Counting days...

In 10 days I'm turning 26. This seems, both, improbable and absolutely real. I've never been bothered by getting older. In fact, I rather relish the idea of being 30. Though, that will be a few more years.

I suppose that it feels improbable only because I feel like I've been older than I am for the majority of my existence. It seems odd to me to be growing older.

Children that I used to baby-sit, that I used to change their diapers, are getting their driver's licenses and learner's permits. They're graduating high school and getting ready for college. And I'm sitting here marveling at the passing of time.

As a child, I never thought time could go fast. Its adorable how very wrong I was.

In many ways I feel like an old woman of 73 or 75, blowing out the candles of my life in slow breathy gulps. I am absolutely exhausted with this life. A few more candles and it will all be done. Right?

I am absolutely humbled by the passing of time. The parts of me that are not the old woman, are young children chasing the butterflies of dream and fantasy. And yet, there is a part that is the age I am now, anxious for a life filled with... Something.

Its very confusing, existing in this body sometimes.

I am 6 parts old woman, 3 parts young girl and 1 part myself. Naivete and wisdom, trembling on the prospect of all the candles flickering out.

I feel like a loose end. Not sure how I am to tie myself up.

So, I guess I'll raise a glass of champagne, toast myself to another 26 years on this crumbling carcass of an earth and drink 'til the bubbles erase all the random puzzle pieces tumbling about in my Dali landscape of a brain.

10 reasons I asked if there was another way out of Barnes & Noble

Today, while I was at Barnes and Noble with my friend Kid, I met an author. His name is "Cousin Vinny." At least, that's what he chooses to go by. He was trying very hard to get me to buy his $27 book (paperback, mind you).

He apparently used to be a Soap Opera star, now turned Christian ("I have some spirituality in me") author. He spent 20 minutes raving about how wonderful his book ("The Devil's Glove") was (read: He was raving about how wonderful HE was). He told me that this book would "change your life" and is the best book for "preventing suicide."

He bragged about how he had "NEVER had a bad review" and then proceeded to hand me all of his reviews (in small time Christian newspapers and local papers), they were laminated mind you. Not only were they laminated, but he had apparently memorized each one. He handed me a review and proceeded to recite the whole article, verbatim.

He told me that there was literally no other book with that plot anywhere (spoiler: Its about baseball and Satan). When I mentioned that it was somewhat similar to "The Screwtape Letters" by C.S. Lewis, he swiftly denied it. "Those are two demons fighting over a human. This is ANGELS and demons fighting over a human. God and Satan battling for his soul." (I'm paraphrasing only a little there, this is how the guy talked)

He told me that the writing was the best I'd ever seen and that this would be my favorite book, ever. I sampled the writing while I was standing there... Let's just say it was nothing to write home about. He wrote like he spoke. Not very well.

I am saddened to say that a Pastor reviewed it as being a blend of "Paradise Lost, the Bible and Field of Dreams." Which is very disheartening for Milton and the Bible. To be compared to this is, well, its not a nice compliment in my opinion.

He emphasized that he was a "messenger" (the God part was implied) and when I asked why he didn't go by his real name (Louis Anthony Agnello Jr) he said it was his publisher's idea. It would be easier to "remember."

I told him that "Cousin Vinny" reminded me of Joe Pesci.
He said "Exactly!"
I said "I don't like Joe Pesci."
Taken aback, he said "You don't?"
I said "No. Joe Pesci does not endear me to your book."
To which he laughed, half-quoting me in disbelief.

Also, this guy has no concept of the term "personal space." (His breath isn't so great either) He kept touching me, as if I were an old friend, not a complete STRANGER. I'm not public property, get your paws off.

After I escaped him (it took about 20 minutes, mind you) I literally asked an employee if there was another way out of the store besides the front door because I didn't want to walk past him again. The employee was seriously taken aback and informed me that there was not. But also said that if I warn the front desk that I'm going make a run for it they won't think I'm stealing.

So now, I have a mission. Somewhat. I'm going to read this book, if only to write a terrible review of it. It seems only fitting that I do so, seeing as how I've reviewed the author. You're welcome, "Cousin Vinny," for the "first" bad review you've received.

The following is an open letter to "Cousin Vinny" recounting the experience.

Dear Louis Anthony "Cousin Vinny" Agnello (or "10 reasons I asked if there was another way out of Barnes & Noble"),

1. I am not public property able to be touched because I'm in your space. Just because we are inhabiting the same area does not make me less than human or give you the right to just touch when you feel like it. Did I give you permission?

2. Bragging about your Stripping days in the same breath as you're bragging about how wonderful your book is does not make me want to read it. Especially when you keep saying you are a "messenger" (the "from God" being implied by your "I have some spirituality in me" comments).

3. You don't even KNOW ME, so how can you "guarantee" that YOUR book is going to be my "favorite book?"

4. You're trying really hard to get me to buy your book, but I feel like you're really just trying to explain to me why your penis is the biggest the world has ever seen. And I'm sorry, but I'm just not buying it.

5. Memorizing your laminated accolades doesn't make you seem cool, it makes you seem pathetic.

6. I am half tempted to read your book simply to give it a bad review. Seriously, you tell me how the writing is "the best" and that your story is "the most original" (fun fact: You're not original) and that the copies you are trying to hock are going to be "collector's items" because you are leaving that particular publisher, but I read a sample while I listened to you ramble and your writing style is similar to a 13 year old's. Seriously, I've seen better writing styles in Children's books. You write like you talk. Not very well.

7. You're visiting small towns in the Bible belt, of course this book is going to "sell like hot cakes."

8. Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot. You play like you're the "Devil" just for a scenario, but you're in my face telling me I'm worthless. The difference, as I told you, is that I KNOW I'm NOT worthless. My worth is more than reading your book though. Seriously, how could you possibly think that would make me want to read it? Pretending that you are the Devil and that this book is going to save me from Suicide and save my soul... Dude, you don't even know my Soul!

9. "The Devil's Glove" is a terrible name. It sounds worse than cliched. And trust me, I've read some pretty cliched books. (Usually in the genre you are in)

10. "Are you big readers?" Nope. I walked into Barnes & Noble because I like the scenery. Never read a book in my life.

I could go on and on, really. This was the worst meeting with an author I've ever had. And I didn't want to meet you in the first place! Thanks for telling me all about your schedule though, because I now know to avoid B&N until Friday when you leave for St. Louis.

Sincerely,
Sarai.

Post Script: Don't laugh at me because I said "Joe Pesci does not endear me to your book." I was being quite serious. Going by his character name really doesn't make you more likable.

On Monday...

Dear Aunt Peggy,
I keep expecting you to call, even though I know you're not going to. I keep expecting you to leave me a voicemail message, saying, you know, "what do you want for lunch on Monday?" And I keep thinking "what am I even going to do on Monday?"

I've had a lot of suggestions.

"Well, you could always catch up on all your reading." or...
"I'm sure you'll come up with something, you have plenty of time." and...
"What will you do on Monday?"

My answer is, I don't know.

What will I do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

You're not going to be there and I keep thinking, "man, I kept putting off cleaning those pictures for you. And, man, I kept putting off going and seeing you there at the end. And, man, I did a lot of putting off didn't I?"

And then I keep thinking you never broke any promises to me before now. In one fell swoop, you broke several.

I don't have a picture of you. Besides the one I took on my phone when you weren't paying attention. Can't see your face.

And you broke your promise that you would live to 100, 'cause we still had seventeen more years to go.

And, you know, broken promises. I'm not angry at you. I just wish you'd been able to keep them.

But I keep thinking that you had the spaghetti and meatballs all ready. And that you were so excited we were going to have spaghetti and meatballs because we hadn't had it in a long time.

And I keep coming back to "what am I going to do on Monday?"

Because we're not going to get to share our McDonald's cup of coffee anymore.
And we're not going to get to eat goulash together anymore.
And we're not going to get to rant at Pat Robertson anymore.
And we're not going to get to do any of those things anymore.

So, what am I going to do on Monday, Aunt Peggy?

What am I going to do on Monday?

I thought maybe I'd still come and share a cup of coffee with you.
And maybe I'll bring my books and I'll bring a blanket to sit on so I don't get grass stains all over my rear.
And maybe I'll go and buy a chocolate soda.
And maybe I'll figure out how to make goulash on my own.
And maybe I'll use those potholders that you gave me.
I'll put up all the knick-knacks you gave me.
There's a lot of maybe's.

But Aunt Peggy, I'd much rather be with you. I'd much rather actually be getting to see you than wondering what it is I'm going to do.

Who am I going to watch "The Price is Right" with?
Who am I going to banter with about who pays for what?
Whose going to make me ham salad even though I don't eat pork? But I eat it anyway because you made it. The only time I ate pork for a really long time.
Whose going to worry about me while I'm off gallivanting in DC and whose going to ask me what "erectile dysfunction" means and whose going to ask me all these questions I don't know how to answer?

Its not fair, Aunt Peggy.
I love you.
I miss you.
I'm sorry I didn't come and see you at the end.
I'm sorry.

Endless Oceans of Time.

Two years ago I said "Sure, why not?" (no, really, we said that) when asked if I would take a certain man to be my lawfully wedded husband.

We've been together for five years, married for two. He is still my best friend. He still drives me crazy. He still makes me angry. He still makes me look at the world differently. He still makes me want to scream and rant and sometimes want to give up. But he still makes me want to hang on and work through it and realize that I've never loved anyone the way I love him. Even when he makes me angry. Even when I want to give up. Even when I think "I can't possibly take anymore."

Love isn't perfect. Love is not always kind. Love is not always gentle. Love is not always blind.

Sometimes love is cleaning up vomit. Sometimes love is fighting and clashing and still holding each other after you're done saying what you need to say. Sometimes love isn't love at all, but crosses over that ever so thin line of hate and then crosses back over, shaken by what it found on the other side of that boundary. Sometimes love is saying you are sorry, over and over and over again.

And it is all worth it, even if it doesn't always last. It is always worth all the effort you put into it. I have not regretted marrying you, Donnie. Sometimes I question "Why?" But I have never regretted it.

I regret that there are only so many days in a single lifetime to spend with you. I regret that eventually we'll be separated by this thing called Death.

I love you, dear one. Despite everything else. Despite ourselves. I love you.

Kiwi and Apple

I think often of when I was a younger woman, with no name but the ones I chose and no home but the ones I made. And I can't think of these times without thinking of Apple.

Apple was two or three years older than me, though I wouldn't swear to it. We didn't have birthdays during that time. I never knew his real name either. We shared so much, but never our names or our birthdays. And, when he disappeared, he was gone with no trace.

Apple had ruddy red hair and dark brown eyes. He stood about six feet, towering over my five feet and one inch. He had a crooked grin and one pierced ear, his "pirate look" he said. He played the guitar with such a tenderness as to make everyone around him cry.

We met on the eve of September's birth, as he put it. Always the poet, it was his way of saying we met at 11:45pm on August 31st. We met at a party thrown by a mutual friend, under a fake banana plant while a slow Sinatra song played. We met with our hands full of cheap vodka and our hearts full of search lights.

"You have the most beautiful violet eyes I've ever seen." he said, looking down his Roman nose. His eyes sparkled with alcohol and untasted sweets.

I flushed with pleasure and took a bashful sip of my drink.

Later that same night, around 3am, we stumbled into a deserted park and we played on the swing set. Under the monkey bars, with a million dying stars watching, he kissed me.

We never agreed to stay together, but we lived and loved for three or so years. On that night, we agreed to keep our names and our birthdays secret. We agreed to keep our histories and our futures a delicious treasure buried well. Sometimes the things we tried to hide bubbled up through the pain we often shared.

While we traveled, I found out that Apple's youngest sister was killed in a car accident. He found out that my mother's husband had raped me several times before I finally escaped. He knew my real name began with a Q, but we joked that it was 'quince,' like the fruit. I discovered his middle name was Adam and that he hated it.

"It breaks the flow of my name as a whole." he would say, laughing.

We decided to call each other by our favorite fruits, thus I was dubbed 'kiwi' and he was 'apple.' It helped that he had the coloring of an apple, ripe and fresh as the morning. We were unable to afford kiwis and apples most of the time, but we dreamed of them often.

We rode around the country in a turtle top van, a camping van. Nomads of the Western world. We put up a sheet behind the front seats to afford us some privacy when we slept. He pulled out the chairs and the table in the back so that there was room for us to lie on the floor.

The 'ceiling' we decorated with broken mirrors and fake stars. During the long winter nights we would snuggle up in the dark and use a flashlight, pretending we were beneath the starry sky. We were eternally chasing those stars. They defined us.

Throughout those homeless times we worked odd jobs and ate lots of peanut butter sandwiches. I worked as a waitress for three different restaurants while Apple played his guitar on the streets. At my worst, when I felt like giving up, Apple persevered. He was more reliable than the mailman. Through the rain and the snow and the blistering heat he was on a street corner, playing until his fingers bled.

His guitar was weathered, but the music it produced was uninhibited by its age and deterioration.

We discovered, amid our too brief time, that summer was when he earned the most. The pennies and the dollar bills would coat the bottom of his beat up guitar case. Sometimes someone would put a ten or a twenty in the case and we would celebrate with fruit or potato chips. One time he bought me a single, long stemmed, pink rose. I put it in a small tin box to dry. Mostly, however, we would stock up on gasoline, peanut butter and bread.

We had a fridge in the van, a tiny thing that barely held a gallon of milk. In the summer, though, it wouldn't work. It was as if the weather had to be cold before the machine itself would be cold enough to preserve food. It didn't matter, we rarely had the money for luxury items such as gallons of milk or ice cream.

The extra pennies we would put in a cracked Mason jar, copper dreams for a better future. Apple talked of leaving the country, buying a house boat and living in the middle of the ocean. I talked of fancy clothes and mouth-watering foods. We talked of so many dreams for futures we never planned on living together.

"Kiwi," he would say, rolling over to look at me. "do you want to get married someday? Have babies? What do you dream about?"

I would smile and kiss his nose, but I always stayed quiet. He knew the answers. He knew my desires better than any psychic. He could see my dreams of babies in beautiful houses with a husband and money. I dreamed of sleeping under a real roof, in a real bed. I dreamed of being in love with him, even though it would never be.

The day we parted I gave him everything I had. I gave him my soul in a tin box, smelling of dried roses and starlit kisses. I gave him my body, we sat holding each other tight, trying not to let go even as the spaces between our fingers grew longer. I gave him all the love I had to offer.

He drove off and into the sunset, heading west to some brightly painted city. There were no tears, no real goodbyes. I had already packed my few belongings. I had already kissed the dried rose petals and looked up into our homemade starry sky.

I didn't even wave goodbye as he drove off. I watched him, as though he was a brightly lit torch drifting over the horizon, and I wished him luck.

I married a man of means and we had three beautiful children. My husband found it odd when I gave our oldest son the middle name Adam and our youngest the name Quince. Our only daughter I nicknamed 'kiwi' for her bright green eyes.

I didn't see Apple, in person, again. Though my dreams brought his face to me every night. I still love him.

Under a sea of stars, stretched out on a blanket, Apple pulled me closer and we lay in silence. It was a moment that defined us.

A Dragon in the Year of the Dragon

Happy New Year Everyone!

As always, there are many regrets and sweet memories from the previous year and new resolutions for the new year. I have so many things I want to accomplish this year!

When I was younger, my friend, Kendra, and I made lists of all the firsts we did in the New Year. So here is a short list of firsts on this first day of the new year.

First Food eaten: Raspberry Mousse Whipped yogurt
First Drink (non-alcohol): Sam's Choice Cola
First Song: A Thousand Years by Christina Perri
First Phone call made: To my mother.
First kiss received: Exactly at midnight, from my wonderful husband!
First Website visited: Facebook

Super short, I know. What can I say? Its early enough! There is so much day ahead of me!

I also have a short list of resolutions:
- Be completely awesome forever (Thank you, Donnie)
- Finish writing "All of Her"
- Lose weight (always)
- New and Improved Reading Goals (which I'll expound upon in a moment)
- Focus on improving my writing
- Finally get into college!
- Get a new car
- Move (again)
- Spend more time with my sister
- Enjoy life.

New and Improved Reading Goals
All things considered, I actually did really well with my resolution to read more last year. I made it all the way to October before I completely gave up for no apparent reason. The reasoning was actually I was super busy and spaced it mostly. Though I did try to read. However, as Yoda says "Do or do not, there is no try."

The new reading goals are going to be divided by months. Each month will have specific goals to be met regarding reading. So bear with me!

January
- Read 1 book from my list.
- Read 1 book I haven't read in a while.
- Read 1 book I have had suggested to me.
Total: 3 books.

February
- Read 1 Sci-Fi novel.
- Read 1 Non-fiction.
- Read 1 Historical Fiction.
Total: 3 books.

March
- Read 2 books from my list.
- Read 1 book I haven't read in a while.
- Read 1 book that I randomly found at the library.
Total: 4 books.

April
- Read 2 books from my list.
- Read 1 book my sister suggests.
- Read 1 book my brother suggests.
Total: 4 books.

May
- Read 2 books from my list.
- Read 1 book that was turned into a movie.
- Read 1 book involving a topic I've never really explored before.
Total: 4 books.

June
- Read as many books as I want. This includes books I've already read.
Total: ?

July
- Read 2 books from my list.
- Read 1 book of Historical Non-fiction.
- Read 1 book of Historical fiction.
Total: 4 books.

August
- Read 1 book about someone I admire.
- Read 1 book that is a sequel to a book I loved.
- Read 1 book about an animal.
- Read 2 books from my list.
Total: 5 books.

September
- Read 1 book about something I would I like to do.
- Read 1 book written about someone I hate.
- Read 1 book that I found randomly.
- Read 2 books from my list.
Total: 5 books.

October
- Read 1 Romance Novel.
- Read 1 Fantasy Novel.
- Read 1 Children's Book.
- Read 2 books from my list.
Total: 5 books.

November
- Read 2 books from my list.
- Finish 1 book I haven't finished.
- Read 1 book by Ayn Rand.
- Read 1 play by Shakespeare.
Total: 5 books.

December
- Read 1 book about Holidays. Fiction or Non-fiction.
- Read 1 book written 100 years ago.
- Read 1 book by Dr. Seuss.
Total: 3 books.

Approximate Total for 2012: 45 books.

Occurrence

It occurs to me that to be great, one must practice greatness.

It occurs to me that to be good, one must practice goodness.

It occurs to me that to be evil, one needs to only let the evil in.

I don't know what that means, but it occurred to me that meaning can be found in anything and anybody. Different meanings for different people.

Am I being metaphorical? Or just talking out my ass? That depends on who you are. It depends on what you believe and how you feel.

I see a friend's rapid transformation from Buddhism to Christianity as being brainwashed. Others view this as a beautiful transition from the life of a blatant sinner to that of pureness through Jesus Christ.

I see a flower and wish to keep it forever. Others see it and know that it will die shortly.

I don't think I'm being metaphorical. I think I'm talking out my ass here. Because I feel like writing something, because I one day wish to attain goodness, if not greatness.

Neuro Bliss (and other such topics)

So I'm drinking something called "Neuro Bliss" and I'm not so sure about it. It kind of tastes like watered down Grapefruit juice. I don't think I like it, but if it de-stresses like it says it will I should probably invest in a case.

There were a various assortment of "Neuro" drinks and I even saw one that is supposed to promote healthy weight loss (which I could use), but for the price I don't think it is worth it. I'm a broke bitch. I'm not paying that much to lose some weight that I could work off at home. And I had lost some weight. With all the stress I've had recently I think I've gained most of it back though.

However, in all seriousness, if this "Neuro Bliss" de-stresses me, I may invest. I have tried all sorts of things to be calm and cool and collected. To not worry about stuff. I just end up worrying that I can't stop worrying. Which is uselessly annoying.

So, drink up me hearties, Neuro Bliss only looks like semen in a bottle... Maybe Donnie did actually create Semen in a can... It is lightly carbonated... Now I'm scared.

You Put Your Arms Around Me

I love this lyrics video. It is very old fashioned and fun to watch. Plus, I really feel the lyrics. I am touched, because I know the emotions behind this piece. The fear of losing, the fear of being left. To quote:

"A wise girl kisses but doesn't love, listens but doesn't believe, and leaves before she is left." - Marilyn Monroe.



"You put your arms around me and I believe it is easier for you to let me go."

I am an Architect

I have posted Rise Against before and I'm about to do it again. They may not be the best band, their music has some mediocre sounds to it. But they are some of the few who actually speak up when everyone else is silent.

This song is about those heroes that we look up to (or used to look up to, depending). This song is powerful and I hope it shames those in power into remembering who they were. Who they were before power and greed and shame took over. When they truly believed what they fought for.

You Don't Own Me

Randomly, I heard this song and decided to re-listen to it. Great song. Don't really like this video, but it was the best version of the song. Lesley Gore, ladies and Gentlemen.

You Don't Own Me.

PFC Brett Wood

Spencer, Indiana, has been in the news recently with their show of patriotism for one of their own, PFC Brett Wood, who was killed recently while overseas. The entire town lined the streets as PFC Wood's was brought home.

His memorial was held in the gymnasium of Owen Valley High School, from which he graduated just last year. His body was later cremated, per his request, and returned to his family.

He was 19.

Rest In Peace, PFC Brett E. Wood.

The Holocaust Memorial Museum

At the Gates of Auschwitz
What is to become of us if no one reads our names or counts the shoes we left behind?
What is to become of us if no one dares remember the torture or the anguish?
What is to become of those who died before us? Those that died with us?
What is to become of us when young women and young men forget the meaning of bravery?
What is to become of us when little girls and little boys grow up not knowing the truth?

I saw her face in the tower of pictures. Her face was almost mine. Few subtle differences and we could've been sisters. A gypsy's face in a sea of faces, all lost to ignorance and blind hatred. All lost in a sea of broken humanity. My fate could've been her's if we were to switch places. And that knowledge is like a punch in the throat. I can't breathe when I look at her. I can't think anything except that she could've been me.

Standing at the gates of Auschwitz, I hesitate. I don't want to feel what I am feeling. This place is full of ghosts. Not the ghosts of stories or movies, the intangible that frighten us with their intangibility. These are real people pressing against me, real faces staring blankly at me. These are real people whose genitals have been sewn shut and whose brains are exposed to high pressure winds. These are real people who are tortured and gassed and tattooed like cattle. These are real children that are starved and mutilated in the name of science, in the name of Aryan science.

These are the faces of the Holocaust. The Jews, the Gypsys, the Homosexuals, the Catholic priests and nuns, the disabled and mentally handicapped. Those who believed differently, those who believed in equality and fought for the lives of others. These are the faces of those who stood up while the whole world held its breath and twiddled its thumbs. These faces could have been mine or yours.

If no one smells the death and the fear, if no one reads the names, if no one stands up when everyone else is sitting down, what becomes of them? What becomes of us? Could we be as brave? Could we face those who were murdered for our silence?

If there is no one left to remember, what becomes of us?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was inspired by my walk through the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington DC.

While in DC I took my notebook everywhere, so I could remember everything to blog it later. I took a lot of pictures and videos too, to keep track, to remember.

I am proud that I still have the ability to feel. Even remembering what I saw and heard, what I read and witnessed, second hand, makes my stomach churn and my eyes fill with tears.

If we all turn blind eyes to atrocities and prejudices what becomes of us?

Some of the things I wrote in my notebook while walking the museum:
* The museum is full of ghosts, but not the kind you find in stories or movies. These ghosts have a heavy presence because of the photos. Their faces stay, even after the photos are gone.
* Standing at the gates of Auschwitz while listening to recordings of the dead and their stories. (They weren't actual gates, they were doors to one of the many buildings in Auschwitz, but my feeling was that of standing before Auschwitz in winter, feeling chilled and horrified)
* Could I ever be so brave?
* What happens if no one reads the names or counts the shoes?

The thing that inspired me most was this exhibit that was nothing but shoes. This exhibit was on loan from a Poland museum. It was one of the most horrifyingly devastatingly real exhibits I've ever experienced. You could smell the death, the fear, the sweat and blood. It made everything so horrifyingly real. I don't think I've ever felt something punch me so hard in the stomach and the heart.

Sometimes we become so desensitized to violence and gore because of the books, music and movies that we have now-a-days. Things become so surreal to us at that point. We don't believe it is real, even though we know it is. And that was so real to me. Seeing those shoes, those empty shoes. Smelling them. Being so close I could've reached out and touched them. Little children wore those shoes. Pregnant women and old men wore those shoes. Before they were brutally killed or tortured or experimented on.

The other thing that inspired me was the small poem that was above the shoes. It is by Moishe Shulstein, a Yiddish poet. It is titled "I Saw a Mountain."

"We are the shoes, we are the last witnesses.
We are shoes from grandchildren and grandfathers,
From Prague, Paris and Amsterdam,
And because we are only made of fabric and leather
And not of blood and flesh, each one of us avoided the hellfire."

The most frightening thing that I learned, aside from the experimentation on prisoners (which I knew a good portion of), was the fact that Germany (and consequently Hitler) was emulating the racist policies in the United States. Especially the Jim Crow laws. They began to mark benches and fountains to separate Jews from Aryans.

Other frightening things were the forced sterilizations and euthanasia of people, most of them weren't even Jewish or disabled. Most of them were regular Germans. Even though the program was originally created to prevent the population of Jews and mentally challenged people.

The last thing I would like to post here (I will probably blog about this more on a future date) is a little poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko, a Russian poet.

"The wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar.
The trees look ominous,
like judges.
Here all things scream silently,
and, baring my head,
slowly I feel myself
turning gray.
And I myself
am one massive, soundless scream
above the thousand thousand buried here."

What did you say?

Chris: Besides I have a whoopie cake to eat.
Pomegranate: Did you just say wookie?
Chris: NO! I said whoopie! What the hell is in a WOOKIE cake? What's in a Wookie cake?
Pomegranate: Lots of hair.
Chris: No, that's a wookie PIE.

Aqua Amazing

I don't know why, but I kind of like this song by Aqua. And no, it isn't "Barbie Girl" (I much prefer "Barbie is a Bitch"). This song is kind of pedo-ish. It is weird. And of course the video is wacky, because it is Aqua for fuck's sake!

Lollipop (Candyman) by Aqua (My favorite line is "I wish I was a bubblegum" and my favorite scene is where Lene is being tortured by the aliens. Does that make me a horrible person?)

The Teahouse

While I was in Maryland/DC, L.E.D and I went to this place called "Reynolds Tavern" which also happens to be a teahouse. It is not only a really cool historical building, on the circle, but it also has some very interesting and slightly old fashioned things.

We decided on the Afternoon Tea Special for both of us. This included a bottomless pot of tea and various snacks that varied depending on what type of special you picked. We picked the Sweet Tea and Savory Tea.

The Sweet tea came with a pot of Sencha Kyoto Cherry Rose Festival, which is a sweeter tea that we chose based solely on its name. It turned out to be a great choice! It also came with small sweets: a lemon square, a piece of caramel pound cake, a piece of plain pound cake, a heart shaped sugar cookie, a heart shaped lavender infused sugar cookie, two different tarts (which I can't remember the names of) and a scone of our choice. We both picked a cranberry orange scone, which was heaven with fresh whipped cream and strawberry preserves.

The Savory tea came with a pot of Lapsong Souchong, which was suggested to us by our waitress. Lapsong Souchong is a very strange tea, partially because it has a very smoky flavor. To be honest it smelled (and slightly tasted) like bacon. Donnie would've approved. It also came with small savory treats: a Shepard's pie tart, a mushroom truffle tart, two ham finger sandwiches, two egg salad finger sandwiches, two cucumber and cream cheese finger sandwiches and a few other things I can't quite remember.

The restaurant played 40's and 50's music, which was very nice. Including some songs from my favorite musicals. One of the many songs we heard was about Indiana, which made us giggle since we had driven from Indiana to get to Maryland.

There were a lot of interesting things about this place. It was very old-fashioned, which made me happy as I like historical and old-fashioned things. We had honey (with a fancy honey dipper) and actual sugar cubes with our tea. And yes, I did say "One lump or two?" while holding a cube of sugar in some gorgeous little sugar tongs. Our cups were Wedgewood China cups and our tiny tea spoons had little tea cups and tea pots on the ends.

It was definitely worth the visit and I can't wait to go there again. The only thing that we didn't get to try was their "Love Potion #9" which was an alcoholic beverage we decided to save for another trip.

If you find yourself in the Annapolis area, make sure to visit "Reynolds Tavern" on the circle.

Espanol for the win.

Jamal speaks Spanish, fluently, and every now and then, he will wear his sombrero and only speak in Spanish.

Donnie: What is Mexican for Haters gonna hate?
Jamal: Donnie.
Me: Bump it!

Better Off a Quitter

This song has been playing on the radio the past couple of days. And I don't know why, but it tugs at me. I have listened to it multiple times, today in fact. It gives the most realistic portrait of lost love, I think.

Guy fucked up, guy lost the girl. Guy gets drunk and calls her, trying to reconcile. Girl doesn't say anything. Leaving him with nothing. She doesn't even say no. She just let's the silence build. I think she hangs up. And I don't blame her.

All of Her: Prologue

"I'm still in love with all of her."

He says that and my heart breaks, because I know it's true. I can imagine them entangled, wrapped up in pink sheets and pink flesh. It isn't fair, of course, but I can see that it doesn't matter what is fair and what is not.

Am I an idiot for wishing it was me instead?

I smile, a wobbly smile that speaks of tears and regret. He doesn't notice, he is staring off into her distance. The beach feels like it is trying to swallow me whole. The ocean is rocking and he is rocking away and into her arms. I'm still just standing there. Watching the two loves of my life fall in love with each other.

Its like a punch to my chest, really. Like he just took a rusty nail and pounded it into my heart.

I feel like getting drunk. I watch them swimming off into the sunset, like a couple of mer-people to Atlantis. Or maybe that is my broken heart's imagination. Its a little ridiculous, looking at it from where I am now.

"What did you say?" he asks.

I am snapped out of my depressing daydreams. Did I say something out loud? Was I just voicing my inner monologues? Oh shit.

"Hmm? I didn't say anything." I start walking away. He doesn't follow, so I take this as a good sign. Everything has reduced to slow motion action movie, that moment where the good guy moves just in time kind of moment. Except, instead of action it is me being a bit of a child and trying to run away from something I don't understand.

The time has come, the walrus says, to talk of many things. He is right, of course, even talking walruses can be right sometimes. Unfortunately for myself, I don't feel like talking about anything. Is it strange that I have a walrus in my head rather than shoulder angels/devils? Thank Alice for that, of course.

I have decided to run away. Or cry. Either seems viable at this moment. Alice and David are off in their wonderland, in love and laughing. I turn, still in slow motion, and see them kissing and smiling that sweet and innocent smile of a first and only love. Damn it, why did I look back?

I feel like Lot's wife, like I've just been turned into salt because I glanced back. I'm frozen and slightly raw, like the wound just got scrubbed. Ridiculous really, to liken my feelings to some woman who may or may not have existed and may or may not have been turned into a pillar of salt. And now that I think about it, how did they know she got turned into a pillar of salt if they weren't allowed to look back? Or were they behind her when she looked back?

Now I'm just rambling.

Nothing changes the fact that Alice and David are still canoodling and I'm still being a child and walking away. Again with my stupid and irrational inner monologues.

It is time for a change. A distance of sorts. I'm not running away.

Okay, I am.

Who can blame me really? It isn't fair. Not fair at all. I want to scream or bleat like a billy goat. Neither one of those things will do a damn bit of good. I know that. Plus, I'll just look like an idiot. So, time for a change of scenery, Abra. Time to rethink everything in a different location.

The only real question now is: Where?

Donnie, Ladies and Gentlemen

Donnie quote of the evening:

"I have a PhD in Trollogy from the University of U MAD."