Rescue

"I don't know what you mean," I sniffed, clutching my books tighter to my chest. "I have plenty of fun. I merely prioritize."

"Bull crap. When was the last time you really just went out and partied?"

The blond smirked at me, his green eyes sparkling. I tried not to lean back to appreciate the way his jeans slouched or the artistic articulation of his fingers. They weren't going to have changed since the last time I looked.

"Last week," I lied. "I went dancing."

Assisting with Cotillion counted as dancing, right? Did it matter that it had been with a sixth grader?

"Right," he chuckled. "And then you went home at eleven and brushed your teeth and put on flannel pajamas and shared your bed with your dog."

He shifted so that he was more beside me than across from me, leg extended in my direction. I couldn't help but admire the way his jeans hit his shoes - damn it, eyes up!

"Seriously, delicaie, I mean real, full-out partying where you fall into bed at dawn, giggling, not concerned with so much as scraping your makeup off. When was the last time you did that?"

I shifted my weight to my other foot, even though it meant leaning into my book-bag, and re-tucked a strand of hair that was already behind my ear.

"Um, never," I admitted.

He grinned. I gulped and bit my lip to disguise the need to lick my lips.

"Exactly. So come on - a bunch of us are going out this Saturday: dinner, a film screening, and then salsa dancing. You should come."

I hesitated.

His green eyes softened.

"Come on. Let me rescue you from your tower."

And, against my better judgment...

"Okay, fine. What time?"

Finding the Mummy

I find significance in small details. You might say that's my vice. It certainly causes me to over-think things from time to time, but I'd like to think that it's saved me a time or three, too.

But you can't prove anything by events that have not occurred. The world has drowned (and exploded and frozen and burned) in billions of those.

So maybe those little details that I find so significant (but may actually not be significant at all) haven't so much saved me as preserved me. My details make me a mummy, not Horus.

That's an image.

Maybe I'm a mummy, organs plucked out by the instruments of reason, and sarcophagus decorated with details and a well made-up funeral mask.

The Claustrophobic Impasse

I used to be someone else entirely.

That was before I fixed it, of course, but it remains that a different person had this body before I did.

Pixie-cropped red hair, straight nose, calm brown eyes and freckled limbs, petite and pale, a perpetual half-smile on thin lips in a concise visage, nothing wasted but for her. Mademoiselle Nowhere, a girl of early autumn trees by mid-winter creeks. She liked to wear dark colors, practical jeans and tees.

I myself prefer to wear the rainbow, greens and oranges and yellows and ceruleans. I am the city in the spring, and I'm never going out into the countryside again. Let her rot there.

Sometimes it's difficult. It's hardest whenever I'm with him. He knows she's gone, but he doesn't see that as a good thing. He keeps trying to find her, even as he takes advantage of the things she'd never do.

I only ever see winter when he looks at me, wanting to see her, and I'm not sure if that's his fault for not searching well enough or my fault for wanting to make him smile. I don't understand it; I should just walk away.

I remember the first day after I fixed it. He came over to check on her, worry planted in the furrows of his brow. He blinked when I opened the door.

"What are you wearing?"

"A dress," I answered.

He stepped inside and sideways.

"Why?"

I smiled from beneath the lashes, the body objecting to the then unfamiliar contortion of muscle.

"Don't you like it?"

I saw him set her aside as he smiled with relief.

"As long as you're okay."

He had never asked.

Another time, he wanted to talk about how she was.

"Do you remember that one time we went hiking and came across a group of Wiccans in the nude? You were so embarrassed!"

I eyed him from the corners, knowing he wanted her reaction, her frozen creek-country mentality. I wanted him to want my sky-scraping sunshine. But neither of us would get it; the only thing either of us has is the body.

"In retrospect, those were some seriously sexy witches. I'd ride a few of those broomsticks." I cut at us.

He blushed with disgust, closing himself off.

I finished the thought for him and rolled out of bed. I didn't take the sheet.

The blush changed nature.

I watched him in the mirror as I pulled on a red miniskirt, turquoise leggings, and a purple cami. If his foot could reach his head, he might've tried kicking himself.

It is never so hard as when he looks at me.

I catch him staring at me all the time, lower lip caught between his teeth. The expression on his face always twists around my stomach, and I want to hide. Usually I stretch instead - slowly, purposefully. I pretend I don't see the way his breath catches and stops before shuddering back out.

I asked him what he was looking for once.

We were walking in the hallway, and we passed what used to be her locker, outside the Environmental Science classroom. His stride got off as his gaze went from the dented navy metal back to the face. I let it go for a moment or three.

"What are you hoping to see?" My tone pulled tight at the ends.

His eyes went wide as he realized he was staring and mentally chastised himself for the guilty act.

"N-nothing, really."

I didn't press for the truth. We didn't speak again until we got to my sunny yellow locker in the French department, and then only to say good-bye.

Now I make sure to stretch extra slowly, and to make the fabric of my dress fall so that it drapes every curve, determined to give him something that's there to see.

He won't see her after all. He can't.

But he keeps trying.

"Rhea-" he started.

"Myra," I corrected.

He exhaled through his teeth before he continued.

"Myra. What happened that night at Cara's party-"

"Ooh, look!" I squealed, "Miu Miu has a new line of shoes out!"

"Rhea." His hand caught the arm before I could even leave the tile walkway and I turned to look at him, feeling the jaw take an obstinate set. He would not make me feel guilty.

"My name is Myra."

We glared at each other, trapped in the same claustrophobic impasse. Tinny music that would have sounded full and dance-able anywhere else surrounded us, water flowing around rocks in a creek. His brow hung heavy with exasperation and determination and, despite my necessary defiance, I almost reached out the free hand to smooth away his scowl.

Fortunately, he gave in before I could, and I won.

His hand drifted off the arm and he looked away, having failed to see again.

"Why do you want to be called that now, anyway? You always loved your name before."

I blinked at the mention of her. Maybe I hadn't won as completely as I thought. But then, I don't think I can ever win completely.

"Myra's easier," I answered, starting to walk again, my heels drowning out the music. "People can accept it as it is, without trying to change it."

I could hear the frown in his footsteps, just a few paces behind me.

"Oooh, look! Jezebel bustiers! I simply can't have too many of these!"

I knew the way he was blushing and the way he was still frowning, even grimacing, without turning to see. It is a familiar scene.

It hurts nearly as much as it satisfies, victory in defeat, or defeat in victory - I'm not sure which. I'm considering naming Pyrrhus my patron saint, just for moments like those.

We were watching March Madness, he and I and a few friends. Our choice team was just barely winning, but he managed to tear himself away to go get more chips and soda. The girl who had become his best friend in her absence went with him.

I cheered as the point guard made a fantastic layup, jersey in white billows with his motion, and then groaned as he came down hard on his ankle with a lurid wince. The television cut to commercial as medics led him off the court.

I pulled myself off the couch to go commiserate over the event with him. We probably had little chance of winning now, even if there was a relatively decent replacement for the player.

"I just don't know what to do, Ami!" His voice rang from the kitchen, shrill, not the man's tones I was accustomed to.

I should have just gone in then, broken up the conversation, or walked away; that would have been the smart thing to do. But instead I stopped, and I listened.

"But aren't you happy now?" I heard her ask, earnest, sincere. "You've been in love with her for I-don't-dare-say-how-long, and now you're dating her. She's yours now. Yours. You don't have to pretend to be happy being her best friend, watching her pine after that asshole."

"I know!" I could hear his hand gripping the back of his neck, fingers flexing, trying and failing to calm the emotions he did not fully comprehend. "I know, Ami. That's just it, though."

Something tightened in the chest, and I had to focus in order to breathe through a choking nausea. I should have just walked away.

"She's... different," he continued. "Everyone knows she is. Ever since-"

"Yes, ever since that party. But I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing."

I closed the eyes. No, it wasn't a bad thing. I had fixed it.

"She seems fine, and I think it helped her to realize what's important to her: you. Not him. Nothing happens without a reason, and I believe the reason for that awful night was to show her how much she cares about you."

I winced.

"But she doesn't care about me!"

I almost laughed at the vehemence in his voice, the bitter sound bubbling through the nausea in the throat like poisoned champagne. It would be so much easier if either of the two were right.

"She changed her name, Ami! She won't do anything she used to do anymore, none of the things that we loved! All she cares about is appearances and sex and pretending! I'm just her toy. Rhea, the real Rhea, wasn't like that! She loved people, loved the world!" His voice feathered out to a hoarse whisper. "She loved me, even if she loved him more. I miss Rhea, Ami. This Myra is just a body."

The eyes snapped open, the pulse roaring in the ears as adrenaline hit the system. Her memories overlaid with the echo of his words. I may have made a small sound, but neither he nor Ami heard it.

Just a body, his voice resounded in my head.

He thinks I'm just a body.

I wrapped the arms around the mid-section, trying to squeeze her out and keep myself in. I couldn't breathe and it took serious effort not to let tears spill over and ruin my makeup. I wouldn't let him, him and his infernal dissatisfaction with what I had fixed ruin my makeup.

Just a body.

The only thing worthwhile about you is that body of yours, "that asshole"'s voice taunted me from her recollections.

I burned, bile coating the tongue, the nails digging into the lower ribs.

I should have just walked away, but I stood there as he and Ami kept talking, clinking bowls and crinkling bags as they moved around the kitchen.

Just a body.

That memory is like being dumped in a creek, feeling ice scraping over my soul, drawing blood that will not run until much later. No, that's not right: the knowledge that he loves her but will never love me is the ice slicing and abrading my skin - the memory of his words is the aforementioned later.

I went back and sat on the couch, smiling for our friends, and listened as the announcer discussed the second-string point guard with mingled disappointment and hope. A few minutes later, he and Ami returned, laden with popcorn and Baked Lays and Cheetos, and he sat down beside me, slinging one arm around the shoulders.

I held myself stiffly, only tolerating his touch as he only tolerates me.

By the end of the game, I'd melted into him, absorbing his body heat, taking comfort from him for the damage another had inflicted on her, but that he'd all-too-eagerly shared with me.

It is a hard and bitter truth that, despite everything I want to be and everything he wants to see, the only thing either of us has is the body.

Contest Winnings, Belatedly Reported

On December 31, 2010, "Aftermath" won second place under the pen name Sarah Darling. Steward House says that the piece is a "conversational discussion of trauma." The review further highlights sentence structure, noting that I'll "ruminate on a sentiment only to reflect on it anew with a paragraph break and pithy one-liner that catches the reader under the ribs."

On January 28, 2011, "The Claustrophobic Impasse" took first place. Looking back, this is my weirdest piece yet. I'm not even entirely sure how I managed to write it. But the placement speaks for itself - the review is simply icing. Steward House calls it "intense," "complex," "deft," and "subtle."

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter Two, Draft 7

"Carnelia Bellis?"

"Here," I replied, my mind much more on scoping out my classmates than on the ritual mutilation of names.

Kayla had cut her hair over the summer, perhaps looking to cut ties with that guy from the private school she'd just broken up with. Rena Dalton seemed to be over her split with Zachary Hicks, and looking to move on, judging by the way she was eyeing Cameron Kilburn. That'd be a mess for me to deal with in terms of Zachary, but good on Rena! Cameron would be so much better for her than Zachary ever was.

Then again, even Elec would be better for Rena than Zachary ever was.

Thank God, the public usage dildo didn't actually seem to be in this class, contrary to what Matthew had (claimed to have) heard.

"Elec Jonquil?"

"Here," the incubus himself sang out as he sailed through the door, flashing Ms. Ferrous a cocky grin. "Sorry I'm late, ma'am."

Damn. It.

Ms. Ferrous pursed her lips disapprovingly, but made no move to put him back out in the hall, pointing him instead toward an empty seat - right next to me.

You're probably familiar with the saying "fight or flight." What you probably don't know is that it's misleading. There are actually three different instinctive responses to danger, the first of which is to freeze in the hopes that the Big Bad won't notice you. That's why the deer will stand petrified in the headlights rather than bound off the road or bite the car. It's also a major reason why human beings tend to find themselves in awful/awkward situations.

Situations like having to sit next to Elec Jonquil for an hour and a half every day for the next 180 days of the school year. Let's see... 90 times 180 equals roughly... 16,200 minutes of hell.

Okay, a little bit less since he was late today.

All because, instead of raising my hand and telling Ms. Ferrous that I'm allergic to man-whores or just getting up and moving to a different seat, I froze.

And Elec, all six-feet, blond, muscled, demonic, three-inches of him, sat down next to me.

He even had the nerve to smile.

I glared at him, and his smile widened.

I flicked my gaze back to the other students. If I ignored him, he'd go away, much like syphilis.

"Miss me, 'Nelia?"

Exactly like syphilis.

I let my eyes roam over the walls of the lab, assessing the posters with a mind to the implications for the class. They were all somber colors, spread liberally about the room, stacked double and over-lapped. Few pictures and lots of words indicated that Ms. Ferrous was strict task-mistress and tended to lecture. I mentally added 30 minutes of studying to my homework to compensate for my visual learning style; I don't do well when lots of words fly at me, and I'd need the extra book time to get a top-shelf A.

"Pssst! 'Nelia!"

I gritted my teeth.

"Cara Zapping," Ms. Ferrous concluded, almost not pausing to recognize the tall blonde's "here" before moving on to distributing a set of green papers.

I accepted my sheaf and pretended to peruse it.

A kick rocked my desk.

"Carne-e-e-e-elia...."

AP Chemistry Syllabus, I read, 2nd block, Jean Ferrous.

I jerked as someone (guess whom) jabbed me in the ribs.

"What?" I hissed, determined to feed him his teeth.

"Hey," he drawled.

I turned my head to slit my eyes at him, my jaw jutting forward.

He was reclining in his desk, his long jean-clad legs at full length. His large hands laced behind his blond curls in a typical male power pose that highlighted his pecs and triceps simultaneously. His red "I bite" t-shirt practically caressed his broad shoulders and chest. His lips pulled to one side in a self-possessed smirk. His green eyes met mine.

"You managed to fight your need to stare at me for an entire two minutes. You've improved your time considerably."

Arrogant prick.

"That's because the novelty of your misfortunate appearance is wearing off," I replied loftily. "Unfortunately, the same cannot be said of the repugnance of your personality."

"Unfortunate, indeed," Elec replied, unfazed in the least, smile-smirk still in place, "Then you'd be out of excuses for denying your deep and abiding love for me, and then you'd be al-l-l-l mine."

I snorted.

"If you remove both of those items, there is no you and thus no yours. Come again soon." I began to turn back to face my desk, but paused. "On second thought - don't."

He grinned, and his arms dropped down to his desk and his legs pulled in as he leaned toward me.

"I'll let that little Freudian slip go, delicaie," he whispered, his low voice sliding under Ms. Ferrous's explanation of the syllabus (when had she started talking?) with ease. "What classes do you have this semester?"

I returned my gaze to the front of the classroom, where our esteemed teacher had pulled up an itinerary for the grading period on the SmartBoard and was going over it item by item, but left my body shifted into the aisle, leaving the conversation open.

"Afraid I'm going to pull farther ahead of you in class rank?" I taunted, my volume matching his, although, I fear, with much less effect. "I can't go much further up than number one, M. Numbre Deux."

"I'm absolutely terrified," Elec replied, not sounding so in the least. "But mostly, I just want to know how long each day I'll have the combined privileges of drinking your venom and gazing at your gorgeous... face."

I nearly gagged. Did he really think such transparent comments worked on girls?

I considered his popular status as school sex-god, and decided that, yes, he did think they worked, and perhaps the misconception was not entirely unjustified.

"Shove it through your heart, Elec," I whispered. "That comment doesn't even warrant me doing it for you. I've got French 4 Honors, this class, English 4 Honors with the Cane, and then Critical Analysis. If God loves me, this is the only class where you'll get your privileges."

I carefully made a note to set up an appointment as Ms. Ferrous pointed out that her desk was near the door and that all makeup work should be directed there within three days of any absence unless other arrangements were made with her. She probably already had my paperwork, but I found teachers were always more understanding about the side effects of my

condition when I spoke with them personally before they saw them first hand.

Warm breath tickled my ear and I jumped.

The infernal incubus chuckled.

"You and I aren't in the jurisdiction of the God of which you speak, Carnelia, so don't take it personally that I get privileges for the rest of the day, for the rest of the semester."

My face went slack.

I slowly rotated my head to stare at him, eyes wide.

He sat back in his chair, a satisfied smirk looking right-at-home-and-very-comfortable-thank-you-ever-so-much on his angular face.

"Come again soon, delicaie, and that's no Freudian slip."

Carnelia Bellis, Chapter One, Draft 10

If I had it my way, I would grow up to be Joss Whedon.

Of course, that isn't going to happen. For several reasons, not the least of which is that I'm female while Joss is packing penis. Plus, it's just one of life's ironic duhs that one can never become one's hero. Not unless you are your own hero, but narcissism is not a sin most of us like to admit to.

But I would like to grow up to make movies, tv shows, books, scripts, phenomena like Joss does. I want to make people laugh, make them think, poison their entertainment with education. Or maybe it's the other way around.

Whatev. It doesn't really matter, because my future does not lay in the film industry. I've got a destiny - and it's not even something as cool as being a Slayer! Or a slayerette, or a Watcher, or a Champion of the PTB (that would be the Powers That Be, for those of you not current on your Angel Acronyms). No, my destiny fucking sucks - literally and figuratively!

Sorry. I'm jumping ahead of myself. Last I checked, narrative was supposed to be clock-bound. So, I'll start way back when I was... well, not normal, but at least not aware that I stick out like a stripper's hips. Or even of how much a stripper's hips actually stick out.

~*~

"Carnelia!"

I turned, grinning.

"Tamara! Hey, girl! Happy hell-bound day!"

My best friend laughed, snaking her arm around my waist.

"You bitch!" she giggled. "Don't remind me that we actually have to go in there."

I laughed, tugging at my Dr. Horrible messenger bag to let my skirt tumble down from where it had become bunched.

Tamara let go and I got my first good look at her outfit.

Most would have been screaming "faux pas!" in a frilly, lime green skirt with a handkerchief hem and a lavender off-the-shoulder top, but Tamara, with her ultra curvy build, pale Indian skin, and wild mane of curls, managed to pull it off. Of course, she knows her unique fashion situation intimately, and carefully cultivates her outfits to underscore that she's the only one who can wear them. Let's not even get started on her exercise routine and parasol collection.

"Nice," I acknowledged with a nod. "Properly festive."

She scanned me and pursed her lips.

Obligingly, I rotated on the spot.

I had chosen to wear a simple tea-length paisley print skirt in purples and pinks, paired with a black graphic tee emblazoned with the burgundy-pink slogan, "Love me! (Then I'll bite you.)" A black lace choker, oversized pastel moon and star earrings and pink satin with black lace mules finished the ensemble. I had made a special effort for the occasion.

"Hm," she muttered. "A little heavy on the season four Willow for my taste, but it'll do."

I stuck my tongue out at her.

All my outfits are a little heavy on the season four Willow for Tamara's taste.

We linked arms and strolled into the outer courtyard.

"'Nelia-bell! Tamara!" James waved from our traditional spot by the fountain, looking extremely odd with bleached tips on his spiked brown hair.

I dumped my bag on the ground before giving him a hug.

He turned to hug Tamara too, but she stopped him with an outstretched index finger.

"No. Not until you either give up on the peroxide or go full Spike. This half-ass look is not working."

His smile crumpled into a pout.

"Carnelia thinks it's cool!" he claimed defensively. "Isn't that right, 'Nelia?"

I deliberately looked elsewhere.

"He-ey! Just because my name's James doesn't mean I have to look like Marsters!" he protested.

"More's the pity," I murmured, grinning wickedly.

"Yeah, you could start with something better than the hair," Tamara finished, correctly interpreting my thoughts.

James folded his lanky arms across his still boyish chest.

"You guys are bitches," he complained.

I kissed him on the cheek.

Matthew came up as James blushed desperately.

"I've got schedules," he announced, unfazed by such inconsequential social conventions as greetings. "'Nelia, you and I have English together third block, but you're on your own for AP Chemistry. Told you you shouldn't have taken it." He flashed a smile before continuing. "James, you and I are golden for band first block, of course, and while 'Nelia is suffering in isolation during second, the rest of us are all partying in AP Bio."

I accepted the printout from him, scanning it for myself. Yay, English with Ms. Cane again this year!

"What about lunch?" Tamara demanded. "We've got to be together for lunch."

"I couldn't tell," Matthew admitted, pushing his glasses back up his nose, the gold rims gleaming against his dark skin. "They mentioned something about having changed some of the classrooms to different lunches."

"Figures," James said bleakly, having finally recovered. "Dragons would eat them if they kept things simple."

"Dragons don't eat demons, silly," Tamara admonished, swatting him with her schedule. "I thought we established that last year when we tried to feed Elec to Ms. Cane."

"The guy's an incubus, not a demon," James argued.

"It's the same thing," I said, rolling my eyes at their antics. "An incubus is a type of demon."

"I don't much give a damn what Elec is," Matthew broke in with a snort. "As long as he's not in any of my classes. Which," he turned to me with a slightly evil gleam in his eye, "I heard he's taking AP Chem."

"Oh, Joss," I breathed. "Please, no."

"Told you you shouldn't have taken AP Chem," he answered.

"You suck," I said earnestly.

"No," he replied much too chipperly, stooping to scoop up his book-bag. "But he does."

The bell rang, sending us all scampering off to class.

Hello junior year - day one.

School Board Meeting

This meeting is like beating one's brains out against a blackboard - no, a whiteboard.

There is not a person in the room who hasn't departed for fidgety-ville, turned his or her attentions to something else, or just plain zoned out. Except for the few people talking at the front of the room, and since I can't see them, I can't say that's a certainty.

Education is an interesting, important, and invigorating aspect of government. You'd never know it from this meeting. It's a stop-action tableau, with blood dripping down a whiteboard.

Assembly Line of Information

Something is going to give, and it won't be too much longer from now. I don't know if this sense of certainty derives from the knowledge of their characters or from the energy I make a point to play with every day.

Something is about to happen.

I just don't know what.

Okay, I know that Mr. Mormon is going to send me a rose on Valentine's Day and that the card will ask me to be his valentine, and in French. I know that I'll have to ask him what he means by 'valentine.' And I know I'll likely have to crush his heart then and there. I know that I'll likely not do it hard enough, because romantic gestures just undo me.

Yes, let's blame it all on that, shall we? I am vulnerable to all manner of unsuitable men because I am a cold rationalist Queen of Swords who melts at the first sign of romance.

I guess I do know a few things.

Not only do I know all those things about the Mormon-Who-Has-A-Crush-On-A-Witch, but I know a few things about the man I once termed a "DJ."

He will make some big romantic gesture on Valentine's Day. He will bug me and flatter me until I agree to see him on Sunday. If (I can't believe I almost wrote 'when') I see him on Sunday, it will not be a date. At best, we'll get coffee, go to a park, and I'll teach him how to salsa.

But what event do these tidbits and tendrils and probabilities add up to?

Ah, I see.

A choice.

Yes, something is going to give.

But, Goddess - what an unfortunate cliche that it'll probably happen on Valentine's Day.

Facts

Facts: It's 9:59 PM. I started a separate entry because these facts do not belong with those truths.

I have the flu and cannot get to sleep.

It's raining outside.

I do not know if I will go to school tomorrow, even though there's a calculus project due on Wednesday and I told Mr. Lord I'd make up those two Hamlet essays.

I know I must really be sick because I didn't mind missing Latin Club Dance Class this evening, and the idea that I may also miss Ballroom and Waltz on Wednesday bothers me only minorly.

I just paused in writing to read a text from Lee.

He and I will probably continue to flirt intensely until one of us meets someone else we like better. Then we won't speak at all until that relationship begins to fall apart. I expect that our flirtation (round whatever-the-hell-it-is-by-now) will be over by February 20.

This has been our pattern more-or-less since before we dated back in July (for an entire three weeks).

It's a weird, entirely pointless dynamic that makes me alternately disgustingly content and disgusted. How teen melodrama can you get?

He does make me smile though, anytime we get to flirting.

You can read all the reasons the entire thing's a horrible idea somewhere else. I've repeated myself far too many times on that subject.

I just paused to read another text from him.

Lee: Lol well i was going to stop by and throw imaginary rocks at ur window ;)

Good Goddess, my head hurts. The fact that I can't really control it at the moment is another indication of how sick I am. I haven't eaten anything I'm allergic to, so Benedryl can't bring the spike down. My immune system simply can't cope with the flu virus and whatever is at the root of my migraine at the same time. I almost can't tell if the nausea is from the flu or the migraine, although reason dictates that it must be the flu - it takes much higher pain levels to tip me over into nausea.

I've noticed that my journals note the fact that I'm ill a lot. I used to think that was an illusion, that I just tend to write more when I'm sick. This theory handily ignores that I write just as much when I'm not sick. My immune system is simply crappy and lets me get sick a lot.

Maybe I can get to sleep now.

You know, I think there may have been one or two truths mixed in with those facts.

Just don't tell the previous entry.

On Journals

My journals are like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I write a little here, a little there, rarely in facts and often so slathered in irony and figurative language that it's nearly impossible to deduce what events (if any) an entry relates. I don't know that I even think in events anymore. (What a pretentious sentiment!) The events are so much less significant than what they represent.

I suppose that's why I don't really "journal," per say.

It's definitely an art form, though. It takes a special eye for detail, a memory that captures what is, to convey day-to-day happenings without prejudice or melodrama. It takes a desire to fulfill the self, without concern for any other reader.

I write for an audience.

I am not so much concerned with facts as I am with truths.

And while you can't have the truth without some facts, nor facts without some truths, they are not the same thing.

This journal (that is, this little red pleather book) has mostly been concerned with facts (or delusions and illusions of facts, but that's a different discussion). It's been about what happened on what day. It reads alternately as boring and pretentious, occasionally both simultaneously.

The entries herein don't mean too terribly much beyond the date they were written because they are not concerned with the truths behind the moments they record.

Now, I suppose I could write down some facts. Stuff I never really set down anywhere else might be good to have on paper.

I don't see too much point in it, though. You'd (the audience I implicitly and explicitly write for) would only have to go through my other "journals" and find the truths that correspond with the facts.

Sounds like great fun, no?

It's all old news anyhow.

After all, check the dates on those older entries. 2008 - 2011? It's a bit of a time lapse, darling. And it's all written down somewhere else anyways, without names or context.

Writing it down in different words, facts without truths, won't make the jigsaw any easier to solve.

A One-Sided Conversation

It's a spectacularly bad idea, you know.

Not because we don't like each other, because that's not the case. We like each other plenty.

Hell, you're a great guy. You smile a lot, get my Monty Python jokes, don't drink or do drugs, and dance exceedingly well. You're quirky and hard-working.

I'm sure you've got a whole list of things you admire in me, too. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this "conversation."

I'm equally sure you've got a whole list of things you want to change in me, too.

That's where we've got our problem.

I'm not a bad person - I'm actually considered extremely morally upright. I work hard, I don't drink, or cheat, or do drugs, and I make a point of trying to send out only good things into the world.

But I'm not Mormon, not even Christian, so you consider me amoral, even immoral, and you'd find it to be your duty to try to "show me the light," or some such silly thing.

My idea of fun does not include being told I'm going to a hell I don't believe in.

I'll resent your attempts to "save" me, and you'll resent my refusal to change. I'll be an embarrassment to you because of my "heathen" ways. You'll begin to feel as though your family is judging you for being with me.

Don't try to tell me that their approval (your family's, your church's, and your God's) is not more important to you than I am. Neither they nor I applaud dishonesty.

And all this strife is even before we bring up the ways that I would inevitably, if unintentionally, attempt to change you.