Ok listen, my computer is telling me that it has been 9 months since my last post. Weird. While I try to process that information, I can probably tell you what I’ve been up to lately. Work, and lots of it. I finally found a job that makes feel like a boss (not the boss, but like a BAAHWSS! you know… like the way Beyonce would say it). It’s pretty cool to feel good at something and to have other people notice your goodness at that thing, especially after being “let go” and feeling like shit because of it. In yo face low self-esteem. I actually am good at some stuff. However, I have not been too good at keeping my eyes on the prize as far as the book goal is concerned. I’m not giving up though. I have turned 30 and therefore have only these last 12 months to finish this book, and if i don’t suck at life, I can probably get it done. I need to get into a groove. (a writing groove as well as a get off of my ass and work out groove, so if any of you know how to get in such a groove, please contact me at yourprobablylying@liarface.com because yeah, you probably have life all figured out don’t you.)

Besides the anti-groovage problem I’ve been having, I have also been busy house hunting and trying to figure out how I can get half a million quick so that I can buy my dream home instead of one of these lame houses that I can actually afford. I think I’m going to start a health insurance company for pets. (It shall be named “PetRight” or “Who Loves Fluffy Puppies?!”. So because of how awesome this idea is, I will probably be too rich for blogging pretty soon. Also, if you think you are going to be stealing any of those ideas or names, think again, because they have already been copyrighted, or copywritten…or copyfied. Whatever, I have licked them and they now belong to me.)

I would like to know how regular people (the ones who have to work 40+ hours a week for monies for living) keep up with their passions. It is pretty cool to have a job that I am passionate about now, but I also don’t ever feel like coming home after a long day of communicating and tapping into that part of my brain for another 4 hours to get some writing done. I want to take my pants off, fill up my belly with some yum yums and then give my brain the zone-out time it has earned. (I guess it is probably also time for a confession here…I haven’t even read A PAGE of the book I was working on in like 5 months. This leads me to having to rely on my piss-poor excuse for a memory which leads me to thinking that it is a shit plot with shit characters and that I should probably start over.)

I did just re-read some of these old blog posts though, and I talked a lot about excuses, fear, owning up to my nonsense and taking this passion of mine seriously. If nothing else, this blog has probably served some small purpose. It has kept me writing, it has kept me reading my writing, and it has inspired me to at least pick up the story I was trying to tell and give it another shot. I at least owe it, and myself, that much…probably.

Back to work. Total sell-out. But this book will get done by December 30th of this year. It may mean less blogging, but the writing will continue because the goal is in place, and it’s not moving.

In the meantime, all this time off from blogging has made me forget how to do it. I’m feeling a bit rusty, but it still feels good so I’m going to push through it and see where it leads me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about myself and my personality and how my eagerness to believe that the human race is generally a benevolent one might be an overall hinderance to my life, both professionally and personally. I am admittedly naive. My first impression of most, is that I like them, they are good people just trying to get by in a difficult world, and if they do shitty things sometimes, its probably because they genuinely feel like that is the best way to handle a shitty situation. I generally tend to error on the side of giving people the benefit of the doubt. This is not superficial, “I want to try to see the good in everyone” hippy crap, it’s honestly the way I view the world. And It usually makes me happy…until it doesn’t.

When someone says they will get back to me, I believe them and wait patiently. When I’m told that my concerns have been heard and something will be done about them, I believe them and wait patiently. When I call any customer service agent for any reason, I am kind and make jokes and explain the situation instead of giving them an ear-full of anger for something they had no control over. I really believe this is the best way to handle most situations…until it isn’t. I give people chances and I forgive and forget quite often. This probably makes me a sucker, but it’s how I was made and what I’ve grown into. I know most people will try to take advantage of those of us who view others in this way, and that sucks, but what is the alternative? Being angry and mean every time something small goes wrong? Treating people like they have wronged me even if they haven’t just because I am sure they are probably planning to whenever the opportunity arises? It’s not really my style. I choose blissful ignorance. I choose to be a sucker. I choose to believe that there are more people like me in the world than people who want to screw me over. And I choose to believe that if I treat others kindly, that hopefully, they won’t want to screw me over. I’m probably insane, but maybe insanity is also better than the aforementioned angry alternative.

I have never really been a religious person. The faith I have has never aligned with any structured belief system. My faith is in humanity and the connections we build with one another. In our ability to be good and kind and to treat one another fairly. Eventually, everyone needs a break, a second, third or even fourth chance. We should be willing to give them. Mistakes are how we learn to better ourselves. Making peace gives peace. I think I have officially lost it. It’s probably the sunshine. I need to go find where I left my awesome bitchy humor, because this shit is getting sappy (and I have yet to make fun of you this whole post. You’re welcome.)

I guess for a society that is always wanting and hardly ever content, I am searching for ways to make myself realize that the basics are probably what create contentment, you know, the golden rule and all that jazz. Our whole lives we are waiting for things to happen. For milestones to pass or for dreams to come true. When we are kids we can’t wait to be adults. When we are adults, we realize how much it blows and want to be care-free kids again. It’s exhausting. Why can’t we just wade through all of the subliminal garbage and be content right now? I’m beginning to think we get farther and farther away from our true selves every single time we pass up an unselfish opportunity. Random acts of kindness feel really good and make you realize how small most of your worries really are. They are a gift you give to others, but mostly to yourself. I’m beginning to think that none of this is probably going to make any sense.

Bottom line is, yes, I’m probably a sucker, but at the risk of becoming something I don’t believe in, I embrace my sucker-ness and will try to recruit you all to be suckers with me. Give it a try, you might like it. After all, I’m the happiest sucker you’ll ever meet…probably.

I had this dog, Smokey, a black cocker spaniel growing up. He was a christmas present when I was 2. We basically grew up together and he was probably the best friend in the whole world. He died when I was 18, so we had many years of camaraderie. Smokey was the shit, (and I am sure everyone with a dog thinks that their dog is the best, but I know for a fact that Smokey was the best dog ever. Period. This is not a probably situation. He was. The best. Ever. I’m not biased like those mothers who love their babies even though they are ugly. I am not that person. So you can take me for serious when I tell you things like “Smokey was the most awesomest doggie and ever dogged.”  He was cooler than both Snoop and Bow-wow rolled up in a joint together, yeahhh).

Smokey came with all of the great qualities that most dogs come with. He was cute, he loved me unconditionally, he liked to sleep next to the fireplace in the winter and when he would lay there on his side with all four legs stretched out in front of him and you would look at him from the back, he resembled a black pickle. You know, the regular great things about dogs, only Smokey was always straight with me. He was more honest than any family member or friend I have ever had. He cut the crap and would always get straight to the point. No dilly-dallying or side-stepping.

People have this weird habit of lying for various reasons, like to protect feelings or because they are cowards or probably just because sometimes lying is easier than telling someone that “no, the dress doesn’t make you look fat, you make you look fat because you got fat.”  or “yes I ate the leftovers that were in the fridge with your name on them because I was too lazy to cook something, they smelled delicious and you literally NEVER eat leftovers, so instead of letting them sit in the fridge until they no longer smell delicious, I ATE THEM.” See, Smokey would have said those things to me if he could have used human words. But it didn’t even matter. He didn’t need them. I suppose at this point you would like an example, so let me set this up for you.

When I was in elementary school, I was into music. I took piano lessons and trumpet lessons (yeah laugh it up, trumpet. ok thats enough, now you’re just being ignorant. It was a very important instrument to the ska band I was convinced I would one day start, so the jokes on you because ska is probably almost as cool as Smokey was). I would practice both instruments every day after school in my living room. When it was time for piano, Smokey would curl up underneath the belly of the piano and stay there quietly for duration of my practice. Every time I played that thing, there he was, underneath it in his spot listening. When it was time for trumpet, however, he would not shut up. I practiced, and it literally sounded like stomach-eating-parasite cries of pain were coming out of that animal. I don’t think Smokey was cultured enough to have a preference of instrument at that point, but he did know that I sucked really badly at the trumpet, and he would protest every time I practiced to remind me of it. Eventually he won and I quit the trumpet, but he was right. I was just wasting my time at something at which I would only ever be mediocre at best. (He also protested in this same fashion when I would watch the TV show Dumbo’s Circus on the Disney Channel. He especially hated the theme song. He would make the most disgustingly awful noises while it was playing until I would turn it off or change the channel. But good old Smokey was right again, that show was probably just making me dumber and he saved some important brain cells by making me stop watching that mindless crap.)

People tend to want to be kind, but what I think is kind is what Smokey did, blatantly scream-moaned in my face every time I tried to play the trumpet. Someone should do that to George Bush every time he thinks about making a painting, or the 50 Shades of Grey lady if she decides she wants to write another piece of crap book, or Johnny Depp every time he dates a woman that is not me. Everyone needs a true friend to make vomit noises directly to their face when they are wasting time or going down the wrong path. It would save us all a lot of headache and would probably eliminate a lot of the crap “art” we are constantly forced to wade through as a society.

So the next time someone asks you for an honest opinion on anything, don’t be afraid to channel Smokey and spontaneously sound like you are trying to hack up something disgusting and mucousy from deep inside the pit of you as a form of protest. It will make an impression and they will thank you for it in the long run…probably.

“What would you consider your biggest weakness?” – While preparing for a job interview (yeah whatever I’m probably a sell-out) I came across this question that thankfully, even after the most recent interview, I have yet to be asked. This is a question automatically setting you up for failure. Job interviews are awkward enough as it is. You go in there, all dressed up (nothing like what you would look like on a daily basis if you actually got hired), you talk about yourself like you are the greatest thing ever without trying to come across pretentious or arrogant, and you have to worry about every movement you make down to having the right firmness of a handshake. Really? And after all of this, they want to know what you suck at? Why would anyone ever answer that honestly? And what if you really don’t suck at anything? (yes I am probably as awesome as I say I am in my interview. I’m no liar people) There is probably no good way of answering this question.

“I’m a perfectionist.” = douche

“I throw myself too much into my work and my family often complains that al I ever do is work.” = workhaholic douche

“I used to struggle with public speaking but I’ve thankfully overcome that fear.” = you didn’t really answer the question at all and that makes you a dumb douche

“I am a horrible speller, thank god for spellcheck.” = you should go back to school and learn how to spell and not be such a douche

Point proven. No good way to answer this question. If you know of one, keep it to yourself because if it is miraculously not douchey, everyone will steal it and then it will no longer be original and then it turns douchey, or it is just douchey to begin with.

I think everyone puts on a front in job interviews. The interview version of yourself is usually like the best version of yourself on just a tiny bit of cocaine. Energetic, ready for all of the challenges the job might throw your way, and a little wired from nerves and lack of sleep. This doesn’t help anyone. It certainly doesn’t help the employer learn who they would really be investing in if they added “you” to their team, and it probably doesn’t help you, the hopeful interviewee as you have to stress about morphing into this obnoxious, egotistical version of yourself. Dance monkey.

If I am ever in a position where I have to interview people, I am going to invite them all out at one time to a karaoke bar on a Friday or Saturday night. Whoever is the best bar companion and picks the best songs to sing gets my vote. This situation would probably tell you more about a person than an awkward interview. And if not, at least it would be entertaining to watch all the prospectives fight for my attention The Bachelorette style. At the very least, I would get a free show and a few free drinks out of the evening…probably.

Today I shall bestow upon you the gift of brevity. Following are two poems from years back that are probably the only things from my past that I have written that still for some reason continue to feel relevant. I hope they speak for themselves as I refuse to burden myself figuring out how to present some sort of introduction. I have more important things to be doing with my time…probably.

Rant in Rhyme

The unions gone on strike again, 
demanding their emotions back.
Picketing for thought, feeling and better wages,
but resources are running out.

The home team won the war today, 
at least that’s what the papers said,
but the sirens woke me up again
so I’m glad I didn’t place a bet.

The parade went by and no one cheered
so the band put down their instruments
to join the others in stride and fear,
but no one knows how far they went.

And ideas, now, are costly, except for a few, 
so poets dream but no longer write.
The enemy’s responsible, so I’ve been told,
for the rise in price of ink and graphite.

Now comedies do not exist,
all the actors have broken their legs,
but pharmacists can walk just fine
so now we get our kicks that way.

A Penman’s Struggle

Pen to paper 
These words stare back at me
Struggling to become more.

They look at me,
Wanting me to liberate them,
and weigh heavily upon my pen
bending my writing.

They are envious of my position
As I envy their lifelessness.

How simple it would be
To perch myself atop a two-dimensional ledge
For as long as forever.

Freeing these words from this page,
struggling to be profound and clever,
as I struggle to become a writer.

Guilt is weird. Its basically an emotion put there to make you think you’re a bad person for other emotions, thoughts and actions. Guilt is a consequence of something wrong you have done, but it is often also a consequence of something you’re probably not sure was wrong at all, but either way the guilt is there, kind of as a “what if” buffer, just incase you deserve to be feeling it. Guilt is something we would probably live without. In our day to day lives, we probably don’t need guilt (unless you belong to my small fraction of incarcerated readers, in which case, you should probably hold onto that guilt good and tight because you probably deserve to live with the burden of what you’ve done for a very long time. I mean, only if it was something really bad, like against the free will of another human type of bad. If you sold some pot or something, let that shit go man).

I woke up feeling guilty that I didn’t write AT ALL this weekend. Who cares? If you ate a bit to much, if you didn’t exercise, if you broke any kind of promise to yourself at all (this only relates to promises you break to yourself. If you don’t keep your word to yourself, you should probably just not stress out about it and try to do better next time. Jesus will probably already be disappointed enough in you, so you don’t need excessive guilt on top of it. If you are breaking promises to others, that makes you a crappy person who probably deserves all the guilt…all of it).

I figure, you can stop judging yourself so harshly and use that energy for something positive. Worry, regret and guilt are all emotions sucking up perfectly good productive and kinetic energy. Time is too short and important to waste on feelings that are created our of second-guessing and fragile moments of surmounted insecurities.

It takes tragedies to wake us up. This is one of the faults of our species. We are never content, we dwell and we are 90% of the time miserable creatures, then something happens, usually something horrible or catastrophic either to us or someone we know/knew and it suddenly wakes us up. This will last a few hours or days at most, but moments of contentment briefly exist, before we sulk back into the despicable growling bottomless pits of people that we have evolved to be.

This weekend, by the hand of a tragedy, in one of these minutes of peace and gratitude that followed, I was given a revelation. A woman I used to work with a few years ago was robbed of her life in a horrible way by a coward. This woman was a gem of a person and when I heard what had happened, naturally, I felt sick. You hear things like this and you can’t swallow them, and after a while you body begins to process the tragedy and you become so thankful that you had the opportunity to know this person before they were gone. You become thankful for the health of your friends and loved ones and for your own health. But you want to do something that will make it better, not just for yourself, but for everyone who feels how you’re feeling and for the lost gem. In these moments of emptiness, these moments between gratitude and rage, my sister made a small suggestion that wouldn’t seem like much at first, but as the days pass, I am realizing that she found my escape. She suggested that I write a letter to the editor to share my thoughts on this tragic loss in our community. This was the action that would replace the emotions that make you useless, like regret, guilt and worry. I wrote for her, for me and for the sadness that was created the day she was taken away. It helped, regardless of however small of an amount.

Find a way of expressing yourself that helps you, fall helplessly in love with the feeling it gives you, share it and then use it to overcome everything. (The sharing part, yes as we have discussed is terrifying, but it is also necessary to make what you do real. If it is worth doing, it’s worth sharing. It might even change a moment of someone else’s time for the better.)

This is how resilience is born…probably.

I read last night that “everything is just a remix”. I’m not sure I buy it (I mean I probably do, I’m just as consumeristic as the next guy), but if that is true, it basically means that all of the great and truly original works of art in the world that will ever exist have already been created. All the originality has been used up, there are no more ideas to be had, and we are left here, making dub-step versions of ideas that don’t belong to us but still claim to be artists because of it. Sure, they have a point, I am not denying that this happens, but I refuse to believe we are stranded in the desert of art and there is no original creative oasis out there anywhere. The optimist inside of me is saying they are wrong, there are so many things left to say, to make, to do, and all we have to do is persist and persevere, but the real me is thinking that persistence is probably useless is most situations.

Are you a good writer? (something all writers, and humans in general, probably ask themselves at one point or another.)  Because language is the most basic form of expression, this applies to everyone, and if everything really is just a remix, we better be fucking talented DJs. I have some basic principles to aid in the determination of this topic of good and bad writing.

Are you old?  (like I’m talking 65+, basic senior citizen age. If you are, don’t get all mad I said you were old, what follows is probably a compliment and honestly, it is about time you accepted the fact that you are, now, considered to be an old person). Old people have the ability to recognize a fantastic story almost immediately, probably do to all that life experience. They know whats worth holding onto and whats worth letting go. They have lived so long and so much that they have experienced what is truly interesting and whats not.

My grandmother had this remarkable story that she would tell about these metal scissors she “accidentally” stole from elementary school. According to the story, she didn’t realize that she had brought them home with her, and when she found them in her bag, she was overcome with such panic and shame, that she ran outside and buried them in the back yard where no one would ever find them. She used to tell it with such conviction, that you could feel her panic when she found those metal scissors (even though I think she was probably a badass and stole them on purpose because she probably wanted some badass metal scissors to cut some badass stuff with). This story has it all, crime, panic, repentance, I mean, there was a lot more to the story, and the way she told it was the absolute greatest (this is probably a really poor remix of that story and I apologize), but you got the gist of it. She buried her transgression with the scissors and no one would have ever been the wiser, except for the fact that she knew it was an awesome story and so she told us all about it (she said the scissors are probably still there in her childhood back yard to this day). Most people would have forgotten that story in their own life, but my overly intelligent grandmother knew that it was relatable, it was a bit embarrassing, and it spoke to her humanity. Old people just get that stuff. Humility is something that always helps content and it probably takes a long time to master, so if you are old, good news, you are probably already partly a good writer!

Are you willing to be honest with yourself and with others? I have always had a really hard time accepting rewrites of my work when those rewriting it try to change the actual copy. The copy is sacred. The words I wrote down, I chose and if I want to change them, only I have the power to make that decision (do your freaking job and correct my grammar and spelling and tell me how good it is and then shut up, am I right? I’m probably right). I have always felt that someone else changing my words would be equivalent to me going up to someones painting and adding a random waterfall. Whats the problem? Everyone likes waterfalls right? Sometimes the mist that surrounds them also creates a rainbow, maybe I should add a rainbow too… and it goes on and on until that painting belongs to me and no longer to the painter. Don’t edit me out of my own stories. Don’t get me wrong. Accepting and understanding criticism on all levels of ones life is an important process in order to grow and become the best version of yourself, but accepting it does not mean you have to agree with it. Sometimes you have to fight it and stay true to the stubborn asshole that you are (I will NEVER change for you!) That is why it is as important to be honest with yourself as it is to be honest with others.

Thats really all I’ve got. The two most important qualities of good writers: old and honest, but I hope you have realized by now that weather you are a good writer or not, it probably doesn’t matter even the tiniest bit. If everything is a remix, and everything important has already been said and done, we not only need to be good writers, but also good actors and good thieves. We need to band together and march through a world where we have convinced ourselves and each other that there is still something worth saying. Something left to say that doesn’t and never has belonged to anyone but us. And it could all very well be a complete lie, but that doesn’t matter either, because even that lie can be remixed endlessly… probably.

Let’s get straight to the point here. I have been thinking a lot about restrictive things. Things that hold me back, things that I’m afraid of, which by some sort of logic leads me to believe that writing about them is probably the best way of exorcising the demons. Weather this is relevant or not doesn’t really matter because, this is what I want to write about today and that makes it relevant (this is my blog and I’ll do what I want).

I am a firm believer in the categorical organization of fears. Everyone should know their top 3 (and you can’t pick things that everyone is probably scared of because those are already implied, i.e.: death, failure, birthing a child, being alone forever, diseases that eat flesh and brain matter, biting into an apple with worms in it, and so forth. You are more intuitive and creative than that. Don’t sell yourself short, I am sure you probably have a lot of interesting things to be afraid of.) These fears should be listed from 3-1, with #3 being the least frightful of the bunch up to #1, the things you only see in your worst nightmares. The list also must be just things and not situations, meaning that any of the things on your list, in ANY situation, would be almost unbearably horrifying to you. (I feel like everyone probably knows this already, but this is just a polite reiteration for those of you who might have been living in a world of cotton candy happiness where it’s not common practice to list your top three fears).

I am also a firm believer that if you are honest with yourself and choose correctly, your list will never change. My list has stayed the same for…. well as long as I have had the list. Never made an edit.

#3: Guns

This fear is a bit ignorance based and a bit experience based (and I want you all to know, for the record, that I have been scared of guns long before it was cool to be scared of guns. This is not a political thing, although you could have probably guessed my political opinion on this subject already.) I am scared of guns the way I am scared of Japanese cartoon porn. I can’t wrap my head around either of them. I can’t understand how something so small can give someone so much power and at the same time be so destructive. They change people the way too much money changes people. They give people the distorted idea that if they have one in their hand, they can take whatever they like. Scary shit.

#2: Creepy Old Men

The worst kind of old men are the creepy kind. You know, the ones with that you can tell are probably a little molestery. They often wear hats to attempt to cover up that rapey look in their eye. Everything about them gives you the sensation that you wish you were back in your childhood bed completely covered by the magical comforter that protects you from all of the evil in the world (I know you know what I’m talking about).

#1: Sharks

These feral creatures serve absolutely no purpose in the world except to make the ocean a terrible place. They pass their days probably doing nothing else but being stupid and scary. Seriously, NOTHING needs that many teeth in its mouth. They are horrifying and they will eat you for fun (they also eat seals, and seals are basically just awesome blubbery life-loving water puppies, so if you don’t hate sharks, it ultimately means that you hate puppies. You don’t hate puppies do you? I didn’t think so.) Another thing that makes these animals the complete WORST is that there is this surge of media and people trying to convince the rest of us that sharks are these graceful and majestic beings that should be appreciated for their immense beauty. These people are liars. They are trying to prove how alternative and liberal they are by “loving” gigantic ocean-dwelling razor-toothed creatures that the devil himself probably created. These are the same people who pretended to be lesbians in college because they thought it would make them cooler. It doesn’t. It makes them traitors to humanity.

Now that you have seen the correct way to make a list of your fears, I suggest you exorcise some demons of your own. No  matter what things make up your list, acknowledging them is important (I mean, it definitely wont make said fears conquerable. I will be a slave to the anxiety I have from sharks until the day I die), but it is a step in the right direction. A small victory. I am beginning to appreciate more and more the small victories of each day. Along with all of the other mantras I am finding by writing these posts, today I am adding the appreciation of tiny victories. Cynicism has kind of always been my thing (even though most of the time I play it off as a humorous side of me so that I’m not completely awful to be around). I like being a bit cynical because it also keeps me rational about my fears. It keeps me grounded, but it has also caused a lot of downplaying.

I have been downplaying my fears and achievements my entire life. Our fears are obviously and painfully real, the but tiny victories will surmount and outweigh them, but only if you are truly open to acknowledging all of them. This newborn baby blog is an achievement. Each time I write a post, a gun spontaneously combusts, a creepy old man croaks and a baby shark is eaten by a whale…probably.

I never thought in a million years that this would be an important story to tell. My memory didn’t think it was important either and left it filed away in the not so easily accessible part of my mind. While building characters and understanding who they are and why they react in the ways that they do, I realize that all stories are important. They make up the stitching of us. They are the glue that holds us together and remembers our history even when our consciousness forgets.

When I was 10 years old, I wrote my first poem. I remember the assignment, to write an acrostic poem using your name for the first letter of each line. This should have been easy. I immediately had a choice to make, being a person who has a naturally long first name and a quite shorter nick-name that I regularly go by, do I let myself struggle with the 8 long letters of Victoria, or do I half the burden and go with Tori. I followed my gut and chose the path most difficult (I was apparently a masochist at a very young age and my gut was a bully that I listened to quite frequently).

Most kids were done with their poem in about 10-15 minutes. I had barely gotten started. Fortunately, after language arts was recess. I spent this entire additional 45 minutes brooding over this poem. There was a feeling or urgency inside of me. I had something important to say and this was my chance to say it. I was presented with an avenue and this opportunity was not to be wasted with any silly word beginning with the appropriate letter.  This was heavy. This need, as a 10 year-old, to choose correctly, to create something beautiful but equally meaningful was a profound burden. But, when I began to write, when the flood gates finally opened, it was sublime. There was an angst escaping and my hand couldn’t keep up with the words spilling out of me. (Now, I don’t want to disappoint you, but I’m going to anyway. I don’t have the poem in question with me. It is somewhere at my parents house along with all of the poems and stories that came after. I have the distinct feeling that if I read it now, I would be deeply saddened that it’s no longer the masterpiece I remember it being, so just let me be blissful in my ignorance of this faded memory of probably the greatest poem ever written.)

My teacher had noticed the scene of me laboring over this poem while the others released their volcanic energy, playing and running around as children do (it was extremely difficult to work under those conditions may I add). At one point, when I had began to reread, I could feel her over my shoulder. (I hated that, and I have continued to hate it up until adulthood.) I wasn’t done yet. I wasn’t satisfied. In my mind, there was more to do, I could make it even better, but she grabbed the paper (it was black construction paper that we were writing on in white chalk, so please explain to me how in god’s name I was supposed to be able to edit anything anyhow?!), she grabbed my hand and took me into the adjacent classroom, the other 3rd grade class, to make me read my poem to the other 3rd grade teacher. She was beaming and I was PISSED, but I was 10 and my gut told me that I should listen to her, so I did it. The kids in that classroom were also at recess, screaming and carrying on (again, not an ideal environment for my first reading), but I read it, and hated every uncomfortable feeling that shot through me as I did so. When I finished, I looked up to both of these teachers looking at me, and then at each other. They began to gush and tell me about the reaction their skin had to my writing (apparently it got bumpy like a freshly plucked goose, weird) and I was confused.

At 10, I didn’t understand why I had this need to take the assignment so seriously, and I didn’t understand why it was such a big deal to my teachers that I had. I didn’t know about the strange power of words, a magic that has always been closer to me than the similar power one would possess with the mastery of any other art form. I really thought it was no big deal, I wrote a poem. I used metaphors when I had no idea they were called metaphors. I represented myself as a violet (my mom liked those) and described myself dancing in the wind and longing to be free and lifted from the soil and blown high up into the sky, and although I remember not being completely content with the poem, I remember the relief wash over me when the words came out.  This full body experience unlocked something inside myself that day, and it was a big deal.

It was a pivoting point, and although I know of stories that others have told me about my predisposition to story-telling at a young age (which I think is probably just a nice way of saying that I was an excessive liar as a child), this is my one story in my own memory that I can trace this desire all the way back to. This one belongs only to me and it was that one tiny, baby step, the feeling in my pit that I had no choice but to follow, that sent my whole life down this path of writing, of creative masochism, of searching to make myself better, but it all stems from the need for that feeling, that flushing, cleansing feeling that happens when you get it out. I think writers nothing more than addicts, writing and writing just to get to that high… probably.

In honor of being true to myself as a writer and sharing actual writing (which is probably the point of this blog) and also in honor of a recently passed Valentine’s Day, I have decided to share a short story of mine. This was written over a year ago, and still a working-draft, but it is a fictional “Tell-Tale Heart” inspired story about love (albeit psychotic, but probably some sort of love nonetheless). I know you will be as disturbed and enthralled as I was while writing it… probably.

Fruit

Angelo is an incomparable talent. I am still undecided if it is him or is genius that I’ve loved more, but as my last and final conquest, I remain torn in the decision of its fate. How should it happen, if it is to happen at all. He lured me in, years ago, with a version of himself that I can barely remember, the pole of his person that is now a ghost. It was his decision to love me first, and I quickly and blindly followed. I was young and had so much to learn from this magnetic stranger. Nothing mattered. Especially not those who had repeatedly and unknowingly bared the burden of our betrayal. We both disregarded the wreckage we left in our wake of those whose love was both unequivocal and unrequited. In the beginning we could communicate only with our bodies. Angelo came from another part of the world that left words as something we lacked in common, but the white heat between us made everything cloudy and muddled and exquisite. Lust of this magnitude was as foreign to me as his idiom. My gut ached for him and what I wholly believed he was. I should have known it would start to rot in time. It always does. It festers and corrodes and I clean up the mess and move on. They all think I am weak, but if they knew the things I have done, they would understand the extent of my substance. Angelo didn’t understand, but he soon would.

William was my first fruit. I thought I loved him. I still think I may have, it’s hard to tell. I was 16, he was handsome and, more importantly, he soaked up my ridiculous lies which made him juicy and sweet and completely infatuated. It didn’t take long before I was all there was. He lost himself inside of me and I swallowed him with a thirst that only his sweet, ripe and naive liquids could quench. William changed to become as I wanted without the slightest realization he was doing so. He was molded and contorted and none the wiser. Perhaps this was why I loved him, because he never really existed on his own. After a year of young love and manipulation, I began to outgrow “us”. This realization coincided with a fairly substantial life transition for William that would take him a little over a time zone away. He was a scholar and fairly good at his studies. He would be continuing down this path on his own, as he was a full year my elder. His intelligence was not the most attractive thing about him. I know what it looks like, but I am not and never have been a woman to fear abandonment. My withering love had nothing to do with the fact that he was leaving. William still ached for me. He would have never loved again if I so desired, even with distance between us. No, it was not that. William, like our love, had began to soften with a lack of substance. It all became unbearably sweet. It was decaying and needed to end before it had the chance to ferment. A woman scorned by abandonment and blinded by love would never have such clear logic and fine sense of intuition to notice the beginning stages of erosion. I saw it all clearly and it was decided.

We began to frequent each other less. He could feel the emergent separation and became pathetic and desperate trying to mend something he had not the power to. I knew it was over, but he would not give in. He became like a child with a deficiency of the love he needed to grow. I could see him wilting into another person. It disgusted me. I had spent so much time building this man only to see how superficial his transformation had been. At the slightest notice of his world without me he melted into something else. A heartsick animal with no sense of self. An object that was nothing without it’s manipulator. A boy who could not live alone. It got so bad that even the sound of his voice had become estranged to me. His words could no longer reach the sympathetic, loving part of me. There was no sweetness left in me to give to him. I was drained to the bone. My disappointment and disgust in him was overt and tangible and, shortly thereafter, it would be even to William.

William came to my home upon request. When he arrived he was timid, awkward and unrecognizable. He must have known why I had asked him there. I had planned to break his heart and tell him everything. I would tell him how the very thought of him now made my skin burn and how he had ruined it all by allowing this pitiful self-mutation. It was his fault and he had to know, and when I looked at him I could tell that his face had already changed even more drastically than I had thought possible. I had not done that. In such a short time, a matter of weeks, the differences in him were startling and worse than I could have ever imagined. I was not prepared for this. No one could have been prepared for it. It was bewildering to me and I could barely think overtop of his annoying new nuances, mannerisms and facial expressions. Where did they come from? Who was doing this to me? His skin was pale and stretching uncomfortably across is body. Before I had the chance to tell him it was over, he approached me with these saddened eyes of his that I had never seen in all our time together, and he kissed me. He had the gull to kiss me in a way that was unrecognizable. He was kissing me with a disgusting strangers tongue that left a rotten taste in my mouth that lingers to this day if I think of it long enough. I threw the shell of what was left of the William I knew to the ground and covered his mutating face with a folded throw from the couch. The throw stayed firmly atop of him as I spat repeatedly to get the wretched taste of his transformation off my lips.

Now, I cannot get a handle on the time that had lapsed, naturally, after what he had put me through, I was a bit shaken. And that taste! My stomach turns at the thought of it and where it came from. I do know that at one point he surrendered and his attempt to struggle ceased. A warming calm washed over me and that horrid taste finally left my mouth. When I lifted the throw his face was familiar to me again. He had returned to the William that I had loved all this time. I understood it all at that moment. It was his decision to stop, to give in. I could have never killed William in the way most would think, and before judgment is passed an explanation needs to be heard. He gave himself, all of himself to me. It was the only thing left for him to do. He decided to die knowing that I loved him instead to live a life with the knowledge of my distain and without me. I showed him mercy by sparring his heart and inside himself somewhere he knows to this day that he will always be mine. It was I who suffered, and stomached in absolute silence the agony he had put me through those last months. It was his burden to carry, not mine, but instead I choked it within myself to give him this peace, this gift. Sometimes my kindness surprises even me.

William was still a boy, a thin young 18. It was not terribly difficult to move him, which is a testament to my physical and emotional strength. He knew when he made the decision to die that I would take care of him and I knew the perfect place for him. A place he seemed to have chosen himself and within the hour he was contently settled under the massive peach tree at the far edge of the property. There was budding that would mature to become blossoms on its branches. It was beautiful and perfect. I knew him well and could still feel how moved he was by this gesture. I had saved him, preserved him in our love. He will remain unspoiled now, and he is grateful to me.

It didn’t take long for people to start asking questions about the whereabouts of William. His disappearance stirred our small town with questions, but I was not phased. Our relationship was the only thing tethering me to what he had done to himself, but I kept his secret for him. When the noise died down a bit, I could feel hunger stirring again in my pit. Ben was there when I needed him to satisfy my cravings. If only it had ended there.

Oh, poor innocent Ben. He and I had no idea of the monster he was to become. Oblivious and ignorant we entered into a story that would end not just broken, but mangled. I had no intention of making Ben love me. He wasn’t initially my type, but his twisted sense of humor and awkward personality made its way inside of me. The attraction was minimal on my end, but his desire for me must have been contagious. I gave in and tried to give my heart to Ben. He fell completely and I tried to follow his lead but with little success. My appetite had become insatiable and could not be satisfied by Ben. To spare his pathetic, inexperienced young heart, I allowed him to believe I loved him while fulfilling my needs elsewhere throughout our four years together. I did this selflessly and only to protect him. I was careful to keep these transgressions hidden from him because, in his eyes, he had it all. I kept this fantasy of his alive with my wit and charm and he was happy. Although for me, our time together lacked a certain depth, I knew that for him it was the only love he had ever known and in that right it was perfection. I set my feelings aside and played the part and gave him four precious years. I allowed Ben to become his own person. I did not try to save him from himself because, although I cared deeply for him, I did not love him. This is for certain. Honestly, I was doing myself a disservice by being with Ben. His charms were not worthy of me. Everyone but him could see that. Yet another testament to my selflessness.

Ben was content, all the while oblivious to my constant sampling. I prided myself in self control and had tasted many different and exotic produce without diluting the experience with sentiment. There was occasional repetition, but I made sure to keep it to a strict minimum. I had to protect them all from their natural urge to love me. If I frequented just one too often, they were sure to fall victim. It was all so simple, and then I met Angelo. He was intoxicating and I could not stop. It was only after Angelo that Ben began to be suspicious. He could see a change in me. I could feel a change in myself and no matter how hard I tried to fight it off, I kept going back for more. I became weak. At first it wasn’t even love, but I had never experienced anything like Angelo before and I wanted to drink him up and understand all of him. Ben could smell the nectar Angelo left behind, but was too much of a coward to reprimand or question my fidelity. He became so small and insignificant. He acted as if it were still all the same even after everything had changed. I couldn’t see clearly while my veins pumped Angelo throughout my body and Ben faded into the background of an afterthought. I was so overtaken by this new man that inside the smallest part of myself that still acknowledged the existence of Ben and his feelings, I knew it needed to end. Angelo had consumed so much of me that there was nothing left for Ben. I needed to cut him out before he began to starve, wither and dry up, and before he watched the love he had so poorly built crumble to dust.

I found Ben in his usual spot and in what had recently become his usual state. On his apartment balcony, inebriated. Behind the gloss covering his eyes I could see him through his consumption and that he understood why I was there. He sat his uncoordinated body on the edge of the banister as I began to tell him the truth about the fantasy he had been living. I hadn’t even finished my first sentence and had certainly not mentioned Angelo, when Ben turned into a madman fueled by passion and spirit. His body and face contorted and swayed as he attempted to spit out incoherent hateful words. He had turned into Mr. Hyde and despite all my efforts to calm him down, he was beyond reach. He saw only red and his body jerked violently as I approached him. The scene was a whirlwind of rage, sadness, vehemence, tears and desperation. I watched the entire useless tantrum with a deep mortification. In one final desperate attempt to reach Ben through the ire and alcohol I resorted to physical contact. I can remember broken frames of Ben being startled and losing his balance and then a familiar feeling. I can remember him holding onto my arm initially as only a natural reaction to keep from falling four stories. I can still see his monstrous glazed eyes looking up at me before he let himself go. His eyes warned me to stay away. They told me that he didn’t want me to save him, but that instead he wanted to be in control. I could understand it all from one hideous glance. Ben may have known the truth all along and just been pathetic enough to put up with it, or he may have genuinely been oblivious, but it doesn’t matter now. He was too childish to experience love in its entirety and in the end it drove him mad. Even if I had wanted to help him, his eyes asked me not to in those final moments. Ben couldn’t live in the misery of knowing I had chosen someone else, so I let him escape his new reality. Now he will never have to know the agony and humiliation that was to be his future. He now rests with William under the peaceful umbrella of a newly flowering peach tree inside of a fairytale love that exists only for him.

Angelo knows little of those who came before him, nor do I think he cares. Once I was conquered he slowly began to divulge himself to me the way the rest of the world already knew him, but there was nothing I could do. Everything vanished before him and in confront of him. I fell into his trap and willingly lost myself almost completely. Something inside of me wanted to live only to please him so I gave him everything. I became the moth to his flame, addicted, and buried so far within and beneath him that he saw only himself and his craft. I am supplemental. I can feel the weight of him bearing on me always, but there is a part of me that can’t live without it. How can I pull myself out of something which I have wholly become when I can no longer tell where I end and he begins. This feeling is beautifully suffocating, but he feels nothing. This time I have been the one fooled. I can see that I have been the one ingested and forgotten. There is no escape from a person and an arrogance this centrifugal. An ordinary woman would never stand a chance, but I am anything but ordinary.

Yes I can admit that I was weakened by Angelo. He managed to steal years from me without my recognition. I suppose this recount has awakened me to the burning I have held inside for so long. I need to rescue myself from him, to cut off the part of me that has merged with him. I will tear away from him and place myself before his eyes and just before his moment of pure epiphany he will see what he had trampled on, swallowed whole and left forgotten. I just have to rip myself back from the insides of his stomach, from the place in him where he has held me a willing prisoner. I will sever us apart and cauterize my wounds to never be the one who bleeds again. He will no longer over power me with his lure and dexterity now that my ambition grows as does my rage that any madman could deliberately place me in his shadow. If he wasn’t so blind he could have had it all, but I should have known it would start to rot in time. It always does. It festers and corrodes and I clean up the mess and move on. He thinks I am weak, but if he knew the things I have done, he would understand the extent of my substance. Angelo didn’t understand, but he soon would…