Rosalie and Lauren ... and Jess

So, I was asked this.

How easy is it to get into the minds of your characters, `phfina, then to step back out?

I don't get it. Or you don't.

Or something.

See, I don't get into the minds of my characters, then get out. I think ... I think a lot of writing is exactly that, however.

"Oh, Bella needs to fall down some steps, then Edward needs to say, 'Silly Bella' and dazzle her, so they can fuck and I can get my rocks off writing that and rereading it, and then I can get 10k+ reviews."

Right? Well, not exactly like that, but that's what you read, story after story. Bella has to go to the Lakota store, so the Native there has to hand here the one and only book in the entire book store that says "Edward (or Alice) is a Vampire, so tell them and make passionate Bella-squeaks when you get it on."

How many stories have you read that? People do just off-the-wall things because the plot has to move forward and because it's Bella, so she has to know, although this is the first time these two are ever meeting.

I don't read fanfiction fics anymore, not even the good ones, not even the ones rec'd to me. Not even yours, because you want me to.

Because they're filled with that, things (bad things) happen to Bella, because things (bad things) happen to you, and you take it out on her, but she, somehow stupidly, makes it in the end, because she's Bella, and if things turn out okay for her, they'll turn out okay for you. You know what I mean. You read it all the time: stories with bad things like Bella cutting herself because you, dear authoresse, hate yourself so much you have to hurt yourself to breathe, or daddy Charlie rapes Bella because your dad raped you. Or ... winner! Edward rapes Bella, forces her to have an abortion to save her life, and she's hopelessly in love with him, because he treats her like shit, rapes her and makes her have an abortion she didn't want, because Edward knows best and is a whole lot smarter than stupid, clumsy you, I mean, Bella, and if she doesn't love him, he'll leave her, and that would be bad, for some reason.

See, you can read my stuff and see all that in there, yes?

Or no?

Why is my stuff, where bad things happen to the characters ... why is my stuff compelling? Is it compelling for you in the same way that you can't take your eyes off the people going into the ambulances that happened at that three-car pile-up you passed today?

Or, is it compelling to you because you're going through the same shit I'm going through, but instead of me saying 'oh, this bad thing happened, but it's okay, because it'll turn out well in the end, because it's Bella.'

I write instead, 'this shit happened, and now Bella has to deal with it.'

This shit happened, and now Bella has to deal with it.

This shit is happening, and now I have to deal with it, because I'm writing about it, and I'm crying like the little baby I am, and that's all I can do to deal with it, write about it, and cry.

But I'm not writing about it where it's going to be okay, because it isn't okay. Bella's dealing with real issues and she's really hurting.

And you're dealing with real issues, and you're really hurting.

Or you're not dealing with real issues, and you're really hurting, but you see Bella dealing with it, as best as she can, and she sucks at dealing with her issues, but she's trying.

And if Bella can try, maybe you can try. And maybe I can, too.

That's a rather long route for me to say what's the appeal of my writing. Ick.

But, so, if I don't push my characters around in the plot, then what am I doing?

Having a conversation with them? Having them drive the plot?

Nope, not really.

Here's what I'm doing. Here's the secret to my writing.

I am my characters. Every single one of them that show up on the page, I am them.

I am fucking Lauren.

See, nobody understands Lauren because nobody wants to think of themselves as her. She's the bk, the bad kid, and if you think of yourself as her, you're a bk. And you can't possibly be a bk.

I'm Lauren.

I so didn't want to write this chapter, because I never 'got into the mind' of Lauren. I didn't want to. I don't want to bring up all her shit and now that I have, I have to deal with it.

You don't. You don't write Lauren fics, you don't read them. Too much shit in them for you to 'deal' with, so why bother?

Except for the little fact that you have too much shit in your life you have to deal with, and you don't want to bother with it. You just want to leave it on the floor and have somebody else: your mom, your friends, me, deal with it, and say you're 'fine' and that you 'don't want to talk about it, because it's private.'

And you go on sticking that knife in the back of your mom and your friends and me in everything you say and do, because you have all that undealt-with shit in your life, and you think you can push the people around in your life like you push around Bella in the fics that you read and write.

You are Lauren.

I am Lauren. The difference is: I acknowledge it and now I have to deal with it.

You don't, so you don't have to deal with that dirty little shit that you are ... just everybody else does in your life.

"You don't know what you're talking about, `phfina."

Yeah, whatever. And nor does your therapist, even though there's over one-hundred years of studies into your fucked-up psyche, but you know better about you, because you're you, and all those psych-os are old fogey-pervs.

Whatever. Keep at it, Lauren.

But, okay, that's not very empowering to you, the one or two people (still?) reading this. What is?

Rosalie is Lauren.

Everything, pretty much, that Lauren has gone through, Rosalie has gone through.

But what's the difference? None, really, Lauren's hurting, Rosalie's hurting.

It's just perspective and what they do with their past. They are both living in their past, it's just that Lauren uses her past to hurt other people, because she's hurting.

Rosalie uses her past to fuck-all everybody else, and do what she wants (just like Lauren, by the way), but Rosalie is functioning, in her fucked-up-ed-ness, whereas Lauren is frozen in it.

I'm fucked up, you're fucked up, we can either function or freeze. Our choice. We can either lash out and say "I'm dealing with some shit here, leave me alone in my misery" or we can comfort.

And we can comfort codependently ("Love me because I'm crying and holding you") or freely.

There are so many layers to living. You can be hurting and hurt people from that hurt, or be hurting and help, but then be all weird about it, or be hurting and help and really make a different in somebody else's life.

That's the measure. Not how you're dealing with your shit. Everybody has their own shit, but some people actually are like, wow, I want to be with them! I want to be like them! They are so nice, genuine, friendly, helpful, sweet, loving, caring ...

And they, being all that, still have to get through their day, every day, same as you and me.

And they do.

Just (un)like Rosalie, just (un)like Bella, just so unlike Lauren.

But Rosalie and Bella and even Lauren try to make it through their day. They have alternatives: they can check out, big-time, or they can check out of the conversation, but they can also try to make it through the day.

So, in that regard, Rosalie, Bella, and even Lauren deserve a measure of respect from me.

I have to treat them as persons, with thoughts, feelings, hopes and fears, and so when somebody says or does something, it affects them. Don't you see that?

When you say or do something, it affects the people in your life.

Try that on for size.

Now, ...

The real surprise for me is Jess.

Because I so ...

There's one in every school, isn't there? There was one in my school, which may or may not have been Tolland High where I may, or most definitely was not, a cheerleader.

Just like Bella. eheh. ;)

But, so I just so dismiss the Jess's in my life. Fucking thoughtless ditzes, laughing at everything, popular, and so not deserving it. I work for my grades, I don't sell out my feelings, my emotions, my opinions, my ... body just because I want to be liked.

But I did.

I so want to be liked, and I so sell-out, by checking out, when I'm not liked, and when somebody likes me, I so...

Sell myself.

I would do anything, with anybody, when they like me. You know that feeling, being liked? And you know what you're willing to do to keep them liking you, and not to be alone?

Anything. Right? Anything.

And, yes, I mean anything, and yes, you can read all about it in my blog, my useless, wasted, empty life in my blog, if you want to. Read about me, and read about that girl who ...

Well, you know. Maybe even personally. We do things, sometimes, to feel this now, and we know we're going to pay, but that's later, not now, and we so, so want to be loved. Now. Because we so, so know we're going to be alone later, and maybe this now will make later a little bit more bearable, that we were liked now. And felt something, and was connected to somebody else.

Even if it's just going for lattes at sbux with your friends.

Go to sbux and have a latte with your friend. It means so, so much to her.

And Jess. I hated her. I hate her. Because she's a sell-out, and she does it without thinking.

But no, she's not a sell-out, and, yes, she thinks, and she worries about it, too. God gave her a brain and an conscience.

No, the reason why I hate Jess is because all I have to do is to look in the mirror to see her, now that I've written her, and recognized her in me.

I am Jess.

And I love her. And my heart hurts for her. Because I know what it is to be liked, and I know what it is to be alone.

And I hate Jess so much, because she is surrounded by her friends all the time. She's not alone. She's never alone.

Because she can't handle being alone. She knows what that feels like, and it sucks.

I know what it feels like, to be alone, and it sucks.

I don't 'get into the mind' of my characters, and get out.

I am my characters, and my characters are me, and when I write them, I love them, understand them, and respect them.

When I write to you, I love you, I understand you, and I respect you. And it so hurts when you don't to me, so I know it so hurts when I don't to you, yet I do it over and over and over. It's just too much, isn't it, to really listen to someone and open your heart to them.

But I see the alternative every day at work, in PMs and in stories and reviews. And ...

And not listening? It hurts me so much when I'm not listened to. And when I tune someone else out, I hurt them. I see it. And I hurt me.

Rosalie is Lauren, Lauren is Rosalie. And they have their best friend Jess, who needs them more than the next breath, although she's cool about it, everything's good. And, actually, Lauren, you need Jess back. Can you admit that? Can you admit you need a friend, too?

Good morning, my lovelies.

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.

Shame

Dear Diary (for which the whole world can read),

A friend of mine asked me what I would wear to church today, and I didn't answer, because, as is the common ailment of our sex, I didn't have a thing to wear, in a closet stuffed to overflowing.

I have pretty dresses, and like I fancy the Irish do, I favor the green, and I have solid colors and prints ... and a little yellow summer dress number from the Banana Republic that I love.

But what did I wear to Mass today? I didn't know at the time of the question, so I didn't answer, instead, scurrying, as I do, to the closet to stare at it and grab something off the rack, ready-to-wear.

In the old days, the commoners wore 'off the rack' and 'ready-to-wear.' Rosalie wore neither: her dresses were made for her, and they fit her perfectly, as her hats did, as her gloves did.

Now, we girls try to fit ourselves into 'one-shape-fits-all' dresses, and either suffer the embarrassment of bursting out of them, or the embarrassment of them falling off our nothing-to-cling-to figures.

I don't wear off-the-shoulder numbers, if you didn't guess by now. Partially because of modesty ... what if a guy stared at my collar bone and had licentious thoughts?!?! ... and mostly because of practicality ... I don't have 'milk jugs,' or put another way: my 'happy fun bags' aren't bags, and all they have is happiness and fun, because they've got nothing else to grab or to hold onto ... just ask my dresses.

But the dress I wore today was Shame.

There we were at Mass, bb and I and my nieces up in the choir loft, singing sweetly, like birds, but it wasn't a sweet moment.

bb was getting angrier and angrier. I could see it in his stance. I could see it in the set of his jaw. And I was like: what did I do? I mean, what did I do more?

I am an utter and complete disappointment to my family.

But I didn't see anything I was doing wrongly, so I almost turned on him and smacked him, right there at the beginning of Mass.

And then he ... left.

I was like, what the FUCK!

He left the pew, walked right over to the priest, and handed the priest the laminated placard of the revised responses that the Church just did for the English translation.

And I was like, lightbulb! bb had seen that the priest hadn't had that, and I guess he got angry that everybody else didn't help the priest, so bb goes right up to him, right in the middle of Mass and hands him the sheet.

He came back. He sat next to me. He didn't say one word. He didn't look at me reprovingly.

But I knew what he was thinking. 'Why didn't you notice the priest looking lost up there? Why didn't you help him? You were on the aisle seat. Why did I have to get up, go around you, make a scene when you could have opened your eyes and helped.'

But as if I could. I mean: really! Me, go up in front of all those people, and me, a girl, hand the priest something to continue the Mass?

I mean: I'm getting sick just thinking of it.

But that's just it. It's all me, me, me, and how I think I look, and that paralyzes me into inaction.

Or paralyzes me to wrong action. Stupid action.

And so I do nothing, or I do everything wrong, and bb has to pick up the pieces, and, in Mass, in front of all those people, he goes right up there, fearlessly, I mean, he doesn't even care! and helps the Mass continue, whereas everybody else is just stuck in their pews, not even noticing, like me, or not brave enough, to do something about it.

And that's what he was thinking about me: self-absorbed. Useless. A waste.

And knowing he thought that of me.

You want to know the color of the dress I wore to church today? It was red. Bright red. The color of my cheeks as I burned in embarrassment at what a ...

What a burden I am ... what a burden I am to my family. How useless I am.

Because you don't know the second half of the story. The part of the story of how I moved down to Washington D.C. from nowhere Connecticut.

Because I didn't move.

bb came and picked me up.

From the hospital.

There's the whole precursor of how I ended up there, with my mom screaming and dialing 911 at the same time, and me just looking up at her stupidly from the kitchen floor, but I couldn't say it would be all right, because my mouth was full of cotton and how I couldn't seem to move my arms because they were so heavy, but everything felt ... funny, you know? heavy, and it felt ... I felt tired, but something felt very, very wrong.

Getting your stomach pumped ... it's not something you forget easily.

Mom has to work, she can't watch me 24/7, so what's she going to do? Hand me over to the State?

So bb drove all the way to Connecticut and picked me up from the hospital.

So you think I have my own apartment, with that ... history? histories?

What are multiple suicide attempts called? I mean, besides stupid?

Those steps I fell down, those were the steps from the kitchen to my bedroom they built for me, downstairs.

You think I participate in family activities because they like me so much? Or so they can make sure I don't confuse my diet coke with the kitchen cleaner?

You really have to wonder, considering me, why people try to keep people alive who are so determined to die. I mean, it'd be better for everyone if they just let people like me just ... go away. No fuss, no blame, and no ...

And no more waste of space and effort watching me like a hawk to make sure I don't off myself so that what? so that what? I can face another useless day in my useless job, ... 'and would you like mocha sprinkles on your latte, sir?' ... or my new useless job where, instead of staring at the suits come and go to work, serving them coffee, now I'm one of them, or one of their doormats, staring at a spreadsheet all day, filling in numbers, and getting shouted at when I get something wrong, and getting shouted at when I get something right (yes, you read that correctly), when I do the payroll in half a day where it took a staff of three to do it over a weekend, and yes, they worked over the weekend to get the payroll in Monday morning's mail, and yes, I do what they did in half a day with my spreadsheet, but because it's Excel, everybody thinks they can put their fingers all over it, screwing up the formulæ, and then blaming me when they screw it up saying nobody can understand it and I have to make it simpler.

So here I am, all grown up, with all the other grown ups riding that metro train to their daily grind with their iPhones and droids out to make sure it all gets blotted out so they can make it to 'happy' hour so they can blot it out some more so they can do that again tomorrow, for ... what?

Or I could be a kid again. I could sneak ... no, I don't even need to do that: I could just walk right onto Annadale High School grounds or Edgar Allen Poe, but not TJ, Thomas Jefferson because you need to be somebody with a proven track record for them to look, scornfully, at your grades and deign to allow you to enter, I could have Mrs. A_ drag me in there by the arm and register me in 10th grade, and start that shit all over again and live through, okay, hell, okay? Hell! with me becoming this thing pushed around by everybody else's opinion until I end up on the floor again, either in the classroom, screaming, or on the kitchen, more than half dead, because somebody said, 'Are you really in 10th grade, because it looks like you skipped some grades,' and then look down at my chest, and smirk, and leave me in the girls' bathroom, looking in the mirror reflecting the tears that will, or that I will not allow to fall from my eyes.

The irony of it ... don't you just get the irony of it? Instead of being ratted out for being too old for my grade, I'd be the subject of an exquisite vivisection on posing as 10th grader instead of going back my 6th-grade classes. Now imagine Rosalie going to Forks High School and fitting right in in 10th grade, and now wonder, truly wonder, how she stopped herself, every day, and in every class, from ripping off those vain, self-righteous idiots' heads, and then showing the teachers their own livers for their arrogant presumptive attitudes.

You see, I'm not a woman. A woman is a person who can hold her baby in her arms. My baby didn't come that far to where I could hold her before she died.

Yes, I've had lots of casual sex. Lots of randy college boys on campus, too, if you didn't know that fact.

I'm not a girl anymore, either. I'm trapped in a girl's body, but I've lived too much death to be a girl anymore, and to continue to play the game of being a girl.

I'm neither a girl nor a woman, I'm a girl-not-woman. I'm a child who's seen too much, but instead of allowing me to close my eyes, they keep pumping my stomach. And those hospital bills are another burden I can never repay, another reminder of what a failure I am.

...Writing.

Writing is good therapy. I mean, take this post, for example. Probably very therapeutic for Saga to read and to revel in the fact that she got away from this no-life jailbait loser.

And I can always review this post, and say, "Wow! Look at how far I've come!" and marvel at my amazing ability to claw my way through life, because I'm so gifted and talented at survival.

"Hey, baby," is called out to me, "how's it going?" And instead of answering with the truthful answer of, "You are more right that you know," I answer with the expected answer: "Fine."

I'm doing just 'fine.'

I'm a good student. And I learn from the best. Whenever anybody ever asks Mom how she's doing, she answers, 'Fine,' and says no more, nothing about her just scraping by after her husband left her, her cancer, or her drinking, or smoking, or the one and only failure in her life, a daughter of a college professor who couldn't even succeed in dropping out of life.

Mom and I are on good terms. She came to visit me once, to see how I was doing, because whenever she called and asked how I was doing, I said I was doing 'fine.' Just like Dad, dear old Dad; he came with Mom and wasn't that just a lovely, awkward, family reunion.

But I can tell people I majored in Ancient Greek lit. I have that going for me.

Funny how nobody ever asked to see my degree. They just say, 'Oh, ... impressive!' and give me a job that has a skill level of pouring coffee in a cup, one cup at a time, or putting numbers in columns and making sure they add up ... you know: third-grade math. It's all about style. And I have plenty of that: style and attitude will get you anywhere, baby.

Heh: 'baby.'

So now what? I suppose I could go back to work Monday morning. I got paid this last weekend. I got paid a lot of money. A lot more money than if I were in High school, even selling drugs, which I don't do by the way. ... Sell drugs, that is.

In the supply-and-demand economy, I'm on the demand side ... you know, a 'user,' or as Ayn Rand like to call me, a 'moocher.'

'Guns or dollars!' That was Ayn Rand's lens, that is: how she saw the world. She missed out on high school and college today. Although drugs are all about guns AND dollars, so maybe her lens isn't all that distorted...

But back to the here and now, ... I mean, I have a job and everything!

Just little `phfina, a good little Catholic girl, sharing her opinions with her dear diary. Just a few words on paper, meaning and signifying nothing.

I think I'll have that diet coke now.

Running/Track

Okay, so ...

Why do shy and quiet girls always start a bold statement with 'okay, so ...' I mean, can't a girl just say something, but, no! she has to say 'okay, so ...' so it minimizes what she's saying so people won't look at her, because if they look at her, she might just be noticed ... SHOCKER! ... and then she's die, so she has to start of everything, with 'okay, so ...'

So, anyway ... (and don't get me started on the 'so, anyway's)

So, I ran in this 5k race this past Monday (or 'weakend' as I almost wrote), 32 minutes, 10 minute miles or ... 6 miles per hour for the whole race ... not bad, not bad for a little nothing of a girl with toothpick legs.

I didn't run again until today ... my whole body hurt but today I was fine so I ran a 5k ...

... and then my arm hurt ... my legs did okay, actually.

Backtrack.

Okay, so I jack-rabbited off the start line, because I was like: 'why is everybody running so slowly?' so I passed a bunch of people. There were young people and middle-aged people and out of shape people and lithe boys and girls jogging along, chatting with each other as they sailed past me.

They didn't irritate me. The ones who irritated me where the little kids, 10 years old, who ran past me, stopped to tie their shoes, and sprinted off before I could catch up to them, the walked along until they heard me coming up to them, the zipped away, then ambled along until I ...

GRRRRR!!!!! #_#

I wasn't running against them, I was running the race to win, and to win, for me, was to run all the way, don't stop, don't walk, and I got my best time in years since I was on the high school cross country team.

(No, girls, don't get all giddy, I didn't get a varsity letter or anything)

And then I crossed the finish line ... nope: it was the half-way mark where they were passing out water!

The half way mark? I almost passed out.

Because, like a total idiot, I sprinted toward what I thought was the finish.

GOD! That second half hurt. But I didn't stop, and I didn't walk. I finished the race, and I didn't let those jr. high girls lap me at the end.

AND I didn't actually puke at the end, either, so: bonus!

AND THEN I hurt, a lot! Runner's headache and runner's achy-ache.

WELL! TODAY!

I ran a 5k jog, went to work, my arm hurting, then I find I have to take my nieces to track after work? (Short story, but not for here) So, what's a girl to do, but to do laps with her nieces?

Yup? Guess who just did another full workout?

Lemme rephrase that: guess who's in agony right now?

*sigh*

Okay. Done with that, on to the Haloz!

So, I get on Live for a little bit in the Campaign to get some more assists, because I so love helping people (actually, ... I do) (The use of the word 'actually' makes the previous statement more emphatic, girls, so, obviously, it's 'more' true @_@)

And I scare one guy right out of the game (Hey, I can't help it; I rawk!)

Another guy was like, 'Hey, cool, wanna play again?' We get into team doubles and DO-MI-NATE! He's like: 'You're really good!' (he didn't say 'for a girl,' either, which was nice) And I'm like "Thanks. I really 'try hard'" And he's like 'no try about it."

Nice kid. And I helped him get his challenges completed and he said, 'you're really nice, lol' (why do people say 'lol' when they are not, in fact, laughing at all?) and I was like 'Wait 'til we play a jerk and you read my nastygrams!' and he was like 'I'll be a good boy, then!'

Like that: nice, easy, effortless.

Life can be like that, I suppose: nice, easy, effortless.

It is for some people. Like at track today. We did it at Annandale High School ('Go Atoms!'), and they had a football game going on at the same time.

High school football.

(`phfina shakes her head)

All those boys? They, each of them, were Greek gods, built like Hercules, strong, powerful, deliberate and graceful, and all the girls on the sidelines, chatting with each other?

They were all taller than me, except for the ones who weren't, they were all more poised than me, they were all projecting confidence and ease, and grace, and belonging. They belonged to each other, to their cliques, yes, but, to their group, of 'young girls who have it all together.' They were smiling and laughing, and playing with the boys or in conversations with each other...

It was intimidating. I was afraid that, like, one of the coaches would be like, 'Water girl! Get over here now! Our boys are thirsty! Tend to them!' And I'd be like a deer in the headlights, and maybe I'd hang my head and get water bottles, and maybe all the girls would look at me and point and talk about me with lifted eyebrows and dropped voices but with castigation evident for the little mouse of a girl invading their turf.

That didn't happen, but I'm almost sick thinking that it could so easily have transpired. And what would I do? I was terrified being at a high school, looking as young, sometimes younger than the student body that a truant officer would grab me by the scruff of the neck and put me right in detention!

DETENTION!?!?!?!

I am so glad I'm not still in High School.

But that's the thing: that's my problem. All those boys ... men, and girls, ... they were at ease, and easy, about their whole 'game of football after school' experience. I never was.

Um ... um ... now I'm supposed to say where I do fit in, but my body's feeling achy, and my mind is shutting down now, at 8:54 pm, for some reasons, like: work and double exercise, so I'll just end here.

Oh, maybe that's life though: trying to fit in, or to conform, and always, always adjusting, or, trying not to conform, but ford your own path, your own way.

I actually (for emphasis) don't know which one I'm trying to do. I'm a try hard, but I don't even know what I'm trying for or what I'm trying at.

Such is life, right now, with my eyes drooping.

And, on balance, right now, right this instant, I feel pretty good about that. I'm trying, and sometimes I succeed, and sometimes, like right now, that's good enough.