You died just before noon on Wednesday morning. From the time I woke up that morning I was almost doubled-over in pain. It didn't make sense, but all of my insides hurt. My neck and back had been hurting me for days, and I'd been battling a strange headache (something with which I have little experience). On Wednesday my guts started to hurt so much that I worried I might have appendicitis.
On Thursday nothing hurt anymore. My body knew it was your time even though my mind refused to admit it. I guess pain is the logical result of a serious disconnect between mind and body.
When I got the unmistakable midday phone call, I thought to myself, "You're better. You're better. You're better. He's calling because you suddenly got better," and my esophagus grew tight like someone was inflating a balloon inside of it (kind of like it feels now).
I left the office right away, throwing things around so quickly and carelessly that I squashed a fly in one of my folders (which I found the next day).
I cried as I walked to the bus stop. Cars let me cross in places they don't normally and people kept their distance from me. A little boy, I'd guess he was about 4, stood staring at my intently. His mother kept trying to redirect his attention, but he kept looking at me, and finally she gave up. I thought about what I would say if he asked me why I was crying. Nothing seemed right, and I finally settled on "someone I love went to heaven."
I worried a lot about saying something that would scare him or make him sad. I worried that seeing a stranger cry on the bus might scare him or make him sad. I worry about children so much. I worry too much.
As I drew closer to my stop, I pushed more and more of my sadness inside until finally I wasn't crying anymore, except for the occasional rogue tear which I quickly wiped and denied. I imagine a great body of water building inside of me from all the tears I'm not crying and, like a dammed lake or river, sometimes a little leaks out to relieve all of the pressure.
I haven't let myself have a big cry - a red-faced, on-my-knees-cry, yet. I'm always afraid of hurting other people with my sadness. Listening to Elliott Smith, I think of the line, "I'll fake it through the day" (and never mind the next line about Johnny Walker Red, I'm too tired to drink).
I know I'll grieve in my own time in my own way. I know it's still too soon.
Today is the anniversary of Cliff's death. I can tell I'm in defensive mode because every year on the anniversary of Cliff's death I cry, and I haven't cried for Cliff today. That will come in due time too.
This morning when I woke up, I thought about you teaching Cliff to dance. I imagined you wearing a white shirt and black pants, and Cliff wearing khaki shorts and a t-shirt and a bandanna. You were both smiling and laughing. You were both so spry. I imagined Cliff saying "You're the woman" and you replying "don't I know it," as you danced together. And I laughed and felt happy for a little while. As the day went on, I thought of that image again and again and it brought me some happiness and some relief.
I want you to know that you filled an empty place in my heart. I know your family is experiencing unimaginable pain right now because they love you so much, and even though I have the utmost sympathy for them, I keep returning to thoughts of how lucky they were to have had you in their lives, and how lucky I am to have had you in mine.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Lost Souls
I am so upset to hear of Heath Ledger's death.
I suppose I have a secret expectations from the celebrity world - that they will always provide entertainment without reality. That they will always provide diversions from my reality.
About a week ago Brad Renfro died. I was shocked. I know he'd slipped into the oblivion of most American minds (if people even knew him at all), but I'd never forgotten him, nor the first time I saw him in The Client. He was the ultimate heart-throb material - a southern bad-boy and anti-hero. Even as he aged and he acted very little, and when he did act he took really risky roles again and again (I have to shut my eyes for many scenes in Bully), I still cared about him as a human, and when I heard he had trouble I always hoped he'd get better.
So when he died, after so many months or years of silence, it felt like all my hope had been in vain. I thought again and again that he couldn't die, it would be far too James Dean for the real world. I don't know him. It seems silly. But I was sad that such a talent, albeit a troubled talent, had died so young. More than that, I was sad because I had cared about him, whether I knew him personally or not. He'd had an impact on my life.
And now Heath Ledger. It seems ridiculous. I don't know Heath Ledger. I know nothing of his character or even of his person, and yet I'm crying. I'm crying because the movies, and all of the celebrity diversions help me to forget my troubles sometimes. That's the point of movies and the entertainment industry. Sometimes movies are about troubles of one kind or another, and make you think, and hurt you, but they always pull you away from your own life and into someone else's.
And now I am sitting here thinking of how much pain Heath Ledger must have felt. How sad he must have been, and it reminds me that I have my own sadness, and that other people - all other people- have their own sadness - even the ones who are meant to keep us from ours.
I sat here hoping and hoping that someone somewhere was wrong. I read the story of his death like a novel, thinking that it might have a happy ending even though I knew it didn't. When I read that his housekeeper tried to revive him, I rooted for her to bring him back, all the while knowing he was already gone.
I sit here writing this knowing that someone I love and cherish is not going to be with me much longer, and I can't help but realize that the way I'm feeling over the death of a stranger is a reflection of the fear and pain I haven't let myself feel for her. Heath Ledger won't let me ignore the pain anymore. So I sit crying tears for Heath Ledger, that are hidden tears for someone else. Someone I'm not yet ready to cry for.
I suppose I have a secret expectations from the celebrity world - that they will always provide entertainment without reality. That they will always provide diversions from my reality.
About a week ago Brad Renfro died. I was shocked. I know he'd slipped into the oblivion of most American minds (if people even knew him at all), but I'd never forgotten him, nor the first time I saw him in The Client. He was the ultimate heart-throb material - a southern bad-boy and anti-hero. Even as he aged and he acted very little, and when he did act he took really risky roles again and again (I have to shut my eyes for many scenes in Bully), I still cared about him as a human, and when I heard he had trouble I always hoped he'd get better.
So when he died, after so many months or years of silence, it felt like all my hope had been in vain. I thought again and again that he couldn't die, it would be far too James Dean for the real world. I don't know him. It seems silly. But I was sad that such a talent, albeit a troubled talent, had died so young. More than that, I was sad because I had cared about him, whether I knew him personally or not. He'd had an impact on my life.
And now Heath Ledger. It seems ridiculous. I don't know Heath Ledger. I know nothing of his character or even of his person, and yet I'm crying. I'm crying because the movies, and all of the celebrity diversions help me to forget my troubles sometimes. That's the point of movies and the entertainment industry. Sometimes movies are about troubles of one kind or another, and make you think, and hurt you, but they always pull you away from your own life and into someone else's.
And now I am sitting here thinking of how much pain Heath Ledger must have felt. How sad he must have been, and it reminds me that I have my own sadness, and that other people - all other people- have their own sadness - even the ones who are meant to keep us from ours.
I sat here hoping and hoping that someone somewhere was wrong. I read the story of his death like a novel, thinking that it might have a happy ending even though I knew it didn't. When I read that his housekeeper tried to revive him, I rooted for her to bring him back, all the while knowing he was already gone.
I sit here writing this knowing that someone I love and cherish is not going to be with me much longer, and I can't help but realize that the way I'm feeling over the death of a stranger is a reflection of the fear and pain I haven't let myself feel for her. Heath Ledger won't let me ignore the pain anymore. So I sit crying tears for Heath Ledger, that are hidden tears for someone else. Someone I'm not yet ready to cry for.
Monday, January 21, 2008
On Dogs and Chewing Gum
They are, as it turns out, a bad combination.
Last night, while watching some crappy Sunday night programming, my roommate, let's call her "Rachel," got up from the sofa to get something out of her bedroom.
To provide a little back story, Rachel's chihuahua has been spending some decent amount of time confined in her bedroom as of late because the dog has become, how shall I say, "testy" (to put it politely, and so as not to be offensive to sensitive ears) in the past 6 months. Why the bedroom? Why the confinement? Let's just say, to quote one of my favorite Steve Martin movies, "to prevent [her] from hurting [herself], and others."
Shortly after Rachel left the sofa I heard her growl the words "YOU LITTLE SHIT."
Keeping in mind the back story, I was not taken aback as these are words I hear often.
"Carter!*" (Rachel's significant other) "Did you have gum in your bag?"
"What?!"
At this point I became curious enough to motivate myself off of the sofa and into Rachel's bedroom. I imagined entering the bedroom to find the dog with so much bubble gum in her mouth that she could barely close her jaws. I imagined her blowing incidental bubbles from the struggle, but refusing to relinquish the gum when commanded to do so.
Instead, there in the midst of Rachel's spotless white carpet, sat the shreds of what had once been a new pack of Orbit peppermint gum. The gum itself was nowhere to be found, and only the remains of a few paper gum wrappers lay strewn about on the floor. The package and the tinfoil seal appeared to be in tact, save for some serious gnawing. The chihuahua, Costello*, sat stoically atop Rachel's pristine white down comforter with her body facing us, but looking out of the adjacent window. She would not make eye contact.
I glared at the dog, "you're an idiot."
Carter entered the room behind me. "My bag was closed!" Costello had opened a closed Timbuk2 messenger bag, found the gum, and then opened the seal before eating every single piece of gum in the package.
Rachel picked up the remains of the chewing gum package, aghast. As she turned the gnawed remains over and over in her hands, I lost interest and went back into the living room.
A few minutes later Rachel stormed out of her bedroom, once again holding the gum package, and said "Do you think this is bad for her?!"
"Check the internet."
A few minutes after that Carter shuffled into my bedroom and asked for the telephone number of the emergency vet I had taken my dog to a few months back (when she decided that a cigarette butt she found on the sidewalk looked like a tasty treat**).
Apparently, sugar-free gum contains a sugar alcohol called Xylitol. Not only was the vet concerned about liver and kidney damage because Costello had ingested so much of it, but she was worried about her going into hypoglycemic shock (from my understanding, the gum had essentially made her a temporary diabetic).
The Wikipedia entry on Xylitol states:
Carter and Rachel hauled Costello off to the emergency vet at 11pm last night. Once there, Costello received epomorphine, an iv, and had her glucose levels and liver enzymes monitored for the whole night. Before they went though, Animal Poison Control told them to feed her a spoonful of vanilla ice cream (soy cream in this case), and a slice of bread -- the ice cream was to give her glucose and the bread was to absorb the Xylitol, thereby slowing her body's absorption of it too. Costello probably thought she'd hit the mother load until she realized she was going to the vet.
Costello returned bright and early this morning, largely unscathed except for the place where the vet shaved her leg to insert the IV.
As Rachel prepared to take Carter to the airport this morning, she asked if I would watch Costello (I have MLK jr. day off). I hesitated. Costello and I have a colorful past that includes, but is not limited to: urinating on beds, urinating on carpets, biting, urinating on clothing, urinating in closets, biting, pooping in front of a policeman, dropping, kicking, biting, squealing, screaming, biting, bruising, and bleeding - but I'm not going to say who did what or anything.
"Fine."
So far Costello has stayed curled in her bed, being absolutely lethargic and unresponsive to anything I say to her. I tried to give her a treat and she growled and tried to bite me (but lazily, so she didn't get anywhere near my hand). I'm glad she is back to her good-old self.
*The names have been changed to protect the innocent and stupid.
** Bear in mind both of our dogs weigh 7 lbs, respectively, so little bits of bad things can be toxic to them - ridiculous as it sounds.
(I have no idea why the leading is messed up after the Wiki entry, but I'll keep trying to fix it.)
Last night, while watching some crappy Sunday night programming, my roommate, let's call her "Rachel," got up from the sofa to get something out of her bedroom.
To provide a little back story, Rachel's chihuahua has been spending some decent amount of time confined in her bedroom as of late because the dog has become, how shall I say, "testy" (to put it politely, and so as not to be offensive to sensitive ears) in the past 6 months. Why the bedroom? Why the confinement? Let's just say, to quote one of my favorite Steve Martin movies, "to prevent [her] from hurting [herself], and others."
Shortly after Rachel left the sofa I heard her growl the words "YOU LITTLE SHIT."
Keeping in mind the back story, I was not taken aback as these are words I hear often.
"Carter!*" (Rachel's significant other) "Did you have gum in your bag?"
"What?!"
At this point I became curious enough to motivate myself off of the sofa and into Rachel's bedroom. I imagined entering the bedroom to find the dog with so much bubble gum in her mouth that she could barely close her jaws. I imagined her blowing incidental bubbles from the struggle, but refusing to relinquish the gum when commanded to do so.
Instead, there in the midst of Rachel's spotless white carpet, sat the shreds of what had once been a new pack of Orbit peppermint gum. The gum itself was nowhere to be found, and only the remains of a few paper gum wrappers lay strewn about on the floor. The package and the tinfoil seal appeared to be in tact, save for some serious gnawing. The chihuahua, Costello*, sat stoically atop Rachel's pristine white down comforter with her body facing us, but looking out of the adjacent window. She would not make eye contact.
I glared at the dog, "you're an idiot."
Carter entered the room behind me. "My bag was closed!" Costello had opened a closed Timbuk2 messenger bag, found the gum, and then opened the seal before eating every single piece of gum in the package.
Rachel picked up the remains of the chewing gum package, aghast. As she turned the gnawed remains over and over in her hands, I lost interest and went back into the living room.
A few minutes later Rachel stormed out of her bedroom, once again holding the gum package, and said "Do you think this is bad for her?!"
"Check the internet."
A few minutes after that Carter shuffled into my bedroom and asked for the telephone number of the emergency vet I had taken my dog to a few months back (when she decided that a cigarette butt she found on the sidewalk looked like a tasty treat**).
Apparently, sugar-free gum contains a sugar alcohol called Xylitol. Not only was the vet concerned about liver and kidney damage because Costello had ingested so much of it, but she was worried about her going into hypoglycemic shock (from my understanding, the gum had essentially made her a temporary diabetic).
The Wikipedia entry on Xylitol states:
Xylitol, like most sugar alcohols, can have a laxative effect, because sugar alcohols are not fully broken down during digestion. It has no known toxicity, and people have consumed as much as 400 grams daily for long periods with no apparent ill effects.
Dogs ingesting foods containing high doses of xylitol (greater than 100mg xylitol consumed per kg bodyweight) have presented with low blood sugar (hypoglycemia) which can be life-threatening. Low blood sugar can manifest as loss of coordination, depression, collapse and seizures as soon as 30 minutes after ingestion. Intake of very high doses of xylitol (greater than 500 - 1000 mg/kg bwt) has also been implicated in liver failure in 8 dogs, which can be fatal.
One reported death occurred in a standard poodle who ate five or six cookies sweetened with xylitol.
Dogs that have eaten products containing high levels of xylitol might need immediate medical attention even if they are not yet showing illness. Sick dogs (vomiting, weak, seizuring, etc) are likely to need aggressive veterinary treatment and close monitoring of blood values.
Carter and Rachel hauled Costello off to the emergency vet at 11pm last night. Once there, Costello received epomorphine, an iv, and had her glucose levels and liver enzymes monitored for the whole night. Before they went though, Animal Poison Control told them to feed her a spoonful of vanilla ice cream (soy cream in this case), and a slice of bread -- the ice cream was to give her glucose and the bread was to absorb the Xylitol, thereby slowing her body's absorption of it too. Costello probably thought she'd hit the mother load until she realized she was going to the vet.
Costello returned bright and early this morning, largely unscathed except for the place where the vet shaved her leg to insert the IV.
As Rachel prepared to take Carter to the airport this morning, she asked if I would watch Costello (I have MLK jr. day off). I hesitated. Costello and I have a colorful past that includes, but is not limited to: urinating on beds, urinating on carpets, biting, urinating on clothing, urinating in closets, biting, pooping in front of a policeman, dropping, kicking, biting, squealing, screaming, biting, bruising, and bleeding - but I'm not going to say who did what or anything.
"Fine."
So far Costello has stayed curled in her bed, being absolutely lethargic and unresponsive to anything I say to her. I tried to give her a treat and she growled and tried to bite me (but lazily, so she didn't get anywhere near my hand). I'm glad she is back to her good-old self.
*The names have been changed to protect the innocent and stupid.
** Bear in mind both of our dogs weigh 7 lbs, respectively, so little bits of bad things can be toxic to them - ridiculous as it sounds.
(I have no idea why the leading is messed up after the Wiki entry, but I'll keep trying to fix it.)
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Love Forever, Love is Free*
For the past few months, I've come to appreciate the "community" of regulars who grace my presence on my daily trek to work. The most interesting people, by far, are the people who wait for their bus at the stop where I wait to transfer to my second bus.
Only one bus travels the route where I catch my first bus, which means that the only people who are ever at that stop are people coming from my neighborhood and going downtown (or somewhere in between).
At my second bus stop, at least 10 busses (and probably more like 15) stop in front of the building where I catch my second bus. They are busses from all different neighborhoods, and even some coming from outside of the city. It's amazing what you can tell about someone by looking at the bus they get off of, or onto. It's even more amazing what you can't tell.
One of my favorite people (who is really part of a pair) who I get to see is a high school-aged boy who waits in the bus shelter with me everyday for about five minutes (it's just the way our schedules coincide).
When I first noticed him, he got off of a city bus with a group of four or five other high school kids. The group proceeded to walk toward the nearest high school, but he stopped and waited in the bus shelter. I was baffled, but didn't really pay attention to his comings or goings except to notice that he had always disappeared by the time I boarded my second bus.
As this continued, I started to pay more attention. I noticed one day that he had his name embroidered onto a varsity sports sweatshirt (I won't be so inappropriate as to state it, but it made me happy that it was a good Irish name). As I looked at his sweatshirt one day (trying to be inconspicuous), trying to figure out what he was doing and why he was always frowning, I noticed his eyes light up. A high school girl was getting off of a another city bus. Love.
She stopped and smiled coyly as soon as she descended the bus stairs, and then quickly ran over to him, latching onto him around his waist in an embrace. He tried not to smile but couldn't help himself. After about 10 seconds of coat and bag shuffling, they walked toward the school together.
This happens every day. The boy stands, stone-faced, in his varsity sweatshirt, listening to his headphones. Sometimes he gives me a curious glance when he catches me taking a picture of the city in the morning (a hobby that brings me a lot of joy), but he never makes eye-contact and he never smiles. The girl's bus always comes about 5 minutes after his bus, and she always does something cutesy and lavishes love and affection on him before they depart for school.
I wondered, for a few days, why she was so outwardly affectionate, and why he was so stoney-faced, and why that didn't worry her at all. It seemed so obvious by their interaction that there was a discrepancy in their care for each other.
But a few weeks ago, as I stood trying not look at my bus shelter companion - who was trying not to shiver in the snow and wind in his sweatshirt - I realized that this boy was standing in the snow and wind and cold because of her. He waits for her every day without fail. He never has a coat on**. He has to put up with some strange girl staring at him. It's also probably the case that he could take a later bus and get to school on time, but he doesn't so they can have their little rendez-vous every morning. Now that is love.
She may jump up and down and hug him and squeel and give him kisses everytime she sees him, but I can tell by the look in his face that his day begins and ends with thoughts of her. His whole world revolves around her. Giving kisses is easy, standing outside in the cold isn't.
I know she loves him too, but it's just so obvious that it's not the same way he loves her, and because of that I want to protect him. There are days when I want to turn to him and say "I know. I know what you're feeling. I know what's it's like to love someone so much that it scares you."
But I know I'm past the age where it would mean anything to him. To teenagers, anyone who wears dry-clean-only clothes and gets up to go to work (and not school) every morning just doesn't get it. And in a way, I don't. Remembering what it was like to be a teenager in love*** is not the same thing as actually being there.
More than anything I want to tell him to be careful. I want to tell him that he is going to have his heart broken, by her and by other girls, but that that's okay. I want to say "I know because I was there! I was that girl who showered kisses and affection on her stoic boyfriend!" And even though that relationship ended, and it hurt, if you mature the right way, and learn from your mistake (and don't get too battered along the way), you'll grow into an adult who can experience love in a way that a teenager never could. I survived that battled, and I'm the better for it.
But I can't tell him that. Even if he would listen, it wouldn't do any good. These, like so many other life lessons, are the things you have to learn on your own.
Looking at them is like looking through a telescope into my past. Every day I am reminded of the things old boyfriends did for me and it hurts because I remember that I didn't always return the kindness or devotion. But then I think of all of the things I do now for love. All of the things I can do now for love.
And I am grateful. I'm grateful that I've become the person I am, and I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to watch them and learn from them in ways they won't be able to, until they've lived and loved like I have (and do).
*From "Feel Good, Inc" by Gorillaz
**At first I romanticized it in my mind, thinking perhaps he came from a poor family who couldn't afford a coat, but it's far more likely that he has a perfectly good coat at home and a mother who shouts "aren't you going to wear your coat?!" every morning, just before he shouts "no!" and slams the door.
*** and I'm sure that statement will cause some chuckles from people who read this, and who see me as currently being young and in love, because I am young and in love, but I'm not a teenager anymore.
Only one bus travels the route where I catch my first bus, which means that the only people who are ever at that stop are people coming from my neighborhood and going downtown (or somewhere in between).
At my second bus stop, at least 10 busses (and probably more like 15) stop in front of the building where I catch my second bus. They are busses from all different neighborhoods, and even some coming from outside of the city. It's amazing what you can tell about someone by looking at the bus they get off of, or onto. It's even more amazing what you can't tell.
One of my favorite people (who is really part of a pair) who I get to see is a high school-aged boy who waits in the bus shelter with me everyday for about five minutes (it's just the way our schedules coincide).
When I first noticed him, he got off of a city bus with a group of four or five other high school kids. The group proceeded to walk toward the nearest high school, but he stopped and waited in the bus shelter. I was baffled, but didn't really pay attention to his comings or goings except to notice that he had always disappeared by the time I boarded my second bus.
As this continued, I started to pay more attention. I noticed one day that he had his name embroidered onto a varsity sports sweatshirt (I won't be so inappropriate as to state it, but it made me happy that it was a good Irish name). As I looked at his sweatshirt one day (trying to be inconspicuous), trying to figure out what he was doing and why he was always frowning, I noticed his eyes light up. A high school girl was getting off of a another city bus. Love.
She stopped and smiled coyly as soon as she descended the bus stairs, and then quickly ran over to him, latching onto him around his waist in an embrace. He tried not to smile but couldn't help himself. After about 10 seconds of coat and bag shuffling, they walked toward the school together.
This happens every day. The boy stands, stone-faced, in his varsity sweatshirt, listening to his headphones. Sometimes he gives me a curious glance when he catches me taking a picture of the city in the morning (a hobby that brings me a lot of joy), but he never makes eye-contact and he never smiles. The girl's bus always comes about 5 minutes after his bus, and she always does something cutesy and lavishes love and affection on him before they depart for school.
I wondered, for a few days, why she was so outwardly affectionate, and why he was so stoney-faced, and why that didn't worry her at all. It seemed so obvious by their interaction that there was a discrepancy in their care for each other.
But a few weeks ago, as I stood trying not look at my bus shelter companion - who was trying not to shiver in the snow and wind in his sweatshirt - I realized that this boy was standing in the snow and wind and cold because of her. He waits for her every day without fail. He never has a coat on**. He has to put up with some strange girl staring at him. It's also probably the case that he could take a later bus and get to school on time, but he doesn't so they can have their little rendez-vous every morning. Now that is love.
She may jump up and down and hug him and squeel and give him kisses everytime she sees him, but I can tell by the look in his face that his day begins and ends with thoughts of her. His whole world revolves around her. Giving kisses is easy, standing outside in the cold isn't.
I know she loves him too, but it's just so obvious that it's not the same way he loves her, and because of that I want to protect him. There are days when I want to turn to him and say "I know. I know what you're feeling. I know what's it's like to love someone so much that it scares you."
But I know I'm past the age where it would mean anything to him. To teenagers, anyone who wears dry-clean-only clothes and gets up to go to work (and not school) every morning just doesn't get it. And in a way, I don't. Remembering what it was like to be a teenager in love*** is not the same thing as actually being there.
More than anything I want to tell him to be careful. I want to tell him that he is going to have his heart broken, by her and by other girls, but that that's okay. I want to say "I know because I was there! I was that girl who showered kisses and affection on her stoic boyfriend!" And even though that relationship ended, and it hurt, if you mature the right way, and learn from your mistake (and don't get too battered along the way), you'll grow into an adult who can experience love in a way that a teenager never could. I survived that battled, and I'm the better for it.
But I can't tell him that. Even if he would listen, it wouldn't do any good. These, like so many other life lessons, are the things you have to learn on your own.
Looking at them is like looking through a telescope into my past. Every day I am reminded of the things old boyfriends did for me and it hurts because I remember that I didn't always return the kindness or devotion. But then I think of all of the things I do now for love. All of the things I can do now for love.
And I am grateful. I'm grateful that I've become the person I am, and I'm grateful that I have the opportunity to watch them and learn from them in ways they won't be able to, until they've lived and loved like I have (and do).
*From "Feel Good, Inc" by Gorillaz
**At first I romanticized it in my mind, thinking perhaps he came from a poor family who couldn't afford a coat, but it's far more likely that he has a perfectly good coat at home and a mother who shouts "aren't you going to wear your coat?!" every morning, just before he shouts "no!" and slams the door.
*** and I'm sure that statement will cause some chuckles from people who read this, and who see me as currently being young and in love, because I am young and in love, but I'm not a teenager anymore.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
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