real love

And every time I think of you, every time, I think of shadow puppets and how shadows aren't always something to fear. I'll just hold your shadow hands, unless they are already busy making me laugh. Yours are better than mine, and we laugh at how my animals don't look like animals at all, but hands trying to be animals. Why, your rabbit's head looks an awful lot like a human thumb, you laugh, rolling far from me on the bed so my retaliation is made that much harder. I punch you and challenge you to do better. With the crooked, sly grin I love, you twist and turn your fingers to create something a magician would crave to have in his show. I politely applaud, saying, ahh, but a rabbit, a rabbit, my love, that's the easiest trick in the book. So you nod, furrow your brow, and allow your hands to do the talking, creating both wild animals and gentle creatures, looking back at my face each time, assuring yourself of my approval. Unlike mine, yours look as if they could jump off the wall and onto the floor, and they sound as if, if provoked, they could growl and scratch and tear. But under your protection, I know I won't be devoured, by the darkness or the shadows or the hungry animals that aren't animals at all, but hands trying to be animals. I'm afraid of the dark, but, with you, the dark is afraid of me instead.

"hey, you still workin' at scrubway?"

I work at a place where hope goes to die. Or at least be shoved in the corner, beside dirty mopheads and overflowing garbage bags, for six to eight hours. I struggle with myself each time I pull into the parking lot, my mind working frantically, going through violent, heroic scenarios of me stomping into the shop, throwing down my uniform, and declaring my intentions to never return. Possibly throwing in a middle finger, maybe even two, depending on who was working that day. In these scenes, every single customer in the shop realizes (at the exact same moment, mind you) that they cannot possibly support an establishment that treats their employees with such disdain and disrepect; as one, they stand up, throw down their food, and follow me outside, into the glorious sunset. This is usually where the daydream ends. Because what could possibly happen after several strangers storm out of a sandwich shop, united for that one brief moment behind a disgruntled employee who may or may not have had just cause to create such a scene. Would they all grab a coffee together next door, to further discuss what had just happened? Or would they avoid eye contact, mumble something incoherent about an urgent appointment, and all wander off in the direction of their vehicles? You see where I'm going with this, why sometimes daydreams are better left inside your head.
Despite these dramatic ramblings, there is really nothing that terrible about my job. What truly scares me are the "lifers", those people who wake up each morning with tiny sparkles in their eyes, at the prospect of being able to make sandwiches for grumbling, overweight customers, day after day.
You should really meet Steven. I mean, you probably wouldn't want to. He likes to yell out, "Good teamwork, guys!" after a particularly good bout of...teamwork. I refuse when he offers me his hand for a high five. If a bag of black olives mysteriously goes missing, his voice gets low and grave, and I fear he may cry unless every last veggie is accounted for. The best conversation we ever shared involved cucumbers and how "fun" they are to prepare in the morning. My co-workers talk behind poor Steven's back, whispering about how they hid the olives behind the bread cabinet just to see his reaction, or how they can't wait until the day they get to quit, it will be soon, they hope, yeah, just after they graduate, then they'll never eat a Subway sandwich again. Steven terrifies me. Not in the way that when I see him coming, I cower and wait for him to pass. I mean, I'm afraid, someday, many years from now, I'll be making my young co-workers laugh behind my back at how enthusiastic I am about the tomato slicer.

perfect

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.