Window to your soul

Okay, seriously?

Yes, seriously.

Your review is a window to your soul.

So, okay, here we go again. You write your review to try to impress me? SERIOUSLY? Like you need me, or anybody else who reads your review, to be impressed by what you wrote?

Okay, seriously?

Yes, seriously.

What I write, my stories, are windows to my soul. I have more than thirty of them, by they way, so there's more than a few windows here on ffn and on literotica that you can get nice little peeks into House `phfina.

Question for ya. You think I'm writing my stories to impress you?

No, I didn't ask 'do my stories impress you?' I already know they've impressed the fuck out of some people, thousands of people, so do you think impressing little you matters to me?

In a sense, it does. Yes, my stories are grammatically-correct, and thank you the several dumb-fuck reviewers who mention grammar in my stories as their compelling reasons to read what I've written.

"Dear `phfina, I like reading your stories because your grammar is mostly correct."

Oh, really? Then go read a fucking math book: it has grammar that's mostly correct, too.

Dumb. fucking. fucks.

And thank you, dear reader, for trying to impress me, and all your friends, by daring to write a review to the dread `phfina saying that my story is 'different' and 'interesting.'

I'm glad you like reading different and interesting stories.

So read the 9-11 report. It's long, too.

No, seriously, read the 9-11 report.

But you're not gonna. You're reading my stories.

Why? Why the fuck are you reading my stories? It's not because they're grammatically-correct (they are) nor that they are 'different' (they are) (but how?) nor that they are 'interesting' (they are) (but why?)

You read these stories because they are one hell of a fucked-up ride, and you know why? Because these stories aren't 'windows to my soul' (nice platitude there, buster), but they are walls over which I rip my heart right out, and throw it into your hands.

'OMFG!' you scream. 'Nobody writes like this! Nobody!'

Yet, you have the evidence right in front of you. You're reading it.

So.

Your review. Your little window into your soul.

How do you respond to what you just read?

In kind?

Yeah.

If you have the guts to.

You pick one fucking thing that floored you, you mention it, and you say how it floored you, and fucking why it floored you.

"Your story is interesting, because it's different and it has good grammar."

FAIL.

Try again.

"`phfina, (note the spelling) (and the capitalization), this chapter rocked. (why?) I really, really liked when Rosalie opened up to Bella's mom. (why?) Because I never, ever opened up to my mom, and I see this strong, strong mean girl being weak, and I said, "FINALLY!" Finally, when Rosalie was weak, she was strong. You don't have to be strong to be strong, you have to be strong to be weak, and open up, and really risk showing somebody else you care, and risk getting stomped on, but Rosalie DID open up and DIDN'T get stomped on! She got what she wanted, and that payoff was so sweet, because I have never opened up to my mom, never saw it as a possibility until I read this strong girl here, being weak, and that gave me hope that maybe I can do that, too."

Maybe even say HOW (specifically) your relationship with your mom is now better, and WHY (specifically) that's important to you.

But that requires OMG! sharing specific details of your personal life.

You mean, like I do, with every chapter? Yeah.

But that also means, you actually have to live your life, and not just watch it pass on by. Like most people do. Like you're doing, right now.

You see, one way of looking at life, a way that works for me, is that life is a game, and you're either a spectator in the stands (or worse: a referee) or a player in the game on the field. You can 'enjoy' the game as a spectator: "That was a nice game." "Yes, yes, it was, shall we have tea now?" but do you affect the score? Does anybody else care?

Be a player and go for the goal. Put your heart on the line, and play to win. You may not. Case in point: I may not. But I'm playing with all my heart, and as I play, people read my stories, and come away saying: "nice story, made me cry a little bit." And I get to walk away knowing I've affected 10,000 people this month.

When Saga wrote a review to one of my stories in Swedish, she put her heart on the line, and although she's never written word one of a ffn story, she got 5k hits that month from her review. From her review. Your review opens up a window to your soul, and people read it ... will they care that you wrote "Nice story. It's different. Update soon." Will they be impressed? Perhaps. But in all likelihood, probably not.

Are you living your life so that other people are impressed by you ... or 'eh'd by you? From your review I can tell, either way, dear reviewer.

So, are you impressing people? Maybe. But ... I'm not impressed. What impresses me is when a reviewer tells me what (specifically) they liked in my story, and why they liked it. "`phfina, a Lauren fic (for Bitter). Never gonna read it, then I did. I care about her, you showed me she has heart, and for you to write a Lauren fic that I WANT to read? You are the best writer on ffn."

You don't have to go to hyperbole; this reviewer didn't, either. But you don't have to write platitudes to impress. Write. From the heart. What touched you and why?

What touched you in this chapter of Ridden, and why? And why is that important? To you, not to all the sucky stories out there on ffn that nobody gives an s.h.i.t. about: to you.

I cried writing this chapter. Your "update soone" review didn't make me cry, but it left me hurting. I put in all this effort to get a "My compliments to the writer. Good show!" review? Gee, thanks, glad to receive your condescension!

You're better than this. WAY better. You know it.

So, now you know you just wrote a shit review. Now what?

Can you try again? Can you dig 1/4 as deep as I did? Can you try? Can you pick one thing in this story that floored you and say why it did, and why that is important to you and your life?

And if nothing floored you ... are you playing at the game with all your heart? Or are you in the stands, commenting on the plays: "He shudda thrown the curve. If I were in there, I wudda thrown the curve! Jeez, these players suck!" "Yes, dear."

If nothing floored you in this story, please, go find something that does, and be floored, for goodness sake! Please don't be bored with life, huh?

Right Now

Right now.

You know, and you do know, I've come this close. A few times, and more than a few times.

I've come this close to ending it all, calling it a day, saying 'bye-'bye, goodnight, sweet prince(ss), andiamo. Like the Raven, quothing: nevermore.

But...

Today. Right now. There's a war going on, and I'm not talking metaphorically, I'm saying there's a war going on and people are killing each other, and people are dying, and there's a girl there, right in there, right in there that my imagination will never do justice to her reality, but she's there, and she has a gun in her hand, or she doesn't, and she's killing somebody, knowing that she's pulling the trigger, and having that on her soul for the rest of her life, or, she's being killed, and dying, quickly, oh, so quickly in an instant of shock, or slowly, in a combat zone, watching her life-blood bleed out around her mortal wound, and being able to do nothing about it, just watch herself bleed out, as she seen others do, and why did she have to read Wilfred Owen before getting into this shit?

So, I can't imagine what she's going through, ... I can't even touch what she's going through. And I think I have problems. And you think you have problems.

But I do know one thing.

She PMed me, and told me, when she's going through her life crisis, or just going through her day, being so scared that she won't be able to marry the 'man of her dreams' because her 'man' is looking more and more to her like her 'woman' of her dreams, but terrified, scared out of her mind, that her family will out-right reject her, disown her, that she can't even think to herself the words 'gay' or 'lesbian,' and now she's in a place where she's ending somebody's life, or her life is being ended, or she's a clerk behind the front line, but she knows there's no front line when her 'enemy' works right alongside her and she could be getting that next report on that clipboard, or end up as another statistic on that chart labeled 'suicide bombing victim count.'

Civil war. Lovely, isn't it? 'Hate thy neighbor,' and 'eye for an eye' in action, right in front of her.

But I digress.

She PMed, and told me, that ... she writes me little notes, during her day. That my voice, my words, ... me ... I'm the only one she can talk to freely, and share her concerns, and be heard, and know that someone cares and understands, and in knowing this, she has hope.

She has hope, to go through her day, and face her family, or now, face the facts that her decision comes down to her living, because somebody else doesn't, or her dying, just because.

And she can face that.

Right now.

Today, in fucking November when it's not the most pleasant out, and even if it were, you gonna take a shower today? drink clean water? not get shot at? not shoot somebody and watch them die, oh, so slowly crying as they try and fail to hold their guts in or just like that: bang, they fall down and never get up again, and you pulled the trigger? Are you going to do that?

... and, she wrote me and apologized for 'dumping' on me, saying I'm the only one who she can talk to. She apologized for telling me I'm the only one who can give her hope. Right now.

And I think to myself, suicide queen, do I have any right to take that away from her? You. You love me, or you hate me, you think that I am the most wretched, despicable creature God ever created on this planet.

But do you have the right to silence me? To take away the hope of a girl too scared to ask a girl out, but because I PMed her and screamed 'Ask her! Ask her! ASK HER! It'll only weird her out if you don't and keep it to yourself, and all she can say is 'yes' or 'no'" so she asked that pretty girl in her class and that pretty girl said 'yes.' Or she's scared to talk to her family, so she thinks she can only talk to me. Will I silence myself so that she now has nobody to talk to? Will you?

Or she's in a combat zone, and she gets a PM from the girl who's kept her alive all this time quoting Ecclesiastes wondering what's the point, and she's in a fucking combat zone and she reaches out to comfort her friend from the hell and squalor that she's in? Because why? Because even in that, her life is worth living, because she has hope, because she thinks she can talk to me, and she can, and she does?

Do I have the right to take that away from her?

Yes, I do.

I have the right to remain silent. And I have the ability to snuff this, what I am, into nothingness forever.

I can do that, so easily.

And you have that right, too.

It's funny, how sad it is. I got a PM from a reviewer, saying she liked my Chez Melissa but couldn't stand my Rosalie and Me. When I asked her why, she said that when people reveal their personal problems to her, she tells them to man up and quit whining and that's what Rosalie and Me was to her, but it's always nice to have fun baking with friends in the kitchen, because she gets something good out of it.

Think about that, for yourself. When people come whining to you, do you roll their eyes, and say, 'there, there' as you look at your watch? You do know what you're telling them. You're telling them, that you, like everybody else they've gone to before you, has no time nor patience for them, because they are worthy of neither.

Proving to them, again, that they are all alone, unloved, even by their own family.

One more lost person, taken out with the Monday morning trash after the coroner calls it when he doesn't detect her heartbeat anymore. Just another victim, be it suicide, or war, or neglect.

Just like you neglected her.

'Oh, okay, I'll care!' you throw up your hands.

But you don't get off that easily. Nor do I.

I have this friend, all the way across the world, and I helped her live, day to day, year to year, in a marriage she's trapped in, because my words were her only balm, her only beacon of hope. I have this friend, all the way across the country, whose mother sold her daughter's virginity to a hard, callous man who liked fucking the mom, so let's try her fresh teen just because a little rape sounds like fun to him. I have this friend in a combat zone. Right now.

You know how I have these friends?

'Edward and Bella were skipping down the lane ...' sound so fucking trite to me that 21 million girls could fall for a guy who, as far as I could see, was a totally stuck-up asshole who treated Bella worse than shit because at least he doesn't walk all over shit.

So instead, I wrote what I wrote. About Rosalie and Bella, and how they fucked like rabbits, all the time, but at least they cared for each other, enough to love each other, to listen to each other, to make sure their teeth were brushed and hold each other through the laughter and through lots and lots of tears. And I put my heart into every chapter.

... and it hurt, ladies and gentlemen. It hurt, every time I wrote a chapter, and it terrified me to press that 'submit' button. But I did. I put my heart on the line, and I put it right out there, and no, it wasn't cathartic, because instead of getting better, it just got worse and worse.

But I held on. Held onto something. Held onto my words, and when you wrote, held onto you, and I cried. And you cried, and we both ... made it through, when nobody else seemed to care, and you went back to your life, and I kept that in my heart, that you could, and because I wrote, and shared my heart, and cared, you could go back to your life, and live. And hope.

And I have these friends, across the world, at least one, and more, who are alive today, who wouldn't have been if I had exercised my right, and remained silent. Or took away all my toys, forever, because I'm that selfish.

It's your turn now. You can, and you do, exercise your rights.

Whose life did you save today? Whose life changed, forever, because you choose to be 'strong,' and to tell them to fuck off and man up for God's sake, you little crybaby, and can't you see I have enough problems already?

We all have enough problems already. And one of those problems is that we fix other people's problems when they don't want to be a thing to be fixed, they want a shoulder to cry on, someone to listen, really to hear them from the depths of their loneliness, they want to know somebody out there is really out there, dealing with the shit their dealing with, and is trying, and failing, just like them, and cares.

And how can they know this, when you 'don't give a shit' or you say that you do, but you 'don't deal with personal issues.' It's not your problem, after all, right? 'You have a drug problem, not me, go fix yourself,' and you refuse to drive her to 12 step, because you just don't want to get involved, so her only solace is the chemical high that drives her further into despair, because you made it plain: you're not it for her. 'Stay away from me until you get cleaned up.'

It's not your problem that today, right now, somebody else is literally dying, and you have the means to help, but you won't. Don't get involved. It's risky. And it hurts. A lot. I know.

Or you can write, from the heart. And save somebody's life. Somebody that you didn't know until you wrote down your words and saved her life. How much are your words worth? And you don't write, because of any excuse you give yourself to justify your fear and selfishness?

You have that choice.

And so do I. I have that choice to take my ball, walk away from it all, and just play with myself from now on.

Or I have that choice to send a PM to a girl, right now, in the real shit, and hope, and pray, that she's still alive to receive it. To receive my thanks that today, she chose to reach out to me to tell me that she's thinking of me, and that she cares.

Right now.

Love

You can tell what a person is in love with by what they give their time to.

Did you know that? It's very telling to watch a person, hear what they say, then actually see what they are doing. So when they say: 'I HATE this' 'this' whatever it is, but you see them doing it over and over and over again, well, they actually love that 'this' thing whatever it is and are perpetuating it, keeping it alive and strong by giving all their time to the thing they are saying they hate.

People are such good liars... they convince even themselves with their lies.

For me, today, as with most days ... I love ... meetings. I've been in meetings all day, a wallflower, the only reason why I'm there is because I'm 'supposed' to be there, my eyes open and my mouth shut, a good little 'yessir' girl.

I also am in SO much love with the bus.

Then haloz.

And those are my loves.

And ...

And throughout today, I've been thinking of you ... what does that say about me? When I am playing haloz, I have more fun when I'm playing with my friends. I don't get much joy of playing haloz alone against and with randoms.

It's like alcohol, I suppose you can make that connection, and raise high the red flag. I drink because I don't really exist at all, except to give a place for the alcohol to live. I don't enjoy drinking, per se, but ...

but that. But I drink, not for me, but for it to live in me. I'm just a receptacle. You know: like, for alcohol, and for sperm. That's what a woman is, right? To men, and that's all that matters in this world.

I play haloz a lot, but I don't enjoy it, except for a brief second here or there, and except when I'm playing with my friends.

I thought about Saga a little, tiny bit this morning, but that was all, and now I feel a twinge of guilt and of sadness, knowing that I think of her so little and when I do, I think of her sadly, wistfully, wondering how she is, hoping she is well, and knowing that she had something special with me and she misses that and feels she can never have that again. And writing that, I wonder what you'll think when you finally wake up and come to your senses and move on, and ... looking back, say regretfully to yourself, 'oh, well, that was nice, sort of, if she weren't so fucked up in the head.'

So, when I say 'I love you,' what does that mean? I mean ... I mean ... so what? I love you, but so what? How does that translate into my feet moving in a directions, my fingers flying over the keyboard, ... what is my heart if what I say affects what I do how?

I don't say 'I love you' easily. And I do. I'm not scared to love, and to be loved, and ... I'm terrified of my own shadow.

What am I saying, if I'm saying both at once? Don't they cancel each other out? Then why say anything at all?

Why, indeed? Other than that I hopelessly hope that somewhere, somehow I can get out of what I am confining myself into.

You know: complaining about the state that I alone put myself into.

And ... to 'explain' ... I don't say, 'iloveuiloveuiloveu' like some empty-headed dumbfuck broad who'll say anything that goes into her head and then goes on an lives her selfish life exactly as she wants and fuck you and yours for getting in her way.

I say 'I love you,' and mean it, and get on with my selfish, lonely, hopeless life, and fuck me and my stupid, useless, pointless life.

Summertime Sadness

Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That baby, you're the best

I got my red dress on tonight
Dancing in the dark in the pale moonlight
Got my hair up real big beauty queen style
High heels off, I'm feeling alive

Oh, my God, I feel it in the air
Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare
Honey I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere
Nothing scares me anymore...(2, 3, 4)...

Kiss me hard before you go
Summertime sadness
I just wanted you to know
That baby, you're the best

I've got that summertime, summertime sadness
S-s-summertime, summertime sadness
Got that summertime, summertime sadness
Oh, oh oh

I'm feelin' electric tonight
Cruising down the coast goin' 'bout 99
Got my bad baby by my heavenly side
I know if I go, I'll die happy tonight

"Summertime Sadness" Lana Del Rey

— `phfina commentary

We choose our fates, and we choose how we feel about our choices.

That's it.

So simple.

And I've got that Summertime Sadness, I find myself crying so hard these days, so hard my eyes are red when I wake up, looking like warmed-over death. I mean: look at Lana Del Rey! She sings songs, that, if I may be so bold, are like my stories, so disturbingly visceral, and so true. Sex, alcohol, drugs, despair.

... Life. ... or death. Doesn't matter. Nothing does anymore. What's the point? There is none, so why bother?

My choice, right?

I just attended a death anniversary Mass of a priest, a Monsignor at my church, that everybody loved. He was a hard, hard man, he smoked hard, he drank hard, he never, ever backed down from his principles. If had ever meet him, he would have probably beat the sin out of me and preformed an exorcism, just in case.

And he would have done in with Love in his heart.

And the thing is, he chose it, and he was the happiest man in the world for it, because it was never about him, he gave his life to God, and he had open-heart surgery, an appendectomy, the KKK on his church yard burning crosses calling for his death (he was THAT old) which he stood up to without fear, and when he was about to die, he didn't tell a soul, he just went around, having supper with the people he loved and cared for, and then he died, leaving thousands of people touched with a life that was never about him.

He didn't care, either, see? But still he chose: he chose God, and he chose to be happy about that choice, no matter what life threw his way.

Me, I care. I care too damn much, but about the wrong thing, about that girl in the mirror, that, really, doesn't matter at all, not at all, but I choose to try to not look bad and walk around with this chip on my shoulder seventeen times bigger than little me (all of 17 pounds?) (The merchant of Venice wouldn't get his pound of flesh from me), all wind and arrogance.

You know, I almost never, ever would've listened to Lana Del Rey. You know why? It was given to me by somebody about whom I'd already made my mind up. "Fuck, all stupid fucking romantic mushy love ballads; I can't poison my mind with more of this shit!"

That's me. I choose, but then I really don't all: I snip, snide, snicker, and look down my nose at all of you, better than all of you, because, hey, I'm self-aware, and I'm me, and I know what I like and what I don't like and if you dare to offer anything to me, well, obviously, you're wrong, and how dare you, anyway in the first place?

Monsignor Browne was like that. The Mother Superior said, "you know, Father, you really should stop smoking."

He snapped right back to her: "You know, you really should mind your own business," and finished his smoke.

He loved his smokes, he loved his drink, and he didn't give a fuck what anybody else thought, because he knew people in their hearts because he knew himself, and he knew all their darkness of their 'harmless advice' of trying to change him to be more like ... well, like them, and not like Christ.

I learned today, a protestant Church lost their minister, and they asked him to preach at their church ...

Do you know what he did?

If I put myself in a priest's shoes ... which I will never do, btw, as God wills that I don't ... I would've been like, excuse me? Convert to Catholicism, or go to hell you heretics!

That's `phfina for you, so tolerant and understanding! @_@

You know what Fr. Browne did?

He went, every Sunday, for a year, to their church, and spoke on God and Love, right from their Bible (there are differences in the rendering of the texts in the Catholic and the Protestant Bibles). And he would've done it for years more if the Diocese hadn't transferred him to a new parish across the Commonwealth (when they found out?). And, looking at the people today... today! ... with love shining in their eyes for their Father Browne, those people probably fell in love with him, too, for what? for him giving himself up to serve others with nothing other than love in his heart for the people he loved.

And look at Lana Del Rey, my foolish pride and arrogance prevented from listening to one word she sang to me every word she sings about her throwing her life away, so carefully destroying herself, over and over and over again, because why? Because she's alive and she's, yeah, because she's a woman, in the pointless, hopeless, throwaway world.

And her only hope is ... cocaine? PBR? A good hard fuck her bf, or, well, any boy within arms reach, ... and why?

And why? So she can be alive ... be alive for just one second of her worthless, pointless life where everything, all her senses are dumbed-down and dulled in this grey nothingness we all push through, posing, 'working', faking our way through, but never, ever acknowledging what really doing: which is anything possible to avoid staring Truth in the eye and calling a spade a spade.

That is: looking right in the mirror and acknowledging that what we've done with our lives, the only thing we've done with our lives, is to waste it away.

What's the point?

The point is: Fr. ... Msgnr. Browne, Lana Del Rey, they chose opposite.

But they had the guts to choose.

Msgnr. Browne chose to give his life to Christ ... to be a 'Christ'ian, to follow Christ to the end, and he was happy with that.

Lana Del Rey chose to look in the mirror, and actually sing her heart out, to give herself, completely and entirely to any and everything, to burn out, a supernova, and to fade away, but to proclaim to her very last breath her despair and agony.

Me?

A faker. A poser. Too good for anybody and everybody.

That's why, when I think of her, I'm so happy for Saga. She chose to move on with her life, and she made the right choice, to relegate me firmly to the past.

Because that's the only way I can help anybody who loves me ... to help them get over me as quickly as possible and to forget me, because I'm not a choice, I'm a failure. I fail over and over and over again to choose, but I surely have my snide commentary on everybody else and what losers they are.

And I have the gall to be self-righteous about my hypocrisy.

And then, when I have to face the nothingness of my pointless day, I stare at a bright and sparkly screen, so unlike my dull and grey life, playing video games. They have prescriptions for my 'condition,' so hey, I can always get strung out on drugs, because that's so much better, being a docile little fucktoy cumdump cog in this superinfoindustrial machine with metro rail to take us to and from the machines that we are walking ghosts in.

Little Rocket in the Sky

Hey, Boy,
Do-do-do
Hey, Boy,
When we first met,
on the 31st,
and it was Hallowe'en
You know what I mean.
And I was the one dressed up as a rocket
that night
Don't ask me why!

You came over to me, and said tell me,
if you're alone tonight, can I be by your side?
Hey, baby, aren't we having fun?
Little Rocket in the sky?

I'm a Rocket in the sky.
Don't ask me why.

Benassi Brothers feat. Dhany

-- `phfina analysis:

So have you seen that song's vid? With Dhany walking across the stage, the imaginary universe in a patent leather outfit that would make the CatWoman jealous and leave Batman standing there, totally enchanted, totally befuddled like the dumb fu- (uh, PG rating, `phfina) fool that he is? That is, since Michael Keaton played Batman when Batman had at least a one-dimensional character to play, given the helming by Tim Burton (who totally missed the boat on Abe Lincoln and Vampires and how could you screw that up, Tim, but so it goes).

Anyway, she walks across this orange creamiscle world in her black leather get-up and leaves trails of herself across the backdrop, marking it with her.

*sigh*

That's not the image that captures me. (yes, it is, but so what), the image is the lyrics: a rocket, in the sky.

*sigh* (again)

That's me, a little rocket in the sky!

Why do I like the Haloz so much? Why does anybody?

Well, I suppose I could punt there, and say each has a different reason, and that would so totally explain that it outsold every movie in the world going toe-to-toe.

So I'll just give my reason, and let the corporate wonks chuckle greedily as they rake in more profits from other little rockets in the sky.

See, there's this thing, when teams are competing against each other online called a banshee, it's an alien aircraft, a one-seater, very effective against ground forces. It swoops, it bombs and then rockets away, untouched, untouchable. A little rocket in the sky.

When I get in the banshee ...

Well, when I get in the banshee, our team wins; but it's the real test, that we don't have anymore: a test of self against all others, and the results are immediate and obvious: you win, you lose.

And you fly.

In the banshee, I'm invincible. I'm a little hawk, swooping down from my lofty perch, raining down death and destruction, and shrieking away, my keening victory cry the only thing you hear from beyond the grave I just splattered you into.

Why do I play the Haloz?

Why do I write fan fiction?

No reason, and every reason. It, they, are something I can do well, something others recognize and admire in me, and something I derive pleasure, a sense of excellence and belonging.

Putting on the wings of a banshee, I find myself centered, grounded, and ... free.

And nothing can stop me from getting to my beautiful bird and soaring into the heavens. One time, there were three elite warriors guarding the banshee as it spawned, and I rolled right into the midst of them: me, and Bessy, my rocket launcher. I took out two of them with two rocket rounds, and the splash damage weakened the third enough that a few shots from my needle rifle finished him off.

Three elites between me and my banshee? No. Not today.

And nothing's more frustrating that me soaring along in the heavens, then BAM! a rocket takes me out, or ZAP some plasma disables and grounds me, leaving me an easy target for being boarded and forcibly ejected. ARRG! I'm like: Hey! My Banshee!

And, I can do this, online, with my friends, and we can measure our worth against a team of other friends. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, and we come out of the game a team of friends, still.

Now, you may say, "Hey, `phfina, you're a girl, all this talk of Video games and swooping and swerving in a combat aircraft sounds rather, well, you know: mannish!"

Yeah, maybe so, but I have one little interesting factoid for ya.

You know who are the deadliest fighter pilots in the world?

Teenaged boyz, yes (guess who flew the first fighter jets for the Nazis?)

But, now: girls. Specifically, young women, in the Air Force, be it for Israel or the U.S.A. or Sweden (Saab fighter jets, so smexy!) Yep, in modern air combat, a girl fighter pilot of similar skill can beat a boy fighter pilot.

Why?

Well, a girl's smaller frame and lower weight for the same height means she can withstand higher G's than that same boy can before passing out. She turns, he turns, she turns harder, he turns harder. He blacks out and crashes into a mountain, or he levels off, and she gets behind him, shoots, and destroys him and his fighter air craft.

`phfina in a banshee: mannish? or just right?

But also, so what? I have mad skilz in the banshee. Okay, and that's a given. So we win this game.

What about the next game, and the next?

What if you're closer to the banshee and three bks are coming to kill you and I'm across the map?

That's why I believe in: the person closest picks it up.

All the time I see bks betraying for sniper rifle, or sword, or for banshee. I've been betrayed quite a bit for these power weapons, and then, I watch the betrayer charge in and die, instead of using the weapon wisely and getting kill after kill after spree.

Okay.

So, you're closer. You pick it up, or you say, '`phfina, take it.' Okay.

I probably won't take it, if we can afford it. Why? You suck at banshee. Okay: learn on the job. You'll suck this time, and the next time, and the next.

But eventually you'll get better, and then we'll have two good banshee flyers on our team. So you fly banshee, and I'll snipe. And we win, even better than before.

When you're playing a team game, with your team, your team wins better and better the better each person is, and a person gets better by being bad at something at first, and then learning from first-hand experience by sucking at it, not doing sucky things anymore, and then getting skilled.

It's only a game.

But all this: teamwork, coordination, learning from past mistakes, sharing, all this is directly applicable to real life. You get better in game, because you try harder ('try hard': I'd rather be called a 'try hard' then a 'fail weak.' ... think about it), make mistakes, pick yourself up, correct, learn, apply, win, grow.

Yeah. That.

On Beauty: Sita Sings the Blues

What is beauty.

That's not a question. That's a statement.

Because, okay, check this:



Isn't she alluring? Don't you, like me, just want to savage her, because you can't control the lust that she calls forth from you? From what? Her 'allure' to be sure, but that's because she's beautiful, isn't she?

I mean, anyone would be a fool to turn down such offered promises of bliss, right? Who could resist that? Only an idiot or a cad, right?

Obviously.



Like I said: obviously.

But, okay, the guy was ... hm, how do I say this politely, without appearing chauvinistic?

Hm, words fail me.

So, okay, the guy was being a guy. But what did the girl, she of the alluring black lace thong take away from this?



What is she saying to herself right now?

What do you say to yourself right now?

What do I say to myself right now?

'God, I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/dumb/useless ...' ... and on, and on, and on.

And why? Why do we say this to ourselves? Because some guy or girl in class gave us a condescending look?

No.

No. That's not it. That's not it at all.

Look at the first picture again. Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the world? Bar nothing? Doesn't she maybe even know it? Damn, she is hot! And she might be saying that to herself at that moment, too. She is fine! and sexy and sweet and smart and beautiful and with it and together and ...

... and everything.

But that's a very, very fragile layer.

We. Us. Me. We are very, very fragile creatures, because underlying that moment of exultation is this.

The voice. That little voice, that is telling us, all the time: you're trash. You're a faker, and you know it. You're nothing. You're shit. You're ugly. You're — oh, God — a disappointment to your parents. They don't love you. You don't deserve love.

It's not other people telling us this: is us. It's me, doing it to myself.

And all I need is this. I just, in my crowing and preening, one person with one glance to confirm what I'm telling myself as I try to use my bravado to bluster my way through this report, or presentation, or triste, or introduction.

I just need that one thing to make my foot moving forward to miss its step for me to fall onto my face. And then I'm that girl who fell down some steps or who flubbed her presentation or who turned in a shit paper or who farted when he was hooking his fingers into my panties or who threw up in the back of your car or tried to look sexy and oh, so failed.

It wasn't you telling me this.

It was me telling me this, and I just happened to use you to prove to me what I know that I actually am.

But, wait a sec. Really.

Look at the girl in the third picture, and look at the girl in the first picture. What is the difference in the two pictures?

No, duh, `phfina, like, huge!

Yes, like: huge!

But is she in the same body? The same skin? The same black lace thong?

Yes. Yes. and Yes. (as I scream out during certain occasions).

So what is the difference?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except.

Except what she tells herself. She's the exact same beautiful woman, alluring, sweet, smart, sexy, all of that, except for the one crucial difference in what she tells herself she is.

You see where I'm going with this, of course. It's obvious to us, the dispassionate observers.

That guy, that jerk, has nothing to say who she is, and she could just as easily gotten up from the bed, smiled and go out for a drive with the top down and take a dive into the ocean for a cleansing refreshing swim, and then come tell that John that he's taking up space and is no longer welcome.

She could so easily do that.

And it's so easy for us to tell her that: "You rock, gf! You don't need no man to tell you who you are!"

But, that's not the real test.

It's easy — too easy — to see the faults in others and help them with free advice. 'Free' as in it cost you nothing to give it because you have no buy in that other person's well being after you dispense your wisdom and stick your nose in other people's businesses, 'helping' them by pointing out all their failings to them.

No, the real test is where the rubber meets the road.

It's what you tell yourself when you flub that word or trip or puke or laugh at the wrong time (oh, God, the worst! and everybody's looking at you like you know the idiot you are).

That's the hardest.

And the other hardest is this.

'Psst. Psst. Psst!'

Or: "Who does she think she is, wearing that dress like a slut?" "Did you see her make eyes at the VP? Is she going for a promotion ... on her back?"

Or, when somebody says: "I'm going to start my own business in cupcake making!" or: "I got called for a talent call, should I go?"

Do you say: "Oh, you know you're not suited for that Jane, you're just a secretary. Don't reach too high!" or: "Be careful, because my cousin lost his shirt in that" or any and every cautionary way to keep her down, to your level, because if she succeeds, what does that say about you, who are too scared to even think about trying?

Can you be strong enough to encourage somebody else to do something you won't even dare, even though it's risky?

And the other-other hardest is this:

"I'm scum. I'm ugly. I'm panicking. I can't do this!"

What do you do?

"Not my problem. L8R, bitch."

Or: "You're right, you can't, let me hold you and comfort you in the safety of my arms where nothing gets essayed or done."

Or ... what?

Or do you stay with them, all night long, suicide watch, even though you have to drag your sad, tired ass up to work tomorrow morning and explain to the boss why you didn't get that report handed in on time.

Really: on balance, what's more important? Somebody's life and self-worth, or your continued employment and comfort and safety at work?

Really. I'm serious. Which one?

For most of us, it's a sad statement that we'd trade a life for our jobs.

Starting with our own. We sacrifice everything so we can continue to live under the thumb, in fear of, what somebody might think at work when we come into work with circles under our eyes. So we say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I can't take this call now, I'm preparing for a meeting."

And how long to we have our moms? How long do we have another person? Once they're gone, they are gone. But your job? Didn't you get that last summer? Or ten years ago, or whatever? Can't you get a new one? Or, fuck it, jobs are a new thing, folks. People used to just make their way into the wilderness and carve out their existence. Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? The built their house, they traded for food from wood they cut and furs they collected, they did everything from scratch, and didn't have the bossman fucking them up the ass and paying them a subsistence salary.

There is NO difference from what they did then and what you can do now, today, except you have a lot more going for you. You can bring a gas-operated saw and a water purification system, and you know a lot more about insulation than they did. And if you don't you have google and wikipedia.

The only reason why you are going to school or are going to a job is because, NOT everybody else is doing it and your parents are telling you to, no: it's because you're telling yourself that's what you have to do.

You're telling yourself, all the time, who and what you are.

Right now, you are telling yourself what you are.

And, generally, what you are telling yourself is too sad for me to write or to contemplate, because I'm right there with you.

Now, there are Angels. There are. Really. And they are fighting for you. And they tell you you are a child of God, and you are limitless, and beautiful and they love you.

You have, oh, maybe one or two Angels in your life, ... if you're lucky.

Don't bet on luck. The odds suck.

You have to become an Angel. Perfect yourself. How? By fucking being you.

I don't hate people because they are being themselves. I hate people when they are being less than who they are.

Yes, I hate everybody. With a passion.

I hate you. You talk yourself down, and into a corner, and trap yourself into being ... nothing. You listen to the other angels, the ones that ask you who do you think you are? And you have no answer for that because you listen to yourself all to well when you talk to yourself, when right there, right in front of you, all you have to do is step out, in faith, and there are hosts people, heavenly hosts, supporting you, and loving you, and encouraging you, and all you have to do is shut the fuck up and take that very first, small baby step...

... and the world opens up to you.

And you do try that baby step.

Well, guess what happens when a toddler takes her first step.

She falls, flat on her face. And then she cries.

But the difference between her and you? She gets up, and tries again, because mommy and daddy are right there, and are so excited that she's going to try her first step, again (some of you will get that, later), and when she does, and she wobbles, they are screaming with joy and on the phone and taking pictures and picking her up and twirling her around because she took one little step.

Sweetheart.

It's the same with you. You are a baby. A child of God. And you can either sit there and do nothing and God will love you, and what can God do with that?

EVERYTHING.

Example: Helen Keller.

But what do you do with that is the more pertinent question. Because you go right there and dig yourself deeper into your cesspool.

But when you take that first little step, and Jacob's ladder comes down and the Heavenly Hosts sing hosannas and you realize it's because of you, what can God do with that?

Everything, again.

But what do you do with that?

You take that next step, because that first one wasn't all that bad. And you take that next step, and, hey, I'm getting the hang of this.

And you take that next one.

It's all you, Sweetheart. That's the good news and the bad news. It's all you who determine who and what you are. The past is the past, and, yes, there were terrible things that happened in it for you ... and for others who picked themselves up.

You can pick yourself up. And dare to face the world.

And dare to face, face-to-face, vis-à-vis, to Love. Love is always coming your way. You can dare, now, to accept it, and look at yourself through Love's eyes, and see you as you are.

Beautiful.

I love you.

-----

The images are from the movie Sita Sings the Blues. the best movie of the year. Which year? Doesn't matter.

Or put another way. Twilight is this:



(thanks shiniez, and I may or may not have permission to post that, but I hope the number of hits to his site skyrocket (from the astronomical number of times I've view his site))

And Sita Sings the Blues is what Twilight could've been if it had the guts to dare to face the real world with a real relationship.

Oh, okay: `phfina's plot synopsis: Love, Loss, Redemption, Now, and Forever. Do yourself a favor: watch it.

Skirts

Time for a happy (happier) post from me.

So let's start it off right by stating a plain fact:

I'm hot.

I am so fucking hot, just by looking at a girl, with my hot, sultry, sexy, wanton look, I can make her cu...

Um, that's not the 'hot' I mean, but thank you for thinking that.

*blush*

Anyway, I went to the Marine Corps Pass in Review last night ...

... Oh, for the love of everything, why did you do that, `phfina?

Research. Yeah, research!

*ahem*

And I wore my hair back in a pony tail, 'cause wearing it down in this 100°F heat?

But do you know what? If you were nibbling on the nape of my neck last night ...

... `phfina! KEEP IT CLEAN!

Just sayin' that if you were, you would not have gone thirsty, even after wandering the Sahara for a month!

AND I wore a dress.

Yes! I know! Now pick yourself up off of the floor.

I mean, what the heck! I'm young; I'm hot (see above), so, you know, I can wear a dress if I want to. It was a spaghetti-strap cotton little number that was just above the knee. You know the kind, right? A summer dress, white, with bold blue flowers that said to every and all, 'I'm such a sweet little fem, that will coo so prettily, when, you know, you do to me exactly what you're thinking, you strong-looking virile young man in uniform from Indianapolis, Indiana!'

Yes, I was thinking that they were thinking that, but God! Those marines, all built in V-shapes in their picture-purrfect uniforms, standing ramrod straight, offering their arms to all ladies to escort them to their seats, saluting all the fathers, calling all the girls 'ma'am' with a very polite, professional smile on their face that just screamed 'gentlemanly manly man!'

I mean, they could beat the straight right into this crooked little gaie girl, I'm telling you!

I mean, that's why we all love Emmett ... even Rosalie, who doesn't love anybody, loves and cleaves to Emmett ... and Thor, btw ... it's because I mean, men have been unmanned. They always have been, right, if you look at history. I mean, heros are heros because they actually stand up for something, like their families (their poor, defenseless wives and children against the oppressive British tyrants (which describes about half the Mel Gibson movies out there, I just realize)), and we so love our heros because when you ask them, 'Honey, what do you want for supper?' They don't say, 'Oh, I dunno, whatever you want,' and you're like GRRR! I've just darned socks and fed and taught the children and stoked the fire and swept the (dirt ground) floor and I. WANT. YOU. TO. GIVE. MY. POOR. TIRED. BRAIN. A. BREAK. FOR. TWO. SECONDS and tell me WHAT YOU WANT FOR SUPPER SO I CAN COOK THE G.D. THING SO YOU WON'T GIVE ME THE STINK-EYE BECAUSE you're not getting your fav that you've had the last three days in a row.

No, manly men aren't like that mealy-mouthed types who say 'Oh, whatever you want,' no, they say: "Supper, I want YOU for supper, NOW!" and throw you over their shoulder, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE KIDS! take you into the bedroom, lick you until you're good and ready and making you change your murmured protestations of 'But, dear, the kids!' to 'Oh, fuck me now, fuck me hard, you beast!' And he does, he rams right into you long, and hard, and now!

And then, afterwards, he strokes your hair, and you say, gasping, 'get off me, you lug,' *gasp-gasp* 'can't breathe!' and he laughs and gets you a cup of water, and helps the kids make pancakes or whatever he and they can make for you to eat (and even, o.m.g. does the dishes ... keeper!) and brings you just one chocolate truffle afterwards and plops down in bed right besides you and starts snoring away without a care in his head!

Men!

Um ... um ... um ... yeah.

Actually, I have a few dresses in my closet now. I have this little yellow number, pale yellow prints on white, halter top ... I got complimented on it and my demur little white shawl I wore (the office's air conditioning is good!), and I blushed as hard as any little fem would blush.

GAWD! SO embarrassing! Me blushing up a storm 'cause somebody sez I look 'nice' and that I should wear dresses more often ... and I look pretty!

EEeeEEeeEEeeK!

So I've been wearing dresses more. I went for modest at first (okay, don't go there, let me explain 'at first' before you picture me, a pole, and a skin-tight athletic suit that seems to shed pieces as I twirl around the pole, inverted, ... for easy inspection)

(I can't believe I just wrote that!)

But the problem with ankle length skirts is that, okay, have you ever had to sprint down stairs to catch a train? And then, deboarding the train, have you ever had to sprint upstairs to catch the bus? And then, so you've got work papers in your hand, right, so grasping the helm to lift it an inch so you don't trip over yourself? So it's either you or your work papers that are going to fly all over the metro station, drawing a crowd around the stupid girl who fell on her face asking if she's okay and boy you really took a spill, didn't you?

I'm fine, thanks, can you guide me to the tracks, I'm looking for the third rail for a quick end to this embarrassment.

I must be known as the 'Olympic Sprinter' at the metro stations, for the amount of sprinting I do.

Rule number one at group: there are no excuses. There is only you and how you honor your word.

Rule number one at group: You are late, then you are late, and we will never, ever forgive you.

Actually that second rule number one really isn't a rule, but you try being late, just once, at group where I work.

Won't happen a second time. I guarantee it.

So I've gone more toward just-below-the-knee to, now, just above the knee.

*blush*

What? I'm young and it's summer, and I do have the world track record for getting into the bus just as it's closing its doors. To the applause and laughter OF THE ENTIRE BUS! (no joke).

So I have those two numbers, AND I have this indigo cocktail number with these small tropical purple flowers.

So that brings on a whole new world of problems, right girls? You know what I'm talking about.

Accessories.

Okay, how in the world can people afford to be women for fuck-me-up-the-ass-boss secretary pay (even though, as a girl who cooks the books, I'm not a secretary, I'm a glorified secretary)? And then there's the infinite diversity in infinite combinations that comes with.

We have this Dr. at work, her name's Faye, and she has a business of selling smex-me-hard shoes on the side. She wears a different pair into work every day. I haven't yet got the courage yet to ask her if the shoes work, but from the conversations she has with 'invited guests' to her shoe parties where the wine flows as easily as the tongues (for talking, you pervs!), I'm given to understand that the shoes do work.

And how.

But me, wearing heels?

I'd pull a Bella Swan in a heartbeat, end up in the hospital with a broken femur and telling the doctor before he cuts me open to call Cindy at work to tell her I'll be late and then wait in dreadful anticipation after I wake up in the recovery room to see the great dame Cindy looking at me and her watch.

Okay, that last one was uncalled for, but heels? No.

So what then to go with the dresses? Keens?

Sigh!

You know what I feel when I'm wearing a dress?

I was so, SO! scared that I'd get all femmy and ...

... okay, don't get me wrong. Me? A butch? No way! I'm a top, that doesn't mean I'm 280 pounds and have a buzz cut, that you see with their fems strapped in behind them riding their Harleys going to the Memorial Day parade.

Not that there's anything wrong with that for some people, that's who they are, and they are damn proud to be the people they are, but me? I'm a wee Irish-Italian lass and, well, yeah, okay, I'm proud of that, dammit!

Hey. Wow. I'm proud of that.

Um. ... wow. Um.

Why am I crying now?

But, as I was saying, I was afraid I'd get all femmy and sweet, and pretty, and worry about my hair and blush alot, and "that's so not me!"

Context.

But what if it was. Is. Not only 'what if' but ... it is, sometimes, and I ... like it. I like feeling pretty, and wearing a nice dress, and feeling the wind whip through my hair and between my legs and see the eyes of everybody, the mass of commuters watching me as I run against the tide to get to my little eighth floor cubby hole in a large corporate office building so I can run numbers to see if we broke even this month, and I don't even get to see that figure, all I do is process travel claims and expense reports and invoices. I don't get to see the income reports.

Looking back on this post, the image that sticks in my mind, and perhaps yours, is little housewifey me, being escorted by a proud, strong, ... boy from Indiana and I could cop out and say I don't know how to handle that or what I feel about that. But I know exactly what I'm feeling.

And that scares me.

And there's a love-making scene coming up between Alice and Jazz in Christmas Surprises ... do you think Jasper is not possessive of his little Alice? Do you think all those raw emotions running through her as she sees the future-as-present attaching her teeth to her mother Esme's neck doesn't ...

Well, and so there he is, in all his manly, powerful glory, intercepting Alice and Esme on a recovery hunt, and there are no preliminaries, and Jasper, so full of manly virility, just throws Alice down on the forest floor and turns into a ravenous, rutting animal.

And Alice loves it.

And, thinking about that scene ... it scares me. Not the scene itself, writing that scene, I will ... ooh! ... the 'creative' juices are gonna flow, girls.

And that's what scares me.

Am I ... am I 'turning' straight?

I'm going to a civil war battle reenactment tomorrow. Again, for 'research.'

I might do some more research. All I have to do is look at one of those boys, all hot and manly from the battlefield, and ... well, that's all I need to do. Boys, playing sports, need to satiate their victory, don't you know. And all a wee pretty girl has to do is bat her eyelashes and whisper some awed platitudes, and ...

And that.

And I'm like, GOD! I wear a dress and I want a man in me ... on top of me?!? and have babies and cook supper and ... and all that? Or is this a questioning phase where I'm looking toward my future, and what future do I have alone? What future do I have with a girl?

What future do I have with a strong, virile Marine?

Besides none? Do you know the divorce rates? Infidelity rates of wives, and husbands, when those brave young men and women go overseas?

And come back shellshocked? Or don't come back at all? Except in a box?

I've seen it happen.

Or they come back, and lay down the law, and what the hell do you think you're doing, running the house like you have for the past year and a half that I've been away, unable to help with finances or the furnace or disciplining the kids? I'll beat that presumption out of you right now!

Yeah, domestic violence, too.

You know what I am? I'm a skirt. I'm a receptacle to be used and abused by a warrior man, then filled up with his seed to make babies to have more men rule the world.

And I want that?

But what's the alternative?

The second question is an avoidance question, it's a question to divert your attention away from the first question, of do I want an Emmett or Thor or Marine from Indiana on top of me, pounding into me, hard and manly, as only men can do?

And I'm terrified as I write: God, yes. God, I so want to be taken and filled, and held, and protected from the whole world.

But what is the cost of that? To me? To my identity? To the ones I love? To my future, where I'm supposed to be some church lady shepherding my kids to soccer practice and ballet and take care of the house and spread my legs whenever he wants me to and be happy and satisfied even though I'm horny as hell, but he's out with his buds at the bar or playing XBox, and I'm supposed to be okay with that, 'cause I'm a woman and that's my role?

And okay, now I'm thinking about girl-girl love, and ... whew! Fireworks!

You know why?

Yes, you do.

Because it's not wham, blam, thank you, ma'am sex (in 30 seconds or less), it's a slower build, sometimes, but that build just keeps going up and up and up and you get hysterically terrified that you may actually scream your head off, cumming so hard, and you don't know when you are going to come down, because she's nowhere finished nor done with you, not for a long time, baby. And then there's a woman's kiss, softer. And the way a woman holds you in her arms. And lets you suckle at her breast. And the way she looks at you, it can be across the room, but, oopsie, I have to change my panties now, ... again! Just from her look and her shy smile, and the way her fingers caress the stem of her wine glass.

And it's okay for you to wear a dress around her, AND it's okay that she likes looking pretty in a dress, too, ...

... and for you, too.

Or she may go with the leather corset option; girls aren't limited in what they wear, like guys are: jeans or suits. We have tons of options.

We aren't limited.

So I can wear a dress. And I can feel pretty in a dress. And I can run, full bore, right up to my bus and smile at the driver as he kindly reopens the door for me that he's just closed as he's started to pull away from the stop (this happens too many times to be coincidence. God has a special secret plan going on with bus drivers, I just know it!)

And when I'm home, I can wear my white cotton pjs ... or take them off to walk around in the flat with just panties on, 'cause it's so damn HOT! and the air conditioning is set to like, 300°F before it kicks on and the repair guy won't be in the building for another two days, to reset a stupid dial.

Or ... I can pull off those panties and whisper, 'here, kitty, kitty, kitty!' and pat my kitty, and feel her start to purr, and get that warm, fuzzy feeling throughout my body as I hold my kitty close to me, stroking her with long, slow, luxurious strokes.

Um.

Um.

I think I have to end this post now. Good night.

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.

Slacker

So, ... I could have been writing that next chapter.

I could have been betaing that next chapter for my ... 'beta-ee' (?)

I could have finished that blog entry about why I believe in God that is so anticipated by someone. Or I could have written that blog entry about how I got my ass kicked so thoroughly this weekend in group, that ... what? That I wanted to scream, or cry, or say a meek little 'thank you' and then! get scolded with 'ah, and there's that tight smile you hide behind, Violet.'

Relentless. They are relentless — and merciless — in group.

I could have been doing any of that. But sometimes you have plans and schemes and hopes, ... and then life happens.

So, you know how to get a day off from work and lounge about having (very) sexy girls named Michele and Rebecca and a very nice good-old boy from Steubenville, Ohio wait on you hand and foot?

Have an insistent complaint of chest pains.

I thought, you know, yesterday maybe it was something I ate? You know: when you eat grilled salmon, you get fish burps, but then still having them waking up this morning? And they are worse?

Now, okay, everything's fine, and I'm fine, okay? Cease and desist all panic attack for me, please and thank you.

It was kind of funny, in a way. I called bb this morning, and I was like, 'So, let's say, you know, you're chest kinda ... hurts? and it's kinda hard to breathe, and ..."

And nothing, because he said he was on his way and he hung up on me!

Jerk.

But, you know, what else did I expect? We have family history. Like two dead uncles in the past few years. A complaint of 'indigestion' and then they were dead before the ambulance came. And stroke, too.

But I was like, no way. Me? I'm 23, but bb in his furious way of talking at you told me about his friend who was 22 when she had a stroke that nearly killed her.

And at the hospital, it was super-funny because they kept asking him to sign stuff for me as I was rushed right through the emergency room and poked and prodded in every which way, and Michele (who had eyes just like mine ... very intense looking into them) said to him, 'Are you the fath...' And I like snarled, 'He's my brother!'

I mean, like: Jeez! Really!

I mean, like, he looks like he's in his twenties, so what does that make me? Did she think I was a twelve-year-old, or something?

I'M NOT, OKAY!?!

And Dr. super-hot Rebecca ...

Is the hospital hiring on the basis of hawtness? Do they have openings for ... assistants? (Female) Doctors need stress-relief, too, right?

And she wore this, like, black corset under her scrubs, for crying out loud! I'm like, what is this? Free advertising? "Come work at our hospital!" I'd ... come, all right! I tell you what!

You know.

And then good old country boy Jim, the RN, comes in, and he's all easy-going and comfortable ... until I say, 'When can I go to work?' And then he gets all didactic with a leaning-in stance and pointing finger and is like 'Acute chest pains? Honey,' (he called me 'honey,' tee-hehe!) 'you're under 24-hour observation here!'

And I'm like, okay, now ...

See, I have this thing about hospitals? So my blood pressure and heart rate were already off the charts? (177/85, I think, and 90 bpm) And they want me to stay? AND WHEN can I get writing in? Because they sure as hell weren't going to provide me a Mac. What? Was I going to be force-fed Winnie the Pooh on the Disney channel all night?

Ugh!

Fortunately for me, I passed all the tests with flying colors. No inflammations nor blood clots anywhere. And, of course! the pain went away after I was sequestered away in an emergency care room. It did return for a bit, but a tylenol and a tums and lots of TLC from the hospital staff made that go away again.

And saying to Jim that I don't like taking medicine as he's handing you the tylenol?

Good old easy-going country boy was replaced by 'Jim, The Registered Nurse and You WILL Take this Medication if You Know What's Good for You!'

If he wasn't so determined to get me well, I was more than a bit convinced he would've wanted to act out his death glare on me.

Getting a sonogram was ...

... well, and then they asked, you know, routinely because of my congestion if did I think I was pregnant ...?

Ouch. Just ouch.

So, but I was given a clean bill of health, which puzzled the doctors mightily, and was allowed to be sent home on my merry way, thank God! ... with the understanding, of course, that I return right away if the pain returns. bb drove me home — not to sbux — and I got a nice nap in.

Do you know what my biggest fear is? I mean, after I found that, no, I wasn't having a heart attack?

I mean, looking back on my life, and yes, I'm young, okay? I know, so back off, okay? But if Drew Barrymore can write her autobiography at 13, then well, I can look back on my life, okay?

Well, I mean, I'm ready. I mean, I'm in the middle of everything, but isn't everybody? And I ... well, I've dared. I've stepped out. I've actually published what I've written. And actually had something come from that, like save lives and made friends. And had friends dare to publish what they've written me. And lives have been touched and saved from their writing, and they've gotten more reviews than I ever have had. So, I've lit the torch and passed it on.

So I'm ready. If today was the day, I would have died happy.

So that's not what I'm scared of.

You know what I'm scared of? I'm scared of what they'll say to me — and what they won't say to me — at work. I mean, 'oh, Violet, are you okay?' or just that look, you know? Or will they try to pretend everything's okay? Or will they be concerned and caring and extra careful around me or ...

I'm getting sick, just thinking about it. What they'll say, and what I'll have to say. Or what they won't say, and what I won't say, you know?

Silly little `phfina, almost maybe dying of a heart attack, and her biggest worry is what other people will think.

*sigh*

I know. I know. 'Live boldly!' 'Who cares what they think?' an' a' that.

And that's true.

So, what I think I'll go do ... no: what I will do is snuggle up in bed under the nice, warm covers and eat some chips and hummus and watch a cute little romcom like Le Placard or Le Valet or Bride and Prejudice ... or, maybe My Big, Fat GR∑∑K Wedding.

Nighty-night all!

So you have met me

... so now you are in trouble.

No, I'm not joking, I am seriously saying: you are so fucked.

Because you've met me.

And I'm not talking me-me, because you're in Ireland or Israel or Indiana but it's obvious that you've met me where you're at, so I'm going to be bold and wrong here and make her me, even though she definitely isn't because you're asking me: 'What do I do?' because I know what it's like to be me ... better than most people, in fact.

And she may have met you, and you are me, so the same applies. So I'm going to be you, even though I'm not.

What the hell am I talking about?

I'm talking about you've met this really smart, strong, sweet, damaged girl, so lost in her (my) addictions, so hurting herself (myself), but you can see beyond all that crap that she's (I'm) salvageable, and so worth it.

Maybe.

And so you want to know what to do.

So I'm going to write her as me, me as her. I'm going to write this in the first person, and I'm going to shock the hell out of your sensibilities, and you are going to crucify me, but you asked, or you're curious about how you might save somebody, so here goes.

Here's what you need to do:

1. run. Say: 'too bad, so sad, I gotta look out for number one, and you aren't taking me down with you. Bye-bye, b!tch and good luck with the rest of your life, which will be, what? ending tonight, right?'

That's exactly what I told myself you should say. I even told you that exactly already, right?

I so know this girl: this me.

So, if you aren't up for brutal honesty, STOP FVCKING READING RIGHT NOW!

Still here? Dummy! (that's what I'm thinking about you, btw, if you don't run)

Okay, so, ... but you're in love with me, obviously, even though you won't admit it to yourself, but I can definitely see it in your PMs, so there's that, and I know it, and I know you know it, even if you won't admit it to yourself, so you're either all in, or your a fvcking pvssy not worth my time (trans: ... no translation, just know the subtext is my self-talk is telling me how bad I am for saying how bad you are).

So, but I have a lot of problems. A lot of problems, right? Like drinking, right? and drugs, right? and other addictions, right? And like you are scared that ... well, you've dealt with people like me before and you know you can't save them and what a drain they are and how they wreck lives and you're scared I'll wreck yours in your attempt to save me.

Bad news: you are right. You are so right.

But you are also so wrong. And what you are wrong about is that you haven't dealt with me. Not at all. And I'm not saying you haven't dealt with me ... no: I'm saying you haven't dealt with me.

No, what you've done is watched me destroy myself from a safe little distance, offering little platitudes about how I shouldn't do this or I should take up that, and then said 'Oh, well,' when I was obstinately determined to destroy myself despite your 'help.'

Your 'help'?

Sell out.

(You haven't left yet? It gets much, much worse! Go. Leave. Now!)

(And don't you fvcking dare lecture or b!tch to me because I fvcking told you to go if you can't handle this.)

Okay, so, you can't run away and save yourself. Oh, well for you, so that means you have to go all in. You have to, AND so do I. And you have to make me agree to that, and that means you HAVE to give up being you.

Give up being you? Yes, you just signed up for saving my life, and that is the full-package deal, so you have to become a person who's not concerned, at all, for her own safety and well-being, you are now strong, and resolved, and powerful, and completely a person who is out to save me and my life, at whatever the cost.

If you don't then you stop short, and you sell out. And I will know the instant you do that, and I will know you know that, too, even if you won't admit it to yourself. So here's what you will do to save me.

2. Save me.

A. Establish the relationship.

That means, ... how do I say this: everything, all of it, is yours.

Why?

Has anything I've done or tried worked? No. I've been working it and fooling myself and getting drunk and getting stoned and copping out, and that works, running away, for a little bit, but then it all comes back in spades. I know it and you know it.

The difference between us is, even though we both know what I need to do, you have the strength to do it. I tell myself I don't.

You own me. All of me.

So tell me: okay, for one week, you are mine, and I'm not going to hurt you (establish a safe word), and everything I do and everything I say is directed to your good, and you can't question it and you can't disobey. One week.

I'll be like: what? And you say: you want kissy-kissy? You want to get your life back, say yes, say yes now.

But, 'phfina, I'm not strong enough to ...

Listen: shut up. You are not you anymore. You are a top, and a top is never tired or unsure or anything. I know. A top is strong, and right, and confident and always knows what's best for her sub.

I may say no. You have to be strong enough to say: okay, no, that means no whining and no angling from you, AND when you reconsider, we can start from there.

DO NOT let me know this is an option ('cause I'll take it and cop out, so say that: 'don't cop out on your life, do this for just one week and then let's see')

Or I'll get sly and try a counter offer, softening the impact. Don't allow this. All in.

Or I'll say yes. Now the work begins.

B. Clean up time.

Every second of every day is now yours, not mine, yours. I don't know that, but you have to, and you have to enforce that.

So, move me in with you. Clean out my appt. Dump all my alcohol down the drain, flush my weed down the toilet. Cold turkey, starting right now. I'll complain of headaches. Tough. Water (not aspirin) helps with that, and recovery's a b!tch, isn't it, 'phfina.

And I'll say I'm not an alcoholic and I'm not a drug addict, and my justifications will be so perfect.

"I haven't had a drink in two days!"

"I only smoke a little bit of weed, I'm totally off meth!"

After all, I am a consummate liar. I lie to myself all the time, and everybody I talk to swallows all the bullsh!t I shovel out all the time without even batting an eyelash.

I know my excuses are bullsh!t, and I know you know they are, too. If you say, 'well, okay ...'

Then I've got you in my addiction, and you've just lost all my respect, and you've just lost all hope of saving me.

All or nothing.

And I may have a roommate and you do, too. So switch roommates. No need to explain, it'll be obvious to everybody, but practice saying: 'she's moving in with me; she's my b!tch now' in front of the mirror and to any stupid face who can't keep their pie-hole closed. That will just shut them up in front of you, and will get them all talking to each other behind your back.

And mark your territory.

It's a lot better if I move in with you, but if that doesn't work, then we should get a new appt, and if that doesn't work, then you have to go through my place with a fine-toothed comb ...

... and mark everything that's mine (that was mine, remember, me, my time, my stuff, my money? All yours now), in front of me, so I know that it's yours.

My time is yours. Every second of every day is yours. That means I don't get a potty break. Why?

Two seconds. Two seconds is all it takes for me to be sitting there, look into my eyes in the mirror and descend into the well deeper than I've even been. If I'm peeing, you're there in the bathroom, or, if in public, you're there in the stall with me.

Does the word "Intervention" ring a bell to anybody now?

My computer is yours. I don't get to use it.

"I have to use it to do my homework!"

Okay, fine, you schedule homework time, and you schedule it precisely. It takes 15 minutes to do the assignment, then I get 15 minutes, not the two hours I say I really need (I am a consummate liar, even to myself). AND you're going to do your homework ... behind me. So that every second you can see my screen.

That's right. The web is off-limits for me.

My time is yours.

My hands are yours, too. And so is my pvssy.

Establish how many times a day I masturbate. Establish when. Then, say: 'sorry, you're not allowed to masturbate this week.'

What?

No, really. Fvcking WHAT?

That's right, baby. You know how I feel when I masturbate? I hate myself. I'm so alone and lonely and it's all my damn fault, and I'm such a fvcking loser AND a sinner and ...

I could almost go on forever about this. And how long has it been since I've had intimacy ... you know, with another person? A soft, warm human being with light and intelligence in her eyes?

Sorry, 'phfina, but those hands are mine now. That pvss is mine, and I am going to be your routine now. To be clear: you are not allowed to cvm unless I'm making you cvm, you are not allowed to touch yourself unless I'm there and I allow it. You are mine.

I may, at this point, after all my liquor's down the drain and all my pot's flushed down the potty and then my kitty is not getting any pats? I may see the extent of this and will desire to balk.

Therefor the time-out corner. "'phfina, it's time-out for you, go sit in your corner for one minute."

And I may really balk. And I may say no.

And that's not our agreement, now is it? and I may say I take it back.

But I'm not me anymore. I'm not mine. I'm yours. I'm your daughter. No, I'm your baby girl. And I just told you no.

Now, okay, you ready for this? I'm not telling you how to raise children. I am telling you how to raise me (you haven't left yet?)

Spank me.

And don't give me those soft little pats you see on spanking vids. No, you're stronger than me (you are the top, you are stronger, even if you aren't. Will is everything), so pull me over your knee, bare my bottom and lean into the spank, with all your might with each smack. Let me know, in no uncertain terms, that rebellion is unacceptable. Keep at it until I really get that message.

And none of this is significant, and none of this is domination. This is love, sweetheart (DO NOT FVCKING B!TCH TO ME!), this is you being strong enough for both of us to save me from destroying myself and dragging you down to hell with me.

I've lost all of you, haven't I?

So, since I've dug my grave, I guess I'll keep going: just talking to myself.

That was the clean up; that was establishing the relationship. That all happened the first day.

3. Now, fvck my brains out.

Yeah, yeah, you say you may not be ready for this level of intimacy, so, what, we're going to play fiddlesticks? Look, I've texted you twenty times if I've texted you once: I want you to fvck me silly, and sure I was so fvcking drunk or wasted, but that doesn't make it any less true, even in jest, so fvcking do that. I mean, I'm NOT going to make the first move. I'm so not. I know where you are in this game, and I know where I am. I take you, it's like ... I don't know, defloration or something, the panthery 'phfina despoiling an innocent girl. You have to make the first move. Really. In every regard.

And I so want you right now. And I so won't ever act on that want. Never. Hurt you? No. Suggest it? Hint at it? Hell ya. But ...

So.

Bed time? Make sure my teeth are brushed and I've taken care of everything, you know? I've cleaned up my messes I've left around (that you haven't let me, as you're with me all the time), and my homework's done, and it's 9 pm or whenever (not much later, ... I stay up late to 'write' or to 'work' or to 'answer PMs' but really just to beat myself up more and I watch p.r.0.n. and masturbate telling myself what a loser I am).

So, we're in bed, get on top, strap on if you want, and fvck me until I'm finished. And 'finished' doesn't mean: 'I've cum once.' Finished means I'm finished, gf. It means I can't go on any more. Even if that's eight cvms; even if that's zero. Finished means my muscles are jelly and I've fainted or my near unconscious, right? Finished means I'm going to be out in the next few seconds.

Then, wrap me in your arms and legs, and DO NOT let me go. If I have to get up to pee, you follow. AND you follow me back to bed after I get a glass of water, then you rewrap me in your arms and legs. When I move in my sleep, I will feel you. When I dream, you'll be in them.

4. And the rest of the week.

Walk me to class. We don't take the same classes, so you walk me to mine, make sure somebody else is in the room before you leave, then hand me my books. That's right, you're carrying my books. Make sure people see that.

"This is my b!tch."

Go to your class, after informing me you'll collect me for my next class.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

When school or work is done, it can get tricky, because you'll be tempted to be you and be tempted to let me be me because you don't know what to do with me, with us.

Honey, there's everything to do with us.

Involve me in your life: I've just joined your soccer team. I don't play soccer. Tough. Coach needs help, though, right? I'm not the in-the-stands wife (b!tch), I'm the game/practice recorder. I'm the ball girl. I'm the water girl. I'm the towel girl. I'm the girl, if I'm not in the field as goalie, or whatever, I'm the girl who makes the game possible.

Meaning I'm involved and busy, helping and being helpful. Wow! That's a new feeling for me.

You don't play soccer. Well, you play bowling. Take me to disco duck pins, right? Or ice skating. Or roller skating. Or cross country.

SOME PHYSICAL OUTDOOR ACTIVITY! A brisk, directed walk around campus (for at least an hour, no joke), for goodness sake!

Daily.

Involve me in your life. Enroll me in a photography class. Enroll yourself, too. DO NOT sit next to me. DO NOT tell me how to take a picture. Let the instructor, who's dumber than you, do that. I'll listen to her for learning. I'm your b!tch, yes, and you're the only one who can save me, yes (because, in my life NOBODY else has ever really tried ... did you catch that?), but you need time to push me out there, engage me with other people, let me know there's a world outside of my head and outside of yours. A whole big world.

Involve me in your life. Bring me to AA group. You're not in AA group? Yes, you are. Now you are. And you're bringing me and I have to participate, because you say so. AND SO DO YOU (what, you think you don't have any addictions? good for you. that's what all addicts tell themselves). You aren't going for me. You're going for you. So fully participate, get what you can for you, really open up and be honest. I'll see that, because I'll be watching, and I'll be so, so proud of you.

Involve me in your life. When you take me that first time that first day, ask me if I still need that shirt.

"Huh?" I'll say.

And you'll rip it off my body, and you'll tell me we're going shopping for clothes tomorrow.

So we go shopping. You don't like shopping? Nor do I. I like my jeans. Tough. You're getting me a new wardrobe. Dresses. Pretty dresses for pretty me.

You know why I dress like this: plain? Because that's what I think of myself.

I'm not pretty. I'm just plain. I'm ...

... I'm not loved so I must be ugly. Inside and out. Inside and out.

That kind of thinking is not allowed anymore. From now on, I have to wear dresses.

So, we get the dresses, and you say how pretty I look in the one I wearing. BECAUSE YOU MEAN IT.

(NEVER, EVER give faint or insincere or belittling or half-hearted compliments) (NEVER, EVER criticize me: I'm already doing that to myself all the time, and I'm just looking for somebody else to agree with me to validate my self-talk).

And I blush, and you say how cute that makes me look, and I blush more.

And I start to get that I am pretty, from the look in your eyes and from the love I see in your heart for me.

And you start to save me.

And, well, there's another reason for me to wear dresses, right? You're still in your jeans. You get to wear what you like, because you're the top.

AND you're packing.

We're at sbux. We go to the bathroom. (I'm not allowed to go alone, remember?)

So we're in there, and so just slam up up against the door or bend me over the sink and fvck me senseless. Make it almost impossible for me not to scream. Go crazy. Make me pee standing up and push it right out of my bladder with your dick in my pvssy and your hand pressing down on my bladder. I may just faint, but oh, well.

And yes: your dick. Own it.

Why? You own me, too.

AND I have been driving you crazy with lust in that dress and my big blinking 'you really think I look pretty?' eyes, haven't I?

Everywhere I am, you are. Everywhere I go, you are present. Mark your territory. Mark me.

Brand me. I am yours. Make it so. Reinforce it at every opportunity.

Involve me in your life. Bring me to the soup kitchen you serve at. You don't? Now you do. Find one. Sign us up, and off we go. We'll put on our aprons and we'll ladle soup or pass out plate or sandwiches, and I'll see what it is to be of service for others in need. I'll see what it is to put my self and my concerns for a while. I'll see other people exist in the world. I'll see other people helping, and getting so much out of that for themselves in doing that.

Every second of every day has to be occupied with you and work or you and school. Every evening has to be an activity: you and AA, you and soccer, you and photo class. Every night I have to be in your arms.

Why?

I cannot have one second alone to my thoughts. I cannot sneak out for a quick fix or to down a can of Coors. Not one second.

And that's the first week.

5. And forever.

You said you wanted to save my life. You know how long that takes. It doesn't take a week. It doesn't take a month or a year.

It takes forever.

Forever.

So, at the end of the week, I'll say, politely, 'Thank you, that was nice' and try to get away, and not bother you any more, and aren't you exhausted? And make any excuse I can.

No. Sorry, 'phfina. You're my b!tch.

So the first week is every week. I agreed to a week. Well, this is a week. Every week is a week. Forever.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

AND start planning out our life together exceptionally. Fly me home to your parents. Fly me home to meet mine. ... more than once a year! Make sure I call my mom. Give me the phone to say hi to yours. Have conversations with my dad (he's actually really friendly). Involve me in conversations with yours.

Involve me in your life.

Save me.

Or don't. Just walk away from me, saying: oh, well, nice girl, but ... too many issues.

I'll totally understand. I'll totally understand.

And I'll die, just a little bit more, or maybe just a lot more.

Questions

Okay, piece of cake, right? Go for it.

Or, not so easy. Any questions?

Oh, look! Every hand went up in the room ... the nearly empty room, that is. Thank you for staying, those of you that did. Yes, your question?

"What if I'm not up for this? What if I'm not the one?"

Good news: you aren't.

More good news. Nobody else is. Nobody else has been, and my future is my past: nobody else will be, unless they choose to step up.

So, you aren't the one. Definitely not.

"But I want to be, 'phfina."

No you don't. People don't do what they don't want. You're not stepping up, because you know you don't want to. It's just not safe, and you know it. Go live your safe little life, it works great for you, and it'll work great for me. Read about me in the papers ... you can flip back to the obits and know I died because you didn't step up. Congratulations.

Or you can read about that book I published when a real girl did step up and then you can say to yourself, 'well, I wanted to be the one, and I would've been with 'phfina at all those book signings across the country and then the world.'

J.K. Rowling, anyone? Helen DeWitt? Somebody was the one for them. And they were on a crash course with death or just barely surviving. Until somebody gave them a basement to live in and get their lives back.

Hm.

"So how do I be the one?"

Declare it. That simple. "I declare I am the one. 'phfina is going to live. 'phfina is going to be great. I am going to be there with her in her greatness."

Or like that. Whatever you see.

Declare it, and then do it. Every second of every day. ESPECIALLY when you don't want to. ESPECIALLY when I am a back-biting b!tch, lashing out at you as you are saving my life.

Next question. Yes, you in the corner.

"What if you're not the one for me?"

Good news: I'm not.

Plenty of fish in the sea.

Any like me? Any at all? Any others catch your eye? You want plainer? You want less interesting?

Go live your compromised life.

I'm not the one. I'll NEVER meet your demands or expectations, as reasonable as they are. No, ESPECIALLY your reasonable expectations.

Girl, I'm insane. I am all-out nuts. 'Reasonable'? BLECH! I'm not reasonable! I'm passionate and artistic and demanding and b!tch and I don't have one ounce of reasonableness in me.

I'm SO not the one for you. I don't fit into any mold and if I did, I'd fvcking bang at it until I broke my hands and forehead. DON'T YOU FVCKING put me into your little 'oh, she's gotta be like this for me to love her, for her to be the one' mold.

You're interested and fascinated me because I'm a LIVING BREATHING human being, fighting with all my might to kill myself because I can't stand this bland little colorless life. I want to LIVE and I want to be ALIVE while I'm living and I don't want to fit into any little petty normal reasonable size or shape.

I'm SO not the one. ESPECIALLY if you're not sure about that. GOD! Will I smell that.

I'm not the one. Unless ...

Unless you declare it.

"'phfina, exactly as she is, exactly as she isn't. She's the one for me. Her, and no other. Her. Only her. Not my thoughts of who she is, not my expectations. Just her. Every second. Just like she is. Just what she isn't. Her. 'phfina. She's the one."

If you declare that, and be that, then, isn't it obvious I'm the one? And if you ask, 'what if you're not the one?' isn't it obvious I can't possibly measure up in any way. You'll come up with a test that I will fail. I'm human. Let me be human, please, let me be me, and not be the person who you think I am or who you need me to be.

Next question.

"But ... 'phfina, you make it sound so pat and so easy. It's not."

What's your question.

"Well, a girl I was helping, well, she killed herself."

I am sorry. Yes. I will kill myself.

Do you get it? People will do what people will do, no matter what. You tried. You tried to save me. You failed. But nobody else did. You were my only hope in my whole life, and still I killed myself.

But you tried. No. You did. You did everything you could. For me. Selflessly.

Consolation?

For me? Yes. You were my only friend. The only person who ever reached out to me as I fell off the edge. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough for me, and for you. I'm sorry.

We don't win every time. But you did what you could. Nobody else in the world did. You did.

You did.

Yes?

"Well, okay, so this girl, well, how can I stop her from buying from her dealer and how can I stop her from ..."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You know what to do. I can't buy stuff if I don't have cash because I don't have my ATM card. It's not my ATM card. It's yours now. I had to surrender that my first day. AND I'm on your allowance with YOUR money, that's in YOUR bank account (in my name). I can't call my dealer with YOUR cell phone that I gave you the first day.

And, well, you're the top, right? Remember what I told you to practice? Bring me with you to the dealer and now say it out loud.

"Excuse me, 'phfina's my b!tch now, so you just have to find another customer."

Etc. You know what to do. You just have to be strong enough to do it.

"But this is like total domination and mind control and just so against societal norms and ..."

Yeah, this is an intervention. I don't have a life now, I'm just destroying it. You're stopping that self-destruction. And, bit by bit, week after week, I get my life back, first, under supervision ("here's my card that you can use to withdraw your allowance") and then, eventually, over time ... still under supervision.

Once an addict, always an addict. You're just recovering, you know? Not 'cured.'

And, but, eventually, I'll get more than my life back, I'll get my self back, and I'll start to create, and to have fun, and to be joyful, and ...

... and you'll be there for all that.

"But you're telling me to spank this girl and fvck her and ..."

Yeah, right, whatevs. She's not me. I get it. So you're not going to do this exactly, maybe not even close. I also get you know already exactly everything what needs to be done, and you just don't have the guts to go all the fvcking way, including taking responsibility for her entire life, with you and with the rest of the world, because you know she hasn't. In every way. In every aspect. You know what you need to do. You know when she talks about her mom she needs to call her, so pick up her fvcking cell (your fvcking cell) dial her mom and hand her the phone. You know when she smells of pot, you know you need to clean it out and clean her up. You know she's not disciplining herself, so you have to. You know it all.

Now, do it. All of it. Set and make a doctor's appointment. Take her to the farmer's market. Keep her out of her head and her eyes focused on you, on life, on living. Go fly a kite with her.

"But it's not easy."

No, it's not, and it never will be.

*shrugs*

No, it's not, and it never will be.

Look, it's going to be hard at the beginning. A lot of work. Really hard, and I'm going to fight you tooth and nail, and I'm going to fight you dirty. "You can't do this!" "This is against the law!" and on and on and on.

And then, later, I'm going to get really mean. I'm going to use everything against you. When I'm weak, I'm going to lash out.

"You're not out to your mother?" I'll ask you a year later. "Why? Don't you respect her?"

"You're not really all that smart, are you?" I'll ask when you say something.

And I'll get metaphysical on your @$$, and I'll dig into your writing, even the ones you had published under an alias, because I'm smart like that, so I'll find your writings on literotica or on Kristen's archives or wherever, and I'll so use your words against you. Kindly. I'll kill you kindly. And meanly. And so, so hurtfully.

And you'll wish you had never opened up to me.

And that.

So, go find your nice, bland, perfect girlfriend with no problems who makes no waves elsewhere and doesn't cause you any pain, trouble or heartache.

Go marry Mr. Right.

*ouch* That just really, really hurt, saying that.

And I will totally, totally be so happy that you made right choice. I will. I really, really will.

And, good news, you won't have to identify me at the coroner's office, like the girl who did end up being stuck with me will have to, and you won't have to clean up the mess I've made with my life, again, and you won't be crying and crying and crying at night, being so tired because you have to be so strong for yourself to be strong enough to carry me through the day, and you won't ...

Like that. You don't need me in your life, so please just go. I've told you that already.

But if you stay, I've got nothing to give you, except heartbreak, and sadness, and fury, and anger, and disappointment.

And you've got nothing to give me, because I know it all already, and I've heard it all from the psychiatrists and psychologists, and I've 'yeah, uh-huh'ed them already, when I was a 'good little girl' and wasn't screaming in their bland, dispassionate, bored, perfectly understanding faces as I cried my heart, life and hope out on these oh-so-professional 'caregivers.'

Am I worth it?

Obvious answer: no. Definitely not. Too much work. A waste of a human life.

Am I worth it?

'Don't, don't go away!' is that what you want to hear me say?

I won't say that. My stupid, stupid pride and hopelessness will never let me say that. You'll never hear me say that. But can't you see it in every fiber of my being?

Am I worth it?

I'm sorry. I'm not. I'm worthless. Don't you see that's how I see myself?

Am I worth it?

Only you, right here, right now, can answer that question for me.

I'm sorry, it's kind of an all or nothing question. That's the breaks when you're dealing with me. I'm sorry.

Why do I apologize so much? That's another entry. But, in brief: you've met me.

You are so fvcked.

Don't believe me? Those of you who've interacted with me for any length of time? Remember that PM? Yeah, that PM, and I so, so hurt you? You know? Personally? Viciously? And why? Because I love you. And I told you that hurtful, hurtful thing, and I'd rather drink arsenic then press send on the PM, but I saw you being me ... and well, I lashed out, and you got hurt. And now you've met me in Idaho or India or Istanbul, and you want to know if I'm worth it?

Haha. Hoho. Hehe.

*sigh*

Well, it was nice meeting you. Enjoy your latte and have a nice day.

'phfina's plastic friendly smile is so smoothly in place, but is there a hint of wistfulness to it? Nah.