Pork Chops

This is triumph. The audacity of living in a world that continues to berate you and tell you that you aren't good enough. This is the strength of hope, a shining light in the darkness that feeds on our fears and our sadness. This is beauty. And it lives in all of us.

Electoral

As I write this Obama is behind on the Electoral votes by 30. At least according to the map I've been watching since 6pm. (You can find it at this website: http://elections.nytimes.com/2012/results/president)

I can't help but feel like my whole future is riding on this craziness. And I keep telling myself that Obama is going to win, but I know there is the chance he won't. And it's that chance that is making me sick to my stomach so that I feel like I'm going to throw up.

I know everyone always says "Oh, I'll leave the country if so and so wins." but in reality I don't have enough money to leave the country and no desire to at this point in time, but I genuinely don't want to live in an America run by a millionaire who is proud of the fact that he bullied someone into suicide and who tied his dog to the roof of his car for a trip and who doesn't pay the same taxes I do because he is a millionaire (who hides all of his money overseas so he doesn't have to pay anyway!). This is ridiculous. I have lost all my faith in the American people if we vote in Mr. Romney.

In the meantime, I guess I'll just keep playing Dragon Age: Origins and pretending like I'm not watching the map grow redder by the moment.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Three

I decide, at random, to go to the library and check out some movies. I have grown bored with most of Clark's avant garde collection, though I like some of them. I wander the aisles, browsing titles and remembering times I wish I could forget. I stumble upon "Titanic" and the memories bubble up before I can suppress them.

I had just turned sixteen. I was still a virgin, though David's pressure for us to have sex had been building. I felt like I was going to explode, because I wanted him just as badly. I was just nervous, a little afraid even. For my birthday that year my sister, Anna, bought me "Titanic," knowing my love for the main male protagonist. I decided that, after watching the movie, I would finally allow David to have my virginity.

I planned everything meticulously. I bought a new bra, a new pair of panties, a lubricant and condoms. I set up candles around my room for the "mood." My mother and Brad would be out of town for their anniversary and my younger sisters would be staying with Kevin. Anna would almost certainly be over at Greg's house all during the weekend; they were planning their wedding after all. I had the house to myself.

On the appointed day I invited David over, after confirming my sister's midnight blue Mazda was gone from the driveway. He showed up with my favorite flowers, white hyacinths. We put them in a vase and I fixed us dinner. It was the first time I made my fancy BLT's for him. Then I coaxed him into watching the movie with me. At first he refused, claiming it was such a "girl's" movie, but he eventually settled in and we snuggled. His hand would stray toward my breasts during and, instead of smacking his hands away like I usually did, I reveled in the sensation.

After the movie, I excused myself to the bathroom where I put on my new "lingerie," digging the lubricants and condoms out from behind the tampons and maxi pads under the sink. I re-entered my bedroom decked out and nervous. David looked shocked, though obviously aroused.

"Are you sure?" he said, as he gently pushed me back on the bed. I nodded meekly, allowing him to touch me in places I had never been touched.

"Promise me something," I moaned, his hands caressing.

"What?" he breathed, nipping the skin of my neck. I stopped him and looked deep in his eyes. I wanted him, but I wanted this promise more.

"Promise you will marry me someday." I said, a little breathless, tears welling up in my eyes. He looked at me, with an expression I took for serious sincerity at the time. His breathing slowed and I felt my legs being separated.

"I promise." he said. With those words my virginity was lost.

Staring at the cover of "Titanic," I know I have to watch it again. I haven't seen it since that night, almost eight years ago now. Maybe it is a way to come full circle, a way to heal. Or maybe I will be beset by memories the entire time and unable to enjoy any of it. I almost wish I would run into Jae so that I can make new memories with someone else. Instead I run into David.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, clearly surprised by my being out in public.

"Checking out movies, obviously." I reply, holding up my movie selection. His eyes snag on "Titanic" and linger. He looks at me and then back at the cover.

"I haven't seen that in years," he says, pointing to it.

"I know." I reply. "Its been eight almost."

"Yeah. It has been. I thought you didn't really like it. Why are you checking it out now?"

"I used to love this movie." I say, somewhat defensively. "I just never watched it after that night because the memories were too powerful."

"I would think you would have watched it more then, not now."

"What does it even matter to you what I do and do not watch, David?" I ask, irritated by his manner and tone. How could I ever love this man? Why did I love him? Why did I let him have all those years, all those secrets and trusts? He shrugs his shoulders, so nonchalantly.

"It doesn't. I was just curious. I suppose I'll leave you now." he says and as he walks away, I can't keep the acid from dripping off my tongue.

"You left me a long time ago." He stops, but doesn't turn, at first. Slowly, almost painfully, he turns and looks at me.

"We're in a library, so I won't make a scene." he says. "But you are wrong. I didn't leave you until that day at the altar. I suppose I just couldn't stomach you any more."

His words bite like a snake, quick and poisonous. I feel like I've just been slapped.

"You left the night I gave you my virginity." I whisper, vehemently. I check out my videos and head out the door, David close behind.

"No. I cared for you at that point." he says. I turn to face him, my eyes searching his face as though trying to see a chink in the armor. Anything to give me a chance to strike back.

"You never cared." I say, struggling to keep from yelling. "You may have cared for my body, but only when you wanted to use it. You never cared for my mind or my heart. If you had you never would've played with them like you did."

"Girls are like toys to be played with, really." He says, a cocky grin on his face. "Like living Barbie dolls. It's amusing. I watched you and Alice disintegrate like you'd been blasted with fire. I had Alice convinced that being with you was the right thing to do. That her love for you should let me stay with you, even as I kept professing my undying love and my desire to be with her. She put up no fight. No resistance."

I blink. Once, twice. Tears sting my lids. I have to force myself to start breathing again. My lungs feel like they are on fire. And, without thinking, I drop my movies, haul off and punch David right in the nose. He stumbles back, startled by the suddenness of it, and then clutches his nose which begins spouting blood. I pick up my movies again and walk away. No one tries to stop me and the only person that tries to help him is his unlucky wife, who screams profanity at me as I walk away.

I know that that was incredibly stupid. I know that I shouldn't have punched him and that I will pay for it. My hand is already throbbing. However, it felt so amazing to finally do that. To have my moment of feeling justified. To have my moment of, so-called, revenge. Its the only thing I've done that actually hurt him. Of course it hurt me too, but it still hurt him. Why didn't I just do that in the beginning? Why didn't I do that when he first tried to seduce my engagement ring away from me? Why didn't I do that when he tried to sleep with me? Why did I let him into me, no resistance, when I could've done what I did just now?

I know Alice will seek me out. I know her well enough to know that she will want to confront me. I almost turn around so that she can do it now, instead of having to wait. But I don't, I keep moving forward. I swear to myself that, from now on, that will be the only direction I move.

It takes some time, and convincing, but I convince my former boss, at the book store, to allow me to return to work. I move out of Clark's apartment and into a tiny apartment above the store, which my boss gives me a discount on. I take up painting, in my spare time. My favorite subject becomes Snuggles, who refuses to sit still for a portrait. I stop going to the bars, I stop having sex, though that part is a lot more difficult.

I do give in a couple of times, after running into Adam one day at the store. And once more after running into Niya at the library.

I know that my confrontation with Alice will happen eventually. Just because it hasn't yet, doesn't mean it won't. I know her better than that. Because of this, I am not at all surprised when she comes to see me at work.

At first she doesn't say anything. She ignores my presence and my attempts to assist her in finding a book. She wanders the store, never in a position where she can't glare at me. Finally she brings a book up to the counter and slams it down, in an attempt to gain my attention.

"May I help you?" I ask, politely. I don't look up, instead I continue to pretend to be fascinated with my tea.

"I'd like to purchase a book on how to get rid of a slut." she says. I look up at the book and see that it is a book of sexual positions.

"I'm afraid you won't find what you are looking for in that particular book." I say, seeming un-phased.

"This book is for me and my husband. Who recently got attacked and is still recovering from a broken nose." Being a bitch, I can't help but smile at that. My hand was tender for a few days, but I have fully recovered, physically, from our "encounter of the violent kind."

"Well then you won't want to try the position on page thirty-five. It may re-break his nose." I go back to stirring my tea, refusing to be riled by her insinuations. Did I whore it up? Yes. Did I break David's nose? Absolutely. Am I going to fight with her anymore over it? No. She fumes, silently for a while, but I don't care.

"You are a whore. I don't know what he ever saw in you." she spits.

"I don't believe he ever saw anything in me. Nor in you, really. He just knew how to manipulate us both. I don't know about you, but I'm tired of dancing like a puppet on a string with no choices or free will. You may continue dancing if you like, but kindly leave me out of it."

She doesn't say anything at first, letting the words sink in. Then she turns bright red. I look her in the eye, the first time I've done it since everything fell apart. She knows that what I said is true and that there are no words to redeem him at this point. She knows I am right and it pisses her off, even as it frightens her. She still loves him. She married him. Like me, she lost her virginity to him. I'm sure she can't help but wonder if I was a better lover or if he ever truly loved me.

"I'm leaving." she says, leaving the book on the counter. "I don't want to see you again, Abra. I will get a restraining order if I have to."

"Good luck." I say. "It isn't exactly the biggest town. We will run into each other by accident all the time. I have as much control over that as you do over the sun shining in the morning. I promise not to intentionally bother either of you anymore, however."

With a last sharp look, she turns on her heel and walks out. I sigh and sit back down, stirring my tea. I don't even look up when I hear the bell over the door jingle again.

"Forget one last cutting remark, did we?" I say, taking a sip of tea.

"No," she says. "I forgot this."

I look up just in time to see her hand flying toward me. The contact echoes and I can only look up at her in shock. She looks shocked as well, her hand reddened by the slap. My cheek throbs, tears well up and one slips down my cheek.

"Is this what we've come to, Allie?" I ask, using a nickname I haven't used since we were children. "We have lost everything for a man. A stupid man who probably never actually cared for either of us. He used us both, can't you see that? Don't you see what is happening here?"

A tear slips down her cheek as well, but she shakes her head at me.

"He loves me." she says. "You just can't handle that he never loved you."

She turns then and walks away. I don't stand to follow her, I don't move at all. I can't. We've broken beyond repair, corrupted from the inside out and there is no cure for it. I catch a glimpse of her face, she looks back at me before she opens the door and disappears into the outside world.

I wonder if she has any doubts about her husband now. I wonder if she will think about what I've said in the years to come. I wonder if it did any good. I doubt it, as I sip my tea. It was only after he left me that I realized how bad David was for me.

I lock the store up for the evening, a cool breeze whistling by. I am feeling down with all sorts of thoughts drifting through my head. I walk slowly, dreamily. I attempt to not let the anxiety, and depression, slowly creeping in get any foothold, but it is hard. I feel terribly alone and isolated. I haven't seen Noah in ages, my best friend and I have fallen completely apart, my ex-fiance is a tool and I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I'm actually a little terrified of what will happen to me.

I manage to find myself on a bridge, a couple miles from the store and my car. I stand on a rail, gazing into the midnight blue water and wonder. I wonder what it would be like to just jump. I wonder what it would be like to feel nothing ever again. I wonder if I would see Annabelle again. I feel like Rose in "Titanic." Nowhere else to go. I've never felt this overwhelmed, this lost.

No one else can save me, I have to save myself. I have to be my own saviour. And at this point I don't care that much about being saved. I lean forward, grasping the railings so that if I lose my balance I will still be hanging on. A still voice tells me to just let go, let everything go. I can't change anything, it says.

I could let go. I could let go and slip over, falling into the cool water below. I imagine the water slipping like poison into my lungs and filling me until I can take no more. I imagine the water like satin sheets, burying me in softness that erases any desire to leave. I imagine the darkness closing my eyes and I shiver when I realize I wouldn't fight it at that point.

I don't let myself think about David or Alice. I don't let myself think about Noah or Annabelle or Liam. I don't think about Jae. I don't think at all. I just dangle above the water wondering what will happen next. A car honks at me, startling me out of my reverie and I, guiltily, climb down. I go to a payphone and deposit my last two quarters, punching buttons like a madwoman.

"Hello?" he says. He sounds sleepy and stuffy. Probably from the broken nose I gave him.

"David, don't hang up." I say, lamely. I know I need to say something to him, or I'll never really heal.

"What the hell do you want?" he whispers, angrily.

"Who is it, darling?" says a soft voice in the background. He mumbles something, a lie of course.

"I have to talk to you. Will you meet me?"

"So you can re-break my nose?" he asks. He must've gone into another room, because I no longer hear Alice.

"No. Because I need to get something off my chest and I can't do it over the phone. Bring Alice, we'll make a party of it."

"We don't need to involve her." He says, hastily.

"Why? Are you afraid she'll see the truth and leave you without a plaything?"

He is quiet for a few moments and then I hear him sigh.

"Where do you want me to meet you?"

I give him directions as best I can, considering I walked here in a daze. He says he'll meet me in fifteen minutes and hangs up. I shiver as I replace the receiver. There is a slight chill in the air. Or maybe that is the fear of what will happen next. Maybe it's the exhilaration of finally getting to say what I have needed to say since the beginning of this soap opera.

Fifteen minutes passes quickly and I see him walking toward me, his black leather jacket and jeans recognizable even in the semi-darkness. I stand under a street light and wait. There is nothing else around, no sound. It's like the whole world has stopped to watch this newest drama unfold like rose petals in the moonlight. I try to stifle a smile, a nervous habit, as he approaches. He is scowling and his nose is swollen and bandaged. I don't feel guilty for it, though I know I should.

After what feels like years, we are both standing under the street lamp, only a foot or so of space between us. I look into his eyes and wonder if he ever really saw me. Did he ever know me? I can't help but want to kiss him right now. A silly attempt to erase all the time and distance between us. A romantic attempt to save us from the erosion and betrayal.

"I still love you."

Roulette

I
"It's a game." he said. "You'll love it."

"What kind of game?" she asked, eager to be accepted by this new boyfriend. She knew he didn't mean Monopoly. She knew that she should be wary. He was different, dangerously so.

His slightly pointed teeth glimmered in the light of a naked bulb. They were slightly pointed like a vampire's. He always wore colored contacts, she had never seen his real eyes. Tonight he was wearing a gory shade of red. They glinted in an evil, almost demonic, way as he produced a gun. His dangerous beauty and the silver etched pistol both frightened and aroused her.

"Have you ever played Russian Roulette?" he purred. Looking into his eyes it was easy to believe he was a demon, a modern Mephistopheles, come to seduce and murder her.

"Isn't that illegal?" she whispered, her voice quivering and her stomach turning to jelly.

"Of course. All the best things are." he said. "But for your first time we won't play with a real bullet."

He opened the chamber and slid the bullet into place. He spun it before snapping it closed. The snapping echoed in the heavy silence. She shivered, not sure if she should trust him. What if it was a real bullet? What if he had the chamber rigged? He smiled again, revealing his shiny white teeth, and she imagined him laughing over her still body.

He took a few steps back, his wicked grin never leaving his face. She smiled nervously as he put the muzzle to his temple. She braced for an impact that she wouldn't feel. His smile never wavered, turning manic as he positioned himself. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. Just a click. He laughed at the terror on her face, cajoling her with his eyes.

"Not afraid, are you, love?"

She straightened, stiffly, telling herself it was just a game and she wasn't a coward. But her stomach twisted and her bowels cramped as he handed her the gun.

"Cock it back like this," he said, showing her what to do. "when you are ready, pull the trigger. You can close your eyes if that'll help."

It was a little heavier than she had expected and she could feel her muscles bunch and strain to keep her hand from shaking.

"Don't be afraid." he said, nibbling on her earlobe. She tried to swallow, but her throat had closed. She felt her heart beat triple in speed. It pounded in her ears so that she could barely hear. He guided the muzzle to her temple, caressing her as he positioned her. He kissed her, a slow kiss that made her frantic. He pulled away before she could get a full grip on his leather jacket and positioned himself across from her.

Under the dimming bulb, she imagined that the bullet was real, that this would be the end of her. The end of everything. She gulped for air, feeling like her heart would burst through her chest. This was the moment. She would prove she was brave. She just had to make it through this test. That was all it was, a test.

"Pull the trigger, darling." he cooed, gently. She closed her eyes, bracing for an impact of some sort, and squeezed. The hammer clicked, but nothing happened. Her legs felt like water suddenly released from a dam and she collapsed with a rush of adrenaline and relief.

He was beside her in a moment, lifting her back up.

"It's quite the rush isn't it?" he asked, prying the gun from her stiff fingers.

"Yes. A real... rush." she murmured weakly.

"Let's play a variation," he said, his smile eerily painted across his face. "instead of holding the gun to your own head, aim it at me."

"Variation?" she gulped.

"Of course." he said. "All games have variations. Even this one. When I tell you to, pull the trigger. And this round we'll have a real bullet."

He opened the chamber, slipped out the false bullet and replaced it with a real one. He spun it, as before, and snapped it into the chamber. He smiled as he handed it to her.

He positioned himself about three feet away and winked at her.

"Pull the trigger."

II
The rush of a bullet wasn't enough. The rush of sex and death were no longer drug enough. She played Russian Roulette alone in the darkness of her apartment in front of a mirror. She sat in the darkness, every click like a shot of heroin into her blood. Sometimes she would masturbate, watching her reflection achieve orgasm to the click of the hammer.

It hadn't taken long for that boyfriend to end up dead from their little "game" and the police didn't need much convincing. All it took was a pretty young woman in a blood spattered white dress. She cried, genuinely, for that dangerously handsome idiot. Not because she loved him, but because she would have to find a new partner to play with.

She hadn't even waited for his body to cool before she seduced one of the officers at the scene. She begged him to point his loaded Centerfire Compact at her head during and she climaxed remembering her previous boyfriend's final words.

It hadn't taken long to become addicted to the rush. The heady mix of life and death, intertwined with lust and sex, was enough to pull her in and keep her. It hadn't taken long to discover that she could no longer enjoy life without a click inside her head.

It hadn't taken long for the clicks to no longer be enough. She couldn't sit in her room alone forever, waiting to lose to herself. She needed the rush with someone else. Another body to hit the floor. Another blood spattered dress.

She found him outside of a club.

"Want to play a game?" she asked, looking up through her lashes, luridly.

"What kind of game?" he asked, already succumbing to the 'come fuck me' look in her eyes.

And she showed him. She taught him how to play. She taught him how to die. He didn't like the variation she had been taught, too vanilla for that. They played the traditional way and she didn't even blink an eye when the bullet zipped through his temple and out the other side of his skull.

She had been very lucky so far. Every night she would kiss the bullet, placing it in the gun that had originally belonged to that dead boyfriend.

For her luck she praised Bes. She would plead with Shai that this next day she would continue to breathe. She called out to the Norns that they continue to weave her fate with that of luck. She praised Gefion for continuing to shine on her. She laughed when she blessed the name of Fortuna and cried when she asked the Moirai not to cut her threads. Luck and fate became her religion, the click of the hammer representing favors from the gods and every sexual encounter an addictive gift.

The latest pawn in this game kissed her breathless before he taught her another variation. He filled the chamber with four bullets. She kissed each one before he placed them. She agreed to sleep with him if they both survived the game.

That first time, with that first game, they had practically torn each other's clothes off; the need to feel alive overwhelming any other sense. She had cried then, as he slid into her and kissed her into a frenzy. It was the best she had ever had and she had wondered, as he followed her lead, at what cost? Now she didn't even think.

The need to feel that chemical rush was an animal waiting to tear out of her body. There was no thought, no feeling except the adrenaline and the climax.

She survived that variation. Her teacher was kind enough to die quietly in the basement of an abandoned warehouse. She kissed his lips before taking the gun and disappearing into the darkness of the night. She always played with the same gun.

The next pawn was a young woman, about her age, so naive and innocent. She taught her everything and let her walk away. The game didn't always have to end immediately after beginning. Sometimes it continued through the loose connections made. That other woman was not as lucky, they found her dead a week or so later, another unlucky victim of the game.

It really all came down to that moment, she would tell herself. The moment when she stood before the mirror and watched her face; imagining it imploding on itself.

"Pull the trigger."

III
"It's a game." she said. "You'll love it."

"What kind of game?" he asked, intrigued by the strangeness of her.

Her lips were dark red in the dim light of the alley. They reminded him of a mouthful of blood and they turned him on. It was cold outside, snow hanging on the edges of the clouds. Just glistening gray, waiting to fall. Her look was full of lust, when she produced a silver etched pistol. Her eyes glittered in the light of the street lamps. Her eerie smile and the pistol, both, frightened and aroused him.

Her smile widened, revealing shiny white teeth, slightly pointed like a vampire's. Just one bullet was no longer enough. There were so many variations to explore, so many rushes to be had. This would be the last variation. There would be no coming back from this one. No greater rush than this, knowing that her life stood precariously on a hidden ledge. This would be the last round, all the chambers filled but one. The very last rush with someone's life about to end in the darkness.

"Have you ever played Russian Roulette?"

The Moment

I don't know why I'm writing this. I just kind of feel compelled to. It's something that needs to be shared, I guess. You know, working on that memoir still, may as well write down the memories that I have been having bubble up recently.

When I was young there was a lot of stress in my life (there is still a lot of stress in my life). Back then I didn't know how to deal with it (who am I kidding? I still don't know how to deal with it!). I was self-destructive because it was a way to express the turmoil inside me. I was cruel to my body because I perceived it as my enemy. I still perceive it as my enemy, sometimes. Depends on my mood of course.


My step-father's mother used to cook all the time. I don't know if she still does because I am not in contact with her really. She used to fill my plate to the brim any time I was there and I would be told to eat every bite because "there are children starving in Africa." God, I must've heard that SO many times. This, and my growing dissatisfaction with my appearance, ushered me into what I call the "bulimia stage."

I could never finish a whole plate. Ever. I would try, valiantly. But I just couldn't do it. At first I smuggled food in my napkin and excused myself to the bathroom, where I would dump it in the toilet and flush. This quickly got old. I could only carry so much in my napkin, after all.

That's where the moment happened. That moment when I realized that my aching stomach could be purged and then I'd eat more and purge later. I could eat everything, clean my plate and be free of guilt for those poor starving African children or Chinese children or whatever starving children. It wasn't truly a waste, because I did eat it. I just threw it up later.

I did this off and on for a few years. I didn't become what one would call a "full-fledged" bulimic because you can tell when I've been throwing up. The pressure is too much for my poor blood vessels and they burst when I throw up. In my face. So it looks like someone splattered my face with blood or that I suddenly have bloody freckles. This can also happen in my eyes (which I discovered when I was in high school. Rather unfortunate experience since I looked like a freakin' demon for a week or two).

Sometimes, though, when I became ridiculously stressed I would throw up to feel better. It was like purging out all the stress building up inside of me. I didn't do it often, but I always felt better. Even now I will sometimes force the point if I feel sick to my stomach. It's not hard.

The difference between now and then is that I don't need to throw up to feel better about my stress. I may still need to if I'm sick (which is the only time I'll push the proverbial envelope), but not to deal with the stress.

I tried to commit suicide at seven. Don't ask me why, because I can't remember. I just know that I was too afraid to continue living and I was so tired of everything. I overdosed on my inhaler. That wasn't the first time.

For that particular incident, I was punished. The head pastor at the church we went to told my step-father that I was in rebellion and needed discipline. I received a "spanking." For the record, I don't disagree with spankings. I am for a good spanking (both for discipline and sexual pleasure) in certain cases. I believe you should never spank a child in anger and that you should never use anything besides your hand. You feel the sting, if you use your hand. You can gauge how much pain you are delivering and I feel like this makes the difference between abuse and discipline. Personally speaking, of course. I was "spanked" with a switch by a man who enjoyed wielding it a little too much.

I became very good at lying about my overdoses. They were "accidents." Even the one time I emptied an entire inhaler, with my step-father in the room. I did this by sitting close to the speakers of our radio/tape player/record player while he was listening to a tape and waiting until it grew loud enough to cover the sound of the inhaler. I explained them all away. And they never did me any good anyway.

As I got older I realized that killing myself by inhaler was a bad idea. All it did was make me shaky. So I decided to cut my wrists.

We lived in a house by this time. A beautiful house, really. My room was the master bedroom upstairs (as my step-father changed the basement into another level of the house), complete with my own bathroom. Perfect for a teenage girl! One day, I locked myself in the bathroom, sat in front of the door and tried to drag a knife across my wrist (which I now know wouldn't actually work). I didn't even get so far as cutting, because the phone rang at that moment. Heaven only knows why I had it with me.

It was my best friend, Jo. At the time, I took that as a sign from God, because she said she didn't know why she was calling. She just suddenly had a bad feeling and called to see if something was wrong. I cried when I told her what I was trying to do. She talked me out of it and that was the end of that.

I am actually surprised that I didn't start cutting sooner than I did because of all the pent up anger (at myself, at my mother [I'm not mad at you anymore, Mom], at my father, at my step-father, at God, etc.), stress and previous suicide attempts. It just makes sense that I would cut. In the scheme of things, anyway.

The first time I cut myself on purpose, I was at church. My boyfriend (My Edward Cullens, if you will) had just broken up with me. This was a boyfriend I was keeping secret from my friends at school because he was eight years older than me and he was a convicted child molester. Actually, I was doing a poor job of keeping him a secret. I had mentioned him to a couple friends and they freaked out (rightly so, I might add). They told me it was a terrible idea and questioned my sanity (once again, rightly so. Also, you know who you are).

I lied and said I had made it up. He was a hypothetical boyfriend. Well, I guess I'm admitting that he wasn't a hypothetical. He was real. And yes, you were right. It was an awful idea. I'm sorry that I lied about lying, but panic set in and I hate conflict.

It wasn't so much that he broke up with me as it is that we decided to break up until I turned eighteen. Oh yeah, I was sixteen (a week from seventeen) when we met. Seventeen when we started dating. I, foolishly, believed I loved him. He was the only guy who seemed actually interested in being with ME not my BODY. He liked me for me, or so I thought. And things went way further with him than they should've.

I was devastated when we broke up. I hid myself in the Sabbath School room (because I was a Seventh Day Adventist at the time) and took out a little pocket knife a guy friend had given me for protection. I was wearing a skirt that day, with shorts underneath. I pulled up the skirt a little and sliced at my inner thigh until I saw blood. My ex came in right after I had put the knife back in my pocket.

He asked if I was okay. I lied and said I was fine, though I had been crying. He said we were still going to be friends. A week later we were going out again.

Dating him was self-destructive on three fronts:
1. I started cutting because of it.
2. I pushed myself, sexually, even when I knew I wasn't ready for it (and I knew he was a bad idea).
3. I was only dating him to get my step-father's attention.

We dated for another two weeks before I found out he was cheating on me (had been the whole time, by the way) and I broke up with him. Again. He came over to my house and tried to seduce me back to him. He played a stupid ICP (Insane Clown Posse) song while we were in his car. We made out a little bit, but I didn't say I'd go back out with him. Despite my "love" for him, I couldn't take him back after the cheating. Also, that ICP song was INCREDIBLY stupid and un-romantic. Bad choice in seduction music, dude.

He's in prison somewhere. I think.

I cut for a time after that. I cut until I was nineteen, if memory serves. Secretly, of course. And I attempted to convince everyone that they were cat scratches. That didn't work, by the way. Everyone tried to stop me, to their credit. I finally quit because I knew I couldn't keep doing that to myself. I also knew that my ass would get kicked if I continued. Plus, right around the time I finally stopped I "ran away" from home to deal with my issues. Which also didn't work.

A few major reasons for my various amounts of self-destruction:
1. My emerging sexuality. I'm bisexual. Anyone who has read this blog knows that. Anyone who knows me personally should know that. But I was very closeted at the time because of my step-father, because of my God, because of my church friends, etc. My desire to be with a woman sexually was reprehensible according to my beliefs. Another portion of this was my realization that I was not "vanilla," not just bisexually. This also seemed to clash with who I "was."

2. I was surrounded by death. A lot of my family, friends and people I knew were dying all around me. It was terrifying. And disheartening. It is rough when you have been to more funerals than you ever been to weddings or baby showers.

3. My step-father was abusive. Still is, but not to me and his ways have become more subtle. We carried on an emotionally incestuous relationship for most of my formative years. He was also physically and emotionally abusive to me and my brother. My own inability to protect my brother from him played a big role in it too.

4. I was being sexually abused. By several different people and for far longer than I should've been. Sexual abuse is usually perpetuated by someone you trust and know. My ex-boyfriend was only one perpetrator of this.

5. My step-father was emotionally distant from me. Looking back I realize that I just wanted to feel like he loved me. I know, now, that he probably never did. Which stings. I was trying so hard to get his attention. I was trying to get any kind of attention from him. Anything would've been better than nothing.

6. My mother was sick (I don't blame you anymore, Mom). A lot. My mom has a lot of health issues and sometimes she wasn't there when I really needed her. It wasn't her fault, but it pissed me off as well as depressed me. I have always had a close relationship with my mom, her being unavailable when I felt like I needed her was disheartening. Plus, her almost bleeding to death on our bathroom floor from a horrific miscarriage didn't help matters. Every time she got sick I was afraid she was going to die and I'd be alone with my brother, sister and step-father. This was combined with my desire that she die so that she wouldn't be in pain anymore, which lead to a tremendous amount of guilt. Why would I wish my mother dead when I loved her so much?

7. I was desperately lonely. I had friends, but they weren't around all the time. And I felt like I only had the one really close friend, Jo. I was also desperate for any sort of validation. Which is another reason why my step-father being so emotionally distant was destructive for me. I craved validation that I was pretty, smart, etc. That lack of validation has embedded in my brain that I'm useless and stupid so that, no matter what anyone says, I can't believe it.

8. Abandonment issues. My father and I stopped talking when I was thirteen. I sent him a letter telling him I never wanted to talk to him again, that I hated him and it was his fault my Memere was dead (she had died three years prior). His acquiescing to my demands has always felt like abandonment. Part of me wanted him to verbally slap me and continue writing me. I didn't actually hate him. I just missed my grandmother. And I was angry at her for dying, for missing so much of what was to come. I was angry that I didn't get to go to her funeral. I felt like she had abandoned me. My dad had abandoned me. My step-father was emotionally distant and my mother was physically unavailable. I just felt abandoned on all fronts.

So, what was the point of all this you may be asking? I don't know. Maybe it's going to help me realize that I don't have to be self-destructive to deal with my stress? Maybe it's a way of working out externally what has been going on inside me for years internally? Why post it?

Because it is part of what will eventually be written in the book of my life, when I am old and gray. Because it is who I was. I don't need pity, I don't need the attention. Not anymore. I just need to get it out of me, like I have always needed to get it out of me. This is a lot better than a knife, or throwing up dinner. Plus, maybe there are people out there who will read it and be able to diagnose what is going on in their lives too. Help them to see that you can come away from all that crap mostly intact.

Do I have scars? Yes. I have lots of them. I do not cover them up and I am not ashamed of them. They are what has made me ME. I would not be Sarai if not for the scars that have built Sarai.

Anyway, all for now. I should've gone to bed an hour ago because I have to get up early for work in the morning. Maybe I'll write more about my childhood and stuff like that later.

Burned

You burned the bridge. You stood there holding the torch.
How dare you blame this on me?
You love me still. You love me.
But you stood there, smiling, as the wood crackled with rose flame.

How dare you try to pin this on me?
You were my father, my friend. You were even a lover, of sorts.
You make me so sick. I want to throw up. I want to scream.
You burned the bridge, but I should be the one to re-build it.

You told me God is a gentleman. God loves everyone.
But you tried to teach me to hate.
You tried to cut me to fit the circles you had planned.
You loved me, but you tried to beat the depression out.

You loved us, but you starved us. Starved us for food,
love, attention. You forced your God down my throat.
You said that God loves me. You told me you were proud of me.
You are such a liar. And you burned everything down.

You abandoned us.
You abused us.
Your love was a rip-off, a ploy and a trap.
You made me wish I was dead.

I tried so many times to cut out the feelings,
vomit up the self-disgust because of what I felt, still feel.
And I hate having to identify myself by your last name,
because you tried to erase my real identity.

No one knows me by my true name.
No one knows me by any other mark than yours.
I am nothing.
I am just as much yours now as I ever was, because I can't escape.

You burned a bridge and I am left grasping the ashes,
trying to make sense of what you've done.
God is a gentleman. God knows everything.
God loves everyone. God loves me. You are so proud.

If God is a gentleman, I wish he would leave me alone.
If God knows everything, I wish He had used that power.
If God loves everyone, why can't He love them as they are?
If God loves me, why can't He love me as I am?

I gave you the matches. I didn't know who I was.
I can't stay in the cage you built around me.
I simply am.
And you burned the bridge, so I have to let you go.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

It becomes obvious that I am not the only one in a spiral of self-destruction about half way through my second week with Annabelle. I come home to find her lying in my bed with bloody arms and an empty bottle of vodka. The razor she used is still sticking out of her skin. I try not to panic, but it is hard seeing her arms slit to ribbons and a bloody straight razor still planted in her flesh. She has so little flesh as it is. She begs me not to call 911, promises to never do it again and we bandage her up.

Once we have cleaned her up with rubbing alcohol and cloth bandages, she kisses me. The next thing I know we are back in my bed, blood and all. I never understand how we get to this point.

One night, I wake up and see her sitting on the windowsill, the window open and a cigarette in her mouth. She takes a slow drag and just stares.

"Bellie, what are you doing?" I ask, sleepily.

"Thinking about jumping." she says, nonchalantly.

"Jumping where?" I ask, sitting up slowly.

"Into the wide open blue of the sky. I'm so tired of it all." She takes another drag off of her cigarette before flicking the butt out the window.

I get up and go to her, holding her in the waning moonlight. She never looks at me, always staring into the night sky.

"Come back to bed, love." I say, softly. I gently pull her away from the window. "Come back to bed."

She comes off of the windowsill and obediently lies down. She lets me pull the covers over her and tuck her in, before ensconcing myself as well. She lets me hold her tightly, she doesn't resist, but she isn't there. Not mentally. She is thinking. Always far away from me, no matter how hard I try to keep her near.

I wonder sometimes if she is thinking of her dead son, the one she gave birth to when she was still a child herself. She hasn't spoken of it since that day in the kitchen. She never speaks of herself. She never seems to want more from me than my body and my incessant rambling. For the first time, in a long time, I want more than just sex from someone. I want to be able to talk with her on more than just which positions we've tried or me just talking to fill the silence. I realize I'm falling in love with a broken porcelain doll. Against my will and she doesn't even notice.

We are sitting on the floor, playing chess on the coffee table. Snuggles is curled up on the couch watching our battle of wits. She moves slowly, decidedly. I move too quickly and without thought. She laughs, easily and without pain, when she wins. I don't see her happy like this often, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. I smile and reset the board.

When she loses, she is furious and she wipes all the pieces off the board in a fit. The cat, frightened by her erratic behaviour, leaps off the couch and runs off. She throws the board on the floor and storms out of the apartment. I follow her, not even bothering to put on shoes.

"It's just a game, Bellie! What the hell are you doing?" I shout, slamming the door behind me and tripping down the stairs after her.

"It's never just a game!" She shouts over her shoulder. She keeps walking, barefoot and trying to light her cigarette.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I cry, trying to catch up. She pulls up short, abruptly stopping, and staring at me, her eyes wide in fear and anguish.

"My mind is slipping." she says, a tear rolling down her face and blue smoke drifting up and away from her mouth.

"Honey, come back inside. Your mind isn't slipping. Its just a game. A game, honey. We don't have to play anymore if you don't want to." I finally reach her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. She is trembling, even though it isn't cold, and her cigarette dangles from her fingers. She allows me to lead her back to the apartment, but we don't talk for the rest of the day.

She drifts in and out of this world only she sees. I watch her light another cigarette, but she quickly puts it out again. She hates smoking, she says. Its a dirty habit that she can't quite get rid of. She's not even sure why she started it in the first place. Then she looks off into the distance, a horizon only she knows.

I know this isn't going to end well, but I want it to work. I want to help her, though I can't even help myself. I care about her, enough to try harder than I ever did with Jahan or Adam or even David.

"I love you." I blurt, one day after we have finished having sex. She smiles at me, a wistful glance at my face, and lights a cigarette.

"I will love you too." she says, quietly, and takes a drag of smoke. We don't talk about it again.

We go to the theatre often. We sit through three different versions of the same Shakespeare play, just for the hell of it. We never eat at our apartments. We always go out to eat. We never talk on the phone or really talk at all for that matter. Sometimes she screams in her sleep and I can't wake her. All I can do is hold her closely, rocking her gently. What happened to her?

We are almost complete strangers even after a month and a half of dating.

"My son was named Sebastian Alexandre. A rather austere name for a malformed and deceased infant. It almost sounds as if he was a prince in some beautiful European country long ago. I suppose that is what I wanted for him. Of course, what does a thirteen year old child know about babies?"

I blink, once, twice. She hasn't spoken of her son since that first day in the kitchen, it feels so long ago now. I don't press her to speak further. She is staring through space. It is as if I don't exist and she is merely speaking to the air or herself. She comes out of it after a moment, a sad smile spreading across her face.

"Do you want to talk about him? Or anything in particular?" I say, a little hesitantly.

"No. Yes. Someday, maybe." She smiles that sad smile again, kisses me and lights another cigarette. She sits with her arms resting on her knees, smoking. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, her lavender tank top and white boy shorts hiding nothing. I know that we won't speak further about Sebastian. She may never speak of him again for all I know.

Some days she is fine. We make love, we slow dance in the kitchen, we go out to the movies and read bad webcomics. We cook, but we never eat what we make, and play with the cat. We play scrabble. Sometimes she knits while I play air cello to a Metallica cover. On these days she practically lives at my place and I don't care. We hold hands everywhere we go and its a sweeter romance than I've ever had.

On her bad days I usually can't get a hold of her. She locks herself up in her apartment. I worry because she won't answer her phone. If she does come over, she is withdrawn. We have sex, but it is frenzied. Like she is trying to exorcise a demon with every orgasm. If she even has an orgasm. Half the time she dissolves into tears before we can finish and I hold her, shaking and sobbing.

Her nightmares start to come every night. On nights that she has these nightmares, if she wakes up from screaming, she will curl up in the bathtub until I am able to coax her back to bed. Once back in bed she tries to seduce me. This never works. As soon as I begin to give in she will break down and begin to cry again.

I try to encourage her to get counseling. But I feel hypocritical doing so. I am not as self-destructive, but I could probably use a therapist myself.

We have been together three months now. Her spiral dipping deeper and deeper below a range I can handle. I don't know her, I can't figure her out. I try and all I do is make things worse. We stop having sex after one incident where she began screaming as if I was raping her. This seems to help for a while, but then she begins pushing for it.

I come home from the book store late. I don't even think about why the door is locked when I find I have to unlock it. When I come in, I set my bag on the couch and kick off my shoes. Annabelle and Snuggles are nowhere to be found.

"Bellie?" I call. "I'm home, honey. Where are you?"

I pull off my shirt, depositing it in the washer as I pass it. Maybe Annabelle had a moment and decided to leave? Sometimes I come home and she is gone. Often she has returned to her place to water her plants or to just get away. I usually don't question it. Its just that everything is eerily quiet and I am still unnerved by the lack of cat and girlfriend.

"Annabelle? Are you here babe?"

I hear a slight scratching noise coming from the bathroom and a distressed meowing. I open the door and Snuggles rushes out. When I look over I see that Annabelle has hung herself in the shower. I hesitate only a moment before I am struggling to lift her while trying to loosen the noose around her pale throat. I can't get her down. I panic and try to find a pair of scissors or anything that I can use to cut the rope. I eventually get her down and begin CPR. I don't get any response. I call 911 and continue trying CPR. All to no avail really.

The paramedics arrive and they take her in a body bag, pronounced dead at the scene.

I sit, slumped in the bathtub, staring at the frayed pieces of rope. The EMTs ask if I am okay, they take my blood pressure and try to coax me out of the tub. The police try to be kind as they ask me questions. I am catatonic. I can't think, let alone speak. They ask if I noticed a suicide note somewhere. They ask if they need to escort me to the hospital. Is there someone they can call?

They find a note. All it says is "You're pretty damn good as you are."

Once I have assured them that I am fine, once I have gone down to the station to answer questions, once I have come home to my empty apartment, I find more notes. There are notes tucked into my pajama drawer. The majority of them say "I love you. I'm sorry." There is a longer one, folded in half with a small red heart on it. In her spidery handwriting is my name.

"You said you loved me once," it says. "I said I would love you. And I do. More than I suppose I was willing to admit. I can't continue. So many times I think of jumping from the tallest building and all my, so-called, beauty being splashed against the pavement like copious amounts of red paint. I can't live without Sebastian. I can't live without that poor deformed infant that never saw the sunshine. I can't live with how he was conceived. Don't cry for me. Don't worry. Don't change. You're pretty damn good as you are. I love you. I'm sorry."

Against her wishes, I cry. I cry for this girl that I never got a real chance to know. A young woman that I was slowly falling in love with. A young woman that took her life for reasons that I will never fully understand.

When no family comes to claim her, I dip way into my savings to give her a proper funeral. My mother and Brad help me pay and plan it, not knowing all the details. They don't ask me any questions, out of respect I think. A few people come, no one that I know. She is buried in a small cemetery just outside of town with no real ceremony. The funeral home reverend says a few words regarding shepherds and the valley of Death. He speaks of not being afraid. He speaks of the arms of God wrapping about her to cradle her close.

Once everyone is gone, and I am left standing by her freshly filled grave, I collapse. I cry like I've never cried before. Not as I cried at my father's funeral or my grandparents'. Not when David left me. Not when Liam practically raped me. Not when I ruined everything with Jahan. I cry because I have let her down. I couldn't save her, no matter how I might've tried. I can't save myself, why would I ever think I could save her?

I'm not sure how long I kneel by her grave, wishing I could've done more than I did. A hand suddenly, gently, rests on my shoulder. I look up and into the eyes of my Korean gentleman. Jae, I think.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asks. He doesn't try to flirt and he doesn't smile. He is wearing a three piece suit and a vivid tie. I don't even wonder why he is there. Though part of me suspects that I should wonder how he always shows up when I need him most.

"Yes." I say, wiping away a few stray tears and holding the rest in. He helps me stand up, I wipe off the dirt and grass from my knees. He puts an arm around my shoulders as he leads me to his car.

We don't talk during the car ride back to my apartment. I don't even ask how he knows where I live. I just stare out the window, watching the scenery blur and blend like fruit in a blender. Some of the blurring is from tears. Every once in a while, Jae will reach out and pat my knee. I don't look at him, I can't look at him.

When we get to my apartment, he walks me to the door. I unlock the door and stare into the emptiness. I can't cross the threshold. I am afraid that I will find Annabelle dead in my shower. Or her ghost wandering about the house, smoking her cigarettes. In fact, I haven't spent the night here since she died. I have stayed mostly with Mom and Noah, twice with Clark, once with Anna and once with Kevin. Snuggles isn't even here to welcome me. After I was steady enough to drive I took him with me to my mother's. He is probably busy catching a plump mouse or bird now that he is able to frolic outside.

"What's wrong?" asks Jae, gently placing a hand on the small of my back.

"I can't go in." I say, still staring straight ahead. "What if she is in there? What if her ghost is wandering in her tank top and boy shorts, smoking those fancy French cigarettes she loves so much? What if her final thoughts are written out in my pajamas? What if she blue in the bathtub? I can't face her."

I pull the door closed and re-lock it. I turn to Jae and drop the key in his hand. His hand closes on it, briefly, before slipping it into his trouser pocket. He holds his hand out to me and I take it. I allow him to lead me back down the stairs and back to his car. When we get to his car I stop so that he stops as well, turning to look at me. I kiss him, impetuously. This is how I've learned to deal with my problems. With sex and a new boy/girlfriend. With alcohol and random strangers who become lovers who become nothing.

I try to undo his trouser button, but he stops me. He doesn't shove me off, instead trying to gently disentangle me. I resist and kiss him harder. He has no recourse but to push me away.

"This isn't going to help." he says, quietly, as I collapse against him. "Sex isn't a magic medicine you can use to cure every ailment."

"What does it matter?" I ask, getting mascara and snot on his black jacket. "Nothing matters now. I just need it. I'm a whore, after all."

He grabs my shoulders and pushes me back so that I am looking into his eyes.

"You are not a whore. You are confused and lost. You can't keep doing this to yourself. When are you going to realize you can't keep doing this?"

"When I'm dead, like the young woman I buried today." I shake him off and begin walking toward a bus stop. He follows me, like I knew he would. He hasn't figured out that I am not worth the saving yet. He will.

"Will you just listen, for just a moment?" he calls. I stop and turn to face him.

"What do you want to say?"

"Talk to me. Let me in, for just a moment. What can it hurt if you reveal something of yourself to a stranger?"

"There is nothing to talk about."

"There is so much to talk about, you are just in denial." I watch him clench and un-clench his fists. I wonder, momentarily, if he wants to hit me.

"I can't." I leave him standing there. I don't look back, but get on the bus and stare out the window, crying for a dead girl.

All of Her: Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

I take a shower and throw my hair into a messy French braid. I slip into a sexy pair of underwear, but other than that I don't dress up. I skip the bra, opt for an old "Star Wars" t-shirt and a pair of my comfiest jeans. It won't take much to seduce him. I already have the perfect set-up. We've made out before. I gave him my number. I wonder who else I gave my number to that night? It doesn't matter. This will be easy.

I head to the beach and, for nostalgia's sake, I bring along the glow stick kites. I should ask Clark to come and fly kites with me again. I miss him. I miss Jahan. I miss David and Alice. I can't let myself miss them. I'm supposed to be heartless. Heartless people can't miss someone. Especially since it is their own fault that those people are gone.

When I get to the beach, I feel a delicious shiver crawl down my spine at the memories of the last time I was here. I think fondly of that first one night stand. Well, my only one night stand. As far as I know. Every time I've passed out drunk, I've woken up clothed and alone. Totally beside the point of course. I wonder if I'll ever run into that handsome fellow again.

Adam is easy to spot, besides the fact that he is the only one on the beach. He is gorgeous and trim, wearing a "SpongeBob" t-shirt and board shorts. He is also an Albino African-American man with the most beautiful eyes and long ivory dreadlocks, the tips of which are dyed a dark purple. He smiles at me and waves. He jogs up to me and I can't help but notice how fit he is. He glows in the moonlight, a shining pearl of a man. When he comes closer I can see that he is also quite tall. Standing a whole head higher than myself. How could I have forgotten him?

"Abra?" He asks, though I can tell that he knows its me.

"Adam?" I ask, winking. "Its nice to meet you when I'm not drunk."

He laughs, a deep and rich baritone laugh. He smiles again.

"To be fair, I was a little over the edge myself that night. I'm just glad you agreed to meet up with me."

"My pleasure, of course." We set up the blanket and he helps me bury the kite handles in the sand. After we are settled on the blanket, I pour us some Bailey's into a couple plastic cups. We touch them to each other and say cheers, before taking a healthy swig. I feel the alcohol warming every inch of me, until I feel like I am filled with sunshine. It makes sense in this context; I am the sun and he is the moon. I caress his arm and smile up at him.

I lean against him and we sit quietly for a little while, just watching the kites dancing. I don't really know what to say to him. I'd like to skip the awkward small talk and go directly to what we clearly both want, but I am unsure how to take that step.

"I've never done this before," I admit, looking up into his pale eyes. This isn't entirely true, but he doesn't need to know that.

"I suppose we are supposed to make small talk and call it a first date. Or we could just call it a date where we skip the small talk and go straight into the sex." He smiles at me and then kisses me on the lips. He tastes like the alcohol and something sweeter. I don't stop his hands from roaming. I don't stop him from pulling at my clothes.

He kisses me breathless. I kiss down his ivory neck and help him take off his shirt, revealing gorgeous muscles and creamy skin. I push him back, so that he is lying on the blanket, and I just look at him. He is so captivating. I don't think I've ever met someone as beautiful as he is.

I stop all together and a frustrated moan escapes his lips. I smile, wickedly.

"Don't you want to wait just a little longer?" I say. I realize that things are getting a little too repetitive for my tastes. I can't just hop from bed to bed, or in this case beach spot to beach spot. I need something to switch it up, change the feel of things.

"No," he moans, trying to pull me down on top of him. I oblige and straddle him, but refuse to move, though he tries to move my hips. I smile again and kiss him hard.

"Let's play a game." I say.

"What kind of game?" He asks. He looks aroused and intrigued.

"We don't sleep together tonight, but we do sleep together soon. If we wait until our second date, I promise it will be worth your while. Whatever fantasy you have, I promise to fulfill it on our second date, if you agree that we don't have sex tonight."

He raises one white eyebrow and looks at me quizzically.

"Any fantasy?" He asks, skeptically.

"Any." I say and kiss him again. He moans, but he doesn't try to change my mind.

"So what do you suggest we do tonight then?" He asks. He sits up so that I am in his lap and my legs are wrapped around his waist. He holds me close like this and rests his forehead against mine.

"Be my boyfriend and I'll tell you." I say, winking and kissing his nose. He smiles and kisses my eyes.

"Okay, I'm game. I haven't had a steady girlfriend in a few months."

"Well, lover, let's go back to my place and I'll fix us a late dinner." I kiss him again. And again.

"A very late dinner." he says, glancing at his watch. "What are we going to have?"

"What do you like?" I say.

"Just about anything really. I'm not picky." He has lifted up my shirt and he kisses the place between my breasts. He lightly drags his teeth across my chest and I shiver. I feel him move under me.

"Stop." I say, giggling. "Next time, I promise."

He sighs and we disentangle ourselves. We gather up the blanket, the bottle of Bailey's and the kites. He follows me back to my place in his beat up Ford.

Once we are back at my place I begin to fix us something to eat. I fry up some green tomatoes, some turkey bacon and toast several slices of thick homemade potato bread. Once these things are done I melt some provolone cheese onto the bread and add some crisp romaine lettuce. I haven't made "fancy" BLT's, as I call them, since David moved out. I put a very thin layer of honey mustard on mine and a thin layer of regular mayo on Adam's. With the sandwiches, I serve some sweet potato French fries and a small slice of store bought chocolate pie.

I pour us a couple glasses of coconut milk and set the coffee table in front of the couch. Once everything is laid out, I turn on some music and light a couple small candles. I turn out all the lights and then lead Adam to the coffee table where we sit cross-legged across from each other.

"What do you think?" I ask, after he takes a big bite of his sandwich. He smiles while he chews and nods.

"It delicious." He says, once he has swallowed. "Where did you learn this recipe?"

"I made it up." I say, munching on a sweet potato fry. "My ex was tired of the same old, same old. So I started trying to think of things he'd like."

"And he still left you, knowing you could cook like this?" He looks surprised that anyone would leave me on purpose.

"I'm sure his wife can cook just as well as I can. I don't cook very often anymore though. I usually go out to eat."

"Do you miss him?" He asks, putting his sandwich down and looking at me intently.

"Some days, yes. When I wake up alone in the mornings, or when I am doing something that we used to do. On days like that, I miss him more than I could explain."

He nods and takes another bite of his sandwich. I am glad that he doesn't say anything to comfort me. I've had my fill of empty words of sympathy. He does look at me with a sad understanding in his eyes and, every once in a while, he will reach out and stroke my cheek. We enjoy our dinner and then play a game of Scrabble. He beats me, twice. We wash the dishes together and he wipes soap suds all over my face. We laugh and then slow dance in my dining room to a sad Japanese song.

At the end of our evening together, I thank him for everything and give him a kiss goodbye.

"When can I see you again?" he asks.

"Whenever you want to." I say, smiling. For the first time, its a genuine smile. I haven't felt this good since I was with Clark.

"What about my fantasy?" He says, winking at me.

"What do you want?" I ask, leaning against the wall next to the door.

"You dressed up as Princess Leia and me as Han Solo." He looks pointedly at my t-shirt and then back up at my face.

"Leia as Jabba's slave? Or just regular cinnamon roll hair style Leia?" I say, laughing.

"Jabba's slave. Metal bikinis are so sexy, don't you think?" He winks again, kisses me again and waves as he heads down the stairs to the parking lot. I lean against the doorframe and watch him drive off. He waves out the window of his car at me.

I sigh as I close the door. I keep finding nice, understanding, guys who make me wish I could just settle down with them. Maybe I should start trying to pick up jerks? I ponder this as I slip into some fuzzy pajama bottoms and another old t-shirt. I slip into bed, Snuggles jumping up and then curling up beside me.

As I fall asleep, I try to think of where I can go to find a Princess Leia slave girl outfit.

After work I begin my quest to fulfill Adam's fantasy. The outfit turns out to be less difficult to find than I originally thought. I go to the "Theatrics and Time Trips" store downtown where I am able to find the exact outfit for relatively cheap. All the guys in the store look as though they are about to drool as they watch me go to the dressing room to try it on. I laugh, inwardly, at how many of these guys I could get to sleep with me just by stepping out of the dressing room. They all watch as I go up to purchase the outfit and the cashier can barely stammer out my total.

I don't travel far, however. I go to the "Garden of Eden" adult store, down the street, and purchase a collar and chains to complete the outfit. The only thing left to do is style my hair, which I'll wait to do until I have heard from Adam. If he is a typical man, he will wait three or four days to call me. Savoring the sweet agony of waiting. Or, if he can't stand the waiting he'll call me tonight or tomorrow.

On cue, as I am driving home, he calls me.

"Can I see you tonight?" he asks. I can hear the excitement in his voice.

"But I haven't gotten the outfit yet!" I lie, smiling at myself in the rearview mirror.

"You couldn't find one so that we could meet up later?"

"Well, I suppose I might be able to. What time do you want to meet up?" I enjoy dragging it out a little bit.

"Ten like we did last night, if that works for you."

"I suppose that will be alright." I say, sounding a little put out.

"If that doesn't work I can wait until tomorrow, I suppose. I'm just so excited to see you, girl."

I giggle at the wheedling tone in his voice. I am truly wicked. I would never have made David wait, unless I was sick and sometimes not even then. But I have entered a new world where sex can be used as a weapon and I am the one wielding the proverbial whip.

"Well, if you truly don't care, let's wait until tomorrow. I need time to perfect the hairstyle and find a costume." I can hear him suppressing a moan, but he doesn't argue.

"If you want, I can bring dinner." He says. "I'd hate to make you work too hard."

"That would be lovely. I promise to be the perfect slave girl for you."

We don't talk much longer before I arrive home. I carry in my parcels and go into the bathroom to start on my Leia hairstyle. Once I think I have it, I pop in "Return of the Jedi", my favorite out of the original trilogy, and make some popcorn. I curl up on the sofa and lust after Luke and Leia.

I realize, with excited anticipation, I've never done anything like this before. I never dressed up for David. He could never stand for me to be clothed long enough to have dressed up. Clark never expressed any desire for me to play act, either. As to Jahan, she was new to sex as it was, without adding any extra kink to it. I find that I am just as excited by the prospect as I imagine Adam is.

To ease my excited energy, I do several loads of laundry and clean the apartment. I want everything to be perfect for him. I fix some lemon pepper salmon, a small vanilla mocha tiramisu and an artichoke and spinach salad, which I pack up to be re-heated tomorrow. I download the soundtrack to "Star Wars", the original trilogy, to a CD, and make it easily accessible.

With everything prepared I take a bath in rose water and oatmeal. I give myself a manicure/pedicure and I wear an avocado mask to bed. In the morning I wash my face and fix the little spots where my hair came out of its styling during the night. I have a light breakfast of poached eggs and toast. I go to work, feeling a little silly with my hair in Leia fashion, but it can't be helped. It would take to long to fix it after work.

On my lunch hour I call Adam and we agree to meet at my place around seven. When he mentions bringing dinner I tell him that I've already taken care of it. The only thing I ask of him is to come dressed for the part.

Everything is ready when I get home, except for me. I spritz a little sweet perfume all over my body before changing into the outfit. I warm up dinner, turn on the music and complete a few finishing touches. At seven, I am ready for Adam in every sense of the word. I am so excited I feel as though I will jump out of my skin.

I look at the clock at eight and wonder where the hell he is. This is his fantasy, shouldn't he be on time? Or maybe this is part of the fantasy he didn't share?

At nine, I begin to worry, thinking maybe he has been in some sort of accident. I text him, but receive no reply. I try calling, but only get his voicemail.

At ten, I begin to get angry. He could at least have called and told me something else came up. He could've at least done that much. Unless he was in a really bad accident. My feelings switch between anger and worry for this man I've been dating for three days.

At eleven, I give up and put the food back in the fridge. I turn off the music, change out of my outfit and take down my hair. I clean everything up from when I was warming the food and I put away the chains and costume.

At midnight, I fall asleep on the couch; torn between being furious and worried.

At one, I wake up to knocking on my door. Sleepily, I rub my eyes and stumble to the door. I look through the peephole and see Adam leaning against the door with his head down. I can't tell if he is in costume or not. I almost don't open the door, but I am angry enough to want to confront him. I fling the door open so that he stumbles and almost falls into the apartment. As soon as he falls past me I can smell the alcohol on him.

"Where the hell have you been?" I demand, shutting the door.

"I've been waiting to rescue the fair princess." He says, drunkenly. He stumbles and lands face first on the couch. He is dressed in full Han Solo regalia. I stifle the urge to laugh at him. He makes such a comic picture dressed like that and drunker than Winston Churchill. However, I don't know what he is like drunk and the last thing I want is him becoming violent.

"Adam, we were supposed to meet up at seven! It's one in the morning now. Where have you been?"

"I was out with friends." he says, attempting to lift himself off the couch and failing miserably. I help him sit up. When he is upright I see lipstick all over his shirt and his face. On his neck is a mark like a hickey. I suddenly reach a new level of infuriated.

"I have been waiting for you for six hours to fulfill your fantasy and you were out with another woman?"

"Women." He corrects. The man has balls, I'll give him that. I could kill him. I'm surprised that it actually hurts my feelings that he was off cheating on me.

"And were they worth it?" I ask.

"I tried to get away, Abra, I really did." he says, pitifully. Without warning he bursts into tears and is on the floor clinging to my leg. "I'm so sorry, please forgive me. Don't leave me. I couldn't stand it."

"Get off of me." I say, shaking my leg. "You should've thought about all that before you went out with your 'friends'."

He stands up and kisses me sloppily. I pull away and he grabs my arms, pulling me closer to him. He tries to kiss me again, but I move my head so that he grazes my ear. He starts pulling at my clothes and I slap him. This seems to sober him for a moment and he collapses on the couch and begins to sob in earnest.

"Please, Abra, give me a second chance. I promise, it won't happen again. I promise to be faithful. Please, I don't think I can go on if I'm alone again."

"You made your choice, Adam. It's obvious that you weren't actually interested in pursuing a relationship with me or this so-called fantasy. Did you do this just to humiliate me?"

"No, I swear, that wasn't it at all. I promise that I really wanted it. I still do. Please, just give me a second chance."

"I can't believe you are asking me to give you a second chance when you have just shown your true colors. We've been together three days and you couldn't keep yourself from finding another source of company."

With a jarring motion, he comes to his feet and goes toward the kitchen. I follow him asking what he thinks he is doing. He grabs a knife from the drawer and jerks it across his wrist. With a stifled scream I try to grab the knife from his hands, throwing my body between him and the knife. He tries to push me out of the way and makes another stab at himself. I intercept it and receive a small slice on my hand. When the blood pools up, he drops the knife and falls to his knees. I kneel down with him and tear a strip off of my shirt to wrap around his wrist.

The cut isn't deep and quickly the wound begins to scab. Not taking any chances I cleanse it with rubbing alcohol and triple anti-biotic ointment. I then wrap it up and lead him back into the living room. I have put a band-aid on my own cut and we sit very quietly on the couch, his hands in mine.

"Don't ever do that again." I say, quietly. Even I'm not sure which incident I am talking about, but I'd prefer that none of this happen again. He doesn't say anything, just nods. He rests his head on my shoulder and I hum a lullaby to him. It is now two in the morning and I am physically and mentally exhausted. I stand up and I wince when I see him flinch as though I were going to hit him. I hold out my hand to him and pull him up when he takes it.

We go to my room where I help him out of his ruined Han Solo outfit and into a t-shirt and shorts that David left behind and I couldn't stand to get rid of. I put his clothes into the washer and when I come back he is fast asleep. I crawl into bed next to him and sigh heavily.

This is going to be an interesting relationship, though I am sure interesting isn't the right word for it.

Lyrical Madness

I was listening to Maroon 5 (a band that I've liked for a really long time) and thinking about lyrics that I really like/identify with. And this song by them, I think has the most of them. I always think of one particular person when I hear these lyrics. That used to be painful. It still stings, but not like it used to. If that makes any sense.

The lyrics that make me think with this song are:
"Give me something to believe in, 'cause I don't believe in you anymore. Anymore. I wonder if it even makes a difference to try."

To me those are such powerful lyrics. Aren't we all searching for something to believe in? If you can't believe in someone that you love (or used to love) does it make a difference?

I read, once, that Hate is what happens when you have lost all belief/faith in someone. Now, that is not always true, but it is true quite often. Think about it, the people that you hate the most, did you used to love them? Did you used to believe in them, as if they were a God or a myth? I know that I have felt that way before.

This isn't my favorite song by Maroon 5, though I have many that I love by them. I just genuinely enjoy this particular song for the lyrics. And Adam Levine always livens up my mood. ;)

Makes Me Wonder - Maroon 5

A Romeo and Juliet Complex

What is so romantic about Romeo and Juliet? I mean, seriously, why do we think of that as being the epitome of tragic romance? Romeo and Juliet's love is so pure, so innocent, so perfectly tragic.

Is it because they die to be together? Is that something we should strive for? Dying together? It adds a new dimension to "'til death do us part", I suppose. However, that brings me to another question.

Is love worth dying for?
Not that I'm knocking love, because it is great to be in love. I love my husband with everything I have inside of me. And I would die for him. If it came down to his life or mine, I'd gladly give mine up. Because I love him.

But that is a little different than killing yourself for someone, I think.

If Donnie died, I would be devastated. Would I kill myself? Would life be completely and totally without meaning after he was gone from it? I'd like to believe that I would continue living, if only because I know that he would want me to. I know that he wouldn't want me to end my life, just because he was gone. Besides that, it is such a waste of life.

Suicide in general, is such a waste of life. I'm not saying that to be harsh. I understand, better than most, the thoughts and the terrible anguish that can often drive one to committing what the Catholics call "the unforgivable sin." But suicide is selfish as well, even if you think you are doing it for the "right reason" (not that there are any 'right reasons' for killing yourself).

And speaking of selfishness, is it selfish to continue living when the person you were madly and truly in love with passes on? Is it selfish to want to continue to live when that person is gone?

Shakespeare was a genius, I will give him that. He created the perfect story, one that still has power after so many years. But the power is more in that we misinterpret it.

Yes, Romeo and Juliet were in love. Yes, they killed themselves to be together.

But Romeo was just "in love" with another girl. Rosalind. And Juliet is thirteen, what the hell does she know about love? I guess, even though it is one of my favorite plays, Romeo and Juliet are really just two teenagers who have an instant attraction to one another. So much so that they decide to get married. Which is really stupid, considering that Juliet is engaged. And not to Romeo.

Then, because Romeo kills Juliet's cousin (which, I don't know about you, but that would kill any romance for me. If Donnie killed one of my cousins I'd be damn upset!) he gets banished. This is where Juliet should've come clean. She doesn't, pretends to be dead and then ends up really dead after Romeo thinks she's dead and offs himself.

To be fair though, Juliet's dying monologue is beautifully written and one of my favorite passages from the play.

"What's here? A cup closed in my true love's hand?
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end.
O churl! Drunk all, and left no friendly drop to help me after? I will kiss thy lips.
Haply some posion yet doth hang on them to make me die with a restorative.
Thy lips are warm!
Yea, noise?
Then I'll be brief.
O happy dagger!
This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die."

It is a beautiful and tragic play. Teenaged love, murder, suicide, secret weddings and ridiculous family feuds.

I have rambled enough, I think. I never did actually answer my own question... Why do we think that Romeo and Juliet is romantic? I don't know.

Because we think that it is true love? Because we think there is nothing purer than the love two star-crossed lovers (aka: stupid teenagers) have for each other? Something to think about, I guess.

It Gets Better

In April (the 13th to be specific), I posted a blog called "September's Children" (you can link to it here: http://saraicrazyblog.blogspot.com/2011/04/septembers-children.html?zx=7d1cbeb70cf8bf40) about young adults and children who killed themselves because of being tormented by their peers for being homosexual/bisexual/transgendered/etc. I also posted a song by a group called Rise Against called "Make it Stop (September's Children)". At the time there was no official video for the song, but I wanted to post it anyway because of the powerful message of the song itself.

Today I was on Facebook (a terrible addiction, by the way) and saw that Fergie (I "like" her on Facebook) had posted a link to the video, because Rise Against is her label-mate. Obviously I had to go and watch it. Unfortunately my computer is slow as hell some days (especially in the afternoon because it is a community connection through our apartment complex), so I settled for downloading it and then watching. And I was blown away.

The song is powerful all on its own. The lyrics pack a proverbial punch without any added imagery, really. For example, the line: "What God would damn a heart? What God drove us apart?" For me, the impact of these statements are staggering. Growing up in church, I was taught that Homosexuality was wrong. As a young woman, I finally admitted to my own tendencies toward Bisexuality. My attraction to women has been around for quite some time, if I admit it to myself. I have always been curious and I've always known in a way. I just never admitted it to myself. Or anyone else for that matter.

Then I saw the video and what I thought couldn't be a more powerful message astounded me by being even more powerful when packed with visual imagery, rather than mental imagery.

I started thinking about all the injustices committed against those who choose to love someone. It's like Love is a dirty word. Love isn't about "Love", it is about what looks good. Its about what makes other people happy. Its about not offending someone. It offends someone's grandmother that a beautiful boy is kissing another beautiful boy, rather than a beautiful girl. It offends some "pastor" that a young black (Asian, Arab, Indian, etc.) man wants to marry a young white girl. It gets under someone's skin that a young woman loves an older man. All the terrible names, all the murders, the suicides, all the hate, because two people can't possibly love each other. What a sin! Heaven forbid that we LOVE one another. Heaven forbid that we actually follow what the Bible says.

That is something I hate more than anything, too. Christians (and Muslims, Hindus and any other religious group) are good at picking what they agree with in the Bible (or whatever religious tome) and ignoring everything else. People like Pat Robertson (I bitch about him a lot, I know, but he gets under my skin SO MUCH) claim the verse "Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination." (King James Version; Leviticus chapter 18, verse 22). They also follow that verse with this one (also found in Leviticus 18, verse 29) "For whosoever shall commit any of these abominations, even the souls that commit them shall be cut off from among their people." There are also many verses in Deuteronomy that suggest stonings and the such for people who don't follow the laws of the Lord.

Now here is where things get a little sticky. Jesus said, "A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another. By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another." (John 13:34-35)

He also said, "And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." (Matthew 22:39)

Jesus and God are the same person. Ask almost any Christian and you will be told that God is God, Jesus is God and the Holy Spirit is God. God the father, God the son and God the Holy Ghost. So, if Jesus is God and He said to "Love thy Neighbour", we should be following that right? Something my mother used to always say to me was "Love the sinner, hate the sin." Which I think sums up what Jesus was trying to say. Except one problem, God said that those who disobey Him are to be punished with death, exile, etc. So which do we follow? Well obviously we SAY that we should love our neighbours. Of course, if they are gay, black, Muslim, et cetera, then forget that.

Another thing, and this isn't a religious based question, isn't America supposed to be the land of the free? ("One Nation Under God, I feel its love like a cattle prod" That is another line from the song that comes to mind.)Isn't America supposed to be Equal? All Human Beings were made equal in the Eyes of God. Isn't that what America stands for? We are Equal, we are United. Unless, of course, you are African-American, Muslim, Homosexual, Asian, Catholic, Jewish, Women or we just don't like your face. In which case, we are NOT equal or united. United we could stand, Divided we will fall.

I spit in my brother's face because he is different and he spits in mine, is that equality? Is that what men like Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. died for? Is that what the men and women serving in Iraq have died for? Are we only free when we are white and boring? Seriously? Who wants to be a clone? Who wants everyone to be the same? Our differences are what makes us US! Who are we if not ourselves?

I am proud to be a Young, Deist, Bisexual, Varied Woman! I am proud to be who I am, in spite of what everyone says I should be. I am proud to Love whoever I choose to love, in spite of who everyone says I should. I am proud to say and do whatever I want to, not what I am told I should and should not say and do.

In that spirit, I now present the official video for "Make it Stop (September's Children)" by Rise Against. Thanks for reading my rant (or at least for watching the video, since I know that was a wall of text).

Escaping Reality

Here is another great IU student film produced by my friend Nick and starring my friends Phil and Eric. I really love the fuzziness of the film (you'll understand what I mean when you watch it) transition into the clearness of reality.

I think it is also a great depicition of Alcoholism and the effects of attempting to avoid reality, but I think you will understand it better when you watch it. Enjoy!

September's Children

September's Children is the name currently given to several young men who committed suicide last September because of anti-gay bullying.

The youngest of these was Seth Walsh, 13. He was bullied relentlessly by fellow students who continously called him a fag, a queer, a homo. He tried to commit suicide by hanging in his backyard. The attempt was unsuccessful and he was discovered. However, enough damage had been done that he lived just 9 days on life support, before finally passing away.

Another was Tyler Clementi, 18. He jumped from the George Washington Bridge after his roommate and another "hallmate" at his school released two videos of him in sexual encounters with other men. His body was found a week later.

Billy Lucas, 15, also committed suicide because of anti-gay bullying at his school. He hung himself in his family's barn in Indiana. He had been told that he was nothing and that he should just kill himself.

There are many, too many, young men and women who have been lost to us because they were Homosexual or Bisexual or Transgendered and were bullied. Or bashed. Not all of them have been lost to suicide. Some have been lost to murder or have simply disappeared.

How many children and young adults must turn to suicide before something is done to help? How many of our future leaders, doctors, scientists, actors and liberators have to die before their time for us to realize that we have a real problem?

And who is teaching our children to hate? Who is showing them that violence is the right thing to do? Adults who have no respect for life, who are prejudiced and full of venom. Adults who claim that homosexuals who get married is what will destroy the constitution of marriage. And those same adults who say that are marrying and divorcing and fucking around with people that they aren't married to. But somehow, homosexuality is going to destroy the institution of marriage! Christians, like Pat Robertson, who speak for intolerance and practically preach murder when they speak of homosexuality.

How are they supposed to learn any different? Hate is taught. Hate is learned. We do not come into this world with hate, though we leave this world with it raging through our veins.

In honor of all those who have died during the struggle to be counted as equals.

Circle the Drain

Music
I love this song, it is so poignant and beautifully done. Katy Perry does such an amazing job conveying the anger and sadness that are key to this type of song. However, the video is a little weird, because she doesn't have an official video and I had to make due with what YouTube has to offer.



News
Haunted Mattress, cue "Nightmare on Elm Street" music.
http://www.worcesternews.co.uk/news/8825676.BALLOT__My_haunted_mattress_keeps_me_up_all_night/

A man who had committed suicide in his car was not discovered until recently due to heavy amounts of snow.
http://www.nydailynews.com/ny_local/2011/02/01/2011-02-01_car_buried_in_snow_for_week_hid_suicide.html

A Virgin Mary statue may or may not be crying in a book shop in Ohio. Jesus in tears as well.
http://www.newsnet5.com/dpp/entertainment/weird_news/visitors-to-reading-shop-say-virgin-mary-statue-is-crying1296564961621

and...

A 21 year old model is being prosecuted for brutally murdering a man almost 3 times his age. Also, horrible penile mutilation.
http://www.azcentral.com/news/articles/2011/02/01/20110201new-york-hotel-castration-case.html

I will Scream.

This blog is about Twilight. I thought I had posted a blog about this topic before, but apparently not on here or anywhere else. Hmm. Anyway, the reason for this is because I am tired of people comparing Romeo and Juliet to Twilight. So here, is my little rant on that. Enjoy.

RANT

First of all Shakespeare was a literary GENIUS. He added thousands of words to the English language, created a story for almost every genre known to mankind and is still one of the most widely read authors of our time.

Secondly, Romeo and Juliet (being one of my favorite Shakespeare plays) is about love at first sight. Not meeting someone who breaks into your bedroom at night to watch you sleep and is always bringing up the fact that he can (and wants to) eat you. Also, Juliet has a life independent of Romeo. She is the daughter of a leader, she is supposed to marry someone else when she falls, tragically, in love with Romeo. There is a whole story besides Romeo and Juliet's love interest in one another.

Thirdly, whilst Romeo may show some signs of stalking (I can admit that he does go looking for her), it isn't out and out stalking. And they get married and then realize how flawed that plan was. In the end they kill themselves for love and everybody is better for it. If "Twilight" was anything like Romeo and Juliet, then Edward and Bella would die and the rest of us would feel much better and could continue on with our lives.

Unfortunately, Stephenie Meyer decides to go and ruin the entire Vampire genre with someone who sparkles and reads minds, but can't read Bella's mind at all (which is never explained) who is also bipolar and manic-depressive. Bram Stoker is turning in his grave as we speak. Then to add insult to injury she can't even keep his hair color straight. That's right, I went there. She says he has bronze hair one moment (which is brown and gold), red-brown the next and red-gold after that. None of those colors are alike except that two of them have brown and two of them have gold. There are other such cases through out the books where she incorrectly calls something one thing and then calls it another, sometimes in the same sentence.

So again, I would like to point out the following:

Vampires do not sparkle (I know they aren't real, but there is mythology that she could've researched and did not). I could understand if she gave some explanation as to why Edward is different, but she doesn't. EVER. He doesn't explain why he isn't burnt up in the sunlight or why he doesn't turn into a bat or anything else. I refer you to Christopher Pike's "Thirst No.1 and No.2" for reference on explaining what you are changing about the mythology and why.

It is not only breaking and entering to break into Bella's house every night for a month and watch her sleep, but it is also considered stalking.

Controlling where she goes and what she does is abuse. Making her feel guilty for feeling certain ways or doing certain things is abuse. Breaking her car so she can't leave is abuse. Abandoning her is abuse. Need I go on?

Romeo and Juliet was created by a literary Genius and Twilight was created by a lonely woman who wanted to create a fantasy for herself. And then wrote it very poorly.

Girl's Best Friend

Marilyn Monroe is my hero. I love her and would definitely go completely LESBIAN for her. She is my idol, my confidante in spirit and surprisingly quite a bit like me too. I am completely in love with her, I really am. Anyway, that is why today's video is "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" by the one and the only Marilyn Monroe. Enjoy!



Other non-Marilyn related items are now being presented.

A man is under arrest for soliciting sex from a girl he thought was 13. Turns out he used to be a police officer. Oops.
http://www.wlwt.com/news/23091711/detail.html

A teenager is suing a County in Washington for placing her in the custody of her sex offender grandfather. She was subjected to incestuous abuse for 10 years.
http://abcnews.go.com/US/teen-sues-county-put-custody-sex-offender-grandfather/story?id=10323185

A man gets shot in the leg trying to help is friend move.
http://www.wqad.com/news/sns-ap-ia--iowa-accidentshooting,0,5086821.story

An adopted Russian child was sent BACK to Russia, ALONE. Now Russia is wanting to close all international adoptions with the US. Why was the child sent back you might ask? Well he apparently drew a picture of the house burning and stated he would burn it down one day. Not only that, but apparently he was "violent and had severe psychological problems". This is not the first adoption from Russia gone wrong. Three children adopted from Russia into the US later died.
http://www.aolnews.com/story/adoption-freeze-urged-after-boy-returned/980093

Apparently its okay for Vegans to eat Oysters. Um, wait, what?
http://www.slate.com/id/2248998/

Extreme Tourist? I am confused
http://blogs.mcclatchydc.com/kabul/2010/04/extreme-tourist-uses-white-rap-to-woo-afghans.html

Emma Craigie has written a book about a little girl killed by her parents in a Nazi bunker. Great for anyone who loves history!
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/7568799/Last-days-of-Hitlers-favourite-little-girl.html

A man falls 30 ft. to save a young woman from a suicide attempt. Shatters both arms, but will live.
http://www.philly.com/philly/news/breaking/90216492.html?cmpid=15585797

A woman has her son ARRESTED for stealing $7,000 worth of her jewelry. Did I mention he was 7 years old and trying to impress a little girl in his class?
http://www.upi.com/Odd_News/2010/04/08/Boy-arrested-for-taking-moms-jewelry/UPI-71851270761709/

Rare Meat Allergy appears in Stockholm!
http://www.thelocal.se/25968/20100408/

Katie Washington of Gary Indiana becomes Notre Dame University's FIRST African-American Valedictorian
http://www.wbbm780.com/She-s-Notre-Dame-s-first-black-valedictorian/6768258

Students on an Indiana campus are being warned about a butt-slapping bicyclist. Yep, some guy on a bike is slapping female behinds.
http://www.wbbm780.com/Students-warned-on-Ball-State-bicycling-buttocks-s/6768543

And now, as a special treat, Articles dedicated to the beauty of Male Genitalia.

Police take a man's four-foot penis, claiming it causes public distress. I wonder if that is public FEMALE distress?
http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/820845-police-seize-four-foot-penis

A teenager gives his parents the best surprise ever! A painting of a GIANT PENIS ON THEIR HOUSE!!
http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/594257-teens-giant-penis-surprise-for-parents

In Bhutan the Penis is like a superhero. It is here to save the day!
http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/390413-giant-painted-penis-fights-evil

Global warming is detrimental to the environment. Or your penis. *giggle*
http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/304450-giant-ice-penis-is-climate-change-to-blame

And lastly, Massive Inflatable Penis Man helps save men from themselves! Prostate Exam Powers ACTIVATE!
http://www.metro.co.uk/weird/757854-look-son-its-a-massive-inflatable-penis

That's all folks!
Sarai