It's A Perfect Day For Getting Wild, Forgetting All Your Worries, Life, And Everything That Makes You Cry, Let's Get Happy!

1997

11:25 a.m. - I'm stuck behind the register at Crown Books, La Canada and it is five minutes to my lunch when my manager asks me if I would mind picking up food for her. I, of course, agree since it means I don't have to clock out until I arrive back at the store with our food. That's the deal of working at such a small retail store where the maximum number of employees never exceeded twelve. You start to develop intimate relationships with the managers and crew, and you start being able to pull stuff like stretching a half-hour lunch into a forty-five minute or even sixty minute lunch.

And since I've been there the longest and have a reputation for knowing where the best places to eat are I usually get the plum take-out or drive-thru assignments. I make sure to ask every employee working that shift if they want to place an order with me. I get two or three more orders.

11:37 a.m. - I finally leave the store, still not having clocked out. We all agree I should grab lunch from Tommy's. It looks like chili burgers, fries, and hot dogs all around.

11:45 a.m. - I'm barely on the freeway, listening to The Cure's Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me when I get a call on my cel phone. It seems that one or two of my co-workers want to see if I can swing by KFC instead and pick them up some meals. I then ask them if that's everyone in the store or just those two people. It is only those two employees, I hear in reply.

It looks like I'll have to pick up food from two places. Fun.

12:01 p.m. - I swing by KFC's in Pasadena and pick up the two meals there and start to head towards Eagle Rock in order to pick up the food from Tommy's.

12:18 p.m. - I finally arrive at Tommy's and see the bad news. There's a terrible accident in front of the restaurant and it appears the only entrance to the drive thru has been blocked off. I debate waiting it out but I'm not sure if I can get away with dilly-dallying for another ten to fifteen minutes while they get the accident site cleaned up. I decide to check in with my manager.

"Karen, I can't get the food from Tommy's."

"What do you mean?"

"There's an accident. I don't know how long it's going to take before I can get into the drive-thru."

"Well, damn it all... Do you know where there's another Tommy's?"

"You want it that bad?"

"I think everyone here was looking forward to some chili burgers and chili fries."

"There's the one in Los Angeles," I suggest jokingly. I hear her laugh.

"You want to drive all the way to Los Angeles for lunch?" she suggests back still laughing.

"I'm game if you are. You're the manager."

After a brief pause, during which I can hear her asking the other staff members in the back room, she comes back on the phone.

"If you can get there and back in an hour from now, go right ahead."

"You're crazy, but okay," I say, smiling as I hang up.

12:57 p.m. - I pull off the exit into downtown Los Angeles after fighting through some mild traffic. I quickly find the Original Tommy's and pick up the food as quickly as possible. It is then I realize that there is no possible way I can drive back to the bookstore in under twenty minutes with all the traffic in the city.

I decide not to check in and see if Karen notices.

1:12 p.m. - I get a call from Karen. She asks how far away I am. I tell her about five or ten minutes. It's a total lie. I'm still moving at a snail's pace through downtown Los Angeles.

1:44 p.m. - I finally arrive back at the bookstore. I bring the food to the backroom amidst the glares of all my fellow employees who expected their food ninety odd minutes ago. I turn to see if Karen says anything, but she is so excited to finally be able to eat she never mentions how long I've been gone.

1:48 p.m. - I clock out for lunch only 138 minutes late.

2:18 p.m. - I clock back in and go back to the register, full after taking my three-hour lunch. I smile the whole rest of the day, which lasts only about an hour more.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Had My Chances, But I Set You Free, And Now I Wonder Why I Couldn't See You Look So Good In Love

A LETTER WRITTEN BY NO ONE IN PARTICULAR TO NO ONE IN PARTICULAR

Dear friend,

I'm trying to be humble here and I'm trying to be strong, but you know what a weak person I am at heart. I'm not going to lie to you and say that it doesn't hurt me to think of what could have been. There are some nights, like I've told you, that I cannot sleep because I literally hurt inside-out at the thought of what I may have lost in not pursuing what could have been further. I was stupid to think that you would always be available forever. You should have never been my back-up plan. You should have been my first priority. But you weren't. And that fact makes me sadder than you know. You are far too good to be anyone's back-up plan and the idea that I could have ever found someone better than you is ludicrous. It is just one in a myriad of mistakes I have made in my life. And, no, it wasn't the first and it wasn't the worst, but it is one that does hurt. And this particular sting doesn't stem from the fact that you or I were particularly cruel to one another. It stems from the fact that we have been noting if not loving and devoted to one another, but for some reason we simply couldn't cross the threshhold into being something more for one another. I thought we stood a chance once, but I really do believe that chance has slipped away.

There is no need to be worried about me. I shall be okay. It's not like I wasn't expecting this day would come. To think I could keep you to myself would have been sheer vanity. And yet there was still that hope that someday, maybe someday, the planets would align themselves, the earth would stand still for one moment, and you and I would get past all the obstacles in our path. I'm telling you I honestly thought we had a good shot at reaching that someday. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it was my wish and I have a skulking suspicion that it was your wish once as well. Well, it looks that day shall never come and, for the most part, I think I've resigned myself to the fact that we shall ever be a brother and sister type of relationship. And I think that small thought provides me some comfort. There is no one else I'd rather have as a sibling than you. That is where I shall direct my love from this day forward and that is where I shall concentrate my efforts from this day forward to insure that we don't roleplay the same tired drama of my getting jealous, you getting defensive, and us losing the special relationship we have established here. We're better than that, aren't we?

And I must say your new relationship suits you well. I cannot remember a time you seemed happier. I hope when the two of you are together you both realize what a precious treasure you have. Not everyone is born lucky enough to find true love in this day and age. And not everyone is born lucky enough to recognize it when it comes their way. Like I said, I could be jealous of the fact that it isn't me going out with you, kissing you, sleeping next to you, but, of all the things to be jealous about, that someone would discover what a great catch you are would not be chief among my list. I recognized your value a long time ago, all those many years ago when you first said hello to me. About the only thing I could be jealous about is that someone was lucky enough to recognize how special you are and choose to let you know how special you are for the rest of your life. It's certainly more than I ever did for you. Again, being in love really does suit you. I am so very happy that you were given the opportunity to live out the rest of your days in absolute bliss. I should be so lucky. You shall have to give me some pointers some time when next you have the time to reminesce with your old friend.

Congratulations again. I am happy for you. I only wanted to write this letter to tell you that. You deserve every happiness in the world. And I am happy to know that you shall be well-loved.

As always,
Your Lifelong Friend


still I say there's a way for us

Breanne

All These Tears, And Like A Light, Love Disappears, But Hearts Are Good For Souvenirs, And Memories Are Forever

It's a little known secret that above my bed at every bedroom I've ever lived at are two things. The first is a dream catcher given to me by Heidi, someone I made terrible mistakes with and deserved to lose. The second is a set of three glow-in-the-dark stars arranged in a face pattern given to me by Tara, my first girlfriend, someone I did everything right with and still lost anyway. The first I keep because it's good to know what mistakes not to repeat. And the second I keep because it's good to know that even when you do everything right on your part you're still going to get hurt sometimes.

The heart forgives the heart forgets
But what will I do now with all this time

I know love isn't supposed to be perfect and it's not always going to be beautiful, but as I take a look back on all the relationships and friendships I've had in the past I can take a look at Tara and I, and think that there's something I did right. I wasn't particularly mean to her, we didn't fight any more than normal, and I certainly gave everything I had to give. The fact that it didn't work isn't so much a testament to my effort or her effort or the lack of chemistry. The fact that it didn't work says a lot more about the fickle nature of love and happiness. I think in some other life we could have been happy. I think in some other life the differences in idealogies could have been ironed out and the strength of our affection for one another would have been enough to carry us through. But in our reality there was too much stacked against us.

But I do not mourn the loss of that special quality I had with her the way I mourn other people like Jina or DeAnn or even Jennifer. I think the saving grace of Tara breaking up with me is the fact I gave 100% of what I could do and who I could be to that woman. I didn't even leave anything to indecision. I made my play, took my chance, and got shot down. But it's just like they say--you miss 100% of the shots you never take. And with her I took my shot.

That's probably why I carry away with me only good memories of Tara and our short time together. I don't remember her breaking up with me or all the tears. What I remember most is that first kiss in the movie theater parking lot. I remember our night spent talking on the beach. I remember our first dinner together. I remember falling in love with her and hoping that feeling would never end.

And, even when it did end, I kept the stars. She had a set of a hundred of them above her bedroom way back when. When we started going out she gave me three so "that we could sleep underneath the same stars." And, at night, when I happen to open up my eyes and see those three stars glowing brightly on my ceiling, I smile thinking that we may still be sleeping underneath the same set of stars.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

P.S. - Much gratitude goes out to Kellie, who allowed me to raid her closet for such a great picture that perfectly captures so much of what I was thinking about when I wrote this post.

There Was Nothing In The World That I Ever Wanted More Than To Never Feel The Breaking Apart All My Pictures Of You

Once again I have made the effort to get this novel of mine rolling. What follows is another taster from Chapter 13 of The Carisa Meridian. Enjoy.

I should have the rest of the chapter done by tonight or tomorrow. I'm not sure which yet.
----
thirteen – someone always talks

Back in college, while Tierney and I were officially on our “break,” I went out a couple of times with a girl named Mallory. It wasn’t anything serious. If anything she was the definition of a rebound. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, though. From our first date to our fourth, and last, date I tried to mold her into the spitting image of Tierney. I tried to make her into something she was not. Here there was this lovely, fun to be with, and humorous young woman who wanted to spend her evenings with me and all I could talk about, all I could see, was the woman who did not want anything to do with me anymore.

I believe this is a pattern with me. I go from individual to individual, fixating on what they are not instead of what they are. I think I’ve had trouble with this all my life. I would always compare what kind of parents Emily and Craig, how they were always there for their children, to my own parents, who were by comparison distant and cold. Wishing for the secret to their bond I would spend day after day at Craig’s house, mentally jotting how he would treat his parents, the exact phrases he would use, in the hope I could forge the same type of relationship with my parents. It never worked. I would come home, armed with a compliment or a thoughtful gesture, and attempt to use it on my mom and dad. They wouldn’t even say thank you, but instead complain about how I should have been that way all along.

I was like my parents when it came to Mallory. She will always be the one I took for granted. She will always be the one that I never fully explored what could have been. She is the footnote in my romantic history. After all, how could she have ever stood a chance when placed against the immaculate strength of Carisa and the unwavering devotion of Tierney? Our time together is reminiscent of when those smaller countries compete against the heavyweights United States or Germany in the Olympics. She gave it a good effort, I gave it a good effort, but ultimately our efforts were doomed from the start. There was nothing I could have done better, there is nothing she could have done differently that would have made “us” work. We were tilting at windmills and eventually we got tired of it all.

I’m surprised we lasted as long as we did. I’m surprised that neither one of us saw what a mistake we were long before we did. Like I said, she was a rebound girlfriend, someone I thought I had to have in order to get over Tierney. The truth was I knew Tierney and I would eventually get back together. That was inevitable too.

The thing I remember most about Mallory was her wonderful skill at photography. She was an amazing artist and all the photos and prints she showed me displayed a skill and a style I have yet to see in any artist I’ve known since her. I remember one time she took me back to her apartment and showed me a portfolio of her work.

She showed me cityscapes and still-lifes. She showed me photos in color and ones in black-and-white. She showed me silly candids of her friends and family. And she showed me serious shots she had submitted for publication. All of them were very good. And all of them made me jealous that she had so much artistic talent when I had so very little.

I remember one picture she took, however, that caught me by surprise. It was a shot of a girl she had photographed when she was sixteen for a high school newspaper assignments. It wasn’t so much the composition that caught my eye as much as the subject matter. There in the slightly left of center position was a girl with dark blonde hair and dark brown eyes. It truly was like staring at a ghost, except this ghost had never stopped haunting me in one form or another.

I asked Mallory who the girl was.

Some girl that wanted desperately to be photographed from my old middle school, Mallory said.

And you don’t know anything more about her, I asked.

She left a couple of minutes after I took that shot, Mallory said.

Isn’t that the way it always is? The minute you start to think you’re developing a rapport with an individual they up and leave. I’ve written pages and pages on how much I thought I knew Carisa but sometimes, just sometimes, I think I never knew her at all. Maybe the sum of my experience with Miss Ashington could be compared to this photograph. Maybe she was just a girl who wanted desperately to be in the shot but ended up leaving soon after. Maybe she was never meant to be photographed in the first place. Perhaps if I had never met her she would have never existed. Just like the girl with no name in Mallory’s photo, whose to say Carisa Ashington would have ever existed were there not someone to document it. She too could have been a footnote in history had I not stumbled upon her when I did. And if she had died like she was destined to die would anyone be trying to prove her existence. She had been unwritten about in life; no one even knew a jot about her outside of the small circle of friends we had formed. No one saw past the pretty, but crazy, moniker. If I had left well enough alone and not written the words you are reading now maybe she would have continued to be unwritten about after her death.

I think we give a certain life or, at the very least, extend the life of subjects by talking about them. It’s like what they say about ghosts and other unpleasant stuff; the more you talk about them and the more you believe in them, the more power you give to them. And I talk about Carisa all the time. That’s why I think she has such power over me. And because she has such power over me I persist in talking about her. Like a vicious circle, her memory never fades because I won’t let it.

As I talk about it now I feel the strange urge to conduct an experiment—to pull on my mad scientist hat and mess with the fabric of reality. I feel the urge to get a hold of that photograph, track down the girl, and then tear up the photograph in front of her. I will then watch and see if she disappears. Because if she does maybe if I tear up this story Carisa will cease to exist as well. Perhaps my memory of her will be erased as all these words I have written about her get torn to shreds. Perhaps then it won’t hurt quite so bad and quite so often.

The only problem with that is I would have to tear up my only photograph of her as well. And I don’t know if I could stand to do that ever.

In this photograph she is smiling. It isn’t the bright smile of Tierney and it isn’t the demure smile of Emily. It’s a photograph of a girl smiling that looks as if she hasn’t had much practice at it. She looks surprised and unprepared, but through it all she looks happy. You can’t deny she looks happy.

I remember when I took this photograph of her. It was right before I had spent the night with her at her mom’s house. Right before I snapped the photo I had told her she looked pretty that day.

“I do?”

“Yeah, pretty ugly.”

That’s when I had snapped the picture. She had smiled because she hadn’t expected me to be mean. She had smiled because she had realized I had set her up. She had smiled because she knew I didn’t mean a word of it. Her innocence laid on her face and in that smile. She had known the cruelty of other children that had known her. But she had never known it from me. That’s why she smiled because there was no part of her that believed I meant any of what I had said. She knew where my heart lay and her smile showed exactly how much she knew me.

It’s the only picture of her that survives today. It doesn’t bear the marks of a professional. Truth be told, it’s quite out of focus, and I am sure I could have lit Carisa’s face better. When God was giving out the photography talent gene I suppose I must have been taking a leak because that particular gift was never passed onto me. In fact, I think some of my other representative work is still being used as a primer on how not to take photographs. Come to think of it, I think there is still a federal law against me using any cameras whatsoever for fear of eroding the nation’s morale.

But what the photograph lacks in artistic merit the subject matter more than makes up for it. You can keep your Sistine Chapels, your Mona Lisas, and your Last Suppers.

She’s the only masterpiece that I cherish and the only picture I have of her is beyond value. It’s priceless.

And that is why tearing up this novel would not do any good because there is no conceivable reason I would ever tear the picture up. So the picture shall persist on, so the novel shall persist on, so my memory of her shall persist on, and so shall the pain of her memory persist.


Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Sorry For The Mess, The Stupid Way I'm Dressed, I Guess I Failed My Test

"I think you should do it."

I heard Patrick say that while driving home. I had to get home quick. Not only was it my 21st birthday, but Greg had left a message to come over straight from class in order to give me my "special" present. I had been asking Eeyore what I should wear over to Greg's place and he had given the humorous suggestion of wearing only a raincoat there. Providence knows I'm no stranger to acting impulsively--master mooner, remember?--but the whole flashing milieu seemed too juvenile even for me.

"I am not going to show up there wearing only a coat, darling, no matter how funny you think it will be..."

Twenty minutes later as I was putting on the raincoat I began to wonder to myself if it still was a good idea. I knew Greg would think it was sexy and it definitely would be worth it to see the look on his face. But a part of me thought it might be crossing a line into indecency. I still wanted him to think of me as being ladylike and graceful, diminutive and dainty. In other words, I wanted him to see me as someone he had to work hard to be worth my company. Throwing myself at him in such a fashion perhaps might have sent the wrong message.

In the end, though, I decided that we were far enough in the relationship to spice things up a bit. Besides, if he was going to be with me for any extended period of time he would have to get used to this side of me. Most people who meet me in most circumstances I appear to be cordial and well-mannered; but there are quite a few who have seen the wildcat behind the tabby cat facade. When I want to do something woe betide anyone who gets in my way.

As I cinched up the belt I remembered the words that Patrick had said when he finally realized that he had convinced me. "It's funny how on your birthday you wind up naked, Breannie. It's like some sort of tradition with you." And the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to be a prophetic statement. First, my fifteenth birthday, then my eighteenth, and then my twenty-first; I seem to have the urge to don my birthday suit every three years on my birthday. Chalk it up to coincidence, but there's a good chance come age 27 I'll be streaking down the highway.

I made good time to Greg's townhouse, bottle of wine in one hand and a huge, mischievous grin on my face. I knocked on the front door and it swung wide open. I stepped inside the darkened living room and closed the door behind me.

"Hello! Greg? Hello!"

I had started to undo the belt of my raincoat, expecting him to walk down the stairs from his bedroom or out from the kitchen door. It's a good thing that I hadn't undone the belt all the way otherwise the next moment would have been more of a disastrous mess than it had turned out to be.

"I've got a surprise for you, Breasy. Guess who's having dinner with us."

Out from the kitchen door came Greg, my parents, and then a couple who, with my luck that day, could only be Greg's parents. It seems Greg had arranged a surprise get-together in honor of my birthday. And silly 'ole me had chosen that day of all days to get frisky. The look of awe, shock, and amusement on the various parties in the room made for one awkward moment. To be kind, no one said anything about my choice of attire, even though it was quite plain what exactly I didn't have on that day--namely, everything but the raincoat. And I muddled through as best as I could, but the shock and embarrassment proved almost too much for me to bear. I wanted to excuse myself and get up to get some of Greg's clothes, but I think that would only have called attention to the situation. As long as they didn't want to broach the subject I sure as shinola didn't want to put it out there. It was a case of pink elephants, as long as nobody brought up the subject we could almost forget it existed.

So maybe I wasn't quite naked on that particular birthday, yet I challenge you to find another birthday that I was ever more embarrassed to be wearing the ensemble I had chosen to wear that day.

Breanne

And In The Darkened Underpass I Thought Oh God, My Chance Has Come At Last (But Then A Strange Fear Gripped Me And I Just Couldn't Ask)

For the last two weeks the subject of Breanne's "red-eyed" boy has gripped me and has been loath to let me go. Being an on-again/off-again fan of the paranormal I took it upon myself to see if her story correlates to anything on record. Unfortunately, there is very little in recorded history specific to her incident and I thought for the longest time hers may be an isolated incident. I checked a lot of books, almost fifteen in all, and none of them mention anything about other individuals coming across teen-agers with reddish-brown hair and unnaturally red eyes who appear under mysterious circumstances. I thought the whole search was entirely fruitless.

However, when I posted the story up to a few forums I belong to I had more luck. I came across two older people who had eerily similar encounters. What follows is a short account from an e-mail he sent me yesterday from one of these people regarding his encounter with a red-eyed adolescent.
---
It had to be when I was twelve. I was walking home from school through the park with my sister, Charlotte. We had been chasing each other the whole walk home and weren't paying any particular attention to where we were headed. We were cutting through Strouse Park, butt-up against the mountains, and I suggested to her that we go take another shortcut through the dirt path that ran up and around the small valley. It wasn't really a shortcut, but I thought it would be fun to cross the wooden bridge the spanned the gorge below. I was a kid, you know? Something as simple as jumping up and down on the bridge, feeling it sway and rock, was fun for me.

Charlotte agreed and we ran all the way up the short hike to where the bridge was. We were both out of breath when we reached the bridge. I was still chasing my sister all the way up the trail, oblivious as usual, and so I almost missed the young girl who was also waiting at the bridge. But, when I did see her, I immediately stopped chasing my sis.

The stranger looked to be in high school, 9th or 10th grade, I'd reckon. She had dark red hair, sorta maroon and long, longer than was the fashion at the time. She was staring at the two of us the whole time we were making our way to the bridge and in her eyes I saw fire. I know what your friend means when she said there was something unnatural about her eyes. Fire is what I remember in not only color but in appearance; her pupils appeared to flicker like fire.

"I'm not going to let you cross," she said with honey in her voice.

"But we need to get home," Charlotte said. "It's dark out and our parents will be worried." My sister placed one foot at the start of the bridge.

This time the girl screamed "I'm not going to let you cross!" Hair flaring during her run, she charged my sister full-speed, knocking her to the ground. Allowing her time to get up, my sister was very scared. The girl screamed again. Also with her scream she started to chase my little sister away from the bridge. She scared her half to death. My sister ended up running straight into my arms. Me being the older brother I wanted to protect my sister but, at the same time, I felt the fear in my heart as well. It swelled inside me like a wave. This wasn't just being afraid of a weird and violent kid. It felt like terror, total and complete terror. I felt it like a hand slapping me.

I decided to go back down the trail and take our original path home. It took us fifteen minutes longer than if we had gotten to cross the bridge, but for some reason I knew it was worth it so that we could avoid the violent girl down by the bridge.

Later that night, when my parents got home, my sister was still shaken. She was so shaken that my father asked her what was wrong. That's when she told him of our encounter by the bridge. So after an hour we found ourselves at the bridge again, my father looking for some sign of the crazy girl who scared his daughter so much.

That's when I saw it. Where earlier that afternoon the bridge had spanned the length of the 500 foot chasm below, the wood had cracked in place and there was now a hole the size of a semi right in the middle of the bridge. I don't know if it was due to water damage or the bridge being old, but it had given out.

I know, absolutely know, for sure if I had continued to chase my sister that day without being interrupted we would have run right over the bridge full-speed and probably fallen in.

That girl saved our lives.
---
Normally, I don't place much stock in tales of the unknown. But having one story coming from Breanne, a person I trust completely, and then have someone back her up makes me wonder how real these Good Samaritans are. I know--aside from the strange tint to their eyes, there is nothing that cannot be explained away, but the whole necklace appearing safe back at home and bridge that mysteriously collapses mere hours after the other guy was about to cross it strike me as odd. I wonder if there are a whole coalition of people who have been assisted by these children and have merely forgotten the strange details. I'm sure that if I pressed a few more people to recount times they had close calls at least a few of them would back up Breanne's version of events.

I don't know--I believe there are somethings that cannot be explained in simple terms. It's folly to think that as a race we understand everything under the sun. I'm sure there's a rational explanation of why these kids always manage to show up where they are needed. I just think science hasn't come up with an explanation yet.

Or maybe they and their kind stem from the other side of the coin. Maybe they are guardian angels, manifesting themselves in physical form to protect their charges. Maybe the situation the individuals in the story found themselves in situations where a hands-off approach would just not do. Maybe these entities were forced to reveal themselves in guises that the kids would not question. After all, what's easier to pass off as relatively normal--the big Broadway divine intervention or a couple of kids who seem somewhat off, but still normal-looking? I think that's why more accounts haven't surfaced because of the utter ease by which these stories can be attributed to ordinary events in an otherwise ordinary day.

Or maybe they really were just kids who inadvertantly helped out Breanne and this guy. And maybe we all see what we want to see when presented with an alternative darker ending. Maybe, given the other possible painful or even deadly outcome, we want to believe that there was something greater out there helping us.

Who knows? It does make for some fascinating thoughts, though.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Remember When I Was Younger, I Thought The Answers Were Locked In People, So I Admired The Ones Whose Lives Were A Source Of Envy To People Like Me

I was watching Punked tonight and they were playing the episode featuring probably the most famous celebrity I've ever met in person. And as I sat watching the television I thought how much she's changed in the ten years since I met her and, by contrast, how much I've changed as well. If I met her now I don't think I'd be quite so enraptured by her as much as I was back then. I think it's true what they say, you shouldn't meet your idols because they almost never live up to expectation. As I sat watching the television I kept remarking to myself how unremarkable she seems now and how almost full of herself she appears. I'm sure a lot of that has to do with maturity and leading a life I probably will never understand completely.

I always compare her to the innocent and sweet young lady I met at Universal Studios in 1995.

I had been working there for the last eight or nine months when I reported to work as if it was any other day. There were no warnings, no signs, and definitely no alarms going off in my head that this was to be the day I got to meet probably my favorite actress at the time.

The way my workday usually went was that I would get their in my civies, go into wardrobe, and change into my plain white uniform that marked me as an employee as the melancholiest place on Earth, Universal Studios, Hollywood. I had arrived to work with plenty of time to spare so it was with a leisurely place that I first saw her by the front gate. At least I thought it was her? But it couldn't be, could it? After all, I'd only recently watched her first (and definitely best) film only a month prior and had been obsessing about her for quite some time by then. I honestly thought I was imagining it all. She looked smaller in person, younger, less glamorous, more like a normal person. And she was smiling like any other person would smile. I passed her by, thinking the resemblance was uncanny, but that my luck wasn't of sufficient quantity to arrange for the planets to align in such a way that I would get to meet her. I shrugged my shoulders and continued onto wardrobe.

I was about one hundred yards away from where she stood with her family and manager/uncle/bodyguard. I began to doubt myself. I started to think that if it was her and I didn't at least try to talk to her that I'd be kicking myself ten years later. It couldn't hurt to make sure, I thought. Besides it's probably not her. I'll just verify her identity and put the whole issue to rest.

So I walked back to where she was still waiting to get in. As I walked closer and closer it became painfully that this celebrity, this goddess of the big screen, was, in fact, standing less than a car's length away from me. But what clinched it, what sealed the deal, was the fact that she had formed a small line--no more than three or four people--of people asking for her autograph. Yet, seeing the line and seeing that she was with her family I did a most regrettable thing.

I chickened out.

I decided I was too nervous to actually talk to her and walked to wardrobe to get ready for work. I was sad, to be sure, but I've always had a problem with nerves around people who are better than me. That's why a lot of people say I tend to gravitate towards people, especially women, who are younger than me, in order to even the playing field in my mind. That day was no different. Celebrity is a trump card that I just cannot compete with. I was positive that a big-time star like her would not want to meet a nobody like me. I was almost happy to get away from her so that she couldn't see how nervous she made me.

But as I was walking out in my crisp white uniform the doubts began to skulk again. Ten years from now would I be regretting having never at least said hello? Did I want to be that person that ran from people and events that were a tad bit intimidating? I finally bullied up the courage to try and get her autograph.

Butterflies, ringing bells, angels singing, spinning--all these sensations flashed through my entire body at the knowledge that I was going to meet her. I was nervous and scared, so much so that I almost chickened out again. I was almost turned around, ready to leave again, when the couple in front of me stopped talking to her and I was next in line to chat with her.

"Hello, it's so wonderful to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you too."

"I loved you in Interview With The Vampire. You were just so awesome in that."

"Thanks. I'm glad you enjoyed it. It was really fun to make."

"So are you here with your family?"

"Yes, I am. Hopefully, it'll be a fun day today."

"Do you think you could sign something?"

(Searching for something to sign, anything would do, please, Lord, let me have something to sign)

"Sure."

I finally found a paycheck stub. How embarrassing. This poor girl has to know the pittiance I make at my first ever job.

She had her father (?) bend over so she could use my pen to sign the stub.

"My brother's a really big fan of yours. Could you just make that out to Patrick?"

"Sure."

"He'll never believe I met you," I said as she was signing.

"Here you go," she said when she finished. She then walked through the front gate with her family, yet another entourage of curious fans behind her. I looked at the signature:

To Patrick
From Kirsten Dunst


Take no heroes,
Its no good
They don't stand up to you
Just take the bit you think they can use

Yeah, I still chickened out in a way. Somehow saying the autograph was for my brother made the whole experience a little easier. And, yeah, the whole meeting wasn't this overblown deal, but, as aforementioned, she was my favorite celebrity at the time and I have never come close to matching the nervousness and excitement upon meeting anyone else famous.

I think that's due to the fact that most celebrities don't impress me much these days, including her. I think there's something inherently tied to childhood that makes you fall head-over-heels into crushes on celebrities. As you get older and you start to realize that the individuals who you look up to are not famous by any means. You start to realize that there are a lot of amazing people in the world and most of them will never get their name printed in any magazine, never have anyone ask their autograph, and probably never even be recognized on sight on the street.

So, yes, it puts a smile on face to think of how little 'ole me (to borrow a catchphrase) met Kirsten Dunst. But it's nothing compared to the smile I had when I met my last girlfriend. It's small potatoes when placed against the joy I had saw my good friend's name in the paper. And it's definitely doesn't hold a candle to the time surprising a friend on her fifteenth birthday.

Those truly were magical times.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

When You're Down And Out, When You're On The Street, When Evening Falls So Hard, I Will Comfort You, I'll Take Your Part

The following took place on November 12th, 1998 between the hours of 7 a.m.-8 a.m. (PST)

Brillon - And how is my favorite Breannie this morning?

Breasier - Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

Brillon - Kinda like a rabbit, I suspect.

Breasier - Would that make you the hound dog?

Brillon - Because I’m crying all the time?

Breasier - No, because you ain’t ever caught this rabbit and you ain’t no friend of mine.

Brillon - And you wonder why I cry all the time.

Breasier - Actually, I don’t, darling. Eeyores will be Eeyores.

Brillon - And Breannes will be orange.

Breasier - As they say, orange you glad you had orange today?

Brillon - Pear-fectly glad.

Breasier- Peachy. So what color are you today?

Brillon - Same as always, blue to grey.

Breasier - Like the Civil War?

Brillon - Ain’t nothing civil about the situation I’m in.

Breasier - Sounds serious. What’s wrong?

Brillon - Remember the girl from Victorville I mentioned earlier, DeAnn?

Breasier - I seem to remember her name popping up a couple hundred times.

Brillon - Well, she’s in trouble. We’re both in trouble. Heaps of trouble.

Breasier - Pop-a-matic bubble kind or something far more sinister?

Brillon - Sinister… She’s in a motherly way.

Breasier - WHAT!?!? HOW!?!?

Brillon - The “what” I think you heard. As for the “how,” I think you and him are well-acquainted.

Breasier - I’m calling you.

Brillon - Nope. Ain’t going to happen. Stay here. I’m more comfortable spilling the beans here. Easier to clean up.

Breasier - If they must be spilled, here’s as good a place as any.

Brillon - Sigh. I can’t believe my life right now. And if I’m freaking, then I know how freaking and scared DeAnn is right now.

Breasier - How’s she doing, sugar?

Brillon - Hanging in there, I suppose.

Breasier - And you?

Brillon - Dangling by a thread.

Breasier - Losing your grip?

Brillon - No, it’s pretty snug around my neck, actually.

Breasier - So what are you going to do about the baby when it comes?

Brillon - If it comes.

Breasier - Don’t even joke.

Brillon - I thought that’s what we did. We’re all about the jokes.

Breasier - Not about this and not about doing that.

Brillon - Let’s have it then.

Breasier - Have what then?

Brillon - Thoughts, concerns, questions…

Breasier - Where do I start? Let me count the ways. Here’s one… Why tell me?

Brillon - Why not? Who am I going to tell? My family? You know me. That ain’t
happening. You’re the best person to tell.

Breasier - Even if I disagree with you?

Brillon - Because you disagree with me. So fire away. Do your worst.

Breasier - How could you be so stupid, Patrick?

Brillon - Boy, Breanne, when somebody tells you to fire away you unload with both barrels, don’t you?

Breasier - I call ‘em how I see ‘em. Now answer the question.

Brillon - I honestly don’t know.

Breasier - Weren’t you careful? Or do you not know the meaning of the word?

Brillon - I was careful.

Breasier - Are you sure? I know you’re a tad forgetful, darling, but stuff like this you tend to remember.

Brillon - I was careful.

Breasier - So did you have the top up on your convertible or did you go in with the top down?

Brillon - I don’t understand what you mean.

Breasier - Don’t play ignorant with me, Patrick. I know you too well.

Brillon - I was careful. We were both careful.

Breasier - You may intend not to get wet, but if you’re driving with the top down, chances are you’re going to get wet. You’re so incredibly stupid.

Brillon - Thanks. I come to you for help and I get called stupid. If I wanted that I could have told my parents.

Breasier - There’s a time for friends to be warm and cuddly. And there’s a time for friends to be mean.

Am I your friend?

Brillon - You know you are.

Breasier - And you trust what I have to say, otherwise you wouldn’t have come to me with this?

Brillon - Yes.

Breasier - Then get your head out of your ass and start being smart. We both know you’re capable of it. Until today I didn’t know you were capable of anything like this, though.

Brillon – Time should have told you that I lack all common sense.

Breasier – I always seem to make the mistake.

Brillon – What do you think I should do?

Breasier – You already know what I’m going to say.

Brillon – I figured as much.

Breasier – I thought we were of like minds on this, Patrick.

Brillon – I thought so too. I guess this is just where you and I differ, Breanne.

Breasier – I thought about other things, but never this. This honestly saddens me, sugar. Saddens me a lot.

Brillon – Deal breaker?

Breasier – Not a deal breaker. But definitely close to that line.

Brillon – Thanks for understanding.

Breasier – Can’t say that I understand it all that much.

Brillon – Thanks for listening?

Breasier – That’s all I can promise right now. I might not ever understand this.

Brillon – Well, you’re here. That still helps.

Breasier – The only reason I’m doing this is because I’ve known you too long to walk away. Believe me, I want to.

Brillon – Maybe it’s best if we don’t chat right now. Maybe I should let the news sink in? I mean—I’ve been dealing with it for a couple of days now. You’ve just heard it.

Breasier – I’ll be fine. I am concerned about you. I’ll stay.

Brillon - I’m in so much trouble right now.

Breasier - You’ve got to do right by that girl and that baby.

Brillon - Well, it’s not entirely up to me.

Breasier - And you’re sure you don’t want me to call?

Brillon - So you can yell at me, Breannie? No thanks. I’ll just imagine the yelling from here.

Breasier - You’re not serious about…

Brillon - I think I am. It’s funny, I always thought I’d be one who would never consider doing anything resembling that. But then you get into a situation and suddenly your perspective changes.

Breasier - That’s why you’ve got to stay resolute.

Brillon - Resolute costs money, resolute changes plans, resolute causes too much trouble.

Breasier - Trouble’s already here. The question is if you’re ready to face it head-on or turn tail from it.

Brillon - My tail’s already firmly tucked.

Breasier - You can’t, you just can’t.

Brillon - Like I said, it’s not entirely up to me. Ultimately, it’s up to her. I have to follow her lead.

Breasier - She’s asked your opinion, right? Tell her the proper thing to do.

Brillon - She already knows my opinion. I’m following her lead. I don’t want to say either way in case she goes the other way.

Breasier - That’s no way to live. Do what’s right.

Brillon - What’s right? My choices are limited to what’s painful and what’s somewhat less so.

Breasier - Choose life.

Brillon - I think that’s what I’m doing. Call me selfish but I think I need to choose what’s best for me right now, Breannie. I know you don’t agree.

Breasier - Damn straight. If you do this I’m never going to be able to look at you straight again.

Brillon - We live two thousand miles apart. I doubt that has quite the same effect as it would if we lived closer together.

Breasier - You know what I mean. I’ll never be able to forgive you.

Brillon - Trouble is I have bigger fish to fry.

Breasier - Then you’ll have to do it alone.

Brillon - If that’s how you feel.

Breasier - (signed off)


An hour later she called me anyway.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Don’t Wanna Be No Queen For A Day, Oh, I Got What You Want And I May Just Walk Away, I Don’t Wanna Be No Queen For A Day, I Just Gotta Get Away

From the ages of seven to thirteen I had an alternative career to that of being a seven to thirteen-year-old. I was also, what they call in the trade, a professional pageanteer. In contests ranging from Lil’ Miss Peachtree to Somewhat Diminutive Miss Georgia to You-Can’t-Be-Serious-We-Have-Another-Title Miss South, my mother packed me away to the glamorous world of beauty contests. I believe she did it to instill in me a sense of entitlement and pride, but what I came away with was a sense of my inferiority and the shallowness of being judged on qualities I knew to be superficial.

I remember at around age nine asking my mother why I had to do these stupid things and her replying that my beauty, my grace, and my talent were all gifts from God, and that it’d be a waste not to show the rest of the world them all. And I remember thinking to myself that I didn’t need to flaunt all those qualities. I didn’t even want to flaunt all those qualities. I was quite content at the compliments I got from my daddy, my mother, and all my friends and family members. I didn’t need a stage to know I was special and I didn’t need a spotlight to draw attention. Hell’s bells, I still draw unwanted attention just by being me.

I suspect that is why I never won anything. No titles were to be mine. The closest I ever came to winning a crown was eighteenth. I do not know how any of you would take it, but being told you are going to be judged on your beauty and then finishing behind seventeen other people does not boost the morale or make me feel beautiful in any way. Rather, it made me feel quite the opposite. You work so hard, prepare for such a long time, are told “maybe you shouldn’t have dessert today, hun” and “we need to work on getting a better smile for you”, and not to associate with the other contestants for fear of losing your killer instinct. I don’t know about you, darlings, but I never wanted to hone my killer instinct. I always thought it was important to get along with everybody, to make friends with everyone, and to maintain a sense of appropriateness about every facet of one’s life.

It used to twist me up inside. I couldn’t tell my mother how I felt about not wanting to do the pageants any more. I remember four or five times where I would literally cry myself to sleep the night before a big event, worried about not placing high enough for my mother. She never complained I never won, but I knew it had to make her sad that nobody else saw her beautiful daughter. I tried to speak my mind once or twice, but in a contest between little ‘ole me and my mother I always lost. So I had to put down my feelings in poetry:

Explorations of My Body – Breanne Holins

In the shower I had the thought
(Not the first) that cleanliness is an acquired
An acquired habit, smelliness is only outlawed
Because society finds it offensive
Who are they to judge?
Yet on I cleanse, and they are pleased
I’m allowed to go to their cities
In fact, the better one is at it
(Especially if one has looks, which I do)
The better that person is held to be
Look at this curl (2 points) Oh, a dimple
(2 points) another (4 points) And those eyes
(5 points) Wait a minute! Look at this, guys
Intellect (-3 points) Autonomy (-2 points)
And we thought you were perfect
But as the soap drips down my body
I decide to lather up again
I am compelled to comply, to subdue myself
To their routines, after all, what am I?
I’m only a girl, who must be clean
Who must go to church (where God isn’t)
Who must maintain her looks for that is all
She has, all she will ever be, not a daughter
Not a friend and not (sigh) a girlfriend
I rinse off and step out, cute as ever (sob)
(May 1st, 1992)

It took certain friends to convince me that my parents respected my opinion and didn’t only see me as their beautiful daughter. I needed to be persuaded that they believed I was intelligent and compassionate as well. Patrick especially was instrumental in placing me a sense of self-respect that I do not know if I had before. The fact he could be so interested in what I was thinking and what I was feeling when nobody else really was meant a lot to me. The fact he could print my poetry and other writings in his literary journal, Our Magazine, without having to place a picture of me beside them boosted my ego. There I was in print, getting complimented in various letters, without anybody knowing what I looked liked. I relished the feeling of being acknowledged for what was inside of me rather than what was on the outside. It told me that I was going to be judged on other criteria besides cuteness. More importantly, I realized that, unlike the pageants, I actually stood a chance of being recognized for my talents and intelligence. I remember being thirteen, fresh off an early morning emergency talk with Eeyore, and marching into my parents’ bedroom early one morning before we were supposed to go to an event.

“Mother, I’m not going to go today.”

“Come here, hun. Are you feeling ill?”

As I shuffled slowly to her I said, “No, I don’t think I want to compete any more.”

“But you love the pageants.”

“Not so much anymore. But I know how much you love them and I’d hate to disappoint you.”

“You’re not going to disappoint me, Breanne. I’m saddened, is all,” she said, placing her arms around me as I sat beside her in the bed. “You are so beautiful and I don’t want the world missing out on that.”

“I’ll make you a deal, mother. As long as you think I’m beautiful that will be okay by me, alright?”

“You’ll always be beautiful to me, honey, so that deal should be a real bargain.”

I do not know if it was a matter of me being thirteen or perhaps she was getting as tired of being on the road as much as me, but that day I found it easy to talk to my mother. Maybe in prior engagements I had lacked the self-confidence to effectively get across my point. Maybe it took being in all those pageants, being thrust in front of all those people for me to gain enough poise to know what I wanted. I never wanted to be queen of anything or princess of anything; I was content just being little 'ole Breanne. I didn't need to be Miss Georgia. Miss Chipper was a good enough title for me. I think I might have turned out far worse if I had actually won. If I had won then I would expect to win again and I’d always be searching for the next victory to validate me. I think it took losing each time and still being able to tell myself that I was a beautiful person, inside and out, that made me the real winner.

(And, trust me, darlings, I lost a lot. I’m probably the worst beauty contestant ever in history.)

Breanne

But If You Open Your Mouth, Then I Can't Be Responsible, For Quite What Goes In, Or To Care What Comes Out

Today at lunch at work today they were doing a fundraiser by selling hot dogs with chips for $2. I was tempted to partake of this "deal" but I couldn't justify the expense of purchasing food when I had already brown-bagged it. Also, the thought of spending that much for that little food offended my frugal sensibilities. I mean--I've always liked hot dogs. At times they have rivaled hamburgers in popularity for me. There's something to be said about consuming mystery meat stuffed in a skin-like covering. Mmmm, tasty! And don't even get me started on onions. If there is one food that I absolutely love to get ridiculous with onions it's hot dogs. One time at my home I sliced up a whole onion to use on four hot dogs. I don't know if you've ever eaten a whole onion in one sitting before, but my mouth became a raging inferno.

However, the funniest story dealing with hot dogs and my never-ending love for them was one time not too long ago. It was maybe around 2000 and the middle of summer. Jennifer and I had gone down to Huntington Beach for the day, but were just then heading back. The beach is great and all, but the real reason I liked to go down to Huntington was they had this one Wienerschnitzel that ran a special on Wednesdays where you could eat all the chili dogs you wanted for $5. Now I know a great deal when I see one and I visited Huntington Beach many a time simply to partake of that deal. Most of the time I topped out at eight or nine hot dogs at one sitting, which still to me made for a great deal. Paying almost fifty cents to the dog is not only economical, but oh so emotionally satisfying.

yes, ma'am, you are welcome...

"How many of those are you going to order?" Jen asked me as we were sitting down at the table.

"Eight? Nine?" I shrugged my shoulders. She shook her head in disbelief.

"That's disgusting."

"Tell you what, Jen, if you think that's disgusting I'm going to put on a showcase for you today."

The deal was that they would give you two hot dogs at a time as soon as they saw you had finished your first two. And so on and so forth. That way they weren't just giving away hot dogs for people to take home. Well, I got through my first six with no problem. It probably took me less than ten minutes to wolf them down. I got up to get another two. At this time Jen was still on her second one. Most of the time she could only do three and, at the most, four. As you can tell I eat pretty fast when I have some motivation and that day I was determined to outdo any records I had previously set.

Seven and eight took me about eight minutes more. Jen, the entire time, was beginning to stare at me in disbelief. And, as I stood up to get my next two, she started shaking her head again.

Nine and ten took me a bit longer, but I still managed to get them down in fifteen minutes. It was then that I took a little breather.

"You're going to stop now, right, Patrick? You look sorta sick."

"I can't stop now. I've done ten before. I'll do two more... in a couple of minutes."

She only laughed and slid across the soda we were sharing. I always think it's amazing how close friends are willing to share sodas. To me that's one of life's unheralded joys, when you have this unspeakable bond where it's assumed that it's cool to drink from each other's drinks. And on that particular day, in keeping with the theme of cheapskatedness, we had only bought the one soda. I took a big swig and let out an enormous belch and rested.

After a short reprieve I again went back to the front counter. By that time, the staff I had started to take notice that I was on numbers 11 and 12. They even asked when I would stop. I totally joked that I wanted to break the record. They joked back that some guy had gone for 24 once. I knew I wasn't going to break that but it spurred me to attempt to take it to the limit that day.

"The guys up there want me to do 24," I told Jennifer.

"I'm leaving if you eat any more than these two, Patrick. That's a promise," she said seriously.

"But why?"

"You're a pig that's why. And I don't want to be associated with pigs."

I went back to eating with mock-piety in my expression. Surprisingly, it only took me about five minutes to get through those two. I supposed the small rest had been a smart move. Right then Jennifer got up and headed towards the bathroom.

"We'll leave when I get back, okay?" she asked.

"Okay."

Of course, I got two more while she wasn't looking. And the look on her face when she came back was the most unique look in the world. It was a mixture of abject horror with a tinge of fascination. She sat back down, crossed her arms, and sighed.

"If you throw up in my car, so help me, God..."

"I won't throw up," I said, starting to feel the pain of eating a tad too much. They say that it takes about twenty minutes for your stomach to register anything it eats. My friends and I always talked about the secret to eating a lot is to eat ahead of the break. Namely, you've got to eat it faster than your stomach has a chance to realize that you've eaten too much. Otherwise, you stop far too soon. In that moment between ecstasy and excruciating pain I decided I wasn't long for too many more hot dogs.

I got through thirteen and fourteen slowly, very slowly. It probably took me about twenty minutes to stop and start through those.

"Okay, I'm done," I said, finally loosening the buckle on my belt, signifying the end of my endeavors. "Oh God, I'm going to die!" I said loud enough for most of the place to hear me. I didn't care. I was hurting. In fact, it took me more than a few minutes to recover enough to get up to get home.

"Are you done, pig? Are you finished?" my friend asked as we were approaching the exit doors.

"Yes, Jen," I tried to laugh, but it hurt too much.

However, fate had other plans for me because as I passed the front counter one of the guys behind it flashed me the thumbs up and tossed me one last hot dog. By that time, I had a big grin on my face because Jennifer was pissed by then. I don't know why, but the images of that guy tossing me a chili dog from behind the counter, me catching it one-handed, and Jennifer's face turning beet red all in a matter of moments are all etched in my memory.

So it was with unabashed glee that I ate number 15 in the car on the way back home.

That's my story. Again, it's no feeding the hungry or clothing the poor, but I do still feel a sense of accomplishment at my little feat. Fifteen hot dogs at one time is nothing to sneeze at. Neither is the idea of a thirty cent chili dog.

Yes, folks, I am that disgusting.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Know Where I Wanna Go, But I Just Don't Know, No I Just Don't Know How To Get There, Do You, Do You, Do You, Tell Me If You Do

Yesterday I received the second book about Rachel, Chain Reaction. If you have been reading my blog for awhile you'll know that she is a role model of mine, someone whose gracious spirit and caring attitude I seek to emulate in my daily life. She is the only hero I've ever had in my life. I mean--I've had plenty of people I admire, even idolize, but she is the only one who I honestly thought was another level of remarkable. The book itself is amazing. And, even though I was somewhat disappointed by the lack of further insight into Rachel's life like the first book had, I am finding myself in the process of stumbling upon an absolute treasure of information. There is so much to learn about being a better version of you that I find myself stopping constantly and commenting, "I have to remember this quote" or "I should use that in my next story or post." To give an idea of how much I enjoy the book I took it into work with me and, starting from page one, I almost managed to complete the whole thing while sitting at my desk.

you can start a chain reaction...

While reading the book I started to ask myself if I have ever done anything extraordinary, something quite so noble and unselfish that it warrants recounting here. Honestly, I do not know if any of my meager attempts at kindness and altruism come even close to matching the degree of benevolence Miss Scott showed everyday of her life. The following story possibly is the closest I've ever come, though I think it still displays my sense of hedonism and reveling in the randomness of life. I do not think that spirit runs contrary to kindness, but I think it illustrates more the strange, strange life I lead rather than the good and saintly life I'm trying to lead.

----

I was fourteen when I got lost at Epcot Center at Disney World. I didn't get lost for long--unless you count six hours as long--and it wasn't because I was angry or upset with any particular member of my family. I was stupid--plain and simple. I had asked to be excused from lunch with my two aunts and my brother because I wanted to go check out one of the scientific displays in one of the technology buildings. I went to the building, got bogged down on one of the virtual reality displays and the next thing I knew it was eighty minutes later and no one had come to pick me up like I'd asked them to. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have chosen to spend my time waiting for them in a booth at the back of the building, behind curtains, and with absolutely no view of the front or back exits. What they said had happened was they went looking for me ten minutes after I had finished lunch, couldn't find me in the building after searching every nook and cranny for twenty minutes, and then they went off on their merry way, figuring I'd catch up with them later.

It was another twenty minutes of my searching the technology building and the restaurant to realize that, damn it all, I'd been ditched. I could have been upset, annoyed, or scared that my aunts, who my parents had put in charge of my brother and me, had decided that I could, in fact, be left behind with no problem. Yet I knew in my heart of hearts that this was all my fault and that I would have to be the one to rectify it.

It was after another thirty or forty minutes of searching the immediate vicinity that I learned that, not only had they left me behind, but they were definitely off in the rest of the park having the adventures that I should have been having at the time. I made up my mind then and there that I was not going to waste another minute of my only day at Epcot during our seven-day stay in Orlando on looking for them. I trusted in fate that I'd run into them eventually. Off I went into the huge park, seeing all the attractions I wanted to see that I had been outvoted earlier in the day from seeing. I have to say, when you're still relatively young, the best way to view an amusement park is to do it alone. Not only do you get on the rides faster because they're always looking to fill seats, but you have a feeling of absolute freedom. You don't have to take anyone else's preferences into consideration, you don't have to stop for the slowpoke of the group, and you don't have to deal with cantankerous aunts who were almost always squabbling with each other.

I had fun.

I may have been lost, but I almost had no sense that that condition was a bad one to be in. For all I knew I might have had to call a taxi to take me back to the hotel at the end of the day, possibly book a flight home, and then have to explain to my parents why I never managed to hook back up with the family I'd come there with. I didn't care. Even if I possibly got stuck in Florida because my family hadn't been able to find me all week I still would have had no worries in the world. I think about that time and how different the summer of 1990 was compared to now. If I was fourteen now and got lost like I did it'd be a short call on my cell phone and they would have been able to rendezvous with me within minutes. But back then, like Eponine, I was truly on my own.

It was about two hours into my adventuring that I came across a kindred soul. By a fountain near Cinderella's (or was it Snow White's?) Castle was a brunette, a girl no older than ten or eleven, and she was crying and obviously lost. I don't know what drew me to her--possibly the idea that that very well could have been me if I had only been one or two years younger or possibly the idea that I was having such a good time being lost and she wasn't. I don't think I shall ever know the real reason why I walked up to her. All I know is I did.

"What's wrong? Are you lost?"

Shuffle, shuffle, away from me.

"It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to help."

So it wasn't stopping to change someone's flat, or giving away a kidney, or even donating to charity, but you have to understand I wasn't a very helpful person growing up. I pretty much lived and still of kind of live by the code that I should be happy before anyone else. It just wasn't like me to do something like that, especially considering how much of a damper it put on my solo expedition through the Epcot wilderness. I was concerned, though, and so I stopped for her. I don't know why her either. I'm sure there had to be other boys and girls lost in the park that day--many of whom I probably chose to ignore--but for her I stopped.

"I don't know where my parents are," she said quietly through her sobbing. "And I can't find them. I've looked and looked, and I can't find them."

"It's alright. They'll find you. You shouldn't cry out here like this. Here," I said, giving her a leaflet from the maps they give you at the entrance. It wasn't a napkin or a handkerchief, but it was all I had. At first, she didn't understand. I told her to wipe her face and I'd help her find her parents or, at the very least, take her to the front entrance where all the other lost kids were supposed to wait inside the front security building.

"Follow me. I know exactly where to take you where you'll be okay."

She definitely didn't trust me yet so I had to have faith that she would follow in behind me. I turned around and started making my way back towards the front gate. I couldn't hear her trailing me and yet I didn't want to turn around to check for fear of scaring her off.

As it were, even if she wasn't following behind me, there was another building I wanted to see by the front entrance anyway so the trip could have been construed as being personally motivated as well. I walked and walked, never once did I turn around or hear someone following me. I honestly thought I'd lost her until after ten minutes of walking suddenly she was right beside me.

I didn't say anything to her, but from that point on she turned when I turned, sped up when I sped up, and slowed when I slowed. And after about fifteen minutes of walking further we arrived at the security office.

"Just go in there and they'll help you out," I told her, turning around to go back into the park. I looked back to see her go in and then cleared my conscience. My mission was complete. I thought I had done a good thing with the minimum amount of effort. After all, the most I had done was shown her something that she could have seen on any map to the park. Notch one in the good column for Patrick.

I had just gotten in line to The World of Tomorrow display when who should pop in line right next to me but this mysterious brunette. I turned to the side and smiled. She sort of laughed and sort of blushed, the whole while trying to not look me in the eye.

"You're lost too, huh?" she asked after we'd been standing in line for a minute or two.

"Uh huh."

"I noticed when I was following you. No parents, no older brothers or sisters. You're alone too."

"Uh huh and loving every minute of it. We're at Disney World, goddamn it. I'm not going to let the fact I'm lost ruin it."

She continued to stare ahead. As we were about to head through the front doors to the building she spoke again.

"I'm Brandy. And your name is Patrick."

"How could you tell?"

"Hat."

What can I say? Every time before that when I went to Disneyland with my family I always bought a pair of the personalized mouse ears. Mouse ears are cool--I don't care what you think.

We went around the building, looking at different displays and trying out all the gadgets we could get our hands on, all without talking very much. I think the extent of our conversation was limited to "Take a look at this" or "Over here." It went like this for the next thirty minutes or so as we explored all three floors of the exhibition. We eventually stopped walking when we neared the last display. I stood over the railing, peering down at the crowds walking below, and got a good look at my dimunitive walking partner.

As aforementioned she was ten or eleven. She had brown hair and brown eyes. She wasn't all that pretty, but that could have been the crying and the stress of her situation. She was a good foot shorter than me. I think to the casual onlooker we could have passed for cousins or maybe school friends, but we definitely did not look like brother or sister, and, heavens to betsy, nothing resembling a couple. I thought to myself other than Brandy I didn't know a damn thing about this girl. I decided to remedy that.

"So get lost often?" I joked.

"No," she said uncomfortably.

"So this is a first for you too?" I tried again.

She paused, contemplating her options. "Yeah, I'm a rookie," she replied, showing the slightest hint of a grin.

"I'm thinking of going professional next year... maybe get lost at Hershey Park."

"Oooh, I've been there!"

And then she proceeded to tell me all about Hershey Park and how her parents were originally from Pennsylvania so they took her there, oh, about four years ago. Then she went into telling me about all the rides there and the food there and the great, great time she had. Finally, she ended her small story on a note about how her dad must be worried about her by now.

"Do you want to go back to the security station?"

"Yes, but I want you to come."

"Why?"

"I don't want to wait by myself."

"You talked to me, go talk to somebody over there."

She shot me a look of dejection that could have been truly annoying if she hadn't been so practiced at it. I had no choice but to accompany her. But before we left I made one small caveat to my complicity.

"I'll wait with you there for awhile, Brandy, but I've got to eat something."

"Okay."

We walked over to the nearby fast food stand. I looked up and down the menu until I came across what I wanted to see. Pizza. It'd been a good two hours of walking and slightly stressing out. I had built a sizable hunger again and a slice sounded about right to quell the stomach until I figured out what to do about dinner. The line was atrocious, though, and what I thought was going to be a quick grab and go turned into another game of patience. While I was waiting in line Brandy and I talked some more. I told her how I'd gotten lost. She told me I was stupid for waiting there. I told her I knew and then I asked her how she had gotten lost. She said that she had stormed away mad at her parents, basically thrown a fit when they wouldn't go where she wanted to. She had ran hard, faster and faster, when they had tried to stop her from making a scene. She had lost them in the crowd. She told me she had only meant to sulk by herself for a short while. Yet when she returned to where she had first lost them they weren't there any more. She had looked around much like I had for a few minutes, but whereas I had chosen to embrace my freedom, she had gotten deeply scared and panicked. She had been crying there at the fountain for a long while--people stopping to ask her if she needed help and she shaking her head no. She had even been approached by security but had told them that she was waiting for her older brother while he had gone into the nearby bathroom. And when asked why she was crying she told them she didn't like her older brother and that he was being mean to her. They asked her if they wanted her to wait with her and she told them no. So they had moved on.

I asked her why she didn't just let them help her.

"I don't want to get in trouble." In her mind she thought she'd be in less hot water if her parents had found her without having to be escorted by park staff. Her mom was always deathly afraid of Brandy causing a scene so she didn't want to cause a big one with the guards having to present her mom with her "lost child." I told her that didn't make sense, that her parents would be happy just to find her, and she simply told me no. In truth, I think the real reason she didn't want help was that she had been fighting to go see something on her own and had been told no. For her, I think, this getting lost had as much to do to prove to herself and her parents that she would be okay on her own as much as being scared. Thought she wouldn't admit it, I think she wanted to be found by her parents and act all nonchalant about it--"Oh, hi, mom and dad."--rather than have them realize she had been crying her eyes out and then have to call security for her mommy and daddy to come pick her up.

After I'd gotten to the front counter I did some math in my head. If I'd only eaten two hours ago and Brandy had mentioned she had come straight to the park from breakfast that meant she probably hadn't had lunch yet. With the last twenty dollars in my Hulk wallet I ordered four slices of pizza and two cokes. How her eyes had lit up when she realized I was buying her food as well.

We sat down at a table and ate our meal in quiet silence. Truth be told, she was very hungry and was visibly wolfing down her food. I don't think she could have talked if she wanted to. I laughed at her a couple of times when she proceeded to go from one bite to the next with nary a pause in between. It was definitely the most interesting "snack" I had all week. Afterwards, I tried talking to her some more, but she really didn't have much left to tell me without getting into family stuff. And every time we came around to the subject of her family it only made her realize she was still lost. We eventually ran out of things to talk about ten minutes later. We decided to start heading back to the station.

But instead of going back to the station she made a sharp right and wandered into the rest of the park. This time it was my turn to follow her. This time we didn't do much talking. It was obvious, to me, at least, that we probably wouldn't be friends after that day. What we needed most on that day of days was a companion, someone to go see things with, go on rides with. Talking wasn't going to be our strong suit. So for the next four hours we explored the whole park, even the city streets near the back, where each block was taken from a different culture. We went into the giant golf ball ride which was fun. And it was even more fun because she genuinely was enjoying herself like I had been before meeting up with her. She too experienced the joys of not having to answer to anyone. True, there was some minor bickering about where to go next, but, all in all, the spirit of independence ran deep in both our blood. We made the whole day about seeing as much as we could before we were found.

it's a big world after all...

Then as we turned the corner of the waterboat ride, she saw her parents.

And with no good-bye, "it was fun", or even a look back she was gone. I was a little sad to see her go. However, I was glad she had found them finally. Also, I felt a little proud I'd kept her company all that time, bought her food, and made sure she was safe while she was with me. Again, I don't know if it equates to Mother Teresa tending to the poor in Calcutta, but I think it was a nice thing I did. I think it sticks out a lot also because I never got a thank you and that didn't bother me either. I did it to help someone out and it was reward enough to see she had been reunited with her parents.

About an hour after Brandy left me I found my aunts and brother. When they asked me where I'd been I simply told them, "here and there." I had fun and if Brandy Brunettehead is reading this I just wanted to let you know that a lot of that had to do with you.

So it is I who will thank you for a day I still haven't forgotten.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I’m Running Out Of Time, I’m Out Of Step And Closing Down, And Never Sleep For Wanting Hours, The Empty Hours Of Greed

When in the scope of human of events it becomes necessary for one to achieve spiritual centering one usually relies in the age-old tradition of resting. Usually such a task does not lay in the realm of Herculean feats. Usually such a task is easily accomplished. However, usually is not always.

In other words, to all the gracious folks who decided today should be the day of all days to wake up little ‘ole Breanne, a hearty “thank you” goes. It wasn’t so much the calling that I minded. It was all the calling. And it wasn’t so much the topics you darlings talked about that I minded. It was the multitude of topics you decided to bridge. I’m only thankful that I got some rest at the rate the afternoon went.

I got home at two. Today is what we in the trade of being self-employed call an early day. Study it; recognize it; there will be a quiz on it later, my sweets. Now, when one gets home at two, one is expecting to do one of two things. The first is to make some down-home loving to her husband, but since he doesn’t get off till six most afternoons that was out of the question. The second and most likely of scenarios is that this individual is planning to get busy with another treasured soul mate—namely, the four post bed that has been like a second lover to her. In many respects this lover even exceeds her husband. My bed never sasses me back when all I want to do is cuddle up with it and not stop till one of us is passed out on top of the other one. Also, my bed always knows what I need and exactly how to give it to me. Greg’s good, but he ain’t that good.

I was so looking forward to getting reacquainted with my bed that I had stripped down to my birthday suit probably faster than I have ever disrobed for my human lover. “Hello, my lover,” I said, as I pounced upon the bed and quickly lost myself in its sweet caress. And soon my bed and I getting down to the business of sleeping together--I’m not ashamed to admit that. Two in the afternoon is not too early for that kind of activity; I’m a firm believer in that. If a woman, being of her right mind and of an appropriate age, should decide that she wants to fritter away her day lost in a bedroom of inequity, well, that should be her own business and never you mind what she does in that bedroom. What happens behind closed doors should remain behind closed doors. Just as a sleeping Southern gal should be left a sleeping Southern gal.

It was Mary and Louie who woke me up first. My cats are nothing if not easily influenced by peer pressure. They see me sleeping and, by golly, they want to be sleeping right next to me. Specifically, right next to my face. More specifically, right atop my face. And most specifically, they both decided in tandem that there was enough room atop my face, it being the massive cat basket it is, for both of them at the same time. The feeling of two feline interlopers is not a pleasant sensation whilst one is in the process of slumber. It is much like the sensation one gets being grilled by one’s in-laws; no matter how smoothly the process goes one is still going to leave shaken and a mere ghost of oneself.

“Mary! Louie! Anywhere but the face!” I screamed as I scooted them off of me. They complied by bounding into the walk-in closet, their sanctuary when their own world seems to stress them out. Certain friends named Patrick think they must have an ongoing poker game in my walk-in closet because my cats seem to go in excited and carefree, but when they drag themselves out they always manage to look dejected and, dare I say it, drunk as skunks. And I swear sometimes, just sometimes, I catch the slightest hint of cigar smoke wafting its way out of the closet and the faintest tinkling of chips being piled together. “Now I don’t want either of you to come out of the closet till you’ve won momma a new car,” I said, drifting back to sleep.

The next voice that interrupted the lover’s dance with the bed I had taken up again was Stephanie. Stephanie in my head. Stephanie in my ears. Stephanie on my cell.

“Hey, B.!”

“Hey, Stephanie! What can I do you for? Or, rather, how much do you think it would take for someone to do you in?” I said, slightly irritated.

“I think the going rate is ten large.”

“Ten large would be a bargain to be able to get to sleep.”

“Tired?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” I said, yawning. “How can I help ya, help ya, help ya, Steph?”

“Me?”

“Is there another Stephanie on the phone? Have I accidentally been invited to the Stephanie party line?”

“Oh, I was calling to see what you were doing.”

“Well, I was doing the horizontal tango with my bed. And, if you don’t mind, me and him kind of wanted to be alone. I shall rendezvous with you later, sugar.”

“But, but, but…”

“Talk to the tone… because I’m hanging up the phone, sugar”

Click.

Once more I was alone with my paramour, my companion, the inanimate object of my dreams. I was hungry for sleep, craving like it was my elixir of choice. And soon I was being pampered like the belle I am by its warm touch.

Next up was Patrick. He too rang my cell.

“Oh, Breannie, wake up, wake up, wherever you are.”

“And how’d you know I was trying to sleep, Eeyore.”

“Two o’clock on a Tuesday. Where else would you be? In case you haven’t noticed you’re not exactly unpredictable.”

Click. I waited for Patrick to ring back. I didn’t have to wait long.

“I bet you didn’t predict that,” I said.

“Nope, that was a first,” he laughed.

“And now I believe you were about to get to your point.”

“I was calling to ask what you were thinking about posting today. I think I kind of scared everyone away with this last post.”

“Near-rape has a tendency to do that, Patrick.”

“So I was thinking you should do something just a little bit lighter.”

“Like say how everyone I know knows I take a nap on Tuesday afternoons and yet they still call anyway?”

“Yeah do that. That’ll be funny and…. I don’t want to say it, B.”

“Go ahead. You know you want to.”

“That’ll be funny and unpredictable.”

“Magic word, darling.”

Click. This time he didn’t call back.

I fell back into my lover’s arms, confident that I would not be interrupted yet again. And I wasn’t. I had finally achieved the perfect space between consciousness and coma, between safely up-and-about and forget-about-it, between rearing to go and “where did she go?” It was great. I was ensconced in a marathon session of nose snoring, arms flailing, kicking the sheets as I go barnyard resting. I had almost erased all memory of being awake from my active memory. In my dreams I saw a field of white with whiteness surrounding it. Everywhere you looked there was white—white flowers, white trees, white sky, even white cats playing poker. White. White. White. The only thing that could have made it even more perfect would have been Betty White as Sue Ann. At least then we would have some tasty vittles to snack on whilst in my dream.

That’s when I received the last phone call for the afternoon. It was Greg.

“Hey, Breasy, were you awake?”

“Stupid question, Greg.”

“Okay, I’ll make it quick then. What should I bring home for dinner?”

I’ve made it a rule that Tuesday is officially the day of holy rest when it comes to me, my kitchen, and my sanity.
“Take two steaks and call me in the morning.”

“Good. Where do you want them from?”

“I don’t care. Just pick them up and hurry home.”

“But I don’t know…”

“Hey, Greg, do me a favor.”

“Okay,” he said skeptically.

“It’s really easy and I promise it’ll be fast, sugar”

“Okay.”

“Say unpredictable for me.”

“Unpredic…”

Click. Now where was I?


Breanne

I Was Only Seventeen, I Told You It Didn’t Mean A Thing, Why Can’t You Just Love Me? The Truth You Think You’re After Might Just Break Your Heart

She was just a girl when it happened. She may have looked seventeen on the outside, but on the inside she was as giddy as a girl getting her first pony. He was the guy—the only guy—the one guy she had been dreaming and fawning and falling over for since last year. Finally, dream beyond dreams, he had asked her out to the Spring Formal. And it had been magical. There, all her friends had seen that she was telling the truth and that her beau-hunk of a man had, indeed, extended an invitation to her. There, all his friends had graciously commented on the rose-colored satin dress had looked mighty fine on her even though she knew she probably looked as pudgy as she had looked the day before. There, the lights and the music had swallowed her up whole, making the whole evening as magical as anything in reality can be magical. Tonight was a night she was going to remember for the rest of her life. She would have sang songs if she hadn’t already gotten a reputation as being weird for singing aloud in class.

When they stopped on the side of the road she knew what he wanted. She kind of wanted that too. She kind of wanted the kind of experiences all her other friends were having, the kind were the boy leans in and kisses the girl. She kind of wanted him to validate that the entire night had been actual. She kind of wanted him to tell her that she was pretty. She didn’t have to have the kiss. She could settle for pretty.

He leaned in, but instead of aiming for a kiss, his hands were aiming for places lower than her face or her lips.

She attempted to nudge him back to looking at her. She loved it when he had looked into her eyes all those times earlier in the evening.

It wasn’t the grunt of his dissatisfaction that tipped her off that something was wrong. Nor was it the fact he told her no when she got worried about him and asked to leave. Nor was it the fact he didn’t seem to care she had started to cry. The sound of her dress being ripped from her body was what tipped her off that something was horribly wrong.

He didn’t rape her. She was glad for that. No, he had merely laid her on her back, told her to be quiet, and jacked off on her exposed body. He thought he was going to do it. In fact, he had been sure of it in the moments leading up to his culmination that she had begun preparing her story for her parents and the doctors when she got to the hospital. She was sure she would have to go to the hospital after tonight. The violence in his eyes while they were in the car told her tonight was going to hurt bad. She was even preparing a different story for the police when they arrived. Somehow she thought the police would have to get involved. They always get involved in cases like this, didn’t they? But as she felt the chill in the Maryland air she had discovered that perhaps some decency of the nice boy from earlier in the evening remained. He pulled on his underwear, his pants, and told her to get dressed. You look like a mess, he had said before they started driving again.

She apologized.

The whole drive home he was talking to her as if it was some other place, some other time, and as if they were some other place. It was as if he had developed a sudden case of amnesia about the whole affair. Of course, she was still crying, so there was that for ruining the mirage that all of it may have been a dream. But aside from the tears and a torn dress, what had she really lost? It wasn’t as if she’d been raped. That was to become a mantra for her. The fact he had failed to violate her was some point of dignity and respect she still maintained for him. He may have been a villain, but at least he didn’t take that, she thought. He kept talking to her about how fun the dance was and how he was sure sorry that he hadn’t asked her out earlier in the year. She smiled politely between the trickling teardrops and replied how much she would have liked that as well. He even dared laugh at that and remark what a great sport she was.

When he dropped her off at her curb he stopped the car and flashed that winsome smile of his. She thought he was going to try for a kiss good night.

“If you ever tell anyone… next time I’ll bring some friends to the party,” he said simply.

She smiled to show her understanding.

“Good night,” he said as he waved good-bye and sped off.

----

Years later when she would tell her boyfriend from California he couldn’t understand why she didn’t tell anyone about what he had done. He couldn’t understand why he had been the only person she had trusted this awful secret to. He couldn’t understand why she would think it would make him think less of her as if it were her fault. He couldn’t understand why she wanted to spare his feelings, why she thought it would break his heart if he ever found out. He couldn’t understand much about anything.

And years later when she would tell her boyfriend from California she still cried some.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

It's Coming To A Close, It's Sad, But Then, Who Knows, I Might Find Out It's Better That He Goes

Well, I've finally got off my duff and set about to the task of writing myself a twelfth chapter for this novel of mine, The Carisa Meridian. I think the rest of it shall be accomplished tonight but, for now, here's a sampler.

Bottoms up!

twelve – because he’s leaving

About a year ago, while we were driving our son to a play date with one of his friends from preschool, Tierney asked me how come I never remembered Carisa’s death. She remarked that I had never taken any time off, never gone back to Kilburn, never even mentioned on which day exactly she died. Back then I had come up with some glib answer about how an eleven-year-old mind doesn’t process information in quite the same manner as an adult. I told her that to me it was more important to celebrate her life rather than her death. Then I turned the conversation back on her and asked her if she didn’t agree. We ended up talking about her father’s death more than about Carisa’s, which was a good thing because I don’t know how well I would have handled a full-blown discussion on that topic.

The truth is and shall forever be that I always remember the exact day in October she died—October 13th. Every year on that date instead of going to work I sneak off, without Tierney and without my son, back to where she is buried. Sometimes Emily comes, most times she doesn’t. I have asked her not to tell my wife I visit there. I don’t think Tierney would understand. Emily is the only one close enough to me to understand why exactly I handle my grief in such terms. It’s not that I don’t believe my wife would care. I know she would. The trouble is that she would only care about me; she wouldn’t honor Carisa. The day would stop being about the flaxen-haired love of my youth and more about how it affected to me. And, quite frankly, Carisa, and especially her death, deserves more respect than that. I love Tierney to bits and pieces, but she would miss the point.

The point is that Carisa never had the attention in her life. She was always so busy making sure people got along, people were happy, and that she could in some way be the catalyst for that. She was always so busy shining the spotlight on other people, making them into the superstar, that she never quite kept enough for herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t deserve it—she was outspoken and pretty, direct and honest. There were more than enough occasions where people couldn’t help but notice her. Yet she never called for attention and most of the attention she received was very negative. She was always being labeled as weird and crazy by people that did not know her, by people she so desperately wanted to be her friends. The truth was she always a giver even to the last day she lived. She gave, and gave, and gave, and she didn’t stop giving until she saw that you were happy or, at the very least, some version of it. She lived to see others happy.

The point is that it would make a mockery of her life that she couldn’t get some of that attention spilled upon her now that she was dead. I made sure every time I came to visit her on October 13th that I made it all about her. I never have a prepared speech; I mostly wing it. But it has always ran along the same lines.

“Carisa, you were the one good thing in my life that I have no regrets about. About the only thing I regret is that I lost you so young before I could see you grow up into the absolute perfect, charming, and beautiful woman I knew you could have been. I miss you every day—sometimes more than I think is healthy for me. I miss you every day I see Emily with little Craig and even littler Heather. I think to myself that could have been us, that should have been us. You would have made the greatest mother and I think you should have been given that chance if there were any justice in the world.”

And then I usually cry and I usually don’t stop until it’s evening. If Emily is there she knows well enough to leave me alone. I don’t want to be comforted. I don’t want to be told I’ll be okay. I want to be sad. I want to hurt. Hurting is how I know it’s real, hurting is how I know the feelings I had for Carisa were actually genuine, are actually sincere. My pain on those days cannot be talked away, cannot be hugged from existence. They exist because she existed and because we existed together for awhile.

Tierney would not understand this.

If I ever let her come the minute she saw me crying it would be the end of honoring Carisa. After that point she’d try to make it all about me. She wouldn’t understand making it about me would be akin to an unforgivable sin. Carisa deserves a day all to herself. After all, Tierney has me the other 364 days of the year. More to the point, my wife has had me ongoing for twelve years now. What did Carisa get with me? A lousy stinking four months, that’s what. I know everyone always says that you should be able to share in all things with your spouse and all that. And in most things I would agree. Even during our troubles right now there still isn’t another individual alive today I’d rather have accompany me to the movies, to surprise me at work, to generally flash me that bright smile of hers and just brighten my day. We may have our problems—none bigger than the we find ourselves currently in—but not wanting her around has never been one of them. I think it’s like one of those days where you cannot decide for the life of you where you want to eat. You narrow it down to two choices and both of them sound fantastic. That was my dilemma with Tierney and Carisa. It isn’t one of wanting one over the other; it is one of wanting them both and not being able to have both.

On that particular day, with our son in the backseat, I was able to deflect the question away from having to explain to my wife why I do not ask her to accompany me to my memorials. It is a question I don’t think I can sidetrack her from for very long. She is eventually going to figure out where I disappear once every October. Then she will want to come. Then she will feel hurt when I tell her she cannot. Then she may, or should I say probably will, get me to change my mind. I do not want to change my mind. I do not want somebody making me feel better.

Carisa made me feel better once upon time. Then she died. No one should be allowed to make me feel good again. That’s how I feel sometimes.

More to come (probably tonight)

----
Well, it's done. I don't know how good it is. I'm terribly out of practice. It's funny--I wrote chapters 1-11 in the span of 6 weeks at 2-3 chapters a week. Then suddenly I stopped. That's what a new job and having to get to bed early will do for you. Now trying to come back to the story I find out I still like the characters and the overall arc of the story still excites me. Maybe it won't be too long before I have the whole thing completed.

We shall see. But, for now, yet another blast from the past...

The Carisa Meridian update.
12 chapters done, 10 more to do
158 pages written, ~140 more to write

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers