined inadequacies, well, ... I won't beat myself up for beating myself up. Not today. I'll notice that I'm down on myself. And stop it. Or not, and just let it pass, or have a good sulk and be okay with that.
I haven't had a good sulk today, and that's rather a pleasant surprise.
And how long do you think you can keep that up?
Ah, Ms. Muse, hello. Dunno. For as long as I do, I suppose.
You're not fighting with me ...
Yeah, 'cause I'm appreciating you, just as you are.
You know that's bullshit. I'm a lot smarter than you. You can't fool me.
I know. And, today, that's okay. You can snip at me if you want, or you can take a break if you want, and it's okay.
But you're not. You're not okay, and you never will be.
Well, okay. That's okay. I'm one day older, and I'm okay, or I'm not okay, and today will come to an end, and tomorrow will come, or it won't, and whatever comes, comes.
Look at that. Easy. My thoughts come, I beat myself up, and I react to them, and I get to chose how I react, if I want to.
Pretty neat, this kindness and appreciation stuff.
So, if somebody comes and says 'I know who you are,' you're going to be all light and fluffy with them about it?
... well, ... hm. Well,
Hm, I'm getting nervous. Well, we can give that a try, and if it works, ...
... nah, it's not gonna work, I'm getting sick, already, just thinking about it. So, okay: fail.
How am I?
A little shaken, but ... still breathing, still here, still writing, and thinking about writing, still getting ready for bed, after a nice day out, and a not too embarrassing birthday sitting-around-the-table-being-sung-to-happy-birthday party, so ... okay, I'm okay. I'm okay.
I'm okay.
It's my birthday, and ... I'm okay.
And that's a really nice present for me.
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.
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!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Potato pancakes, Phở, and ... p.r.0.n.
Okay, y'all, you really have to stop. I'm supposed to be finishing Bloodbuzz, giving somebody her Birthday, no: Christmas present (*blush*), and helping my beta-ee with hers (today for ch 2, swears!). Pitchforks and brands, girls, right outside my door, but you keep giving me these entries I must write, and I keep on living.
Oh, well.
Anyway.
Latkes
Okay, so, this morning I made myself potato pancakes (latkes). They're so easy to make; here's the recipe:
1 potatoes
½ onion
¼ cup flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
Put the potatoes and onion into a food-processor; grate. Pour mixture into a bowl, stir in flour and salt, then beat and add eggs. Heat frying pan with a thin layer of oil (I used extra-virgin olive oil), then pour in pancakes and brown on each side (like cook for 5 or so minutes per side).
Serve with: sour cream, or applesauce, or fruit preserves (like ... sylt lingon), or nutella.
What's a little Irish girl serving herself latkes? And in the morning, no less? Am I exploring my inner Jewishness? Well, perhaps I am.
(Hi, Lupera!)
In my defense, I do have a character coming into one of my stories, and, well, latkes are made of potatoes and I'm Irish, so that makes it okay, okay? So there!
This brings back several memories. And for me, memories are painful things, and am I ever 'blessed' with a perfect memory. I remember everything, like one time when I was a little girl, and daddy was talking about the huge influx of Irish to the New World caused by the potato famine, and how stupid the Irish were, for they are an island nation, and had all the bounty of the sea, but they wouldn't touch fish, because that means they would have to be fishermen: poor people. So they'd rather starve to death or die of cold or disease crossing the 'pond,' than suffer to eat fish.
And I just took in what he said, so you know what that makes me in my dad's eyes? Little Irish me?
Too proud and too stupid for her own good.
I don't remember what my mom had to say about his lecture, because, well, she didn't say anything. My mom never said anything around or about or to my dad. Ever.
But there's another memory that's even more painful for me, if that's possible, and even more recent.
You know I do go home to visit my mom and, well, my dad, from time to time, don't you? I mean, I don't just go to work and then come home and hide under the covers, you know that, don't you? And what would ever give you that idea?
And, well, it's a dicy affair, going home. 'Cause all those dead bodies I left back in CT? Well, they're still there, you see, and I do, too. I do see them from time to time. And, well, some have moved on, like Angela to Texas, and Karin to Florida with her husband, and Jennifer to ... hm, where is Jennifer? but Carla's still there, and newly divorced and ... looking, and Cate's still there, still going to twelve step, and still ... wild, and Brenda's still there, because, well, OMR, she and mom are such good friends going to book club and everything (oh. my. God! that is so g.d. embarrassing! I so hope to God Brenda never 'slips' in that vicious way ex-g.f.s slip and 'accidently' reveal to my mom), and ... Julia.
So I got this recipe from Jeff. Yes, him. Jeff. Julia's husband. And 'Jewish'? You can't get any more Jewish than Jeff. I mean, not Orthodox, but he's really ... kind, and gentle, and soft-spoken, and they live in Stratford, you know, 'Stratford, CT,' or 'NYC's ultra-rich hang-out place' so I was like 'Doctor, or stock broker?' and he gave me a funny look and said, no, he was in the restaurant business, and I asked what kind of restaurant he owned, and he gave me another look and said kindly that he own several restaurants. And, well, they are so ...
God!
And. and. and. God, Julia and Jeff? You couldn't find a happier couple. I mean, like joyful, peaceful, calm happy. And little Annie? She's not a baby anymore, and if I didn't have my nieces to compare, I would have said you couldn't find a prettier or smarter girl. And I didn't have to ask Julia if she were happy, because I have never seen that soft, heart-shape face smiling so much in my life, and it wasn't because she had me over her CT mansion (although she was happy to see me, and that was so, so sweet, and hurt so much, inside, too), no, it was because she was with Jeff, and when she was with Jeff, she was with Jeff, and Jeff, with his easy way of making the Latkes, showing me how to make them, and the tender looks toward her, Jeff was with her. And they were just so, so happy, being together with each other.
I felt kind of like I was a fly on the wall or something, you know? Not really there; that's how intimate they were with each other, and not in an 'Eww, gross! Get a room!' kind of way, but just in their looks to each other across the room, you know?
And I didn't have to ask how they got along in the other departments. Annie was proof enough that things were going well there. And, well, you know how it is to have me as your lover, so anything's a huge improvement on that.
Yes, Julia's happy ... that is: now.
And as I ate the latkes this morning — I really like them best with the sour cream — I remembered my visit 'Up North' last Christmas. And was I crying this morning, my dears?
Heh. I'm crying now, remembering that cry, and what caused it.
Cute Girl Interlude
You know, I find you beautiful, right? You do know that, and if you don't, it's time for you to do some mirror work, with a good swift kick in the heinder from moiself if you get down on yourself. But I noticed today, like it really struck me, that a beautiful girl, sitting by herself at sbux?
Doesn't that just sit wrong for you, when you see that?
I mean, why is it okay that a guy can come in by himself, order a coffee and stay and work on his computer or go back to the office, and nobody thinks anything about that?
But a girl? She has to be with somebody, and then she's okay, and not just okay, but alive. I mean, she's either with her girlfriend, and they're talking-talking-talking away so happily, or she's with her boyfriend and she's looking at him adoringly, hanging on his every word. Or she's with her children, looking harried, and that's okay, too.
But if she comes in alone? And sits alone?
So, okay, I was on frikken break, okay? And some random blondie is hanging on bf's every word, and then she (well, actually, 'they') comes up to me, and she gives me the g.d. big eyes and says in a wispy voice, 'Would you watch my stuff, so nobody steals it?' and she doesn't even wait for an answer but she and bf go out for a smoke.
Good thing she didn't wait for an answer, 'cause I was all like, 'Yeah, what about me stealing you, sweetheart?'
The 'ladies' was unoccupied. I would've handed her back to bf pretty much unchanged ... if she actually wanted to go back to what's-his-name, which given what I can do (do do ... have done), she may never think straight again.
Nah, I wasn't going to do that (I like 'em with brains), but two things, okay? I was on break! And. Okay, AND! Why the big pleading eyes and breathy voice, for crying out loud? She was just asking me to watch her stuff, and I mean, I wasn't Lauren Bacall and, as far as I know, I'm not starring in a film noir, so why bring out the big guns like that? Was she practicing on me, or something, for goodness sake?
News flash: whatever you were practicing, sweetie ...? It worked, okay?
Jeez!
Phở
I have many comfort foods. And the Washington D.C. area isn't really all that cosmopolitan, did you know that? In fact, the nascent nation was embarrassed to have this backwater city as the Capitol, and it still trails the original (Philly) and NYC, by quite a bit. But we do have some things here ... like sbux, I guess, and a few Phở places. And today I went right after work to one of my favorite haunts ('cause it's close and ... cheap), and for the first time noticed they have 'Happy Hour' from 3 pm to 8 pm.
So I asked.
'Happy Hour' is just for the drinks. $2 beers on tap and $3 labels.
And I was like 'nah,' because ... well ... I can't afford that.
And, also, this'll be my eighteenth day sober.
Christmas pensées interlude
Hm. I wonder how Christmas will go.
Actually, I know how Christmas will go: sbux is open 'til 6pm Christmas day, and guess who's closing?
And some people, some *ahem* partners of mine are bitter about working on Christmas day, but I'm not. I'm actually grateful.
What I really am? I'm scared. 'Cause after I close, there's still another six hours to that day. Six hours. And me, all alone on Christmas day? And what, you say, go over to bb's? Me? And do what? Pretend to be happy? Make small talk with his wife? Who won't be alone in a room with me? And won't even be in touch that she freaks out when I watch their kids? And speaking of whom: shall I watch my nieces open Christmas presents? Seeing them so happy finding what they got? Seeing them so happy in giving me their homemade presents for me? And then do what? After visiting a(nother) happy, happy family? Go home? And do what?
And do what?
You know that suicide hotlines are jammed during this 'most wonderful time of the year,' did you know that?
Heh. That's funny. 'Somebody's thinking about committing suicide, and they call the hotline, and they get a busy signal, or are put on hold for twenty-four minutes.
Not that I have personal experience with that. I'm just saying and ... 'wondering,' is all.
Back to Phở
Anyway, Phở. Phở brings up somebody I met, and thank God, not at sbux, but through bb. Laura is like this really ... hm, how do I say this. She has very strong opinions, which aren't opinions to her, but the way things are, you know? And, oh, it was through Church that I met her, and she was like, 'What do you do, Melissa?'
(I fvcking hate it that she know my name.)
And I told her I was an sbux barista and I had to fvcking explain what 'sbux' is, and she was all like 'Oh, how interesting,' in a very certain, bored way that spoke volumes to me, so I called her on that, and asked her how is that interesting.
She didn't have an interesting answer. 'Oh, I just hearing what people do for work, is all.' Like I was so lower-class trash or something. She doesn't work, you see. She stays at home, doing what, I don't know. Being rich, I guess.
I'm not being very charitable, and I'm sorry about that.
But she was like, 'you're very pretty, but I have this skin treatment system that will really help, it's dermatologically safe and have you heard of the Artistry brand? Would you like to get together to talk about it sometime?'
And I don't know why I agreed to meet her, ... I guess I'm afraid of saying no, you know? And she was kind of insistent.
Anyway, the meeting was like, omr, her husband shows up in a suit and tie! and he goes on for about two hours about this 'business,' and it turns out to be this multilevel, that I'm not going to write the name of, 'cause I don't need to be in a lawsuit, thank you, and they are like, so you want to sign up?
And I'm like, 'no.' I was like definitely no.
And they were like, 'why?'
And, okay, to join their business, I have to sell stuff and I have to talk to people.
Are you laughing yet? Me, talk to people?
Here's me getting read to talk to somebody.
Me, in bathroom: HURL!
Me, running away to another State, and possibly country, before the meeting.
And me, sell stuff?
And Laura was like, but you sell coffee already to lots of people. And I was like, no, I take orders ... they buy the drinks.
So then she wants to sell me this skin care system and the asking price was all for the low, low price of how much? And how much do I make in a week?
But, Melissa she said in that reasonable, irritating nasal whine of hers, this is less than half the price of Lancôme ...
Like I look like the girl who uses Lancôme. You know what kind of girl I look like?
Interlude: group
So, last week in group, we had Donna, this international supermodel and actress, fly in from Hollywood and lead, can you believe it? And she asked for all the young women under twenty-one to stand up, and she made me stand up, and I was like, um.
And so we had a 'conversation' out of that. She made me stand in front of everybody, and said, 'Look at how you're dressed ...'
And I said that shouldn't matter. And she countered right away that it does, and me, in blue jeans and a power blue sweater and sneaks?
She didn't stop there. She brought up a seventeen-year-old girl from Salt Lake City, and this girl was wearing a red cashmere sweater and a black skirt with black pantyhose and black boots. She looked like an office exec, and Donna said that this girl looked mature, somebody you would take seriously and listen to, but me?
And Donna said that I looked like the (immature) seventeen-year-old, and Donna could get away with wearing what I wore, but leading groups? She's had people walk out because she likes mini-minis to show off her long, long legs, but if she's going to reach people where they are at, she has to dress professionally, a minimum of make up, not no make up like me, heels and carry herself like somebody who's up to something, not somebody who's wallowing in suffering, hiding behind that tight smile as she'd being spoken to in front of everybody.
And she looked at me really, really hard and had me sit down.
Yeah. It's been a good week.
Really back to Phở
Whew. Back to Laura. Hm, actually, why did I bring her up?
Oh, yeah, because one day, she made this pronouncement, like, "Oh, do you like fo-o-o-oh, and it's this really good soup, and it's like, fo-o-o-oh!"
And I was like, um, I think it's pronounced Phở (fuh)...
And Laura very decidedly said, "No! It's 'fo-o-o-o-oh!' And it's really good!"
So I was like ... um, ... okay ... (whispered: whatevs)
So today, I ordered Phở Tai Sach, Cha Goi and café suda, and the Vietnamese lady smiled at me and said how well I spoke Vietnamese, and I smiled sadly at her and said now nice she was, because ...
Because when she shouted the order to the cooks, 'Cha Goi' sounded nothing like I said it, but something like 'shza (g)uh' or ... I can't even write it, because there's no way my little Irish mouth can even come close to saying what she said.
Whatever it is, and however it's said, it's a comfort on a cold winter day with an inch of snow still clinging to the ground.
p.r.0.n.
Okay, now, girls, wipe that drool of your chins! So unseemly!
And actually, I'm not that much into p.r.0.n. Really!
(Oh, yeah? How much is 'not that much,' `phfina-dear?)
I do so hate my little Muse when she gets all uppity like that, speaking out of turn. I mean, like, really! Who's in charge here?
Smugly quoth my Muse, soto voce: Me!
ANYWAY!
And Saga is so going to kill me for this reveal, but I did warn her ...
Saga, I did warn you, sweetie, I'm a writer, and what a writer does is she writes.
So, anyway, I mean, really, okay, you want a link? Here, have a link.
You have to be really oblivious to follow that link if you are at work or school, okay?
So, what just happened? Nothing, right? Wasn't that a huge disappointment? All of two minutes and it was just two girls in a tub.
But 'nothing'? Here's what I saw.
You ready? Here's what I told Saga what I saw.
"Did you see me in that vid? I mean, guys are all like, so g.d. serious and ... idk ... about smex, but here were two girls, and they were laughing and having fun and making light of it all, so much so that I smiled, and I wanted to cry.
... And then BOOM. I mean, the subtext. They were having fun, and then all of a sudden, that look of pure lvst crosses her face when n1pple touched n1pple, and wait, was there grinding going on, just instantly, just like that? And then, the playing was over, and now it was time for what was coming next, were it was very, very serious, and needy, and demanding, and loving, and forceful, and tender, and sweet, and longing, and sad, and caring. Did you see that look in her face, that she was trying so hard not to be overcome by, so all she could do is press her lips together, hard, and look, a bit confused, at her lover, and ask, with her eyes: 'what's this?' or 'now? you mean now? are you sure? but I thought we were just playing for each other and for the webcam, and now ...'
So, 'nothing' happening in this vid? Actually, for me, most p.r.0.n, there is absolutely nothing going on in there, except for the actresses trying not to roll their eyes at the ridiculousness of the scenario until actual mutual attraction and bodily need kick-in to help the fantasy.
But here, there was no ridiculousness. I mean, it was ridiculous: 'oh, wow, two girls in a tub; let's fvck.' And they were absolutely fine mocking this absurdity, and that, for me, was so real. They weren't pretending at all: they were making fun and having fun, and then WHAM! it hit them, just like it SO hits me. I'm shy or I'm silly, and then it's suddenly very, very serious and there's no stopping me taking her and her taking me taking her. And her, letting me take her, and letting me into her to take her, past those walls that everyone puts up to keep everyone at bay ... That SO fvcking turns me on.
A short, sweet little vid, that I really liked, ... it talked to me as I am.
... Um. God! I've done it again. A sweet little vid, and I got all ... `phfina."
Do you know how Saga answered me? She told me she wished she had my eyes, even for just a few seconds, to see what I could see, to see beyond the filth and the lies.
And do you know my answer to her, to you, to anybody?
Please.
Please take my eyes. Here, have them. That I could rip my eyes out of their sockets and give them to you, or that I could just cast them from me.
But then what? Be Homer? and be lead about by his teenaged p!mp, wh0ring out the great old man for his stories? Or be Sappho, Lady Melissa's servant, the last thing she saw was her daughter being put to death, before having her eyeballs ruptured by her dead Xeno's dagger?
And ripping out my eyes ... it doesn't make it stop, this seeing.
I'm seeing things now. I'm seeing things now.
I'm hypersensitive to my body right now. I feel everything, standing or sitting or lying down to sleep, and the thinking doesn't stop, eyes wide or eyes wide shut. And I just know sightless `phfina would be even more cursed with clear-seeing.
Because seeing past all the bvllsh!t?
You think that's a gift?
It's a curse, because what if you see past all it? That's not accurate. You see through it ... and through it to what? You ever wonder that?
And seeing through all that ... stuff. Well, ...
You know it doesn't turn off. It doesn't turn off watching p.r.0.n. just trying to blow off some steam but instead seeing two girls suffering poor plot and poor company (that is: each other) and still having to 'put out' for the camera? And ...
And it doesn't turn off in front of the mirror, or when I'm writing a PM, or when I'm reading a PM.
And I see me. I see me so clearly: a little, scared, vicious, poor and lost girl.
And you wonder why I want to die all the time.
And you wonder at how I write Alice so well, ... and Rosalie. My girls. My girls. One who is cursed with clairvoyance ('clear-seeing') and one who sees all the bvllsh!t, and you wish I had my gift for writing, and my gift for seeing.
You know, I wish I could say I wish you had my gift, too, and take it, please, but that's a double-lie.
Firstly, because, well, you do have my gift. You all do. Each of you are living your lives or not living your lives and so aware of that, and so honest and real about that, and lyrical, and poetic, and direct, and honest, and beautiful, and I wish I were the reader and you were the writers, because everything I read from you, dear readers and correspondents, when you get honestly really real about your life, is so, so beautiful, and I want to read that, read you, and not me, and my sh!t.
I hate my sh!t. I hate me.
So that's the first lie: 'I wish you had my gift,' because there's no 'wish' to it. You do have my gift. More than me.
So those of you who have an ounce of self-doubt: put that in your pipe and smoke it!
(Oh! I can't write! you lament. And I'm like, excuse me? What did you just, *ahem* write to me?)
And the second lie is this.
When I was in that hospital bed, and under sedation, and taken care of, and there were no demands on me, I was nothing, I was ...
I was nothing, and nothing mattered, and I was nothing in the matter. I would have been better off dead, and I swear, by God, I will die before anybody puts me back in there, because if I had been dead, at least I wouldn't have been aware that I was 'a ward to society,' 'in the care of ...,' 'convalescing' or whatever you want to call it. If I were dead, at least it wouldn't have mattered that I was just a void, sucking in air and food through an IV at times and excreting fluids that were so kindly removed from me and the sheets by caring healthcare providers, and then I still saw, a little bit, I saw just enough to keep me out of trouble, keep my quiet instead of spouting more nonsense that would extend my stay from weeks to then months to then years.
Yeah, I'm smart. A genius, even, so I learned after my first weeks with me saying stuff that extended my stay, to keep my mouth shut when I wanted to volunteer the 'wrong' answer and then I learned to say the things they needed to hear to nod their head dully and understandingly ... you know, 'in sympathy.'
So, my clear-seeing ... did it put me in the hospital? Maybe. Yes. Yes, I guess it did. And did it abandon me there? No, not really. It showed me what I was when I was there. A vegetable. A potato. A wee Irish potato. And now, it's back, full-force, flooding my poor little brain with so much to say about everything, what I'm doing, and what I'm not, and I can't turn it off, and you say you want this? You're envious of my talent, and grateful to me for daring to say the things nobody else does that touches your heart? So much so you're afraid to review my work, because you're afraid your own sh!t will show, and I'll call you on that?
Yeah, good call, actually.
But do I not want this 'gift'?
You know, Alice would trade her eye-teeth, and more, not to have been clairvoyant. You know, she saw a future where vampires ruled, and fought each other, and she saw Jasper be destroyed in WWV ('World War Vampire') and she saw herself, running toward her reason, her being, her Jasper, and being caught up in that maelstrom, and she saw no way out of it.
She saw that. She saw all the Cullens, dead. She's seen a lot, and you're envious of her because you want that stock tip. And she has to be chipper through all that, and you complain that somebody gave you a funny look in class today.
And then Rosalie would trade what to be human again, and, but, as a human was she happy? Was she ever happy?
Would I trade away my 'gift'?
No.
You cheer. Yay for me.
But being dull? Dimming my senses? I know how that feels like, being dead, walking around, being of no consequence to anybody, being dead, and useless.
And now, seeing, and being a cause in the matter, writing something that touches your heart, saying 'I love you' and being loved in return, and seeing that, and knowing that, and experiencing love, real love, so much so that it hurts, because it means that little lost me does have a place in this cold, callous, careless world, and that place is in your heart?
I really, really, really, wish y'all would leave off so that I could write my stories, and not these heart-wrenching self-revelations.
Yeah, right: and how many times did I check my inbox today, and yesterday, and the day before, and ...
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who met Aphrodite.
Once upon a time, there was a pretty girl who married her Prince Charming.
Once upon a time, there was an sbux barista.
We all find ourselves in history, living our lives.
"And they lived happily ever after."
You know what I'm coming to realize? That ending? That can be said of those who look back on their lives, and, looking back, choose to look at what happened, the good and the bad, happily. Not with Rose-colored glasses, but, 'oh, this happened, and that happened, and now here we are, happily ever after, through that all.'
Alice has something to tell me. She was in the hospital, and now she's happy. She had the hardest life as a human, and as a vampire, with her cursed 'gift,' she's seen the worst that could possibly happen, and she's seen some really bad stuff go down (she does have Jasper Whitlock as her sweetie, after all), and she's living her happily ever after, through it all, despite of it all, and because of it all.
And, well, Esme, right? She lost her child, too, `phfina, right? and then she tried to kill herself, but who is so happy now that nobody know how to write her properly? She's so happy because she is exactly where she is now, right in the now. Being a mommy, being a wife, being so proud of Bella's bravery in just daring to saying hello. Surviving all that to what? Survive? No, prevail and triumph, and not like "so there!" but like, "ah." and just and only that. Esme. Esme and Carlisle. Carlisle and Esme. Who can write them?
Somebody that centered and happy, I guess.
And Rosalie has prevailed, forever, and why? Because she can and she does, and she is rewarded for prevailing, and not quitting, and she's never done it for anybody else or for what anybody else thought, she's always soldiered on, doing the best for herself and, importantly for her, for everybody in her concern, despite what they say to her and about her.
You read ExB reviews with Rosalie chapters on ffn? I have. Saying 'they aren't kind to her' would be stretching the limits of understatement. I bet Rosalie doesn't even bother to read them. Her 'list' is already long enough. Besides, why would she read an ExB fanfic, anyway?
And then there's little me. With something to say. And with the ability to say it well.
And there's you.
It's like ...
*sigh* ... I guess I'm giving myself my Christmas present: a reason to go on. Hope.
So obvious. So simple. All I have to do is not to fight it, but to accept it. And I do. And I don't. I let love in, and then I go have a pity party.
It must be so frustrating, reading me, seeing me struggle so much over something so simple.
Hm. I wonder if they have a recipe for simple acceptance? I am, after all, a simple wee Irish lass, it should go down easily on my tongue.
Oh, well.
Anyway.
Latkes
Okay, so, this morning I made myself potato pancakes (latkes). They're so easy to make; here's the recipe:
1 potatoes
½ onion
¼ cup flour
½ teaspoon salt
1 egg
Put the potatoes and onion into a food-processor; grate. Pour mixture into a bowl, stir in flour and salt, then beat and add eggs. Heat frying pan with a thin layer of oil (I used extra-virgin olive oil), then pour in pancakes and brown on each side (like cook for 5 or so minutes per side).
Serve with: sour cream, or applesauce, or fruit preserves (like ... sylt lingon), or nutella.
What's a little Irish girl serving herself latkes? And in the morning, no less? Am I exploring my inner Jewishness? Well, perhaps I am.
(Hi, Lupera!)
In my defense, I do have a character coming into one of my stories, and, well, latkes are made of potatoes and I'm Irish, so that makes it okay, okay? So there!
This brings back several memories. And for me, memories are painful things, and am I ever 'blessed' with a perfect memory. I remember everything, like one time when I was a little girl, and daddy was talking about the huge influx of Irish to the New World caused by the potato famine, and how stupid the Irish were, for they are an island nation, and had all the bounty of the sea, but they wouldn't touch fish, because that means they would have to be fishermen: poor people. So they'd rather starve to death or die of cold or disease crossing the 'pond,' than suffer to eat fish.
And I just took in what he said, so you know what that makes me in my dad's eyes? Little Irish me?
Too proud and too stupid for her own good.
I don't remember what my mom had to say about his lecture, because, well, she didn't say anything. My mom never said anything around or about or to my dad. Ever.
But there's another memory that's even more painful for me, if that's possible, and even more recent.
You know I do go home to visit my mom and, well, my dad, from time to time, don't you? I mean, I don't just go to work and then come home and hide under the covers, you know that, don't you? And what would ever give you that idea?
And, well, it's a dicy affair, going home. 'Cause all those dead bodies I left back in CT? Well, they're still there, you see, and I do, too. I do see them from time to time. And, well, some have moved on, like Angela to Texas, and Karin to Florida with her husband, and Jennifer to ... hm, where is Jennifer? but Carla's still there, and newly divorced and ... looking, and Cate's still there, still going to twelve step, and still ... wild, and Brenda's still there, because, well, OMR, she and mom are such good friends going to book club and everything (oh. my. God! that is so g.d. embarrassing! I so hope to God Brenda never 'slips' in that vicious way ex-g.f.s slip and 'accidently' reveal to my mom), and ... Julia.
So I got this recipe from Jeff. Yes, him. Jeff. Julia's husband. And 'Jewish'? You can't get any more Jewish than Jeff. I mean, not Orthodox, but he's really ... kind, and gentle, and soft-spoken, and they live in Stratford, you know, 'Stratford, CT,' or 'NYC's ultra-rich hang-out place' so I was like 'Doctor, or stock broker?' and he gave me a funny look and said, no, he was in the restaurant business, and I asked what kind of restaurant he owned, and he gave me another look and said kindly that he own several restaurants. And, well, they are so ...
God!
And. and. and. God, Julia and Jeff? You couldn't find a happier couple. I mean, like joyful, peaceful, calm happy. And little Annie? She's not a baby anymore, and if I didn't have my nieces to compare, I would have said you couldn't find a prettier or smarter girl. And I didn't have to ask Julia if she were happy, because I have never seen that soft, heart-shape face smiling so much in my life, and it wasn't because she had me over her CT mansion (although she was happy to see me, and that was so, so sweet, and hurt so much, inside, too), no, it was because she was with Jeff, and when she was with Jeff, she was with Jeff, and Jeff, with his easy way of making the Latkes, showing me how to make them, and the tender looks toward her, Jeff was with her. And they were just so, so happy, being together with each other.
I felt kind of like I was a fly on the wall or something, you know? Not really there; that's how intimate they were with each other, and not in an 'Eww, gross! Get a room!' kind of way, but just in their looks to each other across the room, you know?
And I didn't have to ask how they got along in the other departments. Annie was proof enough that things were going well there. And, well, you know how it is to have me as your lover, so anything's a huge improvement on that.
Yes, Julia's happy ... that is: now.
And as I ate the latkes this morning — I really like them best with the sour cream — I remembered my visit 'Up North' last Christmas. And was I crying this morning, my dears?
Heh. I'm crying now, remembering that cry, and what caused it.
Cute Girl Interlude
You know, I find you beautiful, right? You do know that, and if you don't, it's time for you to do some mirror work, with a good swift kick in the heinder from moiself if you get down on yourself. But I noticed today, like it really struck me, that a beautiful girl, sitting by herself at sbux?
Doesn't that just sit wrong for you, when you see that?
I mean, why is it okay that a guy can come in by himself, order a coffee and stay and work on his computer or go back to the office, and nobody thinks anything about that?
But a girl? She has to be with somebody, and then she's okay, and not just okay, but alive. I mean, she's either with her girlfriend, and they're talking-talking-talking away so happily, or she's with her boyfriend and she's looking at him adoringly, hanging on his every word. Or she's with her children, looking harried, and that's okay, too.
But if she comes in alone? And sits alone?
So, okay, I was on frikken break, okay? And some random blondie is hanging on bf's every word, and then she (well, actually, 'they') comes up to me, and she gives me the g.d. big eyes and says in a wispy voice, 'Would you watch my stuff, so nobody steals it?' and she doesn't even wait for an answer but she and bf go out for a smoke.
Good thing she didn't wait for an answer, 'cause I was all like, 'Yeah, what about me stealing you, sweetheart?'
The 'ladies' was unoccupied. I would've handed her back to bf pretty much unchanged ... if she actually wanted to go back to what's-his-name, which given what I can do (do do ... have done), she may never think straight again.
Nah, I wasn't going to do that (I like 'em with brains), but two things, okay? I was on break! And. Okay, AND! Why the big pleading eyes and breathy voice, for crying out loud? She was just asking me to watch her stuff, and I mean, I wasn't Lauren Bacall and, as far as I know, I'm not starring in a film noir, so why bring out the big guns like that? Was she practicing on me, or something, for goodness sake?
News flash: whatever you were practicing, sweetie ...? It worked, okay?
Jeez!
Phở
I have many comfort foods. And the Washington D.C. area isn't really all that cosmopolitan, did you know that? In fact, the nascent nation was embarrassed to have this backwater city as the Capitol, and it still trails the original (Philly) and NYC, by quite a bit. But we do have some things here ... like sbux, I guess, and a few Phở places. And today I went right after work to one of my favorite haunts ('cause it's close and ... cheap), and for the first time noticed they have 'Happy Hour' from 3 pm to 8 pm.
So I asked.
'Happy Hour' is just for the drinks. $2 beers on tap and $3 labels.
And I was like 'nah,' because ... well ... I can't afford that.
And, also, this'll be my eighteenth day sober.
Christmas pensées interlude
Hm. I wonder how Christmas will go.
Actually, I know how Christmas will go: sbux is open 'til 6pm Christmas day, and guess who's closing?
And some people, some *ahem* partners of mine are bitter about working on Christmas day, but I'm not. I'm actually grateful.
What I really am? I'm scared. 'Cause after I close, there's still another six hours to that day. Six hours. And me, all alone on Christmas day? And what, you say, go over to bb's? Me? And do what? Pretend to be happy? Make small talk with his wife? Who won't be alone in a room with me? And won't even be in touch that she freaks out when I watch their kids? And speaking of whom: shall I watch my nieces open Christmas presents? Seeing them so happy finding what they got? Seeing them so happy in giving me their homemade presents for me? And then do what? After visiting a(nother) happy, happy family? Go home? And do what?
And do what?
You know that suicide hotlines are jammed during this 'most wonderful time of the year,' did you know that?
Heh. That's funny. 'Somebody's thinking about committing suicide, and they call the hotline, and they get a busy signal, or are put on hold for twenty-four minutes.
Not that I have personal experience with that. I'm just saying and ... 'wondering,' is all.
Back to Phở
Anyway, Phở. Phở brings up somebody I met, and thank God, not at sbux, but through bb. Laura is like this really ... hm, how do I say this. She has very strong opinions, which aren't opinions to her, but the way things are, you know? And, oh, it was through Church that I met her, and she was like, 'What do you do, Melissa?'
(I fvcking hate it that she know my name.)
And I told her I was an sbux barista and I had to fvcking explain what 'sbux' is, and she was all like 'Oh, how interesting,' in a very certain, bored way that spoke volumes to me, so I called her on that, and asked her how is that interesting.
She didn't have an interesting answer. 'Oh, I just hearing what people do for work, is all.' Like I was so lower-class trash or something. She doesn't work, you see. She stays at home, doing what, I don't know. Being rich, I guess.
I'm not being very charitable, and I'm sorry about that.
But she was like, 'you're very pretty, but I have this skin treatment system that will really help, it's dermatologically safe and have you heard of the Artistry brand? Would you like to get together to talk about it sometime?'
And I don't know why I agreed to meet her, ... I guess I'm afraid of saying no, you know? And she was kind of insistent.
Anyway, the meeting was like, omr, her husband shows up in a suit and tie! and he goes on for about two hours about this 'business,' and it turns out to be this multilevel, that I'm not going to write the name of, 'cause I don't need to be in a lawsuit, thank you, and they are like, so you want to sign up?
And I'm like, 'no.' I was like definitely no.
And they were like, 'why?'
And, okay, to join their business, I have to sell stuff and I have to talk to people.
Are you laughing yet? Me, talk to people?
Here's me getting read to talk to somebody.
Me, in bathroom: HURL!
Me, running away to another State, and possibly country, before the meeting.
And me, sell stuff?
And Laura was like, but you sell coffee already to lots of people. And I was like, no, I take orders ... they buy the drinks.
So then she wants to sell me this skin care system and the asking price was all for the low, low price of how much? And how much do I make in a week?
But, Melissa she said in that reasonable, irritating nasal whine of hers, this is less than half the price of Lancôme ...
Like I look like the girl who uses Lancôme. You know what kind of girl I look like?
Interlude: group
So, last week in group, we had Donna, this international supermodel and actress, fly in from Hollywood and lead, can you believe it? And she asked for all the young women under twenty-one to stand up, and she made me stand up, and I was like, um.
And so we had a 'conversation' out of that. She made me stand in front of everybody, and said, 'Look at how you're dressed ...'
And I said that shouldn't matter. And she countered right away that it does, and me, in blue jeans and a power blue sweater and sneaks?
She didn't stop there. She brought up a seventeen-year-old girl from Salt Lake City, and this girl was wearing a red cashmere sweater and a black skirt with black pantyhose and black boots. She looked like an office exec, and Donna said that this girl looked mature, somebody you would take seriously and listen to, but me?
And Donna said that I looked like the (immature) seventeen-year-old, and Donna could get away with wearing what I wore, but leading groups? She's had people walk out because she likes mini-minis to show off her long, long legs, but if she's going to reach people where they are at, she has to dress professionally, a minimum of make up, not no make up like me, heels and carry herself like somebody who's up to something, not somebody who's wallowing in suffering, hiding behind that tight smile as she'd being spoken to in front of everybody.
And she looked at me really, really hard and had me sit down.
Yeah. It's been a good week.
Really back to Phở
Whew. Back to Laura. Hm, actually, why did I bring her up?
Oh, yeah, because one day, she made this pronouncement, like, "Oh, do you like fo-o-o-oh, and it's this really good soup, and it's like, fo-o-o-oh!"
And I was like, um, I think it's pronounced Phở (fuh)...
And Laura very decidedly said, "No! It's 'fo-o-o-o-oh!' And it's really good!"
So I was like ... um, ... okay ... (whispered: whatevs)
So today, I ordered Phở Tai Sach, Cha Goi and café suda, and the Vietnamese lady smiled at me and said how well I spoke Vietnamese, and I smiled sadly at her and said now nice she was, because ...
Because when she shouted the order to the cooks, 'Cha Goi' sounded nothing like I said it, but something like 'shza (g)uh' or ... I can't even write it, because there's no way my little Irish mouth can even come close to saying what she said.
Whatever it is, and however it's said, it's a comfort on a cold winter day with an inch of snow still clinging to the ground.
p.r.0.n.
Okay, now, girls, wipe that drool of your chins! So unseemly!
And actually, I'm not that much into p.r.0.n. Really!
(Oh, yeah? How much is 'not that much,' `phfina-dear?)
I do so hate my little Muse when she gets all uppity like that, speaking out of turn. I mean, like, really! Who's in charge here?
Smugly quoth my Muse, soto voce: Me!
ANYWAY!
And Saga is so going to kill me for this reveal, but I did warn her ...
Saga, I did warn you, sweetie, I'm a writer, and what a writer does is she writes.
So, anyway, I mean, really, okay, you want a link? Here, have a link.
You have to be really oblivious to follow that link if you are at work or school, okay?
So, what just happened? Nothing, right? Wasn't that a huge disappointment? All of two minutes and it was just two girls in a tub.
But 'nothing'? Here's what I saw.
You ready? Here's what I told Saga what I saw.
"Did you see me in that vid? I mean, guys are all like, so g.d. serious and ... idk ... about smex, but here were two girls, and they were laughing and having fun and making light of it all, so much so that I smiled, and I wanted to cry.
... And then BOOM. I mean, the subtext. They were having fun, and then all of a sudden, that look of pure lvst crosses her face when n1pple touched n1pple, and wait, was there grinding going on, just instantly, just like that? And then, the playing was over, and now it was time for what was coming next, were it was very, very serious, and needy, and demanding, and loving, and forceful, and tender, and sweet, and longing, and sad, and caring. Did you see that look in her face, that she was trying so hard not to be overcome by, so all she could do is press her lips together, hard, and look, a bit confused, at her lover, and ask, with her eyes: 'what's this?' or 'now? you mean now? are you sure? but I thought we were just playing for each other and for the webcam, and now ...'
So, 'nothing' happening in this vid? Actually, for me, most p.r.0.n, there is absolutely nothing going on in there, except for the actresses trying not to roll their eyes at the ridiculousness of the scenario until actual mutual attraction and bodily need kick-in to help the fantasy.
But here, there was no ridiculousness. I mean, it was ridiculous: 'oh, wow, two girls in a tub; let's fvck.' And they were absolutely fine mocking this absurdity, and that, for me, was so real. They weren't pretending at all: they were making fun and having fun, and then WHAM! it hit them, just like it SO hits me. I'm shy or I'm silly, and then it's suddenly very, very serious and there's no stopping me taking her and her taking me taking her. And her, letting me take her, and letting me into her to take her, past those walls that everyone puts up to keep everyone at bay ... That SO fvcking turns me on.
A short, sweet little vid, that I really liked, ... it talked to me as I am.
... Um. God! I've done it again. A sweet little vid, and I got all ... `phfina."
Do you know how Saga answered me? She told me she wished she had my eyes, even for just a few seconds, to see what I could see, to see beyond the filth and the lies.
And do you know my answer to her, to you, to anybody?
Please.
Please take my eyes. Here, have them. That I could rip my eyes out of their sockets and give them to you, or that I could just cast them from me.
But then what? Be Homer? and be lead about by his teenaged p!mp, wh0ring out the great old man for his stories? Or be Sappho, Lady Melissa's servant, the last thing she saw was her daughter being put to death, before having her eyeballs ruptured by her dead Xeno's dagger?
And ripping out my eyes ... it doesn't make it stop, this seeing.
I'm seeing things now. I'm seeing things now.
I'm hypersensitive to my body right now. I feel everything, standing or sitting or lying down to sleep, and the thinking doesn't stop, eyes wide or eyes wide shut. And I just know sightless `phfina would be even more cursed with clear-seeing.
Because seeing past all the bvllsh!t?
You think that's a gift?
It's a curse, because what if you see past all it? That's not accurate. You see through it ... and through it to what? You ever wonder that?
And seeing through all that ... stuff. Well, ...
You know it doesn't turn off. It doesn't turn off watching p.r.0.n. just trying to blow off some steam but instead seeing two girls suffering poor plot and poor company (that is: each other) and still having to 'put out' for the camera? And ...
And it doesn't turn off in front of the mirror, or when I'm writing a PM, or when I'm reading a PM.
And I see me. I see me so clearly: a little, scared, vicious, poor and lost girl.
And you wonder why I want to die all the time.
And you wonder at how I write Alice so well, ... and Rosalie. My girls. My girls. One who is cursed with clairvoyance ('clear-seeing') and one who sees all the bvllsh!t, and you wish I had my gift for writing, and my gift for seeing.
You know, I wish I could say I wish you had my gift, too, and take it, please, but that's a double-lie.
Firstly, because, well, you do have my gift. You all do. Each of you are living your lives or not living your lives and so aware of that, and so honest and real about that, and lyrical, and poetic, and direct, and honest, and beautiful, and I wish I were the reader and you were the writers, because everything I read from you, dear readers and correspondents, when you get honestly really real about your life, is so, so beautiful, and I want to read that, read you, and not me, and my sh!t.
I hate my sh!t. I hate me.
So that's the first lie: 'I wish you had my gift,' because there's no 'wish' to it. You do have my gift. More than me.
So those of you who have an ounce of self-doubt: put that in your pipe and smoke it!
(Oh! I can't write! you lament. And I'm like, excuse me? What did you just, *ahem* write to me?)
And the second lie is this.
When I was in that hospital bed, and under sedation, and taken care of, and there were no demands on me, I was nothing, I was ...
I was nothing, and nothing mattered, and I was nothing in the matter. I would have been better off dead, and I swear, by God, I will die before anybody puts me back in there, because if I had been dead, at least I wouldn't have been aware that I was 'a ward to society,' 'in the care of ...,' 'convalescing' or whatever you want to call it. If I were dead, at least it wouldn't have mattered that I was just a void, sucking in air and food through an IV at times and excreting fluids that were so kindly removed from me and the sheets by caring healthcare providers, and then I still saw, a little bit, I saw just enough to keep me out of trouble, keep my quiet instead of spouting more nonsense that would extend my stay from weeks to then months to then years.
Yeah, I'm smart. A genius, even, so I learned after my first weeks with me saying stuff that extended my stay, to keep my mouth shut when I wanted to volunteer the 'wrong' answer and then I learned to say the things they needed to hear to nod their head dully and understandingly ... you know, 'in sympathy.'
So, my clear-seeing ... did it put me in the hospital? Maybe. Yes. Yes, I guess it did. And did it abandon me there? No, not really. It showed me what I was when I was there. A vegetable. A potato. A wee Irish potato. And now, it's back, full-force, flooding my poor little brain with so much to say about everything, what I'm doing, and what I'm not, and I can't turn it off, and you say you want this? You're envious of my talent, and grateful to me for daring to say the things nobody else does that touches your heart? So much so you're afraid to review my work, because you're afraid your own sh!t will show, and I'll call you on that?
Yeah, good call, actually.
But do I not want this 'gift'?
You know, Alice would trade her eye-teeth, and more, not to have been clairvoyant. You know, she saw a future where vampires ruled, and fought each other, and she saw Jasper be destroyed in WWV ('World War Vampire') and she saw herself, running toward her reason, her being, her Jasper, and being caught up in that maelstrom, and she saw no way out of it.
She saw that. She saw all the Cullens, dead. She's seen a lot, and you're envious of her because you want that stock tip. And she has to be chipper through all that, and you complain that somebody gave you a funny look in class today.
And then Rosalie would trade what to be human again, and, but, as a human was she happy? Was she ever happy?
Would I trade away my 'gift'?
No.
You cheer. Yay for me.
But being dull? Dimming my senses? I know how that feels like, being dead, walking around, being of no consequence to anybody, being dead, and useless.
And now, seeing, and being a cause in the matter, writing something that touches your heart, saying 'I love you' and being loved in return, and seeing that, and knowing that, and experiencing love, real love, so much so that it hurts, because it means that little lost me does have a place in this cold, callous, careless world, and that place is in your heart?
I really, really, really, wish y'all would leave off so that I could write my stories, and not these heart-wrenching self-revelations.
Yeah, right: and how many times did I check my inbox today, and yesterday, and the day before, and ...
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who met Aphrodite.
Once upon a time, there was a pretty girl who married her Prince Charming.
Once upon a time, there was an sbux barista.
We all find ourselves in history, living our lives.
"And they lived happily ever after."
You know what I'm coming to realize? That ending? That can be said of those who look back on their lives, and, looking back, choose to look at what happened, the good and the bad, happily. Not with Rose-colored glasses, but, 'oh, this happened, and that happened, and now here we are, happily ever after, through that all.'
Alice has something to tell me. She was in the hospital, and now she's happy. She had the hardest life as a human, and as a vampire, with her cursed 'gift,' she's seen the worst that could possibly happen, and she's seen some really bad stuff go down (she does have Jasper Whitlock as her sweetie, after all), and she's living her happily ever after, through it all, despite of it all, and because of it all.
And, well, Esme, right? She lost her child, too, `phfina, right? and then she tried to kill herself, but who is so happy now that nobody know how to write her properly? She's so happy because she is exactly where she is now, right in the now. Being a mommy, being a wife, being so proud of Bella's bravery in just daring to saying hello. Surviving all that to what? Survive? No, prevail and triumph, and not like "so there!" but like, "ah." and just and only that. Esme. Esme and Carlisle. Carlisle and Esme. Who can write them?
Somebody that centered and happy, I guess.
And Rosalie has prevailed, forever, and why? Because she can and she does, and she is rewarded for prevailing, and not quitting, and she's never done it for anybody else or for what anybody else thought, she's always soldiered on, doing the best for herself and, importantly for her, for everybody in her concern, despite what they say to her and about her.
You read ExB reviews with Rosalie chapters on ffn? I have. Saying 'they aren't kind to her' would be stretching the limits of understatement. I bet Rosalie doesn't even bother to read them. Her 'list' is already long enough. Besides, why would she read an ExB fanfic, anyway?
And then there's little me. With something to say. And with the ability to say it well.
And there's you.
It's like ...
*sigh* ... I guess I'm giving myself my Christmas present: a reason to go on. Hope.
So obvious. So simple. All I have to do is not to fight it, but to accept it. And I do. And I don't. I let love in, and then I go have a pity party.
It must be so frustrating, reading me, seeing me struggle so much over something so simple.
Hm. I wonder if they have a recipe for simple acceptance? I am, after all, a simple wee Irish lass, it should go down easily on my tongue.
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