A Few More (hopefully final) Thoughts On Being Sick

Cough syrup is not unlike doing shots. Same amount of poison. It hurts going down. Shortly thereafter you feel infinitely better. Five and a half hours later you feel awful. Rinse and repeat.

Also, it must be mentioned that my job is Very Important. So important that at all times I, and the integrity of my job, are protected by security surveillance. That's right, little cameras watch me all day long. This makes it both challenging to blow my nose effectively and do syrup shots. On a good day, it makes it hard to pick a wedgie. Or make any mistake at all.

Imagine someone watching you all day long. All. Day. Long. Maybe that's why I'm sick.

Sometimes procrastination really doesn't pay off

I am a stupid stupid person.

1. Receive check. Think to self, "score, now I can spend money freely again."

2. Put check is safe place.

3. Glance adoringly at check every few days.

4. Spend money freely. Buy lots of coffee. Buy books. Pay some bills. Buy Raid Wasp and Hornet Spray (22 foot stream! 20 percent free!).

5. Think, "I better deposit that check soon." Move check to a safer place.

6. Buy more coffee. And hey, turkey is on sale. Buy some of that.

7. Look at the check. Whisper a prayer of thankfulness. Spend more money.

7. Overdraw bank account.

Q.E.D.

The Coffee Hour

I never let anyone borrow my Mitford books because I know I'll never get them back. Have you read Mitford? You must read it. Jill, have you read it?
Oh, yes, I love them.
Do you ever loan them out?
Oh no. Never.

Once I loaned out my Mother Theresa book, The Simple Life ... or was it The Simple Path? And I never got it back. It's a wonderful book. Good to pick up when you need a reminder.

I think I want one of those, those Danish pastries. I really shouldn't.
You know, what's that they say? You are what you eat!
Oh no! Don't say that!

Will we see you young ladies at the 8 o'clock?
No, we go to the 9:45 service.
Shame.
We like the singing. Don't you like the singing?
Oh, no, 8 o'clock is only an hour. In and out, just like the hamburgers.

Where are you from, Marian?
Northern England, near York. Have you ever been?
Only to London.
Lillian?
Northern Ireland. We came over for business in 66. My husband helped designed the 747s.
And you decided to stay?
Well, cross-continental moves aren't temporary, dear.

Did you all lose power? Susan called me and she said, "Mother if your power goes out I want you to hop on the train" --she lives in Oceanside-- "and come on down here. Day or night." The whole cul-de-sac lost power, even the street lamps! But I didn't.

Have you read the Mitford books?
No, but my mother loves them.
Does she?
Yes, she also puts cinnamon in her coffee.
Really? Is she by any chance Lebanese?
Nope, she's southern, from Georgia.
Really? I'm from Kentucky. We're kissing cousins.

Rose, she gets passionate about things. Real passionate. She used to be against shopping at Wal-Mart, telling us how badly they treated their employees. Never shop there, she'd say. But since they started selling Bridgeford foods it's all she ever talks about. She has stock in the company. We just humor her and say, "yes, Rose, we'll shop at Wal-Mart."

We'd really love to see you next week at the 9:45.
I can't hold a tune and I have things to do. In and out.
What if we came to an 8 o'clock, would you come to a 9:45? We could sit together, I can't hold a tune, either.
We'll see, ladies.

Did anyone lose power yesterday? The whole cul-de-sac was out. Even the street lamps!

My name is Abigail and I save everything

A serious question for my blogging community:

During the course of unpacking (which is, I'm discovering, at least a three-month process) I have found numerable hooded sweatshirts. These are not just any hooded sweatshirts, though--they're sentimental. I have several from high school, as well as a couple from college. Sports teams, seniors, floor names. One has the name of every girl in my graduating class on the back. Another has a pun that only makes sense to 20 people on this earth. However, I don't live in the Midwest and I'm not in high school so I don't really have a need for twelve hooded sweatshirts.

Do I store them for memory's sake or do I give them away?

Empathy

When I was in high school my friend Anna hated coming over to my house because she was allergic to cats. She always still came though because she loved me and because the cats were better than her parents.

But she would get all stuffed up and her eyes would itch and she would be so miserable. And I would pity her but in that way that you never really understand pain. Sympathy is what they call it.

Now, three years later I have found empathy. There are no cats and there are no allergies. Just my immune system in its malfunctioning glory threatening to kill me right here right now.

They called me The Snot Factory last night after I went through a half box of Kleenex Family Size Lotion Tissues (Nos mouchoirs les plus apaisants!) while watching a movie. I can't go places because standing for longer than a minute makes me all confused.

I take drugs intravenously and drink lots of fluids and feel guilty for all the times I just rolled my eyes at Anna.

Recently Overheard at The Unit

"She'll be fully-clothed, I'll blink, and she won't be wearing a shirt."

"Oh, please don't look at my hairy legs, it's so embarrassing."
"No worries, have you seen me wear anything but pants during the last two months? Shaving just makes showering so much longer."
"I know, and it requires showering every day. Like that's going to happen."

"I feel like only with you do I find myself in a situation where we have to keep the alcohol and french bread from rolling around the back seat. And then all of a sudden I'm holding the loaf as we swing around a turn."

"I can never move my arm because my breast is so huge."

Baditude is spelled with a capital B

Let's just say the highlight of the class was when Heather leaned over and informed me that the Lumiere brothers in French is Les Lumiere Freres. And by class I mean the mistake I made that I will be dropping ASAP.

I think I can say this for the first time: at least it made for good blog material.

There are about forty people in this class. Forty people, half of whom are ecstatic about this opportunity to learn. They look around, wide-eyed and ready to embrace the knowledge about to be bestowed upon us. And I look around ready to quit everything because graduating just isn't worth this class.

Sitting only seven inches from me was the Smarm Fungus. He got his red nylon shorts at Wal-Mart for $4 he announced. In fact, his whole outfit cost that much--the neon orange flip flops and brown, holy shirt were free. I'm assuming the mustache was free too. And by mustache I mean, I so badly wish I had a camera phone because this stache is so phenomenally awful that I am would drop this class simply to avoid it.

Small group discussion assignment:
What are the three most influential inventions contributing to communication?

Mp3s were actually suggested. I said the printing press and several people looked at me like a crazy person. Printing press? As in paper? How would that be influential? My iPod can't even hook up to that.

And of course there was the token Republican. In response to the describe-the-media query he said: liberal, anti-Bush, anti-Christian. He said some other things but the stache was too loud for me to hear.

It was a Who's Who of everyone I've ever had a class with and everyone I've ever hated in my major.

"So what did you do all summer?"
"Laid out mostly." Ha ha.

I've received clearance to drop it. Amen.

The sun rises in the East

It's the last night before the first day of school of my last semester of my first real true grown-up experience.

And it feels weird. And that's not just because I have tears in my eyes from the margaritas or the flaming hot cheetos or because my beautiful new computer is scratched.

My private school has lots of rules the most immediate being: no drinking. This means that tonight is the last night I can drink until the end of December. Talk about a sobering thought. (Yes, I know, I'm hilarious).

I've spent considerable time on the internet finding out exactly how I can fix my computer. There are several options ranging from $20 to $100. I think I'll try the $20. Maybe go for the $100 in January. We'll see.

January when I can drink again and when I will be in a new phase. A welcome phase, an anticipated phase, an awaited phase. A phase I cannot talk about except in hushed voices or in secret rooms. Rooms where the fan is on high.

For someone who only tasted alcohol for the first time six days ago I sure have become attached. And for someone who has yet to feel any effects I sure have become forlorn. I'm not sure why I'm so sad about the forthcoming prohibition. At first I thought it had to do with my freedom but I think it has more to do with my ignorance of the effects and my desire to be knowledgeble.

In the meantime, I will be taking several neccessary-to-graduate classes (see below), working full-time and excitedly learning more about January and everything after.

While I did begin my first real-life-grown-up experience three years ago, they've multiplied tenfold. I'm so very happy about this transition in my life right now today. And if that means sitting around with my roommates drinking margaritas and watching T.V. instead of studying French or reading C.S. Lewis or plotting my own demise, so be it.

These moments only last so long. And then the tequila's gone and classes have begun.

My Day So Far

7:15 Wake up. Forget where I am for a brief moment then realize the noise is the fan right next to my head, not a helicopter.

7:20 Wait for bathroom. This is now always the case. See, I live with EIGHT people. EIGHT girls.

7:30 Have some Honey Graham Oh's for breakfast. I, of course, go through half the box because its only 12 oz. but, hey, it was on sale.

7:40 I decide that now that i Have read the entire internet I should probably get dressed.

7:48 I wait again for the bathroom. This time to brush my teeth. The Honey Graham Oh's will not be traveling with me all day. At least not in my mouth.

7:51I drive to work where I am no longer allowed to park. I find a free spot on the street. I contemplate actually spending $100 to get a closer spot. I laugh at my foolishness.

7:55 I get to work and prepare to deal with new students and irate parents all day long.

And here we are thusly.

Color Wheel

I was marking her last day on my iCal as I reminder to write a heart-felt card and gear up for her departure. And absent-mindedly I selected the blue label from the drop down menu. Blue for Friends and Family.

And I'm not sure exactly when she changed from Green to Blue but somewhere in there I learned I didn't mind telling her about my own job-aside life and I loved hearing about hers. And our relationship became less about her asking me to return calls and update the database and more about what we did over the weekend and can you believe what happened?

On September 2 she will move across the country to do what she really wants to do. She'll leave me here doing what I wanted to do three years ago. Maybe I'll catch up to her in a couple months. We'll both remember how we really did have the best jobs. It was just the wrong time.

And I really didn't mind getting up at 8 a.m. for Green and even if I follow her, Green will never be the same.

The new apartment smell

My kitchen smells of capers and chicken. My hair is wet from sweat. Most of the boxes are unpacked, most of the roommates are in, and I only just recently learned what capers are.

I love change. I love finding a new place and making it home. Finding out exactly how long the chicken needs to cook for, I don't know, there's something in that challenge.

Redecorating, it helps.

And that smell, the smell is like clean chalk boards at the start of the school year. It's like the empty book in the Barnes and Noble gift section and it's like Control-N.

Starting over. It helps.

Bon Nuit

That's supposed to be French. As in fries, toast, and kissing.

As in the language I am supposed to be able to speak in order to receive a liberal arts degree.

And as in the language I do not speak.

At one point during my class my professor actually said, "if you can't conjugate etre [to be] then I don't see how you can continue in this class."

Well, Madam, I will be continuing in this class because I must must must pass in order to receive my degree. Before December. If there ever was a lesson in procrastination, let it be this:

Just because you only have to take one semester of foreign language does not mean you should wait until the very last possible semester to take it.

Not only does this limit your room to fail but it lengthens the time since you actually took a class remotely related to Europe. Lengthens it four years in fact. Stupid stupid stupid.

Meanwhile, I will be studying studying studying all weekend in order to pass a test next week allowing me to stay in the class. Oh, I will conjugate etre. I will conjugate it like it's never been conjugated before (well, maybe like before).

Courtney said I should really love the French because of the fries and the toast and the kissing. If I get any of the three I think I'll enjoy the class a little more.

She said I might be able to find a study buddy who'll help with the third, you know, for extra credit. Here's hoping.

8.17

The worst part of someone forgetting my birthday is when they remember. And they feel guilty and then I feel guilty for making them feel guilty and it's all just a bad memory.

My birthday always falls during the unfortunate week of the summer's end and the semester's beginning. People are moving in, moving out and generally preoccupied and confused and they forget.

I hate being that girl who says, "TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY." And I so I have refrained. There is a brief window of opportunity wherein the birthday can be mentioned during the weeks before the big day and only to people who need a reminder or who don't matter. The former roommate, the saleslady.

When I realize today is forgetten I start cringing. Waiting for the moment or the day when it will be remembered. I get used to 08/17 being simply the last updated column in the data I'm formatting. I cower in my office, counting down the minutes until at least the realization won't be today.

Not all is forgotten. I've received emails and phone calls. The central coast, Ohio, Oregon, Florida. Text messages from the valley, blog posts from Chicago. And I'm slowly learning how fractured my life has become. Those close to me are no longer those I spend every day with and it's strange because next to every phone in my office is a list of office birthdays and yet, it is those far away from me who remember.

I want to run and cover all the birthday lists to avoid the guilt reaction. But instead I will look forward to tonight when I will share my first drink with two of my best friends. I will have my Illinois Driver's License with my 16-year-old smile ready and I will be born on this date in 1984.

Don't worry, I've already received liver poisoning warnings from both my mom and Shepherd and I don't plan on getting sick anyway. Vomiting is the farthest action from anything I would want to do on my birthday.

Thanks to all of you who sent emails. Thanks for the phone calls I have received already and the cards and the Starbucks cards. If you're all lucky I might post a picture from my wild night out tonight.

I'm not sure

But I think friendship has a lot to do with picking me up when I've been sleeping all day and making me eat and interact with real people.

I also think it has a lot to do with agreeing that I should have been invited to the wedding or that she shouldn't have.

And when she asks how the laundry is even though we haven't talked in weeks, I laugh because the laundry is the single thing keeping me from sanity.

A Sunday

Coming home was the easiest for me. It meant sleeping in a little longer. But for others there were two red-eye flights, driving 24 hours straight through, and making a vacation of a cross-country drive.

I've made a vacation of these last few days. I've slept them away, mostly. Dreams fumbling with reality or what I thought was reality. I can never really be sure if those phone conversations I remember having actually happened or if I really did that laundry.

The laundry will take me days. I did darks yesterday as evidenced by the all-black gear I currently sport. Maybe tomorrow I'll do the second load of lights. Maybe not. Then there's always the business casual that must be washed cold water, like colors. They're all different colors.

I'm making Chicken Mirabella for dinner in celebration of the fact that today I will be eating dinner. I hate having to wait for it to thaw, though, and I can't hear my own thoughts over the lawn-mower in the front yard. As it nears it becomes so loud that I forget what exactly I was doing and I have to start all over again with the basting and the spices and the preheating of the oven.

Oh well. Night and day don't much matter anymore so I suppose the chicken will be finished sometime as well as the articles and the three magazines I'm reading and the to-do list out the door.

The Intimacy of Strangers, Part I

Remember in You've Got Mail when Meg Ryan goes to check her email after getting stood up and her mailbox flashes empty? That's how I feel right now. Not that I got stood up or that I'm Meg Ryan but that feeling of utter despair that perhaps one little email, one red flag in the inbox would fix everything, at least for a moment.

And it doesn't because loneliness is an exhaustive isolation. I care too much. I love too much. And I feel like I got tricked. Tricked into thinking that pain as an adult is different. Tricked into thinking that care and love were only children's games and that I could play them.

In retrospect, I realize it was summer camp. It was everything great I remember camp being--working hard, playing hard, loving people you don't know and connecting in some surreal way that just doesn't make sense. Sure we weren't in bunk beds eight to a room, but we may as well have been.

I think this might be what heaven is like. A little bit, anyway and without the hangover.

You learn to know someone so quickly. First they're perfect and then they're flawed and somewhere, in the middle, you've fallen in love. Fallen in love with people you hardly know and yet, feel like you always have and always will know each other. I'll remember the way she laughed and how he always had that camera and her love of children. And I'll remember that he went to the bathroom everywhere we went and that time when I thought I couldn't last another week and that maybe I should just quit this new life.

And it's over. I made the last week just like I made the first week. And I think the second week is when I fell in love. In love with strangers.

Labor of love

It took five hours. It took relearning of coding. It took one friend. It took TextEdit and Photoshop and Safari. I heart Blogger.

Also, Midvale Utah, you fascinate me. Who are you?

There's nothing bittersweet about sorrow

She was engaged to be married. The wedding date was uncertain at this point, it was too soon to nail it down, and the ring was still an idea in his mind the way dinner is when you’re really hungry. But they knew what love was and they knew they loved one another and they knew that grad school and teaching English in Watts and eventually four kids was somewhere along the horizon.

It was always hiding behind smiles like a well-kept secret and even the lover’s quarrels about the temperature in the car or the number of years they would give to the poverty- and violence-ridden neighborhood of Watts were about how much they loved each other.

It was sickening really. In the way that chocolate mousse is only good for four bites, I couldn’t hang around them very long. I couldn’t hear the stories about the amazing date on the pier or the way he described her hair in that one poem.

He was a poet. And it always reminded me of how unhappy I was. It reminded me of the poets I’ve never met and, the dreams I’ve never shared and I would shut it out.

“Please! Spare me!” I would kid. I was always happy for her, though. He made her happier then our favorite T.V. shows and our favorite foods and all our shared memories combined. And I knew that somewhere in the back of her mind, always, was the thought of him. All of him, flaws included.

But then they were fighting and trying to make it work out. They were trying to make all those differences that boiled down to the temperature in the car and how many years in Watts mean nothing.

And he said, “I don’t think I ever really loved you.” Shortly thereafter he disappeared. He became something we only heard about through friends of friends and he made a new home cities away and made new friends who thought he always knew what he knows now.

“Abigail,” she said to me, “I wanted to marry him. I wanted to make babies with him and raise them with him.”

Turns out love is painful and hard and we never learn any of that. We hear about the match made in heaven and the one bedroom cottage and the coincidences and kisses and everything in between. We hear about the fight about the temperature in the car and that one time when he thought he might want to be a trial attorney but you always wanted to live in the country.

But what about now? What about when we cry? When we become homesick for somewhere unknown? When we can only lay in grief?

How come we never heard about now?

I didn’t know what to do with all the pain. There was nowhere to put it. We closed the blinds and ordered in and picked at food that tasted like a life we once lived--before now.

My Blue Spot

When God closes a door he always opens a window.

It's simply not that easy. I am living in a house with lots of doors, lots of windows, and I can't keep up with opening and closing. Peace is sometimes the most obvious solution and the hardest thing to find.

So here I am, stripped of all things that define me.

I received a personality profile today that I took months ago describing everything necessary to hire me. It was all out there--the results of a standardized test explaining exactly what my faults were (under pressure I become "manipulative, quarrelsome, and belligerent") and things I overuse ("the end justifies the means"). Is it really even possible to get hired when your prospective employer is given a list of your faults?

An interesting juncture really--on one hand I have decisions that make who I am and on the other hand, I feel as if who I am is already decided and I can't really make any decisions independent of that.

My memory is as clear as gasoline and my shirt has a blue spot on it. And that's all I've got today.

My mother is so lucky

She was probably in seventh grade, small, tan, pretty and at the mall with her parents for back-to-school clothes and a new pair of shoes. She wanted a white skirt that cost as much as the car payment. It was rather undersized and her mom said no, you could almost see her underwear.

Her younger brother asked her if she could even walk in a skirt that short. But she insisted it was the same length as the four-ruffle skirt she was wearing and that she had to have it. She would try it on for her parents when they got home, just not now. Her mother, unyielding, said, "I may not be young and skinny, but I know how to use a ruler."

In the end, I think she got the skirt. I recognized the tricks, but my mother should really thank me because I never used them to buy slutty clothes.

Dear Friend

I'm sorry I didn't call last night. I felt so very unlike me that I couldn't bring myself to talk to anyone who knew me. And I am trying so very hard to be me and also not. All at the same time.

It was an academically challenging day and I couldn't stop myself from caring enough to take on the challenge. It was hard. I was discouraged, I was cynical. I found a story, I loved it, I wrote it. But I didn't want to marry it. At the end of the day I wanted to leave it behind, like a one-night stand and I pulled my knees up to my chin and wondered.

My spirit has been crushed. It doesn't make sense. I wanted to go see the red tide last night. I had seen it the night before, shortly before midnight at Newport. My relationship with the ocean is give-and-take and as the plankton came to the top of the water, glowing blue, and then receded I felt like I could love the ocean again. I wanted to go back, to feel that again, to understand nature in all its in misunderstood glory.

But I couldn't. When I got home I doubted the ocean would be there again and too many people told me I was crazy. I spent my evening wondering what people think and what they think about me and how I could possible reunite with this world. And at the end of it all, I am reminded that old loves die hard. Perfect ending for a perfect day.

I wrote my own obituary

August 17, 2076
Chicago Tribune

Abigail M. Schilling, owner of the The Tribune Company, died Sunday of natural causes, at 92. Per her request, her own obituary follows. This was her "work in progress," she called it. The only thing an editor could never attack and the only thing that would only be finished when she was.

If there was one thing I learned in journalism it was that the story was never done. It could always be tightened a little more, another source could always be interviewed. Well I've shown them.

I died the way I wanted--with a long life, a lot of love, and enough memories to finally be satisfied.

I’m survived by the rest of world. All of you left living, enjoy it. Love those you’re close to, meet new people, have no regrets. I have my own regrets and I regret them.

I’m survived by my husband. I married him because he was the only guy I knew who would live longer than me. Some said that was cocky, I said it was good planning.

To my children--sorry I screwed you all up. I tried so hard, and yet, you’re just as crazy as I am.

To my editors--thanks for always letting me push the deadline, to my writers—thanks for never missing the deadline.

To my readers--thanks for boosting my ego enough to keep me writing. Thanks for buying my books even when my publisher didn’t. Thanks for all the letters, cards, and gifts. Those saved me from myself so many times.

To my Lord--thanks for letting me do what I wanted. Thanks for gifting me the way you did. And thanks for saving me from my own fallen state.

When I was in school I learned that the only way to leave a legacy was to become history. Well, I’ve become history. I guess the legacy is up to you.

I spent my life crying tears for the fallen world and leaving fingerprints of my own. Anger may have ruled my mind, but laughter ruled my heart.

Schilling died in her sleep. Although she struggled with depression and a rare blood disease her whole life, she continued to learn more, work harder, and not let her own life stop her. We’ll never forget hearing her yelling from her office. Or laughing.

Laughter

My anger stays with me and it comforts me. My laughter does the same.

I live my life freely. I do what I want, when I want. I love fully, I remember everything, and I treaure what I have. Anger is my closest company and laughter is my favorite friend. They are not at war. They are shampoo and conditioner. Key and lock.

I have found myself in a place abounding with laughter and no where to put it. I want to laugh all day long, every day. When I am not yelling, I am want to be laughing. And I can't.

I sit in a room, behind a computer, expected to be quiet and listen. My voice, only a small one, among many others and my stifled sounds, loud among the quiet, make me feel neither laughter nor angry.

I want to break free, like in the Coke song. I want to laugh loud around a dinner table. Now, I just wait for some lame play-on-words groaner and laugh vicariously. Waiting for that moment is like drinking that Coke and having to hold it in ... all day. And when I try to stifle my laughter, I rub my dimples ... hoping to rub away the laughter.

Lord, never let my life be so constrained.

Anatomy of the Kind of Party to Remember Forever

Contents:

• tequila


• margarita mix


• one less couch


• hair gel


• spiders


• tequila


• strapless bra


• albertson's bread


• mix CDs from three years ago


• people who don't know each other


• tequila

Directions:
She finally moved out, but she took her couch with her. We thought we need more furniture, it was a party, afterall. So we brought in another couch from the backyard. Now that was a bad idea.

Move cinder blocks in order to move couch in. Move giant recliner chair to move couch in. Move all contents of house to move couch in.

Move couch in.

Set down couch.

Retrieve FeBreeze. Douse liberally. Get sheet to cover couch.

Begin screaming.

Spray spiders with FeBreeze. Enlist help.

Scream more.

Party people arrive.

Couch and spiders are kicked out of the house.

Party people do homework.

How do you do? I am from Chicago. Oh really, what side? I hear it's hot there now. ... Would you like a margarita? Actually, could I just get some lemonade with a little tequila? Sure, no problem. ... What's your Web site? Dot com or net? Okay, I'll link to you. ... I really don't think you should have another drink. Here, have some coffee and bread. ... So you want to write? Are you any good? The more I write the smaller I become.

Party people leave. Five remain. Four computers. Music on low.

Venting.

I hate it when. Me too. Get over yourself. Why is this house so frickin hot all the time? Stop whining. I'm so glad she moved out. People should really only be allowed to say a certain amount of words. I like this house with only one couch. It feels like a frat house. This CD sucks. Stop whining. This book has pictures of naked ladies. Yeah, but they look like men. Give me more bread. This bread is life-changing. This margarita is life-changing. Your mom is life-changing. STOP TALKING.

Car ride.

Dashboard.

I remember when Dashboard was indie. Yeah, did you like them then? What if I did? STOP TALKING.

Two bean burritos.
Three soft taco supremes.
One beef chalupa.

These f-in' train tracks always make my CD skip. You suck. Please, tell ONE MORE STORY. STOP TALKING.

Goodnight. Sleep hard.

Psychology

I wish I could explain away everything in this world. It becomes easier as my life progresses to find answers when I need them. Answers to fill the gaps in why things happened the way they did or fill the gaps of what he really meant when he said that.

And yet, there are still so many unexplainable things.

Why?

That is the question that I am unable to answer. She does this because this makes her feel this way. Why? Because that's what her mom did. Why? Because ...

I could go on forever coming up with reasons (or excuses) and I still feel confused in the end. Confused about why it ended that way. Why she had to move away. What he really meant when he said that.

Honesty is the best answer I know. And it is so damn hard.

Sidebar!

I've added some stuff to the sidebar. Pictures from WJI are the most interesting. Check out that site for fascinating classroom shots, maybe some crazier things from Emily's 21st tonight, and links to other student's blogs.