[MUSE]ic in me

He comes to me in the darkness;
With inspiration to drive this artist
The lyrics to the song I'm singing
My breath of life-
my reason for living.
Faded by logic and
fueled by illusion,
peeking out from my mind's confusion.
Pointing me in the right direction,
steering away from perfection.
In the shape of a man
with eyes like the sky,
my harshest critic,
my closest ally.
The spark that lights the creative flame
My body, my heart:
He bears the claim.
Completion is never the object.
Only expression, only content.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Moments

I wish I could steal a moment like this:
A moment captured in your kiss
A moment spent in your embrace
A moment just staring at your face
A moment with your hand in mine
A moment where our fingers are intertwined
A moment having you near me
A moment being where I want to be

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*~o:.

Seriously?

Want me to grab you by your neck
I can tell it make you wet
Ooh, girl
It ain’t working unless you sweatin now
…
We on the mantel,
Shorty dismantled
Hit it from the side
Show you how to love handle

Apparently, this is what passes for a romantic song nowadays. Ugh.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

WWZ

I'm beginning to scare myself. Not that I work better under pressure, nor am I enjoying the tremendous amounts of stress I'm putting myself through. But I do find that with heightened importance and impending deadlines, I spit out some rather clever work. Here's an example: [This is a paper I literally wrote in just over an hour. 946 words. It's meant to be a response to WWZ. She did say "have fun with this paper"...]

“It’s the end of the world!” my grandmother announced, quite assured of herself, as she swept through the living room with her arms failing about. My sister and I tried not to laugh as we were sure her heightened eccentricity was a result of her missed prescription dosage and inherent senility. We focused our attentions on the matter at hand: our Uno game which had come to a complete stand-still there on the living room floor. I had called “uno” two hands ago, but had yet to deliver the final blue four blow. My sister’s shaky hand reached for the deck in hopes of finding salvation in the form of a wild card. Draw two. I laughed as we both conceded to a draw at the smell of our mom’s cooking slowly filling the air.

Everything changed that day.

The numbers soared every day. It seemed newscasters were having an inter-channel competition as to who could deliver the worst news. “Turn that crap off,” my grandmother would spit from her seat in the corner before returning to muttering the rosary again and again, shaking her prayer beads in earnest. I turned down the volume, but my eyes were glued. They told us what not to do. Stay indoors. Quarantine the infected. Call the authorities. But no one seemed to tell us what to do. Should we run? Were we safe?

One thing was for sure, though: We were staying together.

That was our first mistake.

My hometown of Lake Charles, just an hour’s drive away from Lafayette—a “Blue Zone,” as they called it now, was a crappy place to live. Lake Charles was at best a blip on any radar. A town you drove through, not to. But here we were, huddled inside my childhood home like some twisted scene from The Diary of Anne Frank. Only we weren’t afraid of Nazis. We were afraid of the “infected;” the zombies.

Zombies!

In the quiet moments when Momma would attend to our grandmother, my sister and I had lengthy conversations on the subject. “I can’t believe this is happening! It’s unbelievable. I can’t believe this. Who would believe this?” she ranted.

I shrugged.

Days ago, my biggest concern was an upcoming test or graded assignment. Now? Now I worried about whether or not I was going to live to see tomorrow. I worried about my feeble grandmother outrunning the monsters should they break in one night in an attempt to eat our brains, or whatever they were supposed to do. I worried about my mom who, up until this point, had maintained to keep a firm grip on the household after the loss of her husband and father in the same year. I worried about my sister. And once we had said our prayers for the night and vainly set the alarm, when the house was absolutely silent, I worried about myself.

Everyone was in a panic. A Great Panic.

The one thing seeming to keep us sane was my grandmother’s unwavering faith in God, although the rest of us had given up hope that anything existed in the sky other than smoke and debris. The church had been shut down as people weren’t “advised” to venture outdoors. At first, my sister and I were elated. No more dressing up in itchy, constricting dresses that were only worn to pacify our grandmother’s old-fashioned sense of style. As the days dragged on, though, we found that with the absence of church, our joy began to fade as well. There was no longer anything to look forward to after death. Should the inhuman creatures get us, there was no assured paradise waiting for us. We knew we would rot in the ground. Or have our bodies burned to eradicate the spread of germs.

But nothing could deter my grandmother. She prayed every day, multiple times a day. She thanked, begged God, and cursed God all in the same breath. I began to wonder if anyone else’s prayers were getting through. One days when she was particularly pious, my mother would pull my sister and I from our computers and televisions to pray with our grandmother. And we’d sit there, in the living room, the four us, and prayed. At first, my sister and I remained silent, keeping our heads respectfully bowed until our grandmother finished. But then, one night, after it had been discovered our neighbor was infected, an amazing thing happened… I began to pray.

Now that I realized how close the threat was, I thanked God that He passed us over. I exulted Him for protecting my family, for protecting me. Soon, I began to pray more often; twice a week, three times. It wasn’t long before my grandmother and I were reading from her old tattered Bible together. “She that, baby?” she’d ask after reading from Revelations, “God puts the world through these trials and tribulations as a test of faith. Stand strong and He will reward us for our faith in Him. You just watch.”

And I watched. I watched as the world around us wasted away. I watched as our friends and neighbors fled far from home and each other in attempt to save themselves. I watched as some unknown, unnamed force seemed to protect us from it all. It was as if the War were passing us over.

“What do you think they’ll write about us? You know, in the history books?” my sister asked me dreamily as she looked out her bedroom window at the ghost town that had become of our neighborhood.

I thought for a moment, and then I smiled. “They’ll say that we prayed. And that we survived.”

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Love is a Four-Letter Word

Once again, I find myself listening to music to help me concentrate on one task but the melodies have bought me a one-way ticket onto a totally unrelated train of thought. And it's a train I'd really like to miss because I never discuss my emotions. But, I also never ignore good inspiration. So, I'm riding this train until we reach the end of the track... I just hope it's not off a metaphorical cliff.

Ever since I hijacked my cousin's music from her portable hard drive, I've been revisiting a few of my favorite artists from my adolescence and teenage years. My aptly named "Pop Oldies" playlist boasts songs from multiple albums featuring 98 degrees, Backstreet Boys, and N*Sync. A common theme I'm beginning to notice is love (and dancing--but mostly love). True love. Unrequited love. Everlasting love. Love, love, love.

And while I couldn't for the life of me imagine love existing outside of a realm created by Disney or in storybooks when I was "jammin'" these songs at 13, I certainly have a different view of it now.

Love is special. Love is pure. Love is patient. Love is blind... I believe all these things to be true along with a few other cliches that accompany love. But it's the latter that always makes me wonder. Why is love blind? How is love blind? What does it mean for love to be blind?

I think the core meaning of this phrase is that love makes us blind. You hear of women who refuse to leave their abusive men because they "love" them. You hear of men who are unfaithful to their wives but still claim to "love" them. And talk shows are full of mix-matched couples who the rest of the world wouldn't see sharing a cup of coffee together much less a ten-year marriage... but they're in "love".

We're blind to all fact and reason when we're in love. Because what is love but pure joy? And what is fact but reality? When given the choice, who would pick the latter?

But what do I know? (Absolutely nothing)

I broke the heart of the last man I loved. And while I hope and pray that he'll find love and happiness again in his life because he is an amazing person and a good man, I can't blame him for finding it hard to trust people again. Especially me.

I was blind, then. I was in love. So deeply and truly in love that I didn't see the problems I was facing in our relationship because I loved him and I knew he loved me--What else did we need? And had I lived outside of that fantasy for just one moment, I could have seen the cracks in our picture-perfect photo frame. Had I pulled the blindfold of love off just a moment sooner, I could have talked about what I was feeling and we could have fixed it. We could have worked. We could have made it work.

And it's that exact fact that guards my heart now. I'm so afraid to love again. I'm so afraid to break the heart of another good man. I'm just so afraid that I may be a heart-breaker underneath. I'm afraid that my "I love you" is the kiss of death to any romantic relationship I'm in.

Which is funny, because the current relationship I'm in seems like a fairytale (only without love) now: A handsome, charismatic, charming, blue-eyed prince swept in and rescued me when I was too proud to admit I needed saving. And I admire him for having the courage to do so.

And I thank him for it.

And I cherish what we have.

And I'm falling in love with him.

I'm falling, but I'm tightly grasping every foothold and grip I can find on the way down.

Love is a four-letter word. And like the other four-letter words, it should be used carefully. It should be used sparingly. It empowers some people. It angers others. It shocks. It shames. It... frightens.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

P.S. - And this is why I don't talk about my feelings. So I'll probably deny ever writing this if questioned.

NaN-Uh Oh

[Warning: This is written in as a stream of conscience at multiple intervals until I reach a respectable word count.I'm curious.]

Nov. 1
7:09p

Well, after weeks of pep talks and planning, it's finally here! November first. The official start of NaNoWriMo. And while I didn't hack out thousands of words that had been building for weeks at the stroke of midnight (Haha. Very far from it, actually), I still feel the excitement boiling over.

Hot coffee? Check.
Slow music playlist on? Check. (Jason Mraz!)
Scribbled notes of the past few days? Check.

Let's go!!!

7:11p
The blank page of the Word window stares back at me, the blinking cursor seeming to be screaming: "WRITE!!!" It may as well be a flashing neon sign. It blinks like one anyway.

What should my first word be? What do I want it to be? How do I want to start what will eventually become a 50,000 novel by the end of a month?

Wildfire.

7:15p
Header? No header. Page numbers? No page numbers.

Page numbers.

No page numbers.

Novel title as a header?

Page numbers.

7:21p
The sweet sound of tapping keys is soothing. I'm accomplishing something. Something.

With the music, coffee, and laptop I feel a bit pretentious. Maybe I should be in a coffee shop... Wanna watch me write?!? Sure!

Well, maybe not so much pretentious as cliche. Yet somehow right. It's odd.

7:32p
Word count: 76.

Stupid AIM. "Stop IMing me!" No, that's mean.

Away message?

No away message.

Invisible.

No invisible.

7:36p
Note to self: PRESENT. TENSE.

That is all.

7:54p
How the fuck did Rachel write 2818 words in one day?

8:09p
No Doubling Back. How appropriate.

8:17p
217 words. This is depressing.

8:18p
As if on que, text from Chris Taylor: "Word count? :-)"

Response: "A dismal 217. :("

8:21p
PRESENT. TENSE.

8:28p
No music. Too distracting.

8:31p
Just took the biggest sip of cold coffee. Not pleasing.

As I write this, I'm reminded of Twitter for some reason...

8:43p
Begin concentrated writing hour.

Invisible.

No response to texts.

Playlist set.

Just writing. One hour...

8:58p
2 unread text messages.

It's so tempting.. But I am not removing my hands from this keyboard for another 50 minutes.

9:11p
I just realized I haven't been saving this document.

Wow.

To the desktop with you!

9:19p
TWO PAGES!

There's something oddly satisfying about writing a line of text and having it unexpectedly roll over to a second page. It's like a well-welcomed surprise.

545 words. This concentrated writing hour is working.

9:32p
Phone call... Hmm... Decisions, decisions.

It's Alexis. Oh, may as well.

9:46p
Mandatory power hour completed.

Word count: 845. Halfway!

9:56p
Heart attack. After four beautiful, instrumental songs on the "Disney" playlist, Timon and Pumba's "Hula" just scared me half to death.

10:12p
Page three!

Word count: 1073

10:18p
...I just coded text. I literally just enclosed text in html tags.

Shows how often I write in Word.

10:29p
Hmm.. my computer doesn't know the word "hardass".

Neither does Blogger.

I know I've heard the term... :/

10:58p
Apparently, "mic" is not the correct abbreviation for microphone.

Word is so strange.

11:02p
I'm going to cut Rachel.

11:32p
Thoughts drained.

Final word count for day 1: 2152

.:~o*Kaylyn*~o:.

The Lion and the Gazelle: Part 1-The Lion

Every morning in Africa, the lion wakes up knowing he will have to outrun his pride if he wants to eat. The gazelle wakes up knowing he must outrun the lion if he wants to live. It doesn't matter if you are a lion or a gazelle, when the sun rises, are you ready to run?

Mr. Winston, the unlucky bastard, stood a full 6-feet tall when he was just fourteen years old. "You should play ball," everyone told him on account of his height. In high school, he was always picked first, no matter the sport, and it never failed to see him in the back row of every class picture.

Once, he was mistaken for a teacher on parent-faculty night and it took Robbie Johnston's mother a full 15 minutes before she realized she had addressing her concerns to "Little Nicky Winston from down the street." Apparently, Mrs. Johnston was confused about her son's D in chemistry as he spent hours locked up in his room "doing his assignments." He waved it off, knowing full well what Robbie did in his bedroom each night. It was the same thing every 14-year-old boy on Kernan Street had done at night in their bedroom with the door locked--and it was far from studying.

The glamour of being an athlete or the ability to buy beer for his friends (and, for a certain price, anyone else) in high school never much appealed to Mr. Winston. He longed for something more. Something would make a difference in the world. And while the lifestyle accompanied with dribbling a ball for a living had its promises, Mr. Winston's aspirations were just a bit higher. So, he went off to college.

There, he found it easy to be himself with no predetermined expectations holding him back. He was not the only tall kid on campus. He was not the only boy with facial hair. He wasn't even the only Nicholas Todd Winston. In three years' time, he graduated with all kinds of honors and awards so much so that he resembled a heavily-ordained Christmas tree in his deep green robe.

After all this, he still wanted more.

"I don't know," he sighed, placing his fourth shot glass on the bar at Mable's. "I just feel like something's missing--like I should be doing more."

Jason Reeves stared back at him with an incredulous look. Jason and Nicholas had been roommates in college and friends for years. While Nicholas had a double major in Business Management and Aacounting, Jason simply held a degree in Philosophy. The two often had hours-long converations before agreeing to disagree. Mr. Winston liked their contradicting opinions. Jason's views of the world were different than his, he thought for himself. He had always liked that about him.

"What do you mean? You want to own your own business or something?"

He shrugged. "Maybe."

Jason knocked back his second shot of tequila. "But you work for Abshire & Grant! Do you know how many people in our class would kill for that job? Seriously, I thought Carrie Hill was going to strangle you when Dr. Lee announced you had won won the internship."

That made him smile. Carrie Hill, for all her outer beauty, was a cold, conniving bitch. It was no secret that she slept her way through school only using her brain in classes taught by morally conscience female professors. There was a time, a period of about 3 days, when Carrie was absent from all her classes whcih struck all with concern. Carrie always showed up to class. Her may have been wrinkled, inside-out, or the same as the day before; her make up may have been smeared or missing altogether; her hair may have been a jumbled mess atop her hair usually loosely held together by a single office-grade rubber band--but she was always present in class.

"Maybe Professor Cunningham's keeping her locked up somewhere," offered one of their classmates.

"Yeah, he's a bit of a psycho." chimed in another.

"Or maybe his wife found out." chirped a third, causing the class to erupt with whispers and other possible reasons for Carrie's absence.

In the end, it was Ade Owusu, a premed student who worked part-time at the campus health center, who silenced the rumors. Carrie had an infection in an unsavory and unmentionable place. It required a 5-day prescription of antibiotic cream.

Carrie Hill...

Carrie Hill... Carrie Hill...

The bar faded back into view along with Jason's hand passing over his face.

"Man, you were really gone there. You okay?"

Mr. Winston knocked back yet another shot, savoring the burnign sensation in his throat and expanding in his chest before settling in the pit of his stomach. Soon, the lightheadedness would arrive and he would be forced to call a cab to take him 6 and 3/4 blocks to his apartment. "I think I'll head home." he said finally, tumbling off his bar stool.

"Need a lift?"

He shook his head. "No, no. I'll just call a cab."

Jason looked confused, then hurt. "It's 6 blocks. That's less than a mile."

"Six and three-quarter. City blocks. Besides, you live in the opposite direction."

That made Jason laugh. "Leave it to you to rationalize when you're drunk. Come on," he said taking hold of Nick's arm. He threw a stack of bills on the bar and continued dragging his intoxicated friend out the door.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

My name is Kaylyn.. and I'm a skipper

I'm beginning to think of chemistry like rehab for my laziness. If can push myself to go, I feel a little bit better about myself. And other people are beginning to take notice as well.

"I don't feel like going to chemistry today," I'll whine. "That's not good. You should try to go." is the usual response I'm met with. And, true, actually attending class has it's advantages. Especially when you take into account that nice safety net of an attendance grade he gives. (:

On the other hand, when I tell someone "I went to chemistry twice this week already," the reaction is quite different. "That's great! Gonna make it all week?" And I'll say I'll try but nothing's promised.. that I want to achieve my goal of going 3 times a week before the end of the semester--which, as it stands, I'm at 2/3 for this week and looking well for Friday--and they tend to encourage me further before I change the subject to something other than my carelessness.

Still, I wonder why I feel so apathetic about this class. It's been suggested to me that because I don't see myself using much chemistry as an English major with a hope to become a published author, I don't care. But is that really the reason? I mean, in high school, I still paid attention in chemistry (for the most part). And I knew then I wanted to be an author.

So is it the freedom of college that allows me to be so apathetic and lazy when it comes to chemistry? Or is it something completely different? I don't know.

But what I do know is that I am at least going to chemistry now. Paying attention... Well, that's another blog. :P

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

[And, yes, I wrote this while in chemistry. Poor professor thinks I'm typing notes. Bwahaha!]

And I shall call it Wildfire

Not that I've totally forgotten about NaNoWarMo.. But I have been thinking about my actual NaNo more and more. It's all about the planning. I know the title. Wildfire. And today, I started working on a synopsis (like what you'd find on the back of the book). Here's what I got so far:

(And, yes, I'm aware some of this may seem familiar)

Wildfire
n.

1. a raging, rapidly spreading fire
2. something that acts very quickly and intensely
3. any large fire that spreads rapidly and is hard to extinguish


Carly Jameson, still sunburned from her Christian youth group's camping trip, is thrown into another unfamiliar wilderness: high school.

Being knocked down to the bottom of the food chain is never easy, especially when your older sister has her 3-inch stiletto implanted firmly on your neck. Not to mention being hated by teachers who think you're just like her. The worst part being it's only 11am!

Carly is about to discover how one off-handed comment can be misinterpreted, repeated, interpreted again, repeated, and spread in the unending, vicious cycle known as gossip; the wildfire quickly consuming her school and life.

not enough / 20,000

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

[another] Shameless Plug

So... taking after Rachel, I'm going to promote my current writing aspiration here. Hopefully, my readers expand wider than my friends circle. Because I think they already know.


What I'd like you to do:

1:. Go to youchronicle.com

It's a place where you can post stories (fiction or non) for free. It's pretty cool. Very small (for now). But you can post, comment, and rate. So please take advantage of all. Especially the latter.

2:. Find me and Rachel.

Isianya and Miss A to Z, respectively.

3:. Rate and comment!

5 stars please! Haha. No, not really. But it'd really help us out. Like... A LOT. Thus far, we've both posted things you've already read so just rate and maybe leave a nice comment to bump us up to the first page.

That's about it. Thanks for your support!

201 / 20,000 (shush!)

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

What happened to us

I said I'd always love you
and, honestly, I tried.
I said I'd never leave you
but, obviously, I lied.

We had it all planned out,
just you and I.
We were going to take on the world
or at least give it a try.

Then the days grew longer
and the nights grew dim.
Then I met another
and I wanted only him.

Now we're truly happy
and every day's a blessing.
But you're always sad
and that's truly depressing.

We'll never be again
not even if we tried.
I couldn't say I love you
not even if I lied.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

What the hell is NaNoWarMo?

Sooo... It's officially October. Yay. Which means two things: Halloween, which I'm especially excited for this year considering my costume, and something I like to call "NaNoWarMo." Yes. NaNoWarMo.

NaNoWarMo is my own personal training period before NaNoWriMo. Instead of trying to hit the ground running in November trying to flesh out 50,000 words in 30 days, I'm going to do 20,000 words for the month of October as a warm up. Get it? NaNoWar-Mo. Yeah, I'm clever. Haha.

I'll try to post my progress and selective chapters/excerpts here. I won't make y'all muddle through all 20,000 words.

So here we go!

0/20,000

.:~*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

The Storm

The storm was approaching; fast and determined. Katherine sat at her window looking out at the dark clouds gathering outside her home. Inside, the storm that had been brewing downstairs finally exploded in a volley of screams and crashes louder than any thunder or lightning Mother Nature could beat out.

Dad was home from his "business trip" in Seattle. But not before Karen had called to inform him that he had forgot his tie in her hotel room.

"What the hell were you doing in her hotel room, Derrick?" Mom's voice rang out over the patter of raindrops now hitting Katherine's windowpane.

Dad's voice soon followed, low and steady. It crept up the stairs, gathering in a puddle in the hallway before just barely slipping under the crack in Katherine's door. "Would you stop screaming at me? Jesus! Calm down."

Something broke against the wall. Probably a wine glass. Or maybe one of their wedding dishes. Katherine had always hated that pattern. One less hideous dish to wash. She thought.

"I will not calm down until you tell me what the hell happened in Seattle. Did you sleep with her? Is that it?"

A long stroke of lighting flashed in the distance. Katherine studied it's crooked form. It looked as though there were too much energy within the bolt and it haphazardly fell to the ground, streaking the horizon with a brilliant white light.

"Answer the damn question!" Another broken glass.

I hope she doesn't think I'm cleaning that up.

"Watch where you're aiming, damn it!" Now Dad was yelling now too. He never yelled. At least not at Katherine. Like any man, he yelled at the tv during football games or in traffic. But never at her or her mother.

The rain was coming down in sheets now. It was hard to see the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

"Anne, how could you ask--"

"Are you?!"

A loud clap of thunder shook the house to its very foundation. Katherine jumped back from her window, lunging for her stuffed turtle. She held Mr. Slowpokes close to her chest, squeezing the metaphorical life from him. How she hated storms. And the worse part was still the come.

"I can't talk to you when you're like this."

"Like what? Like what, Derrick?! When I'm right?"

The rain was coming down harder than ever. And both her parents shouting over it-- over the rain, over the thunder, over their own insecurities.

"Arrgh!" Something vibrated downstairs. Dad had punched the wall. "You're my wife. We have a daughter--a family! You think I would throw that away?! We were working late. The restaurant in the hotel closed at nine and there were still forms due by morning. Karen's room was closest, so we worked there. I took off my shoes and tie. Nothing else!"

The rain began to subside. The violent storm was beginning to die away. The house was quiet long enough for Katherine to hear sirens in the distance. There were always accidents during storms. People drove recklessly, not taking the necessary precautions needed. She had heard her dad gripe about the people who insisted on speeding on the slick roads. "You see that car there? Mr. Gordon there will be wrapped around a telephone poll before long." he would say.

"Nothing else?"

The raindrops were slowly sliding down Katherine's window. She raced two of them, seeing which one would join its friends at the sill first. Her guess was wrong. But she took solace in that the storm was subsiding.

"Nothing else. I love you."

Sobs echoed from the kitchen. Her mother was crying. "I'm sorry. I just..."

"Shhh. It's alright. I should have called home more. I'll never give you a reason to worry again."

Outside, things were silent. Just like that, the storm was over. The calm was beginning to set in. Katherine lay on her back with her hands folded behind her head. Mr. Slowpokes' beady black eyes stared back at her from his perch on her stomach. She sighed, "I hate storms."

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Unwell

I haven't been writing much lately. Before, I couldn't write because I didn't need the escape. Happiness. Bliss. And I'm still happy. It just takes a lot more to make me smile these days. Before, waking up made me smile. It meant a new day of opportunities, another day of living, and one more day closer to going home. But now I wake up and want to cry...

I'm crying a lot more these days. On average, I'd say a "good" day is one when I manage to only cry twice. I can't explain it--maybe I'm depressed. Or it could just be stress taking its toll on me. I'm sleeping more too. Hours pass in one sleeping spell. That's not good.

My hair is falling out as well. At first, I thought it was normal. Just shedding or something. But I'm starting to find clumps tangled in the bristles of my brush.

Maybe I'm just a silly, emotional girl afterall.

Things set me off a lot more easily now. The other night, I was listening to music to calm me. To make myself sleepy because it was late and I needed my body to get used to sleeping at night after sleeping most of the day. One song sent me bawling, realizing how much I missed him. So I change to another song, which sings the story of us. And I cry some more because I realize how much I need him.

School is hard as well. That sends me into more crying fits. And that I know is stress. Or something. I'm a wreck. A shaky ball of nerves surrounded by anxiety sprinkled with stress.

Have people around me helps. When I'm in the company of others, things seem better. There's laughter. Even if it's not my own. It's something. I don't like being alone these days.

For those actually reading this, I'm sorry. Not my usual stuff, I know. I'm not one to talk about my feelings. Ever. I keep quiet, never wanting to be an inconvenience. Never wanting to ruffle any feathers. Never wanting to make things difficult on those I care about. No worries, right? But I have all these emotions moving around in me and I feel if I don't have some sort of release, I'm going to explode. Metaphorically, of course. I think. I hope.

Escape

I got really bored in the library today and found myself wanting an escape...

That Place

Let's return to that place
of innocence and immortality,
of candied clouds and frosted forests,
of delightful days and enchanting evenings,
of smiling suns and merry moons.

Oh, if we could return to that place
before the sorrow, before the pain,
without concern, without complain,
before corruption, before gain,
without darkness and without rain.

Can we return to that place?
Forget the lessons learned?
Run across the bridges burned?
Shall we reject wisdom?
Desire freedom?
Deny truth?
Accept youth?

Yes, let us return to that place
where all was well and good.
Let's return to that magical place
I think it's called childhood.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Alone

Okay, so I'm trying to get better at writing by trying new things. This is my attempt at two things: writing in the present (fully) and writing about "real life" (as opposed to fantasy or period pieces). You know the drill: read and comment.

...

I never feel more alone than when I'm around other people. I'm not crazy. I know I'm not crazy. In fact, I'm quite brilliant at times. But no one knows that except my closest friends and family who've known me for years. I'm not too good at meeting new people.

I have what's called Social Anxiety Disorder--ironically becoming the acronym SAD, which is how I feel most of the time after being forced to meet new people.

Dr. Clark said my "condition" causes me to feel panicked in social situations with large groups of people, especially if those people are strangers. She continued by giving me a long speech littered with medical jargon and lawyer two-face talk but I stopped listening after a certain point (There was a bird hopping on her outer windowsill that held my attention). Our first session ended with her telling me because there isn't much known about my disorder, there's no clinical reason to medicate me.

I guess the problems started in college. I had always been a little shy in high school but I still managed to make some really good, life-long friends. So I never thought I had any trouble with new people. But once we graduated and dissipated to different cities, that all changed. I stayed close to home and went to the state college, thinking that maybe if I stayed close to my roots, I'd have more in common with the people I'd encounter. I was wrong.

Move in day was hell. As I tried to learn the campus on my own, I was constantly bombarded with tens of new, smiling faces asking me if I needed help. They wore bright red shirts with JUST ASK ME printed in bold white lettering. They may as well have been holding flashing neon signs reading STAY AWAY. I guess they were just trying to be friendly. But, to me, it just came off as creepy. Every time one of the red shirts approached me, I could feel my heart pounding harder. When one particularly overly-friendly girl came up to me, waving wildly and flipping her bleached blonde hair about, I literally thought I would faint. "Are you new?" she asked me. Before I could answer, a slew of new questions flew from her mouth. "Freshman? Do you stay on campus? Which residence hall are you looking for? Here, let me show you on that map you're clutching!" I politely shook my head, dropping my eyes back down to the ground and continued to my dorm.

It took me twenty minutes to find the right building. But I was glad to be free of the welcoming committee.

That was about six years ago now...

I share a nice, three-bedroom apartment that overlooks the park with some girls from work. The company owns the whole building and HR works very hard to place people together that share something in common. Connor, a guy I met junior year at college who also interned for the company and eventually got a job there like me, ended up sharing his apartment with guys who had a passion for football. And every Monday night, like clockwork, their apartment is a roar of laughter and cheer. Other than being female, I share nothing with these girls.

Angela (or "Angie" as she insists I call her), the girl whose room is just down the hall from me, is a very attractive and fun-loving woman. She has friends from all over the country who come to visit often, which makes me a bit nervous. But I never say anything because she lives there too, and I feel it's a bit selfish to deny her the joy of having friends over just because I have trouble making new friends. Meg, our other roommate, usually finds some excuse to leave the apartment for hours when Angie's friends are over to avoid the whole awkward situation of being introduced as a butch lesbian--which Angela let slip one very drunken night when Meg returned to get her wallet.

Tonight, Angela's friend Tony.. Tommy..? Todd... Ted... someone is coming in from Seattle and wants to "just swing by for an hour or two before catching his flight in the morning." I look over at Meg, who's already checking movie times on her iPhone.

"What about you, Jeannie?" Angela asks. I've told her thousands of times it's Jeanine. But she has this thing about nicknames.. I can't figure it out.

"Yeah, sure, it's fine." I say, wondering if Meg wants company for her movie.

"I swear it'll only be a couple of hours. Tim has an early flight out tomorrow morning. But we haven't seen each other in two years. Oh, he's going to be so excited!" She flutters off to her room, dialing Tim on her way down the hall. From the kitchen, Meg and I can hear her giggling like a schoolgirl as she invites him over.

Meg sighs. "In that case, I better make that a double feature."

I pray it won't be that bad.

When seven o'clock rolls around, I'm in my room with the door open (a simple thing Connor told me to do to "show the girls I was more open") reading a book. After knocking, Meg pokes her head in. "Angie's painting on her face," she inclines her head towards the bathroom. "Last chance. Sure you don't wanna join me? I was thinking of getting some dinner at that place you told me about last week. You know the one."

Poor thing, she's trying so hard. Since I've never brought any guys over other than Connor that one time, I guess she thinks she has a chance. "No, thank you. It's only a couple of hours. I'll be fine. Jodi and I can manage until then."

Meg frowns a bit. "Picoult again? Suit yourself." With that, she turns and leaves the doorway. I hear the door open and shut right after each other. I wait until I can hear the jingle of her keys lock the door back before returning to my novel.

Click click click click click. Angela flies down the hall wearing a black dress that leaves little to the imagination, a face full of make up, and bright red heels with a matching bracelet. Click click. She backtracks to my door. "Oh, you're still here. I thought I had the place to myself tonight. Is it alright if we use the living room and kitchen tonight? Tim wants to make me something he picked up in Italy. And then we'll probably watch a movie."

I nod, wondering how that would take "only a couple of hours." Damn, I should have went with Meg.

There's a knock at the door and Angela moves quickly--too quickly for someone in heels and a dress, if you ask me--to answer. "Shit. He's early." The door opens and I hear not one, but two male voices.

"I hope you don't mind, Angie, but I brought along my buddy, Robert. We met at a sports' bar downtown. Turns out he's in Chicago on business as well." says the first voice.

Angie clears her throat. And though I'm all the way in my room, I swear I can hear the fabric of her dress being pulled down as she realizes the night not going where she originally planned. "Oh, sure, the more the merrier! Robert, is it?"

"Anyone as pretty as you can call me Robbie." His voice is like silk. He's a smooth talker like so many of the men Angela parades through the apartment. Perhaps the night will go well for her after all. They all laugh hardily and the sound of three pairs of feet move across the living room floor. Angela offers the guys wine and they both accept.

Forty pages later, Robbie has become a regular Adam Sandler, sending both Angela and Tim into fits of laughter with sentences that just make me roll my eyes with their simplicity and vulgarity.

"Say, Angie, where's your bathroom?"

"Oh, just down the hall." I hear the sound of her bracelets chime as she extends her arm. There's the shift of a bar stool and I hear footsteps approach my door. "And don't you go poking your head in my room!" she calls after him.

"Got something to hide? Hm.. I think I may need to take a piss, too, now that I think about it." Another bar stool shift, followed by the click of Angela's heels.

"Don't you dare!" More laughter.

I intentionally bury my head further into my book, wanting to avoid contact with Tim at all costs. He's a stranger. And, worse off, he's been drinking. Heavily. He passes by my door without saying a word. Good. The toilet flushes. I wait for the sound of the faucet, but it doesn't come. The bathroom door swings open and he returns to the party.

Robbie and Angela stop whatever they were doing quickly because the living room becomes eerily still. "You got a roommate?"

Her voice is lowered but I can make out a "yeah" and something about shyness. Taking the cue, Tim lowers his voice too and says something about rudeness. Robbie, seeming to forget his manners at the bottom of his glass pipes in. "Well, hell, there are more women here! Oh, Angie, I'm offended."

My heart begins pounding. I start trying to calculate the speed of a 20-something year old male with an impaired sense of mobility against that of a 23 year old female. If I could just make it to my door before him... But before I could throw my book on my nightstand, there was Robbie at my door. He leaned against the door frame a bit for support as he examined me. "Evenin'," he says, his voice not as smooth when he's slurring words.

"Uh, hi."

"I'm so sorry," Tim appears in the doorway tugging on Robbie's arm. Now there are two strange men at my door. Lovely. "Please forgive my friend. He's drunk. I'm sorry. He won't bother you anymore. Come on, let's go."

"Wait just a minute," he says taking his arm back, "Now, I believe you owe us any apology, missy."

I don't like this. Where the hell is Angela? Can't she control her guests for God's sake? My hands are shaking, I can hear the pages of my book rattling in the wake of all the motion.

"And why is that?" I ask, trying my best to sound confident even though I'm quite sure I'm suffering from a minor heart attack at the moment.

"Well," he says trying to take a step forward into my bedroom but is thankfully held back by Tim. "Here you are, keeping all that cuteness to yourself while we suffer in agony up there."

"I heard that!" Angela calls back. "Leave my poor roommate alone, you two. She obviously doesn't want to come out and play." Oh God, she's drunk. Either that or she's doing that giddy-girl thing that she often does. It's hard to tell with Angela.

After some coaxing from Tim, Robbie sighs and begins backing away from my door. "Alright, alright, I'll go. But the offer still stands, little lady." He winks at me.

I shake the dirty feeling from my body and quickly shut my door, turning the lock. Their voices are muffled now. Ten pages from now, they will cease to exist in my mind. Dr. Clark tells me it's good to escape, to try to imagine myself in a far away place when I become panicked like this. It's worked so far. I return to my book, gladly welcoming the soothing sound of Jodi's voice in my head as I scan the words on the page. Goodbye Angela. Goodbye Tim. Goodbye Robbie. Goodbye Chicago. Goodbye fear.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Wait, what?

I've been told that I "talk funny." Or differently. Or, if you're my sister, I talk "like a book." Which, I find funny because I always talk when I write. That is, I say things as I'm typing them, so my writing often reflects my speech. I just never thought it could work the other way around as well.

Anyway, it has come to my attention that, yes, I do use words differently. Or use words as I have come to understand them (which is often wrong). But there are some words and phrases that I fully understand and irk me when I hear people say them.

So here's my placeholder blog/rant about things that I have actually witnessed people say that make me stop and go, "Wait, what?":

1. came out of nowhere

This is usually used by some new-licensed teenager describing the events leading to cause of the dent in their parents' car. I swear, I was being careful but this truck came out of nowhere and just BAM! Sorry to disappoint you, kid, but the truck (or whatever) did, in fact, come from somewhere. It had to. Everything comes from somewhere. Nothing comes from nowhere. You just didn't see it.

For it to "come out of nowhere" or "come from nowhere," the truck would have literally had to materialize before your eyes seconds before impact. And even in that case, it existed somewhere before being hurled through the space-time continuum and hitting you. And even then, it still came from somewhere. Some place. Some time. Some date. You just don't know where/when that is.

Or is it because you didn't see it, it didn't exist in your mind until it was damaging the paint job on your daddy's new toy and forever crushing your chances of extending your curfew? And if that's so, that's quite... interesting, actually. Things we don't see, don't hear, don't experience can't exist to us. Right?

Whoah, I'm getting off subject here. I talk with many tangents and, like I said, it's reflected in my writing. Right then, back on target:

2. alone together

I heard this on some trashy teenage drama one night in my dorm. Alone. Together. Textbook definition of oxymoron. Yet, it's still used. Usually, by some seductive female lead trying not to break her newly-botoxed face(less she expose the fact she's really 26 still portraying an 18 year old) as she strategically strokes the arm of the overly muscular male lead who seems to have a problem keeping his shirt on. Which begs the question: Shouldn't you know better than to use phrases like that?

3. you know

You know how people overly use a certain word or phrase? Like.. uhm.. kinda how.. you know? Or use said word or words as a period and you're left wondering if they're actually finished or have just misplaced their train of thought, you know. So, there you are, trying to remain cordial and not cut them off but you're just staring at each other, you know. My usual response is, "No, I don't know," you know? Hence the reason we're discussing, you know?

---

There are more. But I would have to hear them and be reminded. And I know I'm guilty of saying things that are incorrect as well. Very often, in fact. But I try to correct myself. Try. Sometimes.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Wildfire

I'm beginning to lose faith in people. Quickly. Why should I continue to give people the best of me when all I get in return in the worst of them? Isn't it possible for me to just live my life without commentary from those who should just mind their own business? I mean, is your life so pathetically empty that you need to discuss someone else's? Mine. What pleasure will come to you by destroying my reputation? What reward? What... point?

So, yeah, Hawkins is dealing with some drama. But I won't let it get me down (more than it already has). Shouldn't complain about inspiration, I guess.

Wildfire
n

1. a raging, rapidly spreading fire
2. something that acts very quickly and intensely
3. any large fire that spreads rapidly and is hard to extinguish
___________

"Wildfire"
(This was originally meant to be a poem. Now it's... an extended metaphor. My feelings are too jumbled to fit into a nice, pretty poem.)

It only takes a spark to light a fire; one moment of carelessness and disregard to start the heated flames. And once they catch light, there is no stopping the birth of a wildfire-- Flames are teeming with hatred and pettiness, devouring everything in its path. Honesty falls victim to the destruction; Truth lost in the chaos and dismay. The once hopeful and innocent skies are now darkened with the thick, black clouds swirling above the smoldering ashes of once happy lives. There is nothing that can quell a wildfire's hunger for more. More destruction. More chaos. More anger. Burn, wildfire, burn.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Dear John

Haha. This made me lol. And it was fun.

Dear Glenn,

I don’t really know how to tell you this, but our romance is over. I think I realized it last year when you peed your pants in your car and I saw you hit on my salt-beef bucket. I’m sure you’re middle class enough to understand that Santa doesn’t exist. I’m returning the couch cushions to you, but I’ll keep the results of that blood-sample as a memory. You should also know that I always wanted to break your legs and I haunt you when I’m reincarnated as an Eskimo.

Go drown,
Kaylyn.
_____________

Want your own?

1) What's the color of your shirt?
Blue - I'm in love with your cat
Red - Our affair is over
White - I’m joining the Convent
Black -Our romance is over
Green- Our socks don't match
Grey - You're a leprechaun
Yellow - I'm selling myself for candy
Pink - Your nostrils are insulting
Brown - The mafia wants you
No color - Purple hedgehogs want to destroy you
Other -I dislike your eyelashes

2) Which is your birth month?
January - That night you picked your nose
February -When I quoted Forest Gump
March - When your dwarf bit me
April - When I tripped on peanut butter
May - When I finally changed my underwear
June - When you put cuffs on me
July – When I saw the purple monkey
August - When you smacked my butt
September - Last year when you peed your pants
October - When we skinny dipped in the bathtub
November - When your dog humped my leg
December - When I threw up in your sock drawer

3) Which food do you prefer?
Tacos - In your apartment
Chicken- In your car
Pasta -Outside of your office
Hamburgers - Under the bus
Salad – As you were eating Kraft Dinner
Lasagna - Outside the mental hospital
Kebab - With Jean Chrétien
Seafood - In your closet
Sandwiches - At the Elton John concert
Pizza - At the mental hospital
Hot dog - Under a street light
Annat- With George Bush and Stephen Harper

4) What's the color of your socks?
Yellow - Ignore
Red - Put whipped cream on
Black - Hit on
Blue - Knock out
Purple - Pour syrup on
White - Carve your initials into
Grey - Pull the clothes off
Brown - bite off
Orange - Castrate
Pink - Pull the pants off of
Barefoot - Sit on
Other - Drive over

5) What's the color of your underwear?
Black - My boyfriend
White - My father
Grey – The Catholic Priest
Brown – The Montreal Canadian’s goalie
Purple - My corned beef hash
Red – My knee caps
Blue - My salt-beef bucket
Yellow - My illegitimate child in Ghana
Orange - My Blink 182 cd
Pink – Your ‘My Little Pony’ collection
Other --The elephant in the corner

6) What do you prefer to watch on TV?
One Tree Hill - Senile
Heroes- Frostbitten
Lost - High
Simpsons- Cowardly
The news - Scarred
American Idol - Masochistic
Family Guy - Open
Top Model - Middle-class
Annat -shamed

7) Your mood right now?
Happy - How awful you are
Sad - How boring you are
Bored - That I get turned on only by garbage men
Angry - That your smell makes me vomit
Depressed – That we’re related
Excited - That I may pee my pants
Nervous - The middle-east is planning their revenge on you
Worried - That your Ford sucks
Apathetic - That you need a sex-change
Silly - That I'm allergic to your earlobes
Sleepy - That Santa doesn't exist
Ashamed - That there is no solution to you being a dumb kid
Other - That your driving sucks

8) What's the color of your walls in your bedroom?
Grey - Your toe ring
Yellow - Your love letters to me
Red - The pictures from Vegas
Black - Your pet rock
Blue - The couch cushions
Green - Your car
Orange - Your false teeth
Brown - Your nose hair clippers
White - Our matching snoopy underwear
Purple - Your old New Kids on the Block blanket
Pink - The cut toenails
Other - Your Hannah Montana underwear

9) The first letter of your first name?
A/B - Your neighbours dog
C/D - Your photo with the mustache drawn on it
E/F - My virginity
G/H - The oil tank from your car
I/J - Your left ear
K/L - The results of that blood-sample
M/N - Your glass eye
O/P - My common sense
Q/R - Your mom
S/T - Your collection of butterflies
U/V - Your criminal record
W/X – Your sucide note
Y/Z - Your credit cards

10) The last letter in your last name?
A/B - Love your sweet, sweet butt
C/D - Always will remember the pep talks
E/F -Never will forget that night
G/H – Will not tell the authorities that you stole the whale from the backyard.
I/J – Mocked you behind your back constantly
K/L - Hate your cooking
M/N - Told in my confession today about the moose poaching
O/P - Told my psychiatrist about the bruises
Q/R - Get sick when I think of your feet
S/T - Always wanted to break your legs
U/V - Will try to forget that you broke my heart
W/X - Am better off without you
Y/Z – haven't showered in a month

11) What do you prefer to drink?
Wine- Our friendship is ruined
Soft drink – I’m off to lead a new life as a lemon
Soda – I will haunt you when I’m reincarnated as an Eskimo
Milk - The apartment building is on fire
Water – I'm scratching my butt as you read this
Cider– I have a passionate interest for mice
Juice – You ruined my attempts at another world war.
Snapple/Vitamin water – You should get that embarrassing rash checked out
Hot chocolate – Your Cucumber-fetishism is weird
Whiskey - I love Oprah Winfrey
Beer – I threw up yesterday
Other – you should stop picking your nose

12) To which country would you prefer to go on a vacation?
Thailand – Greetings to your frog, Leonard
Australia - best of luck on the sex change
France - Love always
Spain - With tears of sadness
China – You make me sick
Germany – Please don’t hurt me
Japan - Go milk a cow
Greece - Your everlasting enemy
USA - Warm tingly sensations
Egypt – Kiss my butt
England - Go drown

Dear(someone you recently talked to),
I don't really know how to tell you this, but (1). I think I realized it (2)(3) and I saw you(4)(5) I'm sure you're (6) enough to understand (7). I'm returning (8) to you, but I'll keep (9) as a memory. You should also know that I (10) and (11)
(12),
(Your name)

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Just look up, baby, it's in the stars..

So... There's really nothing to "report." No story to tell. No poem to post. I'm still happy; smiling and laughing everyday because of him. It's bliss. But I refuse to neglect this and let it die. Besides, if I don't train myself to write frequently I am going to become one poor author in the future.. or one rich stripper.. Hmmmm....

ANYWAYZ... A friend led me to this link. And I think it's pretty accurate. Scarily accurate. It's a little long, so I'll spare you and bold the parts I found interesting that pertain to me. I just find it intriguing that my entire personality is influenced by what sign I was born under. It makes me wonder how much different I would have been if I had been born just 3 days later...

[from mysticalblaze.com/Astrology.htm]

Virgo is a Mutable Earth sign, ruled by Mercury. As the sixth sign of the zodiac, and the only sign represented by a woman, the Virgo individual is reliable, industrious, intelligent, and practical, adhering to standards that are quite high in virtually all aspects of their lives. Famous and historical figures sharing Virgo traits are Mother Teresa (August 27), Michael Jackson (August 29), Ivan the Terrible (September 4), and President William H. Taft (September 15).

The Virgo personality is a complex mix of intelligence, common sense, attention to detail, and commitment. This is a down-to-earth sign with a strong sense of responsibility, especially with regard to family and close friends. Although they are described as orderly and neat in most personality profiles, the modern day Virgo may not always stand out from the crowd in the neatness department. However, even if the Virgo's house or office is not always in perfect order, you can be sure that they still know where to instantly find whatever they need, despite it being hidden in a pile somewhere. The real stand-out feature of the Virgo personality is their commitment to excellence in everything they do. This is a person who once committed to a given task, will complete it to the very best of his ability. If something goes wrong, and the task is incomplete or not perfectly done, it will be on Virgo's mind for some time to come. Virgos can be quite critical of perceived flaws in others, but do not take kindly to criticism themselves. They are very aware of body and health, and will take a dim view of comments related to the physical, such as weight gain or acne, of which they are already painfully aware. If life becomes too complicated or their already fragile ego is damaged, Virgo may become depressed to the point of immobilization at home, but will probably still function perfectly in the workplace. Virgo tends to be fairly careful with money and usually won't be caught without at least a small nest egg tucked away somewhere.

For those with a Virgo child, you have an energetic, talkative, analytic kid who may show maturity beyond his years starting at an early age. These kids are constantly seeking out new activities, and require a constant stream of books and projects to keep them from becoming bored. Your Virgo child will actually appreciate it when you give him household tasks to complete, and will generally do a good job with them, asking many questions along the way so he can do the best job possible. Be sure not to criticize if his job does not turn out just right, however, as this will deflate his ego and he will not likely want to try again any time soon. It's better with a Virgo to just talk about the nuts and bolts of how you accomplish the same task. Virgo children are somewhat shy when confronted with new situations, so providing them with opportunities to socialize with other kids is an important part of their upbringing. Virgos will do well in school due to their industrious nature and determination. This is a willing little worker who should be supported fully in any direction in which he shows interest, such as music or science. The Virgo child should do well as far as relationships within the family, unless there is a sibling with traits that he just cannot abide, such as a critical, pushy, or messy brother or sister. In cases like this, giving the Virgo child a place of his own that he can retreat to is always a good idea.

Virgo in the workplace is generally a dream come true. These are intelligent, industrious, detail-oriented people who don't mind having superiors and who will be active team members as long as they are provided with the tools needed to do the job correctly. In general, they are routine-oriented, doing their jobs the same way and in the same order day after day, and this shouldn't be interfered with or they will be thrown off balance. Virgo may seem bossy and controlling at work at times, but this is not about ego - they are not striving to be the top dog. Rather, they have an inner clock by which they work, and anyone that interferes is dealt with appropriately according to their Virgo standards. Virgo is a star in the workplace when all their elements are intact - workspace that is organized and tidy, head organized and tidy, and body organized and tidy. If anything becomes out of kilter, their performance could vary somewhat, but not so much in the workplace as in their personal lives, which can often become a chaotic mess because of their strong inborn sense of orderliness and the world in general not falling into line.

If you have found a romantic partner in Virgo, you have found a classy, intelligent, and witty partner indeed. You may have some trouble landing that Virgo, as they do tend to look before they leap, but when they do take the plunge, they do it with gusto. Once you are in a committed relationship with Virgo, you will have a partner that is willing to work to please you as long as you remember not to step on their sense of routine and order. Virgo doesn't mind you taking the lead, but will buck if you disturb their sense of how things should be around the household. A simple rule of thumb is take care of your Virgo, and your Virgo will take care of you!

The best matches for Virgo are Taurus, Capricorn, and another Virgo (Virgos tend to understand each other). Cancer, Leo, Libra, and Scorpio might work well for some individuals. It will likely be tough going with Gemini, Sagittarius, and Pisces.

Virgo in any relationship will be a diligent, hard worker who once imbedded in the friendship will go the extra mile when needed. Virgos are fairly critical and can tend to be nit-picky, but if you understand and accept this, they will be good friends who will amaze you with their wit and creativity. Be careful not to step on your Virgo friend's ego, as they may go into a tailspin. Many a Virgo has retreated to alcohol and drugs to lick open wounds. All in all, however, your Virgo friend will be an asset and an ally who will allow you to take the lead if you have proven to be a trusted entity in their lives.

_______

Weird, huh?

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

The Journey

For best results, read aloud. Enjoy!

The Journey

I take the road less travelled
not knowing where it will end
rejecting the guided path
and hoping to find a friend.
A companion to share this journey
and one to hold my hand.
One who will lead me
when my own certainty fails to command.
But the road has room for only one
to travel aimlessly into the rising sun.
I cry out to the sky
and reach out for the wind
regretting the good-byes
and praying this journey will soon end.
And when the journey is done
when all the steps have been taken
I will emerge
reborn
refreshed
and awakened.
I will look back upon the bridges
now ablaze with change
their smoldering ashes
whispering my name
calling me back to the past
and beckoning my presence
and refuse
for I have learned my lesson.
The road less travelled now lies beneath my feet
but the journey is now
ever-changing
ever-growing
and incomplete.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Great Scott!

I think I've got it!

I think I've finally figured out why I'm having so much trouble writing. This may sound dumb, but it's happiness. I'm so happy now. The reason I write (and read) so much is because it's always been my escape. My reading/ writing was the one place I controlled, my safe place. But now, I've become so blissfully happy that I don't want to escape. I like my life as is.

And it's going to stay like this for a while...

So I'm sorry for those of you who have enjoyed my shorts and poems usually found here. Though, I'll probably have some poems in the future. :)

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

[Still] Too lazy to type

Yes, it's two videos. The first take started doing some weird time skip stuff towards the end.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*O~:.

You know when you're sitting in class, distracted by something else? Not really wanting to be there? So you let your mind wander, imaging yourself someplace else? Creating another, parallel world similar to your own only more.. entertaining? Yeah. This is that:


With every word, I feel the teacher degrading me, judging me. She's eying me, glaring at me. She knows I didn't do my work and whatever flimsy excuse I conjured in the hallway, she's ready to shoot down. Even her hand gestures are intimidating She's pointing, accusing. Why didn't you do your work? What's with you? Shape up!

Her eyes are ablaze with accusation, boring into my very core; reducing me to a pathetic mass, huddled in a dark corner of unworthiness. That's what she wants, to throw me out of her class, casting me off as a sorry excuse for a student. She can't bear to look at me and I'm too ashamed to raise my head to face her.

Her words keep coming. The class is participating. They know as well. They hate me for showing up. They hate me for the hours they spent slaving over their desks and notes while I did God knows what all evening. They won't look at me. They're too good, too studious, to waste their time sending me a chastising word or even a glare. Dear God, I wish they would glare! Just one, sinister, cold-hearted glare. But, no, they're too focused on the work before them, too engaged with the teacher. They're saying, "See this is how it is done. This is how a student behaves." Their chants grow louder and louder in my head until it's one deafening ringing noise.

Damnit, where is that bell? Where is the shining beacon of hope that will save me from this torture? 2:57. Three more minutes. 180 agonizing seconds before I'm freed.

Outside, people are in the hall. They're talking, laughing, communicating with one another. How I yearn to join them! To be free...

I'm staring at the door now, longing apparent on my face. I'm wondering if I can master the art of astral projection in less than 3 minutes. I think I can, I think I can. There's no place like... anywhere but here.

BRRRINGG!

Hallelujah! I leap to my feet, bag in hand, bounding for the door.

"Uh... Miss Johnson?"

Shit.

"Would you mind coming here for a moment?"

Yes, actually, I mind very much. "Yes ma'am?"

"Were you absent yesterday? I don't have you marked... but I'm missing your assignment."

Relief washed over my being. I smiled inwardly. "Why, yes, yes ma'am, I was."

"Can you turn in your assignment tomorrow, then?"

I could have kissed her! "I'll have it on your desk by 8am, if you like."

She smiled. "That won't be necessary. Just turn it in when you can."

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

About the Author

A good friend of mine once said (something to the effect of), “Everything I can’t say, I put quotes around.”

Which, after recognizing and deeply appreciating the irony, I found myself agreeing with fully.

Everything I can’t say, I (too) put quotes around. I make it rhyme. I put it in verse. Situations I don’t want to face, I place in a distant world of my own creation. True stories and instances I don’t want to be questioned about because I’m just not ready, I label Shorts. It’s not so much sweeping under the rug as it is… giving welfare to corporations and calling it a bailout. A rose by any other name would still… suck as much.

I’ve been avoiding writing, I’ve noticed. Which is funny because it’s what I do, right? It’s what I love. It’s on the top of the very short list of things I’m actually good at. It’s… God, it’s writing! And, as I’ve said before and still stick by, writing makes it real. Really, really real. Writing makes it possible for your deepest fears to stare you back in the face with every bit of brutal honesty 26 letters can carry. And that scares me.

But if I won’t face it, and I can’t write about it… I’m at a loss. A loss for words. A loss for action. I’m lost.

I pride myself on being able to blur the line between fact and fiction. And now, it is that very talent which is becoming my downfall. I can’t hide my thoughts and feelings behind my words, rhymes, verses, stanzas, or stories anymore.

It’s funny. When I was growing up, my grandmother and some of my older aunts had a saying for when someone was lying: “You’re storyin’.” Ah, the mystical wisdom of elders…

.:~o*’Kaylyn’*o~:.

That Girl

That Girl

All alone, night calls
Warm embrace, silence falls
Hearts freeze, then reclaim their beat
Won’t let those feelings unfurl
because I’m not that girl

Hands shaking, knees weak
Can’t move, won’t speak
Butterflies dancing wildly inside
Trying my best to hide and remain shy
You are that guy
But I’m not that girl

Spoken words send the face burning
Unspoken and the soul is a-yearning
For you
For me
Together
As it should be
Lost in Cupid’s world:
That boy
and that girl

Hands grip, biting lip
Too afraid to kiss
Too afraid to slip

I’m not that girl
I never will be
My future’s only filled with closed doors
My hands are tied and my heart is not free
To be the girl I want to be:
Yours.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Family Ties

“Joanne? Joanne, pick up, it’s Mom. Joanne? Hello? …Listen, we’re all at the hospital right now. Your sister just gave birth. A perfectly healthy boy. Joshua Tyler Warrington; 7 pounds, 5 ounces. Where are you? Joanne? Call me when you get this. We’ll be at the hospital all night. Please come by. Your sister really wants to see you.” Beep.

Your sister really wants to see you. Now there was a laugh. My sister, Joyce, never wanted to see me. Ever since I was born three years after her glorious arrival, it’s been a constant tug-of-war between the two of us. And when I say tug-of-war, I mean I’m left with my face in the mud while Joyce twirls the rope in her hands before tying a Girl Scout knot and rescuing a kitty from a tree. True story. Family reunion of ’93. I was 7.

Things got worse when she off to college. She’d call home every week to tell Mom and Dad how great her classes were going and how exciting Boston was. I swear they would wait by the phone for those calls. I guess I should thank Joyce for occupying our parents’ time so that they didn’t seem to notice when my grades starting slipping, when I got my first hickey, or when that boy ran past them in the kitchen that one time from upstairs. Especially that last one. He was a babe.

It came as no surprise to me when Joyce graduated in three years instead of four and was instantly snatched up by some prestigious law firm on the East Coast. She was always so damn perfect. That’s where she met Jonathon Warrington III. He was some rising star in the firm who “just swept Joyce off her feet in one glance.” A few years later, they were married. The whole idea made me gag.

When Joyce got married, I wasn’t the maid of honor—not that I wanted to be. No, that was her roommate from college, Chrissy, the beauty queen. If you ask me, the title seems a little crazy for a 28-year-old. But don’t tell her that or she’ll freak. Believe me. I wasn’t a bridesmaid either. Jonathon had four sisters: Layce, Chasity, Bambi, and Barbie. Or as I liked to call them: Legs, Chest, Blonde, and—well, Barbie actually worked for that one. Apparently, Joyce thought I was “gallivanting about the country with my rock star boyfriend” that weekend. I didn’t bother telling her I only dated Tommy, the bass player of a local band, for about a month and a half before I found him in my apartment with the lead singer, Amy. And we never traveled anywhere together in that time. He was always rehearsing. With Amy. I really should have seen that one coming.

I figured my parents wanted just one weekend where they didn’t have to explain to everyone why I didn’t have a decent job because I didn’t graduate from college since I completed high school at an alternative school due to that mix-up at that gas station with Rick and his buddies. Joyce was quick to remind me accessory was just as bad as a robbery itself—something she learned in her law class. Of course, my parents jumped on her side before I could plead my case. If I had to hear about how much trouble I could have been in if the owner of the gas station had gotten hurt one more time, I was going to scream.

And now they were procreating. Joy. I sighed, staring down at the stack of bills piled high on the kitchen counter.

“You’re really not going, are you?”

“Hm?”

I had almost forgotten Davis was sleeping on my couch this week. I was too busy avoiding my family. There were twelve messages on the machine. “Joyce is going into labor, Joanne!” “Joanne? Visiting hours are about to be over. Are you coming?” “Joanne, answer me! I know you’re home…”

“Your sister’s kid,” he said, making his way towards the fridge. “You’re really not going to see it, are you? Wow, you’re cold.”

“You don’t know my sister.”

“You’re right,” he pulled a beer from the bottom shelf and opened it. “But I do know she is your sister. And like it or not, she’s still the only one you’ve got.” He took a big sip, waiting for me to thank him for his bit of wisdom. I hated when he did that.

“Right. And now you’re going to tell me how she was the only one to write me when we were in that alternate school together. How my parents refused to come and see me on visitation days because they always said the commute was too much for them and Joyce’s letters were the only thing from home I had…”

He raised his eyebrows and twisted his mouth into that sly smile.

“Shut up and get your keys.”

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait heir?

Qu'est-ce que vous avez fait heir? This was all my French teacher wrote on the board today before we started to "play a little game." The object of this game was to help us practice and recognize the passe composse. Little did I know, this would turn out to be one of the most exciting and creative classes so far in the semester.

The question means (more or less) "What did you do yesterday?" My professor proceeded in telling us that we, as a class, could make up a story using the past tense about two characters. All we had to do was tell what happened (in English) and she'd write it on the board for us to see (in French).

This "game" started out innocently enough: Our two characters being Jacques Cousteau and Isabelle Clouseau. Soon, after the initial shyness and fear of saying something wrong wore off--all of five minutes--we discovered that Jacques was a superhero. And here is where it got interesting. This is the story that Dr. Carter's French 101, section 02 class wrote (skip down to the bottom for the English translation):

Je me suis lévé à 18h00 après une nuit de lutter contre la crime. J'ai mis mon cape (de violet et du vert). J'ai mis mon costume de superhéro. J'ai bu du nitrogen avant de sortir manger au restaurant avec mon meilleur ami Hancock.

Ils étaient des comarades de chambre à l'université des supérhéros. Ils étaient tout deux amoureux avec Isabelle à l'université mais elle est devenue une villaine, donc ils ont du travailler ensemble pour la battre.

...

Isabelle est entreé dans le restaurant pendant leur repas. Elle avait en rendezvous avec le Joker. Ils ont discuté leur plan de conquérir la Terre.

"Dis, mon frére: Il faut les arreter!"

Jacques est d'accord, donc Hancock a arraché le bar, et il l'a jeté aux villains. Jacques a utilisé sa vision de lasers de fondre le métal dans les portes pour empêcher que les gens sortent. Le Joker a jété une de ses bomboes de fumée et ils se sont echappés par la cuisine.

Quand Jacques et Hancock sont arrivés dans la cuisine, ils ont trouvé une note. La note disait:

Pourquoi si serieux? Tu es faché parce que j'ai volé ta femme?

signé: le Joker

...À continuer dans les adventures fantastiques de Jacques et Hancock!

___________

English version:

I get up at 6p after a night of fighting crime. I put on my cape (purple and green). I put on my superhero costume. I drink liquid nitrogen before going out to eat with my best friend, Hancock.

They were college roommates at Superhero College. They both were in love with Isabelle at college but she turned into a villain, so they now work together to defeat her.

...

Isabelle entered the restaurant during the meal. She has a date with the Joker. They are discussing their plan to take over the world.

"Say, my brother: We have to stop them!"

Jacques agreed, then Hancock took the bar and threw it at the villains. Jacques used his laser vision to melt the metal over the door so they (the villains) couldn't leave. The Joker threw one of his smoke bombs and they (him and Isabelle) escaped threw the kitchen.

When Jacques and Hancock arrived in the kitchen, they found a note. The note read:

Why so serious? You mad because I stole your girl?

signed, The Joker

To be continued.... in the fantastic adventures of Jacques and Hancock!

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Because you're someone alive today, I can live to see tomorrow

[Two things: First, you need to read this for the following to make sense. Second, apparently, this looks better if you use IE over Firefox.]


There it went. The tiny slip of paper that held my destiny. I watched as the wind swept it away. The symbols meant nothing to me. A name. A location. A time perhaps? I didn’t know. And now I would never know. I watched with tears in my eyes as we sped away from the floating paper. I watched as that tiny white slip danced in the arms of the wind, teasing me with each dip and swirl. And, then, it was gone. I sighed.

I guess you’re goin’ with me now.

I barely knew who he was. Only a kind stranger who took pity on me, the girl with the slip of paper and no clue. And I, the foolish girl, followed him. He could kill me, I thought. Right here. And who would look for me? Who would know I ran off with him? Who would know to ask for a girl seen riding a—what did he call it—motor bike? But something felt right with him. There was something genuine in his smile. There was an honesty in his eyes. I trusted him. I trusted him and I didn’t even know him.

Everything sped past us so quickly. This entire world was far too quick for me. Nothing stayed here. Everything seemed to be a blur of color and light. With sound. Oh, there were such sounds! Horns and motors, bells and whistles, and so many other things I didn’t even know the names for. I was used to the slow, tranquility of things. Where one could stare at an image until it was engrained in your mind for eternity. Where a scent stayed with you long after you had gone from the location. Here, I could barely see what we were passing, much less savor its image.

We slowed to stop. Gas, he had said. We needed gas. I wanted to ask him how air would be useful in this situation, but decided against it. I knew nothing about these contraptions. Once we stopped, he dismounted and turned to me. I stood there, frozen.

He was staring. I felt my cheeks heat up suddenly and darted my eyes to the ground. It was smooth and grey with many spots about it. Some were large spots. Some small. Whatever liquid they were comprised of was thicker than water. And it smelled very badly. He was talking again. Something about a drink. My throat was quite dry, now that he mentioned it. I nodded.

He handed me colored slips of paper with faces on it. I held on tight to these, should the wind be looking for another partner.

It was so bright inside the building. I winced, looking around for some sign of familiarity. Nothing. I was instantly reminded of a wizard’s lair. There were brightly colored bottles and vials filled with liquids lining shelves that seemed to stretch on for miles. Their labels may as well have been blank, for I couldn’t read them. There were hardly any pictures on these labels either. This saddened me. I would have known to stray away from skulls, coffins, or black roses. But there were none. Only letters. Letters and words that meant nothing to me.

A voice sounded behind me. I jumped. I whirled around to face a man much older than the one I was traveling with. Perhaps old enough to be his father. His smile, however, was not genuine. I saw no honesty in his eyes. When he stared at me, I felt a cold sensation. So I dropped my eyes to the ground to avoid contact.
He reached over my shoulder, pointing out a particular beverage. Get him this, he said. And then he was gone. I thought about this for a moment. Could I trust him? Did he direct me to poison? Why would he wish to kill the man I rode in with? After shaking such thoughts from my head, I decided to get the drinks. I had spent too long in this potions’ closet and was ready to leave.

I had seen one before me hand similar colored slips of paper with faces on it to the boy behind the counter. I followed in the same suit. The attendant was calling to me as I walked out with the drinks. Something about change. I didn’t want to change drinks. I wouldn’t know what to change to.

I wish I had changed. The drink stung my chest and burned my throat. At first it was cold and soothing to my mouth, but then it turned on me. I choked while trying to swallow. He watched me as I struggled with this. I simply nodded to his question, not wanting to insult the drink.

We were on the road again. Pictures fading as quickly as they came. Blurs of lights, colors, and sound. I closed my eyes, trying not to focus on the twists and turns we took at such an alarming rate. But I could still feel my stomach churning. Thinking it would help, I tightened my grip on him. This seemed to prompt him.

We exchanged names in a casual banter. My heart skipped a beat when he repeated mine. It sounds so strange with his accent. It barely resembled my name at all. Then, it was his turn. August, he’d said. The rest seemed to fade away with the passing trees and street lamps. August. I savored the taste of his name on my lips. August.

August, who would show me this strange place. August, who would explain the strange sounds. August who would take care of me.

I liked the sound of that.

So, I rested my head against his back and simply said, “Yes. I’d like that.”

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Fill 'er Up!

So I was supposed to post something on here but it seems my computer ate it. Or, rather, I can't remember where I saved it. Or if I saved it... Darn. Maybe I'll rewrite it. Possibly. Eh, I dunno. Buuuuut, until I decide on what to post here, you get one of these surveys that have popped up all over Facebook. I liked this one so, I decided to do it. [And, yes, I'm filling in the answers as I post this]

Rules [copied directly from Facebook]: It's harder than it looks! Copy to your own note, erase my answers, enter yours, and tag 10 people. Use the first letter of your name to answer each of the following questions. They have to be real . . . nothing made up! If the person before you had the same first initial, you must use different answers. You cannot use any word twice and you can't use your name for the boy/girl name question.

1. What is your name: Kaylyn

2. A four Letter Word: ...kite

3. A boy's Name: Ken

4. A girl's Name: Kathryn

5. An occupation: k.. k.. kinetic engineer? [That's a job, right? It is now...]

6. A color: k.... Kermit the Frog green! [oh, yeah, I'm a beast]

7. Something you wear: k..k.. K Swiss

9. A food: k...k.. [I'm starting to regret doing this] Kellogg's cereal

10. Something found in the bathroom: Kleenex

11. A place: [I cheated. WikiAnswers. Great stuff!] Kyle, Texas

12. A reason for being late: ...k.. -pass-

13. Something you shout: Kaylyn Marie Hawkins! [At least, my mom shouts it... And then I'm in trou-ble.]

14. A movie title: King Kong

15. Something you drink: KOOL-AID!!!

16. A musical group: Killers

17. An animal: Kangaroo

18. A street name: k.. k.. [back to WikiAnswers] Kitch Street, Liverpool

19. A type of car: ...Kia?

20. The title of a song: Kiss Kiss, Chris Brown


God, I gotta find something to write here. My life just isn't interesting enough. Suggestions? :P

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Dance With Me

Okay, so I'm really itching to go to New Orleans. Like, seriously. I'm really considering looking at a summer roadtrip. And after recent conversation(s), I've found myself inspired by the city, the atmosphere, the... possibilities. So, here's my NOLA inspired poem--I know, right? I haven't written poetry in forEVER! Disclaimer: I'm not from New Orleeeeeeans (just for you, Harrison :P), so it's not going to be 100% accurate or authentic. But, hey, you try to rhyme something like beignet!

Dance With Me

Dance with me
under a rhythm and blues moon,
beneath a bourbon-blanketed sky.
We’ll sway in the heat of June
to the sounds of a familiar zydeco tune.
Just you and I,
me and you,
not a care.
Nothing to do.
But to dance.
Together.
Tonight.
In our beloved New Orleans
What a sight!

Hold me close.
Dance to the beat;
the sounds of jazz swelling beneath our feet.
We’ll dance ‘til the Saints Come Marchin’ In,
‘til the crickets stop singin’
‘til they call us home
'til there’s nowhere left to roam.
Just you and I,
me and you,
not a care.
Nothing to do.
But to dance.
Together.
Tonight.
In our beloved New Orleans
What a sight!

Never let me go.
We'll circle Jackson Square.
With the scent of jambalaya thinning the air,
we'll watch the sun rise over the Mississippi.
See the sparkling water so pretty,
hear the saxes fade
as we wished we had stayed,
uninhibited and unafraid.
Here.
Together.
Tonight.
Dancing.
Beneath a New Orleans street light.

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

Searching for Serenity

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

He's here now. There's no denying it anymore. I saw him. I saw his face--so much like my father's. I heard his voice. I heard him say my name...

Carey. That's his name. My brother. Half-brother. God, it looks so strange in print. The word's so alien to me: brother. I could type it a hundred times and still be in disbelief. I've never had a brother. And this is certainly not the circumstances I wished to gain one from.

I've been told I'm acting selfishly. Bratty. Bitchy. Wrong. And I always ask Why? The answers always the same: Think about Carey. He didn't ask for this. He's been without a father. He just wanted to know you. And while I agree with that, I also realize that was a choice. He chose to seek us out after finding out about us. He was free to choose something else. So why can't I be free to choose to not automatically accept him? Not to feel awkward? To not want this? Don't I get a choice? Or am I just to follow his decision, even though it affects me? That doesn't seem fair to me.

If anything, he needs a relationship with my father. His father. Not me. There's nothing I can do for him.

I keep holding on to some small glimmer of hope that this could possibly not be real. That I'll wake up and realize it was all a dream. Or Ashton will jump out. Maybe if I click my heels... I'd settle for either at the moment.

Now that it's here--he's here, I should try to accept it. But I don't want to. I feel like I wasn't given a choice. I just needed time. I need time. I want time.

I can't change this, may as well accept it.
Or the courage to find a way change it....

Bound

We're all bound by something--to someone. Every one of us. Bound by friendship, bound by blood, bound by honor, bound by duty. Some of us, bound by secret. But what do we do when those bonds are broken and we're left standing alone? Do we dance a celebratory dance of freedom, waving our arms wildly in the golden streets as the trumpets sound and the angelic chorus chants? Or do we remain there, lost, broken, confused with the lacerations of our chains still burning brightly on our skin? Who do we reach out to in the darkness? Who is there to hold your hand when you're left alone? -Me

I've been recently thinking about why people do the things they do. Why governments lie to their people. Why friends betray each other. Why lovers go their separate ways. Why parents hold secrets....

The conclusion I've come to is this: Security.

Whether we'd like to admit it or not, the human race is a very fragile state of being. We act, think, and feel according to a preset set of emotions or behavior we have learned throughout the years. And while we may boast these attributes as superiority over the rest of the animal kingdom, it seems to me our greatest adversary. Why do we worry about what other people think of us? Why do we feel pain in our hearts when we are betrayed? Why does it all matter?

Security. We bind ourselves to others because we want to be bound. We desperately hunger for the attention of another because somewhere deep inside us, that means we're worth a damn. Someone cares. Someone has taken an interest. Someone listens. Someone thinks you're worth their time. And time is the one thing we all hold near and dear to our hearts because it is the one disease we cannot treat nor cure. With all our technologies, we cannot manufacture time.

It has been said that I pay way more attention to my friends than my family. In the words of my sister, "I live for my friends." I hate when she says that because it's simply not true. Yes, I do enjoy spending time with my friends and will try to help them in any way I can should they ask. But that isn't to say I wouldn't do the same for my family.

But perhaps she has a point... Why would I "live for my friends" over my family? I think it's because they chose me. My family is there no matter what, I know that. My family has been there since my birth (some even before then)and will be there throughout my life. But my friends... They have their own families. Other responsibilities. Other things their bond to. Why bind themselves to me? How can I bind myself to them? What's keeping us together?

We're all bound by something--to someone. Every one of us. Bound by friendship, bound by blood, bound by honor, bound by duty. Some of us, bound by secret. But what do we do when those bonds are broken and we're left standing alone? Do we dance a celebratory dance of freedom, waving our arms wildly in the golden streets as the trumpets sound and the angelic chorus chants? Or do we remain there, lost, broken, confused with the lacerations of our chains still burning brightly on our skin? Who do we reach out to in the darkness? Who is there to hold your hand when you're left alone?

Math class + boredom =

As a result of the mind-numbingly boring hour that is my math class, I have taken to writing in my notebook. It started innocently enough... Small notes from the board just to keep me awake. Then, before I knew it, the margins and every bit of free space was filled with small paragraphs and bits of dialogue, twisting and winding about the paper, forming as intricate pattern of plot and detail. It looks kinda cool, actually.... Anyway, here's the transcribed version (Of course, /all/ of this isn't my notebook. I'm continuing here after I type up what I had written):

Tick tick tick

I swear the clock in my math class moves slower than any other clock in this entire school. The teacher must have cast a spell on it. She a bit of a witch anyway--a crazy witch at that. I keep waiting for someone to drop a house on her but the storm never comes. Bummer.

Jimmy's tapping me on my shoulder. I should throw something at him. He convinced me to take this class. Come on, it'll be cake! I told him I was bad at math. I told him I wanted to take the basic course, that he was more suited for advanced math. But my brother had Mrs. Briggs two years ago and he said she's a huge pushover. The old bat can't hear to save her life and she's practically legally blind. Come on! She retired last year; just before we returned in September. It was too late to change schedules.

"Ouch!" hissed Jimmy. "What the heck was that for?"

I picked my eraser up from the side of his desk where it had landed after ricocheting off his face. "For sticking me in this class." With the witch, I wanted to say but decided against it. Dogs have excellent hearing, after all; especially the female variety.

"Oh, it's not that bad. Stop being such a baby, man. Hey--did you get that last problem? She erases too fast."

So that's what he wanted. "Yeah. Here." I passed my notebook over to him while the witch was writing the next problem on the board. Big mistake. Without my notebook, my mind was free to wander. That was never good. Last time I handed over my notebook, I told Jimmy that there were exactly 167 tiles on the ceiling in our history class. I looked up at the ceiling. One.. two... No, no. Not again. I kept hearing something. What was that? Was something about to fall from the ceiling? What the...

Click click I looked over to the seat behind Jimmy. Click click click Theresa was texting away, expertly crouching behind Jimmy to avoid the prying eyes of the witch. I don't think she had a single note on her paper. Click click click It was like listening to machine gun rapid fire. In just two seconds, Theresa had unloaded about four rounds onto her phone. I wonder who she was texting at 10 o'clock in the morning. On a Tuesday, at that. Theresa Smith. Theresa the Texter. Smith the Swift, ever-electronic. God, where the hell was Jimmy with my notebook?

"Thanks, man." Jimmy tossed my notebook onto my desk. "Hey, you forgot to change the sign. Took me forever to figure out what the hell you did to get that answer."

I looked down at my eraser again. No, it wasn't worth it. Besides, I had a problem to fix now. I furiously began scratching into my paper, correcting the mistake Jimmy was so kind as to catch for me. "Five-eighths? Is that what you got? Dude,what?" Jimmy turned to me, his mouth twisted into the usual sly smirk he had on his face before he made some smart-ass comment. But his eyes suddenly widened and he fell silent. "No? But I worked it just like you said. Changed the sign and everything. What the hell--,"

Jimmy quickly tilted his head back.

I knew all too well who was standing beside my desk at that point. I turned and was staring directly into the witch's face. Shit.

"Mr. Johnson..." she said, her icy voice chilling the very air around me. The room had fell silent. Theresa had even stopped texting. I don't know where she had hidden her phone so quickly. I suspected it was tucked under her leg somewhere. She was seated a bit too uncomfortably now. Then again, the witch made me cringe as well.

"Uh... yes ma'am?"

"Is there a problem here? Or is my lesson interrupting you and Mr. Myer's conversation? Terribly sorry. Please, continue." Her eyes narrowed on me.

I gulped, wanting so badly to look at Jimmy for help. But I bet he was just as terrified as I was at the moment. What to do? What to do? "I'm sorry. It won't happen again." The words seemed to fall out my mouth involuntarily. Did I just seriously apologize to the witch? I waited for her to walk away but she continued standing there. I shot a quick glance towards the clock. Of course there was more time left in class! In fact, the minute hand had only managed to move a few degrees since the last time I looked at it. This witch was good.

"James? Are you quite finished? May I continue my lesson now?" There was an audible snicker from the class. No one called Jimmy that. He had convinced all his other teachers to refer to him as Jimmy when calling role and such. Pretty much everyone called Jimmy that. Except the witch. She had her eyes set on him now. I looked over to him, then my eyes shifted toward Theresa again. Her face contorted for half a second before she wiped her face emotionless. Had her phone just vibrated? That made me smirk.

"Oh, please, continue. In fact, could you put number seventy-four on the board? I had trouble with it last night while doing the assignment." Jimmy said.

That cheeky bastard!

The witch raised an eyebrow, waiting for Jimmy to crack under pressure. "Number seventy-four? But, Mr. Myer, the assignment was only to number fifty."

I felt as though I were watching a championship chess match. While I could tell the old witch was reaching for anything that would bring Jimmy down, he looked as though he were just getting started. He hadn't broken a sweat. If I knew my best friend, he had a few more tricks waiting under his sleeves in case this didn't work. Your move, Jimmy.

"Yes ma'am. I know. But I wanted the extra practice, so I went to the end of the lesson." I heard a few gasps from across the room. I don't know which was more astounding, the fact that Jimmy was directly challenging the witch or that he had actually done his homework. Jimmy never did the homework. Math just came to him naturally, he said. Lucky him.

Even the the witch's eyes had widened. "I see... Number seventy-four, then." She turned on her heel and went back to the front of the room. Once she got to her desk, she began flipping through her teacher's manual with such speed I thought she would snatch a page right out of the binding. Once she found the problem, she grabbed her dry erase marker and began writing on the board. Game, set, match.

"Dude, where the hell did that come from? When did you start doing homework?" I said, keeping my voice low as low as I could.

Jimmy had that smirk about his face again. "Psht, I didn't. But someone had to save your ass from detention. Besides, any idiot can pick a problem from the book. I just said the first number that came to mind. You know--Ow! What the hell, man?"

I picked up my eraser again. "Nothing."

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~;.