Last Night I Dreamt, That Somebody Loved Me, No Hope, No Harm, Just Another False Alarm

--"Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me", The Smiths

When you're married sometimes it's the little things that became the most difficult chores in the world. Take, for instance, the simple act of enjoying a movie with the supposed man of your dreams. In the beginning, when the two of you first start dating, it's as simple as humming a tune to get him to come out with you. All it takes is posing the question, basically, and he's yours. As you develop a rhythm and more important matters settle into the relationship, it's often these small niceties that fall by the wayside like yesterday's rubbish until finally the two of you stop with all the niceties whatsoever. That becomes the routine. That becomes the everyday.

Then, Heaven forbid, you do get a hankering for a quaint dinner and a movie, it's as if you're asking to fit China in a teacup. It's not just a "no;" it becomes the longest "noooooooooooooooo" in recorded history.

"If I do that, Breasy, then tomorrow what's to stop you from wanting to do it again? You ask me again next week and we'll be completely bankrupt. Besides, I'm tired."

"Be a man, honey. Do the right thing. You can always sleep tomorrow."

You've been with him for years and years now. He ain't going anywhere. And you would never think of questioning his devotion to you, but sometimes you get the feeling that he's feeling like he's already bought the boat so what's the use in sailing today? There's no urgency with him, no oomph to his step when it comes to you. You get the feeling like he'd just be happy to live out the rest of his days at home with you by his side. However, that's not the way you were built. Hell's bells, didn't he promise you that you'd have "the life that you always dreamed about, the future you always envisioned, and the love that you would never forget"? Didn't he swear to you on bended knee, when he was stumbling over his own words, that if you allowed him this one chance to get it right that he'd never do you wrong? Where was that guy tonight?

It shouldn't have come as a surprise to him that you dragged out of his recliner. What surprised him was the ferocity with which you led him out of the front door. He should've known that you weren't above grabbing him by the ear when he was still complaining about how he wanted to get to bed early for work tomorrow and something about an early meeting. Sufficed to say, he wasn't a happy camper when you seatbelted him away in the passenger seat and forcibly abducted him to the local theater.

"Believe me, you, darling. This hurts me more than it hurts you," you laughed as you watched him rubbing his still sore ear.

It's times like that that you realized that, nope, you weren't bred for a life of kicking back like a lazy lump on a log. Yours has always been a life of action and that if somebody should have the audacity to want to try to keep up with you then they should, by all means, try to keep up with you. What they shouldn't do is slow you down to their speed, their slow, meandering speed. You can be ticketed by the soul patrol just as easily for living a life too humdrum as too excitable. It's finding that comfort zone that becomes an individual. And, for you, that comfort zone entails being able to frequent the local cineplex whenever the mood strikes you. You've always been impetuous that way. That's the was this Breanne rolls--no more, no less.

When you finally arrived at the movie theater you'd hoped that all thoughts for an early bedtime had been stricken from Greg's head, but you weren't exactly stopping to give him time for a status report. You had a movie to catch, after all. Besides, you always had him at your beck and call. If you had been living a life a tad too dull for your tastes, it was only because you allowed the situation to get so out of hand. You still held the power. You still had the control. And what you wanted most of all right then was to share the evening with your beloved, whether he liked it or not. You strolled into the theater laughing on his arm and, you weren't quite sure, but you seemed to have seen a glimmer of a grin out of your peripheral vision. Maybe his heart wasn't as set on beddy-by as much as he had thought.

Maybe he did love you as much as he said he did.

You settled into your seats like the sickingly cute couple that you are and you even deemed him worthy enough to settle your head on his shoulder to illustrate how much you appreciated him being there for you. You grew comfortable in his presence, assured that this night out beat any 'ole evening in bed sleeping the hours away. You smiled at the thought of finally being out a date with your husband. You relaxed.

You fell asleep twenty minutes into the movie.

And your lovable husband never said word one when he eventually caught you. He just let you sleep, telling you later that you looked so peaceful that he didn't dare wake you.

Yes, it's the little things that get you by in a marriage. The little things that choke you up every time.

Breanne

Mind Your Own Business, Boy, How Was I To Know, That He Was Just A Fiend And A No-Good Cheat, Well It's All In The Past Bitch Cuz Now I've Got It Beat

--"Dirty Glass", Dropkick Murphys

"It's alright, Heidi. What's a little plagarism among friends?" I told her as I handed over my years-old Hamlet essay.

Of everything I ever wrote in high school, nothing has followed me as much as this one Hamlet essay on the topic of whether or not the ghost of Hamlet's father is a friend or foe to him. It has remained a favorite topic of discussion of mine for two anecdotes.

One, it was the only essay that any teacher or professor of mine ever graded 100% within less than ten minutes after reading it. I basically saw my English teacher in the cafeteria before school had started. She'd been a favorite instructor of mine and I was, by far, one of the best, if not the best, student in her class so she was anticipating what I had written on this most sacred of texts. I turned it into her right there, four periods before her class, thinking that she would peruse it and officially grade once she read it in class. When she placed two marks for spelling errors and handed it back to me with the notation 35/35, signifying a perfect score, I was shocked. Not only did it seem she read it rather quickly--if it took her more than seven minutes to get through it all, it would have been a miracle--but to give me a perfect score without hesitation was quite a nice surprise. She told me to still hand it in, but, yeah, she definitely liked what she had read. I thanked her and to this day recall it as the only paper I've been both proud of getting a perfect score with the full knowledge that it probably did deserve a perfect score.

Two, it remains the only paper I've actually marketed as capable of earning one a perfect score. Before Heidi, I "sold" it to one of my other friends for a couple of good dinners. Those two instances, also, I have no qualms about repeating as quirky examples of my whimsical nature.

"But aren't you bothered that you're basically helping me to cheat?" she asked me as she readily accepted my paper.

"Not really. I offered, you didn't ask for it. I just chalk it up to the troublemaker in me," I smiled.

Granted, the real reason I was doing it was because I had an undeniable workplace crush on Heidi, but the reason that's more insightful is that I love to cause just the tiniest bit of chaos whenever possible. It's the whole reason I like to read about pulling scams and learn how to pull them myself. I love chaos as long as it doesn't really hurt anyone. I love messing with people whether it be with a well-placed non sequitor or a little white lie that masquerades as a practical joke. It must have something to do with the whole concept of setting myself apart from the norm. I cannot do anything straight-forward. Like my cousin says, there always have to be some kind of "twist" involved when I'm relaying anything. More often than not this twist involves doing something rather unconventional and sometimes rather underhanded since, by its very nature, doing something out of the norm is breaking one rule or another.

When Heidi told me about the problems she had been having in getting started with her Hamlet essay I was more than willing to jump in. It was nice to have the perception that I was somehow coming to her rescue and the little rascal in me couldn't resist pulling one over on somebody, even if it was only some a teacher I would probably never come into contact with.

"And you're sure this will get me a perfect score?"

"Well, I cannot guarantee you perfection, but I'm confident it'll get you an A at least."

"Thanks, Patrick, you're saving my life."

"No prob, Heidi."

Sometimes I worry that this streak is bigger than me, that deep-down I really have a need to be deceitful or chaotic. I've discussed this many times with my fellow wicked child, Breanne, and the discussions never turn out well. Sure, there have been these few instances where I assisted in people getting better grades than they deserved, but I always justified it with the rationale that these people weren't taking up English as a major anyway so any achievements in that field wouldn't be too long-lasting. It'd be a different story if one of the two individuals ended up becoming an English Lit Professor or Novelist. In that case I would feel any advancement in their profession would have been earned falsely and I would have stood strong in not giving out my papers. It's this same rationale that allows me a clear conscience every time I had a friend do one of my art projects or accept assistance in the form of people doing school projects for me. It's not like I was ever going to go into a field where dexterity with my hands would be a factor so I don't feel wrong for taking advantage of the kindness of not-so-strangers.

Yet it didn't just stop there. I have short-cutted in other areas of my life that weren't as clear-cut in terms of morality. I've cheated on a girlfriend, thank God. But I've cheated in just about every other aspect of my life. I got confirmed by saying what people wanted to hear when I knew the last thing I wanted was to remain in any religion. I allowed people to help me with the full knowledge that they would be the last people I'd ever help out of a similar jam. I've probably convinced dozens of people to willingly give me money on the assumption I was in a position of authority or had the ability to give them ridiculous great rates of return on their investments. Worst of all, I've said and done horrible things to people I considered friends all to put myself in a position of getting what I want. Any of those ideas, those actions, or thoughts, have caused me more than one sleepless night.

"But you don't plan on continuing with this do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you can't keep cheating. Before long it's going to eat away at you? I mean--I'm glad for the help, but I sure wouldn't feel good about myself if I kept doing it, Patrick."

"I guess you're going to have to ask me in a few years how I feel and if I'm still up to my old tricks, Heidi."

I've never claimed to be a saint, but after a particular nasty run-in with someone who was none too pleased with me basically conning him out of fifty dollars, I've all but given up trying out new scams on people. And I'd like to think I no longer have it in me to wantonly lie to my friends or family. For sure, I no longer am in the habit of resorting to physical altercations when I lose my temper like I did with DeAnn. I think I'm a better person than I was before. I've learned one or two concepts due to reading about Rachel and seeing how my previous mindset affected people that have led me to believe there's a better way than always looking for the angles.

Yet I'm still really proud when somebody bites hard on an obvious story I've been spinning. It still puts a smile on my face when I can pull away the curtain and reveal just how much I've fooled them. That mischievous prankster will never go away.

And, yes, I'm still in the habit of allowing my expertise with writing to assist people I know. I can't help it. When somebody I like needs help in an area I consider myself proficient in, I still jump at the chance. When it comes to helping my friends, sometimes there still isn't a line between what I think is right and fair, and what is being a good friend.

"I think that's what being a good friend is all about, helping someone out when they need it."

"Even when it means being less than honest?"

"Especially when it means being less than honest. Anybody can be helpful when it's the right thing to do. It's when it's the wrong thing to do and you still help anyway that you know who's willing to go to bat for you."

"Well, whatever your reasons, you sure saved my butt."

"Hey, I did it as much for me as I did for me. It's just fun for me."

And it always will be.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

For Your Eyes Only, Only For You, You See What No One Else Can See, And No One Breaking Free, For Your Eyes Only, Only For You

"For Your Eyes Only", Sheena Easton

My rule for writing stories is that I've always adhered to telling what actually happened even if what actually happened isn't exactly the most comfortable and pleasant story to tell. It doesn't matter if it's a fictional story or if it's a story ripped from my own life; if the opportunity presents itself to dress up the story by altering the underlying truth, I immediately get paranoid that I'm delving into the realm of meglomania. I am not speaking of changing lines or events because my faulty short-term memory has left me unable to reconstruct them as they once happpened. Nor am I discussing talking about re-writing a short story or novella because on the first go-around I neglected chances to place the drama where it should have been. I am merely speaking of remembering and getting an idea, then replacing it with something else for fear that I'll be misunderstood or the idea will be misconstrued. I'm not a big fan of re-writes where wholesale plot changes are enacted or editing of any kind which involves the removal of scenes deemed too personal, too incendiary, or too taboo to speak of. I tend to write from the gut and often times everything you read here is the first and only draft (which you'll notice from the several grammar and spelling mistakes).

With that manifesto in mind, you can understand my conundrum when I say I'm suffering from a bit of shyness when it comes to writing my screenplay. It's not that it's about me. Providence knows my favorite subject matter is me. It's not the subject matter. My favorite story from my history has always been my meeting Breanne and that first meeting in person was, as Barney would say, legendary. And it's not that I'm afraid of stepping on toes or saying something that I shouldn't have. I've gotten okays from all the principals involved--her parents, her friends, her family, and, of course, from my co-star. What I seem to be growing timid at is that I'm starting to feel that the subject matter falls far from being what anyone else would be interested in.

It's a simple story. It doesn't have huge dramatic turns except for the fact of her running away and subsequent search for her. It doesn't have a huge knockdown drag-out fight or anybody dying. What I think it has is a lot of inter-personal and familial drama. What I think it possesses is a lot of small moments that I think could be told to great effect and really touch people. I mean--I know it's touched me to live through it and I think anyone else, when really matched up against their life, could see a bit of themselves in my story. I just don't know how much people are going to be interested in hearing something that doesn't have that big concept going for it.

It's one thing to spill my guts here, where I'm pretty safe to not be recognized or called on for things I've done or said. But if I write this screenplay out, even if it never gets made into an actual film, the story itself will become alive for me. The names may be changed and the dates may be changed, but, to the best of my ability, I am going to be writing this as close to the bone as I possibly can. That means that, for better or for worse, it's not going to be some guy named Elliot (or whatever I fucking decide to name that guy) on the screen; it's going to be me. It's not going to be some story about two people who slowly discover that all relationships do not work out despite how much we want them to; it's going to be my story about how the one relationship I wanted to work out just couldn't. More than that, for me, it's not going to be reading or watching some story about some resplendent girl named Cadence; it's always going to be a story about my Breannie. Always.

I just don't know if I want the whole world to know everything about everything. For the most part here I can break it up into small bits and pieces. I can post a piece about how funny we are together one day and how much she infuriates me the next. I can break it up with the stories that have nothing to do with her. The same goes for her. Here, she doesn't have to waste space talking about what an idiot I am sometimes or what she remembers of me from five years ago. That's here. Up there on the screen or there on the page, it'll be a different story. It's sickening to think that I could ever write an entire two-hour movie where most of the action focuses on us two. The truth is I could fill volumes about the two of us, what I think about the two of us.

The only question is I don't know how well the transition will go to opening up the front doors for so much of that part of my life to be shown. It isn't just the terribly romantic crap I espoused with her; it's all the negligible small talk I engaged in with her family. It's the nervousness of being in a new place. It's the rush of it all that I can tell you know is going to make me queasy seeing on-screen. This is literally going to be the one piece that stays true to what kind of person I am and I don't know if the world at large is quite ready to see that much of me.

And I don't know if I'm ready to show the world that huge chunk of me when so much of me thinks that I'll be treated differently because of it.

But I have to hew my convictions. I like this story and that's got to be good enough for me to proceed with what may be my craziest endeavor yet.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

A Dragon Lives Forever But Not So Girls And Little Boys, Painted Wings And Giant Rings Make Way For Other Toys

--"Puff The Magic Dragon", Peter, Paul, and Mary

One difference between the Breanne that was and the Breanne that is now is that I more readily accept that the world doesn't revolve around me. I used to live in a dream where people--friends, family, neighbors, teachers, everyone--ceased to exist as soon as they left my view. It wasn't a conscious thought. I didn't think of myself as some little lady in watchtower, taking stock of all the ships that both came from or went to sea. I merely didn't reflect too long on what people did outside of the company of me. It was obvious to me at the time that people's lives were more interesting by having me in it and what they did in their own time had to pale in comparison. I wasn't so vain to believe that I was the belle of the ball over whom boys counted the precious seconds until they could be in my presence again and over whom other girls deeply wished in their heart of hearts to so thorougly emulate. I only thought that, by my actions and by my words, I had to be the highlight of most people's days.

It used to bother me trying to be the center of attention, having to work that hard to entertain and be pleasant. I used to think it a nightmare of being fenced into a life of being on my cheeriest behavior constantly. There were times when the moniker that my mom had christened me, that of Little Miss Chipper, with seemed more of a sentence rather than an honorific. Yes, I was a happy gal, prone to bursts of impromptu moments of joy, but there were other times when I felt the fatigue of having so many people out there counting on me to be a bright spot to their otherwise dreary day. I was their life, or so I thought, and I was bringing to them a piece of their existence.

Now, however, I have troubling thoughts that the opposite might be true. As I've matured and come to understand just how little everything revolves around me, I've grown accustomed to the fact that maybe it's everyone else who lends substance to my life. I worry that the more that people I've come to depend on grow busier, their lives more complicated, and their situations further and further from mine, that I fade away a bit more. Take today, for instance. Today was supposed to be the day before I had to get ready to spend with my family and is usually a day I head out with Fanny, Fay, and some of my other girlfriends. I even had plans to meet them all for dinner in town. Yet, through various commitments and last-minute alterations in itineraries, they all had to drop out. Normally, it wouldn't be such a big deal, but today for some reason it strikes me how much of my world revolves on that interaction with people I feel close to. It disturbs me when I lose a piece of that, even one day feels like I'm missing something substantial within me.

Sometimes I really do feel like Puff, who, once Jackie Paper stopped coming around, lost all sense of his place in the world. Just like that rascally dragon, what is my purpose if not to be the great communicator, the mouth of the South, Little Miss Chipper? I don't have a role in the world if it's me by myself. I have no meaning if I'm only in the company of one.

People have strange phobias and nightmares. Patrick has his blindness phobia. Katie has her fear of certain cartoon characters. Even my mother panics to this day at getting too close to lake water and whatever nasties may be swimming in it. I've written about my childhood fear of thunder, the instinctual momentary cringe a particularly nasty peal can still bring about in me. But that fear grew out of a lack of understanding about what I was experiencing. When you cannot comprehend something that happens suddenly it shocks you into fearing the worst. My other huge fear is one that I very rarely speak about openly. One, it seems as silly as a trap door on a canoe, and, two, I'm of the type of people who believe that if you speak about something you're afraid too often it'll come to pass.

My fear is that I'm living somebody else's life. More precisely, I'm afraid that I'm like a character in somebody else's story and as soon as my role in that person's story comes to a conclusion then so shall my life be concluded. It used to be that I thought people's lives had little meaning outside of me. Now I'm worried that the minute people lose all touch with me I shall be reduced to nothing.

I know it's only the frustration, the loneliness, talking, but I can't but help but think that I'm not the star of my own show like I once did. Hell's bells, I might not even be a co-star in any one's show. I might be the wacky neighbor who pops in every once in a while to deliver her clever and funny line, but has no real heart, no real soul. I might be the bit player who everybody likes and laughs at, but no one really counts on to anchor the program. I might be the person that everybody wonders what I'm doing when I'm not around, but nobody really misses.

It's scary to place so much weight on how I interact with others, but that's the position that I think I've placed myself in.


without his life-long friend, puff could not be brave

Breanne is a real woman, whether or not her friends stay in touch with her everyday. That's what I've got to remind myself.

Breanne

But Now I See It Clear, Life Ain't Always Fair, Oh, What Can You Do, When You Don't Want To Hurt Him, Cause You Don't Deserve Him

--"Coming For You", Jojo

speaking of compulsions...

Heather headed home on the freeway afraid of what she would find when she got there. On one hand, it'd be nice to hear from Ryan that he was okay. It had been agony the last seven days with him being so handicapped and her the direct cause of it. It was part of the reason he had agreed to take care of him. On the other hand, there was a certain dread to his return to perfect working order. Heather had taken care of his needs from the time she arrived back at his place after work till when she left again in the morning. He had depended on her. He had needed her. She didn't know what to expect when he possibly might not need her so much any more.

She wanted to be practical about the whole matter, but the only practical thought in her head was the thought that everything was going change once Ryan could see again.

When you look through your eyes, Heather had always thought, you tend to believe you have some semblance of control over your life. You feel empowered and emboldened. Take that away, she knew, and people start acting differently. They become more deferential. They become more co-operative and open to consideration. This was her job. She offered people a look at what they were really like behind the bravado and cockiness. She offered people a chance to peer inside the person they were inside. Well, maybe offered was too strong of a word. She took. She took the luxury of vision away from people on behalf of courts when it was deemed necessary that an individual be reprimanded for the crime of short-sightedness, of being so wrapped up in their own pursuits they neglected everyone else's rights to the same pursuit. She'd worked with drunk drivers, abusive personalities, criminals of all sorts--wherever the victim or the victim's family wanted an extra measure of introspection from the guilty party. She would go in, take their sight, and let them know when they could expect it back. Sometimes it would be for only a day, sometimes a week, sometimes a year, and, on rare occasions, even longer. She would snap her fingers and that would be it.

They would be blind.

When Ryan rear-ended her Jeep, her intention hadn't been to misuse her ability. On the contrary, if the damage hadn't been too severe she was willing to even joke about it with him. But as he stepped out of his car, waving his hands in the air, her skepticism reared its ugly head. Not only did he have the audacity to blame the whole accident on her, but he had been very in-your-face throughout the whole discussion. She couldn't even count the number of times he pointed to his Audi and then wagged his finger in her face. Through all that she remained patient. Even when the cops arrived to take down the traffic report and he let loose with the allegation that she may have knocked back a few at lunch, she didn't say word one. It wasn't until he picked up her driver's license after she had given it to him and announced, "Now I know where to find you, bitch," that she decided he would be losing more than an hour or two out of his day.

She waited till that evening to revoke his status among the sighted. She wanted to make sure he wouldn't be on the road. She wanted to insure it looked completely like a freak medical occurrence. Sure, it was an abuse of her power, but in her mind she was entitled. She gave him one week. She thought that would be sufficient time to knock him down a peg.

When the phone rang the next morning the last voice she expected to hear was his.

"Good, I wanted to catch you before you went to work. I just called to say that I was out-of-line yesterday and that's not normally me."

At first, she thought it was remorse. She could imagine him laying in bed, helpless, and trying to atone for his actions in the vain hope that whatever god he prayed to would restore him back to how he used to be. She had seen it often enough, sitting in those courtrooms, as the man or woman would be sentenced. She would see them break down into tears as the realization of how much they had forfeited dawned of them. They would plead with her, beg her to undo what she had done. She'd feel sorry for them for awhile, but she could always rationalize it away with the thought that she was getting paid to a job. It wasn't personal, it was her profession.

Yet, as he refused to hang up the phone that morning, she never heard him once mention about how freaked out he was. In fact, it wasn't until the conversation had begun to draw to an end that he made mention of his condition.

"Well, I'm going to have to let you go, Heather. My friend Rob's here."

"Big plans?"

"I've just got an appointment with the eye doctor today. No biggie. But, hey, we should definitely grab that lunch you talked about."

She had no clue why she talked to him as long as she had. The more she considered it, the more she thought it was probably due to nothing more than curiousity. She had never to do any follow-up once it had been done. Their sight always returned right on schedule. She thought of herself as akin to a watchmaker, who builds the device, sets it into motion, and then doesn't waste time worrying about the fate of his creations. She was pragmatic that way. Though, if she really considered it, her powers were more devestating in nature. She tore people down in order that they could rebuild themselves again. That was her job. It was the people's job to do the actual rebuilding.

After they had the first lunch, she was surprised at well he was taking it all. His doctor had been at a loss to explain it away. Hysterical blindness was his best guess. His doctor had been sure it had something to do with the accident but could not explain the particulars to Ryan.

"But aren't you scared?" she asked him as he was paying the check.

"Petrified," his words said, but somehow she knew he wasn't as petrified as much as he was supposed to be.

When she dropped him off at his place, he invited her inside. She declined, giving some excuse about already having a previous engagement, but he would not be denied. They sat talking for about two hours. After those two hours it became obvious to Heather that she had made a mistake. She didn't know if he had just been having a bad day or that he had a momentary lapse in restraint, but she found him pleasant to talk to and be around. He was not at all someone who deserved his fate, temporary as it may have been.

Maybe that's why she showed up the next day at his place. He had mentioned to her that he had taken the month off from his job in an effort to gather some answers. She thought it might be nice to drop by to look in on him. The truth, however, was that she couldn't quite get him out of her mind. She felt she had wronged him and she was too ashamed to admit she had made a mistake. Not to mention, there were serious legal consequences if he ever discovered what she had done. Honestly, everything that had come out of his mouth during those two hours had only served to ratchet up the nagging guilt she already felt. She wanted to make up for it somehow and the only way she could think of was to assist him in all the small ways he would be unable to assist himself during the following week.

The day after that she took off an hour early from her appointments. She wasn't due in court and her boss owed her for assigning her overtime the month before. She brought him to a fancy place for a dinner and they ended up talking there well after closing.

The next day she spent over at his place, still unable to ease her conscience. Yet she knew there was another reason. She was definitely beginning to fall for the guy. He wasn't everything that she had been looking for, but he was enough for her. She already knew she liked being around him. Combine that with the fact she was so damn humble and courageous around a situation that she knew would completely unhinge the average individual, and she knew she had found something special. She also knew there were rules against this type of fraternizing. In court she wasn't even allowed to give out her name for fear of someone wanting to pay her back for doing her job. Spending the night at somebody she had blinded the week before was not only a no-no, it was against every rule in the code of conduct.

She couldn't stay away, though. She thought of him like the wounded sparrow she had hit with her car. She couldn't turn her back until she knew he would be fine again. Until that time she made it a priority to entertain him.

A week came and went without so much as a by-your-leave, and now she was driving once more to his place. Except this time, if she stayed, she knew he would be regaining his sight at precisely seven days to the minute she had taken it away from him. The nagging doubt that the person she had spent the last couple of days with would disappear began to take hold of her mind. The theory behind her job came bubbling back to the surface. People act differently when they don't have the luxury of being able to see. Would he be so vastly different with his sight as to be unrecognizable? That thought scared her more than the thought of him finding out what she had done. She wasn't a bad person. She had morals. At the time she had stolen his vision away from him, she thought she had been doing it for the right reasons. She thought he would come out a better person for the experience. When she had realized he was already a decent fellow, she worried that she had made the worst error in judgment she had ever made.

Then it began to crystallize that it wasn't he would come out better for the experience. Maybe it was her. Maybe he was her test on what kind of person she was. She began to consider that for a long time, for most of her professional career, she had taken a blind eye, no pun intended, to those she had caused to suffer. Yes, she knew the majority of them had done something so vastly unspeakable to deserve their punishment. A few of them, however, she may have believed hadn't done anything so heinous to go to such extremes as calling upon her ability. Truth be told, she couldn't see the corrolary between someone burglarizing a house for a watch they had given to an ex-girlfriend as a gift and now wanted back, and having to go blind for six months. She couldn't see the justice. Yet she had always abided by what she had been told. She was a blunt instrument in the hands of people she thought were wiser than her. Now she began to give real creedance that had set aside her own idea of fairness and developed an apathetic perspective about the way she conducted herself at work. These were human beings and maybe she couldn't exactly quit her job, but she thought she could have taken the time to really examine the cruelty of her position.

This experience with Ryan showed her she was capable of feeling something more for someone else. She'd always thought she was helping, but this was the first time she truly felt what it was like to actually help someone she had affected directly.

All this, all that she learned was being threatened to being taken from her. She didn't want to see that happen. She began to really consider telling him the truth, tell him what she had done. Perhaps, if he was the guy she really thought he was, he'd understand and the two of them could continue their relationship free of her lies. She thought how much she would like that, to build that kind of life with him. If there was to be any real future she knew that this was the only option.

Or was it?

As she pulled into his driveway, she thought of one more alternative, a way to hold onto what she had began to build. She stepped out her car, afraid to contemplate what she was actually contemplating. It would solve all her problems. It would insure that the two of them could have a real chance of staying together. It would definitely show what kind of person he was and what kind of couple they were going to be. More to the point, it would show what kind of person she truly was.

She didn't deserve him. She knew that. But she couldn't let go of him. Not now, not ever.

Before she stepped inside the front doorway she made sure that the two of them would be together forever, even if meant he could never see her again nor how far she was willing to go to keep him happy.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'd Go The Whole Wide World, I'd Go The Whole Wide World, Just To Find Her

--"Whole Wide World", Wreckless Eric

I was talking to Brandy today about the whole reason why I was in Florida was because I had grown obsessed with the Disney Channel. Shows like MMC and especially Avonlea had taken up a huge chunk of my brain matter in those days and, rather than try to divert my attention with other activities, I thought the healthiest solution would be to visit the belly of the beast. Something about going to where they were responsible for creating some of the magic that filled my afternoons put me at ease. Granted, it wasn't meeting Sarah Polley or getting to ask the Mouseketeers a question as a part of the live studio audience, but it was something actually visiting the Disney Channel Studios and seeing the set where they filmed some of their shows.

I've always been an obsessive individual. When I was younger, I didn't just take a passing interest in entertainment or culture. I invested myself in learning everything I could about a particular subject, whether that subject be a particular show, piece of history, country, and especially if it were a person. The part of my brain that regulates how fanatical a person gets went wholly missing when they put me together. It may have been lost when they tossed out my sense of smell, who knows? All I can ascertain is that it's not normal to watch two hours, equal to two episodes, of Avonlea every night for three years. Come sickness or vacation, loneliness or company, or even, in one case, the total breakdown of all VCRs in the household--I would not be denied. It's not normal to divert one's every essay in high school onto the topic of Canada simply because the aforementioned show was set in Canada. Nor is it normal to start subscribing to Maclean's on the silly reason that it was the Canadian equivalent to Time or Newsweek. It's not normal to want to do things in eights because back in the Fourth Grade someone commented that one had a predeliction to do things in eights--cut my pancakes into eight slices, leave an eighth of egg yolk runny when I was making scrambled eggs, &c...--leading to behavior such as setting the microwave to 1:07 or 3:32 because the digits add up to eight.

Nor is it normal, as I was telling Miss Carly today, to tell everyone at one's high school that one knew Jenny Lewis. Indeed, it is even less normal to walk around saying I attended her fifteenth birthday party and that I was as close as one could be to celebrity without actually being friends.

I've tried to explain to myself why my behavior was formed thusly. I've tried to figure out the root cause of this personality quirk. I still have a clue why I tend to get more obsessed about something when someone else may merely take a fancy to it. Basically, the only thing I have pieced together is that I have a rather strange aversion to doing things the normal way. Like Rachel said once, I won't be labeled as average. This has led me to have non-existent mores when it comes to being considered strange, weird, or even kooky. Such nomenclatures don't phase me as they would anyone else. Consequently, I tend to engage in activities and pursuits that average people would be too embarrassed or too guilt-ridden to engage in. Some people are born without a sense of fear, I was born without a sense of common sense. Simply, I like something so I tend to try and make the thing second nature to me, damn what everyone else thinks.

But I'm not the only one. I think everyone who has gotten lost in a vendetta, a quest, a pursuit of an unreachable point of being, loses, even if only for a moment, the voice of sanity telling him or her to turn back. Attempting to own that small portion of the universe by learning about it, studying it, even stalking it is not the rational manner in which most people live. It's a very irrational act. It's the act of someone who has a goal in mind and doesn't mind breaking the rules of convention to achieve it. But neither is it the act of desperation. I never lost sight that I was going overboard. I was never deluded into believing that it was somehow okay to be entranced like I was for my whole life. I knew my enamoration of a show long ago cancelled would fade. I knew my crush on that bewitching redhead would ebb away once I got involved with objects of my affection who actually knew my name. And, yes, somewhere in the back of my head, I always retained the nagging question that, yes, I loved Canada, but did it ever love me back?

Eventually all one-sided love affairs, no matter how all-encompassing they may be, come to a close.


Why am I hanging around in the rain out here
Trying to pick up a girl
Why are my eyes filling up with these lonely tears
When there're girls all over the world

Now the only obsessions, if you can call them that, I still retain are the ones where I never received that closure. I still fawn over people that I'll never find out the answers to questions I forgot to ask them. I still wonder what I'd say if I could have one more visit with people like Tara and Heidi, who I cut out of my life rather unceremoniously. Those two I still haven't been able to locate anything about. I still picture if I could meet Rachel. And I still hold a candle for a girl named Jackie who I never quite knew enough about.

I still contemplate the road not taken when I chose USC over NYU.

I still judge my decision to visit that clinic with DeAnn sometimes.

But do I ever go full board into Scooby-Doo research mode? Do I still take time out of my day to visit the library to learn facts and figures about some new country? Do I ever watch the same show over and over again ad nauseum? Probably not.

I don't obsess about finding out about stars, shows, or factoids. These days the only obsessions I possess are the ones that involve finding out who I was and who I want to be.

(and Calvin and Hobbes...)

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

You Said I Caught You 'Cause I Want You & One Day I'll Let You Go, You Try To Give Away A Keeper Or Keep Me 'Cause You Know You're Just Scared ToLose

--"Stay", Lisa Loeb

Continued from I Said I Love You And That's Forever, And This I Promise From My Heart, I Could Not Love You Any Better, I Love You Just The Way You Are

When we were younger, Torry and I used to hideaway in a spot just below her back porch that her parents didn't know about. We used to call it our "hidey-hole" and it came in handy on more than one occasion when our folks would be looking for us in regards to some mischief we had caused. Every time we were down there I was sure our giggling or nervous breath would give us away, but it never did. No one had managed to discover our little secret. Either that or maybe they were fooling us all along and only pretended not to know where we were. It wasn't much--soft dirt, a few leaves, and, if we were lucky, a few provisions we had brought along with us. It wasn't very large--at fourteen, I was almost able to lay from one end to the other. But I had memories there that the sheer dimension could measure. It still felt like her. It still felt safe to me.

After I left the bowling alley that night, that's where I headed. Not directly, mind you. I wandered around for an hour or so, adrift in the waves of my thoughts of him again. It was like being followed by the ghost. I would run hard for awhile to get away from the faded images of what had transpired only to discover that I could not escape; they haunted me wherever I tread, however far I made my way from that alley. There was nothing I could do. Before, whenever I had run away, it had been easy to put whatever was ailing me behind me. Before it was a simple matter of forgetting what had scared me or caused me pain. Before going away was the easiest thing in the world. That night, though, while I felt the December winds whisper their way through my jacket, I also felt the difficulty in my decision. Everything had not gotten easier. Everything had only grown more complicated. I was no better at that point than I had been a few hours ago. Not only that, but I was walking the streets of my town alone and the world was darkness. I'm normally one not to get scared. After all, this wasn't my first time wandering around after hours by myself. But those other times I always had the sense that I would eventually come back home and things would be better. This time, however, I did not want to go back, I could not go back. Also, I was fairly sure matters would be worse and not better when I went home.

As my daddy says, I was feeling as low as a toad in a dry well.

I could think of only one place to bunk down for the night and wait to see if tomorrow would be brighter. I headed to Torry's old house, let myself in through the gate, sauntered around to the back, and made my way to the 'ole reliable hidey hole. I laid down on a pile of leaves and went about the business of trying to clear my head. Between the shivers and betwixt the tears, I tried to forget what I had said. It wasn't important I attempted to convince myself.

I think I even managed to catch a few minutes of sleep, but I couldn't relax completely. Every creak, every passing car, every unexplained noise, seemed to tug at my mind, asking me what I was doing underneath there when I had a warm bed at home. What was I doing all alone when back there I had three people who were probably worried to death at me. There I was, laying on cold, wet leaves and for what? To prove that I didn't need him? To show that I was every bit stubborn and independent as he was? My mother always told me that I could never do things the easy way, that I always had to go around my elbow to get to my thumb. I guess that was true. Why do the simple thing like stay and discuss things out when I could make the grand gesture of running away? I guess I was hoping that he would be scared enough for my safety to reconsider, that he would be so worried that he would somehow forget he had made up his mind already. I really wanted it all to work out that simply.

Except it was never going to. What I was doing wasn't going to change anything. What I was doing was only proving his point. It was childish and immature. I was basically telling him that if he didn't love me the way I wanted that I was willing to place myself in harm's way. It's what I had always done. When I wanted my parents to stop being angry with me I would run away, effectively tell them to stop being upset or else you might never see me again. It was an old habit that I used as a crutch when I didn't want to take the time to piece together an intelligent, adult decision. It was a security blanket that I came back to whenever I felt overwhelmed.

It was time I stopped, I thought to myself. I was too old to rely on emotional blackmail to get my way. I was better than that.

So I went home.

----

"Wake up, Patrick. Wake up, Patrick. Are you awake?" I whispered to you while he was still asleep in the guest bedroom.

I watched as he turned around to face me, wiping the grogginess from his eyes.

"Breanne?" he asked slowly at first. But, when he recognized that, indeed, it was me sitting next to him on the best, his words came faster. "Where the hell were you? I went driving around for two hours trying to find you. Your parents are angry as all hell with you and especially with me. I promised them, Breanne. I promised them that if I drove all of us out tonight that all of us would return. You made me break my promise to them."

"I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing for me to do," I said. "Maybe we should wait to talk in the morning. You're probably still tired from looking for me. We'll talk tomorrow."

"I'm not tired, I swear. Come back," I heard as I watched him rub his eyes vigorously.

"Not tired, eh, sugar? Then what was that?" I replied, once more taking a seat on the bed. "Checking for holes in your eyelids?"

"Something like that."

I had a whole speech prepared. I was going to give him a piece of my mind on how I was all ways mature and how he had misjudged me. I was going to take him through this whole lecture on how I could be everything he wanted me to be so that we could be together, how I was willing to take on the responsibility of fighting for us and that he wouldn't be the only one who would to have to sacrifice. Who knows? I might have even thrown some charts and graphs to really impress him. In the end, though, when confronted with the individual who only the night before I had spent roughly two hours showing exactly how devoted I was to the two of us, the words I had spent the entire walk over concocting just seemed ineffective. Watching his silhouette watching me, I felt the silence between us. But it was a good silence, especially when placed against the harsh tones that had been exchanged at the bowling alley. It was a calm silence, a peaceful silence that I didn't want to break. Not just yet.

It was a few minutes later that he spoke again.

"So you're alright?"

"I'm fine. This isn't my first time, remember?"

"Yeah, I forgot I was speaking to an old pro."

"Hey, everyone's got to have a talent, right?"

"But you're fine?" he asked, placing his hand over mine. I nodded. "Swear?"

"You really want me to go through the whole shebang. Okay, since I did worry you." I took a breath and repeated slowly the old refrain he had taught me. It was the only phrase that ever reassured him that what I was saying was the whole unvarnished truth. "I swear to God on the Holy Bible, nothing counts, if I lie I go to Hell that I'm completely unharmed."

"You drive me crazy a lot, Miss Breanne, but I'm glad you're okay."

I smiled. Then I got up and headed to the bathroom that the guest room and my bedroom shared. I changed out of my damp, dirty clothes, grabbed my bathrobe, and headed back to the guest room. Once there, giving no warning and not allowing him the opportunity to protest, I crawled into bed next to him.

"Scooch over," I told him. I felt him make room for me. "Better."

Before he could interrupt with some clever remark, I continued with the earlier train of thought.

"The question is are we okay, Patrick?"

"Sure, why wouldn't we be?"

"Well, for one, I don't know if I trust you any more."

"You don't trust me? Why?"

"I don't. Not really," I started, staring up at the ceiling. "I'm skeptical about how you truly feel now. I mean--this time yesterday I was sleeping contentedly because I thought I knew how you felt. Then today you change your mind basically and now I'm laying here next to you thinking when's the next time you're going to change it back. Do you even know how you feel about me?"

"Of course, I do. It's complicated."

"Try for me, darling. Please, thank you."

By that time we were both staring up at the ceiling. Why is it when we're trying to put into words something difficult to say we can never look the other person in the face? When I'm saying something joyous, when I'm spreading good news, it's all I can do but to keep from staring intently at a person if only to catch the blissful expression on his or her face. Yet when it's bad news I have to look away. We all do it. We all try to avoid making eye contact in an effort to lessen the impact, to make it seem less troubling. Hell's bells, what I wouldn't give to be able to present bad news with the same confidence and authority that I give good news with. Maybe it wouldn't seem as awkward, as nervous, if I could get through it with an ounce of dignity instead of the mock-fear that overcomes us all when trying to muddle through less than pleasant conversation.

That's what I was thinking when I attempted to listen Patrick stumble through his dialogue. Why couldn't all of this be easier? Why couldn't it be simple like it was yesterday, when we both knew where we stood, when we both knew where we were headed? Why did everything have to become so complex? Truth be told, I rather like simple. It has an elegance about it that complex just doesn't possess. Saying "I want to be with you." is simple; saying "I'm not sure." is difficult. Saying "yes" is simple; saying "I don't know." is difficult. Saying "I love you" is simple; it's having to explain why you don't love someone as much as they love you that is difficult. Believing in what your heart is telling cannot be any more easy. It's guttaral and immediate. Trying to wrack your brain for explanations and solutions is hard. There's a saying that Patrick and I share that I think sums it up best, "the heart has reasons that Reason cannot comprehend." It's as difficult or as easy as that.

"It's like you're a big secret that I'm not allowed to tell anybody. And I want to tell people. I want to tell everybody. But the more people I tell, the more the secret gets out, the more I feel like there's a reason why you're a secret. It's like there's a reason why you're not closer, why I'm not younger or you're not older, why we disagree about so much. Sometimes when a thing is hard it's like somebody's telling you that you need to re-think how you honestly feel about it."

"It's no wonder why you got the nickname Eeyore," I replied. "Gracious Providence, you're probably the type to think rain is God's sign that you should never step outside your front door, aren't you? Simply because something isn't easy, sugar, doesn't mean it isn't meant to be. I didn't sign up for this friendship because it was going to be easy. Nothing of real worth ever is. I signed up because it's what I wanted and it's what you should want. So what if it seems like there's only rain clouds ahead of us? So what if all you hear right now is the booming thunder and all you see is the flash of lightning all around? It's only a little fall of rain. Besides, it can't rain all the time."

"I guess I'm scared, Breanne."

"Scared of what? Scared of me?"

"No, I'm scared that, even though there's nothing else I can think of being with you, one day I'm going to have to let you go or you're going to have to let me go. There's so much different about us."

"You can only lose what you have in the first place. It's much better to get into mischief and wish you hadn't than it is to spend your time wishing you had taken the opportunity."

"I want to be smart about this, how we go about this. And I think the smart play is to wait until..."

"Wait until it feels right? Wait until it gets easier? That ain't going to happen. It's always going to feel like walking against the wind. It's always going to be a struggle. But I vow to you I'll make it as easy for you as I possibly can. I want that time to show you I'm right."

I felt his arms encircle me like a blanket. He placed his head on my shoulder.

"Why do I always feel like you've got all the answers when all I have is the questions, Breannie?"

"Because I'm just that damn smart, sugar."

I moved my head so it came to rest on top of his. Like a mother comforting his distraught child, I reflexively began to stroke his arm, letting him know that I wasn't about to go anywhere and that soon we had all of this sorted out. I should have been more frightened that his version of our future would be the correct one. I should have been preparing myself for the worst. But that's not my nature. I was sure I was right. I was sure that we were destined to be happy together. And, when I know I'm correct and my happiness is at stake, I will fight like caged tiger to make sure I get my way. This was no different, he was no different. We were going to build a life together even if I had to drag him, kicking and screaming into it. I hoped it wouldn't come to that, but something told me early on getting to know him that it was always going to be something with that guy. For better or worse, I would have to do most of the heavy lifting when it came to being pro-active.

Basically, I felt like no one was going to stand in my way of being happy with him... not even him.

"You know what I'm scared of most of all?"

"What's that, Patrick?"

"I'm scared of disappointing you. I know I don't deserve you and everyday I wonder why the fuck you even bother with me at all. I'm not sure why you care this much."

"Awww." I kissed the top of his head to let him know that I wasn't going to have him talk like that. Not around me. Not ever. "I care because I care. I don't question why God puts certain people in our lives. There was a reason why I met you. There's a reason why you frustrate me so. There's a reason why no one else can get under my skin like you do. There's a reason why no one can make me cry like you do all the time."

"And what reason would that be?"

"Because you love me and I know that I love you. I knew it the first time you took the time to talk me into coming home that time I ran away. Most people would have called my parents and let them deal with me. Not you. You stayed on the phone and convinced me to come back home."

"Yeah, well, I just didn't want to see you hurt."

"But it was more than that. You wanted me to know that you were on my side and always are going to be. That's how I know it, us, this, is meant to work out, because as much as I get angry with you or sad over you, I'll never stop believing you care about me in a way that most people never will."

"I guess I always knew too."

"I guess I always knew I was going to be stuck with you for the rest of my life."

"Oh, the horror!"

I laughed.

That's when it started slowly to creep upon me like a fog creeping over the fields. In trying to prove I was right, I had proved Patrick right. We were always going to be in each other's lives. I didn't question that. It didn't matter whether or not we were together now or later. All that mattered that he wasn't completely comfortable with undertaking making us into something more just yet. He couldn't wrap his head around the logistics. It didn't matter that I was like the sailor who can only dream of the ocean and would do anything to be away at sea as soon and for as long as possible. Here he was, scared to leave the comforts of the land he knew, where he had his footing solidly beneath him. Until he was ready to risk what I was willing to risk, this was never going to sit right with him and I had to respect that. I had to allow him the time to grow comfortable with the idea of the certainty of our fate. I had to allow him the distance to grow as close to me as possible. I wanted him to be sure as much as I was sure.

Even though it pained me to think that I couldn't have the only thing I really wanted at that point, it began to seem like the best.

I would have to let him go to keep him.

"Do me a favor, Eeyore," I said as we laid in our comfortable position for a few minutes not speaking. It was fast approaching five and my parents would be up in a few hours.

"Anything, Breannie."

"Kiss me and let's get some sleep."

"But aren't you afraid of your folks catching us?"

"Just kiss me."

He did or, rather, we did. It was a tired kiss, a peaceful kiss, but it still managed the briefest of tingles.

As I went to sleep that morning, I knew there would be a lot of explaining to do. I'd have to explain to my parents why I had run away yet again when I had promised that my last time, indeed, was my last time. Not to mention I'd probably have to explain that the only reason I was in here was because I needed to talk to Patrick. I'd have to assure him that nothing happened, but, between Patrick and I, I was betting we could convince them that a big reason why I came back was him talking me back. What was a little harmless sleeping together if it meant I wasn't on the streets at night? Yup, emotional blackmailing is a habit that dies hard. Lastly, I would need to explain to Patrick that I, at last, agreed with him over something. Though, I had my own reasons for going through with the "let's see what happens down the road" plan, I was sure it was the best idea... for now.

I wasn't sure if I'd be able to survive the rest of the day with my sanity and confidence intact. Only one thing made me secure that I would persevere through.

And as I felt his warm and inviting form drift off to sleep next to me, I was sure he was far better than below Torry's dank porch any day of the week.

Breanne

Eki Kara Umi E To Tsudzuku Sakamichi, Kudarinagara, Nani Mo Nai Keredo, Tsumaranai Kedo, Kimi No Machi Wa, Kotaete Kureru, "Okaeri" To

--"Tadaima", Do As Infinity

I recently bought two tickets to the 8 p.m. showing of Wicked on March 3rd. They arrived today and the anticipation has yet to subside. Yet I know with such an interminable wait that I'll reach a point where I'll almost forget that I have these tickets. Sometimes I ask myself what the point is in even purchasing tickets this far ahead. I do the same thing every year for my Boston trip. Even though I don't take the trip till May usually, I'm scouring the internet for baseball tickets by January, and booking rooms and flights by February. But this is going to be the first time I've ever purchased show tickets this far ahead. And what makes this time special and the other times not? Two reasons. One, Wicked is one of my top three favorite shows and, two, I promised Carly I'd take her to the show for her birthday and her birthday isn't till February. It was very important to me to insure that I get tickets for this particular time and date for those two reasons.

However, I'm an impatient person by nature. Waiting for a show that's months away is like waiting for a friend to get home after a long trip. Every day I grow antsy, wanting to that person to hurry up and return so I can welcome them back. It honestly bothers me when there is someone or something I want and I'm forced to wait for it. That's why I have a grudge against Christmas. If there is something I want, I usually get it myself. Having to bother to wait for presents on a specific day defeats the point to me. Having to wait for something is not going to make me want it any more; it just means me getting annoyed. Again, using the example of waiting for a friend to get back from an extended vacation. I already know I care about that friend. The idea of them being gone doesn't make me care for them any more; it just means they're gone.

I hate missing people. I hate waiting for people. I hate waiting, period.

I know a show is not in the same class as a person, but the whole concept of absence making the heart grow fonder is kind of bullshit to me. I already know I like the show and, by all rights, I should be able to see it tomorrow and not four months down the road if life were fair. I'm anxious to see if it's as good as I remember and I'm anxious to see Miss Flib's opinion of it.


dare demo tsumazuki, sukoshi tsukarete
nakitaku naru

I may be impatient but, seriously, March cannot come fast enough.

Four more months... and I can finally say "welcome back".

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Said I Love You And That's Forever, And This I Promise From My Heart, I Could Not Love You Any Better, I Love You Just The Way You Are

--"Just The Way You Are" (cover) - Maggie Gyllenhaal

People make mistakes. That's just the nature of the lives we lead. We make our choices with the information we have at hand and we deal with the consequences. Very rarely do we have the complete picture of how events will unfold or how other individuals will impact or respond to our choices. We gamble our future happiness with every step we take and place ourselves in jeapordy with every word we say.

Under such pressure, how is an individual supposed to make up his mind without succumbing to overwhelming regret?

Trust in the Goonies, I say.

It's OK, you're a Goonie and Goonies always mess up... just... don't mess up any more.

That's the best any of us can do. Try our hardest to get every choice right, with the full knowledge that there will be times when we get it all horribly wrong.

----

I sometimes think that we didn't pick the bowling alley to have that discussion, I sometimes think the bowling alley picked us. I mean--I've had discussions of importance in cars, in restaurants, in bedrooms, on balconies, and even in churches. Yet I have only ever had one talk in a bowling alley that stuck with me for years and years. I could say that it was just the environment--the crashing of pins, the loud and boisterous voices yelling over each other, the bright lights and even brighter balls and shoes. All that could have made this lasting impression. Yet that doesn't explain it all away. Not by half. I think we could have that conversation in the dead of night in a sealed room with no furniture and I still would have remembered every detail, every syllable, as if it were yesterday. You know me, I have the shortest-term memory ever. I would forget my car keys everyday if I didn't need to get to work. But certain things I hold onto like a pit bull and conversations, meaningful conversations, seem to be one of those few examples where my mind cannot seem to let go. Even when I would much rather forget painful words or sad words or even hurtful words, sometimes they linger on like the ghost in the machinery of my brain. I remember how strange it seemed that we were saying what we were saying there, like a bowling alley was too irresponsible of a place to allow what needed to come out to, well, come out. Yet even with all the nervous sensations, somehow it was important that we have it there, out in public, with curious onlookers and eavesdroppers. Somehow it needed to be in that bowling alley.

"Patrick, you're up," your friend Jake told me as I looked in your direction. I didn't see your oceanic blue-green eyes just then, hidden as they were by the chestnut brown bangs above your face. You refused to look in my direction and I couldn't blame you. I had let you down again.

"Give me a minute." I tried harder to gain eye contact with you. "Are you alright? Did you want to go outside for a minute and talk?"

"Just bowl," is the only answer I received back.

I watched as your other friend Renee stood up from where she was sitting beside you. She walked over to me and gave me some simple instructions.

"I think it'd be better if you just move on. She's upset. She won't be in any mood to talk calmly for awhile yet."

"Maybe you should just bowl," Jake said.

I stood up, grabbed my ball, and strode towards the line as if what was happening to you wasn't affecting me. I did my best to not let you see how perplexed I was. I thought I was being the bigger person. I thought I was looking ahead for the both of us. I couldn't see the logic behind your disappointment or your bitterness. It was like I had told you that in ten years I'd build you your dream house and you were mad at me for not building it for you now. In truth, I thought you were being self-absorbed and impatient. However, I couldn't say it didn't hurt to see you hurt. You were and still are the most important person in the world to me. Witnessing you in such a state never puts me in a good mood.

I didn't even see how many pins I knocked over. It didn't matter to me what the score was. Whatever it was, I was losing. I was losing my confidence. I was losing my equilibrium.

I was losing you.

When Renee got up to take her turn, I took her seat next to you. You made sure to turn your head away from me. There are times when I find your stubborness sexy, an appealing display of your gumption. I hear you tell me stories about how you stood your ground against somebody, didn't take any guff, and I swell with pride that I know somebody who's that unafraid. You create this aura about you that, once you've made up your mind to do something or be some way, you would rather die than have your mind changed. I've always respected that about you. I've always respected that, while others might falter under the pressures of making things cordial or uncomplicated, you were always right there to make things interesting and complex. You have a boldness rarely seen in others. There are times when I find your stubborness very sexy, indeed.

That wasn't one of them.

I put my hand on your back and start motioning in tiny circles. At first, you resisted by shrugging and shaking, but eventually you allowed me my small offering of peace. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"If I keep bowling this bad, Breanne, they might ask me to leave, huh?" I asked you, trying to elicit a smile. "'Son, enough is enough. We've seen your scores and I'm afraid we're going to have to ask you to step out back with us so we can put you out of your misery.'"

I thought a heard the beginnings of a laugh, but it may have been the couple in the lane next to us.

"At least you're on pace to break a fifty. I'll be lucky to break a quarter," Renee chimed in. I heard both Jake and Renee laugh. We were all nervous for you. We all knew that tonight had been a trying day for you and I was the cause of that. We all had high hopes that something of the night could be salvaged, though. Giving up on you was the last thought on our minds.

"Not one laugh, Breanne? Not even one titter?" Jake asked.

That's when you turned around, smile fading from your face.

"You can't make me laugh if I don't want to." Then you fixed your gaze on me. "Apparently, you can't make somebody feel something if they don't, right, Patrick?"

"Yes."

"So, guys, I appreciate the effort. Really, please, thank you. But let me be."

I should have let it go. I shouldn't have pushed. But I could no more let you be as leave you for good. It would be one and the same for me. I never want to be the guy who regrets something they didn't do as opposed to the guy who regrets something they did. It doesn't always work out that way, but I try to keep it as a guiding principle in my actions. The choice to wheedle someone into talking to me has always been an easy choice for me to make. Silence kills trust in my book because you never know how long the silence will go on. All that interminable waiting, wondering if the last words you said to a person will actually be the last words you say to a person, bothers me. It fills me with a sense that I'm being too passive. That's why I push, push, push, always. I never want it said that I just let something happen to me, that I never fought back. I've been accused too often that in my history and it's always been an area of weakness that I've tried correcting. In a sense, the idea of your getting through the evening without incident never stood a chance. You were going to talk to me, one way or the other. Inevitability, remember?

"I can't. I can't just let you be. I need to help. I want to help. It's all my fault, remember?"

"Well, you can't. You can't help."

"I can try."

"No, you can't try. I won't let you. You lost that right when you twisted everything into knots, Patrick."

"Everything wasn't that simple to begin with."

"It was simple. It was you who made everything complicated."

"I think Renee and I should let you guys work this all out, Breanne," Jake said.

"No, stay. Stay," you told him. "Hell's bells, both of you are part of the reason why I'm in such a funk."

"I really think we should leave," Renee pleaded with you.

"You'll stay, Renee. You want to help me, you be on my side and stay." You stood up and walked in front of me with your friends sitting, slightly embarrassed, behind you on the other side of the console. "Tell them what you said. Allow them to know how you're going to blame them for your cowardice."

"I didn't say it was their fault. You're putting words into my mouth."

"Am I? Excuse me. He didn't say it was your fault. You two just gave him the idea."

It was true. When I woke up that morning, all my thoughts were focused on how we as a couple were going to work. We had a future ahead of us. When I woke up that morning, I had little idea that the night would end up like this.

It wasn't until lunch that the first signs of trouble started to appear. It had been the four of us--you, me, Renee, and Jake. You had wanted to introduce me to your friends and your friends to me. I went along with it because it seemed important to you, though, if I had my way, I wouldn't have taken any of our alone time away. I was glad I went, however. If I hadn't, I might have never started to seriously mull over who you were (and maybe still are) as a person. To put it simply, you acted differently in front of them. You spoke differently. You talked about different topics than you did with me. You even moved differently. It was like watching a whole other version of you, a more immature and silly version of you. It was a version I wasn't quite sure I liked. Sure, you acted occasionally childish when we were talking, but you always tempered it with a maturity beyond years. With me you had always been a ball on the precipice between youth and experience; you were right where I wanted you. With them all I saw and all I heard was someone who was miles away from me in what I thought was important. You were still exuberant and still spirited, but you ceased to maintain that precious balance that I admired in you.

That, coupled with the comments your cousin Shelly had given me in passing--speaking on how she was much closer to me in age, how she was in college and you weren't, and how you could never possibly understand everything I was going through at the time--gave me reason to pause. Possibly, I had taken a page from your playbook. I might have jumped into being in love with you before I really found out who you completely were.

I knew the you that you were when it was us alone. I liked the alone you. It was the you with your friends that I wasn't sure of. I started to think of all the different scenarios. I could never go to one of your high school parties. I could never attend one of your dances. I would never be somebody who would feel completely comfortable hanging out with the high school crowd. My tolerance for making allowances for adolescent tendencies began and ended with you. I could appreciate only that in you because you were different, because you were special. I don't know what I would have done if I'd been surrounded by more than a handful of them. Jake and Renee, even though there was nothing specifically unpleasant or annoying about them, were enough to get my hairs up every time they enticed you to say or do something silly. You were only allowed to be silly with me. It was fun when we were silly together. With everyone else it just seemed, well, silly.

I think that was the easiest way to say it. When I had you all to myself you appeared every bit my equal, but when you were placed against your peers I had no choice but to look down upon you.

"All I said, guys, was that she acted differently when she was around you two. I told her that I wasn't sure which was closer to the real her. And I told her that a part of me thought she'd be happier with someone closer to her age, who could talk about the things, all of the things, she wanted to talk about."

"Did you ever consider, sugar," you said sarcastically, "that I'm capable of having more than one type of friend? As my daddy says, 'a man who only wears one shirt every day never leaves his house.' I can't be everything to everyone so I don't even try. I thought you understood that about me, you of all people."

"Understood what?"

"That I can only be little 'ole Breanne, no more, no less. I stopped trying to be a different person with everybody. Instead, I just try to go with the flow. I try to show the part of me that makes each person I know the happiest. It's not me trying to be a different person. It's just me being me. For instance, with my friends I'm goofier and a hoot-and-a-half 24/7. Sometimes we'll just go and moon people because we think it's funny. And that's alright because it makes me happy. With my family I'm more reserved, more cultured, and more well-mannered because that's the way I raised."

"And with me?"

"I've always tried to split the difference with you because you're like that. And that's what I always liked about how we worked together, that we had it all. We had the thunder and the little fall of rain."

"I'm not asking you to change that."

"But you are accusing me of pretending with you. You're saying the person who's been on the phone with you practically every night was a lie. You're saying that I've been fooling with you this whole time. Well, I have news for you, Mr. Patrick, you're not worth that much effort. Certainly not from me."

"You're telling me you can't see how you're different?"

"No different than you are. You act differently around my parents. You act differently around my friends. You act way differently around my cousins."

"Then why does it bother me so much?"

"Because with you if it's not perfect, it's shit, excuse my language."

I saw your point because I think all of us act in this manner to a certain degree. It's not that we're completely different personalities, but we all have facets to our character that come to the forefront when we're in different company. I saw you point, but I didn't know yet how to give into it.

"I have no response to that," I told you after I sat underneath your scrutiny for a few minutes.

"That's just great. Then can I bowl?"

The three of us watched you gather up your ball. Your cheeks were flush and there was a definite defiance still in your eyes, but, for the most part, you had said what you had to say.

Your first ball landed in the gutter. You could have cared less.

I was trying to formulate a response to what you had just said. A little late, to be sure, but, you know me. There's something about having the last word or maybe having fights reach a point of closure to my liking that I cannot quite grasp. I don't know why I can't ever let people off easily. I could have very well allowed you to gripe and we all could have moved past all of that. Who knows? We may have managed to salvage the night yet.

I'm a hopeless fretter. I worry about issues that most people cannot even contemplate. And at that moment I was worried about you. No, I wasn't worried about upsetting you even more. I had moved beyond that. What I was worried about was that you were going to convince me to change my mind. And I couldn't have that. I couldn't appear weak in front of you and your friends. I didn't want you to lose respect for me. In my weak logic, to keep you I had to appear strong, which meant I had to convince you to let me go. It wasn't even about whether or not staying with you was the right choice. It was merely about the apperance of sticking to my guns.

I didn't want you to win because if you won that fight I knew there would be nothing you couldn't talk me out of. I had went into that bowling 100% sure that I was doing everything for the best and at that point my conviction was faltering by the second. I've never been able to debate you effectively, Miss Breanne. The only way I win half of arguments is through sheer pigheadedness and irrationality. I can feel I'm winning an argument and then you have to cheat and start using logic. That's when I feel like saying, "well, if you're going to cloud the issue with the fact then there's no point in debating this with you any more."

I walked up behind you as you retrieved your ball.

"I know it hurts you to hear this. It hurts me to say this. We're never going to work, Breannie. Not because I don't care about you or because I think you don't care about me, but because we're not there yet. Neither of us is old enough to be what the other needs."

You turned to face me.

"What you're really saying is that I'm not there yet. I'm not old enough."

"I'm not saying that at all."

"Yes, you are, Patrick. You just don't know it yet."

That's when I took your hands and placed them around me. Then I did the same with mine. I embraced you in the middle of the lane probably with dozens of people who had heard us arguing. I embraced you tightly to let you know that I loved you. You have to know it was hell mouthing the words that we needed to wait when what I really wanted to say to you was yes, yes, and yes. It hurt to have you dislike me and turn away from me when all I wanted to do was take you back to your room and take all of you. Everything had fallen apart, but, instead of being the one trying to convince you to put it back together, I had to be the one who had to tell you to let it be.

"What I know is we have a long time to get where you want us to be. I'm willing to wait if you are," I whispered in your ear after you let me go. When you didn't say anything, I took it as a sign that you were too overcome to respond. I thought you had given your silent acknowledgment.

However, your answer turned out to be very different from the one I expected. I watched as you threw your ball once more down the lane. When you came back, you didn't sit down next to me. In fact, you didn't sit next to me at all. You continued to walk past me, up the steps, and turned towards the front counter.

Then you walked out the bowling alley, bowling shoes still on.

You ran away for the last time in your life.

----

I made a mistake and the mistake was this. I should have told you I loved you and made you believe that, instead of trying so hard to make you believe that I cared less for you than you did for me. I should have told you that it didn't matter to me how you acted around your friends and that I was just being a jerk about feeling insecure fitting into your world. I felt like the outsider looking into a world where you could be happy without me and that didn't sit right with me. The whole silly part was that you never asked me to change, you never tried to force me to squeeze into that world. Your plan had always been to slowly integrate me into your world, allowing me to find a comfortable place to nestle. You never tried to push me. You never wanted it to feel awkward. You were always understanding about everything.

You couldn't have cared about me any better or any more than you did. But I couldn't see it for what it was. I was uncomfortable with your life. I was insecure that I would never fit into it to any comfortable degree. I thought I could never care about you enough to make the leap and just move out there with you. I could have transferred. I could have sacrificed more than I did. I could have made you happy the way you know you could be and, in the process, make myself happy as well. I could have done a thousand things differently.

I did none of that, though. It all went horribly wrong.

I made a mistake and the mistake was this. I thought at the time we were a mistake and that everything would be better in a couple of years. But the real mistake was ever letting you go.

Oh well, maybe next time.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Once Upon A Time There Was Light In My Life, But Now There's Only Love In The Dark, Nothing I Can Say, A Total Eclipse Of The Heart

--"A Total Eclipse of the Heart", Bonnie Tyler

"Torry, I know you put on a show every time you want me to come over, but you really must spare me the theatrics, darling," I told my friend one night. "I'd come over anyway. In fact, all you have to do is say, 'come,' and I'll probably come a-running like a hound."

"I know, but it always feels more important when I tell you it's life or death. Just you wait, one of these times it'll be news that'll have your ears melting off and you'll be sorry."

"Until such time, seeing you will have to be reason enough for me to come over."

Growing up, I always thought of myself as small. Maybe I wasn't small in terms of stature, but I always carried with me the burden of being insignificant. My mother always instilled in me a sense that hard work and dedication is the only way I'd ever be considered special or important. She always tried to motivate me that I had the gumption to succeed but not the destiny. That destiny was something I had to earn through perseverance. On one hand, it did cause me to work twice as hard as I ever thought I could. But on the other hand, it made me feel like I was nothing sometimes and that I had to constantly seek out reinforcement that I was something. She meant well, my mother, I know that much. And I love her to pieces, but my daddy used to say, "your mother would stop the sun from shining and still convince you she meant well." That's just the type of person she is. Growing up it was hell. Now I know what most kids don't growing up, when you become a parent, it's like you're pitching in your first game. You make more mistakes than you let on and you pray to God nobody catches on.

If anything, I should have had it easy. I didn't come from a family lacking for anything. My parents are what one might consider well-off, so much so that I heard Torry once say we were so rich that we buy a new boat every time the others get wet." I didn't come from a particularly abusive family. Aside from my mother pushing me hard, my parents never came down on me as hard as they could have. And I can honestly say that every time that my daddy moved his hand to his belt it was for something I deserved. I mean--I would have made sure I got the point that driving down the street alone is not what eight-year-old daughters are supposed if I was my parents. I've always had two parents who love me, which is more than a lot of people get.

The one thing I've lacked for, if anything, was the idea that I was appreciated. I think that's why I've always had this need to prove myself, to be a show-off, to let people in on the secret that I was actually quite wonderful inside. I was always trying to impress everyone I met. I was always trying to make new friends. I was always trying to hog the spotlight through as many antics as possible.

All that changed when I met Torry.

"I think we should sail to an island, you and I," I said, laying on her bed after we had run out of things to say. I wasn't supposed to be spending the night at her place at all that week, but for some inexplicable reason Torry's mother had called mine and made an impassioned plea for me to come over. I thought it strange, but at the time, I just chalked it up to her mother's powers of persuasion. Also, I've always been the type to label a thing what it is. I'm from the part of the country where sushi is still called bait. I didn't need any further explanation or fancy title to see that it was a gift.

"And what would we do there?"

"Does it matter, sugar?"

"You're right. I'll start packing now."

From the first moment I met Torry she had a plan for me. She appreciated the fact I'd been taking dance lessons since time immortal. She appreciated the fact that I'd been entered in as many pageants as days in the calendar, even going so far as to telling everyone she knew I was so pretty I could make the Lincoln on a penny smile. She even appreciated the fact that I got the both of us into far more trouble she could have gotten into on her own. She took all of me with a grain of salt. She saw something in me that it would take most others awhile to figure out.

Her plan for me was thus. She would get me to live the unexamined life. She would get me to the point of being okay with me. She wanted me to be Breanne, no more, no less.

At first I didn't believe her that I didn't need to be so loud all the time, that there was a quiet side to me that she enjoyed me too. I was always trying to be entertaining and animated when I was first with her. I was trying to make her understand that I was a fun person to be around. But I think she got that from day one. What she was more interested was that I was also a caring person to be around.
When I understood that life became a little more perfect each day.

"And there'll be dolphins and natives in grass skirts. And they'll be dancing on shore, you'll see," I told her.

"The dolphins will be dancing on shore, Breanne?"

"Hell's bells, they'll be doing the hula."

"Now that's something I have to see. It's not often you get to see a dolphin do the hula."

"Not only that, but they'll let us beat on some jungle drums with dozens of bonfires blazing behind us. It'll be perfect."

"But I don't know how to play the drums."

"On our island everyone will know how to play the drums, Torry."

When Torry and I were friends I naturally thought we'd be friends forever. We'd be like those annoying old ladies who had nothing better to do than sit and gossip about the passerbys at the park. Those same passerbys would whisper that we were so old that we didn't even have the decency to die, but at least we would be together. It's natural to think that way. It's natural to think that our friendship would be strong enough to shake off anything thrown at it. It's natural to think there are some bonds that defy all records of longevity. I thought she and I would be would be one of those bonds. We'd show them all. Ain't I God's own fool? To think that I could put that much faith in something that I couldn't control only shows I was a fool. I should have known that any good story eventually has an ending and any good meal eventually gets eaten. I wasn't a powerful enough force to halt a train in its tracks and I wasn't a powerful enough force to decide who comes and goes in my life. I was at the whim of whatever God had planned for me.

Yet I believed in us. I had that much faith in her because when you catch a wind that's blowing you in the right direction, well, you have to ride it out as far as it'll take you.

I loved Torry. She was my best friend for a long time and that's something you never quite can forgive.

"If you were me, I'm sure you would agree, Miss Tornado,"

"If I were you, Miss Breasy, I'd have to dress better."

"If I were you, I'd have to learn not to play with the boys so much."

"Hey, that's true for both of us, Torry."

"Okay," she laughed.


turnaround, every now and then I get a
little bit lonely and you're never coming around

I went to sleep that night next to her thinking that we'd have a whole Summer of nights like this. We'd have three glorious months to go romping around the countryside, tearing up the cityscapes. I remember thinking that, if that night was a hoot-and-a-half, I couldn't wait to see how glorious next week would be and the week after that. I had so much hope that that was to be the most memorable Summer ever. I closed my eyes and dreamed of our island. I dreamed of us both getting there together someday.

----

The next day Torry's parents told both of us she was moving away forever.

Breanne

If You Want To, I Can Save You, I Can Take You Away From Here, So Lonely Inside, So Busy Out There, And All You Wanted, Was Sombody Who Cares

--"All You Wanted", Michelle Branch

In the interim of my computer feeling ill and receiving it back I was left with the nagging sensation that I rely on it far too much. It isn't only that I seek its comfort in pleasurable activities such as chatting with friends, posting on here, or looking up scores of informational materials, I also rely on it to do much of my "work". All my stories are on here, all the drafts I've concocted in pursuit of a completed screenplay so far are lodged on here, and even topic starters and snippets I've saved in hopes of mining creative gold are all tucked away in this hard drive. The last two days, being without convenient access to my life, basically, has showed me that I have an over-reliance on an infernal machine. If this computer were to tragically perish in an inferno, flood, or even a plague of locusts I would totally be adrift in a sea of sorrow. I honestly do not know how my life would function if I could not turn on this stupid computer.

The blasted corrollary is that I've been without access to one of my closer friends for almost a week now. Through various misunderstandings, I thought our friendship was in a strange purgatory where both parties would have been okay if they were to never speak to the other. I tried to be strong. I tried to pretend that my life did not, in part, depend on the ability to stay in reasonable communication with this friend. I wanted to believe that my life had more outlets for company than one young woman.

But the truth is I have a sickening dependence on this individual as well. I don't need to see her everyday. I don't need to call her everyday. Yet the thought of not being able to pick up my phone and shoot the shit with her placed me in a funk that came close to the sense of loss that my computer's recent fits brought with it. That idea, frankly, frightens me. For most of my life I thought I was somebody who didn't need any one person to complete my life. Sure, I had B., but hers is a special case since best friends do not adhere to any rules that other friends may have to adhere to. Everyone else, though, I treated like con artists treat their family and friends. Never make any connection you cannot walk away from at a moment's notice, is their theory. Never fall in the trap of caring too much. The way I was always told was you should be grateful for the time you've already had with a person, not for the time you expect to have with them. All friendships, relationships, &c... are in a state of flux and to think otherwise is utter folly.

I want to be the person who doesn't need to rely on a computer to spit out his life. Also, I want to be the person that doesn't need anyone as much as I want to be the person who appreciates everyone for what they have already given. I want to have that gratitude for the memories I've already been given.

But the truth is the first thing I did when I got my computer back was jump back into my old routine.

And the truth is, the minute she left a message for me last night, I welcomed the opportunity to fall back into that old, familiar comfortable sense of being acknowledged by someone who genuinely enjoys my company.

Yes, I'm weak.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers