#i kept hitting the comma instead of the period

[wheucto]

instead of, like, actually announcing he’s an alien, fan just sprinkles little bread crumbs around so that if someone was actually inanimate insane enough to try and figure it out it can be revealed that way instead

[hatchetsfield]

@crisisbabe ➽ ❝ i love you because i know how capable you are. and i show that love by making sure you don’t have to be the one to always do the hard things. ❞ - from gerald for linda

𐃈 𝐬𝐡𝐮𝐭  𝐮𝐩  𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐝!  —  the  words  are  ready  at  the  tip  of  her  tongue,  like  a  gun  locked  and  loaded  and  ready  to  fire  whenever  they  received  the  go  ahead  in  the  form  of  gerald’s  utterance.  the  trio  of  words  seemed  to  be  magnetically  pulled  to  any  words  that  left  gerald’s  lips  —  especially  as  of  late.  𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮  𝙛𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙    𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚  𝙖𝙣  𝙪𝙣𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙  𝙙𝙤𝙜  𝙤𝙣  𝙩𝙝𝙚  𝙝𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨  𝙤𝙛  𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩  𝙤𝙣𝙘𝙚  𝙬𝙖𝙨  𝙝𝙞𝙨  𝙗𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙  𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧.  acted  as  punctuation  :  always  a  period,  always  a  finality  —  𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲  𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱  𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄  .  .  𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁  𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲  𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗲𝗱  𝘁𝗼  𝗳𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄,  for  there  was  no  room  for  possibility  with  a  comma  or  a  semicolon  or  a  question  mark.  

the  words  reside  at  the  tip  of  her  tongue,  ready  to  spring  forth  from  off  it  as  though  it  were  one  of  her  beautiful  blonde  boys  on  the  diving  board  at  the  country  club’s  indoor  pool  .  .  

.  .  but  the  impact  of  gerald’s  words  are  faster,  and  the  trio of words stumbles  from  off  the  edge  of  her  tongue  and  scampers  back  onto  her  taste  buds.  

linda  was  a  woman  who  prided  herself  on  her  ability  to  do  hard  things.  and  to  do  them  independently.  𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭,  𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯  𝘴𝘩𝘦  𝘸𝘢𝘴  𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯  𝘴𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘴  𝘢𝘯𝘥  𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘱  𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮  𝘰𝘶𝘵  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘥𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘴  𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥  𝘢𝘯𝘥  𝘤𝘶𝘵  𝘩𝘦𝘳  𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭  𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥  𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧  𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦  𝘩𝘦  𝘸𝘢𝘴  𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨  𝘵𝘰𝘰  𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨.  linda  prided  herself  on  this  ability  —  wore  it  like  a  badge  of  honor.  one  she  kept  pinned  to  her  with  short  retorts  and  sharp,  stinging  words.  

linda  prided  herself  on  this  ability,  𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎  𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚎  𝚠𝚊𝚜  𝚊  𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎  𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎  𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐,  𝚊  𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛  𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢  𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐  .  .  .  and  so,  that  pride  meant  there  would  be  no  room  for  sorrow  or  shame  or  anger  or  fear  to  wiggle  its  way  in  and  begin  to  fester  and  rot.  

linda  stares  at  him  for  a  moment,  wide  eyed  and  blinking.  her  jaw  hangs  somewhat  open,  𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲  𝘀𝗵𝗲  𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗽𝘀  𝗶𝘁  𝘀𝗵𝘂𝘁  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗸𝘀  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗵  𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘁𝗶𝗽  𝗼𝗳  𝗵𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗲,  𝗯𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝘁𝗵𝗲  𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀  𝗮𝗻𝗱  𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴  𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺  𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻.  she  had  words  at  the  ready,  arguments  lined  up  to  march  behind  the  trio  of  words  like  army  soldiers.  ❛  you  did  this  because  you  doubted  me,  ❜  and  ❛  you  were  waiting  for  me  to  fail  ❜  and  ❛  were  you  afraid  i’d  humiliate  you?!  ❜  were  all  ready  and  lined  up  to  come  stomping  after  those  three  words.  

but  instead,  linda  sinks  her  teeth  further  into  her  tongue  until  a  metallic  tang  hits  her  senses.  she  swallows  hard,  𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚜𝚎𝚊  𝚘𝚏  𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚘𝚗  𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛  𝚝𝚘  𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚘  𝚘𝚏  𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜  𝚊𝚗𝚍  𝚒𝚝𝚜  𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚢  𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎  𝚘𝚏  𝚑𝚎𝚛  𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎  𝚝𝚘  𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕  𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘  𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚙𝚒𝚝  𝚘𝚏  𝚑𝚎𝚛  𝚋𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚊𝚝.  linda  tilts  her  head  down,  avoiding  eye  contact  with  gerald  for  a  few  moments  (  pitiful,  she  can  hear  her  father  saying,  averting  one’s  gaze  is  a  sign  of  weakness,  you  know!  )  she  folds  her  arms  across  her  chest,  gripping  hard  at  her  arms,  as  a  new  trio  of  words  leaves  her  lips;

❝  thank  you,  gerald.  ❞  she  says  after  a  moment  in  a  voice  so  unlike  her.  one so small  and  disbelieving, .  .  .  it  sounded  like  something  out  of  one  of  the  incompetent  baristas  who  failed  to  get  her  coffee  order  right, not linda monroe.  𝘴𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘴  𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥,  𝘵𝘳𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨  𝘵𝘰  𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘦  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨  𝘪𝘯  𝘩𝘦𝘳  𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴  𝘢𝘯𝘥  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘴  𝘰𝘯  𝘩𝘦𝘳  𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴  (  weak,  how  weak,  she  hears  her  fathers  voice  again  )  as  she  says;  ❝  i  know  i  might  not  say  it  as  often  as  i  should,  but  .  .  .  thank  you.  i  .  .  love  you  too,  gerald.  ❞

[indigodawns]

.

[icedteaandoldlace]

I hit a wall with my current WIP, so I started reading it aloud to see if that would help me determine how to transition between two scenes (it did!). And Spencer, one of the cats I'm cat-sitting, got up from his bed and came over and sat by my feet and listened attentively for a couple minutes before going back to resume his nap. It was the cutest thing.

Also, you never realize just how many runon sentences you write until you read them aloud. I kept wanting to stop, but then there would be a comma instead of a period, and I was like, "good night, you mean you got MORE to say?!"

[hovercraft79]

Winter Song

Ch: 6 Hard Candy Christmas

Chapters: 6/31 Word Count: I,711 Fandom: The Worst Witch (TV 2017) Rating: Teen Warnings:  some difficulty dealing with the judgement of others Summary: Julie Hubble decides to see how Miss Mould is adjusting to life in the Ordinary world. Along the way she gets a bit of insight into Mildred, Hecate Hardbroom and enjoys a fabulous milkshake.

Notes: This story is part of the B-Sides: Stories from the world of Hecate’s Summer Playlist series. It is a prequel to Hecate’s Summer Playlist.

The title, Hard Candy Christmas, is by Dolly Parton, of course. So much to love in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

Once again, Sparky did her best to save me from my own deranged use of commas and semicolons.

“Can I get one by the window, love? I’m meeting a friend.” Julie smiled and followed the hostess to a table by the window. She slung her bag over the back of the chair and settled into the café table, making sure to keep one eye on the door. She folded, smoothed and refolded a paper napkin, knee bouncing under the table. She sniffed the red carnation sprouting from the glass vase in the middle of the table. She read and reread the menu. She checked the time on her phone; she still had twelve minutes before she was supposed to meet Miss Mould at one.

Eight minutes before the hour Julie spotted a colorful coat winding through the holiday crowds filling the sidewalk. Keeping an eye on the swirling blues and greens, Julie watched the witch approaching, slowly, eyes moving back and forth between the storefronts and a piece of paper clutched in her hand. She paused on the sidewalk in front of the café, double and triple checking the address. Julie rapped her knuckles against the window, finally catching Miss Mould’s attention and waving the witch inside.

Marigold pushed the door open and rushed to the table, looking relieved. “Ms. Hubble!” Julie stood and they awkwardly flipped between missed hugs and missed handshakes, neither doing the same thing at the same time.

“Sit down, love!” Julie pulled a chair out for Marigold and shoved the menu into her hands. “I’m bloody starving.” She plunked back into her own seat and took up the menu again. “What would you like to drink? They’ve got a lovely cuppa. And if you’re feeling indulgent, they make a fabulous Black Forest milkshake – chocolate and cherries.” They slipped into silence as each woman studied her options.

After a few minutes, Marigold closed the menu, nervously rubbing her fingers over the cover. “I think just a cup of the tomato bisque for me.”

Julie looked up, stunned. “Tomato? What? You’ll do no such thing, love!” She reached across and opened Marigold’s menu back up. “I didn’t ask you to lunch for you to skimp on a bit of soup. Order what you’d like. It’s my treat.”

“You don’t have to –”

“I know.” Julie covered one of Marigold’s hands with her own. “But I want to. You’ll hurt my feelings if you don’t get at least a double cheeseburger with chips. The brie burger is to die for, it’s me regular.”

Marigold’s eyes shone with unshed tears, but she nodded anyway. “Thank you, Ms. Hubble.”

“And if you don’t start calling me Julie, I swear I’ll order the most expensive things on the menu and then do a runner,” she said, winking.

“Julie, then. Thank you, Julie.” She smiled shyly and went back to studying the menu.

The waitress came and went. True to her word, Julie ordered the brie burger with a large side of chips. Marigold opted for the chicken and avocado sandwich with a cup of the tomato bisque instead of chips or crisps.

“How are things with the…Council?” Julie asked, glancing furtively around. “How do things stand for you?”

Marigold glanced around the café. A cheerful boisterousness filled the space as guests chatted and laughed with each other. No one paid them any mind whatsoever. “I guess the Council is more or less finished with me. They kept me in…” her voice caught, and she swallowed hard before she could go on. “They kept me in custody for thirty days. I think they were trying to decide what to do with me. If I had my powers, they would have been confiscated for a period of time. Not life.” The waitress swept by, depositing a pot of tea and two mugs. She turned her attention to preparing her tea.

Julie poured her own tea, frowning as she tried to work out the best way to say what she wanted to say. “I don’t understand why they needed to punish you at all, Marigold. You weren’t responsible.”

Marigold’s mug clattered onto the table. “How can you, of all people, say that? I nearly cost your own daughter her magic. Girls were hurt because of me.”

Carefully, Julie placed her spoon on the tabletop. “What – exactly – did you do? From what Mildred said, Ethel Hallow stole the Founding Stone. Ethel Hallow created a duplicate one to put on display. Ethel Hallow tricked her sister into taking the Stone’s power causing,” she looked around, leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper, “causing a magical black spot.” She leaned back in her chair. “As far as I can tell, you had a moment of weakness. You didn’t tell them where the stone was, but you didn’t know anyone was still in the castle. You almost cost my daughter, Maud, Enid and Felicity everything. You almost cost Hardbroom and Miss Cackle everything. But when it came down to the wire, Marigold, you did the right thing. You made a great sacrifice. And I’m grateful to you for it. My daughter is whole, thanks to you. So are the rest. Cackle’s still stands.”

“You sound like Miss Hardbroom,” Marigold sniffled, wiping tears from her eyes.

“Hardbroom? The one with the broomstick shoved –” she finished the sentence with a rather graphic gesture.

“That very one. She actually…” Marigold dabbed at her eyes again. “She actually spoke to the Mag— Council on my behalf. Quite forcefully, I must say. I didn’t expect her to do that. Miss Cackle and Miss Drill were also there. That’s why it was only thirty days and… and…” She took a steadying breath and a bracing gulp of tea. “Exile into the Ordinary world. Though… I suppose I’m not really exiled. I just don’t belong in the witch— I don’t belong there anymore.”

“I don’t either, love. And I’m going just fine.” The waitress approached, and Julie slid her mug to the side to make room for their meal, letting the conversation lapse into something almost like companionable silence as they ate.  “Mmph!” Julie chewed her burger and swallowed. “I meant to ask you if you found a flat yet?”

Shaking her head no, Marigold set her sandwich back down without taking a bite. “It’s getting’ a bit dodgy on that front, as well. The Council put me in sort of a part-time lodging when they released me, but I’m only meant to stay there for another week. I don’t even know how to fill out the forms for an apartment. Or to find a job. I have some money saved from Cackle’s but… It won’t last long and my family isn’t exactly keen on helping out, now that I’m the black sheep.”

“I know a bit about that. Me mum wasn’t exactly thrilled when I broke out the news I was up the duff over the Sunday ham.” She took another bite of her burger, savoring the earthy taste of the brie. “Why don’t you come ‘round for supper on Friday? We can take a look at those forms together, see if we can’t get you settled.”

“You really don’t have—” Marigold stopped herself when Julie looked like she was about to fling a chip across the table at her. “That’s very kind of you,” she corrected, quickly. “I’d love to.” She spooned out the last of her soup. “This is a far sight better than Tapioca’s soup, to be sure.”

“Oi, tell me about it. I have to go to Cackle’s for a brunch Sunday for the Spe—” she dropped her voice to a whisper. “For the Spell Science Fair. I can only imagine what she does with brunch,” she said wrinkling her nose.

“I don’t miss her cooking, that’s the truth.” She fussed with her napkin a bit before speaking. “I don’t suppose… since you’re going to be at Cackle’s anyway…” Marigold stared at her empty cup of soup as if it held the secrets of the universe. “Would you mind giving Dimity, I mean, Miss Drill my regards?”

Julie suppressed a grin, and the urge to tease, responding as casually as she could, “I would be happy to. If you’ve anything you’d like to send up the mountain, I’d be happy to take it.”

“I don’t. I don’t think,” she said quickly, pushing the last bit of her sandwich away. “Thank you. Speaking of things I’d like to send along…” Marigold twisted around in her chair and pulled her oversized bag into her lap, extracting a flat package wrapped in brown paper. “This is for you. To say thank you for being kind to me when you have every reason not to be.” She handed the parcel over to Julie.

“You didn’t need to bring me anything,” Julie said, tearing into the paper anyway. “Ohhh…. Marigold. This is lovely.” It was a brightly colored acrylic painting of what looked like Mildred, standing on the stage in the theatre, holding up the staff she’d carved herself. Above her, a myriad of objects floated, captured in a glowing blue haze of magic. “That’s supposed to be Millie?”

“It is. She really did that, stopped all the things that had escaped from Vanishment from hitting the Great—from hitting Hellibore. She was magnificent. She’s going to be very powerful someday.”

“I wish that old Miss Hardbroom thought so,” Julie muttered. “This really is lovely. I know just where I’m going to hang it.”

“Thank you.” For the first time, Marigold smiled a wide, true smile. “And Julie? Miss Hardbroom does think so. She knows so. I think that’s why she’s so hard on Mildred, why she’s so keen on her learning to control her… self.”

Julie thought about that for a moment. It would be nice if it were true. Sometimes she could almost believe that Hardbroom did care about her daughter. Mildred had somehow managed to remain fond of Miss Hardbroom. She’d have to think on that a bit, she decided. For now, though… “Nah…” she said, scrunching up her face. “I don’t buy it. But I do want to buy one of those Black Forest milkshakes. Care to share with me?”

“I think you’ve made me an offer I can’t refuse,” Marigold answered, flagging down the waitress.

[dynoguard]

NaNoWriMo: Return of the DinoKnights (Day 24)

Day 1 & 2 text is here.

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“I’m very cross with you.”

Sheriff Cora Horne blinked in surprise. She knew Kyle better than the others. He was her daughter’s mentor in her apprenticeship, they’d spoken often enough. He shared a meal at her home once. 

It was the most aggressive thing he’d ever said in her presence.

“Can I ask why?” She said, adjusting the sling on her arm. 

“Because you charged off to fight a monster.” Kyle snapped his beak. “A monster that looks like Death, Brach is right on that, and you left your daughter, left all of us here.”

“We needed to know what that thing was. We needed-”

“We need a lot of things, Sheriff!” Kyle shouted. “I need my bed, and my books, and my sisters and my arm.”

“Its alright, Kyle.”

“No, its not. You don’t get to die a hero’s death and leave the rest of us to squat on the clutch.” 

Cora’s beak was already open, ready throw up an objection, but she stopped. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

“There’s only five of us left.” Kyle says. “You’re lucky, if there were three, maybe five more of us, I might hold a grudge.”

“Fair enough.” She replied. “But this Extinxion wants us. I don’t think I’m going to have a choice about fighting him.”

“Then you shouldn’t go in unprepared.” Kyle replied. “I’m pretty sure I can repair your aegis. Claw and Order uses the same basic frame as a bunch of police and rescue designs, the computers in the Project Zero have the specs and anything I can’t fabricate we can salvage off of any number of suits in the lab.” 

“That helps.” Cora fidgeted with the sling a bit. “The armor at least kept me alive.”

“This is one area where luck is on our side.” Kyle replied. “The only thing we know about this entropy legion is they are very difficult to injure and interact with the world in ways that are counter to our understanding of reality.” 

“And they don’t like the time crystals.”

“Exactly. Chronite isn’t on the standard periodic table of elements. Its made of different stuff, stuff we really don’t understand that well. Like, not just not-protons, neutrons and electrons but, different quarks.”

“Okay. so its not made of the same stuff we are.”

“And it plays by different rules.” Kyle says. “Just like our monsters. My hypothesis? They are made of the same stuff, or similar stuff, and so they’re vulnerable to it. And our residence is surrounded by it, a shell of it all through the rock. 

“So we make weapons out of the crystal?” Cora said.

“Even better, we don’t have to, if I’m right, and if it beeps or flashes, I’m usually right about it.” Kyle’s normally quiet demeanor had all but fallen away. He was now moving animatedly about the lab, motioning to a suit of armor on a display dummy. The dummy was patterned on Kyle’s physical characteristics, the distinctive traits of the thyrene species, back armor (in this case, a series of heavy,-shell-like plates lined with spikes), a thagomizer (a knotted club of bone), and a generally bottom-heavy build, were all present.  The armor was a chemical hazard suit. She had seen them deployed through her own order, but this was heavily modified from the standard Scrubdrown design they used. 

“They put combat-grade strength and armor enhancements in a hazard suit.” She said.

“Instead of standard chemical tanks this thing carries dozens of miniaturized chemical fabricators to generate counteragents in real time. Twice the hose pressure of the standard unit. They call it Hazardous Materials Aegis -comma-Experimental.” Kyle grinned. “I call it Hazmaxx.”

“You know, when I was your age, we didn’t have translators that worked in the brain, you talked into them, they repeated, and they wouldn’t have let me know, somehow, that you doubled the last letter of that name.”

“It makes it better somehow.”

“Back on task. Is this armor tougher than my own, or stronger?” She asked.

“About the same in both cases, maybe a little less strength-amplifying.” Kyle said. “But we’re not talking power of that kind. Project Zero was working on integrating time slip technology into an aegis.”

“The instant-armor-up thing that you, should I call that a demonstration?”

“There are voles to smoke out, so to speak. Zara is an expert on the time slip and she’s made some adjustments I feel really good about.” Kyle walked up to the armor. On its left forearm was a green chronal geode in a silver casing. a bit less than half the sphere extended out from the casing, looking like a crystaline reptilian eye. “But the chronal geode doesn’t just let you put the armor on or take it off-”

He hit a button on the casing, and the armor vanished in a flash of white light. There was a sharp snap as the air rushed back in to fill the void. Kyle held the  device in his hand.  “It powers it. And that power is altered by the chronal field. It still behaves like electricity, mostly, you can still run a suit on it, but it is the same energy the crystals store. And if I’m right, the same energy that hurts the monsters. This will neutralize that advantage. If I’m right.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“Then the armor they tear apart to get to us will be just a little bit more amazing?” Kyle replied.

“That figures.” Cora said. “Start work on getting my armor patched and- wait. Did you say ‘us’?” 

[kennethmjoyner]

Some Random Tips for Writing Better Blog Posts

Over the last couple weeks, I have read and reread hundreds of posts from legal blogs. My reason for doing this was to screen the entries submitted in the inaugural LexBlog Excellence Awards contest, before sending the finalists off to the judging panel that will select the winners.

In reading through all these posts, I was thrilled to see confirmation of what I already believed – that there are a lot of legal professionals putting a lot of work and thought into writing high-quality posts – posts that are thoughtful, informative, analytical, instructive and sometimes even funny.

But I also found myself making notes of comments I’d make to some of the authors, had I been their editor. There is no right or wrong way to write a blog post. But lawyers often fall into the trap of sounding like, well, lawyers.

Even setting aside the legalisms we might expect, lawyers often exhibit a rigidity in their writing that gets drilled into them starting in law school. Simple changes to some posts could have made them more readable.

So here are some of the random notes I jotted down, in no particular order. Take them or leave them for what they may be worth to you.

Be catchy in your lede. Your lede paragraph is your opportunity to rope in the reader. Lawyers too often squander this opportunity. Use the lede to tell the reader what you’re writing about and why it matters. And keep it brief and punchy.

Don’t bury the lede. I often see posts that start with something like:

“On June 1, 2019, the Supreme Court decided the case of Smith v. Jones, ___ U.S. ___, on appeal from an en banc decision of the 1st Circuit Court of Appeals.”

Later – maybe in the same long paragraph or lower in the post — it goes on:

“This is the most important decision ever in the area of widget law and will require manufacturers to make major changes in their business processes.”

Why make me wade through the muck to find the flower. Just flip it:

“A Supreme Court ruling yesterday is the most important decision ever in the area of widget law and will require manufacturers to make major changes in their business processes.”

You can then go on:

“In the decision, Smith v. Jones, the court held that widget manufacturers are liable when … “

Start with why it matters. This is a variation on the last point, but I often see posts that start with legalistic recitations of procedural or contextual formalities. They read more like legal pleadings than blog posts. Give me the meat up front – start by telling me why what you’re writing about matters and then step back and provide the background and context.

Set the theme early. This is yet another variation on the preceding points. Keep in mind that your readers are professionals who are often busy and impatient. What are you doing in this post? Are you arguing a point? Are you providing tips? Are you analyzing a trend? What audience are you targeting? Make this as clear as you can as early as you can.

Consider using a style guide for consistency. Consistency of usage and style makes your writing more polished and professional. To ensure consistency, professional news organizations and publishing houses use style guides. I do too. My preferred guide is The Associated Press Stylebook, but there are others out there. I would particularly recommend this for larger firms that have multiple blogs or for blogs that have multiple authors.

Face it – you have a capitalization problem. Lawyers love to capitalize, even when the rules of grammar say not to. Take time to revisit the rules as you knew them before you went to law school. Not sure whether to capitalize? Then see that stylebook I mentioned above.

Be mindful of structure. One of the basic rules of writing is that every story should have a beginning, middle and end. Tell us up front what your post is about, use the middle to flesh out the topic, then bring it all home in the end, somehow bringing the reader back to where you started.

Use visual cues. Remember that blogs are visual as well as textual media. That means you should think about how your post looks, not just about how it reads. Make it visually easy for the reader to move through a post by keeping paragraphs short and by using visual cues such as subheads and bullets.

Keep paragraphs short. I know I just said this, but it bears repeating. Lawyers have a propensity for writing long, dense paragraphs. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain in readability by hitting the enter key every few sentences. If you’re worried it might interrupt the flow for the reader, don’t. I promise you, it will make your post more readable and easier to follow.

Keep sentences short. Short sentences are more readable. Yet lawyers love long sentences. Consider every comma and conjunction and ask why it isn’t a period.

Check hyperlinks. Nothing worse for a reader than clicking a link and finding it does not work or it points to the wrong source. Before you hit the publish button, check your links.

Footnotes? Really? Avoid footnotes. Use hyperlinks instead. You’re not trying out for law review here.

Don’t assume the reader knows as much as you. Writing instructors teach, “Do the work for the reader.” But legal bloggers have a propensity for throwing around arcane concepts, undefined acronyms, and legal references as if every reader will immediately understand. Look, I understand that legal bloggers are often writing for sophisticated readers – even for other lawyers in their same practice area — but why assume knowledge? It is a simple matter to spell out an acronym on first reference or to insert a clause briefly explaining a concept. Your readers will love you for it.

Personality isn’t poison. Don’t be afraid to inject some personality into your posts. Think of blogging as a conversation with your readers. It’s OK to be opinionated, to be funny, even to be vulnerable. Remember, you’re writing blog posts, not briefs – you’re writing to engage, not to convince.

Don’t sacrifice clarity for cleverness. No one loves a good pun more than me. But I saw too many examples of headlines that were so enamored of their own cleverness that the reader was left clueless as to the subject of the post. And if the reader is clueless as to the subject of the post, then guess what? The reader is less likely to read the post. Write headlines that help the reader decide whether to read the post.

But if you insist … If you simply cannot bring yourself to abandon your masterwork of a clever headline, then at least let the reader know in the first couple paragraphs what the post is about. Don’t assume that the reader is going to stick with your detour until halfway through your post before learning where you’re actually headed. I saw several posts like this, where the author was so taken with the cleverness of an idea that the author just kept at it through several paragraphs, only eventually getting around to bringing the clever idea home to the subject at hand.

Don’t be a minimalist. Another error in headline writing is to be so minimalist that the reader can’t tell what the post is about. The headline is your lure, use it to tell readers your topic – and why it matters.

Remember redundancy. Somewhere along the line, we all were taught to avoid redundancy. Then came law school and beat it back into us. A simple but frequent example is the use of “new.” If you tell us that it was just launched or signed into law, you don’t need to describe it as new — “launched a company” not “launched a new company” or “the president signed a law” not “the president signed a new law.”

Know your reader. It is a cardinal rule of writing, but one too often observed in the breach. Not only should you know who you are writing for, but you need to make sure the reader knows as well.

Who wrote it and when? Drives me crazy when a blog post omits the author or date. Drives me even crazier when it omits both. As a reader, I want to know who wrote a post and when. The “when” is important information, especially when you are writing about developments in the law. For some of the entries in our contest, we had to reveal the underlying markup language to determine when they were published. Do the work for the reader.

Read and reread. Before you hit the publish button on a blog post, stop and read it over. I was surprised at the number of typographical errors, incomplete sentences, missing words, misspelled words, and other simple errors I saw – even right in the first paragraph. For my own posts, I find it helpful to review a draft in preview mode, which lets me see it as the reader will. If you have someone available, it never hurts to have a second set of eyes review it before it goes out.

Consider using editing tools. I typically draft posts right in WordPress, but WordPress lacks sophisticated tools for editing and checking spelling and grammar. For longer posts, or if you’re not confident of your own spelling and grammar skills, consider drafting the post in Word and then pasting the final text into WordPress. In Word, you might even want to use one of the advanced editing and proofreading tools designed for legal professionals, such as WordRake or PerfectIt.

Preview your images. I already mentioned previewing your post as a method of reviewing it before you hit the publish button. But another reason to preview is to ensure that your images will display as you intended them to. Distorted or out-of-kilter images detract from the readability of a page and undermine the professionalism of its appearance.

Make your posts accessible. Speaking of images, there are various simple steps you can take to enhance the accessibility of your blog for people with disabilities. The World Wide Web Consortium provides standards on this. One simple practice is to include “Alt text” with images that describe them for those who cannot see them. WordPress and other blog software make it easy to do this when you post an image.

Avoid legalistic parentheticals. When you say, “the Department of So-and-So,” you don’t have to interject “(the ‘Department’).” When you say, “The Department of So-and-So issued regulations,” you don’t have to interject, “(the ‘Regulations’).” We’re all adults here. We can follow what you’re saying.

Blogs aren’t headnotes. When writing about a case or legal development, don’t feel that you have to cram all the facts or the holding into one lead sentence, in the style of a headnote. Write a brief, catchy lead-in, then expand from there.

Don’t cram in the citation. In the same vein as the last comment, you don’t need to stuff a long case name or citation into the opening paragraph. If the case name is notable for some reason, such as that the case is already well known, then go ahead and mention it. But skip the citation. It’s more important in the lede to describe what happened than it is to name or cite what happened. You can provide the name in a subsequent paragraph or even on a line by itself.

As I said at the outset, there is no right way to write a blog post. The bottom line is to know your audience and to consider how you can make it easy for your readers to engage with your post – and with you.

from Law and Politics https://www.lawsitesblog.com/2019/12/some-random-tips-for-writing-better-blog-posts.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[purplesurveys]

599

[ONE] Do you have a common first name? Robyn/Robin isn’t very common. I know only a handful of people I’ve interacted with that has the same name. Do you like your middle name or your first name more? I like both, but I’ve liked my second name for a longer time. It took me until getting into college to warm up to Robyn. What year would/did you turn 21? 2019. What was popular when you were a kid? Depends what period... you’re a kid for 12 whole years lmao. I’m too young to remember the 90s, but during my time as a kid, the trends included Pokemon, Gameboy, Grand Theft Auto, PSP/PS2, TeenNick, Hannah Montana, Drake and Josh, That’s so Raven, Pogs, Beyblades, Uggs, skirts paired with leggings, cropped vests, etc. Do you wear more rings or necklaces? I wear neither but I’d rather put on necklaces. I’ve never taken a liking to rings.

Have you ever been engaged? I have not. Can you see your veins through your skin? On some parts of my body – mostly on my hands and wrists. Do you have a certain song you sing aloud often? I like singing along to songs that are within my range, so that includes songs like In The Mourning or 26 by Paramore, and more recently, everything i wanted by Billie Eilish. Do you concern yourself with what's in? Only so that I can keep up in conversations and because it generally helps to be aware of stuff that are timely, but there are instances wherein I don’t necessarily care about the trends. Do you worry about having good grammar online? I think I have a good grasp of grammar so this doesn’t worry me a lot. [TWO] Do you know anyone with a lazy eye? Gab’s lazy eye sticks out sometimes. Did your parents let you have pets when you were a kid? Yes, but they kept it limited to goldfish at first. Eventually they let us branch out to have a rabbit, lovebirds, and chicks, and finally a dog. Would you rather live in an apartment or a duplex? We lived in a duplex before, so I’m ready to try out something new with an apartment. Have you ever seen Boondock Saints? No. Do you like spicy chips? They’re a hit or miss, but I wouldn’t say no if I was offered them. Do you have any 'different' keychains on your keys/purse? No. I only have one, and it’s a Ferrari keychain JM gave all of us when he went to Singapore last September to watch the Grand Prix. Do you collect pins? No; never really got the appeal. They’re cute though. What band was on the last band t-shirt you wore? Paramore, I’m guessing. They’re the only band I have a shirt of. Do you wear more pink or yellow? I only have one article clothing of either color, so I can’t really pick a winner. [THREE] What's the last movie you watched at a friend's house? I have no idea. I don’t go to friends’ houses to watch movies that often. Have you ever been out of the state you were born in? We have provinces, not states. And yes, I’ve been in different provinces several times. Do you have any tattoos on your arms? Nope. Have you ever owned or known someone who owned a black cat? I know my aunt has one. When was the last time you felt jealous? Maybe in the last week? I always see people in campus holding hands and are obviously a couple and it always makes me sad and jealous. What's the last thing you bought besides food/drink? I bought five pieces of bond paper that I needed for my layout class. What album is the last song you listened to from? Riot!, by Paramore. Do you know what the word lumiere means? Yep, and it’s a very overused French word at that. Do you own a tea pot? I don’t think we do. [FOUR] Who scheduled your last doctor visit? My dad, but man that was nearly four years ago. What's the last video game you played? If phone games count, then it was Mario Kart Tour. If we’re strictly talking consoles, it has to be The Sims 4 if I remember correctly. Do you have anything on your wrists right now? [slight trigger warning: self-harm] Some scars, but it’s been a while and they look healthier these days. It’s still quite visible when under direct light, though. Do you have any holiday theme'd socks? I don’t. What kind of accent do you have? I speak good English but it has a very slight Filipino accent to it, and there are words that are a pain to pronounce for me, like beautiful or bureaucracy. What's the last funny movie you watched? 13 Going on 30, if that counts as funny. It was the last movie I caught on TV recently (my mom was watching). Can you remember your parents' birthdays? January 31 for my dad’s, September 2 for my mom’s. Is there anyone who you just absolutely cannot STAND being around? Yeah these days it would probably be Kyelle and Al.

What is the design on your shirt? It’s a blank brown top. [FIVE] Do you know anyone who just flat-out fails at life? No. Are you a Ghoulscout? No idea what you mean. Do you know someone who's just always wrong about everything? Tito fucking Sotto, a religious, conservative, misogynist, rapist dipshit who managed to become senate president in this big dumpster of a country. Do you make fun of people often? No? That’s mean. Do you read your friend's surveys? Yeah, I follow a handful of people on here and I read their answers often whether I decide to borrow their survey or not haha. If you had to get a tattoo tomorrow, what would you pick? My dog’s pawprints. How do you feel about band tattoos? As long as it’s not a cringey logo like someone’s actual face, I don’t have a problem with it. I may actually want to have Paramore’s 3 bars logo tattooed on me someday. Do you know anyone with a glass eye? Nope. How much are you willing to pay for a pair of sunglasses? If money were no object, I’d probs pay up until ₱15,000 for a pair lmao. [SIX] Did you have a GI Joe when you were a kid? No. I think I came too late to be able to play with those toys. What is the origin of your last name? Like, its etymology? I’m pretty sure it’s Spanish. Do you ever use the n-word? When there still wasn’t a lot of conversation about slurs or race in general like a decade ago, I’d say the word when it was sang or rapped in songs – it didn’t help that I had a big Beyoncé phase, and she’d occasionally include it in her lyrics. Eventually my dad sat me down and told me it was wrong, so I never muttered the word again. What piercing do you like most on the opposite sex? I don’t care for piercings, and only mind them if they were somewhere unusual, like on the nipples or genitalia. What brand of hair dye do you prefer to use? I don’t dye my hair. What county do you live in? We don’t have counties. Did/do you ride the bus to and from school? Yeah, I took the bus service.  Do you prefer beef, chicken or steak? Did you mean pork instead of steak lol? Anyway, my favorite meat is beef. What is your salad dressing of choice? I don’t eat a lot of salad other than spicy tuna salad, so I guess that makes Japanese mayo by dressing of choice by default. [SEVEN] Do you know anyone who's a really funny type of weird? Gabie hahahaha Do you make faces at certain people? Only when they’ve ENTIRELY pissed me off and only behind their backs. But this is a shitty thing to do and I always try not to do it. Is there something you won't let one of your friends live down? Yeah – back in 7th grade when we went stargazing for an overnight school activity, Gab made me watch a movie in our tent called Straightheads because her newest favorite actress at the time, Gillian Anderson, was in it. Long story short, within the first ten minutes of the movie, we already saw a pair of nipples. It felt awkward for a bit but we got over it shortly after haha. Are you any good at applying make up? I am soooo not any good at it. Do you know anyone whose hair looks like a wig? Nope. Do you misuse commas? Sometimes I’ll notice that I do, so I always try to correct them. Have you ever bitten your dentist? I don’t think so. Are you someone who likes to make simple things difficult? lol Who makes you laugh the most? My girlfriend.

[macattackp]

Real Talk

Sorry for the flip flop of emotional posts lately. In all honesty it has been hard lately. I am pretty unfiltered on here as this was originally just an unfollowed private account where I let out all bottled up emotions before I burst, and the truth of the matter is... no matter how strong enduring you are... you’re gonna have days when you just want to give up.

For those who aren’t aware, my life hasn’t exactly been easy, but this latest chapter of issues has been trying everything to break me. Two years ago I was injured in a workplace accident where I lost the ability to stand or walk for long periods of time or carry anything heavy. (Not to mention every time I do stand it feels like my leg bones are made of shattered glass, crunching and splintering through my legs). Through these appointments I found out that my “standard for pain” the last 20+ years had been several levels above most other peoples’ and after more research the problems started popping up. It turned out I had fibromyalgia, NASH, Hypermobility, Adrenaline Fatigue, several allergies I hadn’t been aware of, HSP, Severe Depression, Severe Anxiety, Suicidal Tendencies, PTSD, and Tourettes. In addition to this I was sent in for a year of tests to make sure a spot wasn’t liver cancer (thankfully it wasn’t but I learned the hard way that I am violently allergic to MRI dye) and currently the last big ticket item I’m waiting on is if I have Multiple Sclerosis which we will find out in February. 

In addition to health problems discovered, there were also a number of life problems going on. I got let go from my job as my legs weren’t healing up and it was very physical, my grandmother who lived with us and had dementia got diagnosed with a pretty nasty and fast acting disease that killed her after two months of excruciating pain, we had abusive family issues, several of my cousins also found they had autoimmune diseases, rumors were spread about me getting fired for lying about my conditions, I had very important friendships for me fall apart What little items I owned started breaking down, people started telling my parents to throw me out onto the streets for my own good, and just... the list goes on... I tried my best to combat them by keeping hope. I took my extra time to study vigorously. I went back to university to get my bachelors degree, and studied extra skills on the side. I tried to make connections. I tried everything I could think of to keep faith that the future would get better if I just tried harder.

Then things kept getting worse...

These last two weeks have seriously broken me. I buried my grandmother, and all the family stress that came with it, just to have my grandad on my other side pass away. I officially passed 300 job applications since halfway through May and I’ve had 3(ish) interviews from all of them. If I was getting eliminated right away I’d at least know I was aiming too high, but every time I just ALMOST get the job only to be eliminated in the final round before interviews. Failing interviews are hard enough, but the thought that more than 99% of these applications are failing just because I don’t have a comma in the right place or used “Microsoft Excel” instead of “Google Docs” or other stupid metrics that their HR software can eliminate you on is infuriating. You can’t barter with a computer algorithm or make it realize you have potential!

Newspapers talk about there being more jobs and lower unemployment rates now more than ever.... IT’S NONSENSE! Every job I apply to, even small time jobs have 500-1000 other applicants within two days! I look through about 50-100 job postings a day and apply to 5-20 that I qualify for in a day, and ALL of them deal with this! If we are so blessed with jobs why on earth are so many people applying for them?? Not to mention HR departments are getting so swamped with applications that they put on ridiculous requirements (which you will be automatically eliminated for on most job sites if you don’t meet before a human even sees them) If you are looking for 10-15 years of ROLE SPECIFIC experience for an ENTRY LEVEL position, you’ve got issues!

The pressure has been rising as everyone here has been stressed lately, and that stress tends to make people flail again and push you to do stupid things. And so amidst the pressure, after taking several hits in a row of different stresses, praying for any level of hope and relief, only to be hit by yet another greater stress again, it finally came...

“I want to die”

it caught me off guard when I first heard it... it had been so many years since I had outright said it. Sure I had wished in my head a number of times how I just wished it all would end, and my desires for self preservation have been at an all time low... but it finally came out.... and then again...

“I want to die”

and then I lost all control. I fell down, my body started hyperventilating, I gripped and clawed at myself as my muscles went into convulsions and just all the despair and overwhelmed feelings I had been constantly choosing to push past came out at once. I couldn’t take it any more... I couldn’t control it any more... I was done...

After about an hour of tears, shouts, and uncontrolled muscle movements my father finally got me to relax again. I had popped both my shoulders out of joint, charlie horsed my one leg, my stomach was wanting to hurl, my eyes were cloudy, and I couldn’t hear anything any more over my ears ringing, and most of all... my emotions and feelings were just dead....

I don’t know how long its been now... a year at least since I’ve last known what it feels like to feel happy. My body, almost out of reflex will laugh things off and say “I’m fine”.... but I’m not fine.... my heart feels like it’s been carved out with a knife... my head feels heavy... any time I smile it feels like something is being twisted inside me.... I want to feel hope again... I want to feel love... I just want to know what it is like to not meet every morning dreading the fact that you woke up again... I want to either be saved from this, or at least let my death come swiftly... I’ve tried everything I can in my power... I’ve gone above and beyond... but its too heavy.... I’m broken... I’m dead.... I don’t even know if there is anything left in my worth salvaging... I feel worthless and beyond help... someone who glitched the system and lived too long only to find out there was nothing left in the world for him...

I don’t know why I’m writing this... maybe it’s a last desperate call for help... maybe its an attempt to get my own thoughts in order... maybe it’s to show that I’m not strong, I break too.... Or maybe it’s just because I’ve lost all ability to care at this point... either way... I shout out into the depths of the internet where this will be overlooked and disappear hoping that some day I can look back on this and be relieved that it all went up from here.... but I’m still scared.... I’m still broken... I’m still tired....

[notarealdisciple]

What Is the Word Order of Adjectives?

  Hi, everyone. How’s your day going? This morning, the Metro was loud, hot and crowded…again. And the train driver kept stopping and starting so I lost my footing and bumped into someone. Ugh. I need a different way to get to work! But what? Oh, I know: I’ll buy a new folding bike! Oh wait – or is it a folding new bike? No, that doesn’t sound right. New folding bike is right. I just used two adjectives to describe the bike: new and folding. But why couldn’t I change the order? The answer is that they are cumulative adjectives. And, in today’s program, I’m going to tell you about them. Cumulative adjectives When we use more than one adjective to describe a noun, the adjectives are either cumulative or coordinative. Cumulative adjectives are adjectives that must appear in a special order to express the meaning that we want to express. For example, if I told a native English speaker I was buying a folding new bike, they might not understand me. You’ll note that I also used three adjectives to describe the Metro: loud, hot and crowded. But those adjectives are coordinative. They do not follow a special order. And they have different punctuation rules. The order of cumulative adjectives is as follows: quantity, opinion, size, age, color, shape, origin, material and purpose.  Quantity Let’s talk about the first one – quantity. These adjectives answer the question “How much?” or “How many?” They can refer to specific numbers, like two or 31, or to more general amounts, like “whole” “half” “a lot” or “several.” Let’s hear an example: I’m about to order two large pizzas. Which toppings do you like? The adjective “two” comes before the adjective “large” and they both describe the noun “pizza.” If the person had said, “I’m about to order large two pizzas,” the listeners would have probably been confused. That’s strong evidence that these are cumulative adjectives. Opinion Next in word order comes opinion adjectives, which express how we feel about something. Descriptive words like “tasty” “strong” “ugly” “costly” “stubborn” and “happy” are examples of our opinions. For instance:        I ordered two tasty large pizzas for the game. The three adjectives -- two, large and tasty -- all work as a group to build meaning onto one another rather than act as individual descriptions of the noun “pizza.” Size OK, now onto size. This includes any number of descriptive size words, such as “large” “big” and “little.” In our pizza example, the size (large) follows the established order. Here it is again. Listen for the word “large” after the other adjectives.        I ordered two tasty large pizzas for the game. Age OK, next is age. This can refer to specific age adjectives, such as 16-year-old, or such words as “young” “old” “middle-aged” and so on. One thing to note is that, in English, it is possible but not common for more than three adjectives to describe one noun in speech or writing. In addition, not all native speakers or English experts put age after opinion. With that in mind, consider this example: The big old ugly pick-up truck puttered along the road.  That is how I – along with many American English speakers – would say it. Notice that I put the word “old” before the opinion “ugly.” But, based on the traditional order, it would go like this:        The ugly big old pick-up truck puttered along the road. Shape Next up, we have shape. This includes words like “long” “short” and “round” or words for specific shapes, like square. Here’s how you might use it: The ugly big old wide pick-up truck puttered along the road. That's a lot of adjectives for one noun -- a rarity but not impossible. Color And now we come to color. We normally use color adjectives to describe objects and animals: The ugly big old wide red pick-up truck puttered along the road. Does this sound like too many descriptive words? That’s because it probably is. Origin Alright, let’s talk about the next group: origin, ethnicity and religion. Words like Persian or Christian fall in this group. But, instead of putting several adjectives before one noun, let’s hear what a real person might say: We found a beautiful 200-year-old blue Persian rug. Material OK, then there’s material. Material adjectives are usually nouns that act as adjectives when used to describe other nouns -- like metal, paper and silk. We’ll build on the rug example, like this: We found a beautiful 200-year-old blue Persian silk rug. As you can hear, five adjectives do not sound very appealing! But technically speaking, it is both correct and acceptable. Purpose Finally, we have purpose. Remember back when I described the bike I hoped to buy? I used the word “folding” to describe a very specific kind of bike. For purpose adjectives, we usually also use a noun as an adjective. “Folding” is a gerund – a kind of noun ending in -ing. So, let’s suppose I got my wish. I might say this: My pretty new electric folding bike is so much fun! I’m very happy with it.  By now, you might be wondering: How do we know if an adjective is cumulative or not? Visit our website to see how to do the cumulative adjective test. I’m Alice Bryant.   Alice Bryant wrote this story for Learning English. Ashley Thompson was the editor.   ______________________________________________________________ Test it out   There are two tests you can use to identify whether an adjective is cumulative or coordinative. Test 1: The “and” test For the first test, try putting the word “and” between the adjectives. Using the word “and” suggests the adjectives have equal importance. This would make them coordinative, not cumulative. Let’s try it with “new folding bike.” Does “new and folding bike” have the same meaning as “new folding bike”? Not so much. So, we know they are cumulative, not coordinative. Test 2: Change the order For the second test, change the order of the adjectives and decide whether the meaning changes. For example, “Folding new bike” does change the meaning. So we must keep the original order and these are cumulative adjectives. Punctuation We also punctuate cumulative and coordinative adjectives differently. We do not put commas between cumulative adjectives nor do we put “and” between them, as in today’s many examples. We do put commas between coordinative adjectives and we can use the word “and,” as in “loud, hot and crowded Metro.” ______________________________________________________________ Practice   Now, test yourself! Read the sentences below and decide whether the darkened words are cumulative or coordinative adjectives. Write your answers in the comments section. The dealer carries a large collection of vintage sports cars. Your big loud radio kept the neighbors awake last night.  The huge white dog refused to take his medicine. Do you know who put this ugly broken computer here? I took a short restful break before continuing to study. They made me a sweet lemony cake for my birthday. ______________________________________________________________ Words in This Story   bump – v. to hit something, such as part of your body, against an object or person in a sudden way punctuation – n. the marks, such as periods and commas, in a piece of writing that make its meaning clear stubborn – adj. refusing to change your ideas or to stop doing something putter – v. to make small popping sounds while moving slowly origin – n. the point or place where something begins or is created rug – n. a piece of thick, heavy material that is used to cover usually a section of a floor silk – n. a smooth, soft, and shiny cloth that is made from thread produced by silkworms vintage – adj. describing something that is not new but is valued because of its good condition and attractive design Source: https://learningenglish.voanews.com/a/what-is-the-word-order-of-adjectives-/4775294.html

[everyonediesinalabama]

Everyone Dies In Alabama: by Jonathan Rutan (this one is also inspired by Alexa and Kathryn)

    This is a clear command:

    Basic thumbed the line.  Not as much as he’d thumbed other lines.  Further along she’d spun some true beauty words—all scalpel perfect to the heart, no misunderstandings there—and those were halfway faded with all the attention they’d received.

    She’d answered him back.  After years of silence—and every prayerful plea where he’d once knee bent a hope for any response at all, even if it was a harsh rebuke—she’d answered.  How could he not touch everything she’d sent?

    He was in love with what she’d sent. When he paused to think on it—which was often—he knew well that it was all beyond great.  Each line spoke eloquently of how he hadn’t yet changed.

    And, that was the problem.  He thought he had.  Yes, he remained in savior mode—I can rescue January, myself, everyone—but no longer did he think that it would be his hands alone that would save.

    His intent was upon the soul now. He was all about what Christ would have for her, or for his own, life—those hours in church after church proving that best.

    Along each pew, and during every conversation with every sweet congregation member that had smiled satisfaction that he was there—so good of you to join us, are you married, is your wife here too—Basic had foolish thought one thing: his heart had to be a switch.

    He still wanted porn, but, he kept it at bay—Harlow Tate, and all her movies, left on the backest of backburner’s. He’d even managed to stop his hourly check in upon Harlow’s real name.  Sure, he’d once written to Kathryn Lex’s FaceSpace page—had gained the courage, or insanity, to type out a quick note too, something that had said she could just be Kathryn, not Harlow, if she wanted—but that was nice as well, right?

    However, if he were being full honest, there had been more.  A quick message left on Kathryn’s Chirper page—to wish her a happy Valentines—and, he couldn’t forget this, a message was sent to her Harlow Tate specific Bouncer site, all blogged long about her long past porn career.  But, beyond that, there had been nothing.

    Harlow Tate, or Kathryn Lex, or whatever, was not his concern, and, yes, while he did occasionally peek in upon her, he didn’t write anymore, or feel a slump into heartache, whenever he stumbled along anything that made him think she was getting back into porn.  It had been years since the day Kathryn’s mother had notified the world that Kathryn needed help for drug addiction, and mental illness, and since then Kathryn Lex hadn’t been Harlow once.  Oh, there may have been issues—the 69HarlowTate blog spot run by Gustavo, whoever that was, and the FaceSpace page dedicated to Harlow as well—in fact there was plenty that warned that no one who ventured into the sex industry ever, truly, escaped from it, but it was beyond time for Basic to stop obsessing.  

    And, really, he had thought himself such a success in that regard.  It wasn’t an hourly peek.  Maybe that wasn’t much, but it was a different, no more obsessions here because Basic now knew he served something higher, something better.  He was a Bible reading champ—verses by the gallons noted and studied each day—and, he really did pray.

    Please, please Lord, save January, save Kathryn—for me, sure, but really for you, so they can know you.  Hadn’t that meant he’d changed?

    Apparently not.  Basic was already back into porn, throwing wide any internet connection he could find to scroll back to old Harlow Tate video’s, or to ones with whatever Jenna happened to be the star, or to classic’s’ with that other lady, and the actor who was playing her son, so he could see a few pounds of flesh and feel nothing along the pitter, and patter, of his heart.

    He was finding it hard to care about that.  He knew that Christ was true, and that he, Benjamin Basic, had been made to serve him, yet Kathryn Lex and her movies beckoned—absolutely all old, he’d checked, and had re-checked, and still it seemed as if a miracle had occurred.  In his years of not looking, nothing new had been made.  Yet, her long ago did beckon…and he so badly needed to watch.

    It was another problem.  Basic thumbed the line once more, and couldn’t stop feeling the texture of this difficulty.  He was head over heels about these words—her every typed-out vein of hate something he could only forget whenever he watched porn.  Yet, he shouldn’t be watching porn—it ruined him so. How screwed was he?

    When he’d known January Why, talks at the house her parents had given to her, hurried kisses he’d felt her pull away from the instant they’d landed on her lips—which begged the question, why had she let him continue with those—she hadn’t given him anything.  Oh, there had been a gift on his birthday—a card, and a dinner, had peeked out as well to say hello—but nothing of heart had bothered to make its presence known.

    Yet that gift—a book he couldn’t forget, such a well written collection of Stephen King short stories that Basic was sure he’d mentioned he’d picked up weeks ago and hadn’t really liked—didn’t that matter?  Add that book on with that card, and that dinner, and he did have something, yet this message was what stuck.  It felt so personal he really wished she’d giftwrapped it special years back, tied it with a bow instead of that silly novel.

    This is a clear command: Do not contact me, whether directly or indirectly at any point in the future.

    She’d used a colon, that was impressive.  Basic would have gone with a period—a declaration.  THIS IS A CLEAR COMMAND—all upper cased and loud with nothing to follow. He wasn’t sure what else could be said. A period would have sufficed.

    But, would it have been grammatically correct?  Basic wasn’t sure about that.  He loved to write.  Stocking shelves back in his PubClub days, or the many hours he’d spent in the Marine Corps—usually cleaning something or taking out the trash, not exactly what he’d been expecting to do while serving his country—had been nice, but writing was what held his passion.  Yet, grammar, that alluded him.

    What truly made a comma correct instead of a semicolon?  And, when did “I” come before “E,” and how was he supposed to be sure that a new paragraph should be started when he adored letting his sentences linger, drifting on and on with no end in sight?

    Often, anything he wrote was an explosion of underlined reds and squiggled greens on the screen of his nice, and new, MicroPage Breeze.  That computer had top of the line spell check, its processor’s assuredly doing double duty trying to figure out just what it was he’d meant to spell, or how he could have formed that sentence better, each time he typed up something new.

    January didn’t have that problem. It was another reason to love what she’d written.

    Basic had looked for it, flipping through his Webster’s dictionary just to be certain.  A colon, or colons, it’s definition something that clearly stated it was supposed to be used to direct attention to matter—that matter being a nice long list, or an explanation.

    Basic let his finger hover.  He couldn’t feel the intent anymore.  Some well-placed tape—all Scotch and clear—had finally been used to keep him far from the perfect she’d spun, but he could still find the grooves of what she’d meant.  Her perfect did direct his rapt attention, the period he would have dotted down not slicing into him half as well as this.

    “Do not contact me,” he would have used a comma in-between “whether directly, or indirectly,” but that probably would have been wrong as well.  He really couldn’t think of a better way—her words, that sentence, such a gleaming razor’s edge that always set his knees to jelly, and made him feel nauseous.

    He didn’t know why he read what she’d sent as much as he did.  Yet, at the same time, he knew full well why he would always read it again, and again.

    Already he’d saved a copy to his laptop—that MicroPage was rather awesome, so small yet so full of memory and potential—and had printed a personal copy for himself as well.  That was what he was reading now, the personal, the one he’d hand laminated and sometimes stuck in his pocket whenever he had to remind himself not to look her up on the internet.

    An example of indirect contact…

    The tape was slick, glossy, a membrane smooth broken only by tiny, jagged, lines of teeth that he always made when one strip of Scotch didn’t quite stretch far and he had to stop, take off another, and begin again.  Often, Basic would close his eyes, feel the slick as he imagined his finger’s skating along the contours of the words she’d spent the time to create.

    Had it taken her a week, mere hours, or maybe just a day had been all that was required?  Her time spent over her computer remained a mystery.  How long had it been before she’d hit send and her message had arrived in his Gmail account?     Basic shouldn’t care this much about her—wasn’t he finding it hard to care about everything else?  Yet, without porn, he was such a failure.

    A better man, a sane man, someone not branded as stalker long ago, would have already found the avenues that would have allowed him to slip free of her hold, but Basic wasn’t that type of guy. He’d always been obsessed, it had only taken January Why to help him figure that out even more.

    An example of indirect contact is placing me on a prayer list for a religious organization that sends notifications by post or sending messages via a third party.

    He’d done that, all of it.  The religious organization thing for sure.  He’d asked many at a local church to pray for her to come to know Christ. After each smile conversation—and a few awkwards where he’d explained that no, actually, he wasn’t married—he’d slip it in.  Please, could you, if it’s not a problem, pray for January?

    Weren’t you supposed to do that? If you went back to Church and said you believed—if you’d changed too as he was supposed to have changed and were all about Christ and his salvation in yours and other’s lives—then wasn’t it important to get folks to come to know the Lord?

    And what about love?  What if you loved someone, really loved them and wanted them to be saved by the one thing you had become certain was true salvation, wasn’t that a good thing to feel?  Basic had thought it was.

    He already knew well that his own hands wouldn’t work.  Leaning in to kiss January on her doorstep, or wanting so bad to stop a father from cussing out a mother, all of that had been avenues Basic had longed to take in-order-to save himself—he’d even longed to give enough gifts to January, or to a hundred other girls, or to just write Kathryn Lex for the hope that, somehow, he could conjure up a happy.  Something that would save these women from any pain they’d ever felt.

    It had all been mistake.

    He wasn’t anyone’s savior.  He’d assumed he’d gotten that branded deep into his soul on that doorstep—January all scream and blur of denial at his approaching lips—but he hadn’t.  He’d just turned to Christ to try and save—had used religion as gift—and that had been mistake as well.

    However, for a while, Basic had given Christ’s way—okay, really, his way yet it had been shined with the veneer of the Church—a good go.  He’d asked, and had asked, and had found it not at all that hard to also add her address down whenever certain prayer sheets had been passed his way.  In fact, it had been beyond easy, a simple act of slipping off the top of a pen and closing his eyes.  Her address was always available for him to see.

  He wasn’t all that sure she still lived at that address anyway.  Back when he’d worked at a PubClub grocery store, wearing black aprons, black shoes, and hoping each time he turned a corner there she would be, he hadn’t written often.  A letter on his birthday, sent precious hope her way—his name sometimes attached if he felt brave enough to raise his hand and truly notify her of who it was that was putting stamp to envelope—was all he’d accomplished.

    But, in further attempts at that full honesty thing, that wasn’t—absolutely—correct.  Mainly it had been letters, yet he had found her online just as he’d found Kathryn Lex online.  A MeTube account she had, her profile on FaceSpace, that Chirper site she sometimes logged onto to vent frustration over John Travolta and his wayward massages.  Maybe he’d overdone it long before he’d started over-mailing, yet, he hadn’t texted anymore, there was that.

    She’d asked him to stop when he’d done that before.  It was a week after that inappropriate doorstep kiss, her scream still fresh in his head, a reverb of “mistake, mistake, you idiot.”  She’d called him stalker because she’d called a day after that kiss, had said they couldn’t hang out anymore, that he’d grabbed her head, had yanked at her, had tried to force his tongue down her throat, but he hadn’t done any of that. Sure, he’d leaned in, his hands probably stretched out—he was leaning, he needed balance—but, he hadn’t grabbed.

    Basic didn’t think he could forget. The way her hair had flown, a cyclone of blond fury as she’d screamed surprise and his lips had brushed scalp instead of the edges her mouth.  Once, long before, he’d leaned forward and she’d accepted, but now there was just the echo of his failure, the way her blond had whipped ribbons of distress across his face—the taste of goodbye as he’d landed a smack on her temple.

    Was that a tongue trying to be jammed down a throat?  Was that hands yanking at her head?  Basic didn’t think so, but he felt the empty, the down and down of wrong when she’d labeled him wretched and had said “How dare you, I thought you told me you would wait for me?”

    And maybe it was that which had tugged at him, had made his over text, his over call, had made his everything that had been the foundation of what he’d done that whole next week preordained—something out of his hands, doomed to happen no matter what.  He’d wanted to explain—he would wait, forever, I’m so sorry.

    However, there was one hiccup he was certain he could never explain to January.  He hadn’t thought of her—of any of the many times he’d asked if she was interested in him, when she would reply she wasn’t and he’d smile, sigh an okay, say he’d wait an eternity—that night.

    He’d been too obsessed with making a statement—please don’t like anyone else, please, please, like only me—and nothing much else had bothered to swing by to remind him that he had, once, sworn to be a gentleman.  So, he’d called, texted, had sent one long message via her FaceSpace Chat Room icon, each attempt the equivalent of throwing tiny stones into the ocean and hoping, somehow, that Australia, or Japan, would feel the ripple all the way from the East Coast.

    She’d never responded, not once, until his twice a day, every day, granted him a Sunday call where she’d said he was a stalker and had asked for him to throw away her number.  He had.  As soon as she was off the line her number had been deleted from his phone, some hurried pages in well used notebooks ripped out as well and sent to his very own shredder so he wouldn’t be tempted to remember when she’d given him her digits and he’d written them down on the margins of what should have been for English class alone.

    It had been years since then, and he would never bother her via phone again, yet was writing her a sin he needed forgiveness for?  For the longest time, Basic had thought the answer no.  Now, he was certain of yet another mistake.

    However, that now was a now based only in a present tense universe of this very moment.  His writing to her—and sending all those gifts—were things that resided in a past he hadn’t bothered to feel guilt over whenever he’d mailed anything her way.  He’d been too busy with her address—did she still live at the place he remembered—to be concerned about anything else.     That gift to himself on his birthday, the once a year letter that was followed with only a few—your worthy of a greater love—letters in-between, had received no response so maybe she’d moved, maybe she’d thrown everything away without tearing any envelope open to see what he’d written.  He brought fingers back over her words.  “An example,” he liked that, lawyer precision with a teacherly air added on for flare.

    Of course, she was a teacher, so maybe no flare was intended, yet he decided to enjoy the fantasy no matter what.  She could have spent her hour, those minutes, that day, forming the most legally acceptable, teacher to pupil, explanation ever and though that was amazing he took only one thing to heart.  She had gotten the messages he’d sent, and the ones from his church.  That made him really, really, happy.

    The third-party issue was what was upsetting.  Explainable for sure, yet, upsetting.  He could find no way to be happy about that.

    So many had told him not to write, to leave her be, and he knew he should, but he hurt.  Like a piece of himself was missing, a throne of absence in his heart—some fool king holding court with loss and grief.  To write her—not knowing if she would ever receive a thing, with the possibility of daily rejection playing heavy overhead—was a dream he wouldn’t wake from.  He valued the delusion, but, he didn’t want to hurt her either.

    He went to others.  He told them to tell her Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, congrats on that new job—they lived in a small town, if he asked around enough it wasn’t hard to hear all about her success.  But he’d only ever meant for those others to tell her in their own words, to give that Merry, or that Happy New, from their own lips not as shadow couriers hand delivering messages which she’d never wanted to hear.

    He should have explained more, told with a greater flourish that what he’d meant was for them to say congrats just so she could hear a congrats.  It was Christmas, or a New Year, and maybe she hadn’t yet received a reminder of those events.  Wouldn’t she like that?

    He could imagine it well.  How his friends, that were her friends too, didn’t say, “Happy New Year, just wanted you to hear that,” but instead said “Hey, Basic, remember Basic, well, he’s still consumed with you and he wanted me to let you know he wishes you a Happy.”  It wasn’t what he’d intended, and it was probably more a way to make her New Year into something that was already turning out to be not going so well.

   But that wasn’t the last of the third-party issues that could be heated up and used for more branding—something hot, and iron red, with “Awkward,” or “Creepy,” set to smoke as it seared more truth upon his soul.  There was how he’d driven to her house—dark of night, car kept in neutral so he could silent slip towards her mailbox.  He’d put fliers in there, little notices that said “Jesus Loves You,” and “Come to Westwood Baptist for Revival,” things he was too afraid to mail yet wanted her to find without knowing they came from him.

    Surprise, Jesus loves!  Surprise, there’s a church that knows your around! Anything other than, surprise, Benjamin Basic was outside your house.  It wasn’t exactly third party, it was pretty much him alone being twisted bad, but maybe he’d been better at his subterfuge then he ever could have expected.  Maybe she thought it had all come from someone at Westwood—like he’d cajoled some poor pastor into silent slipping instead of him.

    Whatever the case, that too wasn’t the end.  He had one more—a big more—how he had approached her boss, Doctor Forrester Murphy, how he’d annoyed that man to death with inane requests.  Just what had he been thinking?

    Basic didn’t know.  It was so strange.  For the longest time that throne of absence could, somehow, also morph into a racing panic—a tribal drum pulse of booming certainty that he had to act now before it was too late.  Her email—each “This is a clear command,”—had stilled that, but, for a while, when he’d felt that panic he had to do something.

    Drive to her mailbox, be brave enough to use a stamp and send some mail the normal way, or go to her boss, the man who ran the Noel English department, and talk to him again, and again.  Each had been an idea formed and executed with ease and—for a time—it had all seemed okay.

    Totally reasonable—in no way inappropriate.  He’d been such an idiot.

    It was all hindsight.  How Basic would embarrass himself into Doctor Forrester’s office—or should he have said that better, the man had two last names, maybe it should have been called Doctor Murphy’s office.  How Basic would awkward smile too, ask a few questions about Doctor Forrester’s most favorite city, “Make any trips to San Fran recently,” yet hurry on to January as soon as he could.

    “I mean,” he’d say, getting to the point, and—it was a talent—expertly inserting his foot into his mouth at the same time.  “I know she isn’t a doctor yet…”

    “Which is necessary,” Doctor Forrester would reply.  He always replied this way.  “I’ve told you this.  She has to have her PHD.”

    “Yes sir, yes, you have told me that, it’s just…if you could give her tenure…just do it…she’s a great teacher.”

    An eye roll and sigh would appear next, Basic already feeling an extra layer of warmth—all red shame and foolish—spreading along his neck and face.  So perhaps he’d understood well—from the beginning—that this was stupid yet he’d done it, again, and again, convinced himself that avoiding her, while getting others to talk to her, or help her, was okay.  It truly had felt a grand idea.

    “I’ll see what I can do,” it was how Doctor Forrester would always finish, some slight smile—please leave my office—curling across him as Basic made a hurried retreat.

    The man was large, and not just in stature.  He did hold a swelling girth, an accumulation of beers, and sodas, and years of responsibility—Basic supposed—that had gathered around his midsection to protect all that was valuable inside.  He was fat, yet, in other ways, so many ways, he stood huge in what really mattered.

    He was mammoth in Basic’s eyes for sure. Here is what I wish I could be. Here is someone whose career, how he holds himself, the way he treats everyone with respect, is what I should copy.

    Basic may have felt it wrong to annoy the man about January, yet he’d been helped in ignoring that feeling with how much he admired Doctor Forrester.  Surely, he won’t care too much about my obsession, he’s too decent to care.

    But, had Basic gone further than even he could have imagined?  Was her third-party statement not just about the common friends they shared, or his silent mailbox trips, but also about her boss—someone who could have vented his frustration, about Basic, to January?

    There was a Joyce story, all underlined and highlighted, on her FaceSpace page—and Doctor Forrester was the Joyce authority on campus, that was his thing—and the way Doctor Forrester had also liked a picture that January had posted there, and how they were friends via that internet site as well.  Basic was consumed, he wouldn’t deny, and he’d looked her up so much.  It gave him questions, such countless questions.

    Maybe there wasn’t just venting, maybe there was more, much more.  Just how terrible had his third--party issues—I’ll get them, or them, or them, to do what I cannot—been?  Had it lead her to other men—large men with fake decency—that she never should have gotten involved with?

    Basic didn’t care that Dr. Forrester was black—he had Paul, and all those Kathryn Lex movies with insanely hot black women, to thank for that.  Basic’s black mixing it up with white racism had faded the more he’d hoped January was being treated well by Paul—and, seriously, finding out that he could enjoy lesbianism no matter the color of its participants was a great race envy killer as well—but he did care if the good old Doctor wasn’t all that good.  Would he use her?  Had he used her?  If yes, then what Basic had done wasn’t just terrible...it was a million words passed that.

    He couldn’t stop the questions—Forrester, really, maybe Forrester—that such thoughts brought.  Why had he pushed, and pushed, in-regards-to her? Why?  And why wasn’t she the first time he’d acted that way?

    Basic had never written tons as he’d done with January—just little notes, tiny messages sent to Kathryn Lex, and others, on their FaceSpace pages—yet, he’d been awful before.  It was a level of jerkitude that had cozied up to dickishness after spending way too much time getting friendly with asshole.  Alexa was his best example of this.  He still hoped for a way to make amends for what he’d done.     She was his first.  Not his first sexual—Basic still had his V-Card, V-Chip, V-Whatever that said only, “Look, dad, I’m not the quitter, loser, weakling, you always said I was, I can stick with something to the bitter end even if it is my virginity,”—Alexa was simply his first real signpost.

    Sure, there had been others.  A few he’d stared at during tenth grade Biology class—sorry, Ashley, hope that didn’t freak you out.  And those he’d slid his arm up against—hello Monique, we’re friends, we laugh, and though I should ask you out I’ll instead awkward touch until you get annoyed and never speak to me again.  But Alexa was the major, the fast pull from “I’m pretty normal,” as he slipped off onto the access ramp of “Whoa, this isn’t the correct way to be.”

    Basic had once made a list of those who’d found a special in his heart.  It was something to hold against January’s.  Her every Liam, Beau, and others, followed by his Vicky, his Katie, his Monique, and his Alexa.  But, really, there was more, way more.  If he kept being honest—and, he needed to be, he was so tired of his old self, the stench of his lies that tried, vainly, to make his past seem better—his list had to include Jill, and Ashley, Hannah too with Courtney, Samantha, and Nichole—couldn’t forget them—added on to really make everything way too long to ever be read in a timely fashion.

    Most of those, especially Samantha, Hannah, Ashley, Courtney, and Nichole, wouldn’t even know how he’d thought of them.  How he’d pined—do they like me, was it a mistake to send that gift—and how every text or email he’d placed into the ether was a heart drop of worry, and passion, he could barely stand.

    What if they don’t write back? What if they sent three smiley faced emoticons before, with one “LOL that was so funny,” message tacked on as sweet surprise, yet this gets neither?

    The cornerstone of his soul, his self-esteem, was a polished rock set upon a pedestal of these ladies every action. If she’s happy, I can float.  If she smiles, I have purpose.  But if she cries, or does nothing, I am lost.

    Where January was the greatest indicator of this—I have to get her back—Alexa was his beginning.  If he had been more observant, better able to take his eighteen-year-old self for a full body inspection—soul bent, mind askew, heart slightly out of alignment, maybe I should go get that looked at—he could have avoided so much.  

    He’d met Alexa at his first college. He’d gone to three, two in his home state, one of those a very expensive—a place he never should have chosen—and the other the beauty of Noel and all it had to offer.

    Alexa was at the home state expensive. It was Samson University, nestled not that far from the University of Alabama at Birmingham, but quite far from Auburn and the more main campuses of what was just the University of Alabama. It was a college surrounded by other colleges, the University of Noel not that far from it either.

    Samson was gated, very private, the kind of institution that had rolling waves of green grass that had to be cut even during cold winter months when snow made a rare appearance and baffled the gardeners who probably couldn’t fathom why they still had to mow.  Basic was sure the high rate of tuition went into painting such epic lawns their vibrant emerald hue—there was no way the color of that grass could be real, it glowed on dark, overcast, days—but such thoughts often fled quite quickly into way more pertinent issues.

    He was out of high school, he was supposed to be becoming a man, he was definitely doing as he pleased, tuition rates—and epic debt—something to leave for another day.  All he knew with great certainty was that his parent’s’ carried most of his burden—he had a few loans in his name, the rest were for them—and he could focus on better.  Finding a girl to make out with, maybe have sex with, took the number one spot.  It beat getting a diploma, and a career, by miles.

    And Alexa lived on the same floor he did.  It was an interesting co-ed, not co-ed, dormitory experiment that consisted of pod like squares for the boys to have, with pod like squares right next door for the girls to enjoy.  An outside walkway, all gray concrete floors and ceilings, gave entrance into marbled halls and thick metal doors where two would live on bunked together beds set across from tiny cabinets, and even tinier desks.

    This was the living space that the freshman at Samson University had been given to call their own.  The squares they made into a home all positioned around rectangular bathrooms that could make the whole atmosphere of these pods a heavy soup of thick humidity whenever any roommate decided to shower hot. And Alexa lived in the pod, the place, the concrete slash marble just down from where Basic bunked with his “I need to like him,” roommate Todd.

    Alexa had curly dark hair, and a way of calling him kid— “Hey kid,” “What’s up kid,”—that he liked.  At first, she seemed more interested in Keith, another fellow pod inmate who had a room across from Basic and Todd, but that ended in a hurry and she was soon over with Basic all the time—playing Mortal Kombat on his X-Station, and sometimes kissing him whenever he joked, yet didn’t joke, that if he beat her she had to plant one on his lips.

    Soon their slight kisses became heavy, long hours—yes, hours, he was just not up to moving beyond lip on lip—a bliss of isolation since her roommate was off with some other guy most likely enjoying activities that might get her a quick trip home to start a surprise family. Basic liked those hours.  How he would kiss Alexa and talk, and talk, and then kiss some more.  Sometimes, lots of times, he moved his hand up under her shirt, cupped the edges of her breasts as if they were toys specifically made for him to explore.  He had the eighteen-year-old certainty that she had to like this—and maybe she had, though he was all clumsy explorer rough on areas that most likely needed a much more gentle touch.

    Yet it was in where his hands had drifted next that could in no way, absolutely not, have been liked by her.  He attempted to venture south, his fingers playing atop her hips, skipping along the brass of her jeans that—if unbuttoned—would allow him to go where he’d never been.  She would tell him no, he would bring his fingers back, return to those kisses, until his fingers—I can’t believe this, it’s like they have a mind of their own—somehow made their way, again, to that brass and she’d sigh repeat herself.

    It was a game—the heat of her along his teeth, the smack and crackle noise of her tongue, and breath.  He loved kissing her, but—back then—he was rock hard with the want of other things too.  He hadn’t yet found himself an eternal soft with the women he was with, and so his fingers skipped, until, one night, everything stopped.

    They weren’t even kissing, she just grabbed his hand, pulled him into the bathroom of his pod—luckily long after anyone had used it, no soup of humidity there—and told him he’d won. She’d thought about it—a lot—and she was tired.  Tired of saying no, tired of his skipping hands that never seemed to learn—they could have sex, he could pop open that brass and do whatever he pleased.  She still wasn’t sure she wanted this, but she really was oh so tired of sighing.

    He’d won.  Basic had never felt so awful.

    The bathroom was dark, a flickering of heat and white playing along the edges of a closed wooden door.  No one was outside, it was that rare early eveningish hour where people were done with class yet had no want of sleep in their beds. Was he supposed to kiss her, take that brass as his own and hold his trophy—do whatever he liked?  Basic wasn’t sure, the drum thump of his heart refused to entertain any notions that this was right, or wrong, it felt only off—a missed beat with no hope of ever getting back on track.

    He understood his cruelty, however, it was the only absolute he could find—this looming beast of him that had pushed, and pushed, this beauty into a corner.  It was so much like his father—hey, dad, why do you keep mom sequestered against a wall, your heavy shouts, your heft, denying her the chance to live a life of peace—and he knew, years later, that this was the start.  You win, no greater words could have ever been used to make him forever impotent.

    He could have done it, been a bit more cruel and lifted her onto a bathroom counter, stripped her of her jeans and made her first—his first too—the romance of bleach cleaner air mixed with the subtle undercurrent of mold that had yet to be stripped free. The whole bathroom was just the best place to lose one’s virginity he was sure—it was the second absolute of the evening, he was so relieved they were hitting him so easy now—and then a final one arrived.

    He didn’t like her.  Alexa Chevy, a girl who would always be linked with desperate car dealerships and hurt—did her last name connect her to any of those dealerships, and why had he never bothered to find that out?  Alexa Chevy, her interest in him, how she’d stuck around and finally told him he could do whatever he liked, the only plus he could truly say he had for her.

    There were the kisses, and her curly hair, how she’d said “Kid,” and how a few times, just a few, he’d lied and told her she was Samson University to him, yet, there was nothing else.  What was her middle name—he had no clue—or her favorite color?  He knew she still carried a torch for her high school friend, John Nice, but who John Nice was, or where he lived, all that was lost in a much simpler pleasure. She liked him, she let him kiss her, and that was enough.  Basic hadn’t bothered to ever think of Alexa as anything outside himself—a girl he should have treated so much better.

    He began to push even harder. That night, and others, he stopped all kisses, not with her, he made out with Vicky quite forcefully, and unexpectedly, probably would have slept with her too since he was slightly drunk yet incidents occurred, life moved on, until the day Alexa and John reconnected and Basic was done.

    Spring break, a beach trip, Basic had pushed but he’d missed the way she had, once, been enamored with him.  She wasn’t supposed to be with anyone else. He could, but not her.

    Making out with John Nice—but had there been more, he was never sure, yet, he’d had his suspicions—wasn’t part of the agreement.  Such news made him angry, not a January hurt—why won’t she like me—simply angry. She had to pay.

    Samson University was a small place, the kind of college where any turn in any hall would lead one—often—into the hurried embrace, or stumble, across a friend they’d seen only moments before. Basic caught sight of Alexa everywhere, her living on the floor he called home helped, but it was also as if he couldn’t flee far enough from her sight.

    He began to run.  If she was in a hall, he’d tuck tail and bolt for a longer way towards the classroom he’d been after.  If she were along a sidewalk headed to lunch, he would rush through traffic to reach the safety of the other side.  Basic had no clue if she noticed, or if she cared, but he wished she would. Let her hurt, stew, see the raw rejection I leave each time our eyes meet and I blankly put my back to her.

    Of course the truth—she means something, I don’t know what exactly, maybe I just miss the way we once talked, but she means something—wasn’t what Basic liked to ponder.  Each turn was really another signpost to his own heart, a bright green direction marker clearly announcing to everyone his heartbreak over first browbeating her into maybe sex, and then betraying her with Vicky.

    John didn’t mean a thing, he was a certainty, the logical outcome born of Basic’s intent.  It could have been anyone, that Spring Break, that beach, just the opening for Alexa to release all the hurt Basic had already leveled her way.

    She stopped by his room.  It was what he’d secret hoped for far too long. His chance—she’s back in my grasp—to either draw her close, or rip her to shreds.

    “I miss you,” she was drunk, a wafting odor of recent beer, stale vodka too, lingering along her lips as she hiccupped a smile.

    His roommate was gone, the pod yet again empty—people really didn’t like this early evening the night’s about to begin but it hasn’t truly started so let’s not go back to the dorms just yet, hour. Basic could have done so much.

    Talked to her like they once had done, said “I miss you too.”  He could have smiled back, or nodded, or merely said that’s nice in a pitiful attempt to make a dig at John, but instead he’d tasted a bitter glint of victory. It was beyond delicious.

    “Why are you here,” he asked.

    “What…I…” she was mumble sober now, his words had struck harder than he’d expected.  “I just…I miss you.”     “But you’ve seen how I’ve turned from you, right,” Basic said.  Please let it be a yes, let this victory be complete. “Have you seen that?”

    “I…yes,”

    Oh, it was bitter, and dark.  This victory was a hint of ash he had yet to identify as something so similar to the charcoal he would drink years later after a botched suicide attempt.  He swallowed it greedily.

    “Then take that as a sign,” Basic said.

  How dare she stop liking him.  Just because he’d made out with Vicky, just because he’d pushed away first, that gave her no right to like him any less.  It was a thought so much like what his father had always shout punched towards his mother that Basic was sure—at that exact second—he could have turned to any mirror and found his reflection changed into that man.  Finally, the son had become what he’d always been born to be.

    “I don’t like you,” Basic continued, “I don’t want to see you, and, if you are on fire do not, ever, come to me to put you out.  I’d rather see you burn.”     He slammed the door, tried to convince himself happy, and hadn’t apologized for almost a decade.  However, that had been about it.  Maybe he’d given her one letter, and a gathering of objects too, some things he’d acquired from her and had returned to her doorstep later-on, a note tucked inside to further underline that whole “I’d rather see you burn,” declaration. Nothing on par with what he’d lettered hoped along to January Why, and his decade later apology had been on FaceSpace—he was always using FaceSpace, what was up with that—with no desire to add on to it in anyway, so why did Why garner more intent?

    Basic didn’t know.  All he did know was that Alexa really should have been that first signpost warning.  He was his father—a man who needed women only for the foundation of happy he had to make them give.

    And maybe it was a part of his savior complex after all—but his complex directed only towards its usual intent of saving himself.  Forget how any woman felt, it was how they made him feel that mattered.  It was an idol Basic sacrificed to daily.  How can I be complete?  How can she save me?  With no bother given to whether this god might be false.

    But, the Alexa signpost had been ignored—or, better yet, overlooked as he’d reached down onto the motorway of his life and had tried not to notice whatever off ramp he’d found himself upon.  There had been others, of course there would be. Whenever you ignore a past it is so amazing how it always comes back to say hello.

    However, he did try to run.  It was so nice of him, so hero brave how he would attempt to stay isolated, away from hurting and being hurt, by going back to his better idol of porn and inner hate—I’ll be alone, I don’t need anyone because none live up to my expectations—but every so often his head would peak free and he’d try another day, another relationship.  Katie, years later, at Noel, before he met January, just another poor victim of his poor soul.        

    It is an inconvenience for me to contact the authorities, file reports, appear in court, etc. in order to file a harassment complaint or to pursue legal action against you such as a no contact or restraining order.  I do not wish to be inconvenienced by you any more than I am by sending you this message.  Do not waste my time further.

    More January words, not Katie in the slightest, yet thinking of Katie, and Alexa—and Vicky, and Courtney, and Monique as well, and Nichole, and Samantha, Jill too he supposed, though Jill was gay so she probably hadn’t cared that Basic was just some weird straight guy who had depended on her smiles—made those words significant.  If he was in love with all she’d emailed, then this was the part that had somehow become his truest soulmate.  They were the word’s he wanted to get down on one knee in front of, slip a slender ring out from a velvet box to speak engagement and promises of a future family.

    “I do not wish to be inconvenienced by you any more than I am by sending you this message,” so powerful, so direct, why couldn’t he ever write, or think, or feel, anything that to the point?  And, whenever he reflected on how he’d been a jerk, a douche, and a dick, everything that January had typed just made more sense.

    However, he would have put a comma after etc.  Adding the slight period as well, making etc. into etc., something with a space—that curvy intake of breath—so the sentence would flow with a purpose.  Or, at least, flow better in his mind.

    It was another grammatical separation between he and January, her words and his exactly like their lives—full of drift, she on one continent, he all sorrow look on another.  It had been the same with Katie.  The differences between them something that Basic—but only if he’d been a better man—should have taken to heart so he could have avoided her entirely.

    She was another who carried around blond as if it were golden spun thread, some secret luxury that those of the red, or black, or brown haired variety would never understand.  She also had an aversion to just about every food known to man since it seemed she carried an allergy to almost everything that was edible, and, she wore glasses.  Nice one’s, not too thick, not too thin, the kind of scholarly frames that begged to whipped off in a dramatic fashion if ever something serious—“And who, madam, is the murderer,”—was asked her way.

    Once, at Noel, before an English class they both were enduring, she’d hurried inside, running wild through a sudden rain with her white shirt a damp smother that Basic was sure it hadn’t been when she’d set out for the day.  Basic too had gotten caught in this Alabama tempest, the odd chaos of a fast-moving maelstrom that had left burnt images of bright lightning, and curtains of rain, in its wake long after only five to ten minutes of actual damage.  In Alabama things were just that way.  All rush heat and strong, those five to ten meant a lot, but then the world went back to silence.

    He handed Katie some of the thick brown, all public bathroom approved, paper towels he’d already been using to sop up his hair, and his shirt, and, when she’d smiled thanks, he realized he really wouldn’t mind learning more about who she was.  Those glasses helped, they had fogged from the rain, and sparkled clear into her brown eyes when the sun came out.  At her apartment—right before their first kiss—he slow moved them off, staring at her as if he were cool, and collected, and knew that this was exactly what he wanted.

    She cried.  As soon as their lips parted, his hands already itching to travel up to the mounds of his pleasure that rested on her chest—man, he really did like breasts, he would have to temper that soon—he leaned away, and she burst.

    He knew why.  Before the kiss they had talked, just like January, maybe not to the exact length—with January he spent days weaving hours into a narrative of “I do like her, and, she must like me back,”—but they had taken some time. Basic had heard all about how Katie had made out with women—no sex, just heavy tongue action and petting—how she’d slept with quite a few guys too—all jerks, they’d used her—and how she knew, right then, she only wanted something that meant something.  She was after relationship.

    And Basic wasn’t.  He hadn’t yet realized that way down deep, far into the corners of his soul, he was not capable of using women to the degree he desired—gosh, maybe I am a quitter, dad—but, he was close.  He told Katie as much.  That he just wanted sex, nothing more.  He never said, “Only from you, I’m going to use you and leave you like all those other guys have,” but he did spell out use, and abuse, the casual hurt that comes from making it clear you couldn’t have cared any less about the person you were with.

    His kiss had been the culmination of her desire to create something versus his honesty that he didn’t want that in the slightest.  Her tears were expected, like January’s email that he’d printed out and couldn’t stop touching.  This was always going to end the way it had.

    But, Basic played ignorant.  Or, he’d tried to be that way.  Pushing off from Katie, the lines of moisture pouring from her eyes a large crowd of shame and disgust shouting only “Foul,” “Fool,” “How Dare You,” as they trickled onto her shoulders and the cushions of the couch beneath, he’d known exactly why she was crying—he’d still made sure to play.

    “Are…are you okay,” he asked. There was a softness too, something new that tugged at him more than the truth of what he was seeing.  It was in that moment, taking in those tears, that he felt nothing—no passion, no strength—from the lower regions of his body. It was something that bothered him way more than her sadness.  “What’s wrong?”

    “I…I…” she sobbed.  “I just can’t…I can’t be used again.”     He brought a thumb to her cheek, and brushed aside a tiny drop from the corner of her eye.  He was going to keep lying, he needed to.  Not for her, it was the flaccid ruin between his legs that needed to be addressed with more kissing, and with letting his hands travel up to her chest, as he tried to figure out why he wasn’t reacting as he should.

    “I’m not,” he began, “I don’t know where this will go, I don’t.  Let’s just…we’ll take it slow…it’s a kiss…and, I promise…I won’t hurt you.”     He brought his lips back to hers, pulling himself along her couch until she was caught in the middle of all those cushions, and all his weight.  They’d kissed a lot that night, and for many nights after, yet, when a month was up—his impotence all that Basic cared about—he was done.

  His promise had been as trustworthy as a politician, something said to make Katie “you need to vote for me,” compliant without any real intent given. Already, as it had been with Alexa, he hadn’t liked her much.  She was nice, and he did enjoy the fog of her—such a hurry from the rain and whatever hid behind her glasses—it was simply that whenever that fog cleared he began to realize their differences weren’t just kind of substantial, they were vastly substantial.

    He was sure if he breathed incorrectly she might need an EpiPen and a trip to the hospital.  He had no clue how to handle her “I’ve made out with women,” statement either, a nice revelation—it made her much hotter in his eyes—yet he’d lied his virginity away already, “Of course I’ve had sex, of course,” not the first or last time he would ever do such a thing and he knew he couldn’t deal.  If he’d had none, how could he ever please a woman who’d had so many?

    Basic broke.  He finally told her they couldn’t hangout anymore, the drop in her eyes, all that brown behind clear glass, filling him with more shame and disgust than her tears ever could.  She looked so sad, so hurt, he should have just yelled another “I’d rather see you burn,” some grand declaration that this was how he would always treat a woman. Like a jerk.

    I do not seek an apology or an explanation for your actions, and any instance of either constitutes contact, which I expressly forbid you from doing.

    January should have stopped with, “Do not waste my time further,” or, better yet, “I do not wish to be inconvenienced by you anymore than I am by sending you this message.”  There truly was such beauty in those lines.  

    But, she kept on going.  To cover her bases for sure.  All that legal perfection that left no wiggle room for him to exploit—she had said don’t text, or call, but now everything was off the table. It often made Basic wonder if Paul, or someone else she was with—could it be Doctor Forrester, did that Joyce story on her FaceSpace page mean something—knew law.  If maybe they had been sitting comfort beside her, whispering another line to add in so that, in any court of the land, it would be abundantly obvious she’d made her point as concrete as possible.

    While freedom of speech is certainly extended to you in a broad and legal context, that does not give you the right to continue your agenda against some’s wishes and outside of normal societal boundaries in the form of harassment. Repeated, unwanted advances including but not limited to sending unsolicited and unwanted letters and items by mail and initiating unsolicited and unwanted internet contact is a form of harassment in Alabama and every other state.  It is simply not legally acceptable for you to behave this way, regardless of your intentions.

    Many times, while holding the taped edges of her note, feeling that thin membrane over her words, and the teeth grooves of his immature measures to protect—forever—what she’d sent, Basic would skip this part.  Better to fingertip the, “I do not wish to be inconvenienced,” than to be constantly reminded of how off he could be.

    It was another hindsight bit of clarity—what, exactly, had been in his mind?  All those letters, all those gifts, four years of them mounting up and up with the hope that maybe, just maybe, she would like what he was doing. How could he have ever thought that okay?

    Of course, he had dreamt a sly smile, her blond hair pulled off from her face as she afternoon rushed back from work, a package he’d mailed found corner secure along her doorstep.  She’d sigh—a nice “You’ve got to be kidding me,” would be whistled out for sure—yet, perhaps, when she opened everything, saw the DVD copy of the Star Wars Christmas special, or that novel about Phineas Poe, it would tickle something joyous, maybe she’d sit back and read, or watch a bad yet good bit of old television, and that would be nice.

    He’d dreamt such fantasies—let her have the slightest smile, that’s all I mean to create—yet her silence had spoken more than anything.  Yes, she had told him not to text, or call, and, yes, she had thrown books into the back of his truck in a very direct denial of his gift giving, just because this email was the first solid—underlined twice and highlighted in brightest red, at least it was in his eyes—declaration of “NO,” it didn’t mean she hadn’t been saying that all along.

    He hadn’t been listening.  He didn’t want to listen.  Here he was, in Alabama, absolutely, and unequivocally, still the same man he’d been when he’d known her—and, really, all his letter’s’ had spoken of such change.

    He was a liar, plain and simple. Thoughts of Courtney, and Hannah—can’t forget her—proved that for sure.  

    Courtney had been another someone he’d endured a class with at Samson, someone he hadn’t kissed, ever, yet someone he’d talked to quite a bit.  He’d made her laugh, she seemed nice, and when she’d mentioned she worked at a local movie theater and could get him in for free he was quick delight in taking her up on that offer.  Basic loved movies, who didn’t, so why not use her to get an employee discount.

    But, at the theater, she busy as he waited in the lobby for his free movie to start, she’d stopped by, had apologized for leaving him to dollar game machines that offered unlimited abilities to kill aliens as-long-as he hit the right combination of buttons.  Basic hadn’t cared.  She was busy, he was having fun feeding quarters into a game it didn’t seem he had the correct hand to eye coordination he truly needed—she could have left the theater all together and he would have been a bliss of “I just saved seven bucks by seeing this film for nothing.”

    However, for some stupid reason—at least it had seemed only stupid to him at the time—he hadn’t said thanks, or, no problem.  He hadn’t even laughed an “It’s okay” kind of chuckle, but had instead smiled and said, “I get it, you don’t want to be near me, it’s okay, if you don’t want to hang out that’s fine.”  He’d done that repeatedly—saying such words as if they were a joke he was surprised she didn’t get.  Every time Courtney had come over, and he’d uttered his inanity, her eyes got a guarded look—a “what did he mean by that,” caution—until his movie was over and he’d finally gone to say his thanks.

    As soon as she saw him she pulled a friend—some other guy—to her side, and held his arm as a shield as Basic spoke his appreciation and she refused to make eye contact.  It was a weird moment, a friend suddenly switching to uncomfortable and distant, and it took the whole ride back to his apartment for Basic to see. He’d meant a joke, “I get it, you don’t want to be around,” but it spelled such truth.  She was another signpost—a foundational importance—and he couldn’t even pinpoint when she had become that way.

    And this was a woman he knew, but had no feelings for.  Had she seen through his feeble humor, “I get it, I do,” to hear only what he must have been shouting, “DON’T LEAVE ME, YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO COMPLETE ME.”  Since he hadn’t seen Courtney after that, their endured together class continuing for three weeks more yet she’d skipped out of every single one—thank the Lord for that—he was certain the answer had to be yes. She’d heard every shout fully, and had decided to jump far from who he was.

    Hannah was a little odder.  A nothing at all, really, seriously, nothing had happened between them, he hadn’t even talked to her all that much, yet his eyes were already opened—all due to January, he was sure he’d never get them to close again.  He could easily make out everything he hadn’t been able to see before.

    She was the daughter of a local pastor, some man who spoke wisdom and advice with a nonchalance Basic was in awe of. How can anyone know so much so easily? She was also beautiful, long black hair, the kind of skin that appeared a perpetual hue of slightly roasted elegance, she was a woman who turned heads far past any angle they would normally go, and Basic was not attracted to her in any way.

    To her looks, yes, he was still a guy, a heterosexual one with bent fantasies about sleeping with family members yet a heterosexual one nonetheless, and, she was gorgeous.  Had he looked at her too much, however?  Had he taken in the gorgeous and dreamt—just thought what it would be like to give up January and be beside another beauty?

    Basic had, he was sure of it.  So many years past Ashley and that Biology class and still his eyes betrayed him—they were always too open—and he must have stared, and stared, taking in so much and knowing too the reality of what it was he was looking at.

    In limited conversations—lasting moments if that—he found no common ground, nothing in Hannah’s smile or nod or even her laugh to say she liked him back.  Even worse, there was nothing in her words for Basic to find of interest either.

    Yes, she served the Lord—had gone on mission trips to Israel and Hawaii, if Hawaii could somehow be a trip for only Christ intensive, not beach intensive, purposes—and, yes, she was on her way to being a full-fledged nurse, there was so much there for anyone to find fascinating yet each time Basic spoke with Hannah he was certain he would have had much more of a connection with a brick wall if he’d spent the time with it instead.  They were not compatible.

    Which made looking at her, and asking her out, even stranger.  She did know the Lord, and he did find her attractive—maybe he should give it a go. That was all Basic assumed he’d been doing when he’d looked her up on her FaceSpace page—she had accepted his friend request—to type out a hurried, “Would you like to go see the new Pixar movie,” in her Chat Room section.

    He made sure it was Chat Room.  It was a Sunday afternoon, he could have done it face to face—he’d been at her father’s church, had seen her there—but FaceSpace was his favored way to contact any woman, and, he was terrified she might say yes if it were face to face.  If that happened…wow, she’d catch the hurt look for sure, the “I can’t believe she agreed to this,” that he knew would come next.

    Chat Room was the safest option. Surely, she would ignore, do as most women did when met with a duller than dish soap and scummy water kind of guy they didn’t want to pay attention to.  She had to ignore.  There was no way she couldn’t see the obvious.  They, absolutely, had nothing in common.

    She went worse.  Basic had been prepared for silence—he was so used to that he considered it part of the conversation, I say “Hi,” crickets start up right after, this is how talking goes, right—but her quick “I’m not really interested in you, ever, sorry,” was striking.  He hated her for that.

    Her silence would have reaffirmed January—see, no woman wants me so January, who doesn’t want me yet I can’t get her out of my mind, might still be an option.  Her silence was factored in, made welcome with a seat ready at a banquet table in his heart, and then Hannah went and kicked him in the legs.  Sent him tumbling when he’d risen to accept her muted entrance.

    She spoke what was real— “I’m not really interested in you,” what January had been saying with her silence and he had been ignoring oh so well.  And, his hate for her—how dare you hit me, make me tumble—was a surprise. Hadn’t she meant nothing?

    And she, and Courtney, weren’t the last he’d pined for unexpectedly.  There remained all those women he couldn’t stop listing: Samantha, and Ashley, Vicky, and Jill, Nichole too, and so many others he’d had conversations with, and then had over-texted, over-gifted, over everything until their every response was the silence he only wished Hannah would have given.

    However, usually their silence was enough.  He would, always, continue for a little while.  Not with Hannah, or Courtney—her “I’m not really,” and her skipping of the remainder of their class, had done the trick—but with Nichole, with Samantha, with Jill and Vicky and so many others he’d drop a, “Hey, hope you’re doing well,” from his phone to theirs.  Yet, when no reply was returned—and perhaps he would send that text every few weeks or so, he wasn’t perfect—he’d quit, go back to porn, or self-pity, or whatever, to fill his days.

    It was still a strangeness then—he couldn’t stop mulling that over.  Why was it that January was who he couldn’t quit?  And he really, really, had thought he’d changed.

    I will keep a copy of this message and send date to show to the proper authorities if you continue to contact me, as proof that I was clear for your one-sided correspondences to completely halt.  I have every right to live a life free from constant harassment and to choose who is present in my life and who is not.  Again, do not contact me under any circumstances.  If I begin receiving anonymous letters or any other form of contact that is obviously from you, I will present every instance of former contact with your name attached to the authorities.

    She did have that right, to live how she pleased, to be free—that was, absolutely, hers to have.  Basic only had some arguments with her use of harassment.  It was better stated—in his mind—as annoyance, or pestering.  He’d never threatened.  He’d never called her names or had said she was evil.  He’d mainly apologized his actions away—probably why she’d told him not to do that again—and had repeated a constant mantra that she was beautiful.  Many of his letters were only that, “You’re beautiful, I believe that fully, yet Christ believes it more.”  Was that harassing?

    The answer was tricky.  It shouldn’t have been.  On the surface, all black water calm with not a ripple insight, yes would have been enough.  In all actuality, he had no argument, he was harassing.  She’d told him never to text, never to call, she’d returned a very nice gift, placed all special in her work mailbox, right into the back of his truck—it was a novel, one bent and rather tattered along the front page he’d signed and had scribbled “You’re worthy of a greater love,” upon.  Her silence wasn’t the only way she’d shouted, “STAY AWAY,” and, still, Basic had written, and written, until he’d forced her into a scream.

    The answer was such a solid yes, he was harassing, yet beneath all that still water—along currents he didn’t believe January would ever care to swim—there were riptides he knew of that made the answer deeper.  It wasn’t just a yes—it was yes, and a yes.  It was harassment added on with so many layers, layers upon layers, of foundation that he may have used with Alexa, and Courtney, with Hannah, and Katie, or with so many others yet with January he’d built that foundation as far down as it could go.  It made what he’d done to her so much worse.

    He loved her.  Basic wasn’t sure what that meant—there were no startling beams of whitest sun peeking through a quick break in thickest clouds, there were no trumpets or angel choruses, there was just the simple fact that the thought of not seeing her left him with a yawning crevice he didn’t know how to face.

    He was still the man who craved empty. His porn addiction, and how he’d leaned forward to kiss January the night she’d fallen in love with Paul—I want this, I will be saved by this—proved that well.  How she ran those fingers through her hair though, how she could be talking about sparring at her gym, and getting kicked in the face, how that would make her sudden turn, her face a better beam than any whitest sun—it broke his empty to dust.

    He wanted to be around her.  Or, better yet, he just wanted to see her, to catch a glimpse of her smile and feel a rapturous whole he’d never expected to find. It was probably why he’d taken that job at the PubClub store when he’d never wanted to work there before.

    He’d been out of college, his Master’s Degree from Noel sitting pretty and unused in his closet, all gather dust ready to be ignored for the foreseeable future since it was a good degree, yet it would only help him if he went for that Doctorate.  And he was going to do that, as soon as a few GRE’s scores were deemed appropriate and mailed off, and as soon as his recommendations were filled out and emailed along as well—he did choose school after school, and sent the required money and forms, but Basic knew he wasn’t any colleges top number one priority and so the town of Noel, right next to Noel college, was where he would be.  He would just have to work whatever job he could find to make a lot of ends meet before he could take off for something else.  

    And PubClub was hiring.  Simple as that.  He applied to the one in Alabaster, stayed far from the one in Calera because she lived in Calera, just off from the airport exit and loved PubClub with a passion—she’d talked about shopping there, and the Asian guy she said was quite cute, many a time during the short few months he’d been let near to her.

    But the Calera store had somehow gotten hold of his application, and was all that had called him back.  He’d put in an application at Target, at Walmart, at Noel college as a janitor, and no one had bothered to return any interest his way.  Well, Noel had gotten in touch, had sent a very nice—it felt glossy, unbendable—letter to spell out just how overqualified he was to sweep and mop at his alma mater, but everyone else was as silent as January already had become.

    Until Calera rang.  He should have said no.  He should have dipped further into his savings and put in for a local McDonalds or started sleeping in his truck next to the park with all those face trees.  He should have done so much, but this was another sign of foundation—he was certain—how could he say no?

    He felt for January.  Walking her back to her place after a Halloween party, how he’d heated up a sudden shiver across her shoulders and had known that his arm around hers just clicked.  That had to mean something, right?  Sure, he’d almost immediately ruined it by awkwardly trailing his fingers between her legs about ten minutes after—an insurmountable level of wrong that had started his slide out of her life—but there had been that arm, her shoulders, if he felt something shouldn’t it mean something?

    And, there were nights at a local coffee shop as well, sitting outside in frigid metal chairs—thin seats of iron always ready to accommodate anyone at any time.  Around glass table’s too, and the hurried steps of harried waiters trying to find the one person who’d ordered hummus with vegetables rather than hummus with pretzel chips, he would talk to friends, or see her talking to friends, and, suddenly—it was never planned—she’d catch his eye, or he hers, and that click would return.  He didn’t want to laugh, or cry, or talk with anyone, at any time, on any seat of iron, without sharing all of that with her.  How could that have happened?  And, again—please, please let this be true—wasn’t it supposed to mean something?

    Long before he realized he needed to take her to church in-order-to bring salvation into her every “I’m going to hell,” story, Basic understood how January was becoming a bedrock to his days. All solid earth necessary, if she wasn’t there he might go spinning into who knew what.

    And, he did try to get her to that church, yet he also inappropriately attempted a foul goodnight kiss, and wrote her all those letters, and got a terrible job at a terrible store all because he couldn’t bear the thought of her gone.  She could bear it, clearly, he just wasn’t able to return the favor. Seeing her with Paul, or other guys, at PubClub—which he did, often, that time of running into her in the frozen food section, all alone, just he and she, was the oddity—was okay.

    It was seeing her that mattered, and he tried to ignore everything that was truth.  It was just some store, just a shoulder, just a few moments of eye connecting to eye at a coffee shop, it was just question after question with no answer because none was ever coming.  Not a single thing with January had ever been something as defining as he’d hoped.

    He had to be harassment, and foundation, how else could he explain something even more disturbing.  He was delighted to find out that she could present every bit of his former contact to the authorities.

    Did that mean she’d gotten each item he’d mailed?  He’d sent so many, letters that reached ten pages in length, perhaps more, some of them diving head long into growing, and growing, soliloquies all about his virginity, and how he was addicted to incest pornography.  It was a lot to digest, and added on with the gifts and the unwanted FaceSpace messages that he’d started back up once he’d realized she’d unblocked his old account—she couldn’t have read all that, saved all that, for real, right?

    It was something that blew Basic’s mind. He may have foolishly dreamt her happy over what he’d sent, but never once had he entertained any hope that she’d actually sit down and peruse, or keep, any of it.  He really had expected for her to throw it all away as soon as it reached her door.

    It was another heart tug, something that seriously made him consider another bit of ignorance.  He already knew he was in trouble.  Before her message got into his Gmail account, before he’d printed out anything and had lamented it with such painstaking care, he’d sent her an email of his own.  It was time stamped—all safely done before she said This is a clear command—but, it was an old email address he had, something she probably wouldn’t find for quite a while.  Maybe he should write more?     He could imagine well.  She scrolling to this ancient address on the internet, something she hardly logged onto anymore, and finding his message that was filled with poems—sappy ones, heartbreak ones—she’d never wanted to read.  If she didn’t realize they were sent prior to her own email being hate delivered his way, then she’d be going to the authorities for sure so why not continue?  Just screw what she wanted.  One last for real message.  No poetry, just more heartbreak—thank you so much for reading, for not throwing anything away—scrolled long in another fifty-pages minimum.  Would that be so bad?

    I must urge you to consider that future employers, rental agencies, or anyone else performing a background check on you will possibly deny you services or employment based on a documented harassment charge or restraining order. Do not perceive this as an aggressive threat, for your compliance to simply halt an action is all that is required. Once more, I do not want an apology or an explanation, and any effort to extend one is completely unwanted.

    This was the only part of her message that didn’t work for him.  Sure, he ran his fingers along every line, feeling the breath of her disgust in each “to simply halt an action,” she probably had keystroked hard with her frustration. He read it, and reread it, along with everything else, but her last paragraph didn’t stick.  In fact, it was an utter failure.

    He was so proud of her for writing him this.  If she hated him as much as this letter implied—and, really, it wasn’t implied, it was boldly put and made with gusto yet implied sounded better—than a nice “BACK OFF BUDDY” was needed.  And, she wrote it so well.  How could he not be proud?

    But the authorities, the denial of service, he’d earned that and more.  He’d earned a hundred ounces of aggressive, oceans of it that would boil over and scald him with the venom she could have written, yet nothing but this had come. Why was that?

    And, why hadn’t she also already gone to someone to send a harassment charge his way?  Seriously, whenever those silly heartbreak poems were read it was going to happen anyway, so why the delay?  Basic had no clue.

    He would have gone with her, all perfect witness for the prosecution here.  Or, better yet, he would have swung by a court house alone—filled out the necessary paper work himself, if only she’d asked.

    “Excuse me,” he did have that vivid imagination, and this conversation was easy to conjure.

    He would walk up to a desk, some court clerk—female, in his mind it was an old lady—staring at him as he approached. She would be looking at him through bottle glasses for sure, yet ones not Katie nice in anyway.  These glasses would be too big, too cumbersome, the insanity of their size made worse by the years of soul killing paperwork that would be noticeable, and so heavy, upon this court clerk’s shoulders.  

    “Yes,” she would reply.  This conversation surely would be better than any other she’d ever had.  In his mind, Basic could easily see how great he would be making her day.

    “Yes,” he would repeat this. Everything was going to be awesome, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be nervous.  Some repetition was bound to slip through.  “I need to fill out a restraining order.”

    “Against whom,” he hoped that was right. It could have been “who, against who,” but his imagination, like the real him, wasn’t January Why grammar perfect.

    “Against me,” he would say.  “I’ve annoyed a girl, this beautiful girl, or harassed her…probably…I mean definitely…better to say I’ve harassed her. I can swear on a Bible too—on anything you want—to the amount of letters, and gifts, I’ve mailed to her, and how I wrote her on her FaceSpace page.  I’ll swear to it and sign whatever.  I think keeping a hundred-mile distance, and no contact via mail or phone or whatever, should do…that okay?”

    This little fantasy would come to a halt after that.  The court clerk—tiny too, with graying brown hair and a mousy face—would stutter a couple “What,” and maybe a, “I think I need to go get my supervisor,” yet he would keep at it until everyone who needed to understand understood.  January Why was foundational, and he had harassed her. He wasn’t going to change, there was no way he could change, and he needed to be stopped.

    It was a fantasy he longed to make true, yet it needed her—just ask me, say turn yourself in and I will—to speak words he knew she’d never say.  He was thirty-six now, four years past when January Why had known him, and, sure, he’d kicked porn out for a while, had three years fasted that off and had taken cable and internet out of his apartment, but his letters, those gifts, how he’d tried so vainly to make contact with Kathryn Lex, made his change only surface.

    He was still the virgin she’d known, still obsessed with sex, with her, with taking his savior complex and using it to imagine that some woman, every woman, would one day be the end all and be all to every section of his happiness.  Wasn’t he the perfect candidate for a restraining order?  Why wouldn’t she just ask him already?     Yet, as expected—and even if she ever did read those heartbreak poems this would probably be the same outcome—he got silence.  He’d always been ninety-nine-point nine percent sure she would one day respond as she had, all hate and stay away creep, but a point one percent of hope had been nice.  He’d sealed it into every letter he’d mailed—please, just please, let this make her smile—but it was time to let that point one go.

    She’d asked him not to write, and though he would miss not writing her, he had to, finally, do as she’d asked.  It was the only thing that kept him from a response.

    But, he was so tired of not changing, of holding up January, or Hannah, or Alexa, or Katie, or Jill, or Nichole, or even Kathryn Lex and all the others, as foundation when he knew he needed more—a lot more.  He found it hard to sleep.  He’d toss, and turn, sometimes rushing to his closet to find her laminated note and thumb it dear until he felt relaxed.  And that wasn’t good.

    He needed something real, not a thin membrane over words filled with a heat he could never touch.  He needed finality, something he could use to kill off every bit of him he despised.  He just had no clue where he could get that.

    Church was a loss.  Not for others, just for him.  It was something he’d discovered not long after January had kicked him out of her life.

    He’d wanted to get her to salvation, take her to places he remembered from his childhood—sermons about mercy and love, the pierced side of a God who’d humbled himself to the cross so that all of humanity didn’t have to take that cross up for themselves.  But what did that really mean?

    Basic didn’t know.  He was ashamed to find out he honestly had no clue what that kind of love was about.

    He believed in God.  He wished he didn’t.  He often thought he stood a better chance at using women—getting all that sex without a care in the world for how much hurt he could make others feel—if he could just kill the morality in him.  The whisper voice of, “Wrong, Wrong, This is Wrong,” and the ache of empty whenever he tried—simplistically for sure—to sleep with someone yet mumble fumbled a retreat almost as soon as his lips touched theirs.

    Who was the author behind that empty, the secret scripter that had slipped some code of morals into him at his birth?  And, there had to be someone.  If he was a man of many questions—this must mean something, right, or, why am I drawn to the damage—then this was the most foundational question he’d had in a life filled with foundations.  It might even have been the only bit of foundation that mattered.

    In a world that gave him a pass—it’s okay, go have sex, do drugs, do whatever just make sure, in triplicate, you won’t hurt anyone though what the definition of hurt really is now a-days is rather fluid—he couldn’t because no pass made this right.  Some things were wrong even if everyone sang them pretty and there had to be something else, something bigger, to speak against that pass. And trying to get January into that church—though Basic was in no way a Christ follower at that moment—had made him wonder.  Maybe he should learn more about what he knew January needed.

    It was, yet again, another moment of “This really is as simple as that.”  He believed there was a way out of hell, a beautiful resurrection and life, but he hadn’t been letting that belief guide him.  So how could he have ever gotten January to that church?  He wasn’t really interested in going, why would she be?     He went.  Yet, he went for her.  In each prayer, along those pews, it was never, “I need to know God so I can have a relationship with him.”  Instead, it was always, “I’ll understand Jesus, I’ll find out about this cross, for her,”—a deluded hope that in doing such a thing then, and only then, would another church trip be a success if ever January returned.

    And, it kind of worked.  Not fully—he was still obsessed, still more consumed with the idol of January Why than the truth of Christ—but taking toe dips into the shallowest end of a vast sea of truth was better than no toe dip at all. Church helped steer him from porn, it had helped to open him up to the fact that he wasn’t worthless, that he was loved by a God who’d sent his son to die for him—but, it wasn’t enough. January’s message made sure of that.

    He had a roving cavalcade of churches he went to.  The bigger the better.  If he could slip into the back, find pew one-hundred-eleven in a mass of rows that equaled only one-hundred pews exactly, that was perfect.  Sit in the shadows, try not to make too much eye-contact, raise hands though and praise the Lord but do it in no way to make community and always, always, think more of January Why than of Christ while there.

    Who was he serving?  It was something that had been gnawing at him for far longer than what he’d laminated.  Even those toe dips shouted of Christ’s authority in his life.  He knew the secret, the reason, his whole purpose of being—every whisper of “Wrong,” every typed-out section of that moral code in his soul—was the fingerprint of God screaming that he was real and that he had created Benjamin Basic to serve only him.  Yet Basic served January Why, himself too, all those foundational women and porn, far more than he ever had the creator of the universe.

    And, he kept writing her, he had too.  If he didn’t who would write?  Who’d tell January Why about Christ?

    His words had shifted.  They’d started with, “You’re pretty,” or “You have so much strength in you,” and then had modified to allow for a touch of “You’re worthy of a greater love,” to finally “I love you but Christ loves you more.” He had told her about God, but he’d spent far longer focused only on himself—how could he not spend even more time trying to make that better?     He had to save her.  He had to save himself.  It was a last touch of foundation he would hold in his grasp long after his knuckles went stark white from the effort and his palms began to bleed from the nails digging into them.

    This was his.  This was important.  And there was no way God was big enough to handle the magnitude of how January Why, and how Basic himself, needed to be made better.

    This is a clear command:

    It took her words—as they had in so many other areas of his life—to open him to what was real.  God was big enough, and every attempt to write her—I can make her smile, I can save her—every hope that his scribbled beauty message was something she wanted to hear, died the way it should have always been dead.  Life wasn’t his to give.  Oh, Basic could point the way, say look up there, on the cross, that’s love, that’s life, that’s salvation from the damnation we deserve, but he could never bring someone to that cross.  Only God could.

    He couldn’t pray for January anymore. Or for Alexa, or for Katie, or for Hannah and Nichole, Jill and Samantha, either.  All those women, all those obsessions and each bit of his “I can save them but also save myself,” complex that had only ever led him into treating such fine women as objects rather than as real—it all had to go.

    And what about Kathryn Lex?  What about porn?  They both, for sure, needed to be dragged over to the trash bin of his soul.  No longer could he heartbreak hope that Kathryn would stay far from anything adult—her life was her life, and he had no right to care as much as he did about the choices she made.  For that grand long while he’d stayed away from watching her, from thinking about her, but that had been more about his worship of January than anything healthy and now was the time.

    Basic had to die.  Not physically, and with tons of pills—he’d already tried that, it wasn’t the rousing success it somehow had seemed it might be.  He had to die to self, to all the bits and pieces of his flesh that screamed for her, or her, or that porn, or that text message, to take up the empty.  But how could he do that?

  Church, he had a feeling it would work if he surrendered, truly trusted in Christ to do as he’d promised and saved without Basic trying to save himself. But church meant community, and letting go, and Basic knew that felt a greater fear.

    Perhaps he could just die by pushing everyone away?  Really push too, a total cut off.  He could let his change be nothing internal, yet external would be kind of different—the equivalent of a repaint, that house, his life, still the same foundation yet the walls were a completely new color so wasn’t that something?

    And just how many areas of foundation would he need to work on—yet, that wasn’t right, it wasn’t foundation anymore, it was idolatry.  Just how many idols did he have to paint over, or tear down, in-order-to stop his toe dip and jump fully into the belief that God has this, or, maybe, instead, absolute loneliness is what I need in-order-for life to make sense?

    Basic wasn’t sure.  He knew his idols reached a plenty—hello porn, so glad you’re back now that I’m watching you again—he most likely had hundreds of false God’s hiding out everywhere, but he was sure of the biggest one of the moment. It was held all Scotch tape slick in his hand.  He could shred it, chose God and hope and being better just by tearing this apart.

    Or, there was that other way to go. He could still shred this and then get on FaceSpace, delete his sister, Nichole, his aunts and uncles, so many family members and Samantha and Jill as well.  In fact, he could delete the whole account and get a new phone, new number, kill off the temptation to send another chat, or text.

    But, how could he explain that to people.  If he were a stronger man, stronger in his faith, just stronger, he would be able to shred what he’d laminated and simply focus on Christ—keep everything the same only change his priorities—but, Basic already knew he wasn’t that strong.  He had to make the clear delineation, that was the old me, this is the new, and doing that while getting better, being in community, trusting in Christ, was so scary.

    Because Christ didn’t demand this. God had made it clear that he was to be the only foundation, but he also—in his words, in the Bible—had spelled out loudly that a strong Christian, one of such faith and belief, could be in the world yet not of it.  And Basic wasn’t that level of believer yet.  He would slip, fall, over text or rewrite January, and that other way—just be alone, cut everyone off—was so tempting.

    Give up to God, or give in to isolation, the choices where so different, and Basic had not one clue about what to choose.  Yet, no matter what, something would be done.

    No longer would he text a story to Nichole, and fret, and fret—it’s been five minutes, she hates me—when it didn’t get a response quick enough.  No longer would he talk to his sister—it didn’t happen often, but it did happen—and feel his stomach slump into that free fall of regret when a joke didn’t land and he couldn’t make her happy.  None of this was those women’s fault—it’s not you Nichole, it’s not you Larall—it was merely him.  Something else had to be the center of his self-esteem, the Lord of who he was, and to make her, or her, or himself, that ruler was something Basic now knew was driving him insane.

    He stood.  He had a desk, old worn wood stained a nice coffee brown.  It held a lamp, his computer, and a row of books that would make him look quite the religious scholar if anyone bothered to swing by his apartment to wonder why he had a Bible, a Qur’an, and a Book of Mormon, there.  It was all stuff from his father—that man the fervent bookworm who’d read every scrap of faith he could find.  Basic just enjoyed the desk, the feel of it whenever he sat and typed up a quick poem, or a longer short story.  He enjoyed it most of all, however, when January’s email was at his fingertips.

    It was time to let that go.  Everything else, whatever choice came next—deep faith, or deeper isolation—would arrive whenever it arrived but this, for sure, had to happen now.  

    Everyone died in Alabama, and it felt right—right here, right now—to get started on however he would expire.  His mother had died in Alabama—up in Gardendale, next to a Presbyterian church he hadn’t bothered to step foot inside of, they were Baptist, they had to go to the place a block over—and so had his father. His dad had decided to do it down in Dothan, in a rental house, working at Fort Rucker and only sometimes—just every couple hour’s—wondering why he was so short of breath until he dropped from a blood clot that had stuffed up his lungs and caused a massive heart attack.

    There were other’s too.  His grandmother had bit it inside this state, so had his grandfather, probably a few aunts and uncles would go that way as well—his extended family did either live here or were close by—even his dog would probably die soon in Alabama and, again, it felt so right.

    His suicide attempt had been at a hotel here as well—Basic even had a thought that somehow, in some Doctor Who timey whimey short of way, maybe people all over the globe suddenly appeared in Alabama, died, and then where transported all perfect, yet no longer amongst the breathing, back to where they lived—so why not?  Die to self, die to old, die to the hope and dream and the please and please of ever seeing January Why again.  He couldn’t pray for her anymore, he wasn’t strong enough to do that and not also obsess over her soul or the dream of rounding that corner and spying her—this had to be the way.  He was going to kill obsession in one quick shred.

  Basic walked over to what he needed, a place that had once, years back, eaten away the margins of some notes where her phone number had been hidden. It was a squat machine out in his living room—his apartment had a nice living room slash kitchen area, it was so cool. There were teeth there too—grooves of hungry metal that would slip through all the tape he’d used

    Basic set her note, “This is a clear command,” center perfect.  He turned the machine on—the thing purring, so desirous to do what it had been created to do.

    This was the first step towards whatever death he was about to begin.

[theprismaticintrovert]

My First Day in Milan

June 21st, 2017

           Today marks my first official day in Milan, Italy. I feel like yesterday could not have been the first day because we only arrived around nine o’clock in the morning, and then we had to wait in the airport for 3 more hours until some other students from different flights arrived and claimed their luggage. Not only that, we spent another three to four hours to get each other settled into our apartments. Then we went grocery shopping at a little supermarket just two blocks away from us, and it was very affordable too. Finally, we ended the night with some pizza and wine at a pizza parlor.

           Since I signed up for this study abroad adventure, I was not really sure what to expect; in fact, I am kind of glad I did not try to guess because I would have had high or low expectations of this place. There really isn’t a reason why I decided to study abroad I guess it’s because I have always just wanted to travel and never have. So the only way I knew how was to do this. Luckily I had a friend my age who had done it two summers ago and she recommended that I should do it in my college career. And I did. However, if I am being totally honest here in my journal then I can say that I was not expecting to be studying in Milan, Italy that’s for sure. I was planning on going somewhere in Australia, London, or Argentina (Because my friend went to study there and it looked gorgeous on her Snapchat and Instagram I had to check the place out. Now fortunately my college only had one study abroad program this year and that destination was Italy. The reason I am saying fortunately is because like I said, I had no high or low expectations of this place, I really didn’t know much about Italy except for the fact that they have everything Pasta and Wine! Two of my favorite things combined oh it has been heaven here! The night before I left I talked to my grandma about the trip, and she asked me the simple question, “Are you excited?” But that wasn’t it, she was looking deep into my eyes because she then added, “Because you look like you are extremely nervous about it.” For some reason, her saying that made me cry out all of my anxiety and nerves that I had been bottling in since the moment I put down the deposit for the program. I then answered, “I am scared,” and her face just reassured me that everything is going to be fine. She replied back with, “Oh my, and here I was thankful you have the bravest soul.” As understandable as it sounds, my crying and anxiety did not allow me to know what that statement meant. It didn’t hit me until I began walking the cobblestone streets of Milan. It takes a lot of guts for someone to just live in a foreign country to study for a while instead of taking a vacation at home and going to the beach, or binge watching any Netflix show until four in the morning or once they go to sleep. No, I decided to buy a ticket and think to myself “Why not?” instead of “why?”

           Upon arrival in Milan, I did not believe the side effects of jet lag until I have done it myself. Waiting in an airport for 3 hours, flying from Los Angeles to Miami, waiting once again for another three hours until we boarded our connecting flight to Milan. So a five-hour flight, plus a ten hour one, and nine hours of waiting equaled up to twenty-five hours of being fully alert and awake. I was only able to sleep about 3 hours throughout the entire day. We were all dying of exhaustion and jet lag and we still had to get our rooms in order and attend a welcome orientation and eat dinner. I saw so many people closing their eyes and dozing off I am sure the professors noticed and decided to cut it short because they kept saying, “I am going to make this short.” I was happy to hear those words but I was getting annoyed when I saw each minute pass on the clock and we were yet to get up from our seats and walk out.

           The next part was quite interesting, for it was the first time I was going to take a look at my Italian apartment. First, let me start off by saying how cute and wonderful the girls’ apartments were. Well, each apartment had a small kitchen, a bunk bed, a small living area, a dining/study area, and a huge bathroom. It was cute and modern I kind of liked it that I was really hoping that the boys’ apartment would be just the same. Unfortunately, since not all of the apartments were remodeled, the only boys of the group (Carlos and I) had to get our own apartment just two blocks away (about an eight-minute walk). So our advisors of the group took us to the other location which I had already seen on Google Maps (I know I am a cheater) but I was so excited for what I saw. First off, there was a riverboat restaurant right in front of us, then a pizza parlor on the left-hand side, as well as a bar right next to it. I assumed we had it all. I thought wrong. Once the car parked in front of the apartment building with the local businesses surrounding it, I took the liberty to actually take in my surroundings. I am eternally grateful that I did so because before entering, there were these really big gray wooden doors. They were humongous but the funny part was that there was a cut-out door at the bottom that can open for anyone who has a key; it is so small and short that you have to duck your head upon entering in order to avoid a big red bump on your head. Once entering, the doors led to this beautiful yellow courtyard leading to either three different houses or the apartment building which had five floors with one apartment on each. We got the room on the second floor and I was dreading it as soon as I saw how narrow and steep the stairs were. But I managed, mainly because there was an elevator to accommodate mine and my roommate’s luggage and taking it up the stairs.

           I have never in my life actually seen an Italian apartment, I have never in my life seen Italy period. So for the first time in my life, I was indulging in so many different things. The culture, the city, the people, and now my very own apartment. Once getting off the elevator, the doors opened on a big brown and white wall, and to the left was a veranda looking out to the houses and cobblestone streets that made this little heart of the city. To the right, was a big dark brown double-sided door that when opened, led to an all white twelve by twenty square foot apartment (I could be getting my accurate calculations wrong). First off, the key we got to open our door was huge it was bigger than the size of my palm and quite heavy too I might add. That is how ancient it was. To the right of the room, stood two all white clean twin beds, only they were right next to each other. I was already beginning to think how uncomfortable the situation was because of how the beds were put right next to each other and there were supposed to be a boy sleeping on each one. However, I did not mind it at the moment, like I said, I was indulging everything in until it could finally hit me. There was a large closet right next to the beds, and then an old green chair sitting by itself amongst the corner of a wall. Then a big white with a vaguely opaque glass door opens up to a toilet, sink, a shelf, a shower, and a small little bidet. In case some of you might not know, a bidet is a little sink in which you are able to wash your front parts and your anus as well. There was some fresh crisp all white towels, some soap, and shampoo. The little kitchen contained a stove, a microwave, a sink, some cups and plates, pots and pans, silverware, cooking utensils, and even an espresso maker. We had it all for an Italian apartment; the wonderful scenery, the restaurants and bars right next to us, and the beautiful canal which was beautiful to look at at night when the buildings’ lights reflected on the water.

           Now the next part was to go grocery shopping and buy the rest of the things we needed for our little apartment. We were not the only students going to the supermarket to buy all of the things we needed. We found one about a couple blocks away from us that had everything we can think of. If I can remember correctly it is called Simply. Just like that, and we walked in only to find some escalators leading down. Once walking in, the smell was familiar, almost that of a supermarket in Mexico. Once we hit the first floor, we saw a security guard and about eight cashiers checking people out (they are always overstaffed here in Italy). Everything is so crowded and fast-paced that it was almost impossible to look at everything I needed to buy; I almost forgot half the things I needed on my shopping list. We bought mostly food items, water, and some toilet paper because that was the most important thing of all. The way how the pricing worked was so odd. It felt like shopping American style only instead of a period between the numbers to separate dollars and cents, there was a simple comma placed in between (plus the Euro symbol). On one visit, I spent only 19 Euros, which is like twenty-three dollars. But then again, I did miss a lot of things that I needed.

           Finally, to end the night, my friends Nely and Alexa, including my roommate Carlos and I decided to go out for pizza at the pizza parlor that was right next to us. Once we did, we walked by the pizza place not knowing a single clue of what to do; luckily, a waiter approached us and asked what we liked – in English. I was beginning to question myself if we really looked like American tourists. When we answered yes, he brought us inside to sit at a table. Upon doing so, he kindly handed us menus and offered us drinks. We all asked for waters and got them back in bottles. We were confused as if the bottles were filled with sparkling water but it was regular mineral water that actually tasted quite refreshing (way more than American water if I might say so myself). I looked at the Menu and felt a little overwhelmed with how many types of pizzas there were, along with other pasta dishes, salads, finger foods, and drinks they could offer. There was not a simple one like pepperoni or supreme which would have been easier for me to choose and indulge. As I scrolled my eyes down the menu, seeing all of the varieties and names like bufalo or margherita. Well I ended up choosing a margherita pizza because I read that all it had was tomato sauce, mozzarella cheese, and basil. Simple as that. My friend Alexa got the bufalo pizza after fifteen minutes and it came out a little different than she expected. First of all, she did not expect it to be a whole pizza, and I don’t think she realized that the on the bottom of each menu item stood a translation of the ingredients. The ingredients called for mozzarella cheese, spinach, and grape tomato slices; somehow she forgot to read that and was not aware until she got her food, she looked at it with big eyes. She was still able to enjoy it for she took off the tomato and spinach and only ate the cheese pizza without the tomato sauce. My pizza came out right after hers and I could not wait to dig in. The waiter put it down on the table in front of me and said “Bon Appetíto.” I saw it look a little different than I expected, there was hardly and I mean hardly any mozzarella cheese. I did not bother to question it and I decided to just dig in. Once I cut into my whole pizza and began to bite into my slice, I can say it was pretty hot but delicious. The pizza would have given me a total of eight slices and I was only able to consume four. I felt terrible because I did not want the cook to feel like it was not appetizing.

           We realized our first day was coming to a close and we all went our separate ways. Nely and Alexa went their separate ways to their apartment, while Carlos and I went to our own and decided to call it a night. I showered, changed, laid down on my bed and looked up at the obscure ceiling overhead and thought to myself about how good it felt to be in a bed and not on a plane, walking around parts of the town, or listening to another lecture or orientation meeting. Jet lag hit me so hard for my first time, but let me tell you, so far it has been extremely worth it. I have been able to do some things I have been dreaming of doing; that is fly, travel, and live in a different country. The good thing about those types of dreams is that you can keep doing them, you can do them as much as you want because you never have to let your dreams go. I keep telling myself that it is pretty impressive I am studying in a foreign country, living in a foreign country, indulging in the culture, and last but not least, travel parts of the world I never thought I would see. 

Until then! 

Damian