"No matter how cloudy the sky gets, the sun always comes back out." -Jesse

I was writing a Pretty Person of the Week about Matt Damon but...

I realized I missed a very important date. And in some ways that's good. But in other ways it's not so much.
I feel kinda like an asshat for missing this. But it's alright. Muse was late too. Only six days but that's beside the point. The point is we had the same excuse: we were living, which is what Jessee wants us to do. We weren't spending the day grieving for her, which I'm sure is exactly what she didn't want.

We weren't grieving, but we remembered her. As we do every day. The most important part though? We weren't thinking of her tragic passing, we were thinking about the lessons she taught us while she was alive.

Oh shit, now I'm teary eyed. It's been like three sentences! Those waterworks...can't get a break...

I think the biggest regret I have about June 13 this year isn't that I didn't write about her. It's that I didn't log onto Utopia Skye or Yahoo! Messenger at all. Utopia Skye was the online community that she, Muse, and I (and several others) formed out of our shared addiction -- however geeky -- of MMORPGs. I should have seen that everyone else she knew and loved was doing the same. More than that, I should have sent an IM to Al, her fiance. He's a strong guy, but I know how much he appreciates the support we give.

Now, I'm sure some of you remember the last time I talked about Jessee. I won't repeat that story. I have one to share...I just adore telling it.

As I said, she and I were sick at the same time and we helped each other through our rougher days. We had a lot of ways we cooked up of escaping reality and just being happy, free, fun-loving people living life when in fact both of us were very very sick and death was really a tangible thing for both of us. We had different approaches to dealing when we were apart -- she tried to make a difference in the world with the time she had left (and she succeeded) while telling us about what fun things she would do when she got better (some of which she did despite not getting better), and I pretended like I was immortal and this was just a stumbling block (which turned out to be true).

We learned quickly that this morbid fact was not the only thing we had in common. We had friends in common, online anyways. We had our online games in common. Most importantly, we had dessert in common.
We frequently talked about life -- the good, the bad, and the ugly.
More often than not, we went on adventures. We would create stories about she and myself in our desperate search for the perfect cake. Thus was born the adventures of Jessee the Cake Bandit!!!
Yes, it sounds weird, but remember: both of us were ridiculously heavily medicated pretty much all of the time. It explains a lot.
Of course, such adventures were sometimes too good not to post on the Utopia Skye forums...so they are preserved for all. I was going to post one such adventure, but I can't decide which to do....
There was the PB&J fiasco -- one of many where we actually were rivals.
Or there's the entire episode of the thread on the forums that had no topic.
And there was the time we went shopping for new bodies...
And when we tried to go an adventure, but couldn't think of any ideas which led to an adventure in and of itself....
Or the time Jessee tried to get me to play There which was kind of a disaster -- at least for the elephant.
Then there was that time Jessee accidentally got me abducted by evil aliens.
And when Jessee thought my birthday was on June 7th....which was actually good because she got to say happy birthday and she didn't get to say it on the real day. :(
And there was that epic battle of me vs. Jessee over the waffles, a battle which ultimately cost Aunt Jemima and Little Debby their freedom.
And we can never forget that time we made a fairy tale...The King Who Lost His Emu. A classic.

I'm gonna let you guys decide which story you want me to share.

Anyways, there's some pictures that Jessee drew scattered throughout this post. Yahoo! Messenger has a Doodle thing....she loved it. :)
And some other significant pictures too.

She always told Muse (and later on, myself and our friend Tony) about this beach she would dream of, where she still had her long beautiful hair that had been ravaged by her chemotherapy. She was so peaceful there, it was her favorite place to go.
Of course, it wasn't a physical place, it was a fantasy dream world....a nice little paradise to escape to. I know that's where she is now, and she's probably brushing her hair, and eating cake, ice cream, donuts, pie, PB&J sandwiches (the way my mother makes them, not hers! :-P) and drinking soda (not pop!) and milk with cookies -- all without gaining any weight. I hope she's also getting a nice swim in between bites (cause I know she doesn't have to wait to swim at this beach, what's the paradise in that??)!

PS Muse, I'm sure everyone would love to celebrate any number of things when the radio is running for MuseCon this year, I hope Spider's recovery will be primary among them. :)

How Do I Taste?

So, in my family there is always something (at least one thing) that we will tease a person about until they die. Actually, a person doesn't need to be a member of the family even, but it helps. Today, little Brady got his first one: he slept through my Uncle Tony's 80th birthday. (Granted, he is only 9 days old...) (And he is SOOOOO CUTE!!!)

Other people in the family have their own little things they get teased about. For instance, my father will never live down the cheese-filled sausages. And I? I will never live down a few things (one of which happened the other day and we will not discuss). I will never live down my first frozen pizza.

Much like in the sausage story, mom was not home for dinner. For whatever reason, Dad and my brother were out for the afternoon and were coming home late. They called home, where I was alone. I was roughly eight years old at the time, but responsible enough not to burn the house down so I was sometimes left alone.

As per usual, I let the answering machine get the call and heard who it was before I answered.

"Hi Gray," Dad said (there's that name again.)
"Hi Dad, where are ya?" I asked in my cheerful eight-year-old voice.

Dad answered, "We're on our way home but we're running late. Can you stick the pizza in the oven? Just follow the directions and use the oven mitts."

I followed the directions, I used the oven mitts and the Digiorno (not delivery!) cheese-stuffed crust pizza was going to ready by the time Dad and my brother came home. I was excited that I had done it on my own.

I should have known that nothing with cheese inside it is ever going to end well when it's just the three of us. Except for when it's Mozz Sticks...mmm...

Anyways, to continue on...
Dad and my brother came home a little before the oven timer went off to announce the pizza was done. Dad took it out of the oven, got our pizza slicer out of the drawer and went at it.
"God, this is a tough crust," Dad groaned, pushing down way harder than usual on the pizza cutter.

My brother decided to take a turn at cutting. We all took turns. We sliced the pizza, except no one could get through the bottom crust. My brother decided to try to tear his piece of, because the pizza was clearly done.

There was a silence as his hand slid under his piece of pizza. "Gray, did you remember to take the cardboard of the bottom?"

"What?" I asked.

"There's cardboard on the bottom of a frozen pizza. Did you take it off?"

There was about a minute of silence as I realized what was going on. "It wasn't in the directions...." I just followed the directions. Whoops.

Monday Memories: Closets are for Clothes

In honor of my friend Johnna's friend, the Mad Brown Samosa, who just came out and is having kind of a rough time of it...I'm going to share my coming out story. Those of you who are 'mos and are out are welcome and even encouraged to share your coming out stories in the comments. Those of you who are not are welcome and encouraged to comment as well, because comments make me happy.

I had been "questioning" (GLBTQ) for a few months, and I had started dating my first boyfriend. My parents knew none of this, since I was starting college. I decided I had to come out to them, for my boyfriend's sake.
I went home for Thanksgiving break, determined that I would do it in person. I went home with resolve. I knew I couldn't do it at Thanksgiving dinner -- how melodramatic! So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And stayed up the last night of that break to write a very nice letter about how appreciative I was of college. I threw in "And I've discovered that I'm attracted to men!" in there, and then continued going on and on about how much I love college. I left it on a table as I ran out the door to get the train station. Totally chickened out of that one.

I am on the train from Philly to school, when my cell phone rings. I look at the Caller ID.

"Home" it says ominously. I swallowed hard and answered.

"Hello?" I said in my best innocent voice.

"Hi Gray!" Mom said -- Gray is my family's nickname for me, no one else uses it nor is anyone else allowed to. I won't answer, I promise you. "I got your note!"

"Oh," I said.

"And I showed it to your dad."

"Oh."

"And your grandmother."

"Oh, what did she say?"

"Well, none of us were surprised."

Thanks, ma. Nobody coulda clued me in??? I am always the last to know these things, right?

So we started to discuss everyone's reactions. "I'm okay," she said, "But I'm sad because it's so much harder for people who aren't straight to lead happy lives."
Way to slap me in the face, Ma.

"Your dad said he was okay with it, but...."

It's at this point that I remember something: Dad may be an actor but he's also a Republican. We don't discuss politics in my family for this exact reason, and that lack of discussion is what made me forget!

"...but, he says he doesn't agree with it, politically."

I kind of exploded. On the one hand, Dad had correctly figured out that this hadn't changed anything -- I still didn't want to have kids and I still wanted to get married. On the other hand, Dad had also realized his political party didn't support me -- and he was choosing them. "But it's not a political issue when your son is--" I stopped. I was on a train and I seriously didn't want to get lynched.

Mom interrupted me though, so it was okay. "And I showed your letter your grandmother."

"And...?"

"Oh, she wasn't surprised."

I have this image of my grandmother reading it and going "Yeah, and...?" This is the woman who saw my "An awkward meaning beats a boring night" shirt and giggling and nodding. Nothing phases her, I'm not even kidding. So I reply, "Good. Okay."

"Your father and I started talking about the gay people that we know," Mom continues. She starts to describe how she and my dad were, basically, arguing over who knew more gay people and whether or not the gay people they knew were happy. My parents frequently disagree but I have never really seen them argue, so this really got me spooked.

All in all though, my coming out was a pretty decent experience. I'm one of the lucky ones.

Monday Memory: What Happens When You Ignore the Red Tape

Before I start Monday's Memory, I want to reassure you, I will post about this weekend (I'll be postdating it.)

Also, I want to send my prayers out to everyone at Virginia Tech. One of my friends is dating a guy there -- fortunately, he's okay. Heck, he was probably still on my campus at the time. :P

Today's memory was picked due to it's relevance regarding other current news: this frikkin' Imus scandal. I've expressed in comments on other blogs my opinion regarding this -- an opinion that is not about to change particularly due to the fact that Al Sharpton's attitude reminds me of this situation.

My high school? We were the Rebels. Not that we were always rebellious, (though we could stick it to the man if we wanted to) but that was the name of our team: The Rebels. Always had been, and as far as we were concerned it always would be.

So imagine our surprise when the rumble started. Someone, an alum (who had been known for thriving off of drama), had showed up at a school committee and expressed his opinion that "rebel" was racist, because the Confederacy were called "rebels".
Of course, one of those anti-racism organizations (I can't recall which one, but I know they have had something to do with Jesse Jackson) leapt at the chance to try to force us to change our mascot name. The name they suggested? The Southies. (I'd explain why, but that'd be giving out a little bit more personal information than I want to. :-P Course, this does kind of give away a lot anyways but I'm hoping none of you are psychopaths who will use this to piece together everything else about me :-P?)

So an assembly was held to explain the name change. Obviously the administration was helpless to stop them, and we understood this. They couldn't be like "It's not racist!" because nobody ever agrees that they're racist. Our own beureaucracy was tied up in other people's red tape over this one.
Word flew through the student body. We knew what had to happen.

After about a ten minute conversation about changing the name, where the administration sat down and took the bullshit that was going on without saying anything (the coach was all "I don't want to hurt anyone through the name of my teams, that was never my intention" and that was about as "It's NOT RACIST!" as any of them got.)
Then they opened up for questions, putting a mic down front for people to line up to.
The seating nearly emptied out from everyone standing up. The representative from the anti-racism organization nearly had his eyes pop out of his head, but he was in for a bigger surprise.

"Do you know the definition of rebel?" one person asked.
"Yes, I believe I do," the representative answered.
The student pulled out a dictionary, opened it to a bookmarked page and read: "Rebel. Noun. 1. A person who refuses allegiance to, resists, or rises in arms against the government or ruler of his or her country, or, 2. a person who resists any authority, control, or tradition." He closed the book. "It didn't say they had to be white or have black slaves."
So there was a resounding cheer.

The next person came up. "You know, the rebels you're thinking of...they were in the South. You know this is Rhode Island, right? We've had rebels here. You know what we were rebelling against? Britain. You might know that little war, we call it 'The American Revolution'."
Resounding cheer.

The next person was one of our black students, actually. And not one who was ever particularly bright (although we had some geniuses that were black, don't get me wrong here!). "I've read a lot about rebels," he said, "In history books. And in newspapers." He pulled some newspaper clippings out of his pocket. "This article is about rebels in the Congo. This one talks about Zimbabwe." And he went on. He had seven articles about rebels in Africa. He finished by saying he was proud to be a rebel, because it meant he was more like the people still in the place his ancestors had come from.
HUUUUUUUUUGE cheer.

Not long after him, was a friend of mine -- obviously Irish in ancestry (if you know what I'm saying -- she totally looked it). She got to the meat of what disturbs me about the attitude of people like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson.
"You want us to change our name to Southie," she said, staring the representative straight in the eye, "You're not from around here, right?" From that instant we knew where she was going with this. She was making a point I'd been planning on making, and she was definitely better suited for it. It's pretty common knowledge, at least in the Boston area (including Rhode Island) what Southie means.
"Yes, I am," the representative said.
"Then you know what Southie means. You know that it's a derogatory term for Irish people, don't you?" The term is basically never used now, but it originates from the fact that Irish people used to (especially around the Industrial Revolution) live primarily in South Boston (an area called Southie). "So, I'm wondering," my friend continued, "Does that mean racism only counts if it's white people being racist against black people? Is it okay to be racist towards other groups? Is it okay for you to be prejudiced? It seems like it."
The representative knew he could not deny knowing that term, so he said, "I hadn't thought of that." Which, funnily enough, is the same excuse our administration used. "Southies was just a suggestion."
"And we're just suggesting you leave it as Rebels."
We gave the biggest cheer I've ever heard, and then started into our school's official cheer.

That was pretty much the end of THAT assembly. Needless to say, to this day, my high school is still the Rebels, and I had never been prouder to be one.

Monday Memories: Soccer Star Part 2

I almost forgot it was Monday. Whoops. :P

You can read Part 1 here.

So, I returned to school unable to bend my knee. I went to a Catholic school for junior high, so no one could see that my knee was wrapped in ace bandages under my uniform pants.
At first, there was a certain amount of concern that I couldn't bend my knee, especially since this was during my life's very first venture into the realm of "popularity". I had lots of friends -- or thought I did -- and everyone seemed very concerned with why I couldn't bend my knee.

Which, of course, was something I didn't know. I told them that I was seeing lots of doctors, but that I didn't know what the problem was.
"How can you not know what's wrong with your knee?" The idea was absurd to most of the people I went to school with, so most of the students began to believe that I was faking or exaggerating.

Now, we had split lockers and my locker was on the lower half. Of course, this meant I couldn't go to my locker at all, let alone between classes. My teachers allowed me to carry more with me than the other students were. I was also permitted to leave classes early and arrive late. Most of my teachers were very accomodating.
My science teacher was not so kind. She would not let me leave class early, and would not let me bring my bag into the classroom as it was "too large and presented a fire hazard". I can see how she was worried about fire, with all that documentary watching we did, and all those times she read out of the book to answer all our questions. It's alright though, I accidentally got her back.

In order to use my locker I had to sit on the ground with my leg lying out across the hall. The other students had gotten used to this: when I had science, I needed to empty my bag into my locker. After science, I had to get my stuff out of my locker again. Twice a day, you had to use only half of that section of the hall. No one really had a problem with it (although most students would say things like "Would you stop faking that and take up less space?" as they walked past.)
One day, as the halls were clearing up, my science teacher was coming back from the bathroom. She, not noticing my leg, kept walking down the center of the hall. I told her to watch where she was going, but what did I know? I was only a student. She kept going.
She tripped on my knee. I shrieked in pain, she fell, and she yelled at me for tripping her. This was probably the first time I ever gave attitude to a teacher, but I snapped, "If you would watch where you were going instead of walking on the crippled kids, you'd be in class by now." Then, she had the nerve to tell me I was late for class and that I should get inside. I told her I was going to the nurse for painkillers and if she was so concerned she could take my notes for me until I got back. That didn't go over well, but the fact that I was nearly crying from pain and that much was obvious, kept her from giving me a detention.

Of course, that got her to shut up. It was still the students I had to worry about. At the time, and probably to this day, there was no elevator in this school, but the junior high was in the basement. I had the extremely difficult task of going up and down those stairs several times each day. And every time, there were people stuck behind me, because people would be going in the opposite direction and blocking the other side of the stairs. Obviously, this increased the number of pointedly mean comments made towards me.
The worst ones, of course, were from the time my knee buckled on the stairs. I had stupidly not worn my ace bandages that day and, on
the way downstairs from lunch, someone shoved my shoulder. Not too harshly, in fact it might have been entirely accidental (doubtful, but still). My knee crumbled under me and I fell down the remaining steps. Somehow, I wasn't hurt anymore than I already had been, although I was absolutely in a hysterical fit because it hurt so much.
"That's the fastest you've gone down the stairs in such a long time," one person sneered.
"Why can't you do that every time?" another kid shot at me.
Everyone walked past except one of my few remaining friends, who helped me to stand up.

Once a month our school had what we called a "tag day", you could pay them a dollar and they would let you wear your own clothes that day instead of the uniform. (There was a reason we called them Our Lady of Perpetual Fundraising.) During the time I was injured, we had one tag day. It was a warm day so I wore a t-shirt and shorts -- shorts which nicely showed off the ace bandages I was smart enough to wear forever after that.
Popular opinion, it seemed, was that I was wearing the ace bandages as a "costume" of sorts to keep up my "charade" of an injury. There was some difference of opinion though.
Even the teachers, apparently, had begun to doubt my injury, as I heard one teacher saying to another as I passed her classroom, "Well, he's wearing ace bandages today so maybe he really is hurt."
As I'd been developing somewhat of a backbone from this experience, I stopped and told her "You'd be able to see them every day if it wasn't against the uniform policy." I kept walking.

One of the more dramatic experiences happened in French class. Yes, I know I speak Italian, not French. In fact, this is part of the reason for that. They made us try each of the three languages. We took French, Spanish, and Italian while we were in junior high. I nearly failed in Spanish every time there was a grade, I rocked at Italian without even really trying, and I had a pretty good handle on French.
In this particular French class, I don't recall what exactly happened to start the fight, but a friend of mine who I was sitting next to said something about someone else, I jumped to the someone else's defense...the next thing I (or the rest of the class knows) we're in a full blown argument. (Probably my fault, I was very much on edge and ready to fight the entire two months of my injury.) She made some comment about me, I said something to her that really pushed her buttons, and she kicked me in my bad knee.
At this point our teacher shouted at us to take our seats.
We did -- and in my rage I forgot to keep my knee still and I bent it. This, on top of the pain from being kicked, reduced me to shrieks and sobs. In a panic, my teacher rushed over -- partially filled out detention slips in hand -- and I gasped "my knee".
She immediately handed my friend and I our detention slips and sent us both to the principal's office, which was also were the nurse was located.
My friend and I made amends on the way up to the office. She confessed she'd completely forgotten about my knee injury, and if she'd remembered she would have punched me in the face instead (which was, oddly enough, very comforting.)
We also noticed that the detention slips weren't completed. She hadn't signed them, or written our names on them. She also had forgotten to tear off a copy for her and had given us all of the pages of carbon copy paper, plus the original. Needless to say, we did not attend any detentions for the incident.
My friend and I actually used our ridiculously over-the-top fight as a bonding experience. She began to defend me when other people talked about my "fake" knee injury -- as she now knew first hand that I wasn't faking. I also had told her about how I had gotten it. After that, school with the injury became much easier.

As school went on, doctors were still perplexed. One doctor suggested that the injury was solely in my head. As I told my mother, "I would have kicked him in the balls if I could use my leg." She agreed. Not only did we not ever go back to see this doctor, to this day we still tell everyone we know never to see him, and I occassionally still hope he loses his license or gets sued for malpractice.
The final doctor that we saw was the one to discover something unusual about me: I seem to have an immunity to novacaine. Let me tell you, of all the drugs to not get results from this is the worst. She developed this theory that I had fluid in my knee. First, she gave me a shot of novacaine in my right knee (the bad one). Not a little, dental shot either. Like, a big shot.
Three minutes later I could still feel my knee. So, she put in another shot, the same size.
Six (or so) shots later, I could still feel my knee. She gave up.
"We'll just try to take the fluid out anyways," she decided.
I don't know how many of you have ever had this fluid-removal thing done to you, but let me just tell you...the needle is massive. And it's not thin either, because it needs to suck fluid into it. This is pretty painful without novacaine.
Especially if there's no fluid in your knee, which was the case with me. I don't know if I've ever screamed so loud in my life.
Utterly perplexed at the lack of fluid, she suggested that I begin physical therapy.
"We can still do tests and things, but in the meantime this will help you to actually get better."

Physical therapy cleared everything up with an amazing rapidity, which led those who still thought I was faking at school to "confirm" their beliefs. I was fine with that though -- I could finally go up and down stairs at a normal pace!

It would ultimately be Sports Illustrated that solved the mystery. My dad was reading an article in there that discussed a female athletes injury. She'd, very slightly, torn a ligament in her knee. Too slightly for it to be repaired surgically (or whatever they do). She immobilized her knee for two months and then began physical therapy, exactly what I had done. Her physical therapy had lasted as long as mine had. We were dumbfounded by the fact that we'd actually done exactly what we were supposed to.

Monday Memories: Soccer Star Part 1

I used to be an athlete. I've actually played in several sports. Primarily though, I used to play soccer. Defense mostly. I played the stupid/extra brave kind of defense though -- instead of just keeping the ball from the goal I got in the way. It was my style. I got injured a fair amount, much more than I ever let on, but it proved helpful (when it worked...).

This also proved to be my unmaking in that sport though.


My last two years I was on, basically, the same team. We were a machine. Not unstoppable, not by any means, but pretty damn good. We made it to the championships the first year, almost won them. We were playing a game that would determine whether or not we made the championships when this story happened.

We were also playing a team with a spectacular player on the team. He wasn't especially skilled except in one area: if he kicked the ball it went roughly 30 million miles per hour. Like, people were scared to get in his way.
At first I was. But I got over it. So he shoots for the goal, and I charge.
The ball slammed into the side of my right knee, and I won't lie, it hurt a lot. I limped for a minute. When I was over by the sideline, the coach was all "Graham, Graham, are you okay?" I shrugged it off. Course I was fine, I could still stand, right?

So I finished the game. Shook hands with the opposing team. I don't remember if we won or lost. I think we won, because I was feeling pretty proud. Then I met up with my parents and we headed for the car.
Around this time I noticed that my knee was kinda hurting when I bent it. I thought I was just tired and I'd walk it off. So I got in the car, and it killed when I sat with it bent, so I sprawled out across the back seat. No biggie. I had played hard I deserved a little relaxation.

I spent pretty much the rest of the day sprawled out somewhere, relaxing, not moving my leg. I didn't even think about it but in retrospect this behavior (which was typically unusual of me at the time) was probably my subconscious telling me that I'd effed something up.
When I went upstairs to go to bed, was when I started to get worried. I couldn't walk up the stairs, it hurt too much to bend it that way. I called mom over, we discussed, and we decided to see how I was in the morning. She helped me get up the stairs without bending my knee, and it took me about a half hour to figure out how to take off my clothes and put on my PJs without bending the knee, and another half hour to actually do it.

The next morning, I woke up all energetic, bounced out of bed and promptly collapsed on the floor and cried in incredible agony while I thrust my leg out and made an incredible effort to not bend it while I was writhing on the floor. (As this was prior to my first Crohn's flare up, both being in that much pain, writhing on the floor, and all of the numerous doctors appointment that I'm about to tell you about combined to make this a very traumatic experience.)

Mom wisely decided I probably shouldn't do school, and we made a pretty hasty call to my doctor, made an emergency appointment, and got there as fast as we could without me having to walk. As I recall, my dad carried me to the car and I stuck my right leg out at the weirdest angle just to keep it from bending. It's pretty good I had strong legs from soccer, or I'd have been screwed.
My doctor examined the knee and determined that, golly gosh gee, it hurt when I bent it and that probably meant something was wrong. She sent us in to the emergency room for a bone scan.

Interesting fact: for bone scans they inject you with this radioactive substance, and according to the woman who injected me, if you try to visit the White House or any other important federal government buildings while this stuff is in you, you show up as a bomb on their security equipment and they will not let you in.

The bone scan determined that the problem was not actually in my bones, and made me have to pee a lot. (That's how they get the radioactive stuff out of your system.) It didn't tell us what the problem was.
We also did an X-Ray which also determined that the problem was not in my bones. Then they sent me for an MRI the next day, which is a damn scary procedure. They put you on a tray, like a giant cafeteria tray, and then you get put inside a tube that plays bad elevator music unless you bring your own music (which I didn't cause no one told me to). Claustrophobic people usually panic, which is totally understandable. I was okay in the tube, but I was not happy.

Unable to determine what was going on, but unable to miss more school, I returned to the 8th grade at the Catholic school I was going to at the time. I figured I'd get some sympathy, but Junior High students are like wolves and antelopes combined...they cruelly pick apart the injured animal.

But we'll talk about that next week. ;)

An Old-Fashioned Leprechaun Hunt

Before I forget another day, there's been a new scene up in Glamorous for a few days now and I keep forgetting to mention it. And I will be writing another one tonight after I finish my Comm. homework.

Moving on...today is Monday, so it's time for a memory. In honor of St. Patrick's Day, I'll tell my leprechaun story.

It was first grade, St. Patty's Day. For some reason I think it was a Tuesday, although I'm sure I don't remember it that well. We were sitting in a half circle around our teacher and she was reading us some kind of story when suddenly the classroom's computer -- which was not actually near any of us and since I was sitting in the back I can tell you for sure, nobody touched it -- turned on.

She stopped reading. "Who turned on the computer?"

"Nobody," we all said in that second grade unison kind of voice. You know the one I mean. You know you did it too.

The teacher looked around skeptically. "Well, how else would the computer turn on?"

One girl, she was blonde but I couldn't tell you her name, and she was in an obnoxiously green shirt, responded, "Maybe it was a leprechaun!"

Our teacher pursed her lips in what I now recognize as a "I can't believe someone actually said that and meant it" facial expression. "I bet you're right," she said, in the same tone of voice you use with kittens and three year olds when you tell them how cute they are. She went back to reading.

One of my friends whispered to me that he thought she'd put it on a timer so that it would start up and she could get us to think it was a leprechaun.

It was not too long later when the classroom door opened itself. This time it was obvious, even to the teacher, that none of the kids had opened it, because we were all cutting (or in my case trying to cut)* out shamrocks. "It's the wind," she told us.

My friend whispered to me that he thought she'd told someone to come by and open the door and scare us into thinking it was leprechauns.
"She said it was the wind," I whispered back, "How did you make yours?"

Those were the only two leprechaun events that happened that day, although people kept talking about it and waiting for the next one to happen. At recess a number of the kids spent the whole time looking for the leprechaun. Nobody found it. I'll admit, I was a little disappointed. :-P

*As it turned out, this was my introduction to left-handed scissors, which I to this day cannot use even though I am ambidextrous. That is a story for another Monday though.

Memories...

I'm posting this one because I drove past the place where it happened, and because those days...well, they were really good for all of those involved. Not that we're necessarily in a bad place now, we're just...in a different place. A place where Cody and I are almost constantly fighting, so no, I take that back...it's not good.

This is from the spring of 2006
Anyways...Cody and I and our friends, well his friends that I befriended, Misty and David went driving around one time. There was a video camera and it was awesome. We all faked giving each other blowjobs. (Except Misty, she didn't get one, she just gave out. To everybody, the slutface. :-P) We blasted music. We were Cody's convertible so we would stand up and let the wind blow in our faces. It was great.

Then, we got to WalMart. There was no real reason for it. We just went. Bought some snacks, came out to the car. Cody turned the car on and started the music...
...and we began to dance. In the parking lot. We danced on the seats of his convertible, we got out and danced up against the car, in the parking lot. We just danced, danced, danced!! It was incredible amounts of fun!
About fifteen minutes in, we noticed some old ladies watching us, clearly entertained and loving it. I was fine with this, but the others got nervous so we moved the car to a remote part of the parking lot....and resumed dancing!!
I don't know how long we were there, but definitely not long enough. :)