What are people's problems? REALLY!

So, I know somebody who has dyslexia. That's a Greek word.

Check this sentence: "Regardless of if you decide to beta my work or not if you couuld let me know id apreciate it"

She didn't write it. In fact, her writing is probably better than 80% of the people who do not have mental or physical impediments to writing, and writing well.

But, there it is.

There what is, `phfina?

There it is: 80% of the world that can write English, and write it well, ... do not.

And they do not, simply because they choose not.

Do you understand: they choose 'not.' They don't choose to write, nor to write well, nor honestly, nor with their hearts on the line.

No, they choose, when they write, to write like they live their lives.

Like shit.

Count for me, if you please, the number of grammar and spelling error in that one sentence.

Now, count the number of missing commas and missing apostrophes from contractions.

Now, harder, count the wuss-outs.

Add those number up. If you count less than seven, that means you can't count or you are one of the 80%ers who live their lives in shit, because they just don't care.

And that's the fucking problem. People just don't care.

"`phfina, be my beta. Your profile says I have to leave five substantive reviews first, but I'm going to skip that part, like everybody else does, because I'm special, even though my stories are crap. But that's why I want you to be my beta, to make them less crap."

Now wait.

You want your stories to be 'less crap'? Really? That's your ambition: to be 'less crap'?

Then I don't want to be your beta.

It says so right on my profile, that you read: if you're not writing a story to rock my world, (COMMA!) (DID YOU SEE THE COMMA?) then get the fuck out of my face!

ffn has enough crap. I don't read it, and I sure as hell am not going to beta it.

So, that's one thing. The other? If you're not going to listen to me, and do what I ask, then the point of me being your beta is what? So your stories can be 'less crap'? Why? If you don't listen to me now, then I may as well be talking to a wall (walls have ears) when I do beta your work, because your track record says you're not going to listen to me then, either.

You know what the world's problem is?

The world's problem is that most people have two ears and one mouth, and they act like all they have is mouth: all they do is consume, then whine: "UPDATE SOON!" and when their not consuming, they're excreting. Out their big, fat mouth: the North or South one.

LISTEN and APPRECIATE, people.

You know what happens when you do that?

Besides people walking all over you.

What happens is that people will fall in love with you, because how many times do lovers whine, 'but he doesn't listen to me!'

(Blithely ignoring the fact that she's whining, and not listening to him, either)

You listen, you appreciate, you own it, you own it all: you are the one with the power.

"That's a nice dress you have on, dear. You look really, really nice."

Oh, my God, what do you want? She'll give it to you! I would!

You know the hard part about listening?

Nothing.

That's the hard part.

The hard part about listening is that you have to subtract EVERYTHING you want to say or are expecting or ... FOR GOD's SAKE PUT AWAY THE PHONE! ... you have to take yourself out of the equation and be there, 100%, for the person who needs you.

That's the hard part about listening.

"Well, `phfina, what about me? What about my turn?"

What about you? What about your turn?

Last I checked, you've spent the last ten-plus years exercising your jaw. How about you shut the fuck up for a year and listen and care, and not wait for your turn, because you've been trespassing on that for far too long.

Listen, appreciate.

I wrote more than 1,000 words on my beta profile, and this winner read each one of them; he mentioned a few of them and why he wasn't going to do a single thing I wrote.

And then, after that little bit, he gives me his pick-up line, 'so will you be my beta'?

Um. No. I asked for five dates before you go for home plate, and you went right for the goods.

I'm not that kind of girl. That kind of girl, you pay by the hour, and I didn't see any money on the table, there, cowboy.

Bullying

"But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also."

Matthew 5:39

— `phfina commentary:

Okay, peeps, you, my dear friends, are getting this verse all wrong. It's your parents' fault for telling you, 'oh, show them that you're better than them,' and it's your fault for cringing down into yourself and saying, 'I can be strong, I can take this,' when you know goddamn well you're a sissy-ninny playing right into their hands, but you want to do what's right, and you want to come home, shattered and broken inside, but you want to tell mommy and daddy you did right for being the coward that you are.

That is what you are. And you know it.

If you look at American high school (and, watching Låt den rätte komma in, then it's more pervasive than just American high schools) through an anthropological lens, it's all about one thing: self-destruction. That self-destruction is manifested in two forms: tyranny and disengagement. Kids in school are either out to hurt somebody they can prey on, or they are banding together in cliques, or, like me, just checking out, so they can avoid being hurt, so they can be safe with their besties or safe in the library in a corner behind a book and avoid it all.

Like I said, self-destruction.

So, the bullies come around and find their little Oskar, their little `phfina, and pick on him or her until, yup, there's another suicide, call in the counselors and let's assemble in the gym for an hour long crisis management session so we can go right back to doing what we were doing.

And little `phfina or little Oskar goes up the the pearly gates, and instead of St. Peter, there's the big J-man himself there, and He doesn't look happy:

"You stupid idiot! I'm sick and tired of you lame-ass turn-the-other-cheek wimps! Go to Hell!"

And little `phfina or little Oskar go straight to hell, scratching their little heads, mumbling in confusion: "But, I didn't do anything!"

That's right: you're going to hell, and you didn't do anything.

... Actually: you're going to hell because you didn't do anything.

Okay, let's take the complete opposite of what Mr. J-man-G said and ask Elie her thoughts:

=-=-=-=

"Oskar, when they hit you, hit them back. Hit them back ... hard."

Oskar: "But there are many of them!"

Elie: "Then you have to hit them back harder."

=-=-=-=

The problem today, in this 'modern and enlightened' day and age is the bullies are now wise to the old turn-the-other-cheek grin-and-bear-it philosophy. They know it, and they target people, you, specifically for that reason.

"They are going to turn the other cheek! That means I get free second hits, and as often as I see that dumb fvck! BONUS!"

They hit you. You don't hit back. Now you two (or three or four or five ... bullies travel in packs: their own self-sustaining support groups!) are bound together in this sweet, little codependent relationship. They win: they get to bully you, and feel better than somebody, and then masturbate themselves into a frenzy of orgasms with the image of your downtrodden, servile demeanor. You win, too: you get to lick your wounds, and say, 'oh, woe is me!' and 'Everybody's so mean to me!' and be right and justified for being a wuss.

Win-win-win! (The third win is again anthropological: it becomes integral into this totalitarian society that we cover with labels, such as: 'school' and 'work' so the society feeds on it, growing this behavior so it's now ingrained).

What the bully is not expecting, is that when he says (or she says, girls can be so mean) something offensive or belittling (and usually both), or when he hits you or she tears your dress and slaps your face, or when he ...

... all that sh-t.

When they do that, they are so not expecting you to turn right back around and give it to them. Double.

And that's what you have to do. 'Have to' in that if you want to play their game, go ahead and take it, pissing yourself and end up crying in a heap in the bathroom, but my 'have to' is a constructive disengagement, which is this:

"If you wanna fvck with me, then you are going to get so fvcked up!"

It's called setting boundaries. A bully likes to erase your boundaries and extend his, or hers, all over your sh-t. Instead of allowing that, allowing the bully to grow bigger and allowing yourself to shrink, you redraw the line, but instead of drawing a tiny, little circle around yourself, you take that sharpie pen, and you draw the line across the floor between you and the bully.

Does it work? Instantly?

Sometimes, I guess.

But it works for me. It so works for me. And here's how.

I suffered through high school. I was that hangdog who literally had a sign on her back that said 'kick me, I'm gay.'

When I found somebody had put that piece of paper on my back, I lost it that day.

And I still went all the way through school doing what's right, because of ...

Because of everything, because I wanted to do what my parents told me, because I didn't want to get suspended, because I was a scared, little girl who didn't want to stand out and get noticed, so I hid in myself, and got picked on.

And I never had a witty comeback to all those zingers my classmates threw at me, so I was the dumb village-picked-on idiot, too.

Then something changed.

I don't know what. I don't know when.

But one day, on the job, I answered back.

You know how it is at work. They tease you 'all in good fun' and the rule is you're supposed to tease back 'all in good fun.'

So this time, I obeyed the rule. It wasn't witty, what I said, or perfect, or anything, ... skill comes through practice.

But it was something. And: shocker! I didn't die, and I didn't get fired, and they went on with their work and their teasing and life, and I went on with mine.

But I didn't go on with my life saying, 'woe is me! everybody hates me!' No, I went on with my life like: 'Hey, ... I did that!'

And they now knew: they can't just say anything to me now and have me take it, just like that. No, now, they say something to me, they get it right back, sometimes really `phfina-hard vindictively, sometimes with a wicked grin on my face and a soft little zinger, and all the guys scream, 'Whoa! Damn, bro'! You got served by little `phfina!'

And, guess what? Work, now, is a lot healthier place, for me, and for them. For me, because I respect myself, and I can hang with my coworkers and not feel like I'm a piece of furniture to be used, and for them, because now they know that they are dealing with a person, a person who demands respect for herself and so they now are more respectful of her and of themselves.

Real: win-win-win. (The third win is again anthropological: the society is now functional, instead of self-destructive)

Let's go back to the Bible verse, and see what it's really saying.

I addressed this in my first chapter of Sappho's Muse, by the way, but nobody reads, so 'that's okay.'

@_@

Jesus said, 'turn the other one,' because if somebody hit you on the cheek, it was, of course, with their right hand (the left was used to wipe). So they struck you with an open hand: a master, striking a slave, ... hitting you and asserting their dominion over you at the same time: conquering Romans hitting subjugated Jews.

But if you turn the other one, showing him your other cheek then that Roman would have to close his fist, and punch you.

A closed fist means only one thing: a man, fighting a man — equal, to equal.

When you turned the other cheek, it was not a sign of submission. It was a sign of defiance, you fucking turn-the-other-cheek idiots! (I'm counting myself in this crowd here, girls, so hate me for telling you the truth that I lived).

When you turned the other cheek, it told your oppressor, 'You hit me again, you have to acknowledge me as your equal.'

It made the Romans insane with fury, because they couldn't do that. That would redraw the map.

So that means they couldn't hit you anymore. So that means every time they saw you after that, they knew 'Oh, that was the guy I tried to oppress, but he wouldn't let me, so I can't pick on him anymore.'

Sweetheart, listen to me. You let a bully walk all over you, not only does that give him permission to find you again, every time he can (and girls are so good at this, too), but it also emboldens him to find the next doormat that used to be a person and walk all over them, because you enabled that behavior in him.

Every person that bully hurts after you? Your fault.

So, okay.

So, you strike back. Hard.

Happily ever after?

Sometimes, maybe.

Sometimes, the bully turns around, and hits you three more times, hard, and then calls you an a-hole, laughing at winded you as you lie on the floor trying to suck breath back into your lungs.

Sometimes, he goes away, and comes back a few days later, ... with some of his friends.

That happened to Oskar, after all.

But no matter what happens. YOU took a stand for something, and not just for 'something,' but for the most important thing in the world: you. You stood up for yourself.

And he now knows that. And he now has to think twice before picking on you, because he now knows it's going to hurt him. No more free lunch money from you.

And more importantly: you now know that. And nobody can take that away from you, ever again.

Gratitude

Fuck, I hate this.

Why ...

Okay, here's my beef. My last two posts were on Love and Sadness, two words that are older than Latin, reaching back to their Aryan roots.

I mean look at it. You can say: "I feel amiable." Or "I love you."

You can say: "I have melancholy." or you can say "I'm sad."

Which phrases express the feelings more powerfully?

So this post was going to be titled "Friend."

Because you can be somebody's 'companion' or you can be their 'friend.'

Which is truer? Which runs deeper?

Language. The latin language is all expression, but only at the surface. The greek language is all description, but only from the intellect. ... Okay, Sappho hit on something that nobody else has touch for another 2,600 years ... But if you want to get to the heart (not cor, or core, but heart) you have to use a language that speaks directly to what is.

What is scarier? A dog? or a wolf? It isn't the 'puppy' from Hell, folks, it's the Hound from Hell.

We in our descriptions and expressions and analysis have lost touch with what is.

So, no, this post isn't about Friend-ship, as much as I regret it not being so, and it isn't about that other primitive word: Not 'mortality' but 'Death' or 'Tod' (same word, both from the Elder FUTHARK) but about Gratitude, a fucking wimpy Latin word meaning ...

Well, meaning absolutely nothing, so let's call gratitude what it is, not what you want it to be.

Okay, this is what gratitude actually is, coming from most people in this day and age, and, in fact, if you read your histories, in any day and age.

Gratitude is this: sincerity. And sincerity is this: "Oh, I expressed sympathetic feeling, and I 'promised' to do good, so, now, I'm good."

That's it. They're done with you. "Oh, I'm grateful for all that hard work you did."

They are done with you.

You want proof? Collect on the gratitude.

I have. I do.

But not like you.

Gratitude from most people, today, and any day, last anywhere from two seconds to two days (maximum). So, when I'm told, "Oh, we'll comp you your time when we get out of this squeeze" ... what I hear is absolutely nothing.

Because why? Because 'this squeeze' ALWAYS leads to the next squeeze. Or something else, anything else, happens.

So, when I'm offered comp, I say, "Remember yesterday the extra 6 hours I worked through the night to get the report out? I'm taking today off as comp."

Do you know how much guilt-shit I get for that?

Do you know why I get that guilt-shit? Because now I have them under the gun of their promise and I'm collecting on it, unlike you, who never will.

But so they have to live with eating their words, or being a liar, and getting fucking sued because of the witnesses.

THAT is fucking gratitude, you idiots.

Because try collecting on that a week later? a month later?

'Loan' out your lawn mower to your neighbor ... do you ever get it back? and if you do, is after how much nagging from you and with a surly look and a gas tank filled with water from it being left out in the rain week after week, month after month?

Here's what you do when somebody says, 'Oh, I'm grateful.'

You fucking collect on it, right fucking now.

'Oh, I'll buy you a TV.'

Sit the fuck down, right fucking there, open up your laptop, take his fucking credit card and order the TV from Amazon or bestbuy or wherever. If you don't do it right fucking then, then fucking forget he said it, because that promised TV? It's gone, baby, gone.

'Oh, I'll make that up to you.'

Get in your fucking car, follow him to his house, let him get his checkbook, and fucking don't take a check from him, no: follow him to the fucking bank and have him make out a certified check in your name right there.

Because 'oh, I'll make that up to you.' becomes 'Who are you again? And get off my property or I'll call the police' next week, even it was your former best friend.

What does that mean for you, dear reader, reading this entry?

You. And your word. Is shit.

You've made promise after promise to, now, hundreds of people in your life, and you now have absolutely no intention of ever lifting your little finger to fulfilling even one of them.

Do you know how many people in your life you have damaged? Do you know nearly everyone in your life is looking at you with a hurt inside themselves that they will never tell you nor acknowledge to themselves even, but they remember, and they always will remember, that time you promised them that $5 back, and you've never repaid them, and they are still hurting, over a lousy $5 because that's $5 they couldn't let go of. Or that doll, or that TV set, or that time you said you'd come to bed and you stayed up all night, or ...

You go on with that list. You know it as well, and even better, than I do.

But that's not what it means to you. It does mean that, but here's something you can take away from this illuminating little conversation on a Latin word that means nothing to nobody.

The second you open your mouth to speak to your-fucking-self or to, o God save us, another person, another soul you are going fucking crush with your empty fucking promises ... then ...

Then you have a choice. You can shut your fucking mouth right fucking now.

Primus non nocere

OR, you can do what you've done, and what everybody else has done for your whole fucking entire life and say something and not do a thing about it, but since it's been done to you so many times, it's o-fucking-kay to perpetuate on this innocent person you're taking your shit out on. Have at it, asshole.

OR, hm, try something new. You open your fucking pie hole, you fucking better be already moving to fulfill what your mouth is saying. 'I really should work out.' you say to yourself. Do you have your keys in your hand to get into your car to go to the community swimming pool right fucking now? You'd better. 'Hey, thanks for lunch, I'll get you next time.' Well, 'next time' better be supper or tomorrow's lunch, because they'll remember. Or, 'let's go to the movies.' Take out your calendar or iPhone with them right in front of you, and pick the date, the hour and the movie.

You are your word.

And you are other people's word, too, you know. If you've got a promise from somebody else, but you don't ask for that, you hurt them and you hurt yourself. Get it the fuck off your chest and ask them, point blank, 'hey, I'm hungry, let's do that lunch you owe me.' You are doing them a favor. And if they say, 'Not today, I'm busy/don't have cash/it's raining/what-fucking-ever.' then you take out your calendar or iPhone, and say, 'okay, can we do it tomorrow then?' and with their yes, pencil it in right in front of them. People respect people who keep their word and keep their appointment, even if the appointment is the one they promised.

And if they say 'eh' you have two options, hold them to account with the above 'by what date?' strat above, or ...

Or ... let it go. Get it the fuck off your chest AND theirs. How you do that is up to you. Just know that more guilt is ADDING to the burden, NOT relieving it. So, a 'yeah, whatever, you promised, but you're a shit, so forget it' is not a getting off your chest and theirs. They aren't honoring their word. They never will.

Can you live with that? Or you gonna wear that around your neck, and theirs, dragging you both down to Sheol?

There's something about forgiveness here for some people to ponder. (You, if you fucking haven't figured it out yet, dumbass)

But for me, I'm done with this post for now. I'm going to breathe in, then breathe out, and walk away from writing more and get on with my life elsewhere.

Buh-bai!

Outlet

"Dear Microsoft,"

`phfina composes her email, pausing thoughtfully, and tries not to puke, she's so angry, she picks up her pen and continues,

"I understand that XBox Live is a tolerant place, allowing all kinds of players, some going in for fun, some rough and ready, going for the win, and some vicious or who just want to blow off steam from their frustrating day, another day of their meaningless lives.

I understand this, and I understand XBox Live allows this.

But, reading the terms of service, I see that some behaviors are not tolerated. And, I understand, too, you can't monitor every situation and take aggressive action against players who offend me, personally, because then XBox Live would be a rather quiet place filled with genteel people sipping their tea as they eat their biscuits.

That is, a very dull and boring place, indeed.

So, I understand, when a player teabags me, I'm probably going to see him online again. There's no option for reporting sexually offensive behavior like that. I understand. I also understand that when he belittles me, calling me a bitch, that I'm probably going to see him again, this time muted, because I've muted him.

But I'm probably going to see him online again.

But then, when I inform him that behavior is something I don't tolerate, and he's reported...

And he sends me a voice message saying he has an inheritor friend who he's sent my account name to, and my account will be hacked and I won't be able to play again ...

I believe that is using threatening language to intimidate.

So, I have a favor to ask, dear Microsoft, dear arbitors of XBox Live:

Can I never see the gamer tag ItzDaGhostKR3W again on XBox Live?

He sexually assaulted my avatar, he called me a bitch, and then he threatened me with hacking my account.

Please do this for me: please ban his account, as I do not believe your terms of service are well-represented by him.

Love,
`phfina."

Dear Reader,

I have a favor to ask of you.

And this is going to be a hard one, for all of you, because it's hard for me, too.

When somebody offends or intimidates you, don't do what you normally do or think what you have to do to get along.

Don't just take it, because you're a girl, or a subordinate, and that's what we have to do: just take it so we and everybody else can get through their day in peace and quiet.

The thing is, you aren't doing anybody a favor, not you, not him (usually him) not your coworkers nor classmates.

Your coworkers and classmates have been intimidated by him, too, and they're watching you, watching you taking it, and they say to themselves: 'see, she took it, that means I have to, as well: I don't want to make waves and be labeled a whistleblower.'

By you taking it, you've not only enabled him, you've embolded him, and the next time, it's going to be rape, and maybe not you, but your best friend who watched you take it, and now she's damaged for life, because you took it, like the good little mouse you are.

No, report him, yes, but so: he has no feedback, and so your silence to him means it's okay what he's doing.

Report him, and tell him. To his face.

A bully can only bully if the bullied lie down on the dirt and wet themselves.

A bully punches you? Punch him in the face. Hard.

Or 'punch him in the face' by taking appropriate administrative or legal action.

You know what's going to happen. He's going to punch you back, and call you all kinds of things, and tell all his (at max) two friends.

And then he's going to leave you alone. Because you're too hard, you're too painful for him when he wants to play his power games. So now he'll go pick on somebody wimpier.

But then, if that somebody wimpier is your friend, and, by definition, as of right this instant, he or she now is your best friend in the world! then you are going to go in there with your mag light and your sleeves rolled up and pound the stuffing out of Mr. Bully and his friends.

Or, your wimpy and now new best friend? He or she saw what you did, and saw Mr. ... or hell: Ms. Bully back off, so now your wimpy friends pulls out a left hook that leaves Mr. or Ms. Bully's jaw remembering that for a week.

Evil cannot be evil. And the only way it can be is if the good stands by and does nothing.

Somebody picks on you, intimidates you, you have two options. You can take it, and it will get worse, or you can fight back, and ... you know this: it will get worse. There will be repercussions.

But now you have that bully's (grudging) respect, but more importantly: you have your own respect back.

Your choice. You can choose to piss yourself and to survive hiding meekly under the thumb, or you can choose to buck up, pull back, punch, punch hard and live.

ItzDaGhostKR3W isn't anything. He's nothing. All he has is permission from everybody he's belittled to continue that behavior.

`phfina isn't anything. She's nothing.

Until she makes the choice: buck up, or lie down and piss herself.

I chose.

Now it's your turn. Every day, in every situation where you're being bullied, intimidated or coerced. (Like I said: every day).

Choose.

Oh, and if you are the bully ... I can't wait to meet you.

Comfort(ably numb)

Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me
Is there anyone at home?

Come on, now
I hear you're feeling down
Well I can ease your pain
Get you on your feet again

Relax
I'll need some information first
Just the basic facts
Can you show me where it hurts?

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon
You are the only coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying

When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain you would not understand
This is not how I am

I have become comfortably numb

Roger Waters, Pink Floyd, "Comfortably Numb"

— `phfina diatribe:

I am, truly, dead.

Today ... was February 14th, now it's the Ides of February, and I find myself wishing my name was Julian or Julia and I was a special mayonnaise salad, and it was a month later so my big hulking buddy could do me a favor.

You'll get that later. Or you won't. Not only do kids these days don't read, they also don't make associations of what they haven't read to their lives.

One of the many reasons why were are all swimming in this cesspool.

GOD! I'm old to be saying: "In my day ..." and "kids these days ..." ... what a year does to you!

Did you know today was St. Valentine's Day?

I didn't.

How could I not?

My nieces gave me a card with a poem the older one wrote:

Roses are Red
Violets blue
Honey is sweet
& so are u.

Isn't that sweet?

But it didn't register, even the heart shape it was cut out into and the hearts inscribed in red pencil on it. I said: "Oh, how nice!" and that was that.

At work, in a predominately female profession with three super hot azn chicks, were flowers give and displayed? Oh, yes! Was there much cooing and preening going on today about all that? Oh, yes! Did I notice a whit of it?

No. I went through my day today in a fog. I got home, I don't know how, I could've been mass murder serial raped for all I know on the way home, because I went right to bed and pulled the covers over my head and went right to sleep.

I haven't slept in the past two days. Wonder why.

Last week was the story of the leper. How they were to be cast outside the camp and how they had to wear a bell and proclaim: "Unclean, unclean!" And the priest, Fr. P., told the story about St. Damien journal as he tended to the lepers, and how he knew he had caught the disease when he spilled hot water over his feet from his tea kettle ...

... and he saw it happen, but felt nothing.

And Fr. P. went on to explain how that is what sin is, you commit a sin, you feel pain or guilt the first time, but then the next, it's less, then less, then less, ...

then nothing.

I felt nothing today. Things happened around me, but I wasn't aware of any of it. I wasn't aware I was breathing, or that I had a heartbeat.

Do you know when I realized it?

A friend.

A friend told me Saga was thinking of me, and today, and how she forgot about today being St. Valentine's day, and how I so generously forgave her that.

This year, there was no St. Valentine's day. There was no generosity on my part, and nothing I could forgive.

But this mutual acquaintance told me Saga has things to say to me, and that's when my dead heart quickened.

Oh, what cruelty! Why am I given a heart that must beat on? Where everything I do hurts somebody, and if I choose the path of no-doing, I hurt everybody?

And that's when I realized I was dead today, when I felt my heart beating at the mention of Saga, and things she has to tell me.

You have to be alive, to realize you are dead. Another cruelty.

Of course, when somebody says, 'I have things to say to you,' that means something. For them. And for you.

You know what that mean. It means they say their cathartic things, and then they are forever free. Released of the burden of these things, these horrible things they've been holding onto, about you ... about me, that is, and they will say these horrible things, aimed right at that dead, cold, still beating heart, and then released from their burdens they skip off, happily, into the sunset.

And then you, me, I mean, are left behind, with that burden, forever knowing what you were to the person who was and is everything to you.

Saga, say your things to me, be released from these burdens, and then be free, skipping off into the sunset, happy and content.

Me, I'm fine. In fact, ...

I'm comfortably numb.

I don't feel my cheeks, my tongue is thick and useless, and my arms are two stone weights I can barely move. All I am is a funeral waiting for the actual date to make it official.

'Date.' Heh.

Happy St. Valentine's day.

Earthquake Weather

Something's coming sky is purple
Dogs are howling to themselves
Days are changing with the weather
Like a rip tide could rip us away

I push I pull the days go slow
Into a void we filled with death
And noise that laughs falls off their
Maps all cured of pain and doubts
In your little brain

— Beck, "Earthquake Weather"

Fine day for an earthquake, yes?

So, I'm fine. Actually, I was annoyed! I was, like, cooking the books at work, and I nearly screamed: "HOW CAN A GIRL THINK IN HERE WITH THE FURNITURE MOVERS UPSTAIRS?"

And then the building started shaking. Swaying, actually. Which is not a good thing to feel when you're on the eighth floor.

There was no question. One of our leaders was in the World Trade Center on 9/11, and she was told, "Oh, everything's fine, continue on," by building security. And she was like ...

(Um, I'll edit was she was like here)

You do know it took a half-hour for the building to collapse, right?

So she, on her own, evacuated group, and because of her, thirty people are still alive today, who wouldn't have been.

They told us that we could work from home for the rest of the day. And I'm like, yeah, right, like I'm gonna go back into the building to get the books, and I need system access and like they're gonna give that to me on my creaky laptop.

And then the commute home. 'Commute'? Did I say 'commute'? 'Nightmare,' more like. I should have just bedded down on the stone bench in the park. I mean: really!

JEEZ, people! It's only:

"It's one of the largest that we've had there," USGS seismologist Lucy Jones told CNN. Aftershocks were a concern, she said. "People should be expecting (them), especially over the next hour or two," she added.

It's not like the end of the world! I swear: Washington, D.C. is one of the most panicky cities in the world! People see one snowflake and they cancel Government work for three weeks.

Okay. We had an earthquake. That happened. It was a little fun, a little exciting. I'm fine. Really. Thank you for your thoughts and concerns. Kisses for you!

We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Safety in Unknown

So that's wrong, right?

It's the fear of the unknown that we live, or try to pretend that we don't live that, with our false courage, or our real courage but the unknown is still there and the fear is still there. Immovable; irreplaceable. We try to avoid it by filling our lives with our iPods (oops: iPads these days, how outre of me to make that 'out' gaff now that iPads are 'in') and our rushing about, always late, because we always make ourselves late by filling our lives with noise, noise, white noise so we don't notice it, that fear, that we don't even notice the noise-as-substitute, that we don't notice anything, pushing past things (other people) to just get through our lives, racing through it, racing toward our own ...

Don't think about that. Don't think about death. We know death. We know that it's unknown, so we never talk about it, until we gasp out 'call 911!' as the darkness squeezes out the breath from our lungs.

Oh, boy, `phfina you are on a tear here.

Oh, yes, I am.

But I actually argue the opposite. We are not afraid of the unknown. Not at all.

Don't believe me? Well, I have incontrovertible proof.

The unknown is still there. And so are you.

What we fear, we murder. We turn on something, in our fear, and lash out, and destroy it.

I know. I so know. I do it, and I have lots of PMs from you, my dear readers, as you lash out at me from your true selves, lash out at me, to destroy me.

And do you ever.

But the unknown is untouched. Science gives a safe little façade ('lie') of 'progress,' but science (or should I write 'Science' ... as so many of you bow down and worship it every day: the lines are so long at the sbuxen they extend outside the building these days) is just a comfortable pillow you can rest on to say 'oh, we understand,' when what science has been doing is discovering what? not illuminating and explaining and demystifying and deconstructing the unknown. No, Science has shown us the further we forge, o so bravely, at that dragon Unknown, the more, the bigger it becomes.

But nobody faces that truth. Nobody dares speak what nobody wants to hear. Those who do are murdered, gassed, crucified, stoned or burned at the stake.

'Witch' comes from the root word: 'Wit' ... a woman with smarts. Can't have those in our village, nosirree!

'There's a lot here we don't understand; you are acting on beliefs built on lies that you tell yourselves: maya' ... 'PUT HER UP AGAINST THE WALL!'

The truth is (o God, here comes the mob) ... the truth is this. You are happy living your small live surrounded and consumed by ...

excuse me: coughing fit. Ouch. ... must medicate.

I'm back.

Where was I? Oh, yes: ... consumed by the unknown.

Yes: I said you are happy in this state.

"Oh, but, `phfina, no: you're wrong! I'm miserable with my gf or with my life or with my job or with my ..."

After all, you read fan fiction, my stories, too, to escape for a while from this misery you call your life.

The truth however, is the exact opposite: no, you aren't miserable. Or, more precisely, ...

SHUT UP, MISS MUSE!

(she was going to say something about my love affair with precision and has that made me happy, but I am not to be interrupted (too much ... well, yes: too much, but I can deal) when I'm on a roll).

More precisely: you are happy being miserable.

Oh, you say you aren't. Then the path is a simple one to take. You hate your job? Quit. Quit being that stuffed shirt, or stuffed skirt (up the ass), and move to Vermont and start that farm or art colony or fitness center you have always said you wanted to.

Go ahead. I don't even have to bother saying 'I double-dog dare you.' Because I know you. I look in the mirror. I know you.

"`phfina, you have a really warped view of life and jobs and stuff. You weren't fucked up the ass every day at sbux when you worked there, were you? No. So you're so full of shit that you can't even speak without it coming out of your mouth."

Maybe. Maybe. That's a perspective. And a good one if it empowers you. But I do know things. And I do see things.

I'm breathing easier now that I'm not a ... okay, I won't say bad things about my ex-job, bc there were good times ... kinda ... cleaning the bathrooms and stuff. But I know my job was way better than my customers in their slave collars, I mean 'suits and ties' or 'business suits' as they lived their grey-grey lives each second bringing them more despair as they knew that they were one second closer having to go to work.

At least I didn't have to do that. At least I had a job where it was my job to deliver happiness one cup at a time.

Still don't believe me, do you. Well, fancy this: most heart attacks occur at 9 am Monday morning. That's right: people would rather die than go to work.

So the fucking is metaphorical, did you get that? Which is so much worse than if you were actually being fucked by the boss.

I know. I just said that. But here's why. I know, from first hand accounts what happens when the boss fucks his ... whatever you want to call his girl Friday. They end up together, and sometimes happy, too.

I know. From first hand observations. I'll leave it at that.

And I've seen when the boss doesn't fuck his employees (literally) ... well, everyone is living in hell at that shop. Which shop, `phfina? Well, from what I've seen, just about every shop, or: for just about for everyone who has a job.

And you so want me to leave my free state and go right into the workforce so I can be literally or metaphorically fucked up the ass.

And then I get my paycheck ... and see which bills I can pay this month with it. ... I believe they call that 'DP.'

You can look that one up.

But you'd rather do that. Or go to school.

And oh, my God! Professors? You think they are better than bosses? Don't get me started.

Unless you are the professor, in which case it's the students: can they get any stupider ... any more dull and dreary ... this year?

... or ... whatever everybody else is doing. Why?

Because you are in the middle of the herd. Because if you move out to the edge of the herd, or ... God forbid! ... leave the herd, there's that big, scary unknown, and you'd rather live your dull, small life that everybody else lives than face that.

Or so you think.

But there's a symbiotic relationship between the herd and the hunter (the Unknown). They depend on each other.

You don't fear the unknown.

You need it.

You need it there to keep you in your place. You need it there to justify why you know, by every measure, you're not living up to your expectations, you're not living your life powerfully, freely, peacefully, joyfully.

And so what do you do?

What do you do when you see a star shine so brilliantly in the night sky.

"You do not put a lamp under a bushel."

Actually, that's exactly what you do.

You see a person achieving, and growing, and glowing, and living, and what do you do?

"It'll never last!"

"You'll tire yourself out."

"Are you for real? Nobody could be like that."

"Give it up, your crusade, nobody can do that, especially not you!"

You reach up from the shit you are in, not so they can pull you up into the light, but so that you can pull them down, in fact, under you, stepping on top of them: you are drowning, so you might as well extinguish the light.

It's nice and comfy here in this cesspool, and anybody who stays otherwise, with their hurtful achieving ('who do they think they are? Hmmphf!'), with their too honest writing should be tortured first, a lot, and then shot.

After all, the unknown is safe. You can play all sorts of games with it, like worry, and procrastination, and panic attacks, and anything that takes you away from living your life.

You know? Stepping out? In faith? In courage? Into the unknown?

Oh, no, can't have that! ... so ... what's on the TV?

After all, if you did step out, in faith, into the unknown, the unknown would become ...

Known.

And that means you would have to deal with it. It being you. And your life.

So don't write that chapter, `phfina, because you just so know they are going to savage you for it. Don't quit your job, because then you have to live your life on your terms not on theirs, 'theirs' meaning 'everybody elses' ... and 'everybody elses' meaning, only meaning mine. Because if you are living your life like everybody else (like I do) then there must be Something Wrong With Me.

Uh, oh: unknown looming up. Quick: tell `phfina to get a job so I can justify why I eat this self-loathing hate and despair that I cover up with sameness and boredom every day, all the time ... um, I meant, 'my job.'

Yes, there's safety in the unknown, for as much as we play the fear and worry game, the unknown is still ever out there in the Future, the unchanging chimera that it is.

So, ... ;)

I said all this to answer your question: "You've been coughing for a month and you haven't gone to the doctor, `phfina. Why?"

Well, once I go to the doctor, this cough, that's nothing, o God, I hope it's nothing, 'cause It'll Be Okay Someday.

Becomes something.

What it became was bronchitis.

Just a little nothing case of bronchitis that a prescription of antibodies and rest will clear up, or it won't.

But you missed it, didn't you.

That little case of bronchitis was nothing, is nothing now, but before it was unknown.

That little case of you not writing a chapter of a story of a book you'll never publish is you telling yourself 'oh, who'd be interested, and besides, I'm not a good writer anyway.'

That little case of you not asking that girl out is ...

... is, oh, my God does the beast rear its ugly head:

She's wouldn't be interested in me anyway. Why?

She'd probably say no if I asked.

She'd slap me in the face, pour her drink over my head and then she and all her friends would point at me and laugh at me.

If I were to ask her, then there would always be That There Between Us and it'd be so awkward, and I'd have to turn and walk the other way whenever I'd see her.

You ever think of how much it costs to say hi?

I do.

But I also weigh the other cost.

Everything you do, and everything you don't do, has a cost.

Not saying hi to me as I'm passing you?

Do you know how that kills me? Every time, when you lift your phone to look at it, rather than to look at me, and maybe see my eyes, and maybe say hi, and maybe smile?

Do you know how much your smile costs?

It costs a lot.

That's not the right way to say it.

It's worth a lot. It is so, so dear. You know why?

Every person I see. Regardless.

Regardless.

Every person I see, when they burst in to a smile or a genuine laugh, or just a small private grin?

Oh, my God! It's like there was this lifeless wraith before but now, but now, their spirit fills them and they actually glow and you can't compare one to the other, you can't say a person is 'more beautiful' when they smile. Because from lifelessness to lively?

They aren't more beautiful: they are beautiful. Period.

And, but, you withhold your smile. You withhold your care. You judge people, your roommates, your coworkers, your bosses, your friends, and you withhold, and you become cold.

And they cry.

Or, worse, they soldier on.

And you kill people around you, all the time, because you'd rather have a nice, distant, cool, polite relationship with ... well, everybody, because 'nobody can care about everybody they meet,' (fucking lie) so you don't even open up to one person. You don't even open up to your own lover.

You don't even open up to your own mother. You don't even open up to your own sister. You don't even open up to your own daughter.

And you kill them.

And it's nice, safe, and cautious here. Nobody gets hurt. ... except that everybody does; and everybody survives.

But for what.

I'm taking my medication. I'm drinking tea. I'm (trying) to sleep more than two hours a day.

To survive.

But why?

So I can get a job? And be a Productive Member of Society?

Which society is that? Your society is the one you choose to keep.

And that society tells quite a bit about you.

What society are you keeping?

How about this: what society are you bettering?

"Please smile today." "Oh, I didn't smile today, because it was a shitty day."

A day is a day. You make it shitty — not them, you — or you make it joy-filled.

You know what I've been practicing, besides the smile game (that is, I choose to be a person who the people I encounter are better for it and I know that from their smile I now see that I did not see before)? I've been practicing that the instant I think something, like, 'oh, I should write to ...' I don't think about it, I just do it. I step out. In fear. And I type the first work. Or I dare raise my eyes, and breath out a 'h-hi' to the man walking the other way on the park trail. Or I dare to sneak into Victoria's Secret and dare to touch then to take that lace teddy off the rack and I dare to try it on, just because.

Well, almost try it on. Draping it over me counts ... sorta ... it is a big step for me, you know.

And that's the thing. The step. For you it's nothing, and I'm a coward. But I'm not measuring myself by your yardstick. You've walked further down the road. And there's more road to take, and I took that little baby step ...

... and they I ruined it, for you, that is, right? But running away as fast as I could and hiding myself in that big cushy-cushy chair.

But I have that moment where I dared something I haven't dared before, and nobody can take that away from me. And it felt really, really good, really daring to step into that unknown.

Do you have a moment like that? Where you dared something? Nobody can take that away from you.

And you know what? It's more than money in the bank, because money gets used and it's gone, or something, but this moment? You can use it whenever you'd like. You can use it now to do it again, the exact same thing, which is to step out into the unknown, and dare, and live.

And like that first time, you have no idea what will come out of it, and you have no way of knowing who you'll be after you take that step.

And you know exactly what it's like to live, comfortably, in fear, with the unknown over there and you over here, nice, safe, everybody-does-it doing it.

Did I say 'live'? I meant 'exist.'

I have bronchitis, and I walked to the pharmacy to get the meds ... what? Did you think they would carry themselves to me on my death bed?

O, `phfina, so the drama!

And as I was walking home, the sky opened up, again, and the deluge soaked me to the panties now firming riding up my butt crack.

Perma-wedgie. Super-icky.

There's Thor, the god of thunder, then there's me, third day in a row, not the goddess of rain, but more like the goddess of soggy or bedraggled.

And then the heat and humidity after that power shower? I mean, it was a downpour and there wasn't a cloud in the sky and the sun was beating angrily, focused right on my head. I mean: how is that possible! I almost melted by the time I made it back to my place.

And ... okay, well, maybe I stopped at a ... place where food is served, you know? It was happy hour with half-priced appetizers, and I have been told I need to eat, and American-sized portions? I can eat half (being stuffed!) and bring half home.

And while I was at the bar, I had this revelation.

I mean, come on! can the revelations take a vacation from me, please?

And my revelation is this. Frappuccinos? You know what they are?

"Strawberries and crème blended crème drink"?

Write that while having a coughing fit!

Why don't they just say: "Substitute strawberry daiquiri" and be done with it.

People buy a frappuccino to live a surrogate life, substituting fake sugar for the real thing, and the real thing isn't even an alcoholic drink, it isn't even a sense of control and empowerment by ordering a 'decaf soy latte with one pump of sugar free vanilla and, yes, I do want whip ,,, oh, I'll splurge and make that a grande' and watch with the amusement to see if the barista fumbles your drink so you get the freebie card off them.

Honey, I've made more complicated drinks than yours, okay?

No, the substitute is for happiness.

So you wait in a long line, annoyed and impatient, at oh, my God, so early in the morning, so you can rush right out into rush hour traffic, that, oddly enough, isn't rushing at all, but standing stock still for an hour, and so you can be a road hazard as you are dialing your blackberry and sipping your latte that, dammit, the barista made correctly after all, and then you sit around work all day, scared out of your mind that the boss will come by and ask you what you're doing when he knows full well you're doing nothing because he hasn't given you work in weeks, so you make work to pretend to be working and you bitch and moan with your coworkers about what a shitty job this is, gossiping about the slut or the boss or both or about the football game last night and ...

... and that's how you spend your day?

And that's how you want me to spend mine?

Yeah.

Well, it does look really ... safe ... in there, I'll give you that.

You know, you could even live, even at work.

You know what works at work, and what doesn't. You know when you settle (that is, all the time) and when you fix something broken at work, and you're the heroine and everybody's happy because that stinking white elephant went away and now everybody, finally, can breathe easier, and you know you did that. You know what you're happy doing and what you're doing because you're just doing it to pass the time to fill the time because you're bored, no, scared to actually do something and actually live.

Even at work.

Or you know that this work thing? This job? It's so not you, and you know what is you. Don't tell me you don't. You know, so deep in your bones you can feel it in your marrow, what is you and what isn't, because you feel you being you with you're doing what you're meant to be doing. And you feel yourself being fake when you're faking it, or just getting by, or not ruffling feathers, whatever the hell that means.

But you settle. And then you justify it. You even say, 'well, this is just the way that I am' or 'this is just how it is,' using context to justify what a shit you are and what shit you are in.

Sister, that shit doesn't fly with me. You can play that game with yourself all you like, and, boy, do you like it, but don't come round to me looking for me to bend over and take your junk up my ass.

You can play your game. I see how delighted you are to be miserable. I play my own games. Some of them are shitty, too, yes.

But some of them ...

I dare to hope.

I dare to believe in you. I dare to believe in you, even when you don't.

I dare to believe you can do what you set out to do.

I dare not to take the shit that comes out of your mouth. I dare to believe you can do better than settle for or settle with.

I dare to call the bullshit you are saying bullshit, and I dare not to agree, just like everybody else does: 'oh, yeah, you're right. What can you do, you know? That's just how it is.' You want that behavior, you go look for somebody who lives that behavior. Don't look for it from me, gf.

I dare to get caught in the rain and throw my arms out and dance, twirling my head back and around, as I scream 'Wheeeeeee!'

I dare to curse the darkness: "YOU STUPID DARKNESS" and I dare to live in that darkness ... hey, I love the darkness, and the stars and the moon, and I dare to light a lamp, and look right into the flame (ouch, my eyes!) and then hold it up, high, and say, 'hey, over here! You can do this, too!'

I dare to smile. I dare to open my eyes. I dare to see your smile. I dare to have my breath taken away by your smile.

God, you are so beautiful.

And you know why? You know why I call you on your bullshit, and stand here, shouting, that the life you are living is a lie? You know why I dare to see you as you can be, as you are, if you'd only open your eyes and see yourself? Do you know why?

Because I love you, and I care about you, and I want you to be happy.

My cough is telling me I need to lie down now. So I'll do that. Good night. I love you.

Toxic Psycho Bitches

Haven't slept. These last few days I've been sleeping, what? 2 hours total?

Losing weight: lost 6 pounds this week. Down to 114 lbs.

It's funny. Isn't a girl who's drinking supposed to be gaining weight? And I'm eating meals, and not puking them up, either ... well, not often, that is.

In group, we had a supermodel leader, and she kept losing weight, even following her dietician's advice. So her dietician, who charged her $4000 gave her her money back and said, 'I won't take your money anymore if you don't go to group, This is not your diet: you're thinking yourself to death." It was Donna, right, the super model.

I hate it when people tell me stuff, 'cause it gets into my head, and it never goes away.

I wonder how many girls are jealous of me right now? I'm thinking weight loss. Marvelous.

I'd like to blame toxic psycho bitches: wanting to fix me or fix their gfs, always so sure that they are right, as they spew shit right out of their mouths all over me. I keep running into them, insinuating themselves into my life, looking so sweet and vulnerable, so talented and so filled with potential, and then ... and then they start working on me, right from where they are in their cesspool, so I'd love to blame them.

I even have a quiz:

You might be a toxic psycho bitch if:

1.

... etc.

But there are tons of self-help books out there already, making tons of money off of the toxic psycho bitches so 'wanting' to change, to better themselves, to be happy, and then they start right in on everybody around them, sabotaging those they can, so at least they can blame other people for their own unhappiness.

Sounds rather like the beginning of this post, eh, `phfina? Yes.

So I won't blame anybody but myself. I'm responsible for who I allow into my life and how I allow them to affect me. If somebody wants to pour shit all over me, I could go use it as fertilizer, instead of wallowing in that shit, crying, can't I?

Yes.

Or I could say: Warning! Danger! Toxic psycho bitch on approach! and steer clear, finally, instead of getting sucked right into the melodrama of their lives, paying the full price of interacting with them, where they pay nothing. Oh, they may pretend to be suffering, but they are made of stern stuff, they can dish out guilt and wallow in pain with the best of them, and then ... AND THEN come back for second helpings, as long as you are willing to play their power-trip game.

YEUCK!

AND then, clear indicator they ask me, why have I stopped writing?

Why have I stopped writing? Hm, how many pages did I send your way today, sweetie, responding to your, what? three emails this last hour?

They have no boundaries, too. None whatsoever, if they aren't crawling under your skin, then obviously YOU have a problem opening up. And as soon as you open up, what happens? "Oh, this is what's wrong with you, and that's what's wrong with you, and ..."

GAH!

I should have learned after Kate how it is, how she opened up to me, bringing me to her 12 step, so I would open up to her, so then she could dominate and control me, if not from the top (as much as she tried) then from every way possible, struggling, screaming, slapping, humiliating ...

She was an amazing fuck, however. A-maz-ing. Toxic psycho bitches seem to have that ability: they fuck SO good, it's like, hard to leave them for your sanity's sake, because they have you enslaved to their ability to cum and to make you cum, any time, day or night. They DO get into your head, so they know what you like, they know your insecurities, they know every single erogenous zone on your body (easy for me: every part of my body's an erogenous zone), everything.

They get into your head, because they try to get into your heart, and steal it. And eat it, because ...

Because they've been so unloved, for so long, they can't believe it's possible, and when you try to do it, they are so, so, SO grateful ... for a while, and then they start seeing you don't really love them, because you're just like their mom or their dad, or their brother or their first boyfriend or first girlfriend, who raped her, or beat her, or dominated her, or ... whatever.

And that's the draw: they so need your love, you feel compelled to love them, and then you get sucked in, for as long as you can last, longer even, in some relationships, and then you're another casualty, another piece of evidence for them that they aren't the problem, you are, and then they go to the next person, after they've used you up and eaten you, and they do the same thing, over, and over, and over again until they die.

No, I don't know how Kate's doing ... she hasn't called my mom in a while, asking after me. I hope, I really hope she's doing well, and recovered, and in an healthy relationship, or happy on her own.

Are you a toxic psycho bitch?

Easy question to answer. Look in the mirror (can you?) and ask yourself, are people better off because of you, or are you the life-force suck in the group, so people avoid you if they can and avoid you if they can't (by opting out of being there when you corner them). Do you talk behind people's back? Sowing poison in other people's ears, so that you build a case out of a person YOU picked to be with? Do you try to limit somebody? "You can't do that; you shouldn't do this. You know you're not that good. You'll wear yourself out!" Or do you encourage somebody to take a risk with their life, and live.

Do you put yourself in the person you're talking to? Or do you get frustrated with them, because they are not doing what you want them to do?

You know, this is all my fault. I'm making myself sick, and it's because I broke the rules. I should have just responded to reviews, and not ever given out my email, and never, ever, never have gone on fb. And not even accepted PMs. I should have just written my stories, and should have just kept writing them, even now, but instead of writing about angst and melodrama, I'm living it.

It's good writing material, that's for sure. Thanks for that, toxic psycho bitches.

And under that layer of toxicity, there is a little girl, wanting to love, and be loved.

And I love her, that little girl. I'm an idiot, yes, but I love her. I love you, and I want you to be happy.

Can you pretend? Can you dare? Can you ask yourself, where is my happiness? And go in that direction? Dig yourself out of the mire you created for yourself (you did, honey, not anybody else. Somebody did something, yes, but that's in the past now, you're a big (little) girl, so put the past in the past, and deal with the now). Reach up, not to pull somebody beneath you so you can drown them with you, but reach up, and pull yourself out of this shit, and look at the sunlight, and the trees, and the people, and the city, and the lake, and breathe in and smell the freshly baked bread, and hug mommy, hug her tightly as she hugs you and she whispers, 'I love you, sweetie,' and know that she really does, and feel loved.

Just for one second today. Just smile, for one second today.

And then journal that. "I smiled today." And that may be your only entry for today, but, honey, you won. You can look back at that entry and know that on May 15th, 2011, you smiled.

You know what I'm going to do now? I'm going to submit this entry, then I'm going to go to bed, and then I'm going to sleep, deeply. And tomorrow I'll wake up. Today was cold and rainy (loved it!), ... actually, that was yesterday. Today will be what? A bit warmer? Okay, I'll keep to the shade, and go out, and be among people, and see them go about their lives, and see that there is life out there to live.

You know how hard it is to confront yourself with the ugly truth, instead of keeping up that stream of sweet, polite lies that nobody believes except the one person you've deluded into believing, that is: you? It's impossible. Until you get square with yourself, and admit: 'hey, I've been lying. I've been making people's lives around me miserable. I'm a really vicious evil bitch! God, how can anybody stand me and my [whatever you use to use people, like sick sweetness, or cold shutdown, or whatevs]"

So hey, there you are in all your ugly glory. Wasn't that hard to (finally) admit to yourself, now, was it?

Yes, it was. I understand. God, I do.

But then what? You see what you are and where you are. Happy with that? Yes, you have been so far. So, but ... why not try something different for a change. It's going to feel really weird (I know this, too), but then, WOW! somebody smiled, genuinely, because I wasn't cooping or manipulating or intimidating or dominating, but I was just with them and they were just with me, and hey, that's scary and strange but it actually was fun.

Well, I'll be.

And you can try that, if you'd like.

But whatever floats your boat. Me, I'm going to go boating with people who want to sail, not with those who blame me or the waves or the air or the boat for their miserable condition in life.

Okay, I do get that some people do get seasick, and somehow that's all my fault for taking them out on a boat, when they had full mental ability to say, 'no, thank you,' from the day WE started planning that trip TOGETHER. I do get that.

So go out driving in your sweet new BMW, or paraglide or pick flowers, or paint flowers, or have a nice lunch out, or ... whatever.

Be happy. Honestly happy. And if you find that you have to push people around to be happy, give that a break for a day, and go off alone, and see how keeping your own company out on the beach or at the museum or wherever isn't all that bad after all and actually is rather pleasant.

STOP LYING to yourselves. STOP analyzing and over-thinking everything. You're only killing everything around you with your sharp, cynical wit or your vainglorious righteousness. Act, and give the world some room to act with you.

You, you toxic psycho bitch, may actually be surprised how wonderful joy actually feels. You may actually find it's nice to come out of your cautious shell and live, and not 'live a little' but actually live, experience, breathe, feel, and be.

It's not about you, honey, your happiness. And it's not about them, particularly if YOU think you know what's best for them.

What is it about? It's about nothing. It's about clearing your head, and just being, in the moment, there, happy, and why? because even though there are 27 million things going on right now, and all of them not according to your plan, you are making the choice to be happy.

Your choice.

I love you. Good night.

Molasses and Moby, "Porcelain"

Moby, “Porcelain”

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

Tell the truth you never wanted me
Tell me

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

— `phfina commentary.

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

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

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

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

Well, no duh!

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

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

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

... once.

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

After I almost ended back at the hospital.

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

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

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

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

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

Okay?

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

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

Who wants to read about that bitch?

You do.

And thank you.

But.

I'm not ...

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

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

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

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

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

"This is goodbye."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I get to say: "See?"

And I shut down.

And I kill you off.

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

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

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

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

Kate, anyone?

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

Or whatever.

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

Mountains would move out of your way.

But this? Me? This me?

Save your breath, save your effort, save yourself.

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

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

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

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

Ha. Hahaha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Otherwise ...

I will suck you in and destroy you.

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

How am I doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How's that for an answer?

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

Guess where that unhappiness is coming from?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Molasses.

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

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

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

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

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

That's how I'm doing.

Happy?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Mass Today

Today was Christ the King, and the Gospel was Jesus on the Cross being reviled by the crowds and the one bad thief, and the one good thief rebukes the bad thief and begs Jesus to remember him.

Not that I was paying attention.

Because I have eagle eyes — not vampire eyes, bb has those, can you believe it? He has maroon eyes; a regular Hannibal Lecter bb is (read the book to get the reference) — and those eyes miss nothing, not in myself and not from anybody else around me, and particularly not from you when you're talking with me. You can't lie to me, for I'll see it in your eyes, and I do call you on that.

Yes, I don't have any friends, and I scare people ... and for good reason. But that's for another post.

Well, this time my eyes saw this girl across the church, about my age, maybe younger, and when the choir started up in the κύριε she started giggling to herself.

Our choir, well, ... they are laughable. I mean, I'm no Dame Janet Baker, but I get compliments ... particularly from Church Ladies of a certain age, who have a predilection for patting me on the head as they compliment me. *sigh* (grrrr!) But when I was in the choir, the famous opera singer-director told me "Violet," — and yes, I lie about my name even it church, and isn't that terrible? But some people in church go to sbux, and it would not do at all for them to call out "Melissa!" at sbux and I would get looks from my partners, you know? — So she said, "Violet, you have a good voice" — yeah, thanks — "but you want to hold the note, don't introduce vibrato unnecessarily." And I held my tongue — I'm not a famous opera singer — and held the note ... I didn't last long in choir.

But I'm like thinking angry dagger thoughts toward this teen, like: respect the liturgy! And what is this little teenager doing mocking the Mass, and ...

And I was about to continue my diatribe in my head, when, all of the sudden, she bent down and picked up a little boy, maybe a year old or so, and held him, and she was suddenly not so much a teen younger than me, perhaps, because now she was Happy Mommy! and he was suddenly Happy Baby! And this Cro-Magnon of a guy next to her that I did not see at all until just then, looking so much like the men in my family, you know? All Daniel Auteuil; all, you know? that guy who starred and directed in Ma femme est une actrice (that costarred his wife as his wife!) (whom I'm all ... well: whew!) You know? So big, weepy-eyed dark Gallic guys that girls swoon over for some reason, because if you put a sword or spear in one hand and a shield in another and got 299 other guys just like him, he could take on an army of ten-thousand Persians. You know? 300? That kind of guy: totally unnoticeable in his quietude until you do notice him: big, powerful, intelligent, dark-hairy an' a' that.

No, I'm not looking for a guy, okay?

Well, anyway, for the rest of the Mass, I could help but look at them: Happy Family. And think to myself, what? A multitudinous jumble of thoughts. How God loves them more, even though she laughed at the (feeble) efforts of the choir, and that she has a baby boy, and do I want a boy? Ugh! And don't normal mommies want a boy and normal daddies want girls and why am I not normal? And what if I did have a boy? And the priest told us to pray for priests but not from just anywhere but from our own families, and what if he went into the priesthood and would he try to save me from my sinful ways, so would I have to be celibate twenty years from now, and what if I didn't want that, and what if I went straight, you know, and had a big Gallic-Cro-Magnon guy of a husband, wearing a white striped sweater just like I was wearing, and oh! look! we're matching, isn't that cute? just like that family across the church from me and would I love him, but what if it didn't end up with a 'traditional family,' and then would my own son disown me, or would even the church accept him because he has two mothers and I don't know if that would be a barrier of entry into the priesthood but I think it would be, wouldn't it?

And okay, then the choir starts up again, two geriatric guys warbling their notes with this hyper-modern interpretation of some Latin liturgical whatever that just sounds so God-awful! and not 'awful' as in 'full of awe' but 'awful' as in 'offal.' And I'm wondering, you know: why! and should I like transfer to the Coptic Catholic Church down the road and ...

And that's me. Just too smart and too critical for her own good. And I wish, in a way, that I could be, you know, normal, you know? But then that? Me? Normal? I'd like survive for two seconds ... if that! and then I'd just go all `phfina on you as soon as I caught you in your lying/self-denigrating talk or as soon as I saw something beautiful, sad, heart-wrenching or so damn hot! and I just had to write that or I would burst.

And here I am ... bursting, with beauty, and sadness, and heart-wrenchingedness, and in-heatedness and ...

And Jesus said last week that He can't abide luke-warm, that He'd rather have us hot or cold, but since we are luke-warm, He spits us out of His mouth. And I'm like, wondering ... do the luke-warm pine to be hot or cold? As I pine to be luke-warm? I mean, I'm as cold as ice and I'm on fire all at the same time, all cold fury and all ... you know: heat! ... no, not hot heat; that's too cool, no: heat like Sunshine: I'm like that person in that French Art film who asked for matches from the (anti-)hero, and then poured gasoline over him(her)self, drawing a crowd around him(her) to watch him(her) burn, taping my mouth shut so you won't hear my screams, won't hear my suffering.

I wonder. Should I tape my mouth shut so you won't hear my silly screams and unnecessary suffering? Should I cut my hands off at my wrists, so I won't trouble you with my useless advice and my writing that touches a few lives but so what?

But so what? Do you know what life is? Life is every day. Life is this:

I get up. I crawl out of bed from a fitful, restless, tortured sleep (oh, the drama! `phfina!), I go to work, I plaster on that smile, that's genuine for most of the people struggling through their pointless day at their pointless desk at their pointless jobs, then I come home, exhausted, and I stare and stare and stare at nothing after I grill some salmon and maybe, maybe not, get food poisoning, then I go to bed after not writing a word and not answering a PM, but hitting the refresh button on my email like twenty times, and then in bed, I pray my prayer ("God, please, tonight.") And then I wake up, and do it all over again, because God didn't answer my prayer with a 'yes' today, ... again.

And send me words of comfort. Go ahead. Tell me how worthwhile life is worth living.

What did you do today? What did you do yesterday? What did you do the day before? What will you be doing tomorrow?

... and you're trying to comfort me?

And God gave a girl a fussy little baby boy today who was laughing at the choir today in Mass.

Christ the King was on the Cross, and He said to the Good Thief, "This day you will be with me in Paradise."

The Good Thief was probably in his early twenties, wasn't he? A Zealot — just like me — a suicide bomber, a freedom fighter, throwing himself, single-handedly against the Evil Empire ... and failing, being crucified for his crime.

How do I get that job? I'm so jealous.

... and that was what happened in Mass today.

Yeah, I have to go to confession ... again. The priest and I are on a first-name basis, don't you know ... in the confessional!

You know, every day, I have to generate a reason for getting out of bed, and, every day, I get out of bed, reason or no. And why? Just because. Just because.

Sometimes, it's so hard not to see myself and my life through the judgmental lens, and not to think what an utter failure I am.

Excuse me, I have to go answer some PMs, and, yeah, write that next chapter of Bloodbuzz.

Oh, p.s.: 21st day dry. Blackjack!

Bad news: you win

May I preface this post? Of course this post is a follow-up, the 'second half,' as it were, of my previous diatribe, and, of course, I have no choice in the matter of writing this. I simply must write this, even though it does no good.

You see, this post, despite my preamble, has nothing to do with me: this post is about you. And, if you think the last one hurt, well, gf, you've got another thing coming, because the last post was all about me. This one? It's all about you, through my eyes.

This is gonna hurt you. A lot.

So, you know: standard caveat. Get the hell out if you want sugary goodness, and don't come crying to me if my words hurt you. There's only one way they can hurt, and that is: if they apply. So bitch and moan to the mirror.

I fucking warned you.

And what good will it do? None, probably. You are you. You are still being you, even after what happened. You are so you, as I see every day when I interact with you. And I love you. And I want the best for you.

And so this post.

I feel so like an angel right now. Do you know angels have no choice in the matter? In eternity, they made their choice: follow God, emptying themselves completely, or follow themselves, and what they think is right, filling themselves with the nothing they actually are without God.

Once that choice was made, Angels are forever fixed. Choice? They've already chosen, they simply must do what they must do.

I feel so like an angel. But angels are eternally happy: they made their choice, and now they choose, eternally to be happy with that choice, so I must write this, yes? But perhaps I can choose to be happy writing this.

So, you, being you, must read this, no matter how painful it is to you. So, you can now choose, too.

"God, this hurts. God, it's so true!"

And what do you choose? To deny this? To hate me, the messenger, forever?

Yes, you can choose this.

Do you choose to read this, and, in reading it, to see what's in there that you can take on for yourself and your life?

You know, people have an advantage over angels (besides being able to enjoy gnocchi): angels cannot change, but people can change.

You can change. You can be yourself, and you can change, and still be yourself. You can, you know: you can.

And I really, really don't know if I'm actually a person. Isn't that insane? But I can cop out and say that I'm a selkie and that once I find my skin, I will return to the sea, and this human life I've been faking and have been so sad living, I'll just forget it all, forget you, forget my loves and my sadnesses and swim away to be home again with my sisters.

I can say that. I can cop out. Just like you can cop out, and say, "But I can't change because of ..." because of whatever millstone you are hanging onto so desperately, calling the millstone your unalterable self, when really it's you being drug down by the millstone, and all you have to do is to let it go.

I am so looking into the mirror right now as I write these words, okay?

So, this post.

So, you've taken on me, unsalvageable me. And you put your heart into it, and you've sacrificed everything, your career, your educational prospects, your art, everything, to save me.

And you've watched me. You've watched me start to pull myself out of it, that pit I'm in, and you’ve been so proud and pleased with the progress you’ve seen in me. You know I’ve been pulling myself out, but, even if you refuse to admit it, even especially to yourself, you know you've had a hand in it, and if you looked at the past year objectively, you know you've had more than a hand in it, that you actually caused this to happen. That, really, if you weren't there, I would have been dead. Several times. By my own hand through suicide directly or through an accidental death from alcohol or drugs or just plain self-absorption as I'm crossing the street and *WHAMMO* truck and no more 'phfina.

How do I know this? Oh, come on, you know this, and I know it, too.

So, but now we're at this point, and I've started to come out of it, and I'm starting to express joy again and starting to write again and starting to relate to the world as the world and not this big scary place that I have to hide from.

And there's just so much to do, right? You have so much in me you see that if I just come out of myself just a little bit more, I can start to breathe again and to enjoy life, not fight it or be afraid of it, and you've got things planned, right? Like going on a hike on a mountain trail, even though I've never been outside, but you know it'll do me good. Or a trip to the mall to buy some mentionable and unmentionable clothes, 'cause you know that clothes make the girl and you know I would just see me in a whole new way if I tried on this kind of dress or, hell, a black pants-suit that you've seen executive vice presidents wear.

And so you're making our morning coffee, just so pleased at how far I've come, and just so excited about what is to come for me, for my life, and for us.

And then I drop the bomb.

I get up, and I look at you, and suddenly the firm foundation you had been laying is gone, because you hear the words I'm saying as I say them.

"We're done. We're through. I can't take this any more. I'm gone."

And that's it. I get up. I leave. I'm gone. Forever.

What the hell just happened?

Shocking, isn't it, when that happens. Totally out of the blue. And WHY?

I mean, like really: why.

Here's some 'why's for you, sweetheart. And I'll ask you to read them, just read them, to survive them, and then hate me. Forever. But see if any of them apply to you (they all do, honey), then see what you are willing to do about them.

Then read the second part. I mean really read it. I mean, like, recover what I've said to you, killing you with my every word, then come back here, and see what's really going on. You might miss it, but I'll ask you not to. I'm asking you to read this next part, take responsibility for it, then read the next part, and ... take responsibility for it (my irresponsibility), as well.

You are either everything here, as you've always been, or you're copping out.

Which one can you live with?

Part one: it's all your fault

So, really, you are as blind as a bat, you know that? Selfish and cruel.

I mean, not seeing this moment coming from a mile away?

What did you think? You think you owned me? We may have signed a piece of paper stating that, but did you really think that you own me?

Yes, you do. You think you're entitled to my heart, soul and body. Sure, you've given up your life for me, so as to save me.

What rights does that confer onto you?

Not a fucking thing. Not one single thing from me can you assume to have or to own.

Listen, sweetie, I'm a human being. I'm not your cat. I'm not your dog. I'm not your human slave.

And, sure, I'm not scrubbing your floors and providing my tongue for whenever your pussy has a tingle that needs tending to ...

... but.

But, look, I can wipe my cheek when I have food there, you don't need to reach across the table to do that. In a fucking public restaurant!

But, look, you don't have to present me in group as 'Well, she has some issues that we're working through, and she can't afford the full payment right now, but we'll find some way to get her into this session because it will really help her with her problems.' (Somebody actually said that. While I was standing right fucking there. As if I didn't exist, or had any feelings about what was being said. Just like what you write to me about me in your PMs.)

But, look, I know what I need to do when I have a headache. I know that ibuprofen exists, I know where the glasses are and how to fill them with water. I know where the bed is and how to turn down the sheets.

But, look, I know what opinions to have about my mother, your mother, that girl over there giving me the more-than-once over, my dad, current political views, what I should be doing for work or for getting my next chapter out, what I shouldn't be doing to get those things done.

But, look, I know what to say about myself and I know what not to say.

Do you know that?

No, you sure don't, not judging from the past year in how you've treated me like a baby, not judging from your PMs where you say, oh:

1. Are you a 40-year-old man who's a sexual deviant?
2. Are you really who you write? ...
... or more insidiously, 'if you're really who you write, then I care about you.'
3. People can't be trusted on the 'net, and oh, by the way, my gf asked me to ask you if you only wear white socks?

And then after all that hate wrapped up in mistrust comes at me from you ...

Look I'm on a roll, but I have to stop right here and let you know one little detail.

You fucking came to me. I didn't know you, any of you, at all! You read me; you felt something for me, then you reached out to me, and you have the gall to write that you don't trust me?

Here's a piece of advice for you. It's free, too. Go back and play with all your other god-damn friends if you don't trust me.

Oh, wait. You don't have any other friends? And I'm not talking acquaintances, I'm talking friends who know you and love you for you, who you actually are?

Wonder why.

Wonder if it's because you don't just mistrust me, you mistrust everybody, and you choose to lash out at me because I'm this weak, little, vulnerable baby girl who puts her heart on the line with every line she writes and you have the gall to say 'well, if you are who you say you are, then ...'

Just get present to that. Just get present to the fact that you came to me, and then you shit all over me with your mistrust and your advice as to how to live my live when I've done that for 22 years already, thank you.

Just get present to what a fucking cunt you are. Really.

Are you present to it?

No.

Because you also come to me on the other side of mistrust.

"Tell me more about you." "There's so much you don't say" "I really wish I knew you." "You don't open up all all."

Oh, really?

Pop quiz.

You know what my favorite food to make is.

What is your mother's favorite food?

You know where I've come from and where I'm now living.

What other fan-fiction author(ess) do you know this about?

You know what job I'm working at. You know how I interact with customers. You know how my day starts and ends.

Who else do you know this about? Do you even know this about your roommates?

You know I go to group. You know my triumphs and tragedies there.

What are the extra-curricular activities of someone you know ITRW? What are their triumphs and tribulations in those activities?

You know the names of the string of my prior girlfriends.

Name the names of the girlfriends of your girlfriends. Name the names of your prior girlfriends. Hard, isn't it, going over those memories. Who have you told? Anybody?

You know that I'm a lesbian, and I'm out to my immediate family, and out to you, but not to my extended family, coworkers (there are some who suspect) and customers.

Who are you out to? Who are your friends out to?

You know, reading my stories, PMs and entries, what I struggle with, every day: me. Me-me-me. And happiness. And joy. And despair. And fear. And self-loathing so great it makes you flinch, right?

What are you struggling with? What is your boss struggling with? What is your mom struggling with? What is that girl you hate so much struggling with?

You know how old I am. You know my family relations, and how I relate to them.

ANY other fan fiction writer, or book writer, or anybody you can say that about?

Bonus question: Why do you say that I withhold, when I've told you more about myself than you've told anybody else in your life? And when I've told you more than you know than from anybody else in your life? Why do you keep needing more from me, after I've given my all ... and more ... what does that say about you, this mistrust coupled with this neediness?

I dare you to ask yourself these questions, and to answer them fully before you get on another kick about needing to know more about me, and I'm not giving it to you (the fucking nerve!) and since I'm not, I'm not trustworthy?!?!

Excuse me, have you read one of my stories, or PMs, or entries?

Thanks for that.

Fuck you, too.

...

I'm gone

So, back on topic. So you're clueless as to why I would say 'I'm gone,' with all that mistrust of me that you've poured all over me.

AND.

And then you go into telling me what I should say or what I shouldn't. Who I should have as a gf and who I shouldn't. Who I can see at a restaurant for dinner and who I shouldn't. What I should do while I'm feeling sick and what I shouldn't. Who I should live with (you) and who I shouldn't, and why, and how you will be so much more awesome than people I picked to be with, that, by the way, honey, includes you.

And, oh, after all these diatribes, why am I not writing anymore, and I must be so unhappy.

Yeah, thanks for that.

So, you really didn't see this coming. You really didn't see me cringe when you wipe my cheek from across the table. You really didn't see me check out when you started into your 'Well, 'phfina, it's nice that your mother ...' or 'Well, 'phfina, I really think you shouldn't ...' that last for, God!, 27 minutes, and please can you just finish, I already said, you're right, so why are you going on about this?

You know why you didn't see this coming?

Because you forgot.

You forgot I'm a human being, not a doormat to walk over or a leaky faucet to fix or a baby that needs her diapers changed and your mommies to suck on for sustenance.

And you had the right. You had the right to me, and to the rest of my life and yours. I'm yours forever, and you've planned your whole life around that: me and you, and you and me, and you forgot to consult me about that future.

Don't believe me? I can fucking send your PMs back to you and highlight the parts where you did this, whether my name's 'phfina, Violet, Melissa, B_ or F_.

You treat me as if the only reason I exist is for your happiness.

And then I go and leave you.

So, wait a minute. Let's review here, and add more salt to the wound.

What are you for? I mean: why do you exist?

Didn't you set out to set me free from my addictions and my self-hatred?

Didn't you see me improve? And I mean 'improve' as is improve so much that I started going back to school, that I started writing again, that I started painting or I got a job that I love and hate but I'm doing and that I'm fulfilled in, that I started texting and calling friends and family again?

Didn't you see this?

And so, when I said, 'we're through' ... well, isn't the appropriate response: YAY! LET'S HAVE A PARTY!

A coming out or a coming back party for me, because I made it, I finally made it?

Isn't that the appropriate response?

Let me tell you your response. You told me it already, haven't you?

Your response?

"This is so unfair! I gave my life/career for you! You can't do this! After all I've done, I deserve a little (like for the rest of my life) gratitude!"

So, instead of us coming to completion, both of us happy that we both did something: we saved a life: mine. Instead of that, you turn cold, or you kick and scream and break plates and grab hold of my ankles as I'm walking out the door.

Or you throw me out of the house.

"Get the hell out of here! I hate you! I never want to see you again! You are a selfish, needy bitch who has no appreciation or has no idea what friendship is, you ungrateful bitch! I'm done with you! Don't you ever come back to me again! You get hooked in your addictions again, and I hope you die! I'll come to your funeral and laugh! No, I won't come to your funeral and you'll be sorry then!"

This is you. This is what it's like to be living with you. And this is what it's like to leave you.

This is you.

"But I'm not domineering! I'm not draconian!" (I've actually been told that.)

Okay, so what are you then? Are you a person who actually loves? who actually listens? who actually hears the words she's saying to me, because she looks, hard, into the mirror as she says them, and know these words are loving and caring and empowering?

Newsflash: if you see yourself that way ... well: you are so fucking blind, okay?

So you have to own this. I left you. Or I never accepted your offer for help. And it's your own damn fault.

And that's the good news.

Do you understand me? If you own that that's the way you are ... and you choose to be that way ... then you can own that you can choose to be any other way that you so choose. "I'm draconian, AND I choose not to shit all over 'phfina in what I say or how I control her, instead I choose to love, to listen, and to let her be her and to stand for her being her is the best, brightest, most beautiful person I will ever know in the whole world."

Do you know how hard I am crying as I write this?

And if you choose to own that, then you can choose to celebrate it when I say, 'You know, what you just said to me is so rude.'

Instead of saying, 'I'm not rude; you're just sensitive ... (and then you whisper to yourself) and (more than a little) imbalanced.' You would say, 'Wow! Wow, yeah: if somebody said what I just said to you, so thoughtlessly, I would just go off on them or hold a pity-party for weeks! I'm sorry, honey, forgive me, okay? You are really X, that's how I see you, and please catch me when I start talking meanly like that.'

AND YES, I'm a sensitive, more than a little imbalanced girl who can't take care of herself. AND you said those things to me how? Thoughtfully? With love? So that I would be empowered?

So, yes, it's hard, for a human being (you) to talk with a human being (me).

And you have, for the past year, so utterly failed in even grasping at trying to see how hard it is. You've just made your pronouncements at me, like I'm a microphone, and nothing else, and expected that there's no other way than your way. What views do I have? Have you asked me?

"Oh, 'phfina, I mistrust you because you're obviously not who you say you are, who could be that brutally honest, so there, and who writes stuff that so drew me to you, and I don't trust myself, nor you, so I have a test for you: do you only wear white socks, and depending on how you answer that will be the measure of my trust for you, so what do you think about me shitting all over you so thoughtlessly?"

Read that. Read that out loud, and hear the utter absurdity in what you're saying.

Now, go back to your PMs and read what you've written to me, your pronouncements about me, about yourself ('I'm not a writer like you' 'My reviews are repetitive and suck' 'I'll never be able to open up about things like you'), about the world, about time, about anything, about your gf, about your gf's bf ... about your ability to help a person in need, about your mother, about how your mother raised you.

Just go back and review what you said to me. Just go back and review what you say to anybody.

And you wonder why I say, after you've coddled, controlled, and criticized me, that 'We're through.'

You are so fucking blind.

Do you know there are people who have never done that: judged me nor mistrusted me? There're really smart, too, just like you, so you can't use the 'I'm smart so I'm critical' excuse that I'm so comfortable using.

They chose just to believe me and to believe in me, and not put me through tests nor demand my trust, not to require things from me but to ask for them and to be okay with my sometimes no?

Newsflash: you didn't get a PM from me saying ... fuck it: I'll tell you them now.

Saga. Julia. massrié.

And then some of you have the temerity to judge Saga, for example, to envy her, to compare yourselves favorably to her, when she's never done to me what you have done, or written those mistrustful, needy words you've written? Or to give up on massrié or to distance yourselves from her? Or to say, 'oh, I so know how to fix you 'cause the last girl I fixed left me and I curse her name forever!'

Nice.

And: look in the fucking mirror.

Now, don't take away from this that you are bad, wrong, less than or not loved.

I love you.

AND you are doing these things that are off-putting and that actually push people away. Me, and your exes.

You choose to continue to do this? Well, you'll keep getting the same results you've been getting.

I know.

So this entry isn't for them, unless they choose to make it be for them. This entry is for you.

This entry is especially for you, and why? Because I love you with my whole heart, and mind, and strength, and spirit, and soul.

Don't you see that?

Don't you see that I love you?

...

So, have you hung in there? Survived this onslaught?

Good, 'cause now it gets much worse.

Brace yourself.

Part II: You absolve yourself from 'it's all my fault'

SO NOW you say, when I'm going:

"Oh, okay, well ... have a nice life."

Okay. Wait a minute. Wait just a fucking minute. Weren't you the one to see that I'm in the shit? And that everything I'm doing is only digging myself deeper into the cesspool?

And I say 'I can't take this anymore'? And you're like, 'Okay'?

Sell out. Wuss.

And haven't I said this, in one way or another, every single day we've been together? 'This is too hard' 'I can't do this' 'You can't do this to me.' 'I hate this.' 'I hate life.' 'I hate myself.' 'I HATE YOU!'

And the whole time, you were like, 'Yes, dear, it's okay, it's gonna be okay,' as you held me through my panic attack or drug withdrawal or whatever.

Don't you remember you? That strong person who could take anything thrown her way from me, from the insurance companies, from the police, from neighbors?

Remember?

No, you don't. Because before, you were like, 'she's just saying that, she's out of control, she doesn't mean that meanly, I'm strong enough to carry her and to carry me through this attack.'

Now, it's personal.

Why?

What shifted?

Honey, nothing did. Not on my side.

I just said, 'We're done. We're through. I can't stand this/you anymore.'

But this time you chose to believe the words I'm saying.

Don't you see these are insane words from an insane person?

Do you know: I've really said this. I mean, haven't you read 'Rosalie and Me'? Remember what I told Julia?

I do.

Like it was yesterday.

I also remember what I was doing when I told her these words.

I was begging.

I was begging silently.

'Please-o-please-o-please-o-please don't believe me. Please don't let me leave you. Please try one more time to break through to me. Please don't try, please actually do stop me at the door. Please.

Please.'

And she let me go out that door, me being so cool, trying to hold it all together until I could get to my little red corola and then where I would bawl my eyes out as I'm driving on the most dangerous highway in the U.S.A. to get home to my mom's?

And you're letting me go because I'm a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch who just said those words?

Newsflash: I've always been a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch and you, before, chose to see the good in me that was there. And you brought it out of me.

And you're letting me go back out into the world, knowing I'm those things, knowing I have my addictions that you helped me to recover from, and now with you not in the picture anymore what am I going to go right back to?

But I say I'm cured now and I'm done with you.

And you are so done with me.

You are so done with me, that when I come back, crawling on my hands and knees, or my mother calls you and says I have fallen deeper into depression.

You say, 'Tough cookies' and throw a party with your friends to delight in my misery, and you start scanning the obituary pages, with glee to find my name there.

And you know.

You know that you caused my coming back to myself.

And you know.

You know that you sold out on me, but, more importantly, you sold out on yourself. You know this.

How do I know you know this?

"Oh, 'phfina, I am so over you."

Yeah? Why do I keep coming up in conversations with any and everybody you meet? Why do you keep going over all the things you've done for me? And my ingratitude? Why did you wallow for upwards of a year after I left you, then the rest of your life is spent explaining and justifying why you are in the right and I am just a thoughtless little cunt that you committed to rescuing (hm, you committed to rescuing me because why? Because I'm a cunt? Or because you saw that there was something and somebody to rescue?)

You not only believed me, and were so fucking blind to everything in you that drove me away, no, you took it one step further and then believed that you have no say in the matter, that you did nothing to effect my salvation so my leaving you will hopefully cause me to die so you can throw a party that there's one less bitch in the world you have to deal with, and serves me right.

You've won.

That's the bad news: you sold out on me, and you've sold out on yourself. I'm 'cured' now, and I'm gone, so you get to win.

I'm 'all better now.' And I may or may not be, but you've accomplished what you've set out to do.

Yay. You win.

AND you get to say, 'well, it's not my fault: she's so needy and greedy, she deserves everything coming to her. I hope they have extra gasoline in hell for her reception.'

Yay. It's not your fault. You win.

Isn't the victory so sweet?

Yeah? So keep living like you're living, you'll keep winning like you've been winning. Even if you change jobs, or change gfs, or change people to fix, you'll keep repeating those wonderful results that has you PMing me with what you're going through right now, which is the fallout of what you choose to ignore and choose to refuse to take responsibility for.

That's all I got for you, sweetie. All I got is this.

Bad news: you win.

And the choice was and is totally yours to make.

p.s. I love you.