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Near the Beginning: Rewrites...
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The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. You know the drill: we writers swap challenges and write about them--we have until 11 p.m. on Thursday evening to meet these challenges or bad things happen! New contestants are always welcome to join by going to the link and signing up! Feel free to visit (most of) the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right (yes, I need to update it, but that is most of them)... Welcome to my week 6. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 5.
My Challenger: Zee
My Challenge: You have three objects in your pocket. What are they and why do you carry them around?
Who I am Challenging: Flaming Nyx
What I Challenged Them With: Tell me a story that involves: a toaster, a Jehovah's witness, nuclear war, Ivana Trump, and the painting "The Lady of Shallot." Oh, and have fun! :)
Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.] [Week 3.] [Week 4.] [Week 5.]
A Tale of a Fateful Flick
(Muy importante: Read to the tune of Gilligan's Island...)
Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a Levi's pocket
That rested on these thunder thighs
With more friction than research rocket.
The first object was a bright orange zippo lighter,
It's flame quite bright and sure.
It lit cigarettes for weeks and weeks
For nicotine to ensure (for nicotine to ensure...)
The second object was a pack of cig's,
It's contents getting quite low,
If not for the presence of the credit card
The habit would be lost (the habit would be lost...)
The pocket and content went to the shop of this tiny red-neck town,
With shaky hands,
The lighter too,
The wallet and it's cash,
The order placed,
With a swipe and a pin entered in,
Just to keep the pockets filled!
So this is the tale of the three objects,
They're here for a long, long time,
They'll continue to grace my presence,
(As this gets hard to rhyme.)
The cigarette and the zippo lighter,
Will do their very best,
To make their owner comfortable,
With nicotine that's so blessed.
No patch, no gum, and no withdrawal,
It's a singular luxury,
Like the Marlboro cowboy,
It's succulent as can be.
So don't join us here each day my friends,
If second-hand smoke you do not like,
From my pockets to my lips,
My three objects I do like!
As a disclaimer, I would just like to add that I do not advocate anyone taking up this filthy habit. However, if we can't have a little fun about our vices and realize it is a silly thing to light a bunch of dead leaves on fire, suck it into your lungs, and thoroughly trick your brain into believing it's something it can't live without? Well, then...
Oh, and to read the actual lyrics to Gilligan's Island, go here. (Trust me, I had to go back and forth a few times to try to keep the tempo and syllables right--there's no shame in you having to do so as well...) :)
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
"You're beautiful on the inside."
"Yes, but you're nice."
As a former ugly, fat, and low-self-confidence person, I can truly say these are THE most hated phrases we like to hear.
Why? Well, we know the sentiments are well-intentioned, but that does not help when billboard after magazine cover after television ad all show what is truly valued in our society--physical beauty.
The perfect abs. The well-formed pecs. The chiseled jaw line. The perky boobs. The all-but-impossible flat stomach.
Lucky for me, I almost have the chiseled jaw line. Everything else is a work in progress.
And I say "former ugly person" for only one very specific reason: I no longer feel ugly, but it isn't because I could now grace the cover of PlayGirl and get a standing ovation. And I also can't say it's because I now value my looks over my personality. If it came right down to it, I'd choose my personality--but it would be a hard choice.
Looks come with entitlement. We, even subconsciously, extrapolate onto beautiful people a beautiful personality. We stare at them longer, want to be standing near them in the hopes that some of that beauty will "spill over" onto us, laugh louder at their jokes in the hopes that getting their attention will make us just that much more attractive to others...
Yes, that was me. The "hoverer." An Ugly Betty, if you will, living in what seemed to be a Mode world.
Amanda: You're so lucky, Betty. I never know if men like me because of my personality or because of my looks.
Cry me a fucking river, Amanda.
You can add that quote to the list of things we ugo's quite hate to hear: After all, just because the Amanda's of the world can't judge who likes her for her looks and who likes her because of her personality is her failing. Not ours. So don't push it off on us.
I think all of us have these parts of our personality, however. "How do I look?" "Does this outfit highlight all the right parts?" "Does this make me look fat?" "How does my hair look?" We all want to present ourselves the most attractive way possible, and there's nothing wrong with that. In fact, none of us can blame the genetic lottery for being ugly OR for being considered beautiful. That's just a fact. And neither can we blame the beautiful people of the world for taking advantage of their sheer luck at high cheekbones, a propensity for higher metabolic rates, or that bubble butt.
And we ugo's have only ourselves to blame for not hitting the gym.
That being said: We have no way of judging whether you meant that tip on getting rid of that bulge as a well-meaning piece of friendly advice, or as an opportunity to make yourself feel better about your non-bulge at our expense--and just maybe, it was both.
But unless we ask for that advice, keep it to yourself. It only serves to make us self-conscious about one more thing on our growing list of how we feel inadequate to be human in your presence. We don't want to hear about our great personalities--after all, we're the ones that perfected "great personality" since we didn't have bikini-bodies to fall back on. We don't want to hear about the trials of being beautiful--we'll never have that problem despite hours spent trying in our bathrooms and beauty parlors across the globe. (As my cousin Courtney likes to say, "I'm a beautician, not a magician!") And we certainly don't want to hear about how we're beautiful on the inside because it's nothing more than a metaphor for how ugly we are on the outside.
And we certainly don't need reminded of that.
Learning to love myself, especially after a young woman in junior high named Stephanie told me, quite out of the blue, that I was so ugly she was amazed anyone would even consider dating me, was quite an uphill battle. All I was doing was standing by the biology classroom door, waiting for the bell to ring so I could go to my locker and get the books I needed for the next class. Thanks, Steph. I hope your thin, straight hair has started falling out. (But that's not the nice part of my personality, so--forget I even thought it...)
The point of this post? Not sure--maybe I just need to get these things out here onto the blogosphere so I can move on. Maybe I just want to let my fellow ugo's know that we've all been there, are still there, and never quite leave there. After all, even today when someone lets me know they find me attractive, I can ride that high feelings for days, if not weeks. And I hate myself for that. I hate that that part of my past days of low-self-confidence continues to live on.
I've realized I'll never be "Male Model of the Year," or even anything close. But I have learned to work with what I have, and that took some hard work.
But--dear, sweet, well-meaning beautiful people? Go suck my personality.
The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. Each week a group of us come up with an "idea" or a "challenge" which then randomly gets submitted to another person on the list. Feel free to visit (most of) the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right (yes, I need to update it, but that is most of them)... Welcome to my week 5. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 5.
My Challenger: Kat (the Sassy Irish lass...)
My Challenge: You are abruptly awakened by a blaring alarm and the smell of smoke...
Previous Challenges:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.] [Week 3.] [Week 4.]
Justice and MercySniff, sniff.
"What the... Hello?" Wait--I can't... Am I tied down? What...?
"Hello? Someone? I smell... I can't... Hello? Is anyone there?"
Silence greets me. No, not total silence. I hear the faint noise of an alarm sounding, seemingly from miles away. But darkness embraces me. A small hint of light teases me from behind, but-- Looking down, I am bound and tied to a chair. I think. It's is so damn dark!
"Hello?!"
Then a sound booms through the darkness with a terrifying loudness: "Victim 1. Arnold Smith. Aged 42."
I feel tears running down my face. Victim 3? Arnold... Smith? Is that who I am? But the booming electronic sounding voice that had shattered the silence of a thousand moments didn't answer my thoughts. "Hello? Who--is someone there? Help! I seem to be tied down... And I can't move my arms or legs?"
Why am I saying this like a question? I can't move my arms or legs! The feeble light from behind my head has turned an alarming shade of red. Maybe if I twist...
But it was no use. The chair must be bolted to the floor. The high back of the chair keeps me from peering behind, and looking up--more darkness.
Sniff, sniff.
"I think--I think there's a fire!" I yell. "Hey! This isn't-- Is this a joke? Hello?!"
Silence. More smoke.
Either my eyes are adjusting, or the red light ("The fire!") is growing brighter, stronger... Hotter.
Yes, it's definitely getting brighter and hotter in here. "HEY! Someone! Please! There's a fire in here! HELLO! HELP!"
Nothing. Sweat and tears mingle and stream down my face. I feel my clothes becoming a damp mess. Am I wearing-- is this a hospital gown? What the...?
I feel the flames licking up behind me, the intense heat beginning to singe my leg hairs from behind. "Hey you fuckers!! Get me out of here! I know you can hear me! Hey! HELP!"
("No one is coming for you. This is your fate. Your self-created destiny.")
"WHO SAID THAT!!" Either I'm totally losing it--and who wouldn't, tied down, unable to move, with a fire creeping up behind you?--or I'm in the hands of a very very sick person. "WHO IS THERE? GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF-- AAARRHH!"
The flames have me now--I feel it searing into my scalp, feel the vinyl of the chair melting, burning, searing into my skin, mingling and becoming one with the layers of my body as they burn, peel, singe away.
All I can do is scream, but that allows the flames to shoot down into my throat, into my lungs... I'm burning alive... I'm burning...
***
"What?!" I gasp, sweating, laboring to breath. Still alive... Just a nightmare...
But-- wait... No... Tied... Down... What the FUCK! I'm not tied down... I just--my body won't move! This isn't even my body! It's all wrinkled looking! Old! And I have--breasts?! Now I know that's wrong. I may not remember what the hell is going on, but I know I'm not an old woman... Right? Wait...
But I'm alive. Alive. No fire. I sigh. Glance around. Hospital gown. Light pink walls. Body won't respond. Am I sick? What's going on?
"Oh, nurse? Nurse?" What the hell, it can't hurt, right? I think I see one behind the translucent curtains covering the window that looks like it leads out into a hall.
"Hello?! Can anyone here me?"
"Now Mrs. White--"
Then that same weird electronic voice booms over: "Victim 2. Vivian White. Aged 87."
My eyes dart around, the sheer loudness tearing up my eyes, drowning out the young man I now see on my right. Can't--I missed something. He acts like he can't hear "The Voice."
"--and you'll pay soon enough for making my life a living hell, you old witch!"
I gasp--at least, I think I gasp. He looks so familiar...But I can't place him, and the fear cutting through my heart cuts off any more logical thought processes. That murderous look in his eyes! That rage--directed at me!
I notice my hands are reaching for the call button--not that I'm doing that!
I'm in someone else's body! The realization hits hard, and if I'd had a body, I'm sure I would have fallen right out of this bed!
"Don't bother, Mrs.White," the young man grins hideously as he twirls a broken cord in his hands. "There's no one coming to help you." Then I see him pull a book of matches out from his pocket.
No! NO! But it's useless. I have no control over this body--all I can do is observe, screaming, begging him not to light that match.
But he does. And tosses it on the bed.
And leaves, shutting the door behind him.
I see the flame beginning to grow. I'm shouting, yelling, cursing in futility as it begins to lick up the sheets around my feet.
Sniff, sniff.
The smoke--the smoke is back. The room is growing dim so quickly! The screaming isn't helping, the old body trying so helplessly to escape isn't comforting, and there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it--
But I do feel the pain as the flames begin to eat through the sheets. "No, no! Not again! NO! SOMEONE PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! HELP!"
But it's no use. The room grows thick with smoke. Bells are going off, I see people rushing about on the edges of my vision. They're trying to get into my room, but something is preventing them from entering.
I scream anyway, even with the knowledge they can't hear me: "BREAK DOWN THE FUCKING DOOR BREAK THE FUCKING GLASS GET IN HERE I'M DYING AGAIN OHMYFUCKINGGODNOOOOOO!!!!!"
The pain again as the flames begin to eagerly consume me, it's meal, it's nourishment. "SWEETJESUSFUCKITHURTSMAKEITSTOP--AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!"
***
"NO!!!" Gasping, sweating, screaming... But...
Oh, fuck.
"No, no, nonononononono--"
The Voice: "Victim 3. Alan Robespierre. Aged 12."
In his head. Alan's. I get it now. I'm in his head, watching him play with his marbles on the sidewalk. I notice him notice the black van coming slowly up the street. I notice him notice the window rolling down, notice that same young man from the hospital holding a bottle, notice the fire dancing at the top of that bottle, notice it flying in my direction, smashing me/him directly in the chest, notice the flames quickly engulfing me--
"WHAT THE FUCK! WHO IS DOING THIS?! WHAT THE HELL SOMEONE HELP I'M GOING INSANE I'M BURNING I'M BURNING OHMYGOD OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD--"
***
I'm going mad, I can feel it. This has to be a dream--a series of nightmares. How many times can I die before I die?
I'm in another child's body, I see.
And I hear it: "Victim 4. Sicily Gunter. Aged 9."
Nine? Nine?!
I/Sicily turn and see the orange flames...
More fire...
More pain...
***
"Hey, doc!" the policeman yelled. "He's flat-lining again."
The doctor comes around the bedside and stares down at the young man, checks the I.V. drip, then produces a needle. "I hate it when I pull this shift," he mutters, sticking the young man in the arm. The machine that had been buzzing continuously has a steady rhythm once again: Beep.... Beep.... Beep....
"I ain't so fond of it myself, but it pays the bills." The policeman props his feet back up on his desk, then takes a sip of coffee from his mug.
"What's that, the third time now? For a serial arsonist, you'd think he'd have a stronger stomach," the doctor states.
The policeman looks down at the monitors of his desk. "And he's only just now starting his seventh victim! Looks like it's going to be a long night, doc."
"How many did he kill?"
"Twenty-seven."
"Seriously? What a monster. We should just let him die!"
"Now, doc, you know the rules. We have to keep him alive until he relives all of his victims' deaths. If he's still alive after the last one--well, that's for the doc's in the psychiatric ward to deal with then. You and me? We're just carrying out his sentence, nothing more, nothing less. Otherwise we're no better than he is."
The doctor sighs. "I suppose. You have to love 23rd century justice."
"That you do. Oh, watch him. I think he's--yep. Flat-lined again. Bring him back, doc."
The doctor sighs again. "Somehow I think it'd be more effective if we didn't wipe his memory before we put him through this." He plunges the needle into the young man's arm.
"But then where would the justice be? The devil deserves it. As sentenced by a jury of his peers."
***
"SOMEONEGETMETHEFUCKOUTOFHEREOHMYGODTHEPAINTHEPAIN!"
The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. Each week about 30 of us come up with an "idea" or a "challenge" which then randomly gets submitted to another person on the list. I've obviously missed the last two weeks... Getting a new job will do that to you. Anyway, you can visit the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right... Welcome to my week 4. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 4.
My Challenger: flamingnyx
My Challenge: Write a letter to one and/or both your parents about how the way they raised you allowed you to rebel against them that 'one' time.
Previous Challenges:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.] [Week 3.]
Just So You Know...Dear Mom,
Okay, okay, that's too formal. I know it, you know it, we all know it. Yet, when one is writing a letter, the "Dear" just sort of writes itself, you know? Geez, look at that--I get that from you, you know. That repetitive phrase that peppers the language of me and the four sibs gets on all our spouses and partners nerves. Just so you know.
But anyway--down to the nitty-gritty. I could tell more tales than Scheherazade on how your actions caused my reactions, but that's just relationships. Mother/son, husband/husband, brother/sister, brother/brother, friend/friend...
Do you remember that time you chased me around and around the dining room table with the paddle? We were both laughing hysterically at the end, and I for the life of me cannot remember what it was I had done to get into trouble that day. I do know, though, that you promised me Dad would get me when he got home. And, knowing that I could take you at your word, decided to suddenly get a bath as soon as we heard his car pulling up in the driveway. He came in, lifted me out of the tub by one arm, spanked me on my bare, dripping-wet ass, then lowered me back into the tub with a stern, "Next time you listen to your mother."
From that day on, I tried my best to never get into trouble.
But this letter doesn't concern that snapshot--not really, anyway. After all, not wanting to be paddled isn't exactly "rebellion," is it? Especially if the farthest I was going was to the other side of the dining room table...
Then there was the time I ran away--actually ran away--for what, three, four hours? I had written (what I thought at the time) was a convincing argument as to why my little brother, Michael, was a bad, bad kid who had gotten away with too much, who was on my last nerve, who was the bane of my existence. I took my new backpack that had been purchased for the upcoming school year, took some hot dog rolls and hot dogs from the chest freezer, and went walking. Once I was lonely enough, I walked home to see you and Dad frantically speaking on our front sidewalk. 
As I emerged from the woods on the bike path, you ran over, near tears, asking where I had been. Honestly, I think I was more surprised you had noticed I had been gone. It's rough getting attention when there are five of you only six years apart. When I mentioned that I had left a letter to you on my desk, you asked quizically, "Why didn't you leave it on my desk?" I shrugged.
I still owe Michael an apology for that day. The worry and anxiety you and Dad took out on him was probably just a tad too much, and that was my fault. That was the day I promised to try to be a better older brother, to try to keep my three younger siblings from getting into trouble on my account. I failed at this as well, but not for trying.
But this letter isn't about that incident either.
It was in seventh grade that I first heard the words "HIV" and "AIDS." The whole school was having a mandatory assembly to learn about this disease: what it was, where it came from, how it worked. And, I must applaud the Daniel Boone Jr. Sr. High School for this, very progressive of them in the winter of 1988, since not too much was known about it anyway.
Our assembly meeting consisted of the seventh through ninth grades. At one point, they handed everybody a pencil and an index card. "Write down any question you have--there are no stupid questions!"
So I wrote down the only question I could think of: "Is being gay genetic?"
Let's have some insight here: I already knew I liked boys and not girls. The only person I knew who also liked boys and not girls was Uncle Timmy. I also knew that Uncle Timmy was dying of HIV/AIDS.
I was scared out of my mind.
What didn't help matters later during the assembly, was when one of the presenters, in a fit of righteous indignation said, and I quote: "It's obvious some of you kids aren't paying attention to what we're saying up here. HIV/AIDS is not a gay disease! So whoever it was that asked if being gay was inherited? Don't be stupid!"
That was the day I promised myself that I'd try not to be stupid, and therefore try not to be gay. I failed at that as well. Obviously.
The next morning, after the assembly, as Tom and I were getting ready for school and you were getting our breakfast together, Tom started talking about how great the assembly was, and how he had learned a lot. (This was before my older brother hit his silent stage--which he still hasn't grown out of...) You turned to me, Mom, and asked, "And what did you think, Jason? What did you learn?"
This conversation holds new perspective for me now that I've had years to digest it. After all, you also knew your favorite uncle--the uncle who had taken you dress shopping for your prom, who spent time with you, and was your confidant growing up--was dying of HIV/AIDS. You wanted us as children to understand what was happening, that it wasn't because Uncle Timmy was "bad," or that he had done something wrong to be punished by god. That when Grandmom made him eat off paper plates and drink out of plastic cups for fear of catching it that she was being stupid.
But when you turned to me, and asked me what I had learned?
I had learned that I was stupid, truth be told. And the last thing I wanted to tell you was that I, too, would eventually get AIDS because I, too, was like Uncle Timmy.
"It was stupid," I said. "They shouldn't talk about those kinds of things in school!"
I remember the shock on your face. I think Tom punched me in the shoulder, as was, and still is, his wont. I ran from the breakfast table, grabbed my backpack, and started racing down the driveway. I did not want to have this conversation with you, or anyone. After all, where could it lead except for the inevitable conclusion? You would find out how wrong I was. How twisted I was. How sinful.
How gay.
You stood at the end of our sidewalk: "JAY-son! Get back here! What's going on? What's the matter? Get back here NOW!"
"No!" I shouted, tears starting to cloud over my eyes. The gravel crunched under my feet as I speed-walked down the hill and around the curve, trying to get to that part of the driveway covered in trees, blocking me from your sight. Once I was out of sight, then this conversation would end. I would be safe. I could keep my secret.
You ran after me. "Jason, what is wrong? What is going on? Talk to me!"
You easily caught up to me. After all, my body had yet to grasp the concept of "coordination," something that my fast-growing legs and arms wouldn't fully grasp until way beyond high school. You grabbed my arm, yanked me around. "Jason! What's the matter?"
I blinked back the tears while trying to free my arm from your vice-like grasp, unsuccessfully. "Nothing!" I shouted. "I just think they shouldn't be talking about stuff like that in school!"
Confusion was etched into your face. I think some hurt as well. What did I know? A self-absorbed teenager worried about his sexuality and death had little time for worrying about what his actions were doing to his mother.
It was then that I promised myself to be even more inconspicuous, to not do anything to gain your attention if I could help it. Because you were my mother, and you are like a pitbull--once you latch onto something, you do not let go until it's resolved. I'm not sure how long we would have stood like that, pitbull to pitbull, if Tom hadn't casually walked by, oblivious to the tension and said, "The bus will be here soon."
I could tell you wanted nothing more than to drag out of me "The Truth." But your duties as a mother meant you had three more children back in the house to get ready for elementary school that morning. That making me miss the bus would be the beginning of a disastrous day, with everything out of whack. You eyed me warily as you let go of my arm. I turned and started my speed-walking again, toward the top of the next hill on our long, winding driveway, once again the goal to be out of your sight.
It was then that I learned how to embrace passive-aggressiveness as an effective means of getting out of trouble. To say what I thought you--and the other adults in my life--wanted to hear. To act the way I thought you wanted me to act.
I started the silent act, the untraceable, undetectable rebellion. And, luckily for me, I had Tom, Mike, Sylvia and Cynthia to act out in other ways, physical ways, to keep the attention off of me. To let me be silent. To perfect the art of acting.
Was it a typical "rebellion"? By no means. After all, how rebellious is it really to not act out, to not call attention to yourself? This "rebellion" story has nothing on some of the stunts my other siblings pulled--not even close. But that was their lives, their rebellion, their way of trying to figure out who they were and what they wanted out of life--and this was mine.
And it was the only way I knew, in the cacophony that was our household, to stay under the radar.
And in doing so, I did us both a great disservice. It wasn't until years later--after the army, after college, after moving out to my own apartment--that I would learn to trust myself--and you, as parents--again. To start speaking up, saying what I actually thought, acting how I wanted to act. Letting you get to know the real me.
Yes, I was nothing but a stupid teenager, just not stupid in the ways I thought I was. But I still need to ask your forgiveness, Mom. I'm sorry for not trusting you, for not trusting in your love and understanding. If I could go back and change it all, would I? I'm not sure. I'm not sure we'd be as close as we are today if we both hadn't gone through those moments together.
But I should have known, even then, that I could trust you. And I'm sorry I didn't.
But at least I know now. And I thank you for that.
Thank you for being my mother, and now for being my friend. I couldn't ask for a better one of either, you know?
Jason
I have a picture of five.
It would have been six.
But that wasn't in the cards, and that's most likely the way it was meant to be. After all, having just seen you virtually for the first time in--let's see, what was it, 1998?--13 years? I'm ecstatic. I'm emotional. I'm perhaps just on this side of a wreck. In a good way. A happy way.
I'd be more specific, but I can't. That's also the way it has to be. For now.
But I have to get it out. I have to write this. There's only so much a person can take of secrecy and silence. Those places in the family photos where you don't get to be, even though you are as close to us--in our hearts, that is--as any of the other five who are in those photos.
To say that you've changed so much in the last thirteen years would be the biggest understatement of the century. After all, you were nothing but a small baby, that day in the hospital. You were housed in a glass box. You were crying, as is the wont of those so young. You were born too early, a trend your younger sister followed you in. And you are remembered at every holiday, if only because the day you entered the world was at the tail end of one. Our favorite one.
And to see you tonight, through a process I couldn't begin to comprehend involving wires, the Internet, light spectrums, and microchips... It's like you are real again. Like you haven't been missing all these years. You showed up on my screen and it was right!
I'll never know what would have happened had the circumstances been different, even slightly so. Hell, I'm not even your parent! But I am your family...
It was so nice seeing you, "nice," perhaps, being the second-biggest understatement of the century. "Nice" is afternoon naps, having enough money to pay the bills, or never running out of iced tea. Those are nice.
Seeing you was phenomenal. And one day, perhaps, I'll be able to share the moment I saw you again in person, face-to-face. I've already decided, the minute I saw the video, I will be there. We will be there.
To welcome you back. We can't--we won't--replace the one's you have known and loved all these years. Not only is it impossible, it would be wrong. But hopefully--just hopefully--you will allow your heart to expand that which you've known, and encompass the one's who had to give you up.
I'll never know what others have gone through. How could I? All I know is what I've felt and known these past years.
And where there were five, there will now be six.
Because you will be there.
And hopefully, we'll never have to let go again.
Much love to you...
Near the Beginning: Knowledgy...
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The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. Each week about 30 of us come up with an "idea" or a "challenge" which then randomly gets submitted to another person on the list. (You can visit the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right...) Welcome to week 3. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 3.
My Challenger: Lazidaisical
My Challenge: Three people are sitting in a bail bonds establishment somewhere in Nevada. Why are they there?
Previous Challenges:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.]
Seeking BondsI sit at this desk in boredom,
Out the window, a great desert kingdom.
But it never lasts long,
This borish old song,
For people come to me seeking bonds.
At what to my surprise at three
(That's three in the morning, you see),
A very striking blond,
Seeking a bond
For her lover of seventy-three.
"He's wrongly accused!" she cried,
Wiping the tears from her eyes.
"It's not that he's old!
It's simply a cold
That blurred his great vision tonight!"
"About your sob story," I confessed,
"I actually could really care less.
Just hand me the loot
To free the old coot.
Of your story I'm not much impressed."
Just as she was regaining composure
And handing me money for closure,
The door bell did tingle,
And into our group did mingle
Someone about "indecent exposure."
"In his own house he was!
From alcohol suffering a buzz!
He's a hippie, you see,
Quite fancy free,
The neighbors reported him just because!"
I gave him a dead-pan stare,
Of these excuses I just didn't care!
"It's money I need
For your friend to be free.
Of your stories, go tell a bear!"
"You're so callous and jaded!" screeched the blond,
"Of your sole care for money and bonds!"
With that, again cried,
Like a jilted bride,
Making me wish I could really just abscond!
But suddenly, then, there were three!
Demanding my attention painfully!
But this was a hoot
(though still just as moot)
As this story was told with such glee.
"That roses are red," he began
"was the crux of her devious plan.
She's guilty as sin,
But I have thick skin,
And I must this night free my wife Ann!"
The blond stood there quite aghast,
And the other man tried to look past
This obvious loon,
much like a baboon,
But before they could speak, I gasped:
"Listen up, folks, and listen well!
These tales you spin like caramel
Don't mean a thing.
And without any bling,
Your loved ones will rot in their cells!"
The blond slapped a check on the counter,
"May this be our very last encounter!"
And with head held real high,
Her tears now quite dry,
Her exit, I admit, was quite stellar.
"But naked he wasn't!" cried the second.
"He should tell the judge, I reckon,
For I really don't care.
Do you have fare?"
I asked like one quite forsaken.
"Justice this country is missing!
My lover and I were just kissing!"
I gave him a glare
"Life isn't fair!"
And with that, left the money, almost hissing!
And then we were down to just two.
Me, and the one with Ann, the loon
Who tried offing her man,
Her "devious plan,"
At least, that's what he said, a sad tune.
"Tell me," I asked, "why free her,
If your life she was to deter?"
He looked quite surprised
And me he chastised,
"Of stories you suddenly prefer?"
"Just tell me the amount, nosy boy!"
Curious, he's suddenly coy
To tell me the tale--
Just posting the bail?
"Okay, okay!" he said, quite annoyed.
"She wasn't herself then, you see.
It's the plethora of personalities,
They live in her brain.
Life's never very plain
As Annie, inside, is twenty-three!"
"That many in one head?" I cried, disbelieving.
"That's rubbish! Why the deceiving?"
"It's all true," he replied,
"I tell you no lie,
And tonight was not Ann, but Mae Ling!"
"Mae Ling? What a bunch of bull poo!
This deception you cannot see through?
Schizo's are rare,
And the medical care!
The costs would change your world view!"
"Is this the inquisition now?" he replied.
But a nerve I had hit, told his eyes.
"One out of twenty-three
Is more than enough for me!"
The (now obviously) lonely man cried!
"Hey, it's your life," I concede.
"At least, for tonight, it now seems.
But mark my wise words,
Just like a bird,
You're being small-minded, seems to me."
"You don't know us!" was his nasty retort.
"And the truth will come out in court!"
I shook my head sadly,
That could only go badly,
I feared they both were mentally short.
He hastily made out a check,
His hands shaking, quite a wreck!
But then he was pausing,
My words seemingly causing
Of reality, a reality check!
"But I love her so much, don't you see?
And life's never boring for me.
With twenty-three wives
All living their lives
In one fantastic body--such glee!
"So the one, Mae Ling, hates me--big deal!
The twenty-two others find me genteel,
It's like being a Mormon
Without all the boredom
Of twenty-three marriages to conceal!"
I replied, "Of that you may have a point,
Or perhaps your high--too many joints!
Tonight you will die,
I'm telling you--no lie!
Those types of people don't disappoint!"
I watched him walk away quite deluded.
"That's a dead man walking," I concluded.
I shook my head sadly,
But then realized quite gladly
In Nevada, silence was once again exuded.
I sit at this desk in boredom,
Out the window, a great desert kingdom.
But it never lasts long,
This borish old song,
For people come to me seeking bonds.
The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. Each week about 30 of us come up with an "idea" or a "challenge" which then randomly gets submitted to another person on the list. (You can visit the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right...) For me, this is week 2. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
This one was rough...
Week 2.
My Challenger: JT Whitaker
My Challenge: "in the end...was it worth it?"
Previous Challenges:
[Week 1.]
A Child's End
IThe end. Depending on what you've been watching, this is either a relief or a sadness.
The end. Or perhaps it's more about the finality of the words. "No more road," so to speak. "The trail ends here." "Do not pass go" and what not.
The end.
Hindsight has the added benefit of, not 20/20 vision as so many people are apt to conclude, but blinding clarity: of the mistakes, the consequences, the growing pains...
The growing pains...
The end.
*
"You sure this is what you want to do," my father asked from where he sat in the living room.
I glanced up at him from the lowered foyer, through the banister. Sweat had collected everywhere on my body. "Yes." No! I turned back to peaking out the window beside the front door, waiting for the man to show up.
My mother had left half an hour ago, wanting to avoid the leaving. My leaving. Second oldest, first to leave the nest. She instead opted to go with a friend to get a tattoo. In hindsight, glaringly obvious. At the moment, hurtful. Robbed. Angry.
I sensed my father shaking his head. "My peace-nick son, off to the army."
He wasn't far off. The large, rainbow tie-dyed blanket with the large, black peace symbol in the center hanging from one bedroom wall was a testament to my "Make Love, Not War" philosophy. The matching pillows on the twin-size bed built into the small 8 x 10 bedroom I had demanded two years ago were further witnesses. Peace had been gained between me and my two brothers when that bedroom was finally built, allowing each of us boys the sanctuary our two sisters had never gone without--a space of our own.
But now I was off to war--or so I imagined. What else does a sheltered eighteen-year-old think? That he was really just doing this to pay for college? To see the world? To experience life away from a church-centric world of his home?
I heard the car pull up, and I turned to Dad. "He's here."
The recruiter walked up the charmingly-woodsy sidewalk, and I opened the door before he could ring the bell. My father came down from the living room to see me off, offer a final handshake, one last out. "You're sure?"
I nodded, never so unsure of anything else before this moment. I lifted my suitcase, waved good bye, blinked back the tears.
The end.
IIThe end. No, it was an "Exit" sign. Just an exit sign. If I opened that door, used it for the stated purpose, however, it would be an end.
Two a.m. Fort Leonardwood, Missouri. Or, as I had learned from my fellow in-training soldiers, Fort Lost-in-the-Woods, Misery. It was the only time you could cry and not lose face.
Two weeks in, and everything I thought I had ever known in life was gone. I'd never been so far from anyone in my family before, especially my siblings. A week was the longest I had ever gone away from either of my parents; my siblings, however, had been there from my first memory. In school, on the bus, in the halls, at grandma and grandpa's house, at summer camp, on the playground, in the yard... My world had been removed, however voluntarily on my part, and I hadn't been prepared in the least. It felt like the end.
Muscles constantly ached. Sleep was fleeting. Yelling was a constant. The food sucked. And I felt so utterly alone. Next week, week three, we would be allowed, for the first time, to call home.
Home... The word had lost physical meaning. It was now something I only glimpsed in dream-like states, in fits of sleepless nights: when lying exhausted on the ground after my 200th push-up; when gasping for air as I ran that fifth mile in full battle gear; when silence reined but mind raced at night, wondering if I could do this, if I had made a mistake, if my body would fail like I'd seen it fail so many others around me...
The end. There seemed to be no end. Wake up at three, make your bed, shower, get dressed, clean the barracks top to bottom, exercise for three more hours, shower again, eat breakfast--all before 7:30 a.m. Then more exercise, weapons classes, more exercise, firing range, more exercise, army conduct classes... Bed by 10 p.m., unless you had guard duty that night... Over and over...
There was no the end.
IIIRing... ring... ring...
"Hello?"
Tears. "Mom? Mommy?"
"Jason? Oh, Jason..."
There were more tears than actual conversation. And something about a new movie that had just come out, Forrest Gump. OJ was apparently still on trial. She had made a Jewish Apple Cake, only I hadn't been there to enjoy it.
But it had been, albeit briefly, home.
*
Ring... ring... ring...
"Mom?"
"Jason! It's Jason, every body!"
"I graduate in two weeks."
"From boot camp?"
"Can you come?"
"I don't know... We'll try..."
"I miss you so much."
"I love you, too."
*
Ring... ring... ring...
"Mom?"
"Hi, Jason! Are they feeding you? How are you?"
"No, I'm good. How are you guys? How is everyone?"
"We're coming."
"To graduation? Really?"
"Me, and your dad, and Mike, Sylvia, and Cynthia. Tom can't make it, work and all."
"Oh... but you're really coming, right?"
"See you in two weeks, Jace the Ace!"
IVStarched uniform. Check. Polished boots. Check. Shining medals. Check.
Waiting.
*
The van pulled up into the parking lot below the barracks. Our van. My van. I stayed at the window. I had almost believed they weren't going to make it. They were one of the last families to arrive. The excruciating pain of hope evaporated, leaving a hole of questioning reality.
Ten weeks...
Dad looked a little more salt-and-pepper. Mom's red hair more lustrous. My little brother taller. My two little sisters more excitable.
I couldn't move from the window as I watched them pile out of the van, or, as we had always called it, "The Tan Van With the Plan Driven by the Man, man..." We had fancied ourselves 50s poets, I suppose, me and my siblings. My older brother was missing, and I felt that more, I believe. That absence more tangible than the others' presence.
Ten weeks...
I turned and raced down the stairs, boots clumping, heart racing: I was five again, playing dress up with my uncle Scott's cowboy boots and hat, wanting Mom and Dad to see how grown-up I looked.
Except they almost didn't recognize me. It took eternal seconds for the realization to wash over their faces that this soldier who had come to a racing stop before them was their son; their brother; their family. Painful, forever seconds.
I was no longer five years old. I was not playing dress up. I was not playing grown up. More than that, I had needed them to see that, I believe, to break free, to fly on my own. It was not enough that I had done it, that I had reached an end. I needed them to see it. To see me.
Ten weeks...
A scattered chorus of "Jason?!"s echoed, landing me back in the present.
The end.
VThree days. I was no longer in the collective. Sharing moments with the three siblings who had come along were one-on-one. No longer as a tribe.
Alone in the hotel room with the baby of the family, Cynthia, as she was reaching the angst-ridden stages of mid-puberty.
Alone on the balcony with my other little sister Sylvia, who had realized she was as beautiful on the outside as she was on the inside, starting to date.
Sipping sodas by the hotel pool with younger-but-finally-bigger-than-me brother Mike, who had dropped out of high school, wondering what he should do with his own life, adrift on the seas of possibility his young eyes saw.
Out to eat with Mom and Dad, conversations which are lost to time, but remembering how different they were. How grown-up those talks were.
The end.
I've recently submitted my name for Indie Inks latest venture: A writing challenge! Each week about 20 of us come up with an "idea" or a "challenge" which then randomly gets submitted to another person on the list. (You can visit the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right...) We then have roughly 4 days to come up with a story centered on or around that challenge! This is a new experience for me, so I hope I live up to expectations from both Indie Ink, and my fellow writers who are joining with me in this little experiment! I also hope that you, my dear reader, will enjoy reading this as much as you do my other ramblings! As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!
Week 1.
My Challenger: Miss Ash Tuesday
My Challenge: Tell me a story about how and why you went into outer space. And then tell me about your adventure(s) there.
All of Me...
I felt the buzzing, but my aging hands trembled as I reached up to my ear to try to press the accept-call button. I'd had it implanted years ago, when I'd contracted the Wasting Disease, but it seems my body was failing faster then technology could cope with. With a final effort, I pushed the button, knocking a glass of water off the end table.
"Hello? Mr. Hughes?"
I could hear the doctor's voice, but apparently I hadn't been able to hit the button properly. No visual came up on the retinal in-screen. I tried again, hands trembling with the effort.
"Hello, Mr. Hughes. Can you hear me? I'm getting no visual confirmation."
"Hold your goddang space jumpers!" I shouted, though the need wasn't there. I finally managed to depress the button fully, and the image of the young doctor appeared before my eyes.
"There's no need for shouting, Mr. Hughes," she admonished me, gazing down at her work tablet. "It seems we're on the last transplantation maneuver. Today we'll be accessing traumatic and life-changing memories? Is that correct?"
I mumbled, cursing the song-and-dance routine on every call. "Yes, yes, let's get on with it. This body has days left!"
"We're well aware of the situation, Mr. Hughes. Now, can you feel this?" I watched as she touched her console, and the warm, wet tingling feeling began at the top of my skull. "It should--"
"Yes, I feel it." I turned my head slightly, eyeballing the spilled glass of water on the floor, the large puddle it had created. I'd have to wait for the trans-live nurses to arrive for that to be taken care of. I hope the goddamn roaches enjoy the free drink... I certainly didn't...
"--and... Mr. Hughes? Are you paying attention? Is there a problem?" She must have noticed the spilled glass I was staring at.
"No, no problem. Please, just go on. Let's get this over with."
"Yes, sir. Now, if at any time during the memory transplantation you feel overwhelmed or anxious, simply say the code and we'll pause the feed and try again later, okay, Mr. Hughes?"
I sighed. "Mustard. Got it."
"Very well. Beginning first memory... Now..."
A blast erupted at my side, and I dove deeper into the trench. I gripped my weapon tightly to my chest.
Blood, I thought. Sweet Kami, I've been... But no. No, it was Chester's blood. I saw him lying not ten feet away--well, what was left of him lying not ten feet away. I felt the tears beginning, but I commanded them away. Goddamn Trecarian bastards!
Screaming, eyes cast toward the pink moon casting it's eerie glow over Travis IV's battlefield, I cocked the plasma rifle and began firing aimlessly across the blood- and body-spattered field. "You goddamn sons of bitches!" The rifle blasts rocked the already-sore bruises on my shoulder, but it was as if I had become detached from my body. Like I was floating above it all, watching myself go Jupiter.
More blue-shell blasts began raining down around me. I could hear my fellow comrades answering the call to battle as green and red plasma spears dashed past and over my head in the direction of the enemy.
"We need to get out of here!" I heard my commander shout somewhere behind me.
"No!" I shouted, never letting up on the trigger. "I'm not leaving Chester!"
"Hughes! We're getting overrun! If you stay, you'll die!"
I ignored him, focused on the task at hand. Chester had been my friend, my soul mate, my lover. I was not leaving his body to be cannibalized by these red web-footed bastards. "Chester!" I screamed, launching another volley of plasma.
"Hughes, don't make me do this," I heard my captain warn, but I didn't care.
Cowardly bastard, I thought. Suddenly, I was out of ammo. As I reached around to grab another weapon, I saw my commander bringing down the butt of a rifle on my head...
"Mustard! Mustard-mustard-mustard!" I almost sat up, panicking.
"It's okay, Mr. Hughes, it's all right. You're back in the hospice ward. The memory is over. Please take a moment before we begin again."
"My god. I'd nearly forgotten... Oh, Chester..." The tears rolled freely, but my useless hands couldn't help.
"Are you sure you don't want me to send over a nurse?" the doctor asked, concern on her face.
"No, no... I'll be all right..." But I wasn't sure if I would be. How could I have forgotten Chester? What was this disease doing to me? I felt my muscles beginning to relax as my head sank further back into the pillows. "Chester..." I whispered.
I lay there silently, listening to a doctor thousands of light years away tap and click on her console. I glanced again at the glass on the floor. The puddle.
"Okay, now... Are you ready? We've uploaded seven memories during that first transmission--"
"Wait--I only lived through one! You got seven?"
"Mr. Hughes, we've been over this. You will only experience the most powerful memory coming through, no matter how many are being transmitted."
"Yes, yes. Of course, I'm sorry, I remember now. It's this disease..."
"It's okay, Mr. Hughes. Now, please try to relax, and we'll begin again... starting... now."
I held Seranna tightly, coaching her through the process. "Come on, sweety, you can do this..."
"No, grotto, I don't-- Ahhh! There's something wrong!" she cried.
I leaned back to look into the dirt depression behind her. "Look, see, you've already laid four eggs! You can do this! Only two more!" I ran my hands over her sweat-beaded, olive-green skin.
"No, grotto, no! You must get the doctor! There is-- Ayi-yi-yi! Oh, the pain... Please..." Her amber eyes found mine, and I nodded.
"Of course, of course." I turned to her sister, crouched down against the opposite corner of the small hut. "Watch her, help her," I commanded, then I was out the door, headed down the muddy streets to the Frelian doctor...
"Did she make it?" asked the doctor.
"No." I stared up at the ceiling tiles, all sixty-three of them. "She died when the last two eggs tried to come out simultaneously. They cracked just inside her uterus. The blood. Sweet Kami, the blood..."
"I'm so sorry," the doctor replied after a moment. "You know, it's not too late to just leave some of these memories go..." Her eyes held a look of both concern and hope.
No early lunch break for you today. I want all of me. But I only said, "Let's keep going."
She nodded, and turned her attention back to her console.
"They were mine, you know. Mine and Chester's. The Frelian reproductive system enables two males to create new life..." I trailed off.
"I'm quite aware of the Frelian medical advances, Mr. Hughes." She smiled wryly.
"Only one egg lived, though. My daughter, Chelsea."
"Fully human?"
"98 percent. She needed rapid DNA-infusion at hatching. The only one who hatched..."
"Are you close?"
I didn't reply.
The doctor let it go, perhaps knowing the answer already. She did have my entire life flashing before her on her screen. Over the past four earth weeks, she'd been downloading me bit by bit in preparation, to a body bank somewhere in the Andromeda galaxy. I hadn't asked for specifics. I knew the risks. The more memories you tried to take with you, the less likely the new body will be to take you in.
But I wanted all of me.
"It seems we only have a handful of memories left to go," the doctor said, intruding upon my reflections. "It's amazing how fast the new brain-net waves are! Tell me, have you been up linked long, Mr. Hughes?"
"Please. I'm well into my third century of life. I was here when it was invented! Before then, it was the... What was the word..."
"Intranetting?" the doctor offered.
"And before that, the internet. Everything through phone wires and such... Before interplanetary colonization, before the war with the Saturnians, before... Well, before a lot..."
"Wow! I've never downloaded someone of your years before! No wonder you don't want to leave anything behind. You're like a living time capsule!"
"Eh," I answered.
"Well, are you ready to begin again?"
I simply nodded, knowing that she would see the up-and-down motion through my eyes against the background of the room.
"Last memory transmission beginning..."
I could see the surface of the moon below. I motioned through the cockpit glass to the space-jumper to my right. Landing, I motioned.
He gave me a thumbs-up, and we began our descent.
Then we were under fire. I banked around, pulsers on high. A slugger pirate! I'd recognize those ships anywhere! I hopped onto the coms. "Ace one-niner calling Beta two-seven, you okay?"
"Roger that, Ace. Slugger couldn't hit the broad side of Jupiter. Locking target now."
"Roger that--" A blast screamed over my solar shield. "Dear Kami! Beta, come in, Beta, there's a whole goddamn fleet! Assume firing squad! Give 'em hell!" Soon laser blasts and plasma cannons were lighting up the skies over Io.
Seven against two just ain't playing fair, I thought as I banked right, narrowly avoiding a collision with one of the pirate vessels.
My ship vibrated and shook as my weapons fired.
"Ace, this is Beta, taking heavy fire, got two on my tail, over."
"On my way!" I banked up and over, losing the one on my tail and began visually searching space for my buddy. I spotted him weaving through a small asteroid cluster, trying in vain to shake the pirate jets. "I see you, Beta. Be prepared to avoid friendly fire."
"Roger."
I took out one of the pirates, no problem, but the second was a pro. Probably did time in the wars, I thought. Only war vets are that good. I slammed around a smaller asteroid, hoping a little chicken would force him off my buddy's tail. Suddenly there were three more zeroing in on our positions. "Beta, this is Ace, sending a nuke through the momma roid!"
"Are you--"
"Stand clear, Beta. Use your LS to jump. Nuking Momma Roid..."
I dropped the nuke into the largest of the asteroids, making sure the bulk of the pirates were still whirling about, trying to take me out. As soon as I saw Beta's light-streaks as he blasted away, I started the count.
"Four... Three... Two..." I engaged my own LS drive just as I hit one. Still, the blast send my ship into a hyperrole, chunks of roid flying past, some denting my wings. "Beta, get your ass back here! Taken some damage, over."
"Right behind you, Ace. Taking care of some loose ends you left."
We landed at the Io base shortly thereafter, and I met my flying buddy face-to-face for the first time. His name was Chester, and he'd just joined the space force less than three months ago...
"Okay, Mr. Hughes."
"Wha-- what? Where am I?"
"Calm down, Mr. Hughes. Trans-nurses will be over shortly. All of your memories have been safely databanked and are already beginning the upload to the new body--your new body."
"Tha-- that's good?"
I saw her smile. "If we run into any issues, we'll just store you in cryo until a body can be grown to handle you."
"No, no! Read my record! No cryo! I can't afford that!"
"But," she said, puzzled. "It looks like it's already been paid for. Cryo until Body Pass. It says it right here, Mr. Hughes. You're probably just experiencing a little wooziness from the transfer. It happens sometimes, just relax."
"But, wait, no--"
Then the trans-nurses were there. One of them almost slipped and fell from the water on the floor.
"Afternoon, Hughes!" the always too-friendly one practically shouted, his voice dripping with sunshine.
"Shove it," I replied.
"Well, that's why were here, aren't we? You're to be loaded on the next liner to Nathalor. You know, where your new body is being grown?"
"Well, get on with it, then. I haven't got all day."
"You do now," the other one snickered.
I sneered at him. These young space pups, barely into their fifth decade, thinking eternal life was there for the taking. A universe for the living.
Live a few more decades, perhaps a century, I thought. You'll see how hard it is to keep it all...
I sighed. I may get another few centuries...
The two nurses gripped me and transferred me onto a rolling gurney, and started me off toward the liner, toward my new body, toward my new life...
Only I was still missing some of me...
Near the Beginning: Rewrites...
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
Okay, okay, that's too formal. I know it, you know it, we all know it. Yet, when one is writing a letter, the "Dear" just sort of writes itself, you know? Geez, look at that--I get that from you, you know. That repetitive phrase that peppers the language of me and the four sibs gets on all our spouses and partners nerves. Just so you know.
As I emerged from the woods on the bike path, you ran over, near tears, asking where I had been. Honestly, I think I was more surprised you had noticed I had been gone. It's rough getting attention when there are five of you only six years apart. When I mentioned that I had left a letter to you on my desk, you asked quizically, "Why didn't you leave it on my desk?" I shrugged. 
Our assembly meeting consisted of the seventh through ninth grades. At one point, they handed everybody a pencil and an index card. "Write down any question you have--there are no stupid questions!" 
It was then that I learned how to embrace passive-aggressiveness as an effective means of getting out of trouble. To say what I thought you--and the other adults in my life--wanted to hear. To act the way I thought you wanted me to act. 
And in doing so, I did us both a great disservice. It wasn't until years later--after the army, after college, after moving out to my own apartment--that I would learn to trust myself--and you, as parents--again. To start speaking up, saying what I actually thought, acting how I wanted to act. Letting you get to know the real me.
Near the Beginning: Knowledgy...
