The L-word

No, not that word. This word: Lent.

'What should I give up for Lent?' I wonder.

Went to Ash Wednesday Mass today: "Remember thou are dust and to dust thou shalt return" the priest intoned as he brushed my hair aside and smudged ashes on my forehead.

I felt them there, all day. Like they were burned into me.

So what should I give up? Liquor, Liqueur or ... lick her?

The thing is, you're supposed to give up something you desire (yes: check), but it's not supposed to be something sinful you are giving up. You see: you're just not supposed to be doing sinful things, ever.

And when I say 'you,' of course I mean 'I.'

So, giving up the booze? Well, that's fait accompli, anyway: I finished off the vodka ... after I finished off the St. Germaine, after I finished off the Scotch after I ...

Well, you get the picture.

... just before Lent.

No temptation, no sin.

You all must think I'm a lush, but really, I only drink a very little. This body of mine can only take a very little before I can't feel my cheeks and then everything goes all sepia-toned.

Um ... did that last statement convince you?

I don't get drunk-drunk (as I continue to dig my own grave here, why not go on?), I just get 'slightly'-drunk, so that's okay, right?

Anyway, I won't be getting drunk during Lent. No alcohol left, and I don't have this month's rent, due tomorrow (well, today), so no money to buy more. Nor food. Nor gas, but I can walk to work, anyway.

It's okay: Dad sent a check, and it should clear RSN.

And how many months has Dad bailed me out? And how many more will he have to?

One option to ease that burden.

So I could give up another L-word for Lent, instead of Liquor and Liqueur, and that is: Life.

But the thing here is, boy, `phfina, haven't you given up on life already. You can't give up on something you already gave up on.

The prayer goes: "God, don't let me die until I'm dead."

That prayer has 'me' written all over it. "God, ..."

I can't even finish it without crying. Trying again: "God, please, tonight."

Every night I pray that, and every morning I wake, disappointed. Once again, God said 'no.' And I can't even ask 'why?' I mean, seriously: "God, in your infinite wisdom, why me?" That's a non sequitur and a half.

Giving up on life. Ha.

You know I read the newspapers sometimes. Those book reviews. One was by a Balkans girl born in 1985 that is now an international best seller, writing about the 'Tiger's Wife' ... writing about herself, that she remembers from being 12 years old. And she put that into a book and is now the toast of the town. And there was another one, that now I can't even remember, I just know that they all, all those book reviews, point at me and say: 'Aha, aha! Look at them, doing something with their lives. Really reaching people. And look at you in your pity party.'

I don't envy them their success. No, I'm glad for them. It's just another nail in my coffin though, seeing people do things with their lives, and me ...

I look at college 'kids' (oh, `phfina, you're so old!) and feel ...

... I feel betrayed, ... by their youth. I'm young, but I'm old, old, old, because I have no future, except continuing to be a burden on society, ... and on my family. But the college kids, they are young, but when they look out of their eyes, they look forward, with hope, and optimism and determination, and ...

And life.

I'm afraid to go back to college to teach, ... not that I'm going to, but do you remember that movie with Anton Yelchin? Where he shows up, first day of public school, and one of his classmates tells him where the teacher's lounge is? I would have the opposite problem. I show up at the teacher's lounge, and they would say, 'oh, are you lost, little freshman? You'll be late for your class, where's your schedule?'

I look like a little girl, and that's what I'm taken as sometimes, so everything I say is 'aw, that's so cute, isn't she precious?'

Empty. Meaningless. Worthless, because who listens to a 12-year-old.

Not that I look 12, all that much, anymore. But my id ... it's like the look on their face is 'this is obviously a fake.'

Fuck.

Maybe you should give up the L-word 'language,' `phfina, eh?

I mean, I could blend right back into college, except for the fact that they have hope and a future, and I don't.

The other, obvious, thing I should give up is that L-word: l.e.s.b.i.a.n.

I should just give that up, you know. I mean, I was thinking of the convent, you know. Really. When I was younger.

Much younger.

And then it all went to shit.

Mary shows up. My dad leaves. I turn out to be ... same-gender directed.

And then ...

And then it gets weird, 'cause like, okay. There must be something wrong with me.

(Heh. That's a 'no dur' one)

'Cause like, okay, I mean, why is it that the wind blows and I'm like ...

I mean ...

I mean I see a girl, and all I want to do is fvck her. I mean, if she is beautiful, and what woman isn't, in her own way, as she hopes, and struggles, and preens and tries and ... hopes. And physical intimacy?

I seriously thought something was wrong with me, 'cause just a touch, just a touch of tenderness, and I'm like: ready. As in the switch is thrown and I'm going and you can come, too, and I will be more than happy to help you, for as long and as often as it takes.

'Frigid'? What's that? My whole body is an erogenous zone, and, and for the girl, ... if she thinks she was frigid, well ...

Well, I have the, erhm, patience and, um, perseverance, and the pent-up passion to ... help a girl who thought she couldn't ... well, you know.

So, me, going to a convent?

And nuns scare me. I mean, really. Look at them. I look at them a few times a week when I go to Mass. They are ...

... they are God's soldiers, and short and plump or long and lean, they have that iron-will determination to get you to Heaven, even despite yourself. If I went to a convent, they would straighten the hell out of me in two shakes.

So I could give up being 'a lesbian' I suppose, for all of, oh, two seconds, given the ... heightened, um, responsiveness and sensitivity of my body and my ever (over-)active imagination. I could give up my appointments with that 'young man' 'Master Bates.' I could.

40 days and 40 nights.

Hm.

BOOM! (sound effect of `phfina exploding)

Again, there's these codes, and my activities and preferences aren't exactly cricket ... or (hahaha) kosher.

So giving that up, not to get me to the nunnery, so married off to a strong stalwart of a man? Having babies and being a productive and contributing member of society, instead of a burden.

Could I be happy, being that? A good little wifey and mom?

I've seen that happen, and I've seen ... well, the girl very happy in her new role, her new life.

But she was already a happy person to begin with: kind, caring, loving. Just joyful.

But me ...

I suppose you have to be happy already to become happy.

Or something.

Wah-wah-wah, poor `phfina.

You know (and yes: I do know), the L-word I should really give up?

Laziness.

I should get off of my sad little wallowing ass and pick up my pen again, and write from my heart. And dare. And breathe. And live. And hope.

Brave words. Brave words, so determinedly said, brave girl. So, go ahead. The doors right there. Open it, and step through. I dare you. And so, so many are hoping and praying that you do. Stop lying. Stop lying in that bed, wallowing. Stop lying to yourself, shutting out the world, telling yourself it'll be okay if it all just goes away.

Yes, that's what I should do, huh?

Yeah.

40 days. Today was the first day.

You know, Mary dared. She did. She said 'yes,' in the face of entire loss: shame to her family and Joseph, and, if he were a righteous man by the standards of the time (that time being: today), she would be stoned to death.

I ... in Mass today I didn't see Mary, but I imagined the final battle. Do you know Michael was just a lowly archangel? And, I think, anyway, the reason God picked him to cast out Lucifer, the Light Bearer, an angel so great he was right next to God?

The reason?

Because all the other angels were like, 'I'm not worthy to the task God asks of me.' So they all stood around, looking toward God, and Michael raised his hand and said, ' ...' well, what could he say? I don't know, but maybe just stepping forward like that, a lowly archangel in the face of the Cherubim and Seraphim singled him out to do that task.

So I thought, for the final call, when Satan is finally defeated, the same quandary will arise. But this time, Mary's there, and she see this and roll her eyes and stamp her foot, and say, 'Oh, please!' and scold everybody with her thirty years of being a mother gives her and tell Satan, 'Okay, enough's enough, out you go,' and throw him out the door by his ear, and that will be that.

No huge pomp and ceremony. Just a mom, cleaning house, all of 14 years old when she held Jesus in her arms, or 44 years old when she let him go.

No big deal. But to God, nothing can be a big deal, because He's the biggest deal around.

No big deal, `phfina, just pick yourself up and go. By the ear and throw yourself and your scared little lazy ass out that door into the world. And live.

No big deal.

Well, we'll see.

My Little Kitten

I have a little kitty. Black, 'short hair,' is the designation, right? I actually wish my last name was 'Black,' so I could name her 'Jett.'

'Jett Black' ... get it?

Or I wish my last name was 'Jett,' so I could name her 'Joan.'

Yeah, she's a bit snarly, a bit feisty.

She's a frisky thing, a playful puss, always, — always, always, always — getting me into trouble.

And so demanding. Just ... such a jealous thing, I mean, she demands my attention all the time.

But she's nice, I suppose, for a pet. And she likes that ... pets, well: pats, that is. And when I pat her, she purrs and purrs and purrs, and it feels so nice, to feel her purring, it's so ... um ... soothing? when she purrs like that, and it puts me right to sleep, her purring like that.

And she's friendly, very friendly, when she isn't shy. And she is so super shy, she just clams up and hides at, ... well, shadows even. She's a tiny thing, so that's understandable, such a little, young kitty. I ... you know ... I was hoping for a fierce guard-cat like a ... I don't know ... panther or something, but she's just a little scaredy kitty. I mean, she's so shy, visitors think I make it up when I say I have a kitty.

And, well, and this is so embarrassing, but I don't really have a name for her. You're supposed to name your kitty, right? But what do I call her? I don't know. I mean, I'm very affectionate with her, but I just ... balk when it comes to out and out naming her.

So I call her 'kitty,' or 'puss' or ...

... or some other things, and sometimes I don't even use words when I 'talk' with her, I just coo as she purrs as I pat her, and she snuggles right up to me and I curl myself around her, and it's like we're so close and intimate that you'd think we're part of each other.

My little black short haired kitty and me.

And I love her, properly and improperly, no matter how much trouble she's been to me and when she's gotten me into, and she loves me, even with my disregard at times, when I can't tend to her needs when I'm at work, or when ... well, ... I pay attention to other people's pets. She's not even (too) (super) jealous of it.

And, well, I have an embarrassing secret.

My kitty? She likes kisses, and ... well, yes, pats but ... nuzzles, too.

And some people would say, 'Ew! Unsanitary!' but I make sure my little kitty is well-groomed, and, well, you may think I'm a bit (a bit?) retentive about this, but I make sure she's cleaned, you know? Nice and clean, all the time, with a pH-balanced wash, you know.

My kitty. It may be boasting on myself, — you know how it goes when parents brag on their kids, and you're like, 'boring! change the topic, please, before I scoop my eyeballs out with this soup spoon!' — but I have to say she's pretty, and I like her, you know, most of the time, even though she's a little, hiding thing, and unremarkable in every respect, even when she comes out for a pat. Why? Well, because she's mine, and I may not take care of myself all that well, but I, like Rosalie, try to take care of what's beholden to me, as best as I can.

... and (oh, god, this was supposed to be a silly-funny post, and now I'm crying! Sh!t) okay, so I may not be the best caretaker in the world, and, okay, so maybe I'm the worst, but I ... but I'm trying, and, like my little kitty, I'm a shy, scared little thing, trying to be a panther, but running even before you say 'boo!' and my kitty gets hurt and does hurt others,... her bite is worse than her meow, and her claws, that sink into you and never let you go can hurt like the dickens (but no infections, so far, crossed fingers)

(there, I'm smiling again, at my own sad stupid little jokes)

... just like me.

But we try, my little kitty and me. We try. And our trying? It amounts to a whole big pile of what we are ... which is nothing.

But, sometimes, ... a lot of the time ... my little kitty is all I have, and she ... well, she's a lot more patient and understanding and kind with me, a lot more so than I am to her, or to anybody else in the world, particularly to myself.

And ... that.

And.

And someday, she's grow old and die out, much sooner than me. Unless she sneaks out somehow and jumps out the window ... cats do that you know ... or gets hit by a truck.

Or, ... dies some other way, and there are so many ways a scared little kitty can die in this big, big world. I mean, even just a look, because you know looks can kill.

So, any moment ...

But, well, I have her now, and she has me, and, well, you know me, and maybe she regrets that she doesn't have a better owner, but, ha!, who am I fooling, she's just a little black kitty with no brain. She doesn't care, she just gets pats from me (most of the time), gets into trouble, and then gets more pats, and that's a good enough life for her. All and all she's a happy little kitten.

Life is so simple, so uncomplicated, looking at it through my little kitty's eyes.

And I'm asked if she's ... you know ... fixed, and that's supposed to be the humane thing to do, but I just don't have the heart for it, to take away something that's what is her. So, you know, there's more trouble sometimes than others. Boy, does she ever get into so much trouble being that randy feral little ball of short black fur that she is, but she is what she is, and I could wish or hope that, but this is what it is, and that's how I take her, and I don't think beyond that, at all. I don't compare her, I don't hold expectations on her, I just take her, for what she is, moment by moment, and, well, she's like that with me: she doesn't take me for anything that I'm not, and she only deals with what I am, moment by moment. When I'm a angry, furious b!tch, screaming into my pillow and throwing punches on my bed, she pretty much leaves well enough alone, when I'm crying and crying and crying just looking at the knife, she just looks and looks and looks at me, but won't come close to comfort me, and that hurts, but she's smarter than me, by half, even though she doesn't have a brain, and when I'm affectionate, well, she can be very playful, even joining in games when I'm playing with another puss ... she may even rub up against another girl's cat, friendly-like, and if there's no visitor with their pet, well, then we have private time to amuse ourselves, then, don't we?

My kitty. My kitty and me. She has me, and I have her, and sometimes that's nice, and sometimes it's pure hell, but we make it work.

I wish I treated myself as well as my kitty. Maybe someday, eh?

Ha! That's funny. I knew I would end up writing a comedic piece.

Hehehe. Haha. Look at little `phfina. So funny. I should go into improv.

Except for the fact that there'd be all these lights on me and everybody would be looking at me.

God, I think I'm gonna be sick now. Excuse me. I'm gonna puke, and then hide under the covers, snuggling with my little black kitty.

... and maybe some Scotch. A lot of Scotch. I just need the world to go away for a while.

A long while.

The Poorest of the Poor

Okay, so, today has been a really freaky day, but that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with this post (which may have something to do with you and a lot to do with me).

So, you remember in my last post that I said what it is, this game called life, is to love and to be loved in return? [OMR, I want her!] Well, okay, guess what today was at Mass (yes, I know, I go to Mass)? It was the commemoration of Blessed Mother Teresa ... she's getting her own postage stamp and everything.

Well what was the number one thing she said according to everybody who gave a speech there? She said the greatest thing was to love and to be loved in return. Well, no mystery there, because that phrase is in the Bible, right?

[I'm ashamed to admit I'm not a Bible scholar like some where I could whip out the book, chapter and verse where that's said]

But, still, very unsettling, for me to write that admonishment to you, and then have it thrown right into my face.

AND THEN!

And then Mother Teresa, jr got up (she's actually a little woman from Texas who is the Mother Superior for the Daughters of Charity in the U.S.A.) and she wasn't eloquent like the Bishops and congressmen, but she was very, very direct. She said, "Let this stamp be a reminder to us to be like her, and serve the poorest of the poor..."

And I was like, fine, okay, got it.

But I didn't get it, because what she said next floored me.

She said: "And who are the poorest of the poor? They are the people who are in your own families: those who are unloved."

And I ...

And I had to go, before I made a scene.

Why, 'phfina?

You see, a friend emailed me, very concerned after my last post. Why do I have to be so angry? So hateful?

And I know why.

You see, this past weekend, you know, when I was flying high off the praise I had received? Well, then I volunteered for group, right? And it was going to be sweet, right? I'd put myself aside for the weekend, and make sure everybody else was okay, and the water pitchers were filled and all that, right? And I'd get to feel good being little-miss-do-gooder, right?

Wrong.

I passed by Bob's office ... you know Bob? The cute big teddy bear of a man? ... to apologize for not being able to help last weekend, and he was like, huh? Saying that he totally honored for me keeping him in the loop as my schedule unravelled and why was I feeling bad about this?

And then he so kindly, gently started digging. And he told me 'What's wrong?' and 'You can tell me anything and I promise not ever to tell anyone else..."

And before you know it I was right back in high school, a quivering mass, not a human being anymore, just a crying pile of ... nothing, telling him what I promised what I would never tell these people. I told him about my 6 month stay in the hospital. I told him about the sedation, the observation, the psychiatric evaluations. I told him my fear: that that I'm still waiting. I'm still waiting for them to come take me away, again, and everybody will be nice to me, and I asked Bob if he was going to pull me off of volunteering now.

You're not allowed to volunteer if you have ... issues.

He said no, but I had to take care of myself and this not eating and not sleeping wasn't working, so I damn well better start taking care of myself.

That was incident one. There were two more incidents. Shawn after a very long day accosted me and asked me when I was going to let go of all this suffering?

WTF? Do I have a big target painted on me?

And then the next day when Shawn and I were making peace, in walks Barb and she's like, 'What's up?'

Remember that crying bowl of jelly? ... Yeah.

And then Barb pulled me into her office and asked: "Are you well?"

You know: the question.

God.

So that weekend where I just wanted to help, you know? Just be of service? It was like, pick on 'phfina weekend.

And then ... well, I wrote the post, and well, you know, that sometimes ... well, I'm not going apologize for it and use my body as an excuse, because I meant every word, it's just that I can be a little shorter at times with my temper, and when somebody writes 'update soon' on her review of my one-shot?

I did tell you I don't tolerate stupid people well, didn't I?

And so when my friend asked why all the anger? Well, the answer came to me in a flash today: if there's one person in the world I don't want you to be like, well, that would be me. "Poorest of the poor"? I mean my advice to live authentically? Getting really real? That applies to me in spades. In spades. I mean, come on! How in the world do you think that I can point out these things so viciously? I see these things in myself, my pulling away from people I profess I love, my withholding myself, my hiding. I so see that and I so hate that, and I'm like, when I read your review, I'm like, again: NO! please-please-please don't be like me! Please don't close your eyes to the greatness that is you! Please!

And yes, I can have all these deep, meaningful conversations all the time, but I just have so, so far to go.

And, like, wouldn't it be great to be able to go to my sbux, so you could have these meaningful conversations? And get your ass kicked when I see you faking it? And kick my ass and get me back on track when you see me descending into my pity-party self?

But the thing is, you're missing it. I am at your sbux. Those baristas with those plastic smiles and absolutely no time for you? She's me. I mean, if you came up to me and started a 'meaningful conversation' ...

Well, here's what'd be going through my mind: I've been on my feet from zero-dark-thirty this morning and haven't been off my feet for the last six hours, AND I have a queue of 12 cups I have to get out before other people start giving me shit for bad service and you want to have a fucking meaningful conversation? Here's your goddam latte; have a meaningful conversation with that

... and "Have a great day!" with a big plastic smile on my face.

I mean, there's no shortcuts, is there? You'd still have to get to know me over months of 'hi's, because if you approached me after shift and said, 'Hey, I'd really like to get to know you and have deep meaningful conversations ..."

I'd be like dialing 911 (emergency) on my cell, holding my mace, and well, not running-running, but kinda-quick-step-running away saying, 'Sry, gotta run!' as I'm thinking 'Psycho killer, c'est-ce que ce?' and 'Whew, I'm lucky to get away from that one with my life!'

Right? Right, girls? Right? Goddam fucking right?

I mean what is rampant on ffn/facebook/wherevs for God's sake: 'Are you a perverted old man who's going to rape and kill me and bury me in your basement?'

You know what the fuck I'm talking about!

But you see, I don't have that worry online at all. You know why? Because you can't hide who you are from yourself or from anybody. AND because an old perv actually did accost me online once when I was on XBox live playing texas hold'm. Fucking flasher. You know what I did? I didn't even bother with a 'fuck off and die' snarl. I just left that lobby and blocked him. I so do not know what the problem is with girls these days. Somebody bothers me? I tell them to fuck off and die, and then I block them. Simple as that.

But ITRW, I can't block you from coming at me. And I have been ... followed by more than one girl who realized after she so totally fucked me (in the bad way) what a good catch that got away, and so what do I do?

I hide. I change States, and when that doesn't work, I change names.

Hi, my name's 'Violet,' pleased to meet you. So long as you don't start stalking me.

So I said all that to say I don't do well with people just come right at me to, you know, ... well, actually, I don't know: my imagination is rather creative, if you hadn't already noticed.

So that girl with the plastic smile and the curt greeting at your local sbux? That's me. So having me as your friend at your local sbux ...?

Bad news: you're going to have to make the same risks that you would even if she were actually me, after all. You're going to have to put yourself forward, bit by bit, and risk that it just won't work out at all. You know? That thing you have to do going into a relationship? Risking yourself? Risking maybe not liking that person you're trying to get to know? All that hard, risky, scary stuff?

So when I said in my last post: 'Be me,' you know what I really meant?

I mean: 'don't be me' and 'really: please don't be me.'

If there was any fate that I would never wish on anybody, it would be that: to be me. And so my diatribe, when I go up one side of your fakeness and stupidity and come down hard on the other side of your shyness and scaredness, do you know what I'm attacking? I'm attacking these boundaries you set up to hide your real self from the world, or that you use to create this fake reality that you can live safe and small in.

I know what that's like; I'm an expert at that, and I came across strong and harsh and angry because I so don't want what life that gives you.

And yes, there's like a zero percent chance of you being me. I mean who ends up in the hospital for an extended stay because her genius brain went rampant in her self-examination and self-criticism in fucking high school, blaming herself for everything that's gone wrong in the world and her life, for God's sake? Like her father leaving her? As if that were my fault. Like for her being born at all? You know? And when she does get into a loving relationship with her best friend, wonders: 'Well, is this her taking pity on me?' and carrying that through the whole goddam relationship so that nothing I could do was good enough in my own eyes, because I was always second-guessing myself. Who'd want to live with somebody like that?

I wouldn't. And so I didn't. So I broke up with Julia because I couldn't stand me in the relationship.

How fucked up is that?

Why am I saying all this? Does this post invalidate what I've written before?

No. I don't think so. What I'm saying is that sometimes I come across rather harshly, and sometimes that can be rather hard to swallow, or it can raise concern about me.

Am I okay?

Sometimes I am, and sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I'm doing better, and sometimes I'm not.

So, then, should you not take it personally, my diatribes?

No. I think you should take away what you take away. Challenge me if you get angry about something I've said, but just know you're angry because what I wrote struck a chord. Maybe I'm the only person in your life who is brave enough to call it like she sees it.

And why do I do that? Because you are so worth it.

You are so worth it.

Look, sometimes I can't see beyond tomorrow. Fuck, sometimes I can't see beyond this next minute, but I bother for you in your blindness because I so want you to have it, to have life, real life, and love and be loved in return.

And sometimes I can't possibly see that for me anymore. Yeah, shy little me, not even out of her twenties, not even barely into her twenties, and when I look dispassionately at myself I know it's fucking insane that I'm a hopeless case, but 'dispassionate'? All I am is passion, and one thing I am passionate for, even if it can't be me sometimes, then it's for you, always for you.

Do you know how much it means when you write and you say my piece saved your life? That you started writing because of what I've written? That you've got a new lease on life or that you finally risked saying hello and found your love from what I've written? Do you know what that means to me?

Do you know what your review means to me when you share how what I wrote really touched you?

Do I know how much my anger and my self-loathing affects you?

Yeah, I should know that, shouldn't I? So, when am I going to just get off it? as Shawn shouted at me at 2:30 am last Saturday night?

Yeah.

So easy to say, and I have done it before, too. That's the thing. I walked out of that hospital on my own two feet. I just woke up one day and decided to get off it. I can do that again. I know I can.

Just be patient with me. Kick my ass. Love me.

And one day I'll be whole.

Or I won't. Most people never get there, to being a whole, complete person, living a real life, not a fake one.

My curse? I have eyes, and they miss nothing. I'll never forgive myself ... ever ... if I sell out on myself. Or if I sell out on you.

I don't think one of the prophets ever said 'hurray!' when God anointed them. In fact, they ran for all they were worth, but they still ended up in the behemoth's belly.

I think that's it. I keep waiting to be swallowed by kind, polite, firm, professional orderlies in white smocks, pushing me on the stretcher into the maw that is the the gaping doors of a back of an ambulance again.

Each day that doesn't happen is another day I've either cheated death or evaded them and that fate, and you know what that makes me? A big, fat cheater.

These are the days when I'm by myself, thinking about myself, seeing scared little me in your thoughtless and offensive reviews.

And the days that I'm not like that? When I take myself away from myself, and I go out on a date or I'm out with a group of friends that I've made in group, or I'm playing with you, back and forth, just being happy talking about nothing and anything.

How do I sustain that? And that's another fear. What if to be real me I have to give up writing what I'm writing? That what if my writing is what drags me down, and for me to be healthy I have to stay away from it and from you? What if the cost of my health is to cut out what I love doing?

Questions. I'm living the questions now. I don't have any answers. I don't know if any answers would help, but I think I'm better now about this: that I can live in the question, and be okay with that, and be open to any answer, even a surprising one.

Life, you know? Living the questions, and being surprised by the answers that I couldn't possibly come up with, because I now realize that the answers don't come from me.

The come from you, and they come from God.

Did you know when I was a little girl I wanted to be a Nun? But that's a story for another day.

Lunch

Today for lunch I had a bottle of Ethos water and a turkey sandwich with muenster cheese and a ginger spread on whole wheat bread. Do you see that little girl wearing all black and a green apron sitting alone at the sbux, pouring over a very professional looking notebook? Do you see her looking out a the clientele sometimes between pages and between bites of a sandwich that her daddy used to make her when she was a little girl? Do you ever wonder what she's thinking? Or feeling? Is she sad? Is she lonely? Or is she just enjoying the zing of the ginger spread in the sandwich?

Tragedy Hurt/Comfort

Sometimes I open up to somebody, and I get hurt. But I don't know what hurts more, opening up and risking that, or shutting down, and risking nothing — that is, just not living.

I just heard today to "love until it hurts." I don't know what that means. I know it doesn't mean that if I'm Sam in Prowling Panther that loving Chris until she hurts is the deal. And I know I'm hurting, a lot, these days, sharing these stories, sharing myself, with you, my

dear readers. But am I truly loving?

I don't know, my dearies. And I don't know how up I am for any of this.

But I am trying. My best. Really, truly, honestly.

kisses, 'phfina

Being Brave

It is so, so hard for me to try something new, because I'm not brave. At all. And when I try something, and it goes down in flames, can I try something new again? Yes, I guess I'll try again, ... I guess I'll keep trying. For, at least I did try. And that sounds brave, doesn't it? But I'm only human, okay? So, if you are able, be kind and gentle, and I will try to be kind and gentle back, and I will even fail at that, and for that, I'm sorry.

But I am trying. My best. Really, truly, honestly.

kisses, 'phfina

Me

Hi. I'm 'phfina. I do a bit of writing. My blog color is Rose. I "like" Rose (understatement alert). I like roses, too. From what I write, you may or may not believe it, but I'm rather shy.

And thinking about it, I have a friend named 'shysky' and I thought, what does the sky have to be shy of? Nothing, right? It's there, looking down on people, and people are there, looking up at it. Do people care that it may or may not be shy?

Did I ever care? No. I just looked up at it, and the clouds, and the stars, and the rain, and the sun and the moon, and looked up in wonder or in annoyance or in disinterest, not a care in my head as to whether it was shy or not.

So what should I be shy of? Nothing, right? That should be my answer. But what, really, is my answer?

I'm shy of nearly everything. Should I be? No. Do I know it's selfish of me? Yes. Does that help? Not much. Some, maybe. A lot when I'm talking with you and you're asking me something or I'm asking you something and we're answering each other and just talking, you know?

But getting to 'just talking'? So, so hard for me. Looking at my alerts and seeing you there, knowing I must respond, if I have any integrity at all?

But what's worse is when I look and there's nothing there. And I feel so alone, so desolate.

Go ahead, say it. Call me a typical girl. Wanting it, but not wanting it.

And what's my solution?

I don't know.

Hi. I'm 'phfina. I'm a little bit shy, but I'm here, writing, writing to you and for you. I hope you like what I write.

kisses, 'phfina