Morning.

Finally at school. Needed the weekend. Darkside considers me showing up on time for breakfast, me being "early", and has been much in favor of my having gotten sleep this past week.

Adam in a towering yowling jealous rage about my flirting online with a RL friend of Dennis K's.

They want who as a new recruit?

So the army just called, looking to talk to my roommate.

"So you're the army? And you want to try and recruit my roommate? ...Are you crazy?" I said to the recruiter, and then started laughing my ass off.

Actually, Votania once tried the army. She quit, though, because they originally said she could work with demolitions, but then retracted that, saying it was too dangerous for a woman.

I laughed at him extensively, then told him he shouldn't waste his time here, and perhaps he shouldn't call back, and then continued laughing until I hung up.

I love playing with them. My 1/10th of what gets dished out to me at work. I'm pleasant about it, too... not actively rude like the people who cuss me out. Refreshingly, the other day, I had a very dignified-sounding man, after finding out who I was, give me a very long raspberry noise, and then hang up. I liked that. Masochistic? No. Bored, yes.

Dear Shawn...

When you spread your heart open to a writer, you should know what happens next. If I gave you the title date and publisher of all my works, and you were to read them, you would see yourself on those pages, incised to the soul to show the patternings on it.

Would I listen? Oh, I listened, then, to all your pain, to your joys, to your grief, to the sheer ugliness that can arise from the depths of a human heart. The sheer beauty, too. And I captured that essence of you on paper, ink for blood, and there you lie, sliced open, vivisected, and everyone praises her, praises the writer for her insight and way with words as you squirm there beneath the quill.

It's not her beauty, though. Not her own human emotions, always, lying there for the general public to paw through and catch up to use as a handkerchief should none other be nearby. There's the writer for you, and that's you on her page.

Would I?

Would I give you the link, that you may browse through my reflections? This is my life as well; I see myself the way I reflect in your eyes.

Perhaps something of me has come through on the page. Perhaps somewhere in my vivid depiction of you, your joy, pain, love, laughter, loss, something of my own view on life, my own aqua-tinted glasses, has made it to those words I so carefully or carelessly choose. Perhaps you can see me, a ghost in my own life, always upstaged, always a supporting character. There I was in the mirror, half a second before the camera turned on you. That was my hand placing the vase on the table beside you.

Perhaps...

Perhaps some day you will read what I have written.