In loving memory of my salad

I'm aware that salad is not finger food.
But oh, how crisply carrots crunch upon the tongue!
How delicious lettuce greenly lies!
And cucumbers --
                  to speak of cucumbers is to speak of paradise

Home seems still so far away;
Perhaps if I pick off a leaf here,
                                       a sliver there,
I can cool my parched throat
                  without doing my poor salad too much harm

All the world is bright about me,
And my heart is light as crisp cool greens
                   I'm halfway through my salad
                                       I think I ate more than it seemed

As finally I mount my doorstep,
                 Turn my key and slip inside,
                                       I set the box down on the table
                                       Ready to taste the treasure inside

I open the lid -- but what is this?
No leaf of lettuce to be found!
                  O woe! Ah me! O misery!
                  A tear wells up within my eye

I meant to take a little taste,
                  To ease my walk,
                  And yet it seems -- o dreary thought--
                                       I ate up every bite!

Unwelcome Visitor

I’m so drowsy; I need tea. Coffee!

Something with sugar and milk and caffeine

But that little dragon is curled up on my chest

digging in needle-claws

just above my heart

He loves caffeine even more than I do

He likes to take the energy my mind needs

Keep it all for himself

And I draw a breath in

I can’t let it out

he's crushing my lungs

Sometimes, if I let him feed, he grows

Then he holds captive not just my heart

Not just my lungs

But slithers his long neck and tail beneath both breasts

all the way around to meet between my shoulderblades

in a python's embrace

my ribs are cracking

I feel his heart beat scorching against mine

heat and tightness that won’t be dispelled by indrawn breath

or gasping cries

I scream sometimes

and cry

I beat my forehead on the steering wheel

and the gentle thuds do nothing to drown out

that little dragon

who whispers to my heart all the fears he reads there

“He’s mad at you”
“She’s never liked you”

“Why did you ever let them see your story?”

They hate you

They hate you

And don’t you hate you, too?

Post-Breakup Slam Poetry (everyone's favorite!)

An acronym for you
Don't you see all
I do? I simply
Can't believe you don't
Know how
Hard I worked against
Entropy, against your
Apathy. But no, you just...
Don't.

~*~

That fucking flower
I should have seen it coming
Months and months ago
When Valentine's passed with no sign from you
It was a week later
You gave me a rose,
Said "I would have given this to you sooner,
But I knew if someone saw me
Carrying a flower
They'd want to know why and where and who."

Fool that I was,
I left it here
Thought it one more
Symptom of your
Bloated
Schedule
Thought I'd see you more
When you had the time.

So I waited
Summer came,
Still only saw you once
A week --
If that
But I left it there
You lived an hour away
I knew I couldn't see you
Every day

I fell into the pattern,
Miss you
Miss you
Miss you desperately,
See you briefly,
Return to equilibrium,
Equilibrium,
Miss you again.

But I left it there
I internalized it
Thought I was being
Unreasonable
Clingly
Weak

I held on all summer
Until
You moved in
20 minutes away
I was so excited
To finally be in your vicinity
And then:

Me: Are you busy?
You: Not really. Why?
Me: I'm nearby. Should I come over?
You: I just saw you yesterday.

I think I will cite that exchange
For years to come
As the final blow
That felled my faith in you.

I just saw you yesterday

I just saw you yesterday

yesterday
I saw you
once per week

I called you out on it
You told me that I asked
More time
By far
Than anyone you'd ever known

Funny
I didn't think I was
Your chore
A once-a-week obligation
And a whiny one at that.

I must apologize
For burdening you
With my free time and affection.

Forgive me
For loving
You

I guess you still don't want
To carry
That fucking flower

So don't worry; you don't have to anymore--
I can carry it myself,
Or give it to someone else,
Someone who understands:

"I saw you yesterday"
Is not something you ever,
Ever
Get to tell a girl that loves you.

~*~

The one time I wished you well (albeit angrily)
I want to talk to you
About Islamic law and Burke
About my wonderful new story
And my wonderful new work
But how could I remain
With such a narcissistic jerk?
Goodbye, Hunter
I hope you discover your fatal flaws
Before it's too late

Have fun finding someone as patient
And as understanding
As I have always been.
You, my friend, are FUCKED.

Because I'm pretty sure
I was the best you'll ever have.
Hope your career is still fulfilling
When you're fifty and alone.

~*~

An early-morning realization
It is 1:35am
Nearly a month
Since we ended
And I just realized:
You knew exactly
What you were doing.

Any goodwill I've felt
Since I left
Has been predicated
On the assumption
That you didn't realize
How much it hurt me
Not to talk to you for
Days at a time,
How keenly I felt
A week's absence
From your side

But as I lay in bed
Conjuring up undead memories
Of what few good times
We'd had,
Of the occasion or two
On which you were actually
There for me
And cared for me
I remembered:

The last night
Of our week in Florida
When you held me
And awkwardly
Patted my back
As I cried

I told you then
What I don't think I said
Before or since
About my horror
That seeing you would again
Be a once-a-week occasion
How I dreaded
That endless wait
For a single text back.

I told you how it hurt
On so many levels
To be held at such a distance
And you curled around me
And murmured vague niceties

But I was right.

Even after you saw
Me shaking, trailing tears
From my aching eyes,
Even after I told you
I couldn't bear the separation
You snapped back to the status quo
Of me missing you,
Texting you, the void,
Bending heaven and earth to see you
Just once a week
And you --
Putting me off
Shutting me down
Knowing good and well
That you were my hell.

So I take it all back
Every sympathetic thought
Every moment I've wasted
Worrying for you.
I take back my resignation,
My naive assumption
That you did the best you could.

Because even though you never hit me,
Neglect is still classified as abuse.
I leave no asterisk
On our breakup
No footnote protesting
That you tried.

I truly, deeply believe
You couldn't have done less
To care for my well-being.
And I couldn't be happier
To have your narcissistic
Egotistic
Type-A-for-Asshole attitude
Out of my life for good.

It used to bother me
Knowing you'll look back
And wish
You'd treated me better.
But now?
Realizing how deliberately you
Ignored my needs
For your own convenience?
I think regret
Is a just punishment for neglect.

Eve

They like to tell the story in chapter 2
Of how God took me from man's side
Molded stolen bone and flesh into man's image
A nice little helpmeet
To end poor Adam's solitude
They rarely tell the story in chapter 1
Of how on the sixth day God made us both
How God created man and woman there,
Two humans, equals,
In God's image

They like to tell the story in verse 12
Of how I ate forbidden fruit
Then fed it to my hapless husband
How we all fell
Because I sinned
They rarely tell the story in verse 6
How hapless Adam stood nearby and watched,
Waited there to see if I would die
Before he came
To taste it for himself

They tried to tell my story throughout history
To show my daughters they are weak like me
That they must bow and let their husbands rule them
Accept oppression
For their own safety
They've tried to quell the stories throughout history
Of how my daughters' strength made all my children strong
And how the broken curse has set them free
God's well-loved daughters,
In God's image.

I've Missed This Blog

Hello, blogspot, my old friend!
It's been quite some time (almost a full year? Goodness!) since I posted here. I had actually resolved to leave this blog to gather dust, a chronicle of my youthful years, but not to be posted in anymore. I moved to wordpress, which many assured me was a much better blogging tool, and started two more "professional"-looking blogs (Meet the Adventure, a blog with such tight quality control I've only posted in it twice, and Beth's Daily Story Challenge, a flash fiction blog that's a bit more sporadic than daily now). But I was sitting at desk, bored out of my wits because homework obviously doesn't exist on weekends, and I realized something important.
No matter how much professional content I may be trying to create, there is always going to be room in my life for a personal blog. A space where I can relax my writing style and post something goofy or messily intimate and not feel as though I need to edit again and again before I can allow anyone to see it but myself. A more honest, intimate space, more journal than public forum, that I can share with others and say "Yes, this is a part of who I am."
This doesn't mean that I'm going to post that much more, or that many more people are going to see this. I'd be surprised if anyone beyond one or two of my old friends will keep up with anything I post. But that's alright -- sometimes I just need a space to post a list of silly phobias, complete with mildly inept illustrations.
I'm allowed to be goofy, and silly, and mildly inept. Those are all part of my personality, along with the creative yearning, the staid professionalism, the elements of myself that I would put on my resume.
Hello, Unicorns -- I'm Beth, and I'm back.

Insomnia: The tragic true story

Mondays are hard.
I wake up at 8 AM to work at the library, then head to classes until 2:30 and get a bit of a break before I go to work again at 4.
Tomorrow is going to be especially hard because, on top of the usual 8-5 schedule, I'm supposed to be at rehearsal from about 6:00-9:30.
Why does this matter?
Because, my friends, this is one of the WORST nights for me to have insomnia.
Here follows an account of a very frustrating night.

12:00: Finally decided to go to sleep.
12:02: Hm... I wonder if my director will let me lead projection exercises.
12:05: Maybe I'll email him.
12:09: Okay. Sleep now.
12:10: I wonder what exercises I'll do?
12:11 I'd better look some up.
12:15: I am the very model of a modern major-general ~
12:19: OKAY. FOR REAL. SLEEP.
12:24: ... I've been meaning to look up stuff for that Bible study for awhile.
12:25: Okay, tomorrow I'll... Ooh Westminster Shorter Catechism!!!
12:31: OKAY. SLEEP. ZZZZZ. No more phone.
1:15: I should turn a book into a play... That would be cool.
1:17: I'd better text this idea to myself.
1:21: NOTIFICATIONS!!! :D
1:47: Stooooop... It's bedtime now.
1:51: Maybe if I turn off the lamp...
1:54: Stupid air conditioner... I AM SLIGHTLY TOO WARM. I CAN'T SLEEP LIKE THIS.
1:58 Maybe if I listen to Alexander Scourby reading the KJB...
2:01: This app is really overpriced!
2:05: ALEXANDER SCOURBY YOU ARE NOT HELPING.
2:13: Maybe if I sleep in my chair...
Mmmm....
So comfy.....
This is it.
This. Is. IT.
2:25: This still isn't working.
2:30 BLANKET FORT!!!!!!

Okay, Beth, this is really weird... It's fine way beyond "overactive mind." Waaaaiiiit....

It was at this point, within the shelter of my blanket fort, that I finally came across the missing piece of the hyperactive puzzle. Checkers HAD given me Dr. Pepper instead of root beer at 10... Turns out that Dr. Pepper, in addition to not being my favorite soda, is also CAFFEINATED.
So now, as I lay in my fort waiting for the caffeine to wear off, I write a perhaps ill-advised blog post and listen to soft music. It is now approaching 3 AM. I can only hope I will survive tomorrow...

WARNING: AMATEUR POETRY

This is, in some ways, a hypocritical post. I'm often leery of amateur poetry, especially deeply personal amateur poetry. But for today I'm taking a step down from my high horse and sharing two poems that I wrote, separated by a span of about two years. This is a post about change, about growth, about sorrow and happiness, loneliness and life.

When I was in high school, I experienced a phenomenon I'm sure many people have encountered: selective invisibility. Throughout most of my adolescence I was present but not there, seen but not noticed, in but not a part of. And the worst of it was that my isolation was neither malicious nor even intentional -- I simply went unnoticed.

This is a poem I wrote when I felt this invisibility most keenly.

I am invisible

I cannot be seen

Cannot be heard

Cannot be touched

I am invisible

I am alone in this crowd

Even my friends forget I exist

There are other friends dearer than I

I am invisible

Why do you ask a question,

Then turn away before I answer?

I am invisible

Clearly I matter little

You don't care what I say

You'll never hear what I think

I am invisible

My lips may sing

My mouth may smile

But there are tears in my eyes

I am invisible

I stand on the brink of tears

They glisten, one escapes

No one cares to see it

I am invisible

You see me, speak to me

But only for a moment

Then I am gone, ghost of your perceptions

I am invisible

Can't you even listen for a moment?
Can't you even care for a second?

Don't you want me to answer your question?

I felt this way for three, four years, maybe more. My life almost as far back as I could remember was a gray haze of loneliness.

But then I came to college and suddenly people saw me. When I talked to people they talked back, when I smiled they smiled, when I was upset they noticed. I soon had friends I could talk to like I'd talked to almost no one before, and I could hardly believe my good fortune. I went back and read the poem I'd written what seemed an age ago and decided that a sequel was in order. Call it a reprise, a rebuttal, part two -- it expresses the human I am today, a contrast to the shadow I was yesterday.

I am alive

For the first time,

For a lifetime,

I am alive

I am alive

Joy and sorrow surge

Ebb within my soul

And in their motion set me free

I am alive

Cicada-like I've slept

Concealed beneath the loam

Now I rise and rejoice

I am alive

No longer unheard

No longer untouched

No longer unloved

I am alive

After eighteen years 

After lonely tears

I am alive

And now the world will hear my song.

Harris Teeter: a reflection on my year as a cashier

Nearly one year ago, on November 15th, I began working for a local grocery store chain called Harris Teeter. Now, as I head off to college in a far-off state, I leave this job behind. But I take memories with me -- some good, some bad, and some spectacularly blog-worthy. Allow me to regale you with remembrances of customers long gone, of disturbances in routine, and of a job that I truly came to love.

I remember... "Mrs. Robinson."
Mrs. Robinson was one of my least favorite customers, though the first time or two I served her I thought her quite nice. It was on one occasion, after we had been chatting pleasantly for awhile, that I began having trouble with one of her coupons. Well.... make that six of them, each for $2 off, and most of them too blurred to scan. I called my manager over for help, and she took one look at the coupons and said "I'm sorry, but we can't take these."
Mrs. Robinson took them back without a fuss, then handed me a store card for her second transaction. But the card wasn't under the name Robinson, which my manager immediately noticed.
"That's my neighbor's VIC card," Mrs. Robinson said. "I'm buying these groceries for her."
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's one VIC card per customer."
"But it's for my neighbor."
"She would have to be here, ma'am. Sorry."
Mrs. Robinson reached down and grabbed the arm of her two-year-old son, dragging him up to the counter. "He's a customer! You've got to let him use the card."
My manager argued with her a little longer, and finally Mrs. Robinson gave up, left most of the groceries for her "neighbor," and exited the store.
"Look at these coupons," my manager said, taking one of the coupons I'd managed to scan. "It's obviously photocopied from a magazine. We can't accept photocopied coupons, 'cause we don't get paid back for them. Also, we can't accept more than three of the same kind of coupon. And it's expired. You've got to be more careful when you're scanning these."
I was horrified to find that Mrs. Robinson, who had been quite kind, was in reality some kind of coupon con artist. No longer did the incident with the secondary VIC card seem like needless nit-picking from my manager -- I realized now that Mrs. Robinson had been trying to get double the deals.
A few weeks later I served her again. I wasn't sure at first -- the face was familiar, but the name on the card wasn't the same. But I knew her right away when she tried to give me the same huge pile of photocopied, expired coupons that she'd tried to pawn of last time!

I remember... the lady who got angry about my necklace.
A busy day, a customer with a WIC check for certain food items -- the first WIC check I'd ever had to process. I was already pretty nervous about it as I scanned the groceries that were not listed on the check first, getting that transaction out of the way before I would have to call my manager for help. As I worked, I noticed that the customer was giving my Celtic knot necklace a very skeptical look.
"What's it mean?" she asked abruptly.
"What?"
"What does that mean?" she asked again, pointing at the necklace.
"Oh, I -- nothing, really."
"You don't know what it means?"
"It's a Celtic knot."
She was not pleased with this response. "That like the KKK?"
I almost dropped the milk. "No! No! Celtic! Like... like Irish?"
She just narrowed her eyes at me and gave my necklace another skeptical look, as if she didn't quite believe me but didn't care enough to raise a fuss about my evil gang sign KKK necklace.

I remember... the mafia man who bought me Skittles.
It was fairly late that evening, and business had been moving at a goodly clip for most of my shift. I leaned against my register, taking a break, when down my line came the strangest customer I had had that day. He was tall and dark and perhaps handsome as well (in that rugged 50s sort of way), was sharply-dressed in a pinstripe shirt, suspenders, slacks, and shiny shoes... and was pushing a cart loaded up to full capacity with alcohol of every kind.
"Hello, welcome to Harris Teeter!" I chirruped.
"Hello, Elizabeth. What's your favorite candy?" he queried in reply.
I automatically replied "Skittles," took his store card, and began scanning his mountains of liquor. He, meanwhile, thoughtfully perused the candy until he found a pack of Skittles, which he handed to me to ring up. I did so, thinking nothing of it, until at the end of the (long) transaction he said "You can keep those."
I awkwardly thanked him and gave him his cart... then, when he had disappeared out the doors, I realized that he hadn't completed the payment process with his debit card! I raced outside, found him, led him back, and watched with red-faced shame as he finished up the transaction, stoically took his receipt, and left again with his inordinate amount of alcohol in tow.

I remember doing a grande plie in cheap khakis my first night and splitting them open at the seam.

I remember running across the parking lot in a heavy summer rainstorm to roll up the windows on my car.

I remember meeting a man who was an amalgamation of all the traits I find most attractive.

I remember making a break-time nest for myself behind the bags of mulch.

I remember folding tiny origami cranes from receipt paper during slow times.

I remember trading poetry quotes with a hipster customer.

I remember coming in second in the contest to sell donation cards.

Most of all, I remember how good it felt to learn to do my job well.

Pitfalls of high-falutin' language

The world is filled with writers of all kinds. Many are good, many are bad, many are mediocre. Usually it's not too hard to avoid low-quality writing; if it's awful, stop reading and go on your merry way, perhaps cleanse your palate with some worthier work.
What really becomes painful, however, is when otherwise good writers misuse words so blatantly that it sticks in your mind forever and festers there, like a tiny splinter from a seemingly varnished surface. There are a few misuses in particular that I see all too often, and that I wish to raise awareness about.

Don -- This is often used as a fancier-sounding synonym for  "wore." In actuality, it is a succinct verb that means "to put on." When used properly, it saves a bit of space and can improve sentence flow. Improperly used, however, it becomes a distraction and a nuisance.
Wrong: Anna was donned in cashmere.
Right: Anna had donned cashmere.

Orb -- It's not so much the misuse of this word as the abuse of it that is truly irritating. Since the English language doesn't have a lot of synonyms for "eyes," many authors will use the word "orbs" instead, either to avoid repetitive language or to sound more romantic. Either way, it never ends up sounding quite right, and those who enjoy it might find that its plebian cousin serves them better.
Wrong: Ambrose's blue orbs flashed with ire.
Right: Ambrose's blue eyes flashed with ire.

Thee -- Quite a few authors, when looking for a bit of medieval flair, have fallen at once to using "thee" without any thought to its proper use or conjugation. The most common mistake is to use "thee" universally, when in reality it is merely the objective case of "thou."
Wrong: If thee hast finished thee tea, I pray thee, come.
Right: If thou hast finished thy tea, I pray thee, come.

O -- This is a little bit nit-picky, I'll admit, but not a lot of people seem to realize that "o" is even a word. Most of the time, people just use "oh." "O" is used mainly in old-fashioned writing, often in legend-form, and is commonly a form of address.
Wrong: Oh mighty dragon, heed my plea!
Right: O mighty dragon, heed my plea!

Bonus: a Southerner collective noun explained
Y'all -- A lot of people get this one wrong, and it's used in different ways in different places, but believe it or not, there is a proper way to use this word! It's a contraction of "you all;" a collective noun that refers to more than one person.
Wrong: Y'all sit down, Mr. Parson.
Right: Y'all sit down, Mr. and Mrs. Parson.

Miss Monday's Traffic Ticket

Today was to have been one of my worst days in a very, very long time.
It was the day I was scheduled to go to court for the first time ever.
I was nearly desperate last night, reading about court procedures at a frenzied pace and fretting about where I'd get the money to pay the enormous court fees. I went to bed early, dreading the day and hoping fervently that it would be infinity times less horrible than I expected.
Against all odds, that's exactly what happened.

I got to the courthouse early -- very early. So early, in fact, that it hadn't even opened to the public yet! I was aware of the building's hours (having seen them on the website the night before), but I thought it was worth a try to get inside and out of the biting cold. (Note: fancy shoes are NOT made for keeping one's feet warm in such situations!) I was quite relieved to find the door unlocked and stepped into the warm interior.
"Ma'am, this building is closed to the public until eight. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
It was only 7:20. I couldn't stay outside all that time! "Can't I just stay here?" I asked, desperately.
"No, ma'am, this building is closed to the public."
Blinking back childish tears, I stepped out into the kind of day that makes you want to huddle deep under your covers and beg for mercy.

Fortunately, I spent only five minutes exposing my under-clad feet to the weather. I found an office building across the street with unlocked doors and slipped into a warm lobby, in which four black leather chairs were arranged around a little table. A brief stint in one of these chairs quickly convinced me that I was far too chilled to expose myself to heat-sapping leather. Besides, what if someone saw me and sent me away? I'd had that happen once. I didn't think I could deal with it a second time. And so,  not without some inner amusement, I settled myself on the rug between two chairs and pulled out a book.
I was there for a full forty minutes and not one person noticed me. Or at least, if they noticed, no one remarked on my presence. Maybe I was better-hidden between the chairs than I'd thought, maybe they were too busy to bother checking to see if I belonged there, or maybe they took pity on a displaced little waif hiding from the cold. Whatever the reason, I remained undisturbed for long enough to thaw out.
As eight o'clock approached, I gathered up every ounce of my trembling courage and stepped out of the welcoming warmth of the unknown building.

One thing that I took away from my visit to the courthouse: it takes a great deal of lining-up to get people properly sorted! I stood in line to get into the building, stood in line to go through security, then went up in an elevator and down a long hallway to stand in line again so I could check in with one of the clerks.
The official copy of my ticket was placed at the bottom of a pile. When I came to the front of the line, it came to the top of the pile, and the clerk who picked it up called me forward.
"What was the offense?"
"I went through a crosswalk when someone was entering it."
He considered for a moment, then scribbled something on the ticket. "I'm going to let you go with a warning. They treated you pretty harshly." He glanced up and noticed my incomprehension. "I saw them send you back outside. You looked pretty miserable."
I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Did he really mean it? No court costs or anything? "So, should I just...?"
"I would recommend you scoot out that door as fast as you can."
I duly scooted, and stood not upon the order of my going.
No guards stopped me in the long hallway. I wished a lonely-looking man luck as I passed him by, and we exchanged the smiles of strangers. I escaped into the elevator, stepped out into the lobby, marveled for a moment at the miraculous outcome of my first visit to traffic court, then skipped outside and sang songs of rejoicing to the winter sky.

My epic tale of revenge

Have you noticed that a lot of heroes in stories nowadays are on a huge quest for revenge? Someone or something has murdered their someone or taken their something, and now they're out to get their own back.
Well, today I realized that I'm in the middle of my own epic tale of revenge.
When I was a little girl, a horrible Something stole my grandmother away from me. Now this Something has taken my mother prisoner, perhaps never to be returned.
I am currently in the middle of my training montage.
But the training does not consist of punishing physical tasks or sage advice from an aged mentor. No, my training is going on every day, little by little. I'm learning to use the only weapon that can fight this Something: science.
The montage isn't anything exciting -- it mostly consists of me doing math homework online or reading a book about biology and how it relates to memory. And it's slow going, especially since I haven't been giving my STEM muscles much work until within the past year or two, but I am moving, step by step, toward becoming the perfect Something-fighting warrior:
A neuroscientist.
And someday, when my training is complete, I will track down the Something to its forbidding castle with a band of ragtag scientists, and together we will face down the Something and find its sole weakness. And then a great battle will be joined, the like of which has not been seen for many a year...
And we.
Will.
WIN.
My own life will never be the way it was, but I will have freed others in the future from the Something, and with that knowledge I will find peace.
This is my epic tale of revenge.
It's just starting right now, but someday...
Well, who knows what someday will bring?

Shirtroulette and solemates

After many, many years of being schooled at home, I've just now entered a public school for my senior year. It meets at a community college and you can finish up your high school credits while you take college classes, and it's freeeee!
Unfortunately, since I'm no longer in charge of my own schedule to such a degree, I have to be up and ready much earlier than I'm used to. For the past two months I've been getting dressed in the normal way, picking things out every morning, but I've spent more time deliberating over shirt choices than I really want to spend (and they're not even that different from each other -- "Should I wear the geeky t-shirt with The Princess Bride and physics or the geeky t-shirt with a DeLorean and a TARDIS?").
That fact, combined with a sudden lust for reorganization, led to the creation of shirtroulette.
All of my best t-shirts and tank tops have been rolled up so that they're practically indistinguishable to the touch. I've placed them all in a drawer, and every night I close my eyes, open the drawer, and reach in. Whichever shirt I grab is the shirt I wear, though I'm free to choose from a number of different pairs of jeans to go with it, or even some black pants if I'm feeling creative.
Each night I move the shirts around a bit after selecting so that the selection of a new shirt the next night is a bigger surprise.
I've just implemented this system, and so far I'm pleased with the results. It makes it a lot easier to just pick a shirt and it brings an element of adventure to getting dressed!
Then again, I feel there's an element of adventure to sitting on my desk backwards and putting my feet on my chair, so maybe I'm just very easily entertained. After all, I can personify almost anything and make it into a story. This comes in handy if I'm feeling bored and want to talk to inanimate objects, but it's less handy when it makes me feel empathy for lonely socks.
Last night, when I was putting away my laundry, I discovered that one poor little sock was missing its solemate. I tried not to think too much of it, just set the sock aside and kept putting things away. But then, when I was nearing the bottom of the basket, I found another lonely little sock! With much rejoicing, I held it aloft and cried "Laura, look!  The black sock isn't alone anymore! I found its little friend!"
I'm trying to pretend the lonely black sock in the living room and the lonely white sock in the family room don't exist. Otherwise I'll start imagining their feelings and end up wearing blatantly mismatched socks one day so they won't feel so sad.

Phobias II: This time it's personal.

So, I made fun awhile ago of random fears that seem completely ridiculous. Now that I think about it, though, don't we all have ridiculous fears? If I'm going to mock other people for being afraid of such things as beards, than it's only fair that I mock myself just as much, perhaps more!
Without further ado, here are some of my odder fears:

Disfigured letter F
I discovered quite recently that this seemingly harmless little symbol fills me with the same sick horror as extreme gore:

"What's that?" you may be wondering, and with good reason.
It's a partially-dismembered letter F.
"How can you dismember letters?"
I don't know, but apparently it's not only completely possible, but utterly disgusting. I get the picture in my head of the poor little letter having its face torn off...
And, before you ask: yes, 'F' is the only letter I anthropomorphize.


Open doors (at night)
Few things are quite so horrifying as an open door at night. It fills to the brim with shadows, which are somehow darker than the darkness of the rest of the room. Anything could be in there... anything.
Plus, if you leave your bedroom door open, it's way too easy for monsters to get in. And the more doors there are in a room, the less secure I feel. When I was staying with my sister there was a double closet door (the scariest of all), the main door (which was hidden behind a corner but was still frightening because I didn't know for sure that it was closed) and a door to the guest bathroom. Three doors is two too many. How are you supposed to barricade yourself in from nightmares with so many portals to guard?

Closed bathroom doors (at night)
Yes, I'm aware there's a bit of a paradox here. Thing is, a few weeks ago I watched an episode of Buffy called "Hush". It was an excellent episode, and I wasn't too scared at the time of watching... But then I let my imagination run away with me. See, the episode features these demons called "The Gentlemen", who steal the voices of a town, go in and cut out the hearts of seven victims.

Seriously, look at them.

They were attended by straightjacketed, demonic footmen, who held down their victims for them and moved in a heart-stopping, lurching sort of movement, flailing their arms in a puppetlike dance.
Soon after I had seen that episode, I was sitting in the living room of my sister's house. I was the last to bed and had been loitering there for quite some time, messing with my laptop and trying to convince myself I wasn't scared of the Gentlemen. Of course, thinking about how scared I was got me being even more scared than before, so that by the time I actually went upstairs and started taking my contacts out I was practically paralyzed with fear. I had started to sing to myself to try and divert my mind, but unfortunately this just made me think 'Oh no! I must be REALLY scared if I have to SING!'
This is when I started imagining that the Gentlemen were floating silently up the stairs... they were just beyond the door... they were going to come in.
The doorknob rattled, and I screamed bloody murder.
Of course, it turned out not to be mythical demons that somehow weren't killed by my singing. It was just my younger sister, DLL, who wanted to get ready for bed.
And that's why I leave the door open and pace when I'm brushing my teeth.

Any bed that isn't a bunk bed
I've spent most of my life  sleeping in an upper bunk, surrounded by sturdy rails. You'd be amazed by how secure you feel in one of those! Unfortunately, it has left me less than comfortable with certain aspects of a normal bed. After watching the movie Poltergeist, I was terrified for weeks of that clown doll. Even now, almost a full year later, I still cringe when I drop something and have to bend down to pick it up, because deep inside I'm positive that the clown will be waiting for me when I sit up again.

You go the whole movie thinking 'It couldn't be any creepier.' WRONG.

Normal beds are pretty cool the rest of the time, aside from the knowledge that it's way easier for any monsters or enemies to get at you and you could very easily fall off if you aren't careful and all the shadows seem so very, very much closer...

In conclusion
My imagination is a dark, twisted place sometimes. Of course, this should come as a surprise to no one, considering I drew a man-eating unicorn once and started a blog because of it. Really, the things that scare me about the monsters I mentioned isn't dying by their hands (I mean, the Gentlemen are killed by human voices and that clown was destroyed by a little kid), but simply the idea of coming face-to-face with them. I'm not frightened by them, exactly, but by the idea of them. Like with open doors - - it's not what's actually there, but what might be there. The possibility of terror is far more frightening to me than the actual terror.
Where does Disfigured F fit into this?
I haven't the foggiest. I think that one can just be chalked up to my being a strange little person.

And, now that I've written about and found pictures of the things that scare me most, I'm going to go to bed and lie awake half the night listening for monsters.

My talent: self-injury

And what a talent! I'm always hurting myself somehow, but never quite to the point of breaking something (which is a miracle, considering that my favorite game when I was little was seeing how many stairs I could jump down). Through clumsiness or haste or just bad luck, I have spent my whole life accidentally hurting myself. I am forever barking fingers against the insides of ovens, dropping scalding bowls of soup, slamming shins into steps, falling down stairs, walking into doors (when I expect them to open and they don't), catching my elbow on a retracting seat belt buckle (just yesterday!), breaking nails off below the quick... I have a nasty habit of just letting my nails grow, and grow, and GROW... and then I mishandle something and SNAP!
For example, just two weeks ago I was unloading groceries when my thumbnail broke, right at the edge of my finger. I wore a band-aid for several days, and just as I had safely removed it (leaving a jagged spur that I didn't sand away), I dropped a history book on it and it broke AGAIN, only this time there were no band-aids available and I had to beg electric tape from someone.
Oh, and I injured myself at a rapier class the other day.
Don't worry! None of the actual weapons were out yet when it happened!
That's right. I managed to hurt myself at a weapons class without the aid of weapons.
It happened thus: the class was starting out with some reflex games. I don't normally join in (I was there to watch my sister's baby for her while she helped teach), but it looked like fun, so I asked to be included. We were playing a game in which one person holds gloves in both clenched hands, which they hold straight out in front of them. The other person places their hands on the back of the first person's. The first person will then drop either or both of the gloves, and the other will have to try and catch them.
I did fairly well at first. Which is to say, I caught one once or twice and snatched awkwardly at the air the rest of the time. I also got into the unfortunate habit of trying to catch with both hands.
I'm sure you've got a guess at what happened next.
My partner dropped the gloves.
I grabbed for them with both hands.
The palm of the left made solid contact with the pinkie of the right.
And, hey presto! Suddenly I was in agonizing pain.
Blinking back tears (because there's nothing so humiliating as crying when you've caused yourself terrible pain), I quietly exited the room to run cold water over the offended finger.
Needless to say, I did not continue to participate in the class.
The next day my pinkie was purple all along the inside and swollen to about twice the size of the other. It wasn't broken, though, which was something of a relief.
Since then I've been learning to do things more with my left hand, since the right had both a badly-bruised pinkie and a broken thumbnail working against it. I've also discovered that it really hurts to shake hands with people when your pinkie is hurt, but not visibly so. You try to keep it out of the action, and for the most part that works, until you have to shake hands with Firm Handshake McGee, who gathers ALL your fingers into his enormous hand (in spite of your best efforts) and does his best to pop your bones from their joints.
But, hey! At least I'll be better at poker now! I've learned to smile when I'm dying on the inside.

You know your brother is amazing when...

So, a little while ago, a very bold stray cat approached my brother at his penthouse apartment. She looked hungry, so he went and brought some tuna out, being rather fond of cats.
She continued to come. Every time she came, he'd give her some tuna.
Finally, he bought a bag of cat food, since he kept running out of tuna. She would come and sit with him on his little porch, even when the food was gone.
Then came the next step:
She ran into his house, jumped on the couch, and peed on it.
He got her a litter box.
Finally, after all this time, he decided that she was his cat.
She lives with him now, quite comfortably. Though she's a bit fat, he doesn't think she'll have kittens -- she's just putting on weight now that she has as much to eat as she wants.
So my brother has a cat again, and now that she's his cat, he has to have a name for her...
Her name is Mr. Kitty.

Another vehicular anecdote

A few months ago (I don't exactly recall the date), I went on my first major excursion without my father (who carries, among other things, an extensive map of our general area in his head). My sister had to get to her orthodontist appointment somehow, and with my father off at work, it fell on me to get her there. He had printed out and left for me a set of very nice directions on how to get to the clinic, which was at one of the UNC centers in Chapel Hill. I very carefully read through it, then tossed it into the back seat and thought nothing more of it for the moment.
It was a beautiful, warm spring day: the sun was out, clouds billowed gracefully across periwinkle skies, and I drove with the windows down and my music up, as is my custom (every teenager has her follies, and such is mine). My mother was in the passenger seat, rather worried (and with good cause, considering her previous experience in driving with me and her loathing of strange places). My sister was in the back seat, happily singing along with the CD. All was well.
And then I missed my exit.
I knew, deep within my very marrow, that the exit I had just passed was the exit I was supposed to have taken. Panicking within my being, but outwardly attempting to maintain my composure, I took my leave of the interstate, hoping to somehow turn around and go back.
After driving some little way on this new exit, I was hopelessly lost.
I called my brother, which didn't help much on this occasion, as neither of us had any idea where I was and he couldn't very well come to my rescue if I couldn't be found. I was on my own (figuratively speaking).
Very calmly (I'm sure I was very calm - - on the outside), I requested that my sister read aloud the directions to me. No, I had not missed my exit - - I had, in fact, exited too soon. This was of no great help, as by now I had no idea where the interstate was or how to get back onto it even if I found it.
I popped in an Enya CD (which was soon to become my car distress music) and continued driving.
Somehow, by some great miracle, I stumbled into Chapel Hill. A confusion of streets led me to our parking deck, and after that it was only a brisk walk (or as brisk as we could walk without leaving our mother behind) into the center. Victory! We weren't too late for the appointment!
A brief while later we were back in the car. I don't know how it happened, but for some reason I either had no directions going back or didn't think I needed them... In short, I got lost again.
For the next hour or so I searched for a way home in an exceedingly haphazard pattern: I would go down a street for a ways and, if I felt I was getting too far away in the wrong direction, I would turn around, go back to Chapel Hill, and find a new street to follow.
This continued for quite some time until drama saved me for the first time: I encountered the new Playmaker's building in all its glory, beaming down on me with its old familiar face. I knew this place! How many times I had come here, for performances and for rehearsals! At last, something I recognized!
Soon I encountered another landmark: the parking lot in which we always sheltered during those long play weekends! Its ticket booth seemed to have an encouraging look about it. Now I was sure I had taken the right road.
But no amount of right roads will help one if one does not know which right road to take next. Soon I was lost again, perhaps more hopelessly than before: all I could do was follow this little road of mine and hope it got me somewhere. By this point, Enya had been playing for an hour and more, cycling over and over, but it seemed to be all that was keeping me sane.
At last, at last, drama saved me again! I encountered a certain street, which happened to fall along a route I had memorized for getting to my drama camp last year. After going the wrong direction down it for a mile or two, this road led me with unerring purpose to...
"He thalatta!" I cried, quoting something I'd never read. It was a curious expression, which my father had told me to employ whenever I encounter a certain highway.* (I think he meant it in jest, but it has now become a habit). This certain highway practically goes by our doorstep, and if I could just manage to turn the right way, I could get home!
And I knew, deep within me, that left was the right way to go. That drama camp had given me hope, just when all hope seemed lost.
Now was no time for Enya (which we were all thoroughly sick of by this point). I popped in the first thing that came to hand: Barbie Princess and the Pauper**.
That is how I came to find myself at a stoplight, idling next to some personage broadcasting a thumping bass, while my own windows were rolled all the way down to let loose the glory of two teenage girls piping along with "If You Love Me For Me".
"You say your love is true, and I hope that it will beeeeeeee~"

Twenty minutes later a frazzled mother, a much-put-upon sister, and an exhausted driver all stumbled out of the tiny Celica in which they had just spent two tiring hours.
All in all, I spent three hours lost in and around Chapel Hill on that fateful day.
And that is why I always memorize my directions AND write them on my hand before going to new places.


*It means, I think, "The sea!", and was cried by fleeing Greeks who, after a long and arduous journey, found themselves at last at the sea, and thus with a definite way of getting home. So my father tells me.
**An aside: around last Christmas, my father and I went on a long car trip together. I had packed several CDs of interest to me, including Barbie Princess and the Pauper (ahh, childhood, how you cling to one!). Since I didn't happen to have the case for it, though, I popped it in one that rightfully belonged to a Ravel CD. My unwitting father opened this, expecting to find excellent classical music, and exclaimed in tones of shocked disbelief, "Barbie?!" ...Then promptly popped it in anyway.

Wheeeee! Centaurs!

(Do not be alarmed: that is a boy centaur with exceedingly long hair.)

Centaurs are the coolest mythological creatures ever. They can win any battle, even if it's only a verbal one. Pirates vs. Ninjas? A lone centaur charges in and slaughters everyone. Is there life on other planets? Well, centaurs have to live somewhere. Republican or Democrat? Why not vote centaur?
Seriously - a centaur president would be the best. If he wanted warfare, he would hitch a ride over to the other country and kick in someone's head. Who needs guns when you're  a walking weapon? There'd be no need for soldiers to go overseas anymore, and that can't be anything but a good thing. Plus, a centaur president wouldn't feel the need to implement high-spending policies and drive the country to ruin. Centaurs are very low-maintenance. No need to use a super-expensive jet when you can just run all over the country! Of course, a president also needs to be an inspiring figure... But then, what's more inspiring than a freaking centaur?
Then again... Centaurs are well-known party animals. It might be best to keep him from inviting his pals over.
But as I was saying, no other mythological creature can compare to the magnificent centaur.
Dragons? They're all well and good, but in the end, they're just lizards with really bad breath. A centaur could easily smash its head in and look much more stylish while doing it.
Gryphons? Cooler than dragons, but hoof beats beak, every time. Besides, gryphons usually just feast on dead meat. A centaur is resourceful enough to hunt its own food and to make use of every scrap of hide and bone.
 Hydras? None of this foolish slicing off of heads for a centaur. It'd just kick a hydra's brains out, one head at a time.
Seriously. Name a mythological creature, and I'll tell you how a centaur would beat it. I challenge you, readers: comment below with a mythological creature of your choice, and I will comment back with the tale of its destruction.
Try me.

My car!

I have a ca-aar! I have a ca-aar!
This is not a very new development, but I thought it was about time I talked a little bit about the love of my life, Jade.
She is a beautiful '97-ish Celica of a shady green color, small and sleek and with the loveliest little headlights you've ever seen. Of course, she's not TOTALLY mine until I can afford to pay for insurance, repairs, and gas (translation: until I accomplish my full driver's license and can get a job), but we still get along well enough.
For the most part.
If you've read my blog at all, you know what's coming next - - a full account of how I destroyed her in some despicable way.
And that's pretty much what this is.
On my birthday, the day she was given to me, the first time my poor mother ever rode with me, my sister's German tutor was visiting. Her car was parked in an exceedingly awkward place, so I veeeery carefully backed up... And my front bumper gently grated against her rear bumper as I went by.
Hissing between my teeth, I craned to see if there was any damage, sitting up tall in my seat and forgetting for a moment to brake...
My back bumper scraped against the wall of the house.
I cried out in frustration, while my mother did her best to assure me that it wasn't my fault I'd almost taken out both a visiting car and my own house. Desperate to get out of the driveway, I moved forward again....
And guess what my front bumper lovingly kissed?
I backed off once again and finally, FINALLY, I got down our driveway and onto the road!
My apology to my dear little car came in the form of giving her a thorough cleaning, inside and out, that very weekend.

"Well!" you say. "That's quite an adventure, Miss Monday! Good thing you didn't actually do any damage! Now you're going to tell us that everything has been spiffing since then, right?"
Don't mock me, rhetorical reader. You know me too well for that if you know me at all.
My first accident was far less traumatic than first accidents might be. No one was injured, except my pride and poor Jade.
I was at a busy intersection and very keen to get home. In order to do so, I had to take a left turn across two lanes of rapidly-approaching traffic. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting, an opening came. It was a small one, but I thought I could make it... I lunged for it, so to speak, turning quickly as I swooped toward the narrow road.
I didn't turn quite quickly enough.
With a terrible, sickening, grating noise, the front right side of my little car was savagely torn by the curb. My heart lurched within me as the wheel seemed to fade away in my hands, already beginning to lose its strength. Jade and I staggered into the nearest turnoff: a gravel-lined parking lot in front of a rather shady preschool center. I sat there for a moment, hyperventilating and crying and in general losing my composure. I shakily got out of the car and went around to the front. I couldn't see any damage... Not really... Was Jade okay? Was I overreacting?
I got back in the car and drove in a few circles around the parking lot. All seemed well...
Until I tried to turn right.
Jade screeched in pain and weakly tried to do my bidding, but it was obvious that I was hurting her. I stopped at once, trying to think if I could get home without taking a right turn...
The thing was impossible.
Weeping openly over the injury to my poor little car, and over my seemingly desperate situation, I handed back a cell phone to my younger sister, who was sitting in the back seat. She called my brother and requested aid.
I listened to Enya and did (or tried to do) math problems while I waited for him to arrive.
He did his best to take off the wheel, but with a cap missing from one of the lug nuts, there was no way he could get it off. So we called a towing service and, as my poor little car was born away to a nearby garage, my accommodating brother took us home in his own small sedan.
All told, the damage cost a thousand dollars to repair. The wheel had been cracked, the tire burst, and the front drive shaft broken beyond repair. But Jade survived, and ever since then I have heeded my father's repeated advice and curbed my enthusiasm for curbs.

I'm sorry, Jade - - but all of us have to learn to drive sometime.

More poetry

So, a little background info... My mother was recently diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. We all try to help her as best we can, but she spends most of her time being fretful and forgetful and scared. The same thing happened to my paternal grandmother. Basically, I've seen a lot more of this disease than I would have liked.
Anyway, if you can't guess what this poem is about after that...

Swiftly, swiftly comes November
How much then will I remember?

The faintest glimpse of dream-like past?
Even that may not long last.
All too soon doth mem'ry fade,
Leaves in its wake unknowing's shade.

Swiftly, swiftly comes November
How much then will I remember?

Spring lies in me, pure and sweet,
But soon shall pass in passing fleet
Summer draws with each day nigh,
And after fall, and then I die.

But death itself I do not dread,
For Heaven's gate lies soft ahead.
Nay, 'tis fall that chills my very soul - -
The rending of a mind once whole.

Swiftly, swiftly comes November
How much then will I remember?

Two matriarchs, both wise and staid,
Have slipped 'neath that unknowing's shade
Must I follow where they led?
Oh, that I were rather dead!

But swiftly, swiftly comes November,
And how much then will I remember?

Play Malarkey

What? I haven't dropped off the face of the earth into a bottomless volcano of doom?
Then why haven't I been posting?

Short version:
Life

Long version:
Physics, algebra II, French, creative writing (harder than it sounds!), chorus, play (acting AND tech directing), another play before that (bigger role, also full-on directing), novel, anxiety attacks, a loved one's ill health, and a pothersome male personage.

Fortunately, things have begun to calm down now. Stresses are slowly beginning to be weeded out with the end of the semester, and one enormous stress is finally coming to a close: The Butler Did It, Again!
Now, don't take this the wrong way: it's actually loads of fun (I live for drama), but between tech directing and a small role I've been kept busy. I do really enjoy my role - - I'm essentially playing a louder, clumsier version of Lina Lamont from Singin' In The Rain. Plus, I'm engaged to my favorite character, which is pretty sweet.

And now, after paragraphs of lead-up, we come to the point of this post.

I must admit that I find the romantic scene vastly amusing. I'm usually quite reserved around those I'm not as well acquainted with (read: I'm prim until I know you, and then you have to scrape me off with a spatula), but obviously a romantic scene requires SOME demonstration of affection.
And, considering the fact that both of us are homeschooled teenagers, comedy naturally ensued.
After changing the blocking time and time again, we were getting weary of the scene. It was tech rehearsal, one of the last two rehearsals before the play, and we had two guest directors who had their own ideas about what would look good.
So we tried having the usual jump-and-twirl. It was working beautifully: we rushed towards each other, delighted to be meeting again, and he caught me up and whirled me around.
I should pause here to mention the wig.
It's a lovely little thing, a blonde bob with long bangs and lots of fluff. I've been wearing it for weeks now, and usually it stays firmly in place...
But mid-turn it went whirling away across the stage. He set me down a little clumsily, both of us laughing, and an ominous riiiiiip was heard as I set my heel down on the underskirt of my dress. One of my shoes was coming off, but I tried to press on with the scene through my laughter.
It was a hopeless case. I was falling to pieces!
My fiance cried "WHAT?! You've been lying to me this whole time? I thought you were BLONDE!"
One of the guest directors called "But apart from that, it was the best I've seen!"
I gave up on trying to stay in character after that.