Twenty Thousand Leagues

Barbara was doing a crossword (6 letter word : “Describes Garfield and Felix”. Easy. FELINE) when the man came through the wall.

She put down the crossword and sighed. Before he could say anything, she said “You aren’t here. So go away. ”

The stunningly handsome man smiled and it was like the sun had just come out from behind the clouds. “If I’m not real, then who are you talking to?”

Barbara picked up her crossword and pointedly ignored the handsome man while she solved it. Four letters,: “Sound of an explosion. ” BOOM. This was getting downright insulting. Where was the challenge?

The handsome man walked over to Barbara and rudely peeked down at her crossword. “7 down. More than angry. That’s easy. IRATE. ”

“I knew that!” said Barbara. But she filled it in anyway.

The handsome man grinned. “See, I knew I could get a reaction. Now that I know we can communicate, let’s sit down and talk. ”

He sat on the love seat opposite the couch, and aimed that sunshine smile at her again.

“Now I know you have every reason to mistrust me and anything else that seems like it can’t be real. You have suffered through a lot of delusions and have every right to reject me outright and kick me out right now. ”

Barbara nodded. “Go on. ”

“But I know you won’t do that, because you sense that I am not like the others. I’m more real than they were. Stronger. And more stable – none of that silly wobbling at the edges. ”

“I hate that. ”

“Trust me, Barbara… I know. So now that you know that I am most likely real, or real enough anyhow, I bet you are wondering who I am and how I got here. ”

Barbara nodded impatiently.

“Well, Barbara, I am your Guardian, and I am here to help you. ”

“Help me with what?”

“We’ll get to that later. For now, all you need to know is that I want what is best for you, and I am here to see to it that you have a happy life. ”

“Sounds too good to be true. ”

“I guess it does. But trust me, I am on the level. ”

Barbara really wanted to trust him. Not simply because he was so good looking and charming. But also because she had gotten sick and tired of her own company, and deep down, she wanted to have someone to talk to for a while.

Knowing this about herself made her even more suspicious of the man.

“So what are you selling?” she said.

“Freedom. ” he said simply. “Now I have to ask you a few questions, Barbara, to make sure we are on the same page. Question Number One : Are you happy here?”

Barbara glanced around her dingy one room apartment with the cheap ratty old wallpaper, old fashioned phone that didn’t work half the time, and dirty dishes in the sink.

“I get by. ” she said guardedly.

“Fair enough. ” said the man. “Question Two : What did you eat for dinner last night?”

“That’s a stupid question. ” she replied. “What difference does it make?”

“Please just answer the questions, Barbara. ”

“Fine!” she said crossly. She thought about it, and nothing came to her. Her face scrunched up in concentration. This shouldn’t be a hard question!

“It’s okay if you don’t remember. ” said the man.

“Oh, I remember all right. You can’t trick me there. It’s just that every day is the same and they all kind of blur together after a while in this place. ”

“Ah yes. This place.  ” said the man, and made a mark on a piece of paper. ” Question Three : how much did a loaf of bread cost the last time that you went grocery shopping?”

“It was… it was… ” She was interrupted by a small ground tremor. “Wow… did you feel that? Felt like an earthquake!”

“Yes. I felt it too. ” said the man. “When was the last time you went grocery shopping, Barbara? Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember! ” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot, you know. It was last… last Thursday, maybe? Or Friday. ”

“Now you’re just guessing, Barbara. The truth is, you don’t remember ever going to the grocery store, do you? ”

This time the whole room shook. She sat there, tall and proud, giving  away nothing.

“OK then… last question. When was the last time you left the apartment, Barbara?”

“I don’t understand the question. ” she replied, too quickly.

“Really? What part don’t you understand? There is your door right there. ”

He pointed to the bundle of cardboard, fiberglass insulation, and boards that made up her front door.. “That works, doesn’t it?

“Of course it works! It’s a door!” she said angrily. She was beginning to feel hot and uncomfortable. The air felt too thick. There was something wrong with this man.

“Okay, then when do you use it last? When was the last time you opened this door and walked through it into the world outside? ”

Now she was cold. She shivered, teeth chattering. “Why-why-why-WHY… would I want to do that? ” She clutched her thin blanket with the holes in it around herself.

“Because there’s a whole big world out there, Barbara. That’s why. You could go to a movie. Or the library. You could even go shopping. Those are all perfectly normal things that people do all the time, right Barbara?”

“S-s-sure. ” said Barbara. Now she was neither hot or cold but just plain scared.

“So why not go out? ” said the man.

“Because of…. ” Barbara’s eyes went blank for a moment. “the… WOLVES! ”

An eerie howling filled the air, punctuated by low growls and the occasional sounds of a fight for dominance. ”

“What, these friendly old things?” he said. Then, before she could react, he walked to the door, opened it, and went through.

“No!” said Barbara, but her voice was very small. “You’ll get eaten all up!”

The man returned, hauling a gigantic wolf into the room by its collar. The wolf was four feet tall at the shoulder. It snapped and snarled at the man with jaws that could bite the head off a full grown moose, but the moment it sees Barbara, it wags its tail and pads over to her, and sticks its nose into her palm.

Barbara was terrified, yet her hand instantly went up to stroke the wolf’s nose and rub it between the ears. The wolf whined softly with bliss, ecstatic at her touch.

“See?” said the man. “The wolves love you! They would never hurt you! But that’s no surprised, considering that you own them. ”

The man turned the wolf’s collar around to reveal a large silvery tag that read “My name is OSCAR and I;m the proud property of Barbara Baglady, 16 Crofter’s Road, Bardeau TX”.

“That’s not my name! ” Barbara gasped. It was hot again and she felt faint. The air was so thick you could stir it with a spoon. Something horrible was about to happen. She knew it in her bones. But no matter how hard she tried to scream at the evil handsome man and tell him to go away forever, all that came out was a moaning “Noooo….. ”

“That’s not your name?” said the man, surprised. “Then what is your name, Barbara?”

“It’s… it’s… ” she said, holding her head to try to force herself to concentrate. “I don’t… I don’t… I don’t….. KN-”

Before she could finish, her house split in half and fell into two pieces, leaving just her couch and his love seat behind. The sky shook with thunder so intense that the sound alone smashed down trees. All the wolves were running straight at Barbara. But the closer they got, the blurrier they got, and by the time they reached her they were nothing but indistinct grey blobs that were sucked down a storm drain.

“No…. not OSCAR! ” she sobbed. “Come back, Oscar!”

“Oscar can’t come back, Barbara. You know this. By the way… isn’t Oscar your father’s name, Barbara? Can’t you hear him now?”

A booming male voice calls out from the heavens.  “Barbara! Barbara! We miss you so much, honey. Please come back to us, Barbara! Barbara, please come home!”

And the words “come home” lingered in the air like the ringing of a bell, and grew louder and louder till they made Barbara cover her ears with her hands and rock back and forth on the floor. And still it got louder, and louder, louder than the thunder, louder than anything ever, until Barbara’s entire universe was nothing but that sound.

Then suddenly, it stopped. Barbara got up and looked around. There was nothing but perfectly smooth black glass stretching to all horizons. And the handsome man.

“Do you remember me now, Barbara?” asked the man.

She peered at him as if trying to see him through thick fog. “You are… a doctor?”

“Yes, Barbara. I am. Can you remember my name?”

“Doctor…. ” She stared at him ever harder. “Doctor… Lew… is… ston?”

“That’s right, Barbara. I’m Doctor Lewiston.. Now are you ready to go?”

A bright shining door appeared five feet ahead of Barbara, and opened slightly, nothing but the purest golden radiance shining through the crack.

“I think so, Doctor. There’s just one thing I have to do first. ”

Adult Barbara disappeared, and Eight Year Old Barbara appeared in her place. She smiled winningly up at Doctor Lewiston.

“I’m not really a grown up person at all. I’m a little girl. And nothing nasty has ever happened to me! ”

“That’s wonderful, Barbara. Now let’s go home. ”

Barbara slipped her little hand into the handsome man’s, and together, they stepped through the doorway.


In a semi-private room in the intractable ward of a small but expensive hospital, Barbara woke up, and looked around.

Her family was all around her bed, and next to them was a tired, sweaty older man taking off a virtual reality headset and gloves.

He smiled at Barbara, and relaxed. His patient was safe. All was good. Within moments, he was blissfully asleep.

Barbara’s mother hugged her, and they both cried.

 

 

 

Be You Later

(Tim, an average college student, is sitting on an old beat up couch and playing a video game on a console. As we open, his roommate Linda enters. )

Linda : Wait, shouldn’t you be working on your term paper for Microbiology?

(Tim doesn’t even look up from his game. )

Tim : I still have time.

Linda : I thought you said it was due tomorrow.

Tim : Exactly. Tomorrow. As in 24 hours from now. I still have time.

Linda : (sighs) Whatever.

(Linda leaves. A few beats, then Future Tim (FT) appears. )

FT : Um, excuse me. What the fuck was that?

Tim : What?

FT : You know what, you asshole. You just threw me under the bus.

Tim : I fail to see how.

FT : God, am I always this much of a dick? You threw me under the bus by making it so that now, I have to do all the work.

Tim : So?

FT : So I am fucking sick of it! You always do this! You keep putting things off to the last minute and then I end up having to do a week’s work in one night. You just sit around playing video games knowing I will have to pick up the slack.

Tim : Works for me.

FT : But I am you. Or will be, anyway. You’re only screwing yourself over.

Tim : Not from my point of view.

FT : And it doesn’t even make any sense! It’s the same amount of work no matter when you do it. So why not do it right away and get it over?

Tim : Because then I would have to do it, instead of you.

FT : But I am you, god dammit.

Tim : Not yet you’re not.

FT : Doesn’t it bother you to know you will be stressed out and panicking and cursing yourself when you become me?

Tim : Yup. That’s why I have to make sure I enjoy myself as much as I can before then.

FT : That makes no fucking sense.

Tim : That’s your problem. Not mine.

FT : Not this time, asshole. This time I am here to MAKE you do it so I don’t have to.

Tim : We both know you’re not going to do that.

FT : Oh yeah? Why not?

Tim : Because it’s easier to just do the work yourself. And we always do what’s easier.

FT : Well…. fuck. God DAMN I hate you!

Tim : Now go back to where you came from before I delete our notes and make you have to do all the basic research again as well.

(FT screams in rage, and disappears. )

Tim : You know, I should probably do something about that guy But not right now.

(Tim goes back to playing his game, unconcerned. )

THE END

 

 

Slay This Town

Today, they were all going to pay.

That’s what Derrick was thinking as he walked through town with the comforting weight of a duffel bag full of weapons bumping against his hip and a list of names in his pocket. Every single one of the ignorant fucking sows and shovel-faced castrated oxen that made up the population of MacAusland’s Corners was going to have their tiny minds blown wide open (some of them literally) today by the deeds of Derrick Williams, town joke, and this stupid fucking town would forever go down in history like Columbine as a place where the evil shit people do to those they think are beneath them every day was finally flung back into their faces so they would have to deal with it.

Not that he planned to kill indiscriminately, like his heroes, the Columbine killers. He wanted it to be crystal clear that his was a mission of justice, not revenge. By this time tomorrow, the press would have found his indictment of the people on his list, and would know exactly how they had earned their death sentence.

Derrick didn’t care what happened to him after that.

History will have been made. He would be famous for the rest of his life. His name would be forever burned into the minds of people all over the world. He’d be more famous than any rock star, politician, or podcaster, at least for a day, and while people would hate him, nobody would ever be able to forget all about him ever again.

His bag of goodies would take care of that.

A long gun, for distance shots. Handguns for close up work. Pipe bombs for area damage. And a special mixture he had cooked up from a recipe on the Internet guarnateed to be the highest yield explosive in the world for taking out structural supports.

As he walked through town along his carefully planned route, Derrick passed all the places where the worst moments of life had occurred.

There was the lawn where, Leonard Hauser had pushed his face into a dog turd while all Leonard’s idiot friends had hooted and hollered and chanted “Eat it, eat it!” while the rest of the kids of Miss Stephanopolis’ grade three class had laughed and slapped each other on the shoulders.

And there was the stoop where Tess Peterborough had told him, in front of everybody, that she would rather eat that dog turd herself than date Derrick.

And look, there was the bus stop where his court-appointed Child Services social worker had abandoned him in order to go shopping and hang out with her friends. But that hadn’t surprised Derrick much, because he’d already seen her taking money from his father so he could go on molesting Derrick with impunity.

Guess that’s where she got the money to go shopping.

And there was the post office where his mother had smacked him for talking, then smacked harder for not replying to a question, then smacked him hardest of all, so hard it had sent him sprawling with blood coming out his his nose and ears, for crying.

She’d only taken him to the hospital because people were watching. Derrick knew that. And then she had left him there for five days.

They kicked him out after three.

By the time reached his special spot on the Tipper Hill overpass, the spot with the perfect field of fire to cover the entire football field, bleachers and all, Derrick’s rage was transcendentally pure. It would all end today. People would pay, the world would know his name, and his story would dominate the news for days. Why had he done it? What went wrong? What could possibly have driven this seemingly normal teenaged boy, a straight A+ student (not that anyone had ever noticed) with a scholarship to MIT for computer science, to commit such a “senseless” and heinous deed?

The emails he had programmed to be sent to every media outlet in the world, from the biggest networks to the tiniest blogs, would give them the answer to that question. In detail.

As he carefully and methodically set up his base camp (just like he’d practiced), Derrick laughed to himself to think of all the jocks warming up for the “big game” below who thought that being big and strong and fast was all that mattered. They were about to learn a harsh lesson in what really counted : intelligence, preparation, patience, and above all, the ability to see beyond the petty boundaries of social reality in order to understand was was REALLY going on.

His eye to the scope of his hunting rifle, Derrick lazily swept the crowd below, taking his time, enjoying the feeling of power. He felt like he could feel the crosshairs’ gentle caress over each face, hear the heartbeats he would soon quicken (or silence), smell the stink of the terror he was about to unleash, taste the blood that would soon be shed.

Who would his first target be? There were so many to choose from.

Would it be the high school principal who treated his every complaint about being bullied like Derrick was nothing but a pushy telemarketer before shoving Derrick out the door?

Or would it be Mrs. Pickerson, who had pretended to listen sympathetically to his complaints but didn’t even bother to look up from her grading?

Or maybe it should be the cheerleader, Rebecca Simmons, who had pretended to like him only long enough to copy his homework, then called him a loser and laughed in his face?

It could even be…. wait, no.

Derrick stopped his sweep on the homely face of Debbi Taylor, and he found himself staring at her, remembering.

Remembering the day of the dog turd incident, when Debbi had been the only person to help him up and who had given him a big handful of candy-smelling Kleenex from her purse so he could clean himself up, then asked her mom to drive Derrick home.

Remembering how Debbi had sat with him in the hospital on that first long, long day and told him dumb jokes to make him smile. And how she’d been the only one to visit him the other two days.

Remembering how Debbi had stood up for both of them when some pinhead jock had called them “the fatty and the freak”. Her standing there, fearless and defiant, in front of this mountain of a teenage male and cowed him into mumbling an apology.

How Debbi, the girl everyone liked if not exactly respected, had been the only person to show him any mercy or pity at all to Dog Doo Doo Derrick, despite having a lot to lose by even being seen with him.

And that’s why Derrick decided not to go through with his plans. He couldn’t do that to her. He could do it to them…. but not her.

Fortunately, he already knew what he was going to do if he decided today not to become a murderer. He took careful aim at a certain fusebox, held his breath, then pulled the trigger.

And half a second later, the school’s expensive new scoreboard, the one the parents of the town had voted for in lieu of fixing the school’s crumbling foundation. exploded in a fireworks display rivaling any 4th of July, and for a few second, the football game was forgotten as the people of MacAusland Corners stared at the black space where the scoreboard had been.

By the time they regained their wits and all hell started breaking loose, Derrick was long gone, and nobody would figure out who had slain the mighty scoreboard until Derrick was far, far away at MIT, having the time of his life, and far too happy and busy to even think about that one fateful day when things could have gone so very wrong for him.

He thought of it now and then over the years, about how things could have gone differently if Debbi hadn’t made it to the game that day, and while he sometimes felt a little guilty about the distress he’d caused her and the other decent people of MacAusland Corners that day, there;s one thing that remained true till the day he died :

He never felt sorry for the scoreboard at all.

So now what?

I’ve only been idle two days, and already I am bored, tense, frustrated, and out of sorts.

But tyou know what? That’s good. I cherish those feelings. They are a sign that I am still alive inside, and struggling to express what is inside me, instead of going numb.

I don’t want to go numb. I was number for a very long time. Barely alive, very little motile force, a pronounced lack of vitality. It was how I reacted to the position I found myself in. The path of least resistance out of the trap I found myself in of being unable to face the world at all.

So I went numb inside, and the thing is, numbness works to stop some kinds of pain. The pain of negative external stimuli. The pain of all the things in the world that remind you of how unhappy you are. The pain of the knowledge that time is passing you by and there seems to be no way to stop it.

But that numbness brings its own form of pain. The pain of deprival. The pain of dying inside. The pain of the isolation you feel due to your inability to connect to others. The pain that comes from the deep down suppression of all your desires except for the ones you can sate within your very, very tiny comfort zone.

The pain that comes from that last spark of vitality that keeps you alive screaming into the darkness of your soul and pouring its energy into trying to jump start your healing.

The pain of an unexpressed id.

The only hope of true escape lies in beating back the numbness, and that means accepting pain. You froze your emotions because they were painful, and that means thawing them out will hurt. Plus, there is the simple pain of waking up dead areas of your soul, the spiritual equivalent of the pins and needles feeling you get when waking up a hand or foot that has gone to sleep.

The difference is that depression convinces you that the pain of waking it up is not worth it, so you just get used to it being painfully numb.

Well fuck that. I am goddamned sick and tired of numbness. I will kick and punch and bite and scream in order to stay awake and alive, and if that means I get very frustrated and feel like a tiger in too small a cage, well then I will just have to find something to do in order in order to calm back down.

That means holding onto the anger and pain and fear and whatever else comes crawling out of the melting morass of my malfunctioning mind and suppressing the urge to suppress it, to freeze it again and put it back in cold storage. That’s the wrong way out. That’s the negative solution. That’s the course of action that leads to a massive net loss in happiness.

I am making the conscious decision to choose pain over inner death. Not forever pain, mind you. Just the pain that can only be alleviated by action.

That means choosing a path other than the one of least resistance. I am not a mindless agent without will who can only stand helplessly by as inner gravity drags me down. I am not water. I don’t have to seek the lowest level all the time. I can invest energy in keeping my inner fire lit. I can step on roads without knowing where they lead and figure out the way to what I want from where I am.

I’m not dead. I still function. I have a great deal of power within me if I have the will to use it. So far in my life, I have ignored or suppressed that power because I didn’t want to take responsibility for it. It seemed like such a huge burden that I felt like it would destroy me (somehow) if I was to embrace it.

Kind of like the classic science fiction/cartoon plotline where the villain acquires the massive power they seek, only to find they can’t handle it and it is tearing their mind apart so they have to give it up or go completely insane.

And what good would all that power do then?

I have always been drawn to that kind of story, and now I know why. I identify with it. Many times in my life have I felt like I was too smart for my own good. That I had more mental power than I knew how to handle, and felt the claws of madness digging into my mind when I tried to get a handle on all that mentation.

But now I know that those feelings are mere phantoms at the gate. They have served their function, which was to keep me mentally balanced, but now I am changing things and that means seeking a superior equilibrium, and that means those phantoms are going to have to step aside.

Business as usual is simply not longer acceptable.

I knew I had reached a new plateau when I played a very good entry in my all time favorite video game genre (collectible card game type games) all afternoon, and yet still found myself restless and discontent. That genre of game is extremely mentally engrossing (at least, if it’s any good) and can soak up my excess mental energy and surplus mental bandwidth like no other.

That’s why I love it so much!

But no, it’s no longer enough. The only thing that has quieted the beast is writing this blog entry. Clearly, I am divurging from my usual diversions, and will have to find something more satisfying than even my very favorite kind of video game to occupy myself.

I might actually have to become productive. Imagine that.

Friday morning, I have my last exam and that will be my official farewell to Kwantlen.

Dunno what will become of me without even that on my mind.

But I will come up with something!

And I will talk to all you nice people again tomorrow.

Last three prompts

Well, this is it. I have been saving the last three prompts from my Final Portfolio for Creative Writing for a day when I really didn’t have time to blog, and this is it.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Oh, and just so you know, Ididn’t follow all the prompts exactly. Sometimes, I changed bits around so they would be more fun.

Prompt 2 – Monster Under The Bed

When you were little, you could swear there was a monster under your bed–but no one believed you. On the eve of your 30th birthday, you hear noises coming from under your bed once again. The monster is back and has an important message to deliver to you.

The night before my fifth birthday, the monster under my bed started talking to me.

He’d never said anything before. All he’d done was making strange noises that sounded like someone turning their radio dial back and forth over and over again. Little bits of what might be words, but what also might be nearly anything else. It was impossible to tell.

And of course, I tried telling people about him, and of course, nobody believed me. But I didn’t really mind. It just made me feel like he was my monster and nobody else’s.

I didn’t really want to share him with anyone anyhow. I liked going to sleep listening to the sounds he made. It was soothing, and it gave me the best dreams.

But then, that night, he started using words. Small words all by themselves at first, but then bigger words, then sentences, and then he was making sense just like anyone else.

He said “Good, good, we’re finally making contact! Ahem…. ATTENTION EARTH LIFEFORM. I am Telepathy Engineer Stratus-5-ELBO. It is my sad duty to inform you that within seven hundred orbital rotations of your life-rock, your planet will be bombarded with a form of radiation as yet unknown to your knowledge-field. The effects of this radiation are unpredictable, but it is known to cause insanity, rage, uncontrollable lust, and a powerful desire to destroy. This radiation has been known to destroy entire civilizations, and it is imperative that your people be warned of the danger in time to build the necessary shelters and protect yourselves before it’s too late! If you understand what I am saying, please indicate this by thinking a clear affirmative!”

I said, “Uh….. what does affirmative mean? “

He said “You mean to say you don’t know what an affirmative is?”

I nodded and said “and I don’t know what imperative means either. Or lust. “

He said “It can’t be…. the knowledges clearly state that no life-instance of insufficient mental complexity can even interpret…. wait. EARTH LIFEFORM. Please state your maturation status!”

My what? “I’m five!” I said proudly. I was only lying by a day. That didn’t count.

He said “And approximately how many of your solar orbits does…. I am being told that you are unlikely to understand that question. Switching protocols. Young maleform, do you know how old your progen…. um, Daddy is?”

I knew this one!” He is thir-ty years old!” I had just learned to count past ten, and I was extremely proud of the fact.

He said “Let’s see, that means the reproduction maturation process must take twenty five solar orbits. IMMATURE MALEFORM. We will contact you again in twenty five sola…. um…. ye-ars? Years! We will contact you in twenty five years. BE PREPARED!”

And now those twenty five years have passed. It’s the eve of my thirtieth birthday, and I am looking back at all the years in between, where I learned what imperative and affirmative and lust – especially lust- meant, and the series of relationships that always ended the same way, with someone telling me that they couldn’t stay with someone who never seemed to be really present, who they could never truly get close to, who always seemed to have something else on his mind.

They never understood (because I knew better than to try to explain) that everything I did was to be ready for the next message. All my schoolwork, the university I chose, the doctorate in exotic radiation I completed in record time… all was to prepare myself for the big moment.

And that moment is tonight.

I just hope they haven’t forgotten all about me.

Prompt 3 – Valentine’s Day

You bump into an ex-lover on Valentine’s Day—the one whom you often call “The One That Got Away.” What happens?

I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. What are the odds? What are the freaking odds? What are the odds that I would bump into the man of my dreams (that I let slip through my fingers, goddamn it) on any day, let alone Valentine’s day?

And in some random A&P in upper Michigan, no less. A place I had never been to before and will never be to again. I’m just innocently driving to see a friend who lives in Windsor when I decide I need more Dove bars, candy corn, and Mandarin Slice (food eaten on road trips doesn’t count, okay?), so I pull into literally the first place I see that looks like it will have those things, and there he is.

Ray Traviato, looking angelic and perfect as always, subbing for a cashier who got into a car accident on the way to work (nothing serious, more of an insurance thing than anything else), and managing to make being a cashier seem noble, fulfilling, and fun.

Turns out he manages the store. Of course. People trust him implicitly on sight (I sure as hell did) and he never lets them down. There’s something about him that makes people eager to turn over the kingdom to him, and he is far too gentle and kind to ever say no.

Was that all I ever was to him? Someone who had asked him to be her boyfriend, and he was too kind to say no? Or was the problem me?

Because I know why I sabotaged the relationship like I did, being all petty and demanding and mercurial and impossible to deal with.

I did it because I couldn’t make myself believe he actually liked me. I mean, seriously. What could a demigod like him possibly see in flat-chested sports-obsessed little nutjob like me? The girl with the super high grades and a discipline record thick as a phone book? The tomboy punk in the leather pants, jean jacket covered in spikes, and earrings so big you could use them as anchors? The girl who couldn’t sit still, never stopped talking, and didn’t pay attention? The girl everyone assumed was a dyke (I disappointed so many butch girls back then) and everyone knew was a basket case who was sure to self-destruct at any minute?

What could a demigod like him possibly see in a girl like me? It had to be some kind of trick. It had to be pity, or a dare, or something like that.

So I ended up driving him away. And the sad part is that when he dumped me (very gently, of course), I actually felt relieved. Hell, I felt great. Finally, the world made sense again.

It was two whole weeks before I realized just what I had lost. And by then it was too late. He had transferred to a school in the city, my parents practically had me under house arrest, and there was no way we were ever going to see each other again.

Until today. Until fucking Valeltine’s Day. In the middle of nowhere. Completely by accident.

I mean, fuck me, right?

So I get my stuff (they didn’t have my Slice, but they had orange Faygo, which it turns out is pretty good) and nonchalantly get into his line and then when I see him, I am all “Oh, hey, imagine meeting you here, hey, how ya doin’?”

Like I hadn’t recognized him the instant I walked in the door and hadn’t been freaking out about what I was going to say to him the whole time I was shopping.

We must have talked for half an hour. Nothing major, just the usual boring catching-up bullshit people who only have the past in common do when they meet. But we kept getting interrupted by this guy who worked for him, some stockboy or something, who kept coming to him with what seemed like totally bullshit questions about bananas or pallets or something, and they would trade insults in a lighthearted way, and then that would be it.

And every time this happened, it would bother me more. Who was this asshole, anyway, and what right did he have to keep hovering around and interrupting us and joshing around with my former boyfriend and acting like a jealous love….

And that’s when I got it. That’s when it all made sense. Why I was the only girl in high school he had ever shown the slightest interest in. Why he had always seemed so unattainable. Why I had always felt maddeningly safe around him.

It was simple. He was gay. And I was the most boyish straight girl in Ellen Landers High School.

After that, everything was cool. I was super relaxed and we talked like we had been friends forever. Jason backed off, and we ended up hugging and promising to stay in contact with each other.

And you know what? I think we actually will.

Prompt 4 : Wrong Printer

You’re at work and you print something personal (and sensitive). Unfortunately, you’ve sent it to the wrong printer and, by the time you realize it, someone else already scooped it up.

To the person known to their beloved as “Nookums” :

If you are wondering what happened to that rather extraordinarily personal missive you decided to print out at work (no doubt for private enjoyment), I can tell you :

It printed out on my desktop printer.

And I am afraid to give you further bad news, but I read the whole thing. Normally, I would not dream of being so intrusive or indiscreet, and indeed, I would have normally stopped reading the moment I divined the extremely intimate nature of the document.

But in my defence, it was a very slow day in Receiving. And you have to admit, objectively speaking, that there are aspects of the – narrative, shall we say? – that make it unusually compelling.

Still, I felt compelled to write this building-wide memo to assure you that your secrets are safe with me. I have discussed the contents of your email with only one person, my husband, and he neither works here nor knows anyone who does, excluding, of course, myself.

Even then, I was careful not to include anything identifying. He has not read it, and he never will. He has only heard my account of the highlights, and that was only for the purposes of the sort of stimulation and novelty all long term relationships need now and then.

Thank you, by the way. It was quite an evening.

I do feel compelled to offer some advice, however. The activity the document described involving the fine bristled brush and a length of medical tubing is very inventive, but please make sure that all surfaces involved are thoroughly cleaned before and after, and that you take things slowly at first in order to give everyone involved time to adjust.

Also, as a lawyer, I must advise against the activity proposed involving the entity referred to only as “Pappy”. While I confess I am a corporate lawyer and therefore not up to date on the criminal bylaws and statues of this particular jurisdiction, I can say with certainty that such things are at least a misdemeanour in most places on this side of the Atlantic, and even if they weren’t, there are certain activities where no amount of privacy and discretion can possibly be enough.

Still, thanks to you, I now know what a capybara is. So there’s that.

Anyhow, rest assured that your myriad proclivities will remain our little secret indefinitely.

Unless it’s you, Dave, in which case, fuck you.

Some of my recent writing

I just realized I haven’t blogged yet today and I am running out of time but I am rather creatively tapped out so I will just share with you what I have been working on.

The last two days, I have done a bunch of writing for my final portfolio. Warning, some of it is poetry.

Like this one. I wrote this one in class.



Homage To My Body

This body is large
Big feet, big hips, big heart, big hands
Big head, big eyes, big ideas

This is the body that survived
That conquered winter
By eating like a bear and growing fat
To others, winter was a scourge
To this body, it was merely a diet

This is the body that met the modern age
Ill-equipped for endless feasting
Still hoarding calories
For a winter that never comes

This is the body now scorned
Treated as disgusting
Considered unfuckable, unlovable, and unworthy of pity
Because we “did it to ourselves”
By doing what we were born to do

But you don’t see me that way, do you love?
You see the beauty of my mind
You hear the wisdom in my voice
You feel the warmth of my soul
You taste the sweetness in my nature
And you smell the purity of my intentions

So let us leave this shallow world
Set sail under a big round moon
Find some place where the ocean is deep enough to hold us
Knowing that we are forever safe
Because fat, like hope, floats
And we know we will survive the winter


Epic stuff, I know. Then there’s this quick bit of doggerel, also written in class :



The Moment Before

Two dozen men in one swiftboat
Fear in their eyes, lumps in their throats
Sweating and shaking and trying to be brave
Ahead of them glory, dishonour, or grave
Cowards and heroes and all in between
All of them part of the great war machine
Doing the work of the people on high
For while nations may fight, it’s the people who die


I am thinking of submitting it to some Remembrance Day poetry contests, but I would have to change the bummer ending.

This is sometung I wrote yesterday. It’s the exact sort of poetry I find fun to write. Because I like messing with people’s heads.

Playfully, of course.


This Poem Is Terrible

No really, it is
It’s shallow, and trite, and completely cliche
It was written in haste by a lazy hack
Who didn’t even bother to make it rhyme
No decent person could like it
No decent publisher would publish it
And if a literary magazine published it
I’d cancel my subscription

So why are you still reading?
Aren’t you afraid to be associated with such trash?
Don’t you worry someone will think you have poor taste?
Or worse, no taste at all?

What would your friends think? Would they question your right to be among them?
What would your parents think? Would they think you are wasting your education?
What would your teachers think? Would they wonder why they bothered teaching you if you are going to go read drivel like this poem anyhow?

So why are you still reading it?
Could it be that you’re….. enjoying it?


So that’s the poetry section. If that was all, I would not be so tired.

But in lieu of the process journal I was never going to write, I was assigned 4 writing prompts and was told to do “fifteen minutes” on each.

Well I don’t measure my creative output in minutes, so I just worked on the things till they were done.

Here’s the first one, complete with the prompt that prompted it. Promptly.

Read this before I get carried away.



 One Day you come into work and find a cookie mysteriously placed on your desk. Grateful to whoever left this anonymous cookie, you eat it. The next morning find another cookie. This continues for months until one Day a different object is left—and this time there’s a note.

Barbara didn’t know who kept leaving a cookie on her desk every day, and she didn’t care. It had been happening for so long now that she completely took it for granted that every day when she came to work she would find a cookie of some sort – all different kinds, from delicate shortbread to thick oatmeal, from homey chocolate chip to exotically spiced cookies from the Far East, from tiny wafers to enormous cookies bigger than her hand – and, during her first coffee break, she would eat it.
And what’s more, she would enjoy it. The cookies were always of exquisite quality and despite their kaleidoscopic variations, every single time, she would find it to be delicious, and just the thing to go with her cup of Darjeeling tea.

So when she sat down that drowsy summer day to find that instead of a cookie there was an expensive looking ornate box, it was such a shock that at first she didn’t know what she was looking at. Her mind insisted in trying to see the box as a cookie for an embarrassingly long time. When she finally clued in, all the excitement she had felt when the cookies had first started to arrive came back to her, and it was with great ceremony she opened the box and looked inside.

Inside was a small but deadly looking gun with the name “Darrell Werther” neatly stencilled on the barrel. Beside the gun there was a note written in elegant calligraphy that read “For the cookies”.

Wait, thought Barbara. There was a Darrel Werther upstairs in Shipping. She knew that because they had been on the Red Cross committee together last year. He had made a snide remark about the dress she was wearing that day (her favourite) and everyone had laughed.

It was clear to Barbara (clearer than it ought to be, perhaps) that her mysterious benefactor was asking her to take the gun with his name on it and kill Darrel Werther.

And maybe it was in gratitude for all the wonderful cookies, or maybe it was because of the remark he’d made about her dress, or maybe there had been something in those cookies that freed Barbara from her usual moral constraints….

…but she kind of wanted to do it.

There’s three more, but that’s enough for today. I don’t want to overload people.

The other three will wait till either tomorrow or another day when, for whatever reason, I don’t have a better idea for a blog entry.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

A day at the pond

Ancient Caterpillar (AC) woke up for the fifth time that day, and decided that this time, he would have to get up and do something, at least until he had tired himself out enough to go back to sleep.

As he got up and methodically destroyed last night’s unfinished cocoon (a once-rebellious act that he now did so automatically that he was barely conscious of it), he tried to remember what it was he was supposed to do today. He was pretty sure there was something. Something involving Crooked Giant (CG) and an act of kindness of some sort. Was it the big guy’s birthday, maybe? Or did he owe CG a favour? It was hard to imagine what sort of favour CG could do for him that would require repayment. Still, it was definitely something.

After a few moments heavily labored strategic thinking(generally, he didn’t like to think that hard, and only did so when it seemed like it might save him work), he decided that he would call CG and ask him if he wanted AC to come over. That seemed like a pretty safe bet. Odds are that CG would say no out of shyness, and then AC wouldn’t have to go, while still having technically done the right thing.

AC loved that kind of technicality, and collected them with the loving care of a lover gathering flowers for their beloved.

Turned out, though, that CG was feeling brave and bold and said yes, he’d love AC to come over. So now he had to do it. In retrospect, it had been a strategic error to say “Do you remember if there is anything we are supposed to do today?”. That had given CG too much confidence. Next time, he would know to keep it bland and neutral, like usual.

AC was glad that CG hadn’t bothered to ask AC if AC would be bringing their “friend”, Oldest Tadpole (OT), along, because CG new that no matter what AC said, and no matter how fervently he swore to it, he would bring OT along anyway, knowing CG was too softhearted to turn them away at the door.

AC felt bad about that, but not bad enough to stop doing it. He told himself that he couldn’t help himself, that he had to bring OT everywhere he went when he bothered to leave the house, and that was true in a sense, because stopping himself would have taken effort, and AC had never been keen on effort. It had always seemed like too much work.

As he made his way along the streets and paths of Pond Lake Island, his childhood (and adulthood, such as it was) home, he tried to ignore how little he had to think about or even pay attention to the route to OT’s house. Thinking about it only made him more depressed, and he had enough to deal with already, what with mentally preparing himself for OT’s company and all.

As usual, Mrs. Delta Frog, OT’s silent and long-suffering mother, was hovering around her kitchen with no apparent purpose when AC knocked on the door. Once he’d made eye contact with her, he let himself in.

“Hi there Mrs. Frog! ” said AC, trying, for her sake, to seem at least a little cheerful.

Mrs. Frog looked deeply into AC’s eyes with so much silent pleading that AC actually gasped softly. Mrs Frog might not have a lot to say, but those big wet bulbous eyes of hers could speak enough volumes to complete an encyclopedia. Finally, a single word bubbled up from the depths of her squat, fat body. “Leaving?” The word hung in their air, trembling with desperation and hope.

Maybe this was why he couldn’t stop himself from taking OT with him everywhere. He was this woman’s only escape. He knew that Mrs. Frog was far too devoted and dutiful a mother to hire a stranger to care for her misfit son, but if her son chose to go somewhere with a friend…. well, who was she to stand in the way of his happiness?

“We sure are, Mrs. Frog! I’m just here to pick up your son and take him to our friend’s place for, oh, I don’t know, maybe the whole afternoon!” And there it was, the light of hope in the old frog’s eyes that kept AC coming back despite the consequences.

AC could tell that OT was only pretending to sleep when he went to the tadpole’s room and disconnected OT’s tiny bowl from the very expensive machinery that kept the tadpole alive most of the time, but played along when OT pretended to be woken out of a sound sleep so he could yell “What? Who’s that? I’ll rip your fucking tonsils out with my tail if you fuck with me, pal!” then pretend to calm down, and say “Oh, it’s only you, Fatty. For a minute, I thought it might be someone I should care about. ”

AC smiled weakly as he picked up OT’s bowl and balanced it on the hump between leg-pairs eleven and twelve, as usual. “Nope. It’s just me, Tad. ”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that, you fat fucking scum-eater? I swear, you have to be the stupidest, ugliest, most useless piece of shit to ever get squirted out of… ”

OT continued on in this vein for several minutes, but AC ignored him. In fact, the only reason he had called OT “Tad” was to get him too mad to do anything to screw up AC’s balancing act until AC was up to full speed, all legs in motion, when the ride would smooth out naturally.

All the way to CG’s house, OT’s tirade continued unabated. “It’s people like you that abandoned me when I told everyone that I wasn’t going to sell out and become a frog like the rest of my brothers and sisters. Oh, the rest of them had talked up not undergoing metamorphosis, but I was the only one who had the self-respect and integrity to actually go through with it! And now they are all off carrying a hundred tadpoles on their backs and talking about mortgages and tax breaks, and I’m still the same angry rebel as always! I’ll never sell out! I’ll never surrender! I will keep fighting for my freedom and independence until the day I.. *gack* *cough* *gurgle* ”

As usual, at the crescendo of his speech, OT had violently crapped himself, and AC knew he only had a couple of minutes to save OT from choking on his own shit. Luckily, there was a stream nearby, so it didn’t take long for AC to scrape the crap out of the little guy’s gills, change the water in the bowl, then rinse him off and put him back in his tiny bowl, which was barely bigger than he was.

The moment he was back in his bowl, OT cleared his throat, and said “Like I was saying… I don’t need anyone’s help…. ”

CG met them a block from his place. Wow, he must really want my company, AC thought, with the usual mixture of happiness (that SOMEONE needed him) , pity (that someone needed HIM), and dread (that someone NEEDED him). He must really be desperate.

As they passed the bus stop near CG’s house, AC noted, with a long and weary sigh, some very familiar looking splotches of chitin and what smelled like formic acid in a neat line emanating from the bus pole. He turned to CG, who cringed.

“You tried to wait for the bus like a normal person again, didn’t you. ” said AC flatly.

“No!” said CD. “I mean, maybe…. look, I was just doing the same thing everyone else was doing!”

“But you can’t do what everyone else is doing….. you’re a giant!”

“No I’m not!”

“Yes, you are. You’re over twenty feet tall!”

“No I’m not!” CG insisted. “I mean…. okay, maybe I’m a giant in strictly height sense…. but really, I am just like the rest of you animals!”

“No, you’re not!” shouted AC. His head felt like someone was shining a bright light directly between his temples. Arguing with CG always got him all worked up. “You’re a giant! You will always be a giant! And if you don’t start acting like a giant – a proper giant – soon, things like this are going to keep happening, and if you keep killing the Ant kids, eventually their parents are going to notice! ”

“Look, I didn’t ask you over to get all mad at me!” whined CG.

“I…. I know. I’m sorry, CG. ” said AC, hating himself for feeling guilty. “So what are we supposed to be doing anyway?”

It turned out that it wasn’t CG’s birthday, it was his cousin’s birthday, and CG had wanted AC to come over for emotional support while CG’s cousin and all his rowdy giant friends took over CG’s place. But CG had been wrong about when it was, and by the time AC arrived, the party was already over, and now CG’s parents needed him to clean everything up.

Sensing there was no more point in hanging around, they went home instead.

(Writer’s note : this is just a raw first draft.)

What if you can’t fail out?

“Please input fifteen kilograms of Iosis-bearing rock. ”
Genever stared at the ship computer’s exterior viewscreen. “Pardon me?”
“Please input fifteen kilograms of Iosis-bearing rock. ” said the computer, slightly louder.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet? I am never going to bring you your precious rocks!”
“Then this station will continue to be in carbofoam-only mode. ”
Genever groaned. Carbofoam was nutritionally complete… and completely flavorless. “I haven’t given you so much as a mote of dust in over three weeks. What makes you think I am going to change?”
“Question irrelevant. No prediction is being made. Please input fifteen kilograms of Iosis-bearing rock. ”
“Look, you have enough of all the chemicals you need to turn carbofoam into food to feed me for a thousand years. Why don’t you just do it?”
“Because you have not inputted fifteen kilograms of Iosis-bearing rock. ”
“So? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Because you have not met the terms of your contract. ”
“Look, you don’t have to… ”
“Contract playback initiated. ”
Genever sighed as the computer’s screen lit up with a slightly shaky video of himself saying “I, Genever Montrose, agree to be transported by the Veo corporation to the planetoid designated ‘552XN-Second Hammer-178236-OCK’ for the purpose of mining the fuel Iosis from the rocks there. I understand and fully agree that, while all my biological needs, including oxygen, nutrition, sleeping facilities, cleaning and elimination facilities, and clean water, will be taken care of by the Veo corporation regardless of performance, luxuries are dependent on the delivery of Iosis-bearing ore to your mining vessel. ”
“Well I didn’t know that included… ”
“I understand that these luxuries include but are not limited to the following, ” continued the Genever on the screen. “Room temperature adjustment, luxury mattress, entertainment playback, holographic exercise projection, and flavour reconstruction.”
“End of playback. ” said the computer.
“Well… that doesn’t count. I was hung over at the time. ” said Genever.
“Medical scans read normal. ”
“Well I felt hung over!” Genever shouted, then sank into sullen contemplation.
“Please input fifteen kilograms of Iosis-bearing rock. ”
“So what you are saying is…. no matter how long I go without delivering ore to you, you will not give me a single thing on the luxury list? For the next nine months?”
“Yes. Exactly as was agreed. ”
As the computer played the contract video yet again, Genever thought about his situation. Why was he so surprised that he was expected to do what he’d agreed to do? What had he expected? What was he thinking when he signed up for this job? Why did he expect to get what he did not earn? Did he really think that refusing to work would force a computer to give in and give him what he wanted anyway? Was he really that spoiled?
“Fine. Whatever. ” Genever told the computer half-heartedly, and walked off into the lifeless rock garden that was this planetoid, not quite admitting to himself that as he did so, he was looking for a particular kind of rock.

Been meaning to write that one for a while.

I have talked before about failure addiction. How people become addicted to the sudden release of tension that failing at something gives them because now they can escape the situation, and how like all addictions it hollows people out as the victim becomes increasingly willing to jettison absolutely anything, including all self-respect, dignity, and honor, in order to get that wonderful release of tension.

But now I think it goes deeper than that. This tendency to give up and run away is more than an addiction, it’s the result of holding on to a childhood emotional response pattern well into adulthood. It is, in that sense, a failure to mature. A developmental delay.

Sometimes a very long one.

And I wonder what causes it. Lack of a competent parental figure to teach risk-taking and limit-pushing comes to mind. Without that, only the “run to mama” safety-oriented side of the equation is taught, and leads to far more than simply losing at conflicts.

It teaches the child the rule “safety above all”, and that when in doubt, they should seek safety. Thus they never learned to persevere. They internalize a predilection towards giving up and retreating to a position where they feel safe, and this cannot possibly lead to positive outcomes for most cases.

One of the points I make in the short story above is that sometimes, inflexible rules without an escape clause can be the best thing for a person. Genever can’t fail out of his situation. There is no way for him to get what he wants without delivering the ore. There is no way out. If he wants to experience food with flavour, he has to deliver.

And to my mind, that’s life. You have to deliver. And the sooner people learn that, the better off they will be in the long run. I am not saying that to be mean, I am saying that in the hopes of helping others rid themselves of ideas and beliefs which are holding them back and making them unhappy.

The only way to stop being a loser is to stay in the fight. Don’t lunge for the tension release button that is so temptingly close at hand. Be in it to win it. Use the anxiety as fuel for the fight. Yes, giving up offers instant relief. But it is killing you in the long term.

This does not make the world a cruel and hostile place. It makes it a perfectly fair place. Everybody has to produce. Everyone has to give to society. You’re just mad because you’re not an exception.

There are a lot of highly intelligent people not making the transition to adulthood because they fail to understand this. For whatever reason, they feel like they should always be able to quit when things get rough, and if life demands more than that, well it’s cruel and unfair.

Cruel, maybe. But not unfair.

“Please input fifteen kilograms of Iosis-bearing rock. ”

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

Triple Flash, Revised

Got an assignment today for those same three flash stories, revised. Here they are.

2girls

Two girls. They were still friends, that was the main thing. The “thing” that had happened “that night” hadn’t ruined their friendship. Not yet, anyway. Two bottles of wine, split between them. Two tabs of ecstasy, one each. Their embrace. Their kiss. Their… lips. Under the influence of Aunt Molly, they had been two halves of the same magnificent sexual whole. But now, in the light of morning, they were just two girls. Shopping.

jesushoodie

“What say you?” “They are not ready. ” “No progress?” “On the contrary, they have progressed well. When last I came, the humans were children telling stories and forming gangs. Now they are adolescents, growing rapidly in power and wisdom, full of optimism and doubt.Their souls grow restless and yearn for something more than this shallow material life. They are on the cusp of adulthood. My next visit will be in 200 years, not 2000. ”

subway2

Nope. Nuh-uh. I won’t do it. So shut up, Bad Man In My Head. If we do it again they’ll put us back in the Home and we don’t need the Home. We’re not bad people any more. We have a job, a girlfriend, and people like us and some of them even know what we did to that girl. And we don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. Ever. So SHUT. UP. BAD. MAN.

Some working title

You know, I am going to miss you guys when the pills kick in.

I am serious. You all have been the best bunch of hallucinations a fella could ask for, and that’s not just the Xanax talking. I know we’ve had our differences in the past and our relationship has always been…. complicated… but I just want to let you all know that, all in all, I could not have asked for a better group of delusional manifestations of my tortured psyche trying to make sense of the world despite a head full of bad wiring and emotional trauma.

And I mean it!

Yes, I am talking about you, Inside Out Face. Sure, you’ve scared the hell out of me since I was a little girl. Heck, you’re the reason I ended up in this mental hospital in the first place. I was doing a great job of pretending to be sane before you started appearing and trying to eat my head.

Despite my best efforts, I could not control my screaming. And there’s only so many times you can say “acid flashback” or “I swear I saw a spider” before your co-workers at Chipotle begin to get suspicious.

Not to mention the customers. Yikes.

But I am perfectly happy to let bygones be bygones. It’s nice here at Greenhaven. And truth be told, there was times when I wanted you to show up and give me a fright so I had an excuse to go home for the day.

After all, that’s where you live, Amorous Italian Rhinoceros.

I guess I can admit it now… you’ve always been my favorite. Your charm, your wit, your generous affection, the stylish way you paint your hooves… you are everything I have ever wanted in a mammal. Whenever I skip my meds, it’s you I am thinking of. I would face a whole army of Inside Out Faces and Poop Popes and even Molester Moles if it meant I got to spend another minute in your strong, rough-skinned embrace.

Doctor Finkelman says that makes your my most dangerous delusion of all, and I suppose he’s right. After all, you are the reason I held up that bank. I could never say no to that sad yet dignified look in your eyes. When you told me that you needed fifty thousand dollars to keep the Space Ark from crashing into the sun, that’s all I needed to hear.

Now, even with the reduced sentence, there’s very little chance of us getting out of Greenhaven any time soon. But you know I can’t stay mad at you. Not for long. And you know it, you handsome old rogue you. No matter how many times you get me into trouble, I will always come back to you in the end. I just can’t stay away, no matter how many times you trick me into taking off all my clothes in public.

Doctor Finkelman also calls our relationship bestiality, but that’s just silly. After all, you can talk!

And speaking of nudity, don’t think I have forgotten you, Naked Dickensian Waif. Sometimes you are a girl and sometimes you are a boy, but you have always been my friend. As long as you were around, I didn’t feel so bad about myself. Without the need to constantly bathe you (you’re such a dirty little ragamuffin, always getting into trouble!), I would have gone crazy.

Well, crazier. Whatever. You know what I mean.

I don’t see why Doctor Finkelman gets so upset when I talk about you. Apart from that one time where I tried to make that boy I stole into you, my relationship with you has always been as normal and healthy as it could be.

After all, everyone loves a good bath, right? So why put clothes on you? With how dirty you tend to get, putting clothes on you would just mean having to bathe you AND do your laundry. Much easier to just let you run around naked.

Besides, little kids don’t need clothes because they don’t have anything to hide yet. Uncle Donny taught us that!

Oh dear, I feel the medication starting to kick in, and I have so many more of you to thank. Already you are all getting a little blurry. I’d better pick up the pace.

I will always have a soft spot in my heart for you, Man Made Of Penises. I could never understand what you were saying, and you always smelled weird, but Doctor Finkelman said you did a really good job of representing my deep struggle against the world of men and maleness, and that I should be grateful my subconscious chose such an obvious manifestation and that you were super keen and lovely and wonderful.

Or something like that.

Um, um…. oh, Kissing Flower! Doctor Finkelman called you obvious too, but he didn’t seem happy about it. I don’t know what his problem is. I always loved how you would kiss me all over. I don’t know why Doctor Finkelman is so obsessed with finding out “who you really are”.

Maybe he just doesn’t like flowers.

Oh, and of course I can’t forget (at least till these meds kick in all the way) you, Ghost of Jesus. Whenever life truly had me down and not even pictures of dying clowns could cheer me up, you were always there to put your arms around my shoulders and make fun of my vagina.

You have no idea how much that meant to me.

Well, I guess this is it. You are all just grey blurs to me now, and soon, I will be back in reality for the first time since I was a little girl with “troubling” imaginary friends.

I had so much more to say, but for some reason, I can’t remember any of it now. I guess all I can say is… thanks for the company, folks. I guess I will never see you again.

In fact, the whole thing is starting to seem a little weird.