And If It's Cold Will You Stay Warm? You Drift Too Far Will You Swim Towards The Shore? And If You Fell In Love Will You Hold Onto It?

--"If You Fall", Azure Ray

There was an episode of The Gummi Bears where they brought to life a princess from one of the storybooks. I can't for the life of me recall if it was one of Zummi's spells gone wrong or if it was one of Cubbi's and Sunni's adventures gone wrong. I remember the princess looked a lot like me (as much as a cartoon representation can resemble a real person) and I remember that she sounded eerily like my voice sounded at the time. Now, I'm not one to believe in messages very often, but I do believe that there are some lessons the Lord likes us to learn taught in some very funny means. The episode dealt with the fact that this princess--let's call her Breasanne--wanted to remain free to roam and not be bound within the story that had been her only existence. She thought that now that she was out and about, kicking up life quicker than a hoedown, that she shouldn't be forced to return to the life that had been written out for her.

Hell's bells, that's a topic I can relate to. I used to feel like my life was scripted out before I was even born. I used to feel like a character in someone else's story, and a minor character at that.

That episode got me to thinking. What happens to the characters we write and create when we're creating art? What becomes of their life once we've tapped the brief piece of their lives that interest us? Do they go on living or does their "life" end the moment we no longer have use for them? In the case of Breasanne, the had to eventually put her back in the book due to some cosmic malady that her absence wrought. She didn't want to go, but she had to in order to save her new Gummi friends. Her sacrifice was what the episode was about, that possibly sacrifice of one's life is the ultimate way to prove that you are alive. You can't give someone a gift you never possessed in the first place, you know?

But what I wanted to know was always if it was cold in her storybook life. I wanted to know if the story was written for her to fall down the stairs, did she know her fate and try to avoid tripping too badly? I wanted to know if she had ideas about where her life was headed or if she was like us and had no clue whether she was headed for her dreams or destruction. I wanted to know if she got scared if the author never wrote "Breasanne was scared." I wanted to know if she had ugly days, depressed days, funny days, if her creator never had the forethought to include these details in her biography. I wanted to know if her life extended beyond what we could read about her.

I sometimes fret about the ins and outs of existence. We're like God's characters in a sense. We have a destiny we don't know about. We go through life the way He intended us to go through it. We make choices, seemingly of our own free will, but He's already known what we were going to choose eons ago. We're very much trapped in the life that has already been inked for us. The difference is I do get cold. The difference is I have fallen down stairs and gotten boo-boos. The difference is I had some say in where I was headed. The difference was nobody had to tell me I was scared some days. I knew that instinctually. I've had ugly days. I've had depressed days. I've had lots of funny days. And I'd like to think that my life is far more than what one person can read about here or any other place. I am not the sum of my stories or thoughts or deeds.

I'd like to think there's a whole side to life that makes me richer and more fulfilled than a character in God's story of me. He might be my creator, but I breathe on my own, please, thank you. Yes, it may feel like I'm the cat fated to chase after that rascally mouse because that's what I'm supposed to do, but there's a life beyond these pages of musings that I write. There's a whole world of adventure and excitement that I never manage to bother to share with anyone here. Some people are lucky enough to hear the complete truth, some people are only lucky enough to hear parts of it. But whatever anyone else hears, only I know me. I'm the only one who knows the complete story.

No matter how many stories I relay here, there'll never be one that will completely sum me up. I could go and write for a thousand years and never find the one incident that'll tell it like it is. Like my daddy says, "you can only ever see one side of the moon at a time." That's me, there's a part hidden away because I hide it away. I'm like my own author, telling you what you need to know, and keeping what you don't locked away inside my soul. Just because I don't say I had oatmeal this morning, doesn't mean it didn't happen. And just because I don't say I worried about my nail chipping, doesn't mean I didn't. I pick and choose my story everyday. I'm never someone else's sidekick in their story.

Never.

I live therefore I write, not I write therefore I live.

Breanne

There'll Be No More Living Without You Baby, I'm Counting Each Minute Till I'm Back To You, One Step Closer To Heaven, Baby

--"One Step Closer", S Club 8

I had the idea of work that I'm hoping to implement as the newest trend. A query had arisen which vessel people preferred when imbibing both hot and cold liquids. The choices were glass, mug, or cup. That descended into a conversation about what specifications actually constitute a glass, mug, or cup. For instance, one of my co-workers has a glass mug. Of course, we call it a mug, but it could just as easily be called a glass. It was quite humorous, the diligence we took to what, at first appearance, seemed such an innocuous question. I love when spirited discourse emerges from the simplest of stimuli.

From that discussion, I got to ruminating about why we drink from certain containers for certain liquids at not others. That's where my two ideas had their birth. I want to institute drinking coffee out of sports bottles as the next big thing. I think it'd be hilarious to see someone squirting scalding hot coffee into their mouths. Something about that image amuses me to no end. Yet, for all the potential harm, I still think the idea is viable. It could mean an end to dealing with impractical cups and their less than intuitive lids. It could also mean, rather than sipping coffee and trying in vain to get a quick jolt of caffeine, you could pound them one after the other. Your alertness could be a steady brown (or black) stream away.

My second idea arose as a counterpoint to my first idea. I think it'd be great if people started drinking milkshakes out of spray bottles on the mist setting. Not only would you be cooling your mouth on a tempestuous summer day, but you could cool your whole face at the same time. Think of the possibilities. "Like chocolate shakes? Now you can wear one on your face!" Also, utilizing the stream setting on the spray bottle, you could let your friend taste your shake from across the room. I don't know about you, but I would love to have a friend get my attention and then be rewarded with some vanilla goodness flying my way. The whole concept of milkshakes in spray bottles brings a smile to my face.

----

The one thing that sucks about fighting with Breanne is that she's the only one who would find this kind of idiocy as funny as me. I can't wait until this stupid cold war is over so she too can revel in my "discoveries".

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Don't Know Where I Am But I Know I Don't Like It, I Open My Mouth & Out Pops Something Spiteful, Words Are So Cheap, But They Can Turn Out Expensive

--"Tenderness", General Public

When any two people fight constantly it becomes necessary to prioritize your values. Nobody wants to be around somebody they disagree with on more than an occasional basis. Nobody wants the aggravation having to defend your point-of-view daily brings with it. It's an unnecessary expenditure while life's already exacting a pretty hefty toll. Yet, for some reason, hundreds, if not thousands, of individuals make the decision to forgo basic instincts and attempt to let another argument slide for the sake of peace. They set aside their personal pride, their opinions, even their common sense to maintain the delicate balance of keeping people that matter in their lives.

I've never been one of those people. Not really.

----

When I was younger and had only recently gotten to know her, it used to be easy to override Breanne's judgment. I just made myself louder and more tenacious when it came to arguing my point than she ever could. That's how I won fights. It wasn't a battle of logic when she and I disagreed. Logic hardly is the arbiter of most fights, I think. Most fights, if they're really broken down, are won by the person who can be the most stubborn. That was me. I didn't care if I was right as long as she was wrong. Like I said, it was easier because she was younger than me and because she was taught that concepts like civility and politeness do you more credit than tenaciousness and conviction. Sometimes in those early days, it was like rolling a bowling ball down bumper lanes. There was no way I could miss, no way I could lose.

But as we got older, I started to notice two things happening. She would start to stand up to me way too often and I started to resent the fact that we weren't having the easy fight/cool down/"I'm sorry" four-hour dramas we used to have. Eventually, the cool down periods started getting longer and longer, where sometimes I wouldn't even hear from her till four or five days letter. I also started to notice that the idea of being friends with her started to appeal to me less and less. I mean--who has the time and the energy to be around somebody that constantly makes you feel wrong and who brings out the meanest and most vile part of your personality? That's what she was doing and I'm sure I was conjuring up the same sort of bitch in her. It wasn't exactly a functional relationship for whole weeks at a time.

Honestly, I don't know why we're still friends sometimes. I've yelled at her stuff that stronger people have practically disowned me for. I've called her alternatively "a useless doll that people will never take seriously" and "a girl only good for two things, fucking and crying." She's told me to my face that I was "a heartless coward who likes to hit girls when he's wrong." There's a whole list of names and accusations that I'll probably never wipe from my memory as long as I live. Even after we've patched things up it's not like we ever attempt to take back the things we said. We know they're true--if not completely, with enough of a kernel of honesty to make it feel like they're true. There's no taking back words that hurt and there's no such thing as words that ever truly heal. There are only words that injure you so deeply that you'll always have that scar to remind you. It's one thing to be demeaned and knocked low by a stranger who only sees one part of you. When the person pulling the trigger is someone who knows every part of you, has heard every story you've ever told, you have no choice but to get shot point blank.

I've never fought so often and so hard with someone as I do with her.

The thing is as we've gotten older, sure, we've slowed down a bit. Gone are the days when we actually had fights over the phone or in person that lasted intermittently for ten plus hours. Gone are the days when I could infuriate her so much she wouldn't talk to me for months. Gone are the days when I actually woke up trying to steel myself to actually end things with her. Yet, even though we don't fight as often, when we do fight (like we have all weekend), it still feels like she ain't pulling punches and she still turns me into someone that would honestly wish harm visited upon her. We're just so fucking stubborn about these things, it makes me sick. You think two people many years out of college whose friendship is nearing two decades would have a more civil tone to each other when they disagree. Nope. We still come at each other with knives bared. That's still our first instinct. I don't know why that is. It's gone on so long with her that I don't even comprehend other options when a fight gets that bad. We're both throwing those knockout punches, trying to knock each other's head off in one blow.

It's got to stop. Even if it's like nine or ten months between these knockdown drag-out fights, I'm emotionally spent every time. You know what I did this weekend. I texted her hateful, snide comments between basically dropping out of civilization all of Saturday and most of Sunday. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to do anything. And for what? Because she had pissed me off so much I couldn't calm down normally. Not only that, but I was also feeling horrible for the stuff I said. I was a wreck for basically two days. And over what? Something she had decided to tell me that had been over and done with for ten years now. What's the point in fighting over that? Yet we found a way to both get irrationally irate over it to the point where threats were being levied and the memory on my phone is replete with some godawful abuse both coming and going.

----

I remember when Breanne was sixteen and I was twenty. We had gotten into a scrimmage over how seriously we were trying to be there for one another (or some other innocuous topic). It hadn't gotten really bad, but I saw these signs were looming. For once, I had the foresight to simmer down before I said something I regretted. I sent her a small note designed to make her laugh in the hopes some peace could be established:

Patrick and Breanne are too old to be fighting, that's what my mom says at least.

Indeed, we are.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

When It Lasted All Day, We Would Blast It All Day, We Would Bring It On And On, It's All In Your Head

--"Goods (All in Your Head)", Mates of State

seven two

tunnels I have delved
were with care chosen; you were
my single impulse.
~dw

----

I positioned my life between conservatism and the pursuit of joy. I don't think they're exclusive goals. It's a game of see-saw. I see a choice and my mind immediately leaps to not rushing in. I hang back. Too long sometimes. I weight my options until I'm sure the choice I'm making is the right one. Then I don't hesitate. Postponing joy is the number one no-no. ¶It's a dangerous game we play when we wake up in the morning. We make a thousand decisions that could have immediate disastrous effects. Or, worse yet, not so immediate effects that have far-reaching consequences. I, more than else, understand that. I'm a firm believer in the butterfly effect. It has an acute sense of logic to it. Nothing I ever do is blameless or consequence-free. ¶I wish it was. I wish they were do-overs in my life because then I wouldn't feel the weight of the world with every step. I could go walk outside in the sunshine. I'd be free. Free to ride my Vespa to places unknown and see people unmet. That'd be the life. But I'm not free. I can't just go where I want. The world has to be tackled in a certain manner from a certain direction. I have seen too many of my family done in by leading the reckless life. ¶I had an uncle who was in jail for robbery. My dad described him as being a normal kid growing up. My uncle had no problems socializing. My uncle could have grown to be somebody. But he made "the wrong choices". He hung out with "the wrong people". He let life dictate what it wanted him to do instead of the other way around. That can never happen to me. I don't want to end up ruined at twenty-eight. That will not be my fate. ¶Dreams don't come easily. They don't fall into your lap. You have to sacrifice a lot to make them happen. One of the first things to fall by the wayside is choice. You can't possibly do everything so I try to do enough to make me happy moment to moment that won't make me unhappy for the rest of life. It's a tough balance, but so far I think I'm managing. ¶I'm happy without being delusional. I'm content without forgoing common sense. I'm doing alright. ¶You were my only grab for the brass ring that failed miserably, Jack.

dw

We've Learned To Run From, Anything Uncomfortable, We've Tied Our Pain Below And No One Ever Has To Know, That Inside We're Broken

--"Miracle", Paramore

You were both holed up in a motel just outside of Santa Clara. A beautiful place to stay with many places to explore--you had about tuckered yourself out. Now you found yourself lying on the bed, head buried in the pillow, wishing for a brief respite from all the action that playing the part of the tourist encompasses. Your companion, silent as the fox, you felt sitting at the foot of the bed, trying in vain to discover something entertaining on the television. You wished he would consent to calling it a night and winding down for the evening, but the alarm clock by the night stand confirmed the belief that there was still more cavorting to be had.

"Are you hungry?" you heard him ask. When you didn't answer at first, you felt the subtle tugging at your feet. When that didn't exactly work, you felt the tugging grow more pronounced and definite. He would have his answer quickly.

"I could eat," you told him.

Since you couldn't make up your mind about dinner, he made the suggestion of ordering in. You offered up pizza as a solution, but neither of you thought it agreeable. He countered with something from Carrow's. You told him that you had had enough with diner food. You wanted something... different. That's when you both settled on Chinese food. You watched as he dialed the phone. You heard him speak to the restaurant on the other end of the line. You heard as he placed the order--beef with broccoli and kung pao chicken with an extra order of steamed rice. You didn't even care that he didn't bother consulting you on what you wanted to order. Food in whatever variation sounded enticing and the fact that you didn't have to perform any hard deciding was even more beneficiary to you. You weren't sleepy; you were just tuckered out and you wanted to provide some solace for your brain more than any other portion of your body.

You actually smiled when he cuddled up behind you as the two of you waited for the food. Neither of you talked or slept. You just laid there like that, two canoes floating on the water, touching but not each other's way.

Eventually, though, it was time to answer the knock at the door. You both played the game of chicken, seeing if the other individual would get up first. You won. Your companion finally sighed, put his shirt back on, and went to open the door. Rolling to the far side of the bed to gather the sheets over yourself, you could smell the luscious aromas from all the way across the room. Suddenly your hunger kicked into overdrive. After the food had all been paid for you hobbled out of bed eagerly. You didn't even wait for him to lay the white paper containers upon the tabletop. You opened the first one and started having at it. You picked up a dangling piece of chicken and some accompanying vegetables between your thumb and index finger, and downed it in one gulp.

"Don't you want some chopsticks for that?"

"They didn't give you any forks, darling?"

You watched as he did a quick scan of the plastic bags.

"'Fraid not."

You shrugged your shoulders this time and accepted the offer of utensils. You tore open the end. You pulled the pair of chopsticks out, broke them apart, and placed them on your food. You wondered if then was a good time to explain to him that you really never quite picked up the skill of using chopsticks. Yes, you'd given half-hearted attempts at it with your parents, who were somewhat practiced, but you'd always given up a quarter of the way into the meal. You always asked for a fork. You always finished your meals with the distinctive ting of metal against your teeth and tongue. The sensation of wood actually made for a jarring sensation as you attempted to take your first bite of the chicken. You watched him watching you trying to precariously balance the bit of food between the two implements. Somehow you managed to get the first bite in, but in that span he had already taken four bites. To his credit, he didn't smile, but he was like the sun over the waters of the Pacific. You knew he was waiting right off the horizon to sweep in. You picked up your second bite even more tentatively. This time it fell, which spurred a slight giggle from your companion.

Still, you would not ask for help. You could do this. You could. You could do anything as long as you never gave up.

You scooted closer to him on the bed where the beef with broccoli had taken up residence. Maybe you'd have more luck with the sturdier piece of beef. As you leaned over the container to extricate a tender morsel the smell of onions and hint of soy sauce wafted its way up your nostrils. This dish was something you wanted to be eating. Quickly. You poised your sticks above the pieces, ready to strike, but instead of bothering with the nuances of gathering a piece between the sticks, you went the direct route of spearing. Happy with the successful downing of your pray, you took a bite of the beef as if it were a kabob, followed by a bit of rice you slurped from its container as if it were cereal.

You took a look over at him to see how much he was enjoying the spectacle. He was smiling, but he wasn't rolling his eyes like he usually did. You were proud. You were spontaneous. It wasn't like he could ask you to be different now. You were determined to not ask for help no matter how hungry you were. You watched as he motioned with his hands to bring the chicken closer. He deftly picked out four or five choice cuts and then placed the container between you again. He wasn't trying to lord over you how great he was at the usage of chopsticks. He wasn't trying to be a pain in the ass to you. For once it felt like there wouldn't be a fight tonight. He seemed to be honestly enjoying your company this trip at last.

You placed your hand on top of the leg he had closest to you. You started to methodically rub it, nervous to say anything. You were finally sharing a moment. You didn't want to ruin that. The contact was nice. So were the smiles. You didn't want to ruin those either. After a couple of moments you stopped your hand. You let it rest there on his knee. It made the eating more difficult, but you weren't going to leave it there all night. When you looked up at his face, you saw that he had stopped chewing his food briefly. He didn't know what to make of you either.

You bit your bottom lip, curling it beneath the small of your teeth. Was this at last the trip he had promised you when he first suggested the idea of you coming out? Was this an indication of the remaining portion of the trip or was this, like your nap, just a brief respite from the stress of knowing no one else for hundreds of miles? You liked a bit of sauce from the corner of your mouth while you waited for him to talk first. When neither of you uttered a word, you both went back to the business of finishing your meals. Again, you made several futile attempts at picking up your food in the proper manner. Again and again, you were foiled by the subtleties of balance and friction. Finally, you gave up. You laid your chopsticks on one of the plastic bags in defeat.

He quickly snatched them from the bag, laughing again. He stood up and turned around to show his backside to you. You watched him fumble for something in the back of his jeans.

That's when you watched him pull out a usable plastic fork from his pocket. You shook your head and took the fork from his hand. Jerk.

He always had to make things difficult for you. Withholding information, outright lying, trickery of all shapes and sizes--that was his repertoire of keeping you frustrated. He didn't mean anything by it. But there were times that you wished he could knock him on his lily white ass for once.

You didn't say a word to him, though. The silence had been serving you well. As long as the two of you kept silent it was impossible for you to fight. As long as you kept quiet, things would remain quiet. You could fall asleep next to him tonight not having to wonder if you had another screamfest to look forward to the next morning. You didn't have to worry about ruining your breakfast with the accusations or the misery or possibly the tears. You could have that one good day that could be light and airy, like you'd been promised.


so I'm going to start over tonight
beginning with you and I

After dinner, you asked if the two of you could lay down for a spell, but he answered you that he had a better idea. Let's go out, he said. You smiled through your teeth, even though inside you knew that this evening had the potential to end miserably again. You asked him if you needed to change, if you'd be going far, or (hell's bells) you'd have to drive out anywhere. He told you to just grab your light sweater. You wouldn't be going far, he promised. What could you do? You picked out your light blue sweater from the closet and followed him out of the room.

The two of you walked, hand in hand, down the street until you came to what appeared to be a downtown area of the city. It was still relatively early in the day. The sun was still clinging on to the last vestiges of the day. All in all, it would have been the perfect time for walking if it hadn't been for the bad day that preceded it. Still, it was nice strolling down the streets. If there was anything that could calm you down it was being outside and seemingly free to wander wherever you pleased. Whenever you went running, it was one of the highlights to pick out a new route each day. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you saw something you had never seen before--a new neighbor, a new renovation to an existing house, some new improvement the city had finally gotten around to installing. Santa Clara was all new to you. It took your mind off of other things to be able to see all new fixtures and all new crowds there.

"Do you think we're just tired of each other?" you asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think we know all that there is to know about each other? Do you think that's the problem?"

He continued walking beside you, hand still in yours. He turned slowly to face you, but his face was neutral.

"No, I don't think that's it."

He turned back.

The two of you continued to walk around. Finally, you stopped in front of a local bus stop. He announced that he was tired. Let's catch our breath, he suggested. You sat yourself down next to him. To any outsider it would appear that you were a couple, exhausted from moving around all day. But that wasn't the truth. It wasn't the activity that had exhausted you. It was him. And there was nothing you could do about that. You were stuck together for another four days.

You stared up and down the street, willing him to say he was ready to go back to the motel already. All around you was like the inside of a music hall, silent, but strangely well-lit. You even started to whistle to see how far the sound would carry. What little people there were started to whistle back. Your companion scrunched up his face, showing his annoyance with even that small habit. You stopped immediately because he had been nice enough to walk with you even though you knew it made him tired. He was trying to do something special for you because, apparently, he felt today hadn't gone along smoothly either. You didn't want to ruin that.

You placed your hand on his knee again, letting him know that you'd stopped. He reclined back on the bench. There the two of you sat not talking, not fighting, not being much of anything except two people who had chosen to be on a trip together.

It wasn't until you were beginning to make your walk back to the room that you stopped him. He looked at you perplexed. That's when you embraced him tightly in your arms, enfolding him completely. It relaxed you when he finally began embracing you back. Some, but not all, of the tension you'd built up began to flow out from your shoulders. It carried out on the wind never hopefully to be felt again. You stood there, two hundred feet from your motel, three thousand miles from home, and you hugged him not because you missed him or not because you felt especially caring about him. You held onto each other because someday you both were going to get past this and someday he was going to make you feel special again. You held him because this trip wasn't who you two really are. You held him because you just really needed to reassure yourself he was worth it.

He held you for the same exact reason.

When the two of you finally separated, you said, "I'm having a great trip. Aren't you?" When he nodded, you took it for the necessary lie that it was.

Breanne

And There Are Things That Follow This Quietly To The Past, We've Seen All Those Faces, We Won't Go Looking For Trouble

--"Just Like We Do", Eisley

I started calling Tara "buttercup" because Reese's Peanut Butter Cups" is pretty much my all-time favorite candy in the world. I believe the exact reasoning I explained to her was that Peanut Butter Cups were my favorite candy bar in the world and she was my favorite person at the time, so it kind of made sense to correlate the two. I don't know what it exactly meant. I didn't find her exactly sweet or chocolatey. She never did remind me of peanut butter exactly. I think the only association I could hang my hat on was the "two favorites" theory. But like all other pet names or nicknames, it stuck. I think the whole eighteen months I was with her I continued to use that nickname exclusively.

I give everyone nicknames--everyone important, that is. I find it's often the only link I have to keeping someone in memory. Whereas sometimes I'll forget a face ten minutes I've seen it, if I stick an individual with a nickname, I'll remember that person for life. It's probably because I endow so few people, considering, with nicknames. I mean--it's the quickest arbiter of how close I feel to a person outside of my family. If I've taken the time to label you some godawful nickanme, then you at least know I enjoy my time talking to you. Some people have known me their entire lives and I've never bothered to dream up a nickname for them. It doesn't mean don't enjoy their company. Far from it. It just means I don't particularly like the ebb and flow of conversation with that person. It just means that on a scale of friendship, they're possibly one level above acquaintances. To earn a nickname, means you'd have to reveal something quite personal about yourself, and the majority of people I have found are loath to do that. They'll talk on the surface, which is all well and dandy, but that's all it is. It doesn't reveal any depth to them. It doesn't fire up my imagination or my brain. It doesn't warrant commemoration with a nickname. It's small talk and I've never been a big fan of small talk.

When Marion was knighted with her name, it wasn't simply because she was a fan of Indiana Jones. It was the fact that she went into such depth about it, to the point where she let me in on the secret of why she did or did not identify with certain characters from the film. It commemorated the dozens of talks we've had regarding film, art, the creative process, as well as the sense of isolation we both have felt at times. Marion just isn't the feisty arm candy to Dr. Jones in the first movie. She's also the gal who was spurned by the first man she ever cared about, the one who had doubts about her self worth after enduring this trauma. She's the one who was ultimately left alone on a mountaintop, afraid she would have to fend for herself for the rest of her life and not entirely sure where to begin that process. That's who Miss Marion is. That's why that's a perfect name for her.

Or when I call Epcot, Epcot, it's not merely because that's where we first met. It's because that's how for the longest time I saw her as. She was the shy, afraid eleven-year-old girl who had lost her family, yet still had enough trust in me to follow me around until we found them. That's who Epcot is. She doesn't say much. She feels a lot. But, in the end, she does what needs doing. That's how she gets by with life. That's how she became a doctor even though, in her own words, there were four or five times I wanted to quit. She still gets shy. She still gets afraid. But she still manages to get where she needs going, whether that be back to her family or back from losing Joshua.

Miss Flibbertigibbet--Miss Flib, for short--is a flibbertigibbet. Yet I saw that with all affection because it takes a confident person to admit her shortcomings. Miss Nancy Drew, Miss Sexy Thang, Miss Canadian Sweetheart--they're all imaginative ways to remember stories each of them have told me that weren't exactly easy to admit.

The way I view things is that a name is just a string of words. A nickname, however, is the face behind the name. A nickname is the real revelation of character; it's the real arbiter of a person's personality; it's a real indication of what a person is rather than who a person is. I mean--a person's name is a tool that distinguishes him or her from any other person, but a person's nickname is what makes them unique.

I myself have had tons of nicknames pasted upon me. Following is a short list starting from grade school and continuing onward:

Tricky
Penguin
E.T.
Eeyore
Fitz
Schlitz
Turok, Dinosaur Hunter
Brillon
mojo shivers

There's a story behind each one of them. Some of them I've liked. Some of them I have disliked, but all of them I've kept for a long time. I wear them proudly because not everyone I know calls me by every single name. It's a way for me to remember what kind of person I was when I first took up the mantle of that particular name. It's a way for me to be that person again. It's a way for me to put on that face again.

And when I choose to employ Breannie instead of Breanne, it's not to be cutesy or coy. I don't always choose to use my special name for her. If I want to be funny I could always use Lucy because even mentioning that name in front of her cracks me up. If I want to be terse or brief with her I could always use B. because it's a form of shorthand that we've adopted (except in my case she calls me E. for Ernest, though I co-opted it to mean Eeyore). No, I only use Breannie when I want her to remember the girl I met and the girl I immediately started to adore. From the first moment I heard her name, Breanne Haley Holins, I thought it was too much name for such a young woman. I told her that she reminded me more of a Breannie than a Breanne. And that's where the name stuck.

Though she's far grown-up now to really fit into her whole name, I still remember when she wasn't. I still remember what made her special to me from day one.

I choose to call her Breannie and I'm the only one who'll ever call her that because she can try to be somebody else, somebody more mature or elegant or experienced. But to me she's still that beautiful, graceful, and intelligent sylph I had no choice to care about.

It's not just a nickname for her. It's who she is to me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

There's A Bad Reason, She Just Can't Stay Home Anymore, Expectations Rising, Life's Too Short, It's Too Cliche

--"The Disco Song", Au Revoir Simone

sketched in the waiting room of my dermatologist many years ago...

She had forgotten her hat. Her messy brown hair could attest to that. She had been so eager to leave her home that morning that she had neglected to bring it along. She had grabbed little Michael and been out the door before she had time to change her mind. No time for hair. No time for breaking down a plan of action. No time to really pack much. All she had with her was five hundred dollars she had kept lying around the house and the clothes with her.

She watched the only other individual in the waiting room with suspicious eyes. Did he know? Would he tell? Those are the questions she asked. She knew she was being ridiculous, but so much of her life had been spent being blind to what was going around her. So much of her life was spent ignoring what everyone had been telling her. Her escape was long overdue. She would say good-bye to her sister, the doctor, and then she would be gone into the wind. She began to bounce little Michael on her knee. She hadn't even bothered calling ahead to warn her sister she was coming. She was afraid if she did that her sister would try talking her out of it. She couldn't have that. She needed to stay sure about her decision.

Michael started fussing with her hair, causing the stranger in the seat opposite her to laugh.

"He sure is a handful," the stranger said.

"Yes," she politely answered.

The less she said the less she'd be remembered. She needed to be a ghost. That way when the police came asking about her, no one could definitively say he had seen her. With her husband beaten to a bloody pulp, there would be questions. She didn't want the answers to lead back to her. She just needed to talk to her sister. Then she needed to be gone.

He had never even seen what had hit him. She had surprised him in his bed as he laid asleep. She should have given some thought to what she was going to use, but she hadn't planned it at all. In the end she had grabbed the first thing that she thought she could handle. The frying pan had been awkward, but effective. The first swing she had taken at his face had completely horrified even her. Yet it had kept him down. She took another couple of swings to make sure the job had been done. She needed him inoperative, but still alive. It wouldn't do to kill him. It also wouldn't do for him to get a clear picture of who had attacked him. That was the reason for drawing the shades. She hoped he would think it had been someone who had planned to rob him while she had been out of the house with little Michael. She hoped by the time he figured it out, they'd have at least a state on him.

It had all happened so fast. She'd run and hadn't stopped running till now.

She heard the receptionist call the stranger into the office. Unfortunately, her sister never came to the door into the waiting room. She watched as the stranger opened the door himself. He walked inside with the receptionist letting him know to just have a seat inside one of the rooms.

"She'll be right with you," the receptionist assured her immediately after. "She's just now finishing up with her previous patient. She should be walking out here any minute."

She nodded her head, her son still bouncing along on her knee. Something is wrong, she thought. She had told her sister explicitly that she needed to see her as soon as possible. It wasn't like her sister to put her off. Not this long, at any rate.

They know, she thought. Somebody tipped her off and told her to keep me here for as long as possible.

She grabbed her son off her lap, gathered her bag, and started to make her way to the waiting room door to exit. The receptionist shot her a perplexed look. The woman could only shrug her shoulders. She pointed to her watch. If anyone asked the receptionist, she would merely say that some woman had wanted to talk to the doctor, but had to be somewhere else. No mention of sisters or what the conversation had been about. Sure, she had seen the woman's face and could see that she had a son, but she figured that this office so many mothers with their sons. That would have to be enough.

She opened the door in one swift motion and exited. Like that she was gone.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Used To Run In Circles Going Nowhere Fast, I'd Take One Step Forward And Look Two Steps Back, I Couldn't Walk A Straight Line Even If I Wanted To

--"Somebody Like You", Keith Urban

I wish I could pin it on being dared. Then, at least, I'd have some ammunition with which to return fire. It wasn't so, though. What I did was done dreamt up by little 'ole me for no reason other than to have it done. It was an 'ole fashioned barbecue to celebrate the recent renovations to my cousin Shelly's pool. My aunt and uncle had spent a considerable fortune on newfangled heaters and lights. Personally, I didn't see the big difference. Yeah, it looked nicer, but nothing to go and write home about.

My parents had left me and Katie in the care of Shelly, but she had been busy entertaining friends she had invited over. I had petitioned my mother to have Torry come over as well, but Miss Victoria Jane wasn't exactly known in my aunt's circle, and she "wanted to keep it small and intimate." Nowhere do I know does the word intimate imply a hundred forty people, but who was I to contradict my aunt's sage wisdom. Not only didn't I have anyone to play with, but Katie was at that age where she was more of a responsibility than a co-conspirator. I love my cousin, yes. Back then I was just not the babysitting type. Also, the grownups and other civilized patrons couldn't care less about what I had to say. I was still the cute girl in pigtails with the big dimples--somebody to be complimented on but not seriously conversed with. I might as well as have had a sign around me saying, "Don't talk to the children. Please." In short, I was getting close to being bored to tears.

That's when I spied the three wondrous inner tubes at the edge of the far side of the pool. I don't recall if I'd been plotting a escapade such as this beforehand or if it was one of the moments of blind inspiration. Whatever the case may be, I took off for the implements of my demise (and my family's embarrassment) like a runaway train. Once there, I immediately grabbed the first blue one and wiggled it up underneath my armpits. In the process I'm sure I caused the ruination of my newish yellow sundress, but what concern were sundresses when there were shenanigans to be enacted? I followed that with the yellow one, sliding it beneath the blue one on my body. Finally, I grabbed the last red one and positioned it at my bottom. Katie started laughing immediately. Also, the people who had been engrossed in their conversations around that area of the pool started to take notice of the "delirious girl in the floaties." A few laughed too, but most of them I could tell were eying around for my mother. They knew that, whatever it was, it would not end smoothly.

How right they were.

I started parading around the pool in my inner tube armor, prancing around like the fool I was to the sounds of New Kids or some country song. The more people laughed, the more I started to jiggle around, waving my arms to and fro, kicking out my legs gawkwardly (? haha). Katie, for her part, stayed every step with me. She even began to fix the red tube whenever it slipped down to my ankles. Her laughter was loudest of all. I was having fun. More to the point, I think all the other guest were being entertained as well. I was the bear balancing on the ball for them, the center of attention. I loved it.

This went on until my somebody pointed out to Shelly that I was "acting like a drunk skunk" right by the pool. I watched her come straight out to me. I don't know if my aunt and uncle told her to have a talk to me, but the first thing out of her mouth was that I had my fun already.

"Hell's bells, Shells, I haven't even had fun yet!" I shouted to her as I tried to waddle around. The good sport she was, she didn't try to chase after me. She grabbed Katie who was trying to run after me on the slightly slippery tile around the pool. The last thing I heard was the two of them laughing at me about twenty paces behind. I never even saw my mother pull in front of me. If she said anything, it must have been drowned out in the commotion or the laughter because I plowed right into her harshly. If you can imagine the Michellin Man bumping into a telephone, you'll have some sense of the scene as it unfolded.

From what I can piece together, what happened next went like this. I bounced off my mother like a billiard ball, wobbled backwards a step or two, then I went to balance myself more by taking another step. The only flaw to my plan was that there wasn't actually ground enough for that step. My foot planted itself firmly on the air right above the water and the rest of my body followed suit. I toppled over like a rainbow snowman, landing in the water with a huge splash. This all happened in the matter of moments so it seemed to me that one moment I was walking forward and the next moment I was bobbing in the water, soaking through my yellow dress. I heard half of the guest shrieking in horror while the rest were guffawing away. As soon as I was cogent enough to realize what I had done, I started to join the guffawers chorus. I was a funny sight. I was soaking and a little disoriented, but I was a funny sight. It was great.

My mother didn't think so at the time. I believe her exact words as my uncle and daddy fished me out of the pool was that "I was quite the hellion and an embarrassment to everyone I knew." I didn't think so, though. I had livened up the party. Also, it's a story I'm sure is told to this day by everyone that was there.

I certainly tell it every opportunity I get....

Breanne

Photograph - I Don't Want Your, Photograph - I Don't Need Your, Photograph - All I've Got Is A Photograph, But It's Not Enough

--"Photograph", Def Leppard

one one

the framed prints askew
on walls of her apartment
never show her face.
~dw

----

I've been told I take ok photographs. I'm not a diva. I wouldn't even know how to be one. But I don't shy away from having my picture taken either. You would think that having two sisters obviously more refined and breathtaking than me, I would be hesitant to comparisons, but I don't mind. I'm pretty enough. The comments I do receive I always appreciate because it's one area where I don't lag too far behind them. I do count my appearance and my acceptance of it as one of those little joys in little boxes I always seem to be talking about. ¶My room is decorated with dozens of pictures of my friends and me. Not one of them am I frowning or upset. I'm serious in a few of them, but you can tell it's all a pose. Having my picture taken is the one area where I can fake being as happy as my companions. It's not even false in most situations. Most times with my friends I am happy. My pictures reflect that. Yet part of me wonders, if someone were to take a tour of my room, if they'd be getting my complete story. All they would see is one Marion Ravenwood, beaming with frivolity. While that's part of me, that isn't all of me. ¶I take a look at my parents' photo albums--my sisters and me, my birthdays, the vacations I take with them--and I'm always smiling. I wonder where the camera was when I broke my arm falling off the roof of Amy's house. I wonder where the camera was when I broke up with Jack. I wonder where the camera was when I learned my grandma Pam had died in the hospital. No one takes pictures of those. No one catches the reality of those situations on media. ¶Is that wrong or right? That's not for me to decide. It'd take a brave person to specifically try to capture tragedy in its rawest form, especially in regards to your own family. I know I have enough poems, journal entries to remind me that the smile you see on me is not the guise I choose to wear everyday. I don't know if I'd want a picture showing me that happiness comes and goes in waves. ¶Even if it is the truth.

dw

Behind Royals Walls, Blacked Out Eyes, A Solitary Bird, High Tension Line, Dreaming Of A Pure White Sky, Did Somebody Stop Time?

--"Darling", Sons And Daughters

two three

the sound of darkness
rises and falls like the surf
when you are alone.
~dw

----

When Faye sends me an original composition of hers, I'll sometimes spend an afternoon listening to it all. Not once. Not a dozen times. I'll listen to it a hundred times for no other reason than it's my sister's. There have been times when I've spent a Saturday lost in the folds of the brilliance of composition that she possesses. Daylight will dwindle to darkness and I won't even notice. ¶When I slip my Bose headphones on (a gift from her oh so many Christmases ago), I slip away. It's not a question of meditation or some type of nirvana. I literally forget how it is to be me. I lose that part of me that is self-aware of the difficulty of being self-aware. I lose it to the winds, those winds that blow everything on the surface of this world away. When good music is accessible, I cease to be. I become a part of something larger than myself--where talent and temper and tenacity forge something that is indescribable. Poetry does this to me too. As do great speeches. It's the musicality, I think. The common link of lyricism, where I'm reflected in every word without even realizing it, is what draws me in and keeps me there. ¶I'll be sitting in my room, headphones pinned to my head, and it will be as dark as coal. But I won't feel alone. I feel like I'm surrounded by all my closest family and friends. Except they're not people. They're bits of feeling--the jealousy, the laughter, the reddened cheeks--that ebb and flow with the trailing sounds of a violin or the unbridled thump of a drumbeat. I start thinking of different people devoid of the instances I miss or the anecdotes that define them best. I start experiencing how I feel about them without the context of a life shared with them That's what truly great music does to me time and time again. ¶I stop feeling alone. I start feeling that I'm floating in a gentle pool of people who love me... even though they may be whole countries away. ¶Faye has a gift for understanding this and she puts that quality into her music. She doesn't even appear to be trying half the time. She gets an idea, jots it down, and it's perfect. It pulls me away from plans and inadequacies. I'm no longer me. I'm somebody better. It's something I wish my writing had. It's something my writing will have if I only have the patience to hear the music too.

dw

Borderline, Feels Like I'm Going To Lose My Mind, You Just Keep On Pushing My Love Over The Borderline

--"Borderline", Madonna

It started off by Miss Marion asking me last week if I ever tried any sports. I told her that when I was younger that I was played AYSO for a year, played some tennis, and played a little basketball. I was never any good at them and I never really went anywhere with them. I've never been any good sports. It's probably why sports have never really been good to me. Sometimes I look at people like Breanne, who has that ethic to run three miles a day for five days a week. I get really down on myself that I never had that resolve to stick to a sport. I mean--I feel better now that I'm going to the gym four days a week, but that isn't a passion for me and that has only been an activity I've engaged in the last three years. If anything, the sport I like the best is bowling, I told her, because it's something that I can pick up any time I please.

That's when she told me that she used to love playing tennis with her sisters. The three of them, sometimes with their mom, used to head down to the local park and just play for hours. She said she used to dream of being a tennis player someday--not with any real authority to make it happen, but the silly dreams of somebody uncovering something that makes them happy.

Then she went into how her sister Nora a few years later started getting really serious about it. She tried out and made her local high school team. She started winning... a lot. She found her passion. Toby couldn't have been happier for her.

But it all came to an end when she fell in love with someone on the boy's tennis team. And when that came to an end, she couldn't stand to be around tennis anymore. She gave it up because "she'd rather lose something once than feel like she was losing him over and over again every day."

"I don't know if I've ever given up something for somebody I loved. Not really," I told her.

"Never?"

"I don't think so. Certainly nothing so tangible as having to quit something."

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized there was a time when I did. While I was dating Tara, it was the first real relationship I had that where I didn't feel like pulling away. Instead, I was almost too clingy. And because of that, I had problems when somebody would speak something bad about her. It wasn't so bad at work because they never said anything too horrible. And it wasn't too bad with Breanne because, well, she's her and she knew how much I liked Tara. Nope, the worst I had it out was with two people. Heidi and Jina's mom.

"I don't even know what they said exactly, Toby. I just remember they were casting dispersions on her character in an attempt to show support for me. However, all I heard was somebody was badmouthing her."

"Then what happened?"

"I cut them off like I always do when I get into a really big fight. I don't want to hear what they have to say and I leave, never to return."

"How horrible."

In truth, I was ill-prepared for having to work so hard for someone. Breasy was easy. She made it easy to go as slow or as fast as we wanted to go. With Tara it was like I smitten and I had to do everything right away. I didn't have a good perspective with her. I thought I was in love. Maybe I was. But nothing was good enough for her. I felt I had to be perfect for her and being perfect meant choosing her over everyone else. She never asked me to. She probably never wanted me to. But I did it any way. I put her before people I've known for longer than her. Heidi was the worst, because she was really likable. I already had fucked up with her by being too clingy with her also. I had barely patched things up with her and then I had to go leave her by the wayside for somebody I had just barely begun to date. The same thing was Jina's mom. I had fucked things up with Jina. I had barely got on speaking terms with her again. Then her mom had to say something unkind of Tara. So I stopped chatting with her, which probably pissed off Jina, and I never heard from either one for ten years.

"In the end, when Tara and I broke up, I was sad for that. But I was also sad because I sacrificed on my own two good people that I never really had to. So, no, it wasn't tennis or something I did. When I choose to give up something, it's usually people."

"The things we do for love, right?" Toby said, summing it up perfectly.

"Exactly. Sometimes I don't know if I'm capable of taking love in stride. I always seem to sacrifice more than I get. One of these times I'm going to have to try it in moderation... just to compare."

"Let me know how that goes," I heard her say before moving on in the conversation.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Sorry That I Hurt You, It's Something I Must Live With Everyday, And All The Pain I Put You Through, I Wish That I Could Take It All Away

--"The Reason", Hoobastank

He should have been awake for this conversation was his first thought. That thought hit him like an alarm clock blaring its morning reverie. The state he was in now, he was in no condition to be conversing with anyone, least of all her. The static drips of the telephone extension clued him into the fact that he was, indeed, still on the line with her and, indeed, she was proceeding with the rest of this conversation with or without his consent.

“Tell me one good reason and maybe I would consider it, sugar,” is all she said this time. The other times had been much worse. She hadn’t had time to temper her anger and she’d lashed out like the hellcat she was. Nope, this time her voice held a curious calm about it, almost as eerie as the stillness of winter. She didn’t sound upset at all… which could mean she was boiling over inside for all he knew.

He peered over to the alarm clock on the shelf. It read 11:15. They’d been going to and fro for the last two hours. Neither party was willing to give ground. He knew the ground rules. If you gave an inch, she would utilize the opening to seize a mile. If you allowed yourself to be doubted, she would crumble the very walls of defense you had so carefully erected. This wasn’t a war of attrition. It was the stalemated and calculated give and take of a chess match. No one had the upper hand. No one was on the verge of conceding. The game had only just begun.

He liked her. That much was evident in the fact of the frequency of their phone calls to one another. She was usually effervescent and funny; she was usually the most delightful individual to ever hold in one’s life. That’s probably why he felt so much on the defensive.

“You don’t even care how it affects me. I don’t even matter to you,” he said to her blankly.

“If that were true, would I even be listening?”

“Whatever.”

He liked her so much he didn’t want anyone else to even have the opportunity to like her as well. She couldn’t go out to whatever church social she was telling him about. She just couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it. She just had to accept that. In his mind he was firm on the matter. It would be one thing if it had been something innocuous, something innocent that would ultimately lead to nothing. He himself had been to many a church fair or church carnival. He knew the deal of going with one’s classmates just to make an appearance. Some of them had even been mandatory. He had gone, put his head in, and then left an hour later. No big deal. To him the quicker these things were over, the better. She was different, though. When she consented to going, she stayed for the day. They weren’t something to be avoided. These gatherings for her were a on-the-cheap hobby. Her mother had seen to it that her daughter had been instilled with the sense of duty and reverence. Church functions weren’t something to be dreaded. They were to be celebrated with as many people as you could possibly get to see you celebrating. More than that, her mother had voiced her opinion that the majority of socializing was done in a church capacity. That’s how she’d met her husband, and that’s how she expected her daughter to meet someone special.

That’s exactly what the young man was afraid of. She couldn’t meet anyone new. She’s already met me. Why would she need to meet anyone else?

“It’s probably going to be as boring as a cow on a diet anyhow. I don’t see the big whoop. I really don’t,” she said.

“The big whoop is that the weekends are the only time I get to talk to you as long as I want. And you want to ruin that by staying out all day at some square dance?”

“I told you not to call it that.”

“Excuse me, church fundraiser. Better?”

He heard the confusion in her voice. She probably expected him to be okay with all of this. She probably didn’t have any idea how much ruckus she would raise by telling him of her plans for the weekend. To her it was as natural as going to school every day and coming home every night. You met with your church whenever they wanted to meet. That was as easy as pie to decide or, as she had so delicately put it, “it was as natural as breaking wind.” Even after all this time he knew she could never quite get used to the senseless jealousy she provoked in him.

“I don’t know why you’re getting your britches all in a bunch, darling. I will be back in plenty of time to call you if that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want. What I want is for you to keep your promise. You said the weekends are mine and that I got first dibs. I don’t want you to go. Why can’t you just keep your promise, Breannie?”

It was cheap. But aside from guilt-tripping her, he didn’t have many weapons in his arsenal to use against her. He knew he didn’t have any right to say where and when she went out. He knew he didn’t have any say in how she spent her time. The only thing he had was the idea she valued this friendship. That’s the only thing he could hold over her. That’s the only way he knew how to get his way.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Patrick. I want to go, but I want you to be okay with it, you know?”

“That’s not going to happen. How do you expect me to be okay with you abandoning me like that?”

“I’m not abandoning you. I’m not. It’s one day. A couple of hours. I promise I’ll talk to you as long as you want the night before and as soon as I get back. Would that be okay?”

“No, because it’s not what you promised.”

“Hell’s bells to what I promised. Plans change.”

“Not for me they don’t. I would never spring something like this on you and you know it.”

That’s the other thing he could hold over her, that he kept his word. He was resolute in making plans and abiding by them. Whenever he made a promise with her, it might as well have been written in concrete. When he promised her that he’d keep her safe, he kept it. When he promised he would put her first in his life when it came to opening up or sharing secrets, he kept it. When he promised that he would be her friend, it was a promise he took with the utmost seriousness. She wasn’t something he could take lightly. He saw it as his duty to make her his priority. All he wanted was for her to take the same sweet steps to making him feel important.

“I can’t stand you sometimes, do you know that?” she asked him rheotorically. Gone was all sweetness in her voice. Gone was the patience that he heard all evening up until that point. In their stead, he was greeted with the sound of grievous indignation. Oh, yes, he could hear that she was about to relent, but it would come at some cost to him.

He could live with that. Let her be mad, he thought. In the end, she’ll see that she can’t just make a promise and break it. Not with me. Not ever.

“It’s like most of the time you’re this person who gets me and who treats me as somebody worthy of respect. And then it’s like you put on this disguise. You turn into somebody who twists my words, who uses them against me, all to just get your way. It’s childish. It’s amateur. Worst of all, it’s something I would never pull on you,” she surly said. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. I did promise you that. But I’m hoping you’ll pickle through this in time and see that you’d be better served if I did go. Trust me on that. I’ll call you on Saturday, like I said, but if my lily-white ass had to stay home because of your insistence, you are not going to like what I have to say to you on that day. Guaranteed.”

Then she hung up the phone without so much as a “think it over” or “good-bye.” She was gone in a hurry, leaving him to parse through what exactly she meant. He’d heard her upset. That was a given dealing with him as often as she did. What he hadn’t heard was the requisite patience that had been present all evening. She hadn’t poised an ultimatum to him. More like a dire warning of his fate come this weekend. He could either take her at her word or relish his hard won, albeit small, victory.

He chose to do the latter.

It wasn’t that he didn’t feel for her. He knew he could be callous and overbearing to her, but, the way he figured it, that was just part of the package. She knew what kind of person he was. He never tried to hide it. He never tried to deny it. If he had a thought to changing that part of his behavior, it would definitely be for her benefit. Yet as hard as he tried to manage it, the fact that she persevered provided him the excuse that he couldn’t have be that bad. No one stays if it’s unbearable, right? Her patience justified his behavior in a sense for as long as she continued to stay he would continue to stay just as he was.

Yet in the same idea he was ashamed to admit lay his weakness as well. For, if she ever truly stopped to analyze the situation, he was afraid she would see the truth. As much as he held their friendship as some carrot above her head, dangling it when he needed something from her or threatening to take it away should she ever decide to do something he disapproved of, she’s the one he was afraid of taking it away from him. For good. That’s all he had was threats. All he could use was the veiled hints that his trust and devotion were temporary. She had to know he could never really pull the trigger. She’s the one with the real authority, he conceded. If she ever decided she had had enough and walked away, it would be him who would be doing all he could to preserve the connection. He was the Wizard behind the curtain—all theatrics and histrionics. She was the real power. She was the real magic, driving forward everything they were or could be. Why he couldn’t ever let her know that was beyond him. He considered it was because he relished the illusory power over her, but, in truth, it was more because he hadn’t ever considered that the dynamics between them could work any other way. He’d always dictated to her how he’d like it to be. She’d always been happy to agree with him. It was only recently, he thought, that she’d began to think she had more influence than he originally given her credit for. It was only recently that she began to realize he needed her more than she needed him.

The phone rang.

It was her.

“I’m going. You can’t change my mind about it. You can hold it against me all you want, but I’m going,” she said clearly upset.

“Why do you have to be such a bitch, Breanne?” he asked her, matching her tone for tone.

“Probably for the same reason you have to be such a baby about everything. I mean—who does this? Over a nothing church get-together. What kind of nonsense is that?”

“It’s not nothing and it’s not about your bake sale of whatever you’re doing. It’s the fact you’re breaking your word. You’re breaking your word to me. That’s why I’m upset.”

He knew this day was coming. She wasn’t the same passive young girl who was just glad somebody was taking her seriously that she was three years ago. That girl had slowly grown up. She had begun to shed some of the reverance she had whenever she talked to him. With everyone else in her life, he knew, she had some stringent boundaries about who she was as a person. She had clearly established that no one was to be the boss of her—not her parents, not her boyfriends, not even her teachers or other mentors. She would gracefully accept any advice they had to give her. She would certainly treat them with the respect and courtesy they deserved. Yet, in the end, she made up she was her own counsel. She was her own boss. He’d like to think he had a hand in her furtive assertiveness coming to fruition. He had told her all along that she had a good head on her shoulders. Now it was finally coming back to bite him in the ass. He couldn’t hold her down with empty notions of loyalty and honor any more. She was finally going to test the strength of his convictions. She was finally going to see how much he could or could not walk away from her.

“The way it’s going to be from now on is going to be different. I don’t have the patience to babysit your infantile ego, Eeyore. You can call my honesty, truth, or what have you, into question all you want. You know what kind of friend I am. You can either believe that or you can shush the fuck up. Either way, I’m done with this feeling like I owe you something. I’m done with it. I know you’ve done a lot for me, but I’ve have to do a lot for you too, you know? You might be smarter than I am. You might be older than I am. But you’re not better than I am. You can’t tell me what to do. You can tell me how it makes you feel. You know I’ll always pay you some mind if you’re honestly feeling hurt. But you’re not the boss of me. I go where I want to go when I want to and with whom I want to go with.”

He tried to say something back. Anything. But he didn’t know how to be upset in this situation. All he could muster was a faint stab at contempt.

“You were helpless when I met you. Just because you’ve gotten older doesn’t mean you’ve got all the answers figured out. Don’t act like you’re a grown-up now because you’re not. You’re still helpless.”

He was met by the silence of the grave. She didn’t cry out. She didn’t respond back. All he heard was the hushed still of someone trying hard not to say something out of turn. Was she still angry? Was she hurt? Was she trying to process it all? He couldn’t get a bearing on where her mind was at. The silence persisted for a short while, the whole time with him questioning if he should say something, before her voice finally came back to the phone.

“I’m not helpless,” she said, sadness in every syllable.

He should have pressed his attack. He should have met such a mild retort with the full force of someone who could recognize an opening when he saw one. She hadn’t met his statement with a brilliant flash of defiance. On the contrary, she sound somewhat unsure. She sounded like someone who still felt helpless and had been once again reminded of how truly ineffectual she seemed to be. He should have taken advantage of this fact. He should have put her out of her listless misery.

Instead, he chose to do the worst thing he could do for his cause.

“No, you’re not helpless. I didn’t mean that.”

This was followed by another interminable silence during which he couldn’t tell whether or not she was crying softly to herself or only ruminating on the situation more. It wasn’t like her to cry, especially not during a fight. She’d cry when she was scared. She’d cry when she was hurt. But when she fought with him, she fought to kill. And killers don’t cry. He had obviously touched on a nerve with his comments of her inability to think or do for herself. He had obviously gone way beyond trying to flatten her arguments about going to the church function. He had obviously gone way too far.


and be the one who catches all your tears

He still wanted her to stay. He still knew that it would drive him mad the whole time she was mucking about with god knows who over there. He still knew he would never feel safe as long as she was out of his influence.

But he also knew what had to be done for her sake.

“I don’t care if you go, B. I don’t want you to, but I can’t stop you.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go anymore.”

“No, you should. You’ll have fun. Just try not to have too much fun,” he said.

He took her silence to signify she was sussing out her options. She probably didn’t know whether or not to believe him. She probably was wondering whether this was another one of his ploys to elicit sympathy from her. She probably thought he was trying to trick her again. Except it wasn’t a trick.

Sure, she had grown up a little, gotten a little more confident in the way she dealt with him. Apparently, she hadn’t been the only one. He still feared what her suddenly broadening her horizons meant. He still worried that she was going to be out of his life someday. Yet he began to see a new fear, a new worry—that of her growing up to be someone who never really knew what she was capable of on her own. In short, he didn’t want her to grow up to be someone much resembling him.

She deserved better than that. He could give that to her, if not outright because he was still rather new at this generosity racket, then in whatever portions he could afford to dole out and still manage to hold onto some of his pride.

“Just go to the thing.”

Then it was his turn to hang up the phone and finally get to sleep.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Through The Fire, To The Limit, To The Wall, For A Chance To Be With You, I'd Gladly Risk It All

--"Through the Fire", Chaka Khan

Fire has always been an emblem of mine. Hell's bells, as much as I utilize "Hell's bells" in my conversations and diatribes you would think I was the baroness of burning herself. People have labeled me a spitfire, hell on wheels, and a whole host of not-so-flattering nicknames, but I've always taken it in stride. People tend to key in on traits you might not notice yourself, you know?

Some of my earliest memories involve gathering around the family hearth, around the carefully constructed grand fireplace my daddy had built for the house. I know many consider a working grand fireplace a luxury in this day and age, but I absolutely adored it. When I was little, I would settle beside it and watch the flames lick the metal veil that prevent the ashes from flying out towards me. I would stare and stare, and let my mind wander where it may. In a sense, fire has always been a comfort to me. What I especially remember is when I would spend nights up and alone, after my mother had allowed to me to safeguard the house alone while she and my daddy would go out to dinner somewhere. It would be raining, or, worse, thundering something fierce. The only thing that would keep me sane would be the fact I had this fire to keep me warm, to keep me safe. That was always the dichotomy with me--afraid of a small thing like thunder, yet completely content to be no more than two feet from something that could burn me alive. But I guess that's little Miss Chipper for you, not afraid of anything except the things she should have no fear from.

Even when I attempted to burn my hair off, I wasn't so much afraid of being toasted like so much breakfast, but of the damage I might cause to the house. Fire is a good thing in my honest opinion.

When I looked it up in some of the symbology and dream books I've come across, they've suggested that my affinity for fire is indicative of a love of risks and a high tolerance for stress. Well, if that isn't obvious about me as much as calling the crow black then I don't know what is. I've always been somewhat of risk taker. Not as much in these later years as in my formative ones, mind you, but the enamoration with doing what just isn't normally done is a particularly strong case. That's the phrase my mother has tossed around a few times, "Breanne doesn't think, she just goes." I've sort of adopted as my own mantra. It's true. As much as one can appreciate the power of fire, there's little one can do when it gets going where it wants to. No one's the boss of fire and no one will ever be the boss of me.

As far as a high tolerance for stress goes, I reckon I can cop to that as well. I don't let the world overwhelm me. There's no situation I don't think I can either escape from or overcome. I don't sit and wallow, wishing I were more assertive. If anything, I spend time asserting that wishing doesn't get you squat. From dealing with my mother while she was attempting to brainwash me into being a bow-tied sheep to show off and keep penned in, to the latest troubles with the husband, about the only instances I have ever stopped to complain about anything is here. And that's only because I know the majority of people who read this are strangers. I'm a person who could never reconcile complaining to another human being. That just ain't my style. That's a fire too. It doesn't let anything weigh it down. It overcomes. That's how I live my life.

To me, fire is life. I've known how to build a fire since I was eight... and not no rinky-dink piddly anthill. I'm talking about a raging bonfire. My daddy said there was no good reason I should be wanting to build bonfires, but he taught me anyway. Something about that's comforting. Knowing that if I ever get turned around in the mountains or woods somewhere, that I'd be able to warm myself makes me feel safe. It makes me feel prepared. Sure, I'd probably end up burning down half of Georgia, but that's neither here nor there. Spiritually, too, whenever I make a fire I feel more connected to my Lord and Savior. I provide my own serenity when I build that fire. I provide my own opportunity for prayer. That's a blessing too.

I guess my point is that for some people it's difficult to feel connected to something deeper inside of them, something primal and unbridled. They've lost that tether to what God intended them to be, which is a part of the land around them. I'm saying I don't think I've ever lost that. I feel everything tremendously. I feel every little spark and twig and tendril of flame and even the gossamer bits in-between. That's what I think of when I think of fire. We're all comforting and we're all destructive. We're all beautiful and we're all violent. We're all independently-minded and we're all connected.

I am the fire and the fire is me.

Breanne

I Hope You Know, I Hope You Know, That This Has Nothing Do With You, It's Personal, Myself And I, We've Got Some Straightening Out To Do

--"Big Girls Don't Cry (Personal)", Fergie

three eight

toby: the blank stare
that you see in the mirror
when you want to smile.
~dw

----

I don't carry a courage stone in my pocket wherever I go. I don't believe in bravery being a product of experiences. When I do something it's more often done out of fear than out of courage. That's why I let Jack go. Because I was afraid that I wasn't ready to accept what he was offering. It wasn't a courageous decision. It wasn't born of determination. I did not know what else to do. ¶You spend enough time with someone, you start to see what their hopes for the future are. I started to see who Jack was becoming even before he did. I saw he had expectations for a life spent in my company. That was never going to be. I'm too screwed up inside to plot anything right now. He's what I want. For now. But who's to say what I would want in a few years' time? Notice. There's nothing to say he'd want me either in that time. ¶Rather than risk future disappointment, I'd give up present happiness. I took my shot with him and had a couple of great months. It would have only been downhill from here. I know it. ¶That's the part that eats me up inside. How I can justify all these decisions to remain afraid and alone. I fear sometimes I'm so screwed up emotionally that I'll always opt to be that person. I'm a bird in a cage who doesn't know what to do with freedom. So every time somebody like Jack offers me the chance to take wing and fly... I fly right back into my cage. I wouldn't last out there. I know it. ¶I'm glad he's still my friend because, of anyone outside of my household, he's the closest to sussing out what makes me tick. He knows my weaknesses. I've never denied them with him. I know he's hoping that the wheel will come spinning back on us again. And it very well might. I'm glad he's around because when I told him I was letting him go, I had hoped he wouldn't say the same to me. ¶He made me well when I didn't even know I was sick. He comforted me. He guided me. He was the strength that pushed me to the limits of myself. I have never been happier than when he was with me. Believe me, he's the last person I wanted to hurt like this. He's the reason that I think I can make someone happy someday. ¶Just not him. ¶I have a whole box of issues to sort out. Until I do I can't be with him. I can't be with anyone. ¶For someone who likes to smile as much as I do, I sure do put into motion a lot of reasons not to. I thrive on self-deflation so that every moment of joy becomes magnified. That's my m.o. That's the reason I'm still in my cage, because freedom looks awe-inspiring... until you have it. Then it's the heaviest burden you can shoulder.

dw

But If You Only Have Love For Your Own Race, Then You Only Leave Space To Discriminate, And To Discriminate Only Generates Hate

--"Where Is The Love?", Black Eyed Peas

I guess you could say it started in Kindergarten at Bethany. That's where I remember learning that people could be grouped by the differences in the appearance. Before then, I was just acclimated to thinking all of us as one class of people. It was a class revolving around learning a dance. The teacher paired all thirty of us to form the lines. I remember all the pretty girls got partnered up with all the pretty boys, and me, not being so pretty, got anchored to the one girl I didn't think was pretty at all. Yeah, I was that shallow... but it was Kindergarten. I also remember thinking that all the prettiest people in the class just all happened to be white. They were all of the fair complexion, all of the lighter eyes, all of them had just the WASPy image that I suppose prevalent even then. Then, as I scanned down the line, the images got less and less uniform. Skin tones got darker, ethnicities started getting more pronounced, and we appeared to have formed some racial scale that I had never even bothered to look before.

I mean--it could have been me. It could have been the teacher had some other motive to align us as she did. Yet, even though I was Kindergarten, I could see what was going on.

That one incident has always made me wonder if I have always held being white as being beautiful. I'd like to think that that one day was when I was taught that the Caucasian persuasion was more appealing to me because then I could always chalk it up to my teacher assigning her values of beauty and perfection to the class. I could always blame her for skewing my preferences irrevocably. But I also wonder what made me think that she was compiling some line-up from prettiest to ugliest if I didn't already have these notions beforehand. How else I could pick out that that's what was going on if I hadn't already been forming those selfsame ideas on my own?

The idea that groups of people will always be segmented was confirmed again by First Grade. I wrote earlier of the Beavers and Squirrels during my time in First Grade. That whole month or two months when that nonsense was going on still serves as the basis of many of my stories. That division of the class for no other purpose but to divide the class still perplexes me to this day. Rather than split along ideological differences or even racial differences, rather than divide into groups of gender or age or social status, that class choose to divide itself for no rhyme or reason. It's what gave me the first idea that you could put any large group of people together--all races, all ages, all sexes, all spiritual philosophies, all manner of demographic categories--and, given time, they would find a reason to divide up into splinter groups, utilizing the smallest of shared interests to facilitate the division. Even while I was with the Beavers, I was always pressing for answers as to the cause of the rift or some kind of answers as to what all the tension was about. Nobody--and I mean nobody--had any clue as to the impetus or continuing factors to why our class chose to be divided.

Yup, it still bothers me.

As I got older, I started to ruminate more on this human condition of segregation. I think it's what contributed to some of the philosophies I espouse today. I began to abhor any kind of organization that placed themselves above the worth of the individual. Religion, of course, was chief on my list. I still refuse to put any stock into any group of people whose only commonality is a belief in superstition and fantastical storytelling. Race was next on my list. Just because I was born Filipino doesn't mean I instantly adopt all of their cultural norms. I hate Filipino food. I don't much care for Filipino traditions. And I really don't place any reverence for an individual over another just because they happen to belong to the same race as me. This is a tenet that my parents, my cousin, and most of the rest of my family cannot wrap their heads around. Everyone has to earn my respect and admiration. I don't give out free passes just because I'm supposed to feel a certain way towards a certain group. It's the same way with sports. Simply because a team is my local team doesn't mean I have to give two shits about them. And we all know how I feel about having any preconceptions as to age when it comes to befriending someone.

Yet I do have certain instinctual leanings that do fall along some pretty stringent lines. I have only dated young white women. That's the truth. And it's not because I think they're any more worthy than other nationalities or races. It's because I went from Kindergarten through Eighth Grade in private Catholic schools where 75% of the student body was white. That's honestly where I honed the notion that my standard of beauty will always lean in that direction. I feel perfectly justified in adopting that preference because that's personal to me; it didn't arise because my parents told me to (they always wanted me to date Filipino girls, actually), or because my friends were telling me to, or because the media was drilling me into that mindset. It's the same reason why I have weird affections for female drummers, basketball players, redheads, Canadians, and Southerners. Each of those has a personal anecdote or story to originate my leanings. In fact, aside from who I date, I can honestly say I don't see the color of a person's skin as being all that big of a deal.

I work with a multitude of races, shapes, and sizes. I've been friends or am friends with the same. Sure, I'll laugh when somebody cracks a good racist joke (which, I know, is wrong... but funny is funny), but you'll never hear me crack one myself. It's much the same with dumb blonde jokes, women jokes, or any type of joke that pokes fun at people different than I am. I laugh, but I don't advocate spreading them myself. I think that's why I lean towards comedy like Mitch Hedberg. Situational humor that doesn't incite anyone to stare intently at lines of division.

I'm not saying I'm perfect and that I act color-blind in every situation, but the advantage of growing up in a school where I was the odd man out most of the time was that I learned to get along with a lot of different people. I was always the one trying to fit in, to fall in, so it didn't make any sense for me to keep someone else out. If I kept a person out of my life it was because I wasn't taking any applications from anyone, no matter their differences. I was an equal-opportunity isolationist.

I think that's why I like traveling too. I like seeing how other cities live because I never want to say it's better here or there (though Boston will always have my heart). I don't really know that until I've seen each and every place. It's just like I can never believe one group of people is any better or worse than any other. I just don't know until I've seen the best and worst each of them has to offer. That's something I'll never be able to see in one lifetime.

And don't even get me started on sexual preferences. If there is any more insipid reason to hate another person it's because they have a clear sense of who they love. If anything, knowing who you want with no reservations is something to applauded not despised for.

I don't know--I still think it's all a mummer's farce. It's like the whole world is still playing Beavers and Squirrels, and I'm still left scratching my head at the inanity of it all.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Still Standing, Better Than I Ever Did, Looking Like A True Survivor, Feeling Like A Little Kid

--"I'm Still Standing", Elton John

One of my favorite shows of the last few years was Everwood. It ranks right up there with Avonlea or Buffy in terms of devotion and amount of enjoyment derived. That's why when it got canceled it was something of a heartbreak because good shows are hard to come by. There's a certain investment into the characters and stories that's hard to justify doing time and time again. With Everwood that phenomena was even more pronounced. I used to quote that show all the time here. Indeed, a lot of my earlier posts were prompted by something I heard or saw on the show so it was like losing a good deal of my inspiration. It wasn't just losing a show; it was losing a source of knowledge and information. It was losing a good deal of my routine for the week... for life.

I still miss Amy Abbot to this day.

But I'm not here to mourn the loss of a show. I'm here to testify that life does go in small, subtle ways. Greg Berlanti, one of the producers and creator of Everwood, has moved onto a new show, Eli Stone. I've got to say I like it. I like it a lot. It has the same sense of tragedy pulling people closer together. Whereas Everwood had the death of Ephram's mom be the catalyst for Dr. Brown's transformation into the family man he should have always been, so it is with Eli's brain aneurysm becoming the catalyst to his transformation into a more morally centered man. Yet this isn't the same show. Whereas Mr. Berlanti's former show delved into teenage angst and the unsettling feeling of not knowing where you belong, Eli Stone seems to be more concerned about staying who you are while adding new depth. His is journey not of complete transformation, but of awakening to how much more he could be without losing a step. Sure, maybe later on there will have to be sacrifices made, but for now the show seems to have a fine premise in him learning to readjust his life after such horrible news.

That's kind of how I see moving on from the inviting climes of Everwood to the hilly streets of San Francisco where Eli Stone is set. It's not so much trying to completely forget who I was when I watched the former show. It's really me trying to maintain the ideas that show put forth while welcoming any thoughts and ideas this new show has to offer. I used to think that's how all of life should be. That if I was a mean and controlling person before, then by all rights I should try to be a completely different person. That if I was sad or unhappy ten years ago, then by all rights I should strive to shed every trace of that person. I always say things in an either/or type of conflict. The person I was wasn't very successful... so I needed to be a completely new person.

Life does not work that way, though. People are never all bad or all good. I was never all bad or good at any given time.


and did you think this fool could never win
well look at me, I'm coming back again

Just because I like a new show; it does not diminish any affection I had for shows obsessively watched in the past.

And just because I had darker traits to my personality before doesn't mean I didn't have good ones to build on. It's all a process I think. Eli has it right; I still have a lot I can learn from the person I used to be and I still have a lot of facets to me that I have yet to see.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Tell Me Why We Never Really Respected Each Other, And Tell Me Why I Never Believed You Were A Person Too

--"Enid", Barenaked Ladies

a response to "Cross Off All The Ways I Failed You, 'Cause I Failed You, But I'm Still In Your Blood, You're Still In My Blood"...

I won't lie. I read yesterday's with some hesitation because, at first, I wasn't sure what you were trying to say. Then, when I pickled through it, I didn't like what I was reading. Here it is, almost two decades later, and you're still trying to shoulder the blame over what I've always thought was a non-issue. For the last time it was never your responsibility to safeguard my innocence, sugar. I never charged you with the task and I never expected it to fall under your list of duties to be performed in the service of friendship. My innocence was always mine to give and keep as I saw fit. For the last time, if I needed a knight I would have acted out the damsel in distress. That has never been me, though.

It hurts me, even though I know what kind of person you are, because you constantly referred to the trip being a mistake, to seeing me as a mistake, almost with the certainty of someone who believes they have failed. It wasn't a mistake. You never failed me except in the regard of treating me as a full participant. I think we can both agree that I've never been too keen on the idea of anyone bossing me around. How can you think this is a recent development? I've been that way since I was in footsies, maybe even when I was still in diapers. I've never been one to fool around with second-guessing. I wasn't second-guessing then. You need to develop the idea that I was always my own person from day one till now. There has never been a time nor will there ever be a time when you either took advantage of me or skunked me in any way. Even when I let you think that you convinced me of something, it was always with the thought of making you think that you were in charge. Don't you know feminine wiles aren't limited to the arts of seduction? Sometimes they are employed in the service of pumping up your ego.

Let's use an example you might understand. I used to play hide-and-go-seek with my daddy when I was a little gal. When I was about eight I came to the realization that I was better at hiding than his prowess at seeking was. Yet every time we trotted out to the backyard or to the park, I still made sure to hide in such a fashion as to be easily discovered time and time again. I did that for him. I did that to make him feel good and that I wasn't growing up too quickly. Then slowly I started getting him used to the idea that I wasn't his little tiger any more, easily found or easily outplayed.

That's you and me too, Eeyore. Sometimes I let my friends think they've pulled the wool over my eyes because I do come off as vain quite often. I like to cultivate the idea that there are more things underneath the sky that I don't know than do know. I like making you think you know more than me sometimes. I like letting Fanny tell me what all the doohickeys and gizmos on her cameras do even though I know I'll probably never have motive to use half of them. It makes her feel smart. It makes me feel like a good friend. I know you're a smart cookie... but sometimes it's important that I make sure you know I feel that way about you. You're the type of person who needs their ego stroked and, to tell the truth, I don't mind doing it. It's kind of fun.

But you have to give me credit for being intelligent too. I wasn't half as naive as you like to imagine I was. True, you did have five years on me, but it wasn't like I lived back in the country and had to have you explain the ins and outs of human sexuality. I knew enough. I've also had a healthy curiosity about it since I was young. You weren't showing me anything I hadn't already done. You weren't teaching half as much as you were learning. If anything, you were my guinea pig more than I was yours.

It frustrates me that that's how you regard our time together, you know? Hell's bells, I think of it as a beautiful memory, one that I wouldn't change for anything. Life's too full of memories that are mundane, days that were uneventful. I cherish memories that were truly happy because I seem to be experiencing fewer and fewer of those as I get older. That was a happy weekend. It was nearing Christmas. My mother had to be nice because we had company. I didn't have to worry about school. And I had my one and only Patrick with me. Why do you have to go and mar it with thoughts of regret? Don't taint this. Don't take it away from me. Let me believe that when we kissed it was because both of us wanted to. Let me fantasize that when we slept in each other's arms it was because that's what we both wanted to happen. Don't say it wasn't so.

I know all too well how it feels to live one life while somebody you're supposed to be close to lives another life. Greg and I are only now realizing that we have two different versions of our marriage. He thought I was 90% happy the entire time, while I've gone up and down the last few years. It hurt him to hear that I was never as fulfilled as I let on. It hurt me to have to tell him. Yes, it's the truth, but the point of it all is that we should have been on the same wavelength the entire time. We both should have been happy 90% of the time or we both should have been fluctuating at the same time. Then we'd have an easier go of it all. It's when there's a disparate chasm between my experience and his experience that everything goes south.

That was a mistake I made with him. I didn't tell him how I felt all the time. I tried to sound cheery because that's the person he married, Little Miss Chipper. Hell's bells, that's the person I've always been. How could I tell him that my happiness wasn't genuine all the time? How I could tell him there were some mornings that smile was painted on? I wanted to be happy. I wanted to be Little Miss Chipper for him. Now, that's the real mistake. He had met me when I was genuinely happy all the time, when I was at UGA, when I was partying every weekend and studying hard and becoming a person I genuinely liked. When I married him I thought it was the missing bed of flowers for the garden of my life. Instead, he was catching me when my happiness was tapering off. It wasn't his fault, but we married when I should have been finding the next thing that would make me happy. Then and only then should I have gotten attached to anyone.

Because of that, our marriage is full of memories where he thinks I was completely happy and I wasn't. It's been a relationship of smoke and mirrors at some junctures. It's been a union where we weren't half as unified as I made us out to be... even to myself.

You are different. We are different. We've been in the handbasket the whole length of our friendship. We've been to Hell and back. You've always known how I felt, even when what I've felt is killing you, shushing you up permanently, or plain not knowing you anymore. That's the truth. That's little 'ole me, that's little 'ole Breanne--no more, no less--when she's with you. All the times when we've fooled around, fought around, or even fucked around were because I wanted to be there. That's the truth. You've seen me at my worst. You've seen at my worser still. I don't have to tell you that Little Miss Chipper was a character as much as an ideal that I've aspired to. Yes, I was a happy child, who always tried to make other people smile by smiling the "loudest." But I was also the child who ran away as soon as the door had shut behind her. I was also the child who was defanged by her mother as soon as I was able to talk back to her. I was also the child who didn't feel like she had a true friend in all the world. Little Miss Chipper was my escape mechanism, my way of telling myself if I smiled "loud" enough, one of these days it would be permanent and genuine. I don't need to lie to you because you don't really care if I'm happy all the time. All you care about is that I find my bliss someday and that you're close by so I can share that day with you.

It's important to me that all the times we were together, all the shakes we've survived through, we did it our way and without reservation. I don't want to hear we made mistakes in how we handled things or that we went about our business the wrong way. As far as I'm concerned, everything that has happened up to this point has been peachy and has been our decision. I need that reassurance from you that not only are we reading the same book, that not only are we on the same page, but that we're reading the same sentence as it's being written. I don't know what I'd do if I heard that at any time we had different ideas about where we saw this friendship/relationship going. I would be crushed if I ever heard you say you wanted out and it wasn't words spoken in anger. I would be completely heartbroken.

Treat me like a person. Treat me like a partner, sugar. That's all I ask of you. We're in this together, hands in, and you have my assurances that where you go I'll follow somehow and that wherever I go, I'll let you know where before I even leave.

Every day you've known me has been because I wanted you to know me. Every time we've shared was because it was my intent to share. Every stolen kiss, frowned upon affair, or even cross word, was stolen, frowned, and crossed with my eyes wide open and not a whit of hesitation in my heart. Pay me the respect to acknowledge that I had some idea of what I was getting myself into, sugar.

That trip wasn't a mistake.

You did not fail me.

You passed with flying colors and I consider you and this ongoing partnership as my biggest success to date.

Breanne