Kiss me, I'm Irish!

OF COURSE I wore green today. I wore that tight little green sbux apron ... AND NOTHING ELSE!

Now, wouldn't THAT be a St. Paddy's Day to remember at my little coffee shop! (but the air would tickle between my thighs, and the apron would be abrasive on my little titties (not in a bad way, mind, but ... well, whew! is it hot in here? My cheeks are pink!)

hehehe

I feel giddy. I feel silly-funny. I feel ... well, this shows you how Irish I am: I didn't even remember today was St. Patrick's day until people started showing up wearing green, all day! And then I was like ... DOINK!

So, hm, what's in the fridge? WHO CARES? 'Cause I'm going OUT to an Irish Pub (pronounced: poob) and CELEBRATE!

Ooh! I have a joke for you! What's an Irish seven course meal? ...
... A six pack and a boiled potato!

Get it? Get it? hehehe

Yes, it's still Lent, but isn't this a solemnity in some countries? like Ireland?

And you know what? On St. Patrick's Day, EVERYBODY's Irish. It says so on a big sign at the Guinness plant in Dublin: "On St. Patrick's day, EVERYBODY's Irish." So there!

(EVEN St. Patrick ... who WASN'T! but don't tell the Irish that, unless you want to play some Irish Standdown ... and lose!)

(I don't think I'll try the Guinness tonight though. I tasted that once, and ... I mean, just a taste, and now I know what they mean by that drink being a seven course meal!)

So, boys and girls, kiss your girlfriend, 'cause today, she's Irish! YAY!

Hey, you two, back there, this isn't France, and if you're going to be doing that, get a hotel room, for goodness sake!

Okay, I'm outie! Mothers, lock up your daughters, 'cause `phfina's on the prowl, and the panther is uncaged!

ROWR!

Addenda

Addendum 1, re: 'good little wifey and mom'

... yeah, right. If it pleases the court, I submit exhibit a (above), you see how brown that carrot bread is? Do you know how the Jews built the pyramids? They took that solid as a rock, burned to a crisp carrot bread and stacked one on top of each other until, voilà (or 'Violet'): pyramids.

And all I said to myself was: 'Oh, I'll just lie down here for a minute, and just rest my eyes ...'

... four hours later ... is that something burning?

You know, in Arabic tradition, the first thing the new bride does is make bread in the tandoor for her mother-in-law. It has to be perfect: not to doughy, not burnt. I saw a picture of one young girl crying because just one minute of inattention had the bread singed. Perfect start of the marriage there, eh? with the mother always saying, 'Oh, yes, I remember that time little Fatima burnt the bread ...' with a very stern and scolding look.

Addendum 2, re: fox supple.

Okay, okay, quit twisting my fallen-off arms, okay? So, I went back and revisited the soufflé recipe — the 'real vrai egg soufflé' recipe — and how could I not, with Saga saying, scoldingly, 'oh, but I'll try the real soufflé recipe, not your fakey one' (she didn't actually say that) and the French brigade and gendarmes battering through my door ("Oh, heresy! Sacrilege! Sacre Bleu! [whatever that means ...] You must try the vrai true recipe for the fun and joy of seeing if the soufflé stands!") (I do not know what fun it is to have your arms fall off, but whatevs ...) and this time, using a wisk, and much stronger, more exercised arms, and a wee bit more experience, it came off rather quickly, and yes, it was light and airy ... effervescent, even, unlike my quick faux substitute.

Still took an hour.

But it was yummy.

Anyway. You choose.

Addendum 3, re: 'Whatever that book was'

That book was a graphic novel. This guy wrote about boring stuff like vampires and stuff, and his friend/editor said: 'Meh.' and 'Blä.' and 'Write from your heart! Write from your soul! Don't give me this garbage!'

So he wrote and drew a graphic novel, about a girl, 24 years old, with terminal breast cancer.

And it's heartbreaking, poetic, beautiful ... as she's dying in the cancer ward, no hair, wasting away, she ...

Well, research it and read it. I won't describe any more to you. But he wrote about hope, you see, even in dying, even in death, he wrote about hope.

I think I see part of what my 'writer's block' is about.

...

I have so much else to write, and to say, but I'm off to a wake. A friend of the family died.

Hm. I wonder what will be said when I will die? 'A friend of the family died.' Probably not. I need friends for that to be said.

I'm not fishing, btw, so don't bother.

You know: update soon and all that. All we have is now; that's all you're given. You can't expect anything from me, like updating soon or finishing a story or responding to a PM, and I can't either. I mean, I try and I'll try, but one day soon ... well, all you'll see is that I haven't updated in a while. That's all. I appeared for a short time, wrote some things, and, like Violet, I'll just be gone, is all.

I'm sad, for some reason.

I love you all.

I am Violet

It's incredible ... *ahem* ... what computers and surveys tell you ... me, I mean.

I watched the Incredibles while I was 'sitting my nieces one day, burning the carrot bread in the oven (oh, well), and I was like, 'Wouldn't it be neat to have a superpower! I wonder what my power would be?'

No capes.

This survey told me exactly what power I would have. It even told me my name and my ... charming personality ... 'quirks.' To the letter:

Perhaps a bit under-confident, and you just want to fit in and not be different. But you may wish to be different, and confident, and all you need is a push in the right direction

And 'Violet' is described as:

At the beginning of the movie, Violet is shy; she doesn't want to be noticed and it shows by the way her hair covers her face and she always looks down and speaks in a low, quiet voice. Violet lacks self confidence.

Joy. They pegged my superpower: I disappear. Whenever I feel cornered, I run away. I'm a very good vanisher. And they got the hair right, too.

Did I choose my name, like I think I did ... or did my name choose me?

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.

Fox Supple (French cooking, `phfina-style)

I hate French cooking, okay? Here's why. It's called 'soufflé,' but it really should called 'French Egg Torture' as opposed to 'Chinese Water Torture,' 'cause that's what it is.

Here's the 'real' recipe for a Soufflé ...

No, wait. I guess I have to explain why I'm writing this recipe. So, I don't work all the time, you know. And I don't just go home and hide under the covers or go to group ... which I'm not anymore. So, like, if I were to become a coffee master at sbux, which I won't, I'd have to know what else is out there, I guess, so I went to Panera and had their soufflé, and the way it went is that they took a 4-cheese soufflé off their hot plate and served it to me. And I was like: 'This is easy! I could do this!'

So I did. That's why. So here's the recipe.

1 1/4 cup milk
3 Tbsp butter
3 Tbsp flour
2 tsp dry mustard
6 large eggs, separated into yolks and whites in two bowls
3/4 tsp salt
ground black pepper
cayenne
1 1/2 cups grated sharp cheddar

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 375°F


2. Make sure eggs are well-separated and beat the whites into a froth.


3. Heat milk (don't boil); set aside


4. Melt butter and mix it together with the mustard and flour


5. beat egg yolks with a fork and pour into heated milk mixture


6. Beat egg whites with a whisk until they form peaks ... make them nice and foamy


7. Fold the egg whites into the sauce, sprinkle in the grated cheese, mix together


8. Bake in a greased pan for 35-40 mins, serve immediately

Sounds simple, right?

But here's the catch, that 'beating the egg whites until foamy''? That's a lie ... or it doesn't tell the whole story. What should really be said is:

Beat egg whites until your arm falls off. Switch arms. Repeat until you run out of arms.

My arm fucking hurts. Even now, hours later.

The French.

My dad is French(-Italian), and so I have my whole experience of the French from him. His strong Gallic face. His joie de vivre. His love of food. His ... 'original' ... sense of humor.

He would create these Dad things in the kitchen, ... mostly pancakes flamés ... and proclaim his victory: "This is chicken coq au vin in wine ... get it? Chicken coq au vin in wine?" And then wait for us to admire his sense of humor.

Well, I had made the soufflé by the book, but I'm not going to do that again. Yes, it was light and airy. For like one minute, and then it deflated: a flat tire.

So here's my 'fox supple' ("faux soufflé") as my dad would say.

1 microwavable bowl, greased.
3 eggs, well-beaten.
cheese, grated (whatever's in the fridge, muenster, usually)
Milk
salt and pepper. garlic powder

1. combine ingredients.


2. microwave for 1 minute


3. It should be a bit runny. Remix in the bowl.


4. microwave for 1 minute


5. serve, don't burn your tongue

You can add sautéed mushrooms or whatever you'd like, but that's it, and the result? Indistinguishable from the 'real vrai egg soufflé.'

Well, there is one difference. About an hour of preparation time not wasted and an arm that doesn't have tennis elbow.

I did put in some flour the first time I tried my faux alternative, but then, you see, I'm sometimes on a health-food kick, and I never get off these things, so I was on the carrot diet so now I have carrots for juicing, and I have wheat bran, unprocessed, and I was on this unbleached, unprocessed, whole wheat flour so I have that instead of that other stuff, so when I did put that in that flour my fox supple (faux soufflé) tasted kinda ... wheaty.

Yuck.

So, live and learn, you know? So I got rid of that ingredient.

Call me Joan d'Arc and burn me at the stake, but my recipe takes all of ten minutes, tops, to make and to eat.

Kay. Nighty-night.

Why? (Silly me)

So, that last post was a doozy.

AND I'm tired.

But gf was all like, you know, Swedish humble with her ... hm, what do I call it? ... 'curiosity.'

"Why do you hate yourself? and Why do you want to die? I've asked you before, but you didn't answer, so you can ignore my questions, but I'll keep asking until I get a satisfactory answer so, ..."

And I could just see her cross her arms and raise her eyebrow, ... waiting. Or give me the big pleading eyes, wanting to know why.

And then ...

Well, and then, I got all ...

Well, you know how, when you're talking with somebody, and they get this thoughtful look on their face? You know what that means, right?

Does it mean they are going to say something thoughtful and intelligent?

No, not really. People know what they know, and don't what they don't, and putting a thoughtful expression on your face (my face) does not bestow instant wisdom. No, the thoughtful look is covering the real look: the 'doi-doi-duh, I'm clueless' look and the 'oh, fuck, she caught me!' look and the 'quick, I gotta think of something smart or witty to say, so I don't look stupid' look.

Yeah. The thoughtful look.

Because anybody can have thoughts. I have tons of them. One of them was "I hate myself! I hate myself! bis-bis I want to die."

That's a thought. It comes unbidden, easily and naturally.

But Saga did what I requested she do. She did the inquiry. She didn't just have a thought, but she thought it through to the conclusions. And the conclusions she made were probably along the lines of: 'Well, that's stupid!'

Me, I just had my thoughts, but did I think them through? No. I didn't do what I've asked you to do. I didn't inquire. I didn't separate my thoughts that I have from reasoning about them, figuring it out to the end. No, I just went, 'wah-wah' and was fine with that.

So, when Saga inquired, it was my turn. She asked, and I had to answer.

But what answer can satisfy "'I hate myself and I want to die' Why?" I mean, really? Why would somebody (I) hate herself (myself)? What reasonable justification can be given for that statement?

I mean, like, there's no satisfactory answer to that.

So, instead, I smiled a little smile. I've been shown up, using my own methods that I've so prided myself on my mastery (What's the feminine form of 'mastery'? Is it: 'miss'-tery?)

Do I hate myself and do I want to die?

Um ... '5th Amendment'?

But under the light of scrutiny, isn't that the funniest statement in the world? Silly, even?

Silly, silly me.

Am I 'all better now'?

Well, I am better now, but a certain reviewer of a certain cathartic story of mine told me my fear will always be with me. Okay. I mean, for now: okay. So maybe I can be friends with my fear ... you know: sometimes. And be like 'oh, I'm afraid; hello, fear, how ya doing?' I mean, I say that now, but even as I say that now, and am not now despairing, I am afraid of being afraid.

But tomorrow becomes today, even as I write, and that today is a better one than yesterday, so I am thankful, and grateful, for that. And tomorrow? That is 'tomorrow-tomorrow' or 'really-tomorrow'?

... I'll have to face that when it comes: I've got plenty on my plate for today, so I'm off to bed now to be able to do that.

Good night.

Taking it personally

You walked into the party
Like you were walking onto a yacht
Your hat strategically dipped below one eye
Your scarf it was apricot
You had one eye in the mirror
As you watched yourself gavotte
And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner
They'd be your partner, and

You're so vain
You probably think this song is about you
You're so vain
I'll bet you think this song is about you
Don't you? Don't you?

Carly Simon, "You're So Vain" 1973

— `phfina commentary:

You know, I get this all the time. From a goodly number of you, too: "Why are you writing about me in your entries?"

Okay, so you are ready for the one-two sucker punch, right?

Honey, you think this entry is about you, don't you? And you take it so, so personally, don't you? Oh, yes, you do. I know. I smart — still! — at some of the very sharp words I have received about things I have put up about ... "you."

Well, there's several things in that above statement (sez `phfina, wearing her professor tweed blouse) and the first thing that strikes me is, well, how else would you take it?

I mean, really, there's a couple of ways to deal with things, one of them is to be cool as a cucumber about it. "Well," sez you, "that's your point of view, and that's all very well and good, but it really doesn't apply to me. I don't take it personally, and nor should you, when I say the things I so coolly say. I have other concerns, you know, so I don't have the time, really, to engage with you."

You know what I have to say to that.

Well, I could be all impersonal, and say, "Well, fine, and have a great day."

Do you see me wearing that hat? Well, besides all day, that is: "Enjoy your beverage!"

My other response is screamed: "Well, fuck you!"

Some of you have faced that, I guess.

Look. Cool? Me? I was just accused of being 'not cool' ... and I'm like ... have I ever been accused of being 'cool'? And if I have, I would rip your face off.

"Oh, `phfina, you're so cool!"

Excuse me? Excuse me?

I BURN ... okay? I'm burning up, and I DON'T be all like: 'well, there's nothing personal.'

Because why?

Because GUESS WHAT!

It IS personal. Somebody said something to you and you were affected by it, and if you WEREN'T ... well, then go to the hospital, and get your pulse checked 'cause you just may be dead, okay?

"Don't take it personally"? Well, how the fuck else am I supposed to take it?

Excuse me, but if you're forgetting, but I'm a person here, and — newsflash — so are you!

And you just said something to me, and, yes, guess what? I took it personally, and just because you can use everybody else as a doormat, saying that sh!t to them, I am not going to let your shit fly with me, got it?

Like bullying. Like I am now.

*sigh*

Cool as a cucumber? Well, you don't look like a cucumber to me, but if that's the way you want to live your life ... as a cucumber, and not as a person ... then I say: have at it. I won't be able to stop you.

But I grieve, though. I do.

So ...

hm-hm-hm.

So some of you ... a lot of you ... read my posts, and are like, 'well, that's ... interesting.'

(how I detest that word. A cop-out word. A word that commits nothing of the sayer, ... just makes them think that it makes them look intelligent)

... And what do they get from that? Being cool as a cucumber?

What does anybody get from being cool ... instead of being committed?

But some of you go the opposite way, and go all `phfina on me.

Like, okay. I write in 'update soon' that not coming out to your mother is a cop-out, and who took it personally? (edited) And she was furious with me. Furious.

Did I write that post about (edited)?

Like, okay. I write in 'bad news, you win,' how you push around somebody you can own, bullying them until you suck the life out of them, and (edited) got it in her head that I wrote that post about her.

Did I write that post about (edited)?

But what did these girls get out of taking it all `phfina-y?

They got really, really pissed. At me. And took it out. On me.

And that hurt. 'Cause I didn't write those posts about them.

But then they did something. Then they looked in the mirror, and saw where those posts did apply to them, in their lives, and what did they do?

Well, they looked at were they were doing this, and they got to work on themselves. And the rewards, for themselves, on recognizing in themselves something that they didn't see before about themselves, and didn't like, and seeing it, and not liking it, going to work on it now, instead of just automatically lashing out, hurting people ...?

Well, have I given away too much? But when you see something in yourself, that somebody else points out, so rudely, so harshly, with so much love in their heart for you?

(Because otherwise, why would I bother? If I don't love you, why put up with all this pain and hurt of saying these painful and hurtful things?)

New worlds have opened up for them. For them. Plural.

I have opened up new worlds, for at least four girls ... because they took what I wrote ... personally.

And I didn't even write it for them.

Who did I write it for?

Who is the one girl who hasn't benefited from all that I've written, who, writing these words, instead of getting better, shoveling her way out of her shit, just digs deeper and deeper into the morass, finding more and more shit she has to own up to, but instead of getting better, just gets worse and worse and worse.

Who, when asked, 'how are you?' answers, 'I'm fine.'

But who really is in a place where she knows if she says, 'I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself. I want to die.'

Well, that raises all sorts of issues, problems, that have to be dealt with, but people just don't leave her alone with the 'I'm fine' answer but demand, 'No, really, how are you?'

But we've covered that ground before.

All this stuff I write, you take so personally, and I have to say ...

I'm so proud of you.

I'm so proud of you, taking on yourself and your life. You may think 'you're so vain' for thinking this post is about you. But I have an entirely different view on the matter.

You are so brave, reading yourself in this post. Daring to take yourself on. Being. Living. Daring to be and to live and to face yourself and revel in the things you like about yourself, and be pissed off about the things you hate, and then taking those things on.

When you read a post of mine, and say, 'well, that was interesting ...' look out. Look to your life, because I think you're not living it, if you're merely existing in a smug sense of self-satisfaction. But when you read my post, and you get so, so pissed off at me ...

Well, I could ask you to be gentle with me, the little hypocrite that I am, hitting you so hard with my sucker punches but then hiding under the covers the second you cut loose at me, screaming like a banshee for singing your life with my song.

... and that's me: so cutting, so insightful, so scared of her own shadow, that when somebody wants to put my name on a brochure that lands them millions of euros, all I can think of is people seeing my name, and I get sick, physically ill, just thinking of that.

... and that's not you. You aren't me. Thank God. You've dared to read my stuff, and to cry, or to cum, or ... even to dare to post a review! (Oh, the terror!) Or even dare to tell one of my friends you like reading my stuff (but not dare to say peep to me, God damn it) ('cause you know I'll tear you a new one) (but then you're shocked — shocked, I say — to find out that sometimes (okay, sometimes) I can be sweet, you know).

But what have I dared. Well, today I dared to go out to a museum. Wow. Hooray. Stop the presses. And that's about all I could muster. I mean, I liked it and all. Didn't like Paris. I was like: "City. Ick. People. Scary." Yearned for a forest in the countryside, but here I am, in the metro D.C. area, with all the city-life conveniences, so who am I fooling. I'm not a eel catcher in the forest of Fontainebleau. I'm not an Alsatian girl with a pretty little hat (she did look rather Irish to me. But what do I know?)

And going through the city, I kept my head held high. But all those people. No. Not people. Families. There where tons of them. Families. Mommies and Daddies and babies and children. And it was nice. But it bore down on me. It wore me down. I just ... wherever I looked, I was like, there is something I'm not, and never will be. All those families, so happy together.

And what am I? And what am I?

And know, being what I am, which is nothing, I just draw further and further into my shell, and that hurts you. You wonder how I am, ... but knowing full well that I am not well. So now I have people who care about me, and it hurts them that I'm hurting.

But when I was out, and writing, and getting so much attention, most of it good, but the bad was really bad. Really bad.

'cause I take it personally, your callousness, and your anger, and your righteousness. It's your shit, but I'm the one who gets shit on, for daring to say what she sees. And — oh! — you have made it abundantly clear to me how much you don't like being told things you don't like to hear about yourself.

So I thought writing would ... you know, ... be cathartic, you know? And let me release all this stuff that is tying me down to the past, so I could cut myself free of my suffering and float away into blissful nirvana of living my perfect, perfect life.

But ... look at me now.

"Sticks and stones may break my bones ..."

I'm this little stick. This little reed. And I so wanted to be solid like a stone.

But I ... my body's burning up. I ...

I set out writing, and I ... well, you see this great whatever ... and I'm wasting away into nothing. All these words I've written haven't helped me any at all, they've only made me worse.

And what's worse-worse is that you've subscribed. You've read my stuff and now you care about me. So my hurting now not only hurts myself, but now you hurt a bit, seeing me shrinking into myself. I can't have a good sulk and die all to myself, oh no! I hurt you now, with my silence and sadness.

Would I have written word one, seeing me now?

No.

This hasn't been pretty. This hasn't been pretty for me at all. And I can mirror-time all I want, but I know in my heart of hearts that it's all a big lie. All just another attempt to try to believe in hope when I see that I'm just trying to reach up from the darkness of this pit of despair, when I jolly well know this is my eternal consignment, so the reaching, grasping just shows the glimmer of light for one second before I'm re-immersed in darkness, making it all the more bitter for me, my fate.

If I hadn't written, I wouldn't have all this love and care from you. I wouldn't have you to hurt.

And I can't even manage hurting just myself. It hurts too much.

Hurting you? Seeing you rise above yourself, but then, you turn, having made it, and reach back for me? to pull me up and out?

I think: how sad. You are living the impossible dream. And I beg you to cut the chord. To move on. You've saved yourselves, ... please don't wreck your lives going back into the mire to rescue a lost cause.

I wish ...

I wish you were smart enough to see the reality of it. To take your earnings and to cut your losses (me, that is).

I wish God had answered my prayer a couple of years ago, and spared you, and spared me, all of this that is me.

But I can't go back, and I can't go home.

I can only go forward into tomorrow, until it's today. Again.

Or ... not.

I'm going to bed now. Good night.