I had been discovered, by him, to be an undesirable. Making money to pay for my tuition and books by cashing in on the desperation of professional men. Some, like the professor in question, a friend of the man sitting before me, were married with kids. They were also miserable, lonely and on the verge of despair. That’s where I came in. I made them feel better about themselves. I gave them what was missing from their lives. And I took their money, as payment, both for my time and to ensure that their dirty little secrets remained that way.

As I sat across the desk from this morose looking man, with the penetrating eyes and the grim set to his lips, I felt the balance tipping. Because the man in question was a friend of his, he wouldn’t have me suspended from the University proper, but he no longer wanted me as a member of his little enclave. I was no longer welcome to be a Drama major. I could choose any other major, or I could have my “secret” made public. An ultimatum. I fingered the folded piece of paper in my pocket and considered.

“Fine,” I said. “So, I’m no longer a theater student. I wasn’t really learning anything here, anyway.”

He made a dismissive gesture. “People like you seldom do,” he sneered.

My anger almost got the better of me. I had been judged and sentenced, by a jury of one. I wondered what he might think if he knew the truth of the matter. Would he come so quickly to the aid of his friend, if he knew that the betrayal was far more intimate than he had assumed? Had I known, then, that this little slice of life, MY life, would some day become part of what he would later refer to as one of his “reflections of sorrow and fear,” I might have reconsidered. Then again, maybe not. I actually liked the play, when I saw it, even though the character he had based on me was completely fabricated based on this one meeting.

But that was years in the future. All I had to go on now, was the situation as I held it, crumpled in the palm of my hand. The piece of paper in my pocket could have changed everything. I had no doubt in my mind. Looking into this man’s steely eyes, I knew that, to him, it was all very black and white. The note could, and would, irrevocably change that. If, that is, I had been willing to reveal it. But a deal’s a deal and just because the other party decided to dishonor it, didn’t mean I should follow suit. I had a reputation to uphold, after all. So, I smiled and left his office.

Once back at my little apartment, I took the folded piece of paper from my pocket and re-read it again. It was a love note from the very man who had turned me in. An eloquent declaration of passion and undying love, from a man who lived his life in the theater and saw drama in every circumstance. A damning piece of evidence, from the married professor who, in a drunken panic, had confessed to his friend, the Dean, that he had been “seduced” by one of his students.

I knew, even then, that had I thrown that note onto the Dean’s desk, on that fateful afternoon, I would still have been booted from the department. The professor in question, however, would, most likely, have lost his job. Probably his family, too. Definitely his friendship with the future great man. I figured, he had to live with himself. I was okay with what I’d done. All the way around.

Contemplating my future—maybe a change to journalism or literature in the coming semester—I fired up a doob and, placing the note in the ashtray, lay the match next to it. Tomorrow was another day and, hell, at least I would still be able to face myself in the mirror come morning. Then, as now, it was just a matter of perspective.

I don't remember exactly when things changed. Now when I feel a tap on my shoulder, I make a conscious choice to turn around. In those brief seconds, I calmly and rationally think things through. Who could this be? What do they want? Do I even have time for this? Perhaps I'm practicing "slicing" (SEE: Blink by Malcolm Gladwell). Nor do I have the patience for callers who do not identify themselves; if I don't recognize the voice, I firmly—but politely—ask, "Who is this?" Sometimes I add, "please," but not always.

I am far from being a man at complete peace, but so many things that used to matter simply don't anymore. Those closest to me know how much I love music. Many have been the jibes about my CD collection, and none of that is lost on me. For years I obsessively collected a number of artists, and, regardless of whether or not their latest releases were any good, I felt that I simply had to buy them. For two years, I consulted Billboard charts weekly and made sure that I bought every 1 CD. Now, in fact, if I decided to listen to one different CD from my collection every day, it would take over eight years to run through them all (and that isn't even counting hundreds of CD singles and burned copies of albums people have given me over the years). But don't judge me too harshly. It beats drugs, I suppose; at least I have something tangible to show for my investment, however capricious. Regardless, you can count on one hand how many CDs I've bought in the last six months.

Though the current economy here in America has forced me to cut back on things, it hasn't been the main reason that I haven't taken a proper vacation in a year. It also isn't the reason I'm reading books I've stockpiled rather than make a beeline to Barnes & Noble every Sunday afternoon after consulting the New York Times Book Review.

Could it be that I just don't care any more? After years of "attempt[ing] to instill a bunch of bobby-soxers and drug-store Romeos with reverence for Hawthorne and Whitman and Poe" [and Emerson and Thoreau] (Thank you, Tennessee Williams and Blanche DuBois!), am I finally practicing what I've preached? "Simplify, simplify, simplify!" Thoreau insisted. I seem to be moving in that direction.

I hope I continue to do so.

It simply isn't in my nature to let a creature lie there and die, and even though the voice of my late mother drifted through my head telling me that if I touched the bird my "human smell" would seal its doom, and not even God him/herself would help the poor thing, I scooped it up, took it into the house, made a bed for it in a cardboard file box by layering a bath towel over a heating pad set on Low, and made a beeline to Pet Smart where I found powdered baby bird food.

Now, after a full week and many eyedroppersfull of the rich, pudding-like bird food, the baby bird—it's a dove, by the way, and I've named her "Linda"—is getting along like a house on fire. Linda is growing like a weed, and I have turned out to be a pretty good momma bird! Every morning I prepare Linda's "formula," and she peeps and squirms and flaps until I fill her crop 'til she can hardly sit up. And when I get home from school, we do it all again. Her feathers are filling out, and her wingspan is pretty impressive for a baby!

How will I wean Linda from mush to solid food, and will I be able to teach Linda to fly and fend for herself?

Stay tuned . . .

Always on the vanguard of communications technology, my sister handled a CB with élan and sangfroid. What fascinated me most were the names the CB enthusiasts adopted—"handles": "Sexy Lady," "Tennessee Stud," "Rough Rider," "Sexy Mama." Behind the sweetness and hubris lay, apparently, an electronic local universe of studs, hardbodies, and vixens. Often, these Chattanooga CBers would organize what they called "Coffee Breaks" where enthusiasts would meet in a store or mall parking lot to chat and throw back some joe. Imagine my surprise when I accompanied my sister to one such gathering only to experience cognitive dissonance when, say, "Sexy Mama" turned out to be a dentally challenged overweight bottle blonde and "Tennessee Stud" a chain-smoking 120-pound grandpa who resembled nothing less than a piece of beef jerky. Nothing against these body types, mind you, but it was a bit of a letdown in the face of such colorful nomenclature. Since then, CBs have gone the way of C. W. McCall and the Smokey & the Bandit movies: quaint and retro artifacts of the nexus of the We and Me Generations.

Now we have the transparent and traceable truth of the Internet. We can socialize across vast distances with people who are willing to put their pictures where there mouths are. We know exactly to whom we're speaking, don't we?

Yeah, right.

Much has been made of the dangers of the Internet. I am more worried about the absolute insincerity of it all. We can now spend hours in our darkened homes—lovers, spouses, and children asleep—bathed in the warm (lurid?) glow of our computer screens, being absolutely "honest" and "sincere" with perfect strangers whom we will probably never meet face-to-face.

Nobody gets hurt, I suppose.

I know. The Internet is a great way to keep up with family members, coworkers, and far-flung friends. And I'm sure some solid friendships—even romantic relationships—have come out of all of this.

But, then again . . .

It is not the same anymore. Oh, my remaining family members like to hug, particularly my sisters, but I am pretty choosy nowadays. Maybe it is because I am over fifty, and people find it creepy hugging an "old guy."

You know what I find creepy? "Bro' hugs" and "side hugs." Instead of an embrace, many man clasp hands and lean in with their forearms shielding their chests. Is a regular hug too "gay" anymore? I refuse to "bro' hug." I would rather not hug at all. It reminds me of overnight school and church trips spent in budget hotels with two to a bed. One guy would sleep under the sheet with the other on top of the sheet, yet both would use the bedspread. The thin yin-yang "S" of sheer sheet indicated that they were not "sleeping together." Whatever gets you through the night.

A lot of girls prefer the blatant insincerity of a side hug anymore. Is this to keep from mussing hair or makeup, or, once again, is an embrace just too intimate for comfort? I eschew side hugs, too.

It is too bad hugging is on the wane. Folks do not know what they are missing. I am so glad I was born when I was, before everything was so frightening. Strangers used to be friends you had not met yet. We were not so mortified of germs that we had to "antibacterialize" everything. Life simply was not such a scary proposition. I am not being revisionist, either, my young readers. It used to be fun. We played all day and slept all night.

You would have loved it.

Not only are we a nation of extremes, but also these extremes have influenced each other in startling ways. Religious America has grown quite adventuresome – however derivative – as it scrambles to produce "relevant" art. Christian-themed books and movies have made it to the tops of the charts, and everyone from hardcore rappers to pop idols now invokes the Deity in his or her CD liner notes and award acceptance speeches. Many pulpits have replaced revered hymns with "praise songs" accompanied by either prerecorded music or desperately sincere acoustic guitars, and hymn books and Bibles have bowed to Power Point presentations projected onto jumbo screens. Not since the days of the Old Testament has the message of prosperity as a sign of God's pleasure been so advanced. Suddenly prosperity and recognition, long railed against by the Puritans, seem inroads to the Unconverted and rewards for the Faithful.

And secular America is not beneath waxing sanctimonious whenever the occasion calls for it. People to whom a religious life means very little will cry out against everything from gay marriage to stem cell research, citing our country's rich Judeo-Christian heritage as a basis for national morality. These same Americans marry at the drop of a hat, divorce in droves, and wonder why our children run wild.

Where does the world get its view of our country? The media machine. Certainly some countries censor and edit world news, but we have long lulled ourselves with the notion that in a free country with free speech, the media reports completely and accurately. But for all the wonders of the media in America, distortion abounds. For fellow world citizens who have never graced our shores, two urban coastlines and an entertainment industry fueled solely by advertising dollars have defined us, unfortunately. Yet between the influential coasts are millions of individuals who, like most of the world, are just trying to get by: people who are not only unabashedly passionate, but optimistically flawed.

As a country, we rally against perceived attack, but, face-to-face, we want peace. Our religions have grown into institutions – something England and Ireland know a great deal about – but many Americans share a working faith that cannot be contained within the walls of temples and monasteries, sanctuaries and mosques. The majority of us are not represented well by Hollywood, and even when our poorer quarters are the subject matter, writers succumb to broad stereotypes, and the world continues to view us as property owners who drive expensive cars and spend our truncated lunch hours tapping away at wireless notebooks lest our stock portfolios dive, but this is not Average America. We do not all own guns, yet those who brandish them command our headlines. Our agencies claim they exist to fairly report the news, but advertising pays the bills and viewers pay the advertisers, so the most "exciting" and marketable stories make the cut. The news agencies in America strive to give the people what they think we want, not what we need. Just as "Middle America" is not a newsworthy export, simple truth in news and advertising is not interesting, either.

So what do we do with this extreme wild child that is the United States of America? When your mixed heritage is that of greed and piety, certainly extreme behavior is the result. How else can you explain why we rally against abortion yet refuse to adopt crack babies? Why the same Southerners who once sported "The South's Gonna Rise Again" bumper stickers now wear NYPD and NYFD caps and t-shirts in the wake of 9/11? Why we howl against rising gasoline prices yet would not consider handing over the keys to our SUVs?

Despite the troublesome things that we are, perhaps we should take a hard look at the things we are not. Though Christianity may predominate in the national debate -- perhaps to the point of annoyance to those millions of non-Christian citizens in our country -- we are not advocates of a state or national religion that mandates our behavior. Though civil strife has always been a part of America's heritage in one manifestation or another, we are not participating in governmental genocide. Though true equality between the sexes has not yet been fully realized, we are not sanctioning the raping, maiming, and killing of our women and girls. Though our public education system is far from perfect, we are not turning children away from an education based on their caste or financial situation.

As a country, we have far too much money, and we have far too many poor people. We spend billions of dollars on research to stanch the flow of debilitating diseases such as AIDS, Alzheimer's disease, cancer, and muscular dystrophy, yet we spend billions of dollars producing mindless television programs. We value public education, yet we pay our teachers obscenely low salaries. We value political debate and free speech, yet many still do not manage to get out and vote. We love our children, yet we hardly spend time with them. We crowd into our houses of worship, yet we continue to turn a blind eye to the sufferings of many. We are the most powerful nation in the world, yet we are one of the youngest countries on the globe.

America is a naïve, precocious, bashful, boastful, talented, lazy, generous, circumspect, helpful, vindictive, faithful, unpredictable, fearless, recalcitrant, big-thinking, and small-minded mass of people who have yet to come into our own.

In our adolescent hubris, we Americans would never come right out and beg patience from our neighbors, but it is exactly what we want. Our responsibilities are staggering, but our resources are vast. So far we have avoided a total hell by not doing all that we are able to do, yet we have fallen far short of heaven by refusing to do everything we can. It is not easy when so many petition us, ignore us, imitate us, revile us, look to us, and shun us, but, God willing, we will straighten out this magnificent mess!

The airline deemed me too frail to walk alone and therefore a liability. After I steadfastly refused to sit in a wheelchair, they provided me with an escort to prevent me from collapsing in the aisles as I exited the airplane. I grabbed onto some uniformed man’s arm-- I cannot remember his name but I know he told me-- and he smiled a forced and pitiful smile as he led me past the empty rows of cushioned seats and into the airport, carefully checking to make sure I was still upright after every step. His eyes spoke: “what a shame.” He offered me a wheelchair but I declined; I was stronger than he suspected.

I tried to help pick up my luggage, but my parents quickly whisked it away and tossed it into the trunk of our rented minivan. Without saying a word I pulled myself into the car, closed the door, and my Dad merged onto the highway toward Petersboro.

My parents silently sat and stared out of the front windshield looking for landmarks or signs indicating our location. I had no interest in finding out where I was, so I put on my headphones, pressed “PLAY” on my Walkman, and listened to the soft hum of Simon and Garfunkel’s poetry melt into my mind.

"Kathy, I said as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburg, Michigan seems like a dream to me now…"

Tears welled in my eyes, but the instant I felt their presence I blinked them back. For the first time what felt like forever, it seemed as if someone understood my hopelessness and had also felt that the present could be the worst place to be. I closed my eyes and tried to envision myself back at the New Jersey Shore, enveloped in the stinging salty waves that always crashed before they made it to land, but I was brought back to reality by a jolt of the car. The locked car door and tightly fastened seatbelt kept me in place, and I smiled at the world’s alleged sense of humor.

We finally exited the highway, and my father, trying to remain chipper in the face of such moroseness, excitedly exclaimed “we’re almost there!” as if that would cheer me up. I twisted my neck away from the window and toward my father’s rear-view mirror and made eye contact with his reflection. But the sight of me seemed to sadden him and he instantly appeared several years older. He quickly refocused his attention on the road as if to deny to himself and perhaps to me that he had ever dared to look me in the eye. I couldn’t blame him -- I had stopped looking at myself months ago.

Our minivan glided along for a while and I noticed that there were no street signs. Apparently these roads were so desolate that even the town found them unworthy of names. It was the perfect place for someone who was unsure of her destination. I knew very well where I had been: a hell of my own making but not under my control. I had been a prisoner of both a mind incapable of caring for itself and for the body I had practically ruined. The choices were laid out simply: continue on the path of self-destruction until the day my heart would surely give up, or put faith in those who loved me more than I loved myself to save me. I apprehensively chose the latter.

I could only hope that where I was headed did not entail staying in this uncharted place with only fields of grass to confirm my existence. Sure, my previous state was nearly intolerable, but at least I was able to distract myself from reality and haze the truth. On these unmarked roads I was painfully aware of the shadow of a person that I had become.

"Kathy, I’m lost, I said though I knew she was sleeping. I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why…”

Long after I turned my Walkman off the music reverberated through my skeleton.

You don't have a job,yet you can buy beer,play the lotto and party with your girlfriend. you can drive to the casino a half hour away but make me take the city bus to school,that's only 15 minutes away.

You yell at me when I don't call you,but I don't have a phone. ( you do.)
You're more worried about you,then you are about me....and you're my mother.

This is what happens when you try to be someone you're not, and you fail. Badly. It's a lesson to go for what you really want, and be honest with people right from the start. Here's how I learnt it.

I met a very cool guy back in 2004, and I fell for him. Eight-month age difference, me being the older woman. I heard that he liked me as well, and we had a lot in common at the time. He was a musician, like myself. Guitarist / lead vocals for a punk/rock outfit. I was a country vocalist. We met at a retail day-job selling apparel and footwear. But I didn't do anything, never asked him out or tried to get to know him better. I just crushed, and played aloof. He didn't try anything, never asked me out, occasionally we talked for a few minutes, but never a big conversation. A big rumour went around that he was after me, and knew that I was 'green'. Everyone joked that soon I'd be a wild woman. But nothing happened. I guess at the time I was just scared. I was inexperienced and didn't know what I was supposed to do next, or how to progress anything without feeling self-conscious and weird.

A few months later he was dating another girl at the job, and I was gutted. I didn't know what went wrong, except that she was all over him and he wasn't exactly saying no. I ended up becoming friends with her, despite my crush on him.

That same year, I made friends with another guy, a guitarist I met on a music site. He was a year older than me, but I never found out until the night we dated. We were friends for about two years, right through the entire time that I had the crush on the cool guy. We'd go out, hang out, sit around and play guitar, at one point we even got a fiddle player and tried to make a band, but it fell apart. We still hung out after that, but music began to matter less and less, and we were becoming close friends. That whole time, however, I never once felt romantically inclined towards him. I still don't feel anything for him. No butterflies, no 'spark', nothing. Just someone to hang out with. I was so busy pining over the 'cool' guy that I really wanted, that I didn't see that my nice friend was falling in love with me. I just thought it was fun to have a friend who knew all the same songs that I did, and who had a great sense of humour as well.

At New Year's, I, my flatmate, and my nice friend went over to Southbank and hung out together. The countdown happened. We just looked at each other. I could sense that he wanted to kiss me, but my flatmate was there, and he hung back. I was glad of that. I wanted to kiss the guy I was crushing on, not him. The guy I was crushing on, I later found, had spent that New Year's in bed with the girl he was dating. My flatmate went home early. My friend went home because he had a long drive ahead of him, and I was drunk and had randomly met some other girls from work that I knew, and decided I was going to hang out with them. I spent the early hours of January 1, 2005, drunkenly jumping about in a hotel lounge room with my also drunk friends, pretending to be happy that my crush was fucking another woman. Later that morning, I would stumble home in zebra-print pants, a fishnet top, plaits, and army-print boots, and I would stand at the mirror, staring at myself in this chaotic get-up and wondering what the hell happened that night.

A few months later, my crush and the girl broke up. Not long after they broke up, I remember her saying that she never wanted to do that again. I started to wonder about him, and what could've been the reason they split. But it wasn't really my business, so I kept my nose out of it all. He was still being nice to me and I thought I might have a chance.

I'd made a bi friend at work, and we'd been discussing my lack of experience and how to go about getting some. She quizzed me on all my male friends, and hinted that maybe my platonic friendship with the nice guitarist guy I knew, could be the way to get started. I thought about it. A lot. I didn't want to use anyone, but I knew I'd need to be experienced to have any chance with my crush later on and look like I knew what I was doing. I had no idea that my nice friend was in love with me, or that my crush was also crushing on me at the same time. A few months went by. I hung back and hesitated on the idea of using my friend as experience so that I would be good for the cool guy I was crushing on. We txted a few times late at night, and he invited me to his birthday party, but I had a show on and couldn't go. Pretending to want him just felt so wrong, and I knew I was going to regret it even before it began.

In the end, it wasn't even me that made the first move. I was sitting in my flat, talking to a friend from Germany in messenger, and my mobile rang. It was my nice platonic friend. Come out and see a movie, we'll go to Crown Casino, it'll be fun. I hesitate. Every time I am with him nowadays, I am thinking about if and when I will try to get something happening between us. I say "Sure, what time?". "I'll pick you up in about half an hour" he says. I have no idea it is a date, and just wear jeans, boots and a jumper. We go to Crown. We have dinner. Hot-dogs, KFC, sushi, and dim-sum. A girl starts chatting him up at KFC. He comes back to our table with his meal. I say "Hey, she's not bad, why don't you get her number?". He says "Nah". That he already has a girlfriend now. I start to wonder what the deal is here. And then I realise. He has decided that I am his girlfriend without even discussing it with me or asking me. He is smiling at me and tucking into his KFC. I feel awful. I decide it might be okay, I guess. I don't feel anything for him and am confident that I can handle whatever the evening throws at me.

He's a fairly skinny guy. I've never been into skinny guys, and I probably never will be. I like chubby, funny guys. Always have, ever since I was little. I still do. There's just something about them that drives me wild. But I digress. I'm now out at a casino, pretending to be the girlfriend of my skinny platonic friend, and wondering what the night will bring. We go to Barcode, a bar where the whole point of things is to drink and play video games. We play Gran Turismo, Crazy Taxi, a boxing game where I accidentally punched the screen, and air hockey. He beats me in all the racing games. He makes sure that I'm not drunk and that my wrist is okay after I punch a plate-glass video game monitor. The bartender hands me our beers and doesn't even acknowledge him. I feel like I'm an old hen, baby-sitting.

After a while, we get bored at Barcode. What movies are on? We stroll around to the Village Roadshow timetable screens. 'The Exorcism of Emily Rose, 12:15am'. There's not much else there. He tells me this one is based on a true story. We get our tickets and go in. One-and-a-half hours later, I am scared witless by the movie, and have been clasping hands on my thighs with the guy I swore I wasn't going to use. And here I was, using him. I put it out of my mind. "Just get it done, and then you can move on", I said to myself.

We left the movie, still clasping hands, and went back to the car. He drove me back to my apartment. I hugged him and said goodnight, and that he didn't need to walk me to the door. I never saw him again. He emailed a few days later trying to get in contact with me. I never responded. I was just so angry at myself for treating him like a plaything, like something where I could get what I needed from him and then take my experience to someone who I thought was more worthwhile.

The crush turned out to not be worthwhile. Nothing ever happened between us, and I'm thankful for that. But in the process, through my need to appear 'experienced', I lost a great friend, whom I would be very ashamed to see again.

A year later, I got my 'experience'. Another guy, my same age, that I was friends with for a short time. A party. It wasn't planned, I wasn't drunk, and he knew that I was a virgin. It was okay, I guess. But it isn't all it's cracked up to be, and it won't solve all your problems. And it certainly won't suddenly turn you into this cool, suave thing. That was something I'd always wondered about. I though I'd be like this hot, sexy woman afterwards. No, lol. Same dork, just a bit wiser. I didn't love the guy, but I went for it anyway, just to get it over with. Except that time, I succeeded.

If I could go back and change one thing, it would be to have waited until I found someone I was truly in love with. I think it would've been more satisfying, if anything. It probably would've hurt less, too, lol. I guess if there was a moral to this story, it'd be to be real with people, and don't ever think for a second that you need to have experience in order to be with someone that you love. I personally, now, would not care if a guy I liked was experienced or not. If I loved him, that'd be all that mattered.

Lick, lap, bite.

I have no reasons; I have no knowledge, all I have is the innate desire to destroy. So I destroy.

Myself.

My life.

And it just continues on and on.

I try to write to understand why, but I have no point of reference so I can't understand why, because this is all there is.

I go from person to person searching for something to complete me, but every single person cannot live up to my idealized expectations, so they fail.

I think I make them fail purposely.

But I really don't know.

Bang. I shot myself in the foot again.

And I promise, I will do it again, just because I can.

I think it started when I realized my family weren't going to be there to pick me up when I fell.

Semi-absent father, I say semi because I saw him every weekend, but he was absent emotionally from me. We'd watch TV and his new wife would take care of me. He had a new wife and a new daughter, only six days younger than me, and I wasn't that important compared to his life.

It was alright though, I didn't really mind, because I couldn't ever remember him being there for me.

It's a sad thing to know by the age of ten.

My mother wasn't much better. She claimed to be, but she really wasn't. She was overly emotional and overly protective and utterly useless. She cried too much about silly things, and got angry too easily. Not to mention the over protectiveness, for the longest time she had me convinced that all males were out to rape me and give me drugs and murder me. It used to give me nightmares.

Now it's an integral part of my fantasies to be hurt.

I grew to accept the fact that my parents were utterly useless to me. I retreated into books. It's from reading anything and everything that I could get my hands on that I managed to develop into a person of my own instead of the little mass of fear my mother wanted to raise me to be.

I grew up young and fast. My mother needed me to take care of her, to fix her mistakes, to comfort her when another deadbeat boyfriend treated her like shit, so I learned. It's hard to view her as an authority figure when she kept asking for her kid's advice on everything that troubles her.

So I took care of myself as a child, and it wasn't a traumatizing event.

But when I hit puberty, and I discovered boys. I got this idea in my head that a man was what I needed to take care of me. So I guess I became something I didn't really want to.

Needy.

My first boyfriend was older, he was a freshman in college while I was a sophomore in high school.

The age disparity, now, is somewhat disturbing to think about, and makes me wonder if he had pederastic tendencies. I think so.

He built me up. Made me believe that I was his most important thing, and then he tore me down.

At the age of fifteen I gave him my virginity, thinking that this act would keep him with me. That that would make him love me. Like many girls before me, I learned differently. The act was born of desperation. He was breaking up with me, he was leaving me to go after my then best friend.

And he did. They stayed together for a couple of years, happy and with me on the outside looking in hating them both and caring for them both at the same time.

That was my first clue that you can't rely on a relationship to save you.

My second clue came while dating him.

It also messed with my perception of reality and until then apparent sanity.

My grandmother had been married for nine years to her second husband. He was family. I loved him. I thought that he loved us and loved being our family too.

He shot my grandmother in the face with a twelve gauge shotgun, and then just sat and waited for the police to arrest him for murder.

My father can't bring himself to hate him for what was done. I sit and even now, six years later, wish death upon him. I'm quite pleased to hear that he is currently dying from diabetes, but the rest of my family can't summon up that hate.

I think I hate them for that.

But that incident taught me, even if I chose to ignore it, that you can't trust anyone.

I tried to find myself another boy to fall in love with to try again to make myself complete. I still thought that if I found that magical relationship all my problems would disappear and everything would be okay.

This one was somewhat stupid. He was easy for me to control. I opened my legs and said I love you, and he did whatever I wanted. I got bored with it. There was no challenge there was no passion, at least on my side.

I think the final straw came with a party. His friends and him were all drunk and stoned. I wasn't interested. After a petty argument one of his friends hit me.

The boyfriend didn't even notice, even though I started to cry.

That was when I finally left him.

The saddest part was I didn't really care that I was hit. I had been fucking other guys on the side, still searching for the mythical perfect relationship to fix me.

My next boyfriend was a classmate. Not in the same classes but we went to the same school. I was in the honors classes and other things of that ilk, and he was a violent antisocial drug user, but he was sweet and had been trying to ask me out for a year or so by that point.

I finally said yes, but this time I tried a new tactic unlike the previous one of just giving in to sex. I told him I had been raped and was scared of sex. I made him work for it.

It made him hold me closer to his heart than I'd ever been to another before. I thought this relationship is the one. This relationship is the one that's going to save me from myself.

We argued like constantly. It was challenging though. What he lacked in normal learning, he made up for in life experience. In our senior year of high school we decided we were going to get married as soon as we graduated.

After I promised that, he begun to take me for granted.

The arguments got worse and finally we started hitting each other.

Then I broke up with him, but the thing was I still thought I loved him. So I tried to make him jealous by sleeping with other boys, getting a new boyfriend.

Then came the day. He didn't show up for school. I heard that he'd fell off a cliff and was badly hurt.

I thought it was a fucking joke. I laughed.

And then I learned it was real.

I left school and started to walk to the hospital. I stayed by his side as his mother said in his delirium he asked for me. I stayed until I was dragged away because I'd been there for hours.

I came back the next day. I was told by his family I wasn't welcome. Someone had told them that I had laughed. My true friends helped carry me outside as a screamed and cried and blacked out.

I didn't try again. I knew I wasn't welcome, and I killed parts of me to try to stay sane and not hate myself for my mistakes.

I slept with more faceless men in numbers that make me now wince to think about.

I learned to drown my sorrows in booze and forget the hate with white powder and straws.

I grew hard and even more manipulative.

I became the woman I had the promise of becoming as a girl.

So I lived. Getting what I wanted from who I wanted.

Want. Take. Have.

A damn fine motto.

Except when I couldn't have.

I'd fly into rages and hurt people over things.

I tried to stab my roommate in the stomach after she slept with the guy I had a crush on.

Although, that incident led to where I am now, and now I think I'm glad it happened that way.

Another guy stepped in, he tried to protect me and he loved me like I was his world. We dated for a while, then we got engaged. Then finally we got married, and time passed and we've just reached our first anniversary.

I think I need his possessiveness and controlling tendencies to make me feel wanted.

I'm still repeating my same mistake. Relying on someone else to save me from myself.

I don't even think this will work in the end.

I get dissatisfied.

I want to leave some days.

I want to go back to doing whatever the fuck I wanted to. Living by my selfish desires.

But for now, I am here. I am with him, and if I don't let myself feel disgust at the neediness of my being, I think I may feel happy.

I’m at a dinner party with my best college friend and my best gay friend and their significant others. Jeani is rattling off the details of her white wedding while clutching her fiancé, Nate. I’ve tuned them out because, as a bridesmaid in their wedding I’ve heard it a million times, been updated constantly by email, and stalked down for fittings and catering appointments. I smile and nod at all the right places, a happy smile plastered on my face. Eric oohs and ahhs over Jeani’s plans while darting surreptitious glances at his partner to see his reaction. When Jeani and Nate begin to discuss the possibility of “little ones,” I down my glass of wine. I don’t even like wine. It makes my head spin a little bit, but at this point that’s the lesser of two evils.

At 24, I am feeling rather spinsterish. Most of my friends are either married, taken, gay, or all three. My few single friends are still acting out, documenting their performances on their Myspace or Facebook profiles, which will surely one day result in termination from their jobs. I find comfort staying in on a Saturday night curled up with the occasional good book and my occasionally bad dog Dewey—the only man I can count on. I have no desire to get wasted, climb tables, and gyrate til I puke. Nor am I interested in another blind date.

Since when is 24 old? I wonder petulantly as I drive home. Mom was married at 24. I answer myself. Ah, Mom. She and I have had many a talk about my love life, or current lack thereof. It makes her nervous that I’m comfortable doing things alone. I’m fairly certain she believes that showing my independence is the equivalent of lighting a citronella candle that keeps love from buzzing around and biting me.

Slamming the door to our house shut, I’m prepared for the barrage of questions from my nosy mother. I open my mouth to speak, but no words actually make it out. Instead, I’m left agog, my brow furrowing in a silent accusation.

“What?! They’re for Nena!” My mother exclaims defensively as she stares adoringly at the Lilliputian high tops meant for her “adopted” grand-daughter’s tiny feet.

The day she started buying baby clothes for her young co-worker’s daughter, I knew she was done playing off the fact that I am not yet a baby-making bride. As her oldest daughter, my biological clock is ticking the loudest. And, it’s quite obvious she’s tired of waiting.

I can’t blame Mom entirely; although, before her adoption of Nena I had never heard my own clock ticking. Now, at a certain time of the month—not “that time of the month,” but just before it—my “guydar” kicks in. I begin unconsciously checking for wedding rings in every eligible man I see. I am captivated by the drooling, mewling lumps, longing for one of my own. I’ve just recently realized that these feelings kick in when I’m ovulating—when it’s physically possible for my body to conceive a child. My body is literally crying out for impregnation.

First my friends, then my mother, and now my own body. What gives? It’s as if all the planets have aligned to transmit an ultimatum just for me:

Lauren Shaw, Make your choice: Marriage and Babies or Sad Spinsterhood!

NOOOOOOO!

I refuse to make my choice just yet; although, my clock ticks a little louder each month. Mom will just have to keep practicing on her adopted granddaughter. And I’ll have to stand in yet another wedding. But I’m pretty sure that someday soon, I will shed my stigma of sad spinsterhood. I plan to bore the hell out of everyone with endless details of my wedding and/or pregnancy. Payback’s a bitch. I will demand that my mother return her adopted grandchild, so that she can spoil her real one. What can I say? I’m a bitch, too. And my clock’s nerve-grating ticking will quiet down to a soft hum.

Someday.

Then again, I could just end up growing old alone and unbothered. I would only be responsible for my dogs, and the most strenuous activity on my “to do list” would be dressing them up for our weekly tea parties. Let’s be honest, some days sad spinsterhood sounds more fun.

She's too nice to tell me she'd rather I wasn't in her house, too kind to tell me to get off my depressed ass and get a job, too lonely to kick me out in the warm Georgia summer.

I look desperately on about a dozen sites advertising their ability to find me a job. Each job found is looking for a college degree or relevant work experience.

I know that they mean both, but I press submit on each form again and again and again.

Only a few of them will respond to my inquiries. A polite email telling me of their wonderful organization's strengths in hiring and retaining outstanding employees, followed by their appreciation of my application and luck in finding a job. Oh yeah, please check our website for further positions that may interest you, (like janitor,) and thanks again.

I just want to give up. I like sleeping. Why can't I just keep doing that and hope my mom can take care of my minimal needs? I don't need to pay off my credit cards and that cell phone bill only covers phones for my brother, father, and I so who really needs that either? Just gimme a six-pack of ramen noodles and some Pringles. I'll be just fine with dropping out of college. It's not like I was enjoying going or anything.

Ultimately, I will have given up a good job at a cable company in their customer service department because I was fed up with the red tape, a better job with a cell phone provider because I couldn't deal with being a call center rep any more, and a decent job as a secretary/IT guy with a small home building company because I had a drinking problem.

I'll just be here.

On my mom's couch.

Sleeping and eating ramen.

Awake.

Still.

‘Just getting over it’ may have been easy for her to say but when it came to her own ailments; well quite honestly she was somewhat of a hypochondriac. And at eighty-two, I guess that’s okay. Her aches and pains seemed to come fast and hard. Every little pain magnified itself until it had grown, in her mind, into the plague. She imagined every affliction as something grander: slight indigestion equaled stomach cancer, burning toes equaled foot cancer or a moment of dizziness equaled brain cancer.
“Oh, your poor mudder,” she’d say in her pronounced Belgian accent, something that had not been cured over the years. “It’s always some-ting.”
I’d agree with her and say these things were okay, that they’d eventually go away. I’d even mention a few of my own ailments in an effort to downplay her drama.
“I doan know what’s wrong wit me? I wus up all night pacing. It’s my bough-will you know. In and out of the batroom! Oh Paul, you wouldn’t be-leeeev it!”
Oh I believed it, I just didn’t want to know about it.

She’d be off to her doctor at the very hint of a problem, dropping into his office to inform him of her latest tick and ask what medication was immediately available to relieve it.
But for all her positive approach and stubborn will to overcome, the final relief from what started as a relatively minor ailment came from exactly where she hoped it never would.

Last June, my sister called to update me on our mother’s recent visit to see her doctor. For the past couple of months, my mother had been having problems with her feet, an incessant pain in her toes that seemed to jump from one foot to the other. The initial diagnosis suggested that it was gout, an inflammation of the joints usually found in the hands and feet. The doctors put her on medication, told her to lay off the after-dinner gin for a while and remarkably, her toes did get better. On a follow-up visit, she had more tests done.
“Mom’s okay,” my sister said carefully, “and don’t worry about this but… she has cancer of the kidney.”

There was a long pause. Cancer of the kidney? Were we not just talking about toes, gout and gin? Cancer of the kidney. It sounded of royalty; a title attached to a monarchy; Cancer of the Exchequer or the Chancery of Cancer. I envisioned the human body to pinpoint a kidney’s location and importance. The lower back… two… the size of pot stickers. From my recollection, diseases on my side of the family have not included cancer. Heart disease reigned, having taken my father and other family on both my mother and father’s side.
“Is she ok?” I stumbled, not quite registering her words.
“She’s fine. She’s actually excited to know what’s wrong with her.”
“Oh. Both kidneys?” I asked.
“No, just the one. The tumor’s small. It’s operable and they think they might just take a part of it.”
“Can you live without a kidney?” I asked.
“Sure. You really only need one to filter your system but at mom’s age, it would have to work harder. She can recuperate at my place for as long as she needs.”
Surprisingly, my mother was very upbeat about the whole cancer thing.
“Now dat I know whut it is, I can deal wit it,” she said, her positive will coming through. “You kids shouldn’t worry. If some-ting ‘appens, well I’ve ‘add a good long life.”

The crazy thing was; she wasn’t supposed to die.
Not then anyway, in my mind. And she didn’t go out the way she ever thought she would.
“You’d better come right away. She’s in emergency and it’s not looking good. The cancer has spread.”
I flew up to Canada and met up with my two brothers and sister. “She’s not coming out,” they told me. “The cancers spread to the lungs and part of the skull.”

Much of the rest is a blur. When I saw her, she was sitting up in a gurney in the hallway of the emergency ward, frightened and disoriented.
“Hi ma,” I said, trying to keep calm, “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
She looked past me, down the hall, craning her neck as if looking for someone. There were many patients lined up in the hallway, all awaiting beds. The hospital personnel milled about seemingly unconcerned. They scrutinized their charts and computer screens and did their best to avoid making eye contact with you.
“How long before she can get her own room?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” we were told.
My mother continued to scan the hallway, grimacing, twisting and turning as if trying to vacate her skin. Near the entrance, two policemen were bringing in another patient. “No,” my mother said, “You can’t fool me.”

She never really spoke to us again. I wish I could say she passed away peacefully but she didn’t. Heavily sedated on morphine and other life ending drugs, the husk that was once our mother struggled to stay alive, stubbornly fighting to overcome the cancer that slowly overtook her. She clung to every breath, her heart beating strong, and the body at times trying to will itself to get up, as if waking from a bad dream. I wanted to believe she was smiling or listening at times. I don’t know; it may just have been the drugs that made her twitch and grimace. You wanted to believe in a lot of things; that she was not in pain from the spreading cancer, that she was not scared, that there was no god that would allow suffering to continue. I hoped she would die quickly and be free of it. I can say that now.
We each talked to her in our own private moments. I asked her to go. I cried for her to go. She continued to stay. Knowing mom, she probably wanted to see if we were all just getting along.
She passed a week later on July 20 in the palliative care unit of the hospital just across the river from her apartment. I can’t believe she died this way. I expected her to die in her apartment in the comfort of her own bed, years from now. Not this way. Not in a way that she had no say in.
My parents live with me now. They have their own place in a room in my head. They’ll pop in every once in awhile and we talk. I won’t say that I miss them. You can’t miss what you’ll always have.

Yes, I speak from experience. I am an insomniac-on-command, caffeine-chugging, poor, starving college student with psychotic tendencies. I have fallen asleep in class and drooled on my notes. I have gone a weekend without eating anything. I have pulled 78-hour days. I have cried myself into exhaustion so many times I've lost count. College is not pretty. But I am still alive.

My chosen major is Secondary English Education. Many people ask me what in the hell I'm thinking, and I can only respond with: "I ask myself that same question every single day." I love to read. I love to write. I love grammar and editing and teaching people new things. Qualities of an English teacher? Sure! Qualities of a college student? Not quite...

If I could choose my life all over again, I'd find some rich guy, marry him, and move to Europe in the blink of an eye. I often imagine myself sitting on some terrace over-looking a busy city with a typewriter, a cup of white-mocha-french-vanilla coffee steaming on the table, blank pages on one side, pages filled with typed text on the other. And then reality comes crashing in like a bulldozer with a penchant for destroying happiness.

I'm twenty-one-years-old. I'm in my prime. My life is just beginning. So what am I doing here, sinking further and further away from what I originally loved about what I want to do? I want to be out and away, far, far, far from this place and its confinement.

I woke up the other day and realized that by becoming a teacher, I will forever be in school until the day I retire. Not that this bothers me. As long as I spend part of my school career on one end of the spectrum as a student and the other as a teacher. It creates perspective. I can look out at my students and say: "So this is what my teachers felt like." I think what bothers me is the other perspective. As a student, you worry about whether the teacher is going to be able to teach you anything. As a teacher, you worry about whether your students are going to be able to learn anything from you. It's all about style and gaining their interest and attention and getting the students involved.

My eighth-grade English teacher was good with things like that. He stretched our minds, stood us up and made us see, made us understand. He was fun and interesting, and he's the reason I wanted to become an English teacher in the first place, which is hilarious to me because he asked me once: "If there was one job in the world that you wouldn't want to do, what would it be?" And like a smart-ass, I said, "A teacher." But he laughed and shook his head, like he knew differently.

I still wake up and think to myself: "What have I gotten myself into?" There are times when I'm watching one of my professors go on and on, and they look excited, they look happy to teach, and I get this sinking feeling in my stomach. I start to doubt my ability as a future educator. I try to imagine myself in front of a classroom full of students, and all I can see is this trembling mass with barely enough brain cells to utter her name. In those moments, all I want to do is dissolve or melt into a puddle in my seat, because puddles don't have to teach. Puddles are puddles and have no responsibilities except to splash when someone steps on them.

Am I a puddle? Do I let people walk all over me? Sometimes I think it would be easier, being a puddle, being unimportant.

Teachers are important. They have to be. Teachers are the reason there are students, and, in turn, students are the reason there are other teachers. It's an endless cycle of students-taught-by-teachers becoming teachers-teaching-students. Puddles don't have endless cycles. Puddles don't even have thoughts.

So, am I a puddle? No. I think I'd rather be a teacher than a puddle.

College is what it is. It's unexpected and full of change. It's messy and often times frustrating beyond belief. It can break you down and lift you up at the same time. College is a challenge, but, then again, so is life.

Do I still have doubts about what I want to do with my life? Of course. Do I still want to do it? Knowing the difference between teachers and puddles: absolutely.

It had been three months since I’d emerged, seemingly miraculously, out of an adulthood-long depression. I was beginning to believe I was capable of more than I ever imagined, and had developed an almost messianic view of my own destiny.

Ben correctly recognized that I was, albeit unknowingly, in the grip of the manic phase of a bipolar swing. He kept trying to reign in my wilder impulses, and, on the morning of the Omni incident, I blew up at him, telling him to quit hovering. I’m an imposing, muscular 6’6, but nonetheless I was shocked to see him almost gibbering with terror; my heart was broken to learn I could do that to him. I held him closely until his shaking subsided, but we both knew we needed a temporary separation.

Freed of Ben’s influence in the afternoon, I was like a zeppelin dragging its moorings. I didn’t get to the point of trying to find a hotel room until almost midnight.

After many frustrations, borne from a mind addled with mania, I drove downtown, eventually finding haven at the Omni. When it became clear I’d lost my driver’s license, they wouldn’t accommodate me. I collapsed, weeping.

I refused to leave the lobby when they asked and in the end they carried me, to the accompaniment of my laughter. Things turned bizarre when they refused to give my car keys back. This is where this story began, outside the Omni at three a.m.

As I ran with the baggage rack, a weasel-faced head goon blocked my path. I kept going, running the cart into him, and all three guards launched at me. I slammed my fist into weasel’s mouth before I was wrestled to the ground. I’d assumed the police would take my side.

After my arrest I was taken to the downtown lockup. They took all my personal belongings except my commitment ring, and allowed me to make a phone call. I couldn’t recall any number except Ben’s, so I called him, very reluctantly, to let him know where I was.

They made me sign something, and gave me a pink copy, which, since I was so tired, they stuffed into my pocket. They un-cuffed me, and took me through a door, saying I'd be given my cell-phone.

I sat patiently in the adjacent holding cell for an hour before asking an officer what was wrong. The pink ticket, he said. I scrambled through my jeans and thrust it at him, through the grille, asking why nobody had told me earlier.

Something was obviously very wrong. He got angry at me, insisting they’d told me about the ticket. Out of fatigue and despair, I started to cry, and nothing is more likely to aggravate a cop. They locked me up in a remote cell.

I hadn’t slept much all week, and with my mind racing maniacally, every minute lasted an hour. Sometimes I heard keys clinking and my heart leapt, only to sink again as the sound dwindled. I wept, roared with frustration, and rattled the bars. Once, a cleaner went past, so again I tried to fake a heart attack. She didn't miss a single dust mote. I felt intolerably alone. I was beginning to wonder why Ben hadn’t freed me. It would be weeks before I’d understand what he went through that night.

Hours seemed to pass. I wanted desperately to reach Ben and finally engaged a Hispanic cop. I used every ounce of my ingenuity to convince him I could see his soul, and that he could rescue it from destruction by getting my commitment ring to Ben.

“But that would be breaking the rules,” he said.

But my arguments were having their intended effect. He kept gripping his head saying, "Oh man, you're fucking with me." Other people watched, transfixed, while I attempted to force this man to my will from my position of apparent helplessness.

His partner, a nasty-looking German-American called Weh, full of bravado, tried to goad me; but I told him I could see inside his head. When he asked me what I saw, I said simply: “Nothing. You have no soul.”

He tried to laugh me off, but would no longer meet my eyes. I continued:

“Do you know any German? Do you know what your surname means?”

He shrugged.

“It means ‘empty’,” I told him. (It doesn’t).

A chill entered their eyes, and I tore it. I soon had them convinced I was the Anti-Christ.

“You have two choices: hand the ring to my partner; or put it on my finger. But if you put it on my finger, you’ll loose your souls. “

They were saved from eternal damnation when the sergeant, realizing how dangerous I was, reassigned them, but not before I managed to slip the ring to the Hispanic cop.

My audience gone, I became increasingly desperate. I announced that at the count of ten I’d commit suicide. I counted down very loudly, but at “one”, cuffed, and too weak to make a convincing effort, I collapsed and wept more bitterly than ever.

And then I heard the words I’d given up hoping for: I was to be released. They’d believed I was suicidal and were sending me to a hospital. I congratulated myself for getting myself out of jail, not knowing that it was due to Ben’s efforts behind the scenes.

I was strapped into a gurney and as I was being wheeled out, the Hispanic cop came up to me. He avoided looking at my eyes as he slipped my ring into my pocket.

“Find a new partner!” I whispered.

From the time I was little, I wanted to be an artist. I loved making things, drawing things, painting things. When I grew up, I wanted to be an artist. Which is why it makes no sense that I studied chemistry, and got an M.B.A. But that was the life that made the most sense to my parents.

I never fit well into that life. I did well, but never enjoyed it. I was the peg that would not fit. I tried hard to make it work. I tried hard to enjoy it. But I never really did. I would buy lottery tickets, with the dream that when I won, I would quit my job and go to art school.

I never made it to art school. But now, I am an artist. I sell my work in galleries across the country. I have won awards, been in magazines, and will have my work in an upcoming book.

And it all began quite by accident, with a few detours along the way. After my daughters were born I started a business making custom window treatments. I would design, sew and install. I loved the designing part, and found I learned a lot about color, pattern and scale, that to this day, helps me out. But after five years I had enough of the custom side of things. I saw the small side of people, and it was not pretty.

After that, I began studying childeren's book illustrating, and wrote and illustrated a book. I began sending it around to publishers. Mostly I received rejection letters in return. I continued to try to write, and draw. But in my heart, I could see this was going to be an uphill battle, with questionable outcome.

And then it happened. Quite by accident. I offered to help a friend out with a craft program. She needed somebody for polymer clay. Oh....hmmm. Oh, well. I can learn. I sat down with a box of clay, and before the day was over, I was hooked. The craft program was canceled. But I was hooked. I continued to play with clay, and get more and more hooked on this colorful versatile material. I had found out, at the age of 45, what I was going to be when i grew up...., or at least for the rest of my life. I would play with clay.

I don't buy lottery tickets anymore. I don't have to. I am living the dream I always had. Everyday, I can go into my studio and create. I wake up in the morning, looking forward to spending time in my studio. I have learned more about myself and gone further than I ever expected.

All those other experiences have helped in various ways with what I do now. But none were nearly as satisfying. When you finally find what it is that you were meant to do, you will know. You will definitely know.

Nowadays I keep trying to go through the mirror in front of me....

One beautiful summer day my grandfather took me to a company picnic and we watched carpenters build a huge sandbox. Then it was announced as dump trucks came to fill the empty sandbox with sand that there was money was in the sand and all the boys could dig for it.

I must have been about three at the time. When the "game" started all the boys ran to the box and I started to bolt but my grandfather had a tight grip on my hand and trying to fight it was useless, he was a very strong and kind man. I protested often to my grandpa that there would be no more money left and there were kids crying over sand tossed in their eyes and fights.

After watching it for a while I could see where there were costs involved with "free" money. Later in life I would revisit that scene and so much was learned there that day. After a while I didn't want to join the boys after seeing one big chubby boy much bigger than the other kids and he was one of the cruelest of the bunch deliberately hurting others to get his prize.

He was grinning with a stack of money and I didn't see him as a winner. Or maybe I did and decided that it wasn't for me.

After all the big kids got done it was time for the younger ones and again my grandfather held me back? It wasn't the all out war that the big guys waged and of course there was less money, mostly coins to find but the same amount of fighting and crying and kids getting hurt over it.

Finally, it was down to one weeping boy who had dug his heart out as he had found no money. The coast had cleared and after a while my grandfather walked me up to the sandbox and let me dig for money. He would stop me and say "What's that behind you Timoshanko? Is that money?

And there would be coins there. I knew it was him doing it but I played along and kept digging to keep the game going. By the time we were done it was time for more fun and refreshments at the company picnic. And I had my pockets full of change.

Somewhere in the mist of years the memory gives us more credit than we deserve and this too is tied to our morality and fear of death. Failure frightens me more than death. I compared my "winnings" that were in fact a gift the bully with so much money. I had actually seen him grabbing dollar bills out of younger kid’s hands and punching them.

And in the mist of memory I don't know where or when it dawned on me that I had more than the winner and I had received it by Grace without having to fight for it. Sure I had to dig but that was just an exercise so we could play the game of giving and receiving while attempting or playing at work.

My steadfast grandfather held me back from the battle where I would certainly have gotten hurt I didn't have the fight but I had the prize and a great time playing with my grandfather. After a while my grandfather would just toss coins in the pit when he thought it was dug deep enough making the work became play.

Years later a light went on in my head, I knew that the good Spirit that led him all his life had remained with me through God.

God held me back from the sandbox and I could not go to college. I had to dig and find some coins and He was behind me saying, “Timoshanko look behind you.” And there were times later in life when I dug a pit too deep to get out of and He threw me blessings and I was not alone.

I was not alone with my grandfather and God. And I realized that if I had fought with the big boys that my loneliness at being the only child at the time, would have been intensified with failure and tears at coming back empty and alone.

The way the world thinks is like the big kids in the sandbox. I had all the riches and it took me years to unravel those mysteries. There were three of us watching a show, God, my grandfather and me. And the world is the sandbox. It was a pretty ugly show in the long run with more losers than finders and victors. It was a dirty battle and I was clean watching it.

I had the best of both worlds and got more than a reward in what I'd learned that day. The lesson keeps coming back like the surf hitting the sands in eternity. I get to write about the fight and I have taken a very foolish position of wanting to be a referee in what I do in my works. Maybe the fight doesn't have to be that terrible?

But it does. And it will. Perhaps I will be involved because of my work for peace and prosperity, but I am trying to keep impartial because of the early lesson learned. I try to be on the outside looking at the fight but after so many years of seeing the same bullies win I decided, if it was possible to even the rules and give the small fry a chance like my grandfather and God had given me that wonderful day.

I remember the hot summer sun and how good that ice cream tasted that I "bought" with my own money. And my grandfather was pleased. I was clean, eating ice cream with my grandpa while some of the children were still whining about sand in their eyes.

And the sandbox has money tossed into it by the truckload as war and death and hell beckon the call of our leaders. I see a lot of sand and people with more than sand in their eyes, depleted Uranium that our boys bring home with them. It is carried on the winds causing me to wonder if this hasn't something to do with the promise that IF the Lord did not return when He does that there would no flesh survive; the fish, the birds, even the cockroaches would die not being able to mutate into something that could survive.

Why do the big boys wrap themselves in ritualistic flags and in the name of God go to the sandbox in the Middle East? Someone once said that after the power is gone in a system the symbol takes its place. Perhaps it was Joseph Campbell, so much for their rituals in a false gods and the symbol of what used to be at best “The Illusion of Freedom”. It is a strong drug and delusion.

That is what both sides of our democracy/republic labor under. The drug and the symbols of lost freedom and the ritual, properly wrapping them in the flag like a blanket to dream the American dream. But when we awake we find ourselves in the sandbox. Where is the love and respect for life in being involved in the oldest family feud on the planet? Who are the real “users” here as we war on terrorism and drugs in the sandbox?

Even Evangelists are blinded to what our true mission is. They cover their eyes with the flag (“…beware of the leaven of the Herodians”, a political party that although Hebrews they honored Herod as king above and beyond their true allegiance to God first. Herod was called the king of kings) blinded to even the words of our God and His teachings so that their eyes are closed to the truth.

This is idolatry.

In George Orwell’s 1984, Big Brother makes the statement that, “When I say war I really mean peace.” George Bush quoted it perfectly in one of his speeches.
So today it is a dog and pony show with a little show and tell along for the ride. When I carry the book, The Stone Soup Proposal with me people are transfixed by the book cover with TOP SECRET capitalized and stamped in bold red tilted in the top right corner. In the book we show how we can be free from oil and enrich the planet through peace.
We have found great wealth in what “they” tossed aside and suppressed. “They”’ tossed trillions of dollars worth of wealth in the pit. This is a legal and peaceful way to get even with the oil companies.
Peace is the most prosperous government.
The LORD is holding my hand was and he He is keeping me away from the sandbox. He told us to look behind us.
Our group found what “they” tossed behind; trillions of dollars worth of wealth in Public Domain patents, processes and methods and innovations.
After seventeen years a patent enters Public Domain and anyone can build them. The big boys game only holds true so long and there are new ones every day.
What the oil companies suppressed we dug and found and are now offering it to you free. Would you like to be part of this adventure?
“…freely ye have received, freely give.” We offer the book to you free. http://www.stonesoupcorp.com
Since our research began in 1981, over a hundred of us found the way to get even with the oil companies legally and peacefully, we invite them to the table to prosper in peace with us.
War is not peace.
Wake up from the dream and the wars. God has been holding our hands and we offer you to do the same. The Stone Soup Proposal is a God inspired blueprint for peace and to begin doing what those that survive the sandbox will be doing in the Millennium, a thousand years of peace.
There is no law against peace. Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the sons of God.
We show you how to have and do, in the here and now, what work the survivors will do in the Millennium and prosper in peace.
Take His hand. Enjoy the ice cream.