I Know We Are Right, It's Not Always Clear, Because I've Never Felt The Fear, Can It Stay So Good, Forever In Time?

--"No More Rhyme", Debbie Gibson

I've owned one car in my life, even though I've driven four. The only car I've ever owned was a 2000 Kia Sephia that I probably got ripped off on. I tried to do it on my own without any help from my family or friends because I was attempting very hard to be seen as an adult in the eyes of everyone concerned. Compound this with the fact it was a total impulse buy. I walked into the dealership planning to only take a look around and came out driving a brand new car. As aforementioned, I have the skulking suspicion I ended up overpaying by a lot and could have driven a harder bargain had I known better.

I'm recalling the experience because, as of last week, I am again without transportation. Once again I'm in the process of securing a new vehicle with which to go about my daily business. Part of me is excited because it's going to be the first car that I really did a lot of research on--well, at least for me. Some people might spend months and months reading up and asking for advice on what the best car for them is, but I'm really proud of myself for even spending the last six or seven days doing a few hours of research for this purchase. That's more time than I usually take to decide to buy anything. I suppose it befits the importance of my decision. I suppose it befits the amount of time I'll actually be spending with this car. But honestly I think it has more to do with the fact that I've always felt like I failed at my first opportunity to buy a brand new car.

I just don't want to fuck this up, basically.

Part of the reason why I wasn't really in my right mind with that first purchase was that money really wasn't all that of a concern to me. I wasn't rich--that's not what I meant. I just meant that at the time I had a credit card that had over twenty thousand dollars on it. I was probably spending close to a thousand on frivolous items at the time--mostly on DeAnn, but some of it on me. Buying a car, putting another twenty thousand on credit--however you want to phrase it--didn't feel like I was losing anything. It's like I was feeling at the time that there was no way I would be ever to pay back the twenty thousand I had on my credit card. How much more trouble could putting another twenty-thousand be? It's like it was all pretend money to me, when it really wasn't. I just never had the sense that I'd ever really be paying it all back anyway.

This time, though, I'm kind of worried if I don't get a good deal. This time I'm actually worried about how it's going to affect my finances. This time I'm actually worried about how long it's going to take to pay back. This time I'm actually worried about making the right choices and settling on a good price.

In a way this is really my first time buying a car, or buying anything of any import for the matter, the "right" way. I don't know--I guess because I feel like the first time didn't count but also because I learned a lot about what not to do, I want do it right. I want to make sure that at the end of this week or whenever I'm completely satisfied that I did everything to the best of my knowledge. I want to make sure that I'm not going to look back upon the next few days and regret fucking up again.

That's all I want--more than the car, I want the satisfaction of making somewhat an adult decision for once.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Run My Life, Or Is It Running Me?, Run From My Past, I Run Too Fast, Or Too Slow It Seems

--"I Run To You", Lady Antebellum

When I walked into the local coffeehouse today I wasn't planning on enacting a good deed. I had walked into the establishment preoccupied and more than a little upset that I hadn't been able to go for my full run today. Running is one of the main ways I relieve stress in my life. The fact that I had more pressing matters was highly upsetting to me. I was fit to be tied thirteen ways and all of them involved involved doing away with those who might deem today of all days to do me wrong.

That's when it happened--almost straight out of "I Run To You"--the woman in front of me was apologizing to the teenage boy behind the counter about not having enough cash for her carrying case of four lattes. Without thinking and possibly forgetting I was even disgruntled to begin with, I dug out an extra five dollars from my handbag to pay for the three or four dollars she was short. The woman thanked me profusely before leaving. Even the couple behind me commented what a great thing I did was. Hell's bells, it completely turned my morning around, I must say. Rather than leave the coffee shop the sour puss I came into it, I left feeling like I had made a positive contribution to the world at large or, at the very least, the world largely around me. I about skipped to my A4, that's how absolutely gleeful my morning had become.

Sometimes I play a game where after I've done something wrong I immediately picture how one small decision could have turned it all around. When I get in trouble, when I get someone sore at me, when I get my feelings hurt--all those times I can look back upon and see where I built up the fire all wrong, as my daddy says. It's usually something as simple as saying the wrong four words or choosing to act where a modicum of restraint was called for. It's not a game I like to play, being a haughty 'ole gal who would prefer not to regret any of her decisions, but it becomes a good Christian woman to go and see where her sins may have originated. However, I reckon more often than not it's beneficial to take a look at all the times when very easily we could have taken the easy way out and still decided to do the right thing. I don't suppose most of us take the time to acknowledge the good choices we make each and every morning. Maybe if we did, we might see that within is the power to be good people if not all the time, then most of the time. Maybe if we say the positive effect we have on the people we come into contact with then we'd do more than buy each other's coffee.

Part of the problem for me I've realized is that I'm the type of gal who's looking far too ahead most of the time. I may be considerate. I may have all the manners of eight generations of Holins women within her, but good breeding does not necessarily preclude the idea that I'm not always focused on the people around me, or the world around me. I too get caught up like a "stallion among the growing stampede" that life becomes when you get older.

When you're younger it's easier to be more focused on doing good deeds because you can. When I was little 'ole gal, I was known for going two steps further than anyone else in terms of assisting everyone I knew. I saw it as a way to balance out my more wicked tendencies. But honestly a lot of it was due to the fact that I also possessed a lot of time to work on being a better person. I had a lot of spare energy as well to burn on being an absolute angel in the eyes of those who mattered, God and, most importantly, my parents (haha). While I wasn't exactly trying to impress anyone, I reckon I just had more opportunities to encourage myself to be the best koala on the tree I just happened to be living upon.

But then I got older. I didn't stop caring as much as I stopped seeing all the chances I had to care. I didn't stop caring as much as I stopped seeing everyone around me who needed my care. It's much the same way people describe the way they look for trouble and then all of a sudden stop. When I was younger, I went looking to pitch in so often it seemed like moments to volunteer went looking for me. When I got older, they started to fade from view. It became more difficult to catch time to improve my sense of community spirit when I was spending so much time improving my career, my family, my friendships, and everything else that my life ended up comprising. Somewhere along the way I became less the altruist and more the individualist.

People say you get cynical as you get older. They're mistaken. It isn't that you stop caring about people; it's that you stop being carried and start having to carry yourself more.

The more I dwell on it, the more I realize some things about how my life used to be. I used to be spoiled by my parents, doted upon hand and foot. While I would never consider myself prissy or stuck-up; I will admit that there were a lot of needs most other children never get met that I got met. I will admit there were a lot of challenges my other friends faced that I didn't find out about until much later. All of that contributed to less time focusing on making my own life work and more time enabling others to see how they could better indulge in their life. It's easy to be generous with one's time when one's time isn't spent helping her mother around the house or her daddy out with errands. It's easy to improve other people's situation when one's own situation is all figured out. The worst I ever had to deal with was having a mother who worried about me too much. That made it easier to worry less about myself and more about how other people were coping.

My life now is half-spent worrying about how Greg and I are doing, relationship-wise, financially, and sometimes, yes, even sexually. If you think about that's 50% less time I have for other people right there. That means even if I had the same desire to assist people, I would have significantly less time to do so. Whereas before I could put others before me a good deal, there's just the inclination now to put myself first more often. And let's face it, I'm already a vain person compared to most people. With each passing year I grow more and more self-interested. It's just the way of the world. Kids have the time to be generous. Adults can't be adults if they don't start worrying constantly about taking care of their own needs first. Granted, if I was entirely wealthy one might see more of the 'ole helpful Little Miss Chipper, but being someone who only maintains a comfortable lifestyle and not necessarily an easy lifestyle, I can't exactly rest on my laurels, you know? There are days where if I didn't constantly filter what I needed to do next I would grow as furious as a bull looking at a stop sign. My first inclination is always going to be to jump at the next passing fancy that catches my eye. It literally takes a lot of my time to stop and consider all the options I have before me.

That's why mornings like my morning today are so important to me. They remind me that my generous instincts are still intact. When life seems to be locked into doing the same routine tasks, errands, and activities that I seem to do everyday; a bit of the 'ole fighting Breanne pokes her head around my brain for a spell. To others it might seem like I'm just buying a coffee for someone, but to me it's a blast from my past telling me that all the kindness I once had never really dies. It lives on and will continue to do so as long as I don't let a bad day or a series of bad days ruin the way I see the world. I control my outlook of the world as much as I can't control the world around me. Despite my day constantly trying to put an end to me, or at least to my perception of myself, I remain the Breanne I once was and hope to continue to be.

I still can only Breanne--no more, no less.

Breanne

Counting All Different Ideas Drifting Away, Past And Present They Don't Matter, Now The Future's Sorted Out, Watch Her Moving In Elliptical Patterns

--"Lisztomania", Phoenix

Impossible to Know

it's impossible to know
how these things turn out.
I told him on the steps of
the greek cafe where
we'd just eaten together.
it's impossible to know
where two raindrops will
fall in measured relation
to one another.
sometimes it's far better to
walk to the road's end
and stop than keep chasing the
wayward horizon.
sometimes it's far better to
stop the car when you're
tired than to keep on cruising
aimlessly like a
rudderless ship of the line.

after all, we're no
better than life itself, right?

and even life ends
at some future date and time
not of our choosing.
and even life ends
without saying last farewells
or apologies.

dw

----

What they never tell you when you pour your love into someone or something is that there's a likelihood that love will be used against you. What they never tell you when you move into being comfortable with having familiarity in your life is that familiarity will come to an end someday. The more you feel like you have a semblance of control in your life, the more likely it is that control will be fleeting as the dwindling strains of a song just ending on the radio. Gosh. It's all for naught, this wanting and having. It's all for nothing, this giving up your time. Nothing.

Wherever I end up, there's a good chance that I shall have to leave her behind. It's impractical for me to be taking her with me to Michigan or Indiana, Kentucky or California. It'd be like trying to stuff Françoise and Jack in a steamer trunk and carry them with me; it just wouldn't work. At some time I'm sure I'll be able to have her visit and stay awhile. That initial trip, though, the one where farewells must be said and kept, that's going to be the one where I lose her love. I shall break my promise to her, to never leave her side not for anything, not for anyone. The youthful me thought it was a promise I could keep, but the young often make promises that the old cannot hope to fulfill, I can tell you that much. And I was no better. I had hope for a future where she and I would live in each other's lives forever, but it just isn't to be. I will be moving away from her. I will be moving up from her, to somebody that will fit in with my new life.

I just don't understand what all could have changed in little over year. I should have known better back then when I fell at her feet that it was a fool's dream. I could have thought it out better. I could have played the practical sister when everyone else in my family was hoping I would be. But, no, I had to play the romantic. I had to have her. I had to have my lifelong dream realized. Well, maybe the dream fit into my plans once upon a time, but the reality does not.

I'm sure going to miss you, Ilsa, my little black beauty, soul of my soul. Someday I'll be back for you, maybe sooner than you realize.

dw

There's No Use In Telling Me All Your Plans, I Wouldn't Understand, Another Frame Of Reference

--"Something to Keep", Sambassadeur

I don't remember anything about my high school graduation.

I remember graduating, sure. But I don't remember what I was thinking, I don't remember who all was sitting next to me, I don't remember any of the details one would think one would remember on an occasion as singular as one's high school graduation. I don't remember if and where we stopped by afterwards. I don't remember how I felt going to sleep that night. It's all a huge blur of trying to place myself in the context of the event and only coming up with bullet points. Worst of all, I don't remember the people I graduated with. I remember their names and I remember hanging out with them in the four years leading up to graduation, but I don't remember seeing anyone on that day or seeing anyone afterwards. It's almost like on that day every one of my friends from school faded away for that day... even though I continued to see some of them for months or years afterwards.

I don't know--maybe it's like Cyndi said, "we have no past." Maybe I have something intrinsic in me that shuts off holding onto people the minute I know I won't be seeing them any more. I know that's part of the reason why I don't say good-bye to people if given a choice in the matter. That's why I say farewell or, more precisely and Avonleaish, "fare thee well." I knew something was up when I graduated from junior high and I refused to even hang out with any and all of my classmates from my class over that following summer. Part of my brain must have picked up the idea that I wouldn't be seeing any of them the following Fall so what would be the point in prolonging the inevitable? I guess that idea just stuck with me all the way through high school and beyond.

It's just weird how much of my brain has blocked out about that day. I can remember specific days going to class from Freshman year, but I can't recall what is usually the biggest day of high school.

----

That's probably why I'm puzzled over my desire to go to Louisville for the second time in twelve months to go see my friend Toby graduate from high school. I mean--I don't hold all these warm gooey feelings about my own graduation. Logically, I don't see the connection between what high school means to me and what my heart wants. I don't look back on my days in high school and consider them the high point of my life. Don't get me wrong, I don't consider them the low point of my life either. I've had enough troubles to know that my real low point came years later. But when I look back on high school it's always with the idea that there is no going back and that there shouldn't be any wish to do so. I survived it once and even thrived there for my last years, but it's not an experience I wouldn't want to relive in any simulation.

And it isn't like I have this predilection to attend my friends' graduations. When Tara graduated from high school, I didn't go. I was invited (I think), but it was always fixed in my mind that I would feel sore out of place much like I was debating going to her prom with her since, as some of you may know, I was twenty and seventeen at the time. I didn't want to show up as her boyfriend as just the process of hanging out with her friends normally was really eye-opening. At least with Breanne I didn't have the added pressure of hanging out with her friends while we were dating. At least with her I got to know a few of her friends as just her friend and nothing more. Speaking of which, I never had an overwhelming desire to see her graduation either. I was happy for her, naturally. And I remember congratulating her, but never once was it brought up that I would be attending the ceremony. It was just assumed on both our parts that I would feel out of place--not to mention the expense.

So what is it then? Why do I all of a sudden have this strange compulsion to attend someone else's graduation when never before has the strange compulsion reared its head with anyone else I've known? Except for my brother and DeAnn's sister Denae's (wholly against my will, I must say), I've never gone to another person's graduation, high school or college. I've never had the need and I've never even inquired as to how to go about it.

Am I just having some kind of mid-life crisis and looking for any road to recapturing my youth? I don't think so. I still don't get jealous of when Marion speaks about her latest triumphs at DuPont Manual. I've had my triumphs. I'm not looking for excuses to bring them up again. Am I just using it as an excuse to go out to visit one of my favorite people in the world and her family? No, because my ears didn't really perk up about visiting her again until she mentioned inviting me to the graduation. I could wait a few more months. Indeed, it might be better to plan my trip for later in the Summer, when possibly everyone I want to see will have more time to attend me. Or is it just that I've had a change of heart about my feelings towards pomp and ceremony?

I think it has more to do with this last reason more than anything else. I think I'm just starting to realize that all the weddings, the anniversaries, the baptisms, the bachelor parties, and the other big celebrations that one usually attends over the course of one's life is starting to slowly dwindle for me. I've never had a lot of close friends by me--not close enough, at least, to be regularly invited to such events. I haven't been to a wedding since Denae's, which was way back in 2000, I think. I've never been to an engagement party or even a guy's getaway. My opportunities to be there for my friends when they hit their milestones is starting to slowly dwindle. I'm really beginning to feel like I'm missing out on the huge events that mark a person's life as being one worth remembering. And even though I've had my fair share of pretty memorable milestones, they were always celebrated with close-knit circles or even one or two people in attendance. I've never been one to host or even attend those huge get-togethers that pepper a person's social life. And I think it has more to do with my looking down upon such gatherings as being superficial than any real lack of chances to go.

I always thought the days that mattered, the memories that were worth having, were the ones where you had that one perfect person with you. I always thought the character and quality of a person's time was measured by what truths you could learn about one another and making those intimate connections that most people seem to fail to make. I always looked down on celebrating with people you hardly knew because you started off the night not knowing anyone and pretty much left the same way. I always thought the real joy was in getting to know someone you had met at these places afterwards, afterwards in a more personal setting. I always thought the days worth remembering where those quiet moments of finding the treasure in a person's soul rather than happening upon the person for the first time.

Now I'm starting to realize that, while quiet moments of bonding are well and good, sometimes it's important to just live amongst the world. Sometimes it's not a matter of finding connections with one or two people; sometimes it's just good to be a part of something bigger than yourself even if that something totally drowns you in its wake. There's always time to assert your place as a unique voice, but for me I'm finding less chances to assert my place as a part of a community, as belonging to a village outside of my house.

I think that's what Toby's graduation is for me, a time to be part of something great that has nothing to do with making myself a better, smarter, or more experienced person and has everything to do with making myself into someone more well-rounded. Knowing me, there's always going to be time for those late-night conversations, those "quick" trips to the coffee shops and 24-hour diners that turn into four hour confessions. What I won't always have are huge events I'm invited to where I can just say I was there, I came and played and had fun all in the name of being happy for someone else. What I won't always have is a chance to truly let myself be part of a huge assemblage of people all smiling because one of them truly did something important. What I won't always have is a chance to be part of a group of people all lifting someone else up.

I've spent enough time in solitude. It's time to open the doors again.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Look At The Stars, Look How They Shine For You, And Everything You Do, Yeah, They Were All Yellow

--"Yellow", Coldplay

I've always been a numbers guy. Of any aspect of life, the universe, and everything I've ever been superstitious about numbers have always been at the forefront. While not bordering on obsession, given a choice, I would prefer to do everything in numbers that equal to eight. I would prefer to divide anything which could be divided into eighths. Hell, I would even prefer to remain an age that equals an eight (and don't you even think for one second I'm not as giddy as a schoolgirl that I shall be thirty-five next year).

However, right up there is my little predilection for being affected by an object's color. I tend to gravitate to colors almost as finely as numbers. Yet there is one huge difference between my affiliation with each. Whereas my enamoration with the number eight has been unflagging over the years, I have at different stages in my life been more likely to christen a particular color as my "favorite" over the rest of the hues of the palette. I don't know why this is. I don't know why I've never just sat right down and picked one particular as just being "my" color, but has yet to happen. Brandy's theory is that while numbers remain fixed as representing a particular quality, representing their logical associations, colors will always be more subjectively tied to specific feelings. As my innate personality shifts over the years, so does my affinity for any one color. The number eight only remains constant because it, indeed, is indicative of the constant personality traits that I hold to be eternal; it's the bedrock upon which everything else about who I am rests. Or, again, as Brandy puts it, I tend to think of my number as the trunk of my tree and my colors as the branches which twist and turn every which way as I grow older.

In the beginning I liked orange. I liked the way it looked and I liked the fact that not a lot of people had orange as their favorite color. That became an ongoing motif for me; I still tend to make decisions if not solely, then partly on the fact that it isn't the popular choice. Orange for the first few years of my life was the single most apparent expression of this sentiment.

Then somewhere in high school I switched to red and blue as my favorite colors. This would prove to be another ongoing theme, having two favorite colors. At the time I thought this pairing had everything to do with my discovery of Avonlea, a program where literally every character was wearing either red or blue for the majority of the episodes. Now I'm beginning to wonder if my changing horses midstream had more to do with a desire to please all the people I was meeting at the time, especially the girls I was beginning to strike up various permutations of friendships with. Suddenly, while I still maintained my need to be different, I started to adopt a sensibility of being able to see why other people liked particular colors. Rather than remain tunnel-visioned, I could better appreciate that there were a lot better reasons to choose a favorite color than just wanting to be different. Indeed, I think someone or someones just presented a better argument why blue and red were more worthy of my respect.

Lastly, I have become settled on the colors of grey and green as my most cherished two colors. You know, Breanne may have her ghastly obsession with orange (ah, my former love) and Toby may be chained to one of the two colors of her nickname's namesake, but I think I've just mellowed out when it comes to choice of colors. Green and grey are the two most neutral colors there are and I'm really keen into the idea that I should be an individual who wants to remain apart from the fray. I don't want to call attention to myself as being set apart, even though I secretly think I am. I want to be different without raising people's awareness of me. I guess that's who I've turned out to be, someone who has all these quirks that I have no plans of ditching, yet doesn't want people to judge him because of them. That's why I'm more prone to choose possessions with a color scheme of green and grey, even more specifically green on grey, because I want people to see me without actually seeing me.

I don't know--I don't possess a full explanation of why I liked certain colors and not others, but those are my snap interpretations of which colors have had an effect on me and why. Like I said, I think about these things way too much and that just so happens to be the thoughts on that subject which crossed my mind today.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

But I'll Be Close Behind, I'll Follow You Into The Dark, No Blinding Light Or Tunnels To Gates Of White, Just Our Hands Clasped So Tight

--"I'll Follow You Into The Dark (Cover)", Amy Millan

for those of you out there that might have suffered disappointments of the heart ever...

We had just said goodnight. I remember hating that part because it was already my third night there and I was fulling expecting another all-night conversation laying next to one another. I guess after two nights of that, though, we were both exhausted to continue the motif. It was probably for the best because I sure as hell wouldn't have turned another night down, but, as most people know, I have no self-control. I hated that part because I knew, despite being more than a little tired, there was no way I'd be getting to sleep any time soon. I figured I would just by laying there unable to compel my mind to rest.

It was nearing Christmas because I could still hear the faint sound of the holiday songs your mother had been playing since my arrival. Somewhere downstairs there was a radio that just would not die. It'd been a good holiday so far so I didn't even mind that there was yet another distraction to my getting to sleep. Normally I don't buy into all the festivities, but my spirits were definitely brighter than they had been in the weeks leading up to my trip. I just remember lying there, wrapped up in blankets probably older than me, with a smile in my heart and on my face. I just kept thinking this trip could not get any better than it already had been. There was no possible way we were ever going to top the first few days I was there. I kept thinking that and how much I wished I could just sneak across the bathroom that connected our rooms without the floorboards creaking or making a ruckus with the doors.

It's the worst thing in the world to be both an insomniac and someone who tends to get obsessive rather quickly. It makes for a lot of sleepless nights.

I must have been contemplating in bed for close to an hour like that. I wasn't really thinking about anything specific. I was just letting my mind wander about various things--what we were going to do the next day, what you really thought about me, what your folks really thought about me, and how freaking cold it was in that room. I also thought about how much warmer it would have been had you again been in it. Around and around in circles like that I let my thoughts go. I didn't want to give up the ghost that there was still a chance that you might sneak back through that bathroom door. You'd told me you might if you couldn't sleep either. I didn't want you to find me there fast asleep. I wanted to be awake just in case you changed your mind.

When I finally did hear the bathroom door open I could barely see you. I think I saw you move the wooden chair that you'd been sitting in earlier in the evening out of the way before I saw all of you. If I hadn't been expecting you, I might have thought that it'd been some kind of specter moving the chair. As it was, your face didn't come into focus until you lowered it nearly atop mine. Even in the gossamer light of the moon your oceanic blue-green eyes came across clearly. A few chesnut strands of your hair brushed lightly against my face and I could see the hint of one of your patented wicked grins spread slowly from dimple to dimple. Nobody in his right mind would have kept silent at such a sight, but somehow I did. What could I have said that would have made the moment any more memorable? I don't know--I think I was just nervous at what I thought was finally happening. I half-expected you to come crawling beneath the covers with me like you had the night before, but such was not your goal that night.

"Getting in."

"Not tonight, sugar. I've got other plans for us."

That's when you grabbed my hand firmly and began to pull me up. All I had on was a pair of old running shorts and my red and blue La Salle gym shirt. As soon as my bare arms became fully exposed to the night air I felt exposed. I might not like freezing to death, but I hated wearing any type of constricting clothing to bed whatsoever. I was paying for my comfort as soon as I got to my feet. And you? You had on a pale blue wife-beater and a long pair of yellow pajama bottoms so you weren't faring that much better either. In fact, I could see your so-called "goose pimples" rising as we stood in the dark together. Whatever you had planned I secretly began hoping involved finding some bit of warmth and soon. You intertwined your icy fingers in mine, pulling me to the door. I held your hand tentatively as I had not been expecting the two of us to leave the room at all.

"Follow me. And make sure to stay shushed through this next part."

"Anything you say. Are you sure you want to do this, though?" I asked you while you peeked her delicate head out the door.

"You don't even know what I want to do so don't even pretend you're chickening out now," you whispered back.

"It's precisely because I don't know that I don't have to like it," I replied.

"Shush now, complain later."

I firmly expected us to move down the hall like we were sneaking around, like we were. You, however, grabbed my wrist and moved like you had a purpose. Your compact frame pulled us along like a locomotive, quickly clearing the hall in record time. I'm sure our footsteps made more noise than I would have liked, but we were across and down the stairs so quickly that I doubted if your folks had had enough time to even register what they might have heard in their slumber.

Once we were to the stairs your grip loosened and we took the last few feet at a far slower pace, a pace more befitting the skulking snipes that we were. As we passed your impressive Christmas tree, lit up like a green birthday cake for an eighty-year-old, you remarked how nice it smelled down here. You also remarked that it was a dear shame I couldn't smell what it was like in your sitting room. You pulled us towards the fireplace on the other side of the room. I saw that it was on its last legs, the final log still burning but resembling more a loose alliance of embers and flames rather than a coherent piece of wood. You sat down first by the fire. I followed right behind you.

"What are we doing down here, Breannie?" I asked, running my hand through the front of your hair. I could feel the warmth of the fire behind you and the sudden memory of your hair-burning incident flashed in my brain.

"You'll see. Have a little patience."

I watched you yawn, cat-like, before turning around to face the fire. It was probably two in the morning but neither of us were all that adamant about looking for a clock just then. All that might have done was convince us that it was too late to be sneaking around and how the next day we'd be paying for our shenanigans with more inappropriate yawns at the dinner table or elsewhere around the house. We couldn't look at a clock because we might lose all our resolve. Whatever you had planned, I could already tell, was going to take a lot of resolve. We warmed by the fire soon enough and I was slowly beginning to think that that was the extent of your plan. As far as plans go it wasn't bad. I probably could have stayed up the rest of the night with you just like that, me sitting beside you, my hand mindless stroking the back of your head. It would've been peaceful. We would have both been content for a long stretch of time. Yet if there's one thing I've noticed about you, it's that your not really one for the quiet moments. You always have an ace in the hole when it comes to planning something more demonstrative. Sure, you have your quiet moments, but I'm much more used to the Lucy that has something more spectacular planned than the Lucy that just lets the situation be. After all, you don't think; you just go.

Just as I had moved a bang out of your face, you started to stretch like you were going to get up again. Part of me felt disappointed that the night was again coming to a close, but I was grateful for the additional lucky few minutes I got to spend with you that night. If it had to end, I would have much rather have it end with us having sat by the fire and not just with a generic bedside good-bye.

Again, you had other plans.

"Warmed up enough?"

"Sure."

"Are you ready to go then, sugar?"

"Go?"

"Outside."

"Outside?"

The incredulity in my voice probably came off harsher than I intended it to. It was merely that, while I was aware you had some crazy plans in the past, seeing it firsthand for the first time in person was another matter entirely. Walking outside in the dead of night with nary a decent stitch on it was tantamount to suicide I thought. It was far too cold, far too dark, and far too dangerous to have even considered it. I wanted even to tell you as much, but from your countenance you were so adamant about doing it that I didn't think words would be enough. I don't know what I thought. I don't know if I thought that you'd come to your senses in time, but I did want to flat out tell you no just then so I went with you as far as the door. I stood in front of the door without opening it for a long time. I think I was just working up the nerve to tell you what so many others are afraid to tell you, no. No, I didn't want to go outside just then. No, I didn't want to go walking around in the dark with my gym clothes on. And, no, I didn't want to leave the relatively safety of the house for who knows what was waiting for us outside. I was just about to give you more than one piece of my mind when you made your move.

You came up behind me as we approached the front door and gathered me up in your arms. You were, what, six inches shorter than me at the time, but it felt like you were eight feet tall and that your arms could wrap around me twice. And, I admit it, I acquiesced far too quickly. You didn't even have to ask. I would have followed you out that door into hell itself. I opened the door and we stepped out. Together.

I didn't know what your plan was. I didn't even know how far we were going. All I knew was that you wanted to go outside just then and that I wanted to be wherever you were. That meant I had to go outside too. I didn't care. I started to shiver right along with you as we took those first few steps down the block, but it mattered little to me. I started to glance around nervously for would-be predators, but it mattered less than I thought it would. Even the idea of tromping around in my night attire was a small concern. You started to take the lead from me and what became important to me was that I follow right in your footsteps. I needed to keep you company. I needed to keep you safe. I needed to be with you just then. Everything else just kind of fell away. I stepped up behind you and took your hand. You walked fast, but I wanted to make sure you knew that I was right beside you.


you and me have seen everything to see

We ended up only walking around the block. It gave me a small idea of what it must have been like for you all those times you ran from home. I couldn't even imagine you spending more than a few hours of the evening out in conditions such as that. At least I had you as company. I think my courage would have been infinitely smaller had I had to traverse the blocks of your city on my own. And to realize you not only walked these selfsame streets but had to sleep out upon them was doubly worse for me. I don't know if it was just the thought of you so small, so young, having to fend for yourself when the night was so black and the air so cold but I started to get more than a little upset. I guess you noticed and asked me what was wrong.

"I was just thinking how scared you must have been all those times."

"When I was supposed to be home and wasn't?" you joked.

"Yeah, those."

"It wasn't so bad."

But I knew it had been. I had heard firsthand how dire everything had seemed, the fragile depths that your mind had reached during those times you had acted out. While you hadn't been exactly walking the streets at all hours, sleeping beneath a friend's house or walking to the next nearest relative's place three miles away wasn't a cake walk, especially for someone so young walking by themselves.

I suppose that's why you still had it in your system that night. It'd been, what, only two short years since you'd stopped running away? In some silly way there was a part of you that missed it. It might not have been all cakes and cookies out there, but you had run from home because all that was waiting for you there was your mother's expectations. There was a kind of freedom you had in being out on your own at such an age when most would were still content to be tied to their mother's apron strings. You had a small taste of deciding what happened to you. I rather think you got hooked on the feeling. And I daresay you might have been missing it that night. That's why you called me out. That's why you took me for that walk in the dead of the night. You wanted to show me what it'd been like for you. You weren't scared. You'd done that same walk probably two dozen times. In a way, I think you were comforted by its familiarity.

However, on that walk you also were never more than an arm's length from me. You never sped too far ahead of me or let me get too far from you. Maybe it was just common courtesy, but I think something deeper was at work. All those times you had walked the streets you'd been on your own. There must have been a part of you that wondered how different the experience might have been if you had a sister or brother to tag along with you. Would you have felt less anxious? Would you have been easier to convince to turn around? Or perhaps would the presence of someone who would have been so willing to take your side, as I very well might have been, been enough to dissuade you from running away in the first place? I don't know. I know that on that particular walk you made it a point to be in contact with me as much as possible.

What I like to believe, though, is that it was more than that. When we rounded back around the block and started headed back to your folks' home, it was a different experience to be walking home with someone who had gotten a taste of an experience that had so finely defined you. None of your other friends, none of your other family members, had actually went "running away" with you. I don't know if you had asked anyone else--you must have, though--but I very well could have been the first and only person who saw a sliver of your world, of your experience, of your life. It wasn't just an expedition to give you an excuse to spend time with me; it was an opportunity to share a good deal of yourself without being all uptight about me.

I don't know--when we made it back to your front door I felt like I'd learned a great deal about you and what you makes you tick even though we never spoke more than fifteen words in the fifteen minutes it took us to walk around. Fifteen minutes, though, gave me a great deal of insight into your life up until that point.

I left thinking that it was such a crazy idea that you had had. I left thinking that it was insane to follow you out into the dark just because you wanted to.

I came back feeling even closer to you than I ever thought I could. I came back realizing that wherever you might go there was no question that I would back you up, I would keep you company, I would keep you safe, and I would want to be with you.

I left thinking it was a mistake to let you lead me outside.

I ended up following your lead for the next fourteen years and counting.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

The Worst Part Is That This, This Could Be You

--"Feeling Sorry", Paramore

Cover to Cover

there are times I wonder if
loving someone might
resemble reading a novel
cover to cover.
they both possess their moments
of drama and pain.
they both overthrow right sense
in favor of bliss,
immediate and gracious.
they both cannot be measured
in the time taken
to push through their completion.
but there is a mark,
a difference which shines through.
love's words don't build to
a crescendo each time they're said;
one cannot predict
whether endings will be fair
or characters' arcs
will remain consistently
in unseen motion.
in love, unlike on printed
pages, we stagnate often
and sometimes regress
back beyond the first pages.
there are times when it
would have been best not having
read such tales at all.

dw

----

It's been seven months since I've been out on a proper date, assuming that what I had been doing with the boy before had been proper dating. On this matter there is quite a bit of debate, to be sure. While I feel no overwhelming urge to rush headlong into the blanketing cornfields of love as to lose my way repeatedly, it's been brought to my attention that I may or may not have an eligible suitor for my affections. And while I may not feel the need to reciprocate, it isn't without warrant that I do find his attentions somewhat flattering and mayhaps even life-affirming. It's been a treaded path of loneliness that I've been pacing upon these last few months, I can tell you that much. When one's fear is fearless even those unsettling pictures of mundane bliss such as dating starts looking more and more welcoming. It's like when one is drowning even the craggiest rock becomes a safe haven.

There is a holiday dance on the horizon next week. Both Jack and Françoise have been adamant that I attend with my current stated admirer. As aforementioned, I would not be completely dead set against the proposal that he and attend together. It just wouldn't have been my first thought is all. I think it was President Shepherd who once said, "My nervousness exists on... several levels. Number one, and this is in no particular order, I haven't done this in a pretty long time." It has been a good spell since I lined up at the gate in this horse race we call love. Gosh. It has been a good spell since I thought I was capable of running a good race. There's something to be said about the disquieting effects a bad relationship can produce throughout its course. It's main effect has been an overwhelming lack of confidence in my abilities to even love anyone else, to even connect with anyone else again. So detrimental was my last boyfriend's treatment of me that I still possess the lingering doubts that any relationship can end in anything but abject failure. I still hear the sound of the air whirring past my frost-covered ears when I feel myself falling into the same familiar patterns of getting pulled into somebody else's gravity.

I have no parachute when it comes to such things.

I've never remembered to carry one when I leave the house.

There's also a strong component to my personality that still holds firm to the tenet that all human connections end in abandonment. The only exception to this law of the heart is the connection made with one's family--that shall always be impervious to outside forces. But love? Love of a woman for a man, that is tenuous at best. There's nothing assured about it. It's about as stable as a rope bridge being burned from the other side. It isn't a matter of when the whole construct falls apart, since it's a foregone conclusion that it will; it's only a matter of how punishing the fall actually will be. It makes me wonder if the effort to cross the bridge is worth it at all. There's no guarantee I shall come out safely to the other side. There's no guarantee that there is an other side to this journey. Maybe all there is the scary feeling of being suspended miles above your comfort zone and that feeling never subsides. Maybe all relationships are constructed around the idea of pushing on together and once that selfsame momentum stops, you both fall. Or maybe it's more like Wile E. Coyote skywalking out from the canyon's edge only to have his legs cease treading, and then watching his flailing body plummet to the canyon floor below. Without that bit of inertia, maybe all relationships ebb away from the shore.

It's like when the before boy used to grab my wrists tightly to drag me around. I might not have wanted to go where he led, but at least we were pushing onto somewhere new. It was only when I asserted my desire to have him let go of me that our state as a perceived couple came to an end. Not when he humiliated me, not when he hurt me in public, not when my friends all advised me to slip myself out from his collar--it was only when I asserted my right to be left behind that we came to out last dead end. The whole time allowed him sovereignty over who and where I was, even while I was miserable, I still felt like I was part of something grander than myself. I felt like our connection was bigger than the both of us and that the only way to keep it alive was to run with it, as it were.

Now all I have is the idea that I might allow myself to be pulled again. But even that doesn't bring a smile to my face like it once did. Gone is the innocence that all girls are fulfilled by their fantasies. Fantasies are still capable of letting one down. Reality has a way of ruining everything like ants ruining a picnic. I've seen firsthand how my sisters have deluded themselves into thinking someone cared about them as much as my sisters cared about them. I've seen up close the nuclear winter that their lives became after they had ascertained they had been misguided. I swore never to have my demeanor deafened by the annihilation that all relationships usher in with them.

Nothing up until now has changed that opinion. If anything, I have been vindicated by the extreme violence that my first genuine relationship contained within its confines. If anything, my theory that all variants of romantic love carry heartache and despair has been proving correct. The world can wait to discover that happy endings can't always be found at the bottom of the cerel box, but I never could.

The question is if this boy could be the token exception. He is adorable and all. And, crossing my fingers, he's treated me right so far. But always there I am, waiting for the other landslide to happen. I keep him at an arm's distance for fear that the sun might go down hastily and the darker side of his character might emerge. I keep him at bay because I'm fearful of what he might say to ruin my positive perception of him. He's like the car one has wanted for all her life on the verge of being purchased, but ultimately not for fear that the cake won't live up to the caramel upon it. I don't want to find out that I was hoodwinked again. I don't want to be led around like a bull on parade again. I don't want to hurt when I know that the hurt can be avoided easily. What I want is to be held without being crushed, to be kissed without it being the kissing of death, to be loved without being possessed. I know it's an impossible goal to aspire to, but I want assurances that once I careen over the waterfall that somebody will rescue me at the end of it all.

I also don't want to be arrayed in tears fifteen years from now because I closed off my heart for good. I want to believe, to have faith that there is happiness in store for me, but I lack the faith that my daydreams hold. I don't want to be the Scrooge of the Soul, cynically avoiding any real chance of bonding with a young man my age because I've held onto my contempt for the institution of love. I want to avoid that fate as much as possible.

The trouble is that my destiny and my demeanor might be one and the same as it stands now. I am hesitant to love again and, in kind, I've become hesitant to be loved again. I've tasted the bitter fruit of love's tree and it almost literally killed me. I'm so afraid of tasting from it once more and I'm so afraid of never tasting it again.


we're not getting any younger, and I
won't look back 'cause there's no use
it's time to move forward!

I think I need a new heart because the one I've got now may be far too twisted and crumpled to function properly. I just don't want to be the poster child for women who continually fall into the pattern of loving too easily and landing too hard on the pavement to show for it. I just don't want to be the cautionary tale of believing in love and love not believing in you.

That thought scares me more than never finding my way through love at all, I can tell you that much.

dw

When You Do It One Time, You Want To Do It Again, And When You See It One Time, You Want To See It Again, And Again, And Again

--"That's Your Secret", Sea Level

There's a fine line between the writings I post on here and the secrets I tell to my closest friends. One rule Eeyore and I have tried to live by on this blog (and to a certain extent Toby too) was the idea that you don't hold back on what you want to write about. Neither of us so much sense in having an outlet with which to share personal thoughts and stories only to hold back when it came to the real meat on the bone. Like I always say, you can't go swimming without getting your face wet. Well, you can't write about yourself without giving away a few of the cookies you were meaning to keep for yourself in the cookie jar.

Hell's bells, if I really stopped to consider it, there are few posts on this site that I would have never consented to allow to be posted, let alone write myself, if I had appreciated the value of forever. On certain occasions when I'm perusing through the previous pages, as it were, I shudder at the level of privacy I've given away when leaving my words here. There are stories on here that my parents don't even know the whole truth of. There are ideas that I've really only shared with a handful of people in real life. And yet here they hang like trophies on the wall for all with a mind to care to see for themselves. Now I'm not saying I mind the attention because we all know that ain't truth. There are days when I'm ruminating on what is possibly the funniest or most wicked story I have yet to share. I don't mind the shock value at all. But there are other days, when I'm more contemplative than I really care to be, where I'll write something because it's the only thing occupying my brain and it would be a foolhardy mission to write anything else that day. It doesn't mean I want to especially leave it here, but here's as good of a place as any, I suppose.

My daddy likes to say, "you're either driving or you're being driven." That's exactly how I feel when it comes to certain secrets of mine. Little 'ole me gets bothered by just how much I'm allowing others to see of myself. The only saving grace is that the adult me, the more courageous me, usually overrides the impulse to clam up. Or it might be simply that the attention-seeking me just trumps all. At any rate, it's safe to say there are times when what I have to share with the world simply uses me a vessel and I'm powerless to bar its way, you know?

Those are the times when my secrets fall inadvertently out of my mouth and onto my pen. Those are the times when more of the girl I thought I knew gives way to the woman who's really sitting up in her bed writing this. Those are the times when I learn about what kind of person I am because the kind of person you truly are can't be held to any strict guidelines of content. If you're going to write a person's life, even if that person is you, you're going to have let a few of the weeds get sprinkled among the hayseed.

I gave up the notion a long time ago that this blog would ever be a site where I could control my image to my satisfaction.

However, there is one rule I found inviolate. I have never and will never dangle someone else's secret into the wind without first gaining that person's permission beforehand. I'm not the town crier. I've never been one to hold to the old traditions of the South being a place where gossip gets traded around like gold. Even if I'm not a private person, I've always respected the right for others to do so if that is their wish. I do not speculate in the trade of other people's privacy. Even if the tales I could regale you with do involve little 'ole me somehow I won't break a confidence like that. I may be many things altogether wicked, but when it comes to holding someone's trust as precious I stand vigilant. I know stories about everyone I know that most would find shocking and reprehensible. I've been entrusted with a lot of the dirty laundry that most folks are sorely afraid to wash themselves. If I wanted to I could ruin a great many lives.

But it's precisely because I don't go watering the plants with other people's pitchers that I'm thought of as a reliable. I've never saw squealing like a hog at the slighted provocation to be a hoot-and-a-half and I never will.

The way I look at it is this. Giving away secrets is like eating a piece of cornbread. You might believe you only want the one piece and that you can stop at that first one. In time, though, you always come back for the second. When you do it one time, you're more prone to do it again real soon. It isn't an opinion; it's a fact. Once you break that kind of lock, it don't ever get fixed right again. Sure, it might do the job adequately, but it'll never be as steadfast as it once was. And when temptation comes around again as it is wont to do, one is more than likely to break that same lock again. Trust is a wall built ever high on a deck of cards. Once you remove the most miniscule of pieces the center cannot hold as it once did.

If I wanted to, I could destroy Patrick's life here. The vault of secrets I know about him could thoroughly devastate him. Or, by another token, the amount of dirt that's been dug in regards to my husband's past life and proclivities could change the way folks perceive him forever. I could go through my whole list of relations and acquaintances, and wreak havoc. But where's the sense in that? Sharing a bit of gossip isn't worth the risk to my relationships with people.

I say all this, of course, because there's a secret I learned of recently where God has truly been testing my resolve with. My first instinct was to frame it in a way where it would be possible to share my bounty with everyone. But in the end, I resisted as I always do because it isn't solely my secret to give away. It's a huge bit of news concerning someone I know and it was difficult to not make it the subject of this very post, but it occurred to me that the biggest secrets are the ones that are the most important to keep, they're the ones that focus your trust skills the most. Anyone can safeguard the banal bits of information we're expected to safeguard; it's the earth-shattering news that are the truest test of one's commitment to remaining faithful to the ideal of honor.

That is why I cannot spill the beans here--not because I was sworn to never reveal it, but because I swore to almost remain true to the people I care about. I love sharing a good story... but I love the people in my life more, please, thank you.

Breanne

The Fact That A Man's Needs, A Man's Needs, Are Full Of Greed, Full Of Greed, A Man's Needs, A Man's Needs, Are Lost On Me

--"Men's Needs (cover)", Kate Nash

When I was younger I never dreamt of winning the big fight or winning the big game. I've never just been one for competition. I'd rather engage in activities that don't place a premium on winning or losing. Even when I'm playing a board game, it's always been more about beating my own personal score than actively engaging in trying to beat someone specifically out. I don't know--I guess I lack that competitive that so many others are blessed with.

If anywhere, my competitiveness comes mostly out when I'm rooting for somebody else I happen to support to do well. I get most fired up when it involves somebody like the Red Sox or the Trojans beating another team. Or I get the most vocal when it's somebody I know who's trying to do well. But when it comes to me having to assert myself in a win or lose situation, that's when I adopt the attitude that it really doesn't bother me either way. That's when I do my darndest to keep the spotlight off of me because Providence knows I gain nothing by doing poorly and doing well only raises expectations. I'd rather do things my own way at my own pace in a fashion that makes me happiest, even if costs me doing well according to somebody else's definition.

----

Recently I've come under attack at work for not sticking up for myself. For the most part, I guess one could say the accusations are true. I do not like office politics. I do not like being somebody who gets his jollies by positioning myself above someone else in some imaginary order. I'd much rather be someone who does his work independently of how it affects other people. I'd rather be just another cog in the wheel, moving along quietly, than constantly grinding against somebody whose only focus seems to be to cause friction. I may be an agitator and prone to ranting on here, but I can assure you when it comes to the workplace the last thing I want is any sort of hassle. Actually, more succinctly, I just don't want to be annoyed out of my skull at work. When people try to bait me into getting all defensive, that annoys me. When people poke at me and poke at me until I respond violently, that annoys me. At almost every job I've ever had I've had I've had the good fortune to be surrounded by people who are quite content to work with another instead of against another.

Then again, I guess I've never really worked in a real office before. It's a much different beast than working smaller offices and retail outlets.

Or to paraphrase my supervisor, there are certain people at my current job who are just like "high school bullies, who are going to cause problems and cause problems until you stick up for yourself and shut them up." My only thought to that proclamation was I thought I was done with that in high school. Like I said, it's been years since I had to deal with people whose m.o. seems entirely comprised of macho posturing. In any other situation I'd be more than content to let the preening peacock have his run of the roost by extricating myself from ever having to deal with him. However, seeing as this is my job and finding another job would prove rather difficult and time-consuming, I am compelled into remaining a situation that is unfavorable to my normal temperament.

I'm not cut out to give tit for tat in a war of words spoken aloud. I believe is life is too short to surround yourself with people who just make you feel bad about yourself and that's what my work's been like in the last few days. I wish I could go back to being in an environment more conducive to honest labor. Instead I'm stuck in a place where I have to constantly watch my back and carefully consider my every move,

Not only is it annoying, but it's also not what I signed up for. I don't want to put myself in direct opposition to anyone. Nobody should be forced to deal with people who are caustic in nature. Nobody should be forced to work along side people who are annoying as all hell.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Mad 'Cause I Got Floor Seats At The Lakers, See Me On The 50 Yard Line With The Raiders, Met Ali, He Told Me I'm The Greatest

--"Getting Jiggy with It", Will Smith

I have a system in place at work when dealing with my customers of identifying strictly by their account number. Sure, there are some accounts which I can immediately recollect just by their name, but the majority of the vendors I deal with have fallen through the gaps in my admittedly faulty short-term memory. When one is dealing with four hundred accounts over a three-year period there simply isn't a memory shortcut complete enough to allow me access to each and every connection I've ever made. For the most part, even when the customer wants to give me their name and the name of their company, I'm forced to inquire as to their customer number before I can even begin to administer assistance.

It got me thinking of how everything would be so much easier at my job if all my accounts did away with their names and simply referred to themselves by their designated number. I wouldn't have to remember who's the owner, who's the accounts payable person, or even what the name of the company is. I could just ask what customer number was calling and proceed from there. Especially in a business setting, the usage of names is so cumbersome. Every other company name is "Car Audio" this or "Stereo" that; it all begins to run together in my head before long. However, a number? A number is truly unique. When you plug in a name, it pulls up a list of possible matches, but when you plug in a number, it always brings the correct account each and every time. Dealing with the numbers is just simpler.

I acknowledge part of it is just me being lazy. I also acknowledge that part of it is the fact that I've never been too keen on the customer service side of my job. Pretending to be friendly with strangers has never been my forte and I truly find it difficult to be friendly with individuals I'm supposed to maintain a business relationship with. I've never been adept at the whole schmoozing requirement of dealing with people. I'm much more the type to get to the heart of the reason why I'm calling or why they are calling than dally with the non-essential accounts of how their day is going or where they just came back with their family. To me, sadly maybe, they are just a list of numbers. Each company is basically a tally of how much they owe us or how much they can possibly buy from us. This doesn't mean I go out of my way to be cruel to them, but I just find it awkward to think of them as friends with one breath and then have to ask them for money with the next. Indeed, even when my friends borrow money from me I'm always rather straightforward about asking for it back without any pretense of subtlety to it. I've never been one to lead into a difficult question; I've always just asked it. And that's the way I wish I could treat my customers. I wish I could just get down to business--give me you customer number, hand over your check, and let me be.

I don't know--part of me thinks it's the whole name business that gets people into trouble in the first place. The only time one insists on being called by their name is when you're expecting some sort of long-lasting relationship with someone else. I don't tell every cashier or clerk my name because it's really not that vital to me that they address me by my given name. Given that, I also don't make it a point to list in excruciating detail everything I did that day. It detracts away from the business at hand. I'd much rather somebody tell me what I owe rather than tell me their name when I'm trying to buy something or when somebody is trying to buy something from me. Telling me your name in the midst of a deal is a bit like asking me to respect you or be in an awe of you. It's just not going to happen.

By the same token I guess that's why I'm bad with people's names in general. I've always decided who I thought warranted remembrance and it's usually not the people who insist on being called by name. The people whose names I've always filed away have always been the people who have made an honest impression on me enough to seek out their names and lock it away. It's a little like earning a name. Before that decision takes place you might as well be a number to me--that's the extent of how much importance I'll be placing on what you might choose to tell me.

I think the problem lies with the idea that everyone thinks they're important enough to compel everyone to remember them. Everyone thinks they've done enough, said enough, or plainly lived enough to feel important to the world at large. They think just by merely saying words, introducing themselves to everyone they meet, they are making a distinct impression upon everyone. But if you ponder that, that's entirely impossible. How many people do you bump into that truly stand out? How many people do you meet that have you falling on everyone of their words? Not very many. Everybody can't be important to you. By extension, every name that you happen to hear isn't going to be worthy of remembrance. I swear, I would have a far easier time if everyone just introduced themselves by their phone number or even address. At least that's given me some bit of information that is telling and worthwhile of jotting down should the need to contact them arise. A name without connection is just plain boring. Impress me first with your exploits or your personality or your talents... and then ask me if I'd like to know your name. That's almost how I wish the bulk of my conversations would go. I seriously would do away with this whole giving your name first bit and skip right to the part where I find out about you.

I don't know--maybe I have it backwards. Maybe it is like everyone tells me, that everything would go more smoothly if I just treated everyone as if they were special, if I treated every customer as if they are the most important account in the world to me. But to me that just seems like facetiousness. People know when they've earned my admiration and customers should know when they've earned my good graces. Anything other than brutal honesty just makes a mockery of the system. I shouldn't have to pretend that your name means anything to me before it actually does. And I shouldn't have to treat you like you're some hotshot celebrity before by God you've actually become that celebrity in my eyes.

You can't tell me you're somebody worth knowing. Only I can decide that. You can't give away your name; you really need to be asked for it.

At least by me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Goin' Home, Gonna Load My Shotgun, Wait By The Door & Light A Cigarette, If He Wants A Fight, Well Now He's Got One,And He Ain't Seen Me Crazy Yet

--"Gunpowder and Lead", Miranda Lambert

I was talking with Greg the other day about a great many things. Our conversation ran the gamut from the state of the union to such inane topics as what I was in the mood for supper later on that night. Yet I think the greatest nugget we sifted from our talk revolved around the following self-evident truth:

I reckon I could hold my own against the approaching zombie invasion.

It was touch and go for a few minutes. Greg and I argued that I lacked any real strength to fend them off by my little 'ole lonesome. That put me on the defensive frankly for my whole gender, which just didn't sit right with me at all. Yes, I lack the physical capabilities of much larger and slightly taller husband, but I postulated that against a typical undead specimen we would both be overmatched. He wouldn't hear of it. He counterpointed that, of the two of us, he stood a likelier chance of being able to manhandle a zombie. I moved my arguments towards the fact that, again, of the two of us, I stood the best chance of escaping a veritable horde while he was busy trying to prove his manliness against one or two of them. He buttressed his side by saying running away doesn't constitute actually being able to handle myself were I to be surprised by one. If anything, he continued, it only proved that I lacked the sufficient spitfire to want to fight back. That my first instinct would be to flee only supports his notion I hadn't the fortitude to survive a zombie apocalypse.

We went back and forth, sure. But then like a lantern shining through the darkest woods, I happened upon the support I needed to refute his claims. As any horror movie aficionado knows it really ain't a fair fight to go toe to toe with a zombie fist to mouth. Anybody knows zombies possess a superhuman strength that renders any physical combat sorely lopsided. Hell's bells, no one stands a chance against one of their kin with nothing more than fists in hand.

What you need is a gun.


I'm gonna show him what little girls are made of
gunpowder and lead

Frankly, I know how to use a gun and, knowing that, I stand a decent chance of surviving any attack, zombie or not, unscathed. I'm not like a shrinking violet when it comes to using guns. Honestly, by now most folks know I'm not altogether shy about using whatever weapons are at my disposal to give as good as I get. If there's anything that my daddy taught me it's that everyone's going to have their weaknesses, but it doesn't mean I have to play into them. While it is true that I may not hold the horses in my little 'ole arms to throw anything close to resembling a decent punch, my hands have always been woman enough to handle my daddy's shotgun on many occasion when he's taking me with him to blow off a little steam. I may not have taken to target practice like I did to dance or running, but I assure any intruder who comes calling that I have enough talent to hit the broadside of a barn and more than enough gumption to take aim at a person that threatens me or my loved ones.

My husband doesn't care for that kind of talk. I believe he's still under the impression that I need taking care of, as if there's some kind of code that a man needs to protect a woman before all else. You know what I say? I say should the need arise, there ain't no shame in a woman taking care of her man. Honestly, I think it would be a hoot-and-a-half standing next to my darling husband and defending our home together. It'd be a bonding experience, you know? Other couples might go antiquing or to his golf games. We do that kind of shenanigans as well. But imagine the awe we'd inspire were we to announce that the two of us slay zombies in our down time. We'd be the envy of the neighborhood, I think. I could just see it now. Wives would be telling their husbands, "why don't you take me monster slaying like Greg takes his wife to?" Husbands would be lashing their wives to be more fun-loving "like that stunning and altogether intelligent charmer Mrs, Holins-Meier down the street."

Greg eventually came around to the conclusion that I'd be an asset were we to ever be in a real tight situation. He even went so far as to tell me that he trusted me with his life "even against real dangers and not just the horror movie kind." I know I didn't marry any sort of sexist pig--that would have been a unescapable burr in my britches--but it's nice to know he knows he didn't marry any sort of damsel in distress that constantly needed rescuing. As I said, I've always been able to handle myself in a dangerous situation. I don't try to keep myself in danger, but when it comes I'm not exactly backing down from it either. I know how to run. I know how to fight. And I also know when it's prudent to do the former as opposed to the latter.

As my daddy says, "you can't duck every punch, but neither can they." Sometimes when good graces and godly amounts of charm can't get the job done, a good proclamation to kiss my lily white ass is called for, you know?

Honestly, the only roadblock I could foresee would be how I would explain it to my mother. She doesn't even like it when I go splashing around the fountain at Greg's work with the children, informing me that I don't know where that water's been cycled through, honey. Could you imagine the fancy dance steps I'd have to perform to explain how I ended up with ghoul's blood all over my clothes?

Breanne