ghost adventures

At the tender age of six, I was prone to believe everything my 8-year-old sister told me. So when she stated, with round, sincere eyes, that the ghost of a Civil War veteran had a deadly grudge against me, I believed her. No questions asked.
Needless to say, with a homicidal spirit roaming the upstairs, I chose to spend as little time there as possible. But, when the occasional need arose for me to visit my small bedroom, I would dash like an Olympic sprinter up the stairs, around the corner to my room, and back down again. And for a little girl with a tendency to trip on anything, many times over her own fumbling feet, these were always stressful missions. Missions I was willing to attempt, with a brave, self-sacrificing nod, if my best friend, Colorful Bear, was in jeopardy.
It never seemed to register that my sister was always lurking somewhere nearby, stifling her maniacal laughter with a well-placed hand.

paperback writer

I tell people that I'm a writer, but that's an empty statement. I love to write, I really do, but I know nothing will ever come of it. That's why I'm stuck in a major I have no passion for, sitting through classes that make me want to shoot up Harvey Hall, preparing for a career that will drive me insane. I mentally train myself to perk up when I think of my future prospects, telling myself that I'll find an internship and a job that will suit me, then, eventually, but not really ever, moving on to something I truly love. Just writing to make a living. Writing what, I've no idea.

Maybe I'll write a smut novel. My best friend and I enjoyed the selection Wal Mart had to offer.

disconnected

I shut the lights off, closed the blinds, and covered my eyes with my hands. I laughed to myself, pretending someone was behind me, pretending my hands were theirs and we were playing "Guess Who?" I sat this way for a long time, allowing myself to take everything in. The shitty music from across the street, the shallow babble of three girls below my window, the shockingly loud rumble of yet another motorbike making its way down my street. I open my eyes again, feeling, but not really feeling, my pupils contract, and I allow myself to take everything in. An employee handbook for a sandwich shop, an unopened book on web design, a crinkled receipt from an expensive coffee place. Sometimes it amazes me how disconnected I feel from my surroundings. It's at times like these, when my belly cries out to me for food and my mind screams at me to GET OUT, that I calmly sit down at my computer and share this with you.

childhood fantasies

There's something magical about getting lost in a story. When I was a little girl, I would take every storybook off my tiny shelf, set them in a tidy stack upon the floor, and carefully spread them around me in a circle. I was literally in the middle of a sea of books, a flood of words that could take me anywhere I wished. I spent hours hiding behind the pages, never moving or making a sound, a trait normally found in older children. Hours happily spent with mermaids and dragons, and birds who could not only sing beautifully, but talk, and share memories and tales of different times.

I really miss that. I miss reading something purely for myself, selfishly hoarding my characters and claiming them as friends. Now it seems that everything must serve a purpose. I feel trapped within the confines of reality, and I wish I could go back to when my life was driven by passion and nonsense and fantasy. I still find myself drifting away every once in awhile, happily allowing myself to leave behind the mundane and ordinary life I lead, and sail, once again, on an ocean of neverending possibilities.

economic climate

I passed by a man today, a well-dressed man with a sad face, holding up a sign. A sign pleading for economic relief. I've passed by this man before. I pass by this man every day on my way to work. And it's a sight I never get used to, a sight my heart refuses to accept, but can't ignore. As usual, I averted my eyes, busied my hands, or pretended to notice something interesting in the opposite direction. And, as usual, I felt a strange mixture of shame and pity and anger, both at myself and at this sign-bearing stranger. In the brief two-minute interval between my encounter with the man, stepping out of my car, and walking into work, my mind is always fixed on his story. Every day, I write a personal history for this person I've never met. On bright days, when my spirits are lifted, the man's past is filled with laughter and light and splashes of color. On rainy days, when I'm feeling low, the man's past is riddled with depression and loss and bad luck.

I wonder what led this man, who probably has a wife and kids and friends, people who love and respect him, to peddle for petty cash on a street corner by a fast food joint. I doubt I'll ever have the courage to ask him. So, for now, I'm doomed to write his past for him, and he's doomed to accept that.

palpitations

I think there is something wrong with the ol' ticker. Physically and otherwise. My heart does these strange sort of gymnastics moves sometimes, while other times I wonder if it will just simply stop. I'd probably be in the middle of handing a customer her receipt or something, when suddenly...nothing. "Would you like your receipt with you or in....?" And then I'd fall over. Probably crash into some display on my way down, as well. I'm sure, even in death, my clumsiness will find a way to fuck things up. I wonder what that unlucky customer would do. Having witnessed the level of intelligence of hundreds of eerily similar coupon-toting, sweater-set wearing shoppers, she'd probably be left wondering how I was going to finish my sentence.

I just noticed something. I had every intention of pouring my heart into the empty white space of this little rectangle, but, as always, I've come across as a smartass.

baby, we'll be fine

Two of the greatest people in the world, and I'm lucky enough to call both of them friends. And facing the dismal prospect of not seeing either of them very often over the summer. And them facing the even more dismal prospect of not seeing one another very often over the summer. My ability to emphathize overwhelms me sometimes. Gah, don't look at me, there's just dust or something in my eye.