It's Tearing Up My Heart When I'm With You, But When We Are Apart I Feel It Too, And No Matter What I Do, I Feel The Pain, With Or Without You

--"Tearing Up My Heart", *NSYNC

To tell you the truth, I was always afraid of her. I was afraid of what she was and afraid of what she represented. I was afraid in the same manner that little kids are scared of the dark; we often fear what we don't know completely. It was quite clear at the beginning that I didn't know her too well. Surface stuff, attributes quickly gleaned from minutes long conversations, habitual tells--all those I internalized and stored away for future use. But the small nuances, the important qualities? All those came much later. For me, these were all the secrets that I wished to know immediately. That's why I was frightened of her, precisely because she wouldn't show all her cards right away. She demanded patience and it was patience I had a suffering lack of.

I almost folded it in. In the beginning she frustrated me. She caused me to doubt myself many a time. Who was this girl that was threatening me to be original? How dare she push me out of my comfortable zone. Those were the kinds of thoughts that were scraping my head almost every time we talked. This effect would only grow doubly worse on those occasions when I would see her. She never made it easy for me and I resented her for it. She saw right through my complacency. She saw fit to shatter it without reservations. You're better than that, she would say to me. Inside, I would be doubting if I truly was. It takes effort to turn your perception in on yourself and she was challenging me to make this effort almost every time we came into contact. That was her gift which became my curse.

Finally, the walls came down. I realized she wasn't going anywhere no matter how ornery I puffed myself up to be. She wasn't going to retreat. I saw there was no amount of force I could muster that would discourage her from her stated goal--namely, to be lifelong friends with me. Finally, armed with this inescapable truth, I relaxed my guard. I allowed myself to believe the hype that there are certain individuals who can sustain a friendship all by themselves. I put in my work too, but she has always been the driving force behind whatever this is. I follow where she leads, basically. That's the way it's always been. That's the way it's always going to be. It was easy to be led, actually. She presented a Utopian portrait of our future together. I bought into it completely. What other choice did I have? When you're presented with the option to purchase a life you never believed possible or remain with the same nondescript existence you had before, you opt for the dream every time. In choosing I ostensibly had no choice. Her offer was too good and I really had nothing of worth to lose by hearing her out.

I don't know exactly when my feeling for her changed. I don't even recall if it was I who modified them or if she started planting the idea into my head. Both theories are probable and both have their undeniable appeal. At any rate, as par the course any time two people who genuinely care for each other choose to spend the bulk of their time in each other's company, I fell hard for her. Not that she knew that. As much as I was denying it to everyone who would hear me, I even managed to fool myself. (Of course, I don't like her like that. She's my friend. I don't want to fuck that up.) It became a mantra for me. But it was easy to pierce through that particular veil. Anybody with eyes and ears could discern the warmth I held for her whenever I spoke about her. As well it was hard for me to deny that she was more than willing to reciprocate my feelings for her. All that was left was for someone to go first.

The first time we ended up going at the same time, a undeniable sign of just how in sync we were with each other.

If any period in our friendship could have been called our halcyon days, the period that followed that fateful trip would have been it. If any period in our friendship stands as the period I wish I could go back to most, this period would be voted quickly in. If any period in our friendship forever lives on in my memory, this is the period that will never die. I still managed to be frightened of her, but it was a healthy sense of fear. Banished were the notions of her intimidating me, only to be replaced by the terror of imagining my life without her. I wasn't afraid of her any more; I was afraid of losing her, of being without her, of her not wanting me any more. I don't know which is worse, fretting that you'll never attain your dream or fretting that your dream is about to end. Personally, I know it was much easier when I didn't know the spectacle all that well. Conjecturing about the existence and possibility of true happiness is far easier to deal with than staring it dead in the face and pleading with it not to walk away. Behind every smile I gave her were the tears of somebody deathly afraid of being left in its absence. She assured that would never be the case. She promised this is the way it could be till the end of time. Yet the promises made inevitably turn into the promises broken.

Yet it was I who broke her heart ironically enough. I, who had peppered her with queries about the reality of forever, was the one who halted things while everything was going good.

Yet it was I who told her we couldn't last.

Yet it was all me.

I told her to walk away. She did. But not completely. That's what damn maddening about the history of events. The story could have been written differently. I might not have said no. I might not have given it all up to spare myself from it not working out in the end. Out there in an alternate universe the two of us are happy or married or both. That would have been ideal. Alternately, she could have walked away completely. The casual stung of losing of such a precious commodity as her would have been excruciating at first, but given five or ten years even my poor, poor heart would have mended. It might have benefited me more had this scenario panned out. As Jenny once sang, "with every broken heart your heart should grow more adventurous." Free from the tyranny her being in my life enslaves me under, I might have searched for someone else, anyone else, more earnestly. That could have been my castle at the end of the rocky road. Instead, her being gone but never completely gone has instituted where I still am able to procure what little emotional nourishment necessary to call this a life, while never being able to settle on that brand of complete bliss. I'm stuck in a limbo that is both flat and expansive. I'm neither dying nor living. I'm neither in need of anything, but in want of everything. I exist, but do not live as such. I still have her, but feel alone.

That cannot stand.

That she's with someone else is inevitable. People move on as people will.

That I'm not is just pitiful. I don't move on because I'm less than a person.

It's this hope that brings to ruination every plan I make. I set out to better myself, to veer off on a new direction that will take me somewhere, anywhere which does not require her for me to be fulfilled. But every direction I take only reinforces the stark reality of my co-dependence on her. Even when I'm not in love with her, I still need her. Even when I don't need her, I rely on her. Even when I don't rely on her, I still miss her. Everything I do to try and compensate for the void she creates in me, only opens another void somewhere else. She plugs too many holes. She means too many things to me. Even if I could afford to lose one manifestation of her, I can ill afford to lose them all. The effect would be crippling. It'd be like making the piss boy walk the plank on a pirate ship and the whole crew deciding to mutiny. As my cousin Vincent quotes all the time, "you can't love people in slices." I can't separate one part of her to deny myself without denying all parts of her. Yet I can't quite have all parts of her so I'm compelled to relish the fifty or sixty percent I do have access to. After that, it's just hope that someday they'll be more. There's just the hope I'll again mean more to her than I already do.

Or maybe there isn't any hope. There's only the reality that my situation is untenable, unwinnable. In some respects there's still that fear of her. Only this time it's the fear that she'll forever be the one that got away. There's still that fear that she'll be the benchmark I judge everyone else on. There's still that fear that she made my life imperceptibly hopeless by providing me all this hope. There's still that fear that by her being so undeniably a force for good in my life she made everything else seem shades of bad. That's why I'm afraid of her now, because by being so dependable she became the only thing I can depend on and by being so loving and lovable... she'll be the only person I'll truly love.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Look Around But It's You I Can't Replace, I Feel So Cold And I Long For Your Embrace, I Keep Crying Baby, Baby, Please

--"Every Breath You Take", The Police

I got my first computer in 1995.

It's been downhill ever since. LOL

Not that I didn't know it about myself already, but the fact I'm writing this from the local Panera only confirms that I have an obsessive personality. I came home today to find a huge technical error awaiting me on my PC's DSL connection. Instead of waiting it out like most sane people would have, instead of giving more than a cursory call to the Help line, I immediately packed my Macbook up and hightailed it to Panera. I didn't even wait. I didn't even stop to consider my options. I just went.

I may be taking after Breanne just yet.

I didn't have anything pressing. It isn't like I had some important research paper to do or some compelling idea for my latest novel. Nope, the most pressing goal I had on my agenda today was to write this very post. Everything else was fodder. Stuff like getting a couple of more games of Urban Rivals in, like checking on my Fantasy Baseball League, like checking out the Rilo Kiley forum, don't exactly have the weight of the world attached to them. Granted, I think everybody gets a little antsy if they aren't able to check their e-mail for a period of twenty-four hours, which would be the case for me if the DSL doesn't start up before tomorrow, but I take frustration to a whole new level. I have a routine. I like my routine. My routine dictates that I write posts like these every few days, check my mail everyday, and on a instinctual level be able to roam the hills and dales of the Internet at my leisure. When that freedom is denied me, I take drastic measures like driving five miles out of my way to compose a post about why I have to compose posts at the local coffee shop/bakery.

I've always been this way. What changes is the what I'm obsessed about. What's different is the goal I choose to act impulsively in regards to. Be it driving thirty miles out of my way to go eat at the local Sonic Burger or walking home from Dan's house, if there's something I've made up my mind to do or to get, I have to do it. Now, it isn't the same brand of impulsiveness as Lucy. I don't set these long-term goals that I strive for and woe betide anything or anyone that gets in my way. I usually act impulsively to the more innocuous of pursuits. A hamburger here, a video game there--hell, I've even managed to drive eighty miles just to deliver a letter to a friend simply because I promised I would and not because it would have made an iota of difference if it had been a day or two late. What's peculiar is that I'm usually lax when it comes to the big things. I'm pretty even keel about a great many topics that most people take deadly seriously. I couldn't give a rat's ass about other people's priorities.

Where my individuality shines are, in fact, those pursuits I do overreact to. Like I said, I'm sure most people would feel the loss of being able to log onto the Internet for one day. I, however, will go extremely out of my way to insure that my day-to-day cycle of sites I check, posts I write, and/or people I catch up with doesn't vary--even if for only one day.

Or maybe I'm just like Toby--she has her idiosyncrasies that she must enact every time she partakes in a certain activity.

Whatever it is, I'm too old to change now. Posts need to be written when I think they need to be written--not when people actually want them, mind you. My Fantasy Baseball team isn't going to manage itself. And, for chrissakes, there's a lot of Rilo Kiley news I'm missing as we speak.

Go a day without being able to surf the web?

I'd sooner starve.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

All The Times, When We Were Close, I'll Remember These Things The Most, I See All My Dreams Come Tumbling Down, I Won't Be Happy Without You Around

--"Train in Vain", The Clash

As I sit in the terminal of Logan Airport with her and I preparing to say good-bye for the last time I can't help but wonder what the really means. Whenever we say farewell to somebody do we ever truly think it's going to be for the last time? Even when we think we shall never meet again, I think there's always some small part of us, call it hope or even naivete, that refuses to believe what our brains tell us is true. It's the same part of our brain that allows us to believe in things like Santa when we are younger, the part that allows us to get through broken arms when the pain is excruciating, the part that allows us to look at concepts with death without succumbing to numbing fear or ineffectiveness. I think there's a part that shuts off the part of our consciousness that knows what events really signify and allows us to go on blithely believing the best about our atypical situation.

As it is, I'm finding I'm less anxious about us separating for a time than I was a week ago or even a week ago. The only explanation is that I've fooled myself into thinking this isn't happening. I'm not really here. Nothing is going to change.

The weird part is that I can see it in my writing too. I've taken up a new idea involving a main character who loses her brother right near the beginning of the tale. It isn't a nice and sunny loss either. She basically witnesses his murder in person, up close, and, due to the circumstances, she is unable to react accordingly. Basically, the way I envision it, the first quarter or half of the book is a prolonged repose for her from being able to process the kind of devastating loss she has just suffered. When I say that this premise is strange, it isn't because it's a situation I've never encountered before. No, I haven't lost a brother right before my eyes. Jennifer is the closest I've come to that particular incident. When I say it's strange it's because I am at ease writing about an individual who sublimates her feelings in such a manner. Far too at ease.

Nominally, it should be easier for me to write about people grieve at the time when it's appropriate to grieve. After all, my favorite show is Avonlea, a show predicated on the axiom "to everything a season." After all, Rachel, the only person I've ever looked up to as a genuine hero, was very heartfelt and open about how she felt about a great many things. Why then should I be so untoward when it comes to handling the sadness as it's dealt? This great part of my consciousness seems to be working overtime when it comes to making the best of a bad situation.

I can only answer thusly. There's a part of me just like my main character from the story that processes things in a first come, first serve manner. I have a natural talent for focusing predominantly on one thing, while deferring everything else to the back burner. It's the reason I can be at work, answering calls and processing customers' requests, while working on the through line for another short story or novel. It's the reason I can set up anecdotes ahead of time while managing to steer the conversation so that the anecdote becomes strangely appropriate. It's the reason why I can go out with one young woman, while the whole time pine for another. That's the way my brain works. Let's face it, I've never been good at dealing with any uncomfortable situation that I didn't originate. I hate surprises. I hate being blind-sided. Quite frankly, I consider saying good-bye to someone the worst offense in this regard. What do you mean you're going? Or, more likely, what do you mean
I can't stay? That's how I see when people are parted. Leaving is evil and always will be. Therefore, I refuse (mostly) to consciously do it. I put it away in the bad place where bad ideas go. There they stay until such time that I'm forced to starkly deal with them.

Places like here are where I deal with evil ideas like that. Talking on the phone with Lucy or Orlando are where I deal with evil ideas like that.

Like the main character in my new story (who really needs a name by now), I've got too much to do in the way of living to make time for the subtleties or nuances like people leaving. I cannot and will not be bothered with trifling matters such as that now. As Ilessa, who I ran this idea by this morning with, explains it, I'm like one of those animals in a zoo. Tell me where to eat, tell me where to go, tell me what my boundaries are, and I'm good. I'm not one who reacts well to change. It bothers me to a sizable degree. More than it should, actually. I've always been better dealing with the iniquities of life if they are constant and unassailable. Give me a cage and lock me up as long as you allow me to call the cage home. It's only when you invade that space that you afforded me with things like people leaving, people changing, or people dying that I get irrationally upset. You can't set up a system that works for me, sparse and unrelenting as it very well may be, and then take a portion of it away from me. You just can't. That cage is my home and it should stay exactly as it is for the rest of time.

I can take not being exactly free, being a prisoner to my routines and preferences. I've always been stubborn and cantankerous to a fault. That's just who I am. But now I'm seeing there's a part of me that thrives on those routines. There's a whole world of freedoms that I never take advantage of, but all of us have to draw the line somewhere. That's what separates us from being entirely savage, the fact we set routines, we get familiar with our surroundings, the fact we have proclivities and dislikes. Like my main character, when presented with something that strays us from our path, sometimes all we can do is continue the rest of the routine as best as possible. Sometimes the rote schedule of activities that we enact is all we have to fall back on. It isn't so much that I don't want to see the significance of what is happening to me at this time. I know it's big. It's because it's so momentous that I'm compelled to go through what I think I normally would do to take my mind off of just how life-altering days like these are. I need to feel safe by doing the little things I can control because I'm realizing on days like these there are just too many big things I can't control.

Sure, saying good-bye to an old friend is nothing like watching one's brother die.

But the way I handle is much the same.

I don't dare say a word and I don't dare act like anything is out of the norm. For, if I do, then my whole world comes crumbling down rather than the small piece I've confined sadnesses like these to.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Under The Pale Moon, For So Many Years I've Wondered, Who You Are, How Can A Person Like You Bring Me Joy

--"The Sign", Ace of Base

I've never lived anywhere outside of Southern California. Well, to be technical, I guess you could count the year my family lived in the Philippines before moving to the U.S., but I barely remember anything before I turned five. I doubt I'd remember anything in my first year of life. For all intents and purposes, I'm a SoCal kid and a SoCal kid I'll probably stay. That being said, people often wonder why I have such an affinity for Boston and all its various suburbs. What is it about a city I only started recently visiting that has caused me to visit five out of the last six years?

To be honest, I really don't know. I mean--I've been a Red Sox fan for some twenty years now, but that had never prompted me to fly out here before. In fact, if it hadn't been for attempting to follow Rilo Kiley on their Execution tour, I might have never gotten up enough gumption to fly to Boston at all. Chicago had always been the city I wanted to see growing up. I wrote stories about the Windy City, I made plans to visit when I was younger, and I even told myself that Chicago is where I wanted to be when I was older. It was something mystical about that city. But once I actually made it to Boston, I knew this was a place where I belonged. Chicago is nice and all, but let's just say the dreams of desires you have as immature kid who's never been anywhere in his life are vastly differently once one is older and more experienced. Had I known then what I know now I wouldn't have wasted so much time dreaming of a city that, frankly, is vastly different than what I thought it to be. Had I known anything about Boston, I would have wasted so much more time daydreaming about it than any other city.

Yet here it is, my fifth trip in almost as many years, and I'm still finding new places to go. I've done all the touristy activities in previous visits so I'm finding on this trip that I'm not so much in a hurry. I pretty much hit all my favorite haunts--Faneuli, Newbury Street, Boston Common, Boston Garden, J.P. Lick's, Legal Seafood, and, of course, the Union Oyster House. Now, though, I'm hitting those out-of-the-way spots that I never had the opportunity to hit before. It's been a great trip and it's probably only going to get better once Nancy Drew finally gets up here today. You're always more inclined to find the joy in a place once you're inclined to show it to somebody else, after all.

It's interesting to me how much I love this city even though I skipped last year to go to Chicago with Breanne. It's the closest thing to visiting an old friend, finding some of her changed, older somehow, and yet finding her not so different than when you last left her. There's still the same energy in the air. There's still the same wonderful lot of people to get to know. There's still the same great history and character to the old girl that I'm betting isn't going away any time soon. If anything, I've changed more than the city has. When I first started coming here, everything was new. I was in awe of everything I saw and everything Ashley showed me when she took me on that first driving tour. I was like a kid in a candy store--if that kid had never even tasted candy before. Now it's all passe. The city's not going to impress me with anything new and different. After five years, I think I've seen most of it has to offer. And you know what? That doesn't matter. It's precisely because I've changed, because I'm not as wide-eyed as I was before, that I'm able to still love so much of this city. Coming back, I'm looking at the city with different eyes.

I'm seeing it from the perspective of someone who's an old pro at this place or, as my shuttle driver put it yesterday, as somebody "who's practically a resident now."

It's a weird feeling not to have to take a guide book anymore to get to anywhere I'm going. It's a weird feeling to be able to give directions to Fenway, to Harvard Square, to this T station or that restaurant, all on memory alone. It's a weird feeling for people to ask me how long I've been living here after we're first introduced. The way I gush about this city to its residents, people make the assumption that I'm a longtime Boston native.

I take it as a compliment, actually.

I've made it past that stage in the relationship where I'm newly in love. Now I'm onto the stage where nothing is new, but the love is still there. I'm onto the stage where I'm comfortable and happy precisely because I know what I'm getting and how good what I've got truly is. Boston's my city and I know now there's really nowhere else I'd rather be.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

'Cause All Of The Stars Are Fading Away, Just Try Not To Worry, You'll See Them Someday, Take What You Need And Be On Your Way

--"Stop Crying Your Heart Out", Oasis

Dear Made of Honor,

I went in determined not to like you. Usually I'm such a pushover for romantic comedies that it would've been no big deal for me to walk in to see another one. However, I'd been let down by movies centering on best friends--one guy, one girl--who discover that they may have feelings for each other. Yes, When Harry Met Sally is still one of my favorite romantic comedies of all time, but even that I thought lacked a certain believability that those two could have ever really been friends. I don't know what it was. Maybe I thought the character of Harry was kind of grating or perhaps I thought Sally was just a mess. All I knew was that if these two were friends, they would've had had a lot more problems than whether or not they belonged with one another. It was a good movie, but I sincerely shied away from it being a portrayal of long-lasting friendship.

And don't even get me started on My Best Friend's Wedding. I have taken so much grief over that movie over the years that it's not even funny. However, the reason I dislike this movie isn't because I didn't buy into the depiction of friendship. Friendships abound and flourish in this movie. Not only did I believe that Julia Roberts and Dermot Mulroney could be friends, but I also thought the film did a great job in cluing us in that Julia and Rupert Everett could be friends. Hell, I even thought Julia and Cameron Diaz could have been friends. No, the reason I have a gripe against My Best Friend's Wedding is because the two people that are supposed to be together don't end up together. What kind of Hollywood ending is that? I can't even tell you how many friends I've known who've bitched over the same ending.

I'm not saying I have anything against Miss Diaz's character, but let's just say I can empathize with Miss Robert's plight. For her to go through all that effort and not come away with the prize at the end is absolutely crushing to a guy like me. She put in her time, she should be rewarded. That's my theory.

Which brings me to you, Made of Honor. I walked into the theaters, prepared to be crushed again because, honestly, you appeared to be a retread of the aforementioned Wedding except with the main characters flip-flopped. I thought, do I really want to see another story of two friends who've known each other half their lives NOT end up together? Do I want to put myself through such heartache again? At the outset my answer would have been no, but then other factors kept creeping in. One, I adore well-done romantic comedies and Nora had been texting me all week that I needed to see this film. Two, I've been a big fan of Michelle Monaghan ever since Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang and I've yet to be disappointed by her films. And three, I needed something to take my mind off Ilessa's impending graduation. So I went in yesterday, steeling myself to be utterly disappointed by an unromantic ending.

You know what, though? You turned my mind around. Not only do I think that Tom and Hannah make believable best friends, but all the small quirks and habits they share really reminded me how it's supposed to look like. The back-and-forth conversations, the private jokes, the unnoticeable-except-if-you're-looking-for-it shared habits--I identified with all of it. From the first few minutes of the movie I was hooked on that fact alone. You did a commendable job of showing a tried-and-true relationship between best friends.

Then you did me one better. You showed what it's like to come to the realization that one person may have feelings for the other and how difficult the choice to say something really is. You showed that in all its excruciating detail. You made me feel all the pain and discomfort associated with that deliberation. That's a special level of hell right there... and you took me right along to that hell. Congratulations.

But I think what I appreciated the most is that you ended the story correctly. Yeah, I know there are some individuals who will tell you that there is no "correct" ending. It's all about how you can tie the ending back to the premise, they will say. I don't buy that, though. I think there's a single ending that will satisfy the audience's romantic sensibilities. You may not think it's believable or that it's been done before. I think the reason it keeps working is because people keep wanting to see it. Nobody wants to walk out of a film wishing it could have ended differently and, for once, for this type of movie, I thought the movie ended on exactly the right note. You got it right; you got it so right.

So, yeah, I just wanted to write you a small letter thanking you for your time. I found you enjoyable, pleasant, and overwhelmingly cordial. You allowed me close to two hours of being able to believe in the power of friendship and love again. You showed me that, despite everything else, there's a good reason why we go through the big hassle of having close friends at all. I wanted you to know that because of you I came away with a smile for the first time this week.

And I also wanted you to know that when you do finally arrive on DVD, you're definitely going to be picked to be put into my collection.

You rock.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers


and stop crying your heart out

Post-Scriptum - I should have gone to Breanne's wedding.

We've Known Each Other For So Long, Your Heart's Been Aching, But You're Too Shy To Say It, Inside We Both Know What's Been Going On

--"Never Gonna Give You Up", Rick Astley

Recently Breanne told me about this great scam that made its way through the Internet called Rickrolling. According to Wikipedia it is:

a prank and Internet meme involving the music video for the 1987 Rick Astley song "Never Gonna Give You Up" written and produced by Mike Stock, Matt Aitken, and Pete Waterman known as Stock Aitken Waterman. The meme is a classic bait and switch: a person provides a link they claim is relevant to the topic at hand, but the link actually takes the user to the Astley video.

I've never been lucky enough to be "Rick Rolled" myself, but, if I had, I probably would have though it was hilarious. Not only am I fan of the song, but I'm always receptive to a well thought-out and executed practical joke. I've detailed many here myself--some light and corny, and some bordering on mean and vindictive. Usually the line between the two of those genres is arbitrarily decided by me right before it's pulled, but at heart I think they've all been funny. I can't tell you how many times I've recounted a story to a co-worker or a friend where they've thrown me this look like "You did what?" To me, every anecdote I tell involving a practical joke should be seen with a somewhat humorous light, but sometimes you really can't tell where somebody's sensitivities lie. With some people my story about trapping my Scoutmaster's brother in the latrine is hilarious, while I've had other people blanche upon recounting my story of tying my brother up with rope and leaving him struggling to break free for over an hour (or was it three? LOL). With something like this video, though, I don't think there's any wiggle room for mean-spiritedness; at its heart something like this is just plain silly humor.

My point is that it's very difficult to find somebody with exactly the same type of humor and when you do that you recognize it right away. In fact, I would go so far as to say that sharing a particular sense of humor is far more indicative of compatibility between two individuals than what kind of music or films the two of you like.

----

In the first few months of getting to know Breanne I had discovered that she liked to jog (or run away as most people called it), but the extent to which she enjoyed was always up for debate. I mean--everybody says they like doing something, but that can range from a passing interest to being a full-fledged devotee. She was always joking how fast she was, how durable she was, and how running to her was life. We always joked it off, but I came with the impression that there was more to this running thing than she was letting on. Perhaps the gal had more of a penchant for it than she was letting on. Thus, when she made the following announcement during one of our casual phone conversations, I was completely undecided as to how to take it.

"I actually finished twenty-third last year in the Junior's Nine Through Twelve Division in the local half-marathon, sugar," she said matter-of-factly. "I should have finished higher, but, wouldn't you know it, I cramped up in the last half mile."

What was going through my head at the time she was saying this was disbelief that anyone would willingly run thirteen or so miles for fun. Not one iota of my mind was thinking I was being played.

That's always been Breanne's schtick. She plays this innocent young thing, making her voice all sweet and airy, acting naive and such, but in truth she's as wicked as they come. However, doing those first few months I was barely figuring all this out. I was kind of drawn to her because I felt like there was so much I had to teach her about the world. There I was, thinking I was all that and a bag of chips, attempting to pass along all this knowledge to who I thought was going to be a protege, and she was actually more world wise than she let on. I don't know if it was her upbringing, her attempt to remain gentile and polite (showing one's friend up I think is definitely a sign of arrogance), or if she relishes the notion of dropping these huge bombs upon me and the rest of the world. In fact, I think it has more to do with the latter than the former. If I were in her position and had all these secret talents and accomplishments, I think I would wait too before showing my head. It's just much more fun that way.

"Twenty-third isn't half bad. Did they give you some kind of medal?"

"No medal, but you can see my name up in the official records. I'll send you the link to the site when I find it."

"That's amazing, Breanne. Go you."

"Hell's bells, it wasn't anything. I like running, you know?"

Nominally, this would have been a good place to spill the beans because she didn't have much to gain by elaborating on the story. She's always been a creature after my own heart, however, so she took the opportunity to take the little game out to its complete fruition.

"I'm thinking of running this year too. It won't be for the Juniors since I'm already thirteen, but I want to give it another try."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but this year I'm going for the full marathon. No more ponies for this gal, this year I'm going for riding the bull."

"You can't be serious," I said incredulously.

Her laugh shook me off.

I should have known right then and there that was she playing with me. I mean--who ever heard of somebody barely in high school attempting their first marathon, especially someone who admittedly mostly ran on a lark and had no serious training. It was a testament to the conviction in her voice and the trust I had placed in her that I bought her story lock, stock, and barrel. At that point in our friendship, without knowing when and how she liked to joke around, I was prepared to believe she was capable of anything. She certainly had that aura about her that bespoke a can't be stopped attitude. At that point, if she told me she was a marathon runner, I would have thought she was a marathon runner. If she told me she was a Martian princess, I probably would have asked her what her kingdom was like. That's how convincing she portrayed herself as.

I've often wondered if I wanted to believe her if only because I did find her so fascinating. Maybe there was a part of me that wanted to celebrate the extraordinary, that didn't want to believe she was just like me. Or maybe I was completely smitten with the girl and was prepared to follow whatever trail she was laying down for me.

"I think I am. Can you imagine it, Patrick? Me finishing a marathon. That'd be incredible."

"It certainly would be. It might even be something I'd consider flying over to see."

"Of course you'd be invited. You'd have to see me win."

"Win, huh? Somebody thinks highly of their chances, doesn't she?"

"Maybe not win, but finishing would be a fine achievement, especially at my age, darling."

When I tell a lie, there's one basic rule I follow--let the other person dictate where the lie is going. By how a person answers you can often tell which parts he or she is buying and which parts you're losing them at. If you go back to the well regarding the parts you can tell he or she has already believed, you're one step closer to concocting a more and more believable story. Breanne instinctively knew this too because I think at this point she was about to tell me that she had a good chance of winning. When she heard the disbelief in my voice, she correctly backed off that aspect and downplayed it to something I could once again follow.

"Your age? It's an accomplishment at any age. Do you know how many people go their whole lives without finishing a marathon?"

"Lots and lots."

"That's right. I think you should do it if only so I can say I knew a gal who finished a marathon before she was out of her training bra," I laughed.

"Is that so? You'd coast on my laurels?"

"Hey, if you can't do it yourself, find someone who can and befriend them. Knowing someone who ran a marathon is just as good as running it yourself, I say."

As aforementioned, we may not have the same personality quirks in a lot of areas, but when it comes to sense of humor or causing mischief I think the two of us are dead-on. Aside from this love of practical jokes, we like to embellish our stories in the same areas and in the same manner. Basically, we like to build a story from scratch and push it as far as we can take till the person has no choice but to call our bluff.

She's always been good at that.

I can't speak for her, but I think we're both yarn spinners at heart. You can see that much in how easily she whips up her ghost stories, her "explanations" when she got in trouble with her folks, and how quick she is in our routine conversations. There's a wit to her that is literally matchless. And me, I've always fancied myself as somewhat imaginative and somewhat prone to the fanciful. I believe that's where we meet in the middle, in that area of storytelling reserved for unapologetic liars, cheats, and swindlers. There's a desire in both of us to not only tell a story for its own sake, but to somewhat pull the wool over the audience's eyes, even if that audience happens to be one of our dearest friends. There's a sense of competition there, between storyteller and storytold, hunter and hunted. We're trying to enact a plan whereby the other party has no idea of what he or she is being led to believe. Then, when the tables are flipped and the truth is revealed, we live for that "aha" moment when the other person slowly realizes just how badly they had been fooled. That's our payoff. That's our reward.

It's even worse between us now. We've known each other for so long and swapped so many stories, there's almost a perverse desire to really humiliate one another with the lies we tell. When I realize she's bit into a story I fabricated I thought she would never fall for, the timer starts and I begin to whip it up into a masterpiece. Those chances are so rare now that I really think I've got to make the most of each and every one of them. In my head, I'm thinking "I've got to fool her as bad as she fooled with that blasted Marathon Story."

When our conversation came to its inevitable close a few minutes later, Breanne didn't waste any time in letting me see behind the curtain.

"Well, it's been a hoot-and-a-half, sugar, but I think I should let you in on a little secret."

"What's that?"

"I've never run a marathon, half or otherwise. I was only fibbing you. But you certainly bit down on it hard. I was thinking you were going to break your teeth on that one," she laughed.

"Really? All that talk about how you were going to train for this long each day, that was all nonsense?"

"Yes. Sorry. It was--you were so taken with the idea of me being this great and all-powerful runner and all. Well, who was to dispel your dream, you know?"

"I can't believe you did that to me. You're so mean."

Luckily for her, I did appreciate the value of a good whopper of a fish tale. Otherwise, I might have really been angered that I'd spent the last forty minutes discussing her prowess as a runner. Some might have seen it as a complete waste of time. Me? I took it as an afternoon spent getting to know her better. I knew something about her, that she liked to shuck and jive just like me, that I didn't know before. Any time you can do that, in my book, is a productive outing.

I didn't like being fooled by her. I didn't enjoy the weeks of joshing I took from her after that little chat. But I think something changed between us that afternoon. Once she found out I could take a joke, it made it easier to joke in that manner from that point on. Moreover, it became easier to let on other things that we'd been keeping to ourselves. In a way, getting completely fooled like that allowed the friendship to blossom to a point where I don't think it was headed before. It's liberating to find out that you can humiliate someone, even if only slightly, and they still want to be there for you. It clues you in to just how devoted they are to you. It's one of those things that any great friendship goes through--testing out the mettle of the connection. Anyone can say they like you when you're flattering them. It's another thing entirely when you're basically calling them gullible and stupid to their face.

If you can say words like that to someone... it makes for saying some more delicate and intimate words later on all the more easier. Humor and love are connected in that strange way, with poking fun at someone and revealing your deepest feelings about that person often being interwoven like that. One hand washes the other, as they say.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

One Thing I Know, One Thing's For Sure, You'll Never Find Another One Like Me, I Know You Want It, I Can See It

--"One Thing I Know", S Club 8

This Friday my alma mater, The University of Southern California, will be holding its 125th Commencement. Among the graduates will be my friend Ilessa Campbell. Though, I haven't made up my mind if I'll skip work (despite my boss's stern warning that I can't miss any day this week) to attend it, I'm still darn proud of her. I won't say graduating college is the most difficult task in the world, but it definitely shows commitment to see a task all the way through. A lot of people, who may be intelligent or talented, never finish college. Is it any great loss? For some, no. But I always tend to treat people with a little more respect and admiration when I found out that they stuck it out rather than opting to blow it off.

Also, lucky for her, she's already found a decent job to begin her illustrious career. She's going to make her way in the world starting in the fair city of Philadelphia. Why anyone would want to forgo the warm climes of Southern California for any city but Boston on the East Coast is beyond me, but that's her decision. I was never so blessed to find a job I wanted to do straight out of college so I don't wish her any will in that respect. I'm happy for her through and through.

I just worry that this will spell the end of our relationship together. I know this pattern well. Friends leave and they never come back. I mean--Peter left and our friendship was never the same. Carly left for college and we've hardly talked in the last few months. I just know the same will happen with her. It isn't something I've only recently begun to worry about. It's been weighing on my mind in the last few months, as I'm sure it will continue to weigh on my mind while we're in Boston next week. How am I going to look at her, let alone go out with her knowing that every thing we do might be the last time? I've never been good at hiding my feelings, good or bad, and all I think about when I talk to her or see her is how much I'm going to miss her. Rather than enjoy the days I have left with her, all I'm seeing in my head is countdown timer.

It just seems like everyone is leaving these days. First, Breanne with her "sabbatical" and now Ilessa. I'm getting sick of it. It's like you get close to people, you let them in, and what happens next? They abandon you for greener pastures. What's worse, they don't even have the decency to feel bad about it. They don't get choked up liked it. They don't voice their regret or dissatisfaction. They might give it a moment's lip service, but they don't mean it. Not like I do. I feel loss. It's like when I'm talking to Ilessa, at the movies or while we're out at dinner, I'm talking a ghost because all I can think of is how she won't be there to do things like that in a month, in a week, tomorrow, &c... Yet she talks on like it's just any other day, like nothing big's going to change. Everything's going to change. Everything's going to be different. I just want her to acknowledge that. I just want her to feel as bad as I feel. I want her to miss me as much as I'm going to miss her.

It's no big secret that I don't make close friends easily. I don't let a lot of people in to see what I'm really like because I'm deathly afraid that they won't like what they see. I play the part of a nice acquaintance. I play the role of somebody who's easy to get along with. However, the few people who have gotten to really know me, that I'm a pain in the ass to deal with sometimes. She was one of the few who got that about me. Not that she was happy whenever I brought this side out, but she took it. She pushed past it like all of my friends have had to do. It's hard to replace that kind of loyalty easily. I'm getting too old to try to find that again. There comes a point in time when all you want to do is count your gold and stop panning for it.

It's easy for her. She's still relatively young. She'll make friends like that. Somebody with her easygoing personality, unabashed forthrightness, and not unnoticeable good looks can always find people to flock around her. I mean--she caught my attention and I rarely put myself out there to be taken in by first impressions. And despite her flaws--occasional callousness, momentary lapses in judgment, and a lack of seriousness among them--there was nothing I couldn't work with. To put it another way, she didn't annoy me as much as I thought she would, and about 90% of the world annoys me. That's death in my book. I would rather somebody hate me, despise me, or outright loathe me than for somebody to annoy me. Because, in the end, it's easy for me and that person to avoid each other if we hate each other. But when somebody's annoying and they're in your life, you can't just walk away. What do you say? I can't talk to you anymore because you're annoying? That just sounds so stupid. But that's the way I feel and that's the way I act sometimes. I can get over someone hating me really quickly, but if somebody annoys it sticks like a craw in my mind for months and months. True, it's an obsession of mine, but at least I know I have it.

Ilessa has been rude, vulgar, and sometimes unmanageable.

But she's never been annoying.

I'm going to miss that.

I'm going to miss the fact she was the only other person I knew who could take or leave her family like I feel. I'm going to miss being able to discuss with her how friends are better than family because you can screen your friends before you let them into your lives, while you're just stuck with your family. I'm going to miss talking to the person who watched movies with the same reverence I did--getting to the theater thirty minutes early to expressly watch the previews; eschewing VCD, bootlegging, or downloading of any kind; and being up for the occasional watching of the same movie twice in the theater. I'm going to miss the creepy sense of urgency she had for finding out about other people's business. The whole "gumshoe" persona she perfected still keeps in stitches because she's got the lingo and mannerisms down pat. Most people would consider nosiness a vice, but it's always been a strength of hers. I'm going to miss her approach to life, the way she considers the worst years of her life behind her. When you suffered like she suffered as a kid, I could see why taking the attitude of blue skies ahead is the only way to survive. While there have been times where I wish she would worry more about her actions, I don't begrudge her inherent optimism. Just become I'm a downer most of the time doesn't mean I like to surround myself with more of the same.

In fact, that's what I worry about too. I worry about how much she's gained from me during the course of this friendship that's about to end soon. What the hell have I done for her? It just seems to me she's provided me with more positives than I ever provided her. I worry about that'll be the reason why we lose touch. She'll find more interesting people, people more of her mentality while in the city of Brotherly Love, and she'll wonder why she ever wasted her time with me. I get anxious about this trip to Boston, like it's my last shot to impress her into wanting to maintain contact with me. I don't know--I've never worried about people coming and going. If it's somebody I felt close to, I didn't worry about them keeping in touch because I knew they would. If it was somebody I didn't care about losing, when I did lose them it didn't faze me very much. She's different. Ilessa's on that bubble where she could really go either way and I'm really worried about losing her for good.

Breanne? She can take her sabbaticals. The two of us cannot talk for a month or two and it's no big deal. There's no doubt in my mind that we'll hook up again and it'll be like we never spent any time apart.

With Miss Campbell I'm in the strange position of not knowing whether it's best to let her go to let her know I have full faith we'll back together someday or to let her in on my fears to let her know that I really do care about what happens to the two of us. I don't know which shows how much I care more. I should have confidence... but I don't know if she's just waiting for me to tell her how I feel first. Maybe if I let her go without knowing, she'll jump to the conclusion that I don't care what happens. Or maybe if I tell her, she'll be mad that I didn't trust her enough to keep what we have going. Either way I'm screwed.


cause all you're ever gonna need
is a love like me

Right now I just want her to miss me. I don't want to think I can be forgotten that easily.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Tired Of The Excuses, Everybody Uses, He's Their Kid, I Stay Out Of It, But Who Gave You The Right, To Do This?

--"What's The Matter Here?", 10,000 Maniacs

All the furor over Eight Belles' death at the Kentucky Derby--what with PETA getting involved and calling for a reassessment of the practices employed in all of horse racing--prompted me to start a discussion at work the other day. I merely stated the facts as I'd heard them. Namely, I recounted that people were questioning if the horse could have had a pre-existing condition and, if so, if the trainer was accountable by either overlooking it or not catching it in the first place. I wasn't arguing. I was curious to see what people thought of that theory. One of my co-workers shrugged it off, much as he always does, and said that groups like PETA always have to stick their noses in just to drum up more attention to themselves. He went on further to state that fairly soon they were just going to ban horse racing altogether.

I kind of took offense at this stance since it's contrary to what I believe. I'm not in favor of banning horse racing. But if it does turn out that this particular trainer in this particular instance was guilty of being negligible or even intentionally cruel by trotting out a horse that wasn't ready to be running, then, yeah I think he deserves to be questioned and ultimately found guilty. I'm not a zealot when it comes to animal cruelty issues, but issues such as this do tend to affect me more than the average person. For my co-worker to chalk it up to groups being nosy and troublemakers is far too simplistic of a viewpoint and, as far as I can tell, a twitch response when presented with people cracking down on any type of popular entertainment. Hopefully, he's not anti-animal rights because that would seriously color my view of him.

Like I said, I'm not participating in any rallies and I'm not usually one to even stick my head out to voice an opinion when it comes to animal rights issues. However, if directly confronted with a question of morality when it comes to animals, I'm almost always in favor of preserving their right to a rich and meaningful life over that of a human being. The way I view things, humans have some control over their state in life; animals don't. If a human being is a bad situation, there are ways for him or her to extricate themselves from it. If a dog, cat, or horse is put in a bad situation; it doesn't have the same luxury of freedom of choice. Their fates are tied to the whims and desires of the humans it comes into contact with.

A case in point was a situation that arose when I was walking home with my brother and his friend one day back in sixth grade. We usually walked my brother's friend home because it was on the way back to our house and he had always been a rather jovial kind of fellow.

On this particular afternoon we were about block from his house when I guess he spotted a cat he recognized on the street. At first, I thought he was friendly with the cat. He knew its name. He petted its fur. Overall, he gave off the impression that he was on a first name basis with the creature. What happened next changed my mind, though, as to the nature of their relationship. Indeed, it changed my perspective of my brother's friend as well. Taking the cat by its tail, he proceeded to lift it up to chest level. I was appalled because not only was the cat screeching fairly loudly, but it was obviously attempting to get away. Next, this boy started to pivot around, the cat's tail still grasped in his hands, and whip the cat around like he was a stick or something. Actually, it resembled the hammer throw in the Olympics because as the boy started to spin faster, the cat's posture got more horizontal. Finally, when the boy couldn't spin any more, he released the cat, flinging it a good ten to fifteen feet down the street.

Yes, it landed on its feet.

Yes, the cat didn't look any worse for wear.

And, yes, I couldn't say for sure how much pain he was causing the cat.

But I was mad. I sort of snapped. I started to yell at my brother's friend that that had been cruel. Then, instead of waiting for some kind of excuse, I punched him kind of roughly on the face. I don't know why I did it. I think my temper got the better of me. I saw what he had done to the cat and something inside me wanted to hurt him. It was almost as if I wanted him to feel as shocked and as hurt as the cat had. I didn't punch him as hard as I could--nowhere close. But it definitely had been a shot to the face I had meant to land.

Well, as expected, he began to cry and started screaming that he was going to tell his parents what I had done. I really didn't have any call to hit him. The justification that he had been harming the cat seemed enough for me, but, later on that night, it apparently wasn't enough for my parents. They forced me to apologize, both to this kid and this kid's parents.

I felt sorry that I'd hurt him. I wish I could have displayed my utter contempt in some other fashion. It was beneath me to hurt him for hurting the cat. But I'm not sorry I took immediate action. I'm not sorry that for that afternoon the kid was forced to see how much he likes it when somebody bigger decides to inflict some discomfort on you. I'm glad he felt what it's like to feel helpless and out of control.

That's how I feel about any story in which a person beats or starves an animal. The animal can't process why it's being treated like that. The animal doesn't know the idea of cruelty. It only knows the idea of suffering, but has no way to rectify it.

That's why I get a little emotional when it comes to people being negligible in regards to animals. If everybody sloughs it off like rain water, then pretty soon nobody will care enough to make sure it doesn't happen more. As long as I care, as long as somebody care, hopefully, it won't become an everyday occurrence.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Oh The Things That You Say, Is It Life Or, Just A Play My Worries Away, You're All The Thing I've Got To Remember

--"Take On Me", A-Ha

Back in 1991 I started collecting comic books seriously. I had dabbled in it before when I was much younger, but in 1991 I had both the capital and the desire to seriously compile a collection. I don't know what got me hooked. Maybe it was parsing through Excalibur, the title where Miss Katherine "Kitty" Pryde was so prominent at the time, and just becoming unbelievably hooked. Or maybe it was just the fact that I was unbelievably bored.

I wouldn't say I was unfettered when it came for activities to occupy my time. I was a very diligent student and I had more than my fair share when it came to friends. What may have been the biggest contributing factor to my sense of ennui was the fact that I didn't have anything to occupy my voracious imagination. It would be some time before Amethyst Exchange and definitely way before Our Magazine became outlets for my creativity. Before then, I was searching for something fantastic and wholly unreal to escape to. Novels have their places, but they're still slowly paced and less visceral than comic books. Whenever I picked up a new book, I was instantly transported there, whether there was the Excalibur Lighthouse off the coast of Scotland or there was the deep reaches of outer space. I got it instantly. The instantaneous immersion into the mood and atmosphere of the environment is the allure of comic books and graphic novels.

Most people don't have to prance through some other worlds to feel complete, but I think I've always had the notion that worlds I create and environments I can control were necessary for me to feel secure. I need that panic button. It's much what I say about other people's belief in religion. People need something other than reality to lose themselves in. We just do. It doesn't matter what you lose yourself in, as long as you know it's there. It could be alcohol, drugs, sex, or some other vice. Those have always been mechanisms for escape. However, I believe people can lose themselves in causes, both noble and ignoble. I believe we're all guilty of getting swept in the tide of our own convictions. That's what comic books--and all the other various media I've collected over the years--once meant for me. They were my release. They were the neverending task that I set myself to so I can feel occupied.

Don't get me wrong. I loved reading them. And I still think, as a medium, comic books have a lot to offer anyone of a certain creative bent. They juggle tons of characters with thousands of back stories. They're wonderful tools for learning how to pace a slow-burning story. And, let's face it, there's something to be said about providing children of all ages the idea that great things can be awakened inside all of us. I've actually had a discussion with a certain someone comparing and contrasting the virtues of this last idea. Taking comic books in one hand and adventure movies like the Indiana Jones trilogy in the other, you can see that everyone likes stories where the heroes are larger than life. I've always enjoyed the idea that a hero waits in all of us. Rather than the modern bent of telling stories of the everyman where the mundane conflicts and stresses comprise the plot of novels, the motto of bigger, better, bolder has always been the more instantly recognizable.

When it finally came to give them up in 1993, it wasn't because they failed to appeal to me. In some way, they'll always perk my interest. I think I gave them up because I felt I outgrew them. The sad part is I don't think I did. I think I set myself up with an arbitrary date to give them up and, when the time came, I had to abide by it. Nobody asked me to. Nobody told me to. I thought it was just time.

When I met Breanne later on that year, we talked about how we'd both lost things in the last few months. I didn't mention my comic books. I didn't think she needed to know. More to the point, I was embarrassed for myself. It was one of those subjects that I felt I couldn't be sentimental about even though I was sentimental about it to some degree. In fact, I still hold that same bias. I felt trapped because, even though I have a lot of geeky interests, comic books have always been a taboo subject to admit I enjoyed at one time and maybe would have still enjoyed now had I kept up with my collection.

Sometimes I lament I gave up collecting. It's been hard replacing the joy that comic books once gave me. Oh, I still find ways to escape. I write more. I watch more sci-fi and fantasy movies and shows. But it's not the same. It doesn't give me the same satisfaction. The sad part is that, as an escape comic books were always came in the correct dosage. I could devote fifteen minutes of my time to escape, then I felt good for the rest of the day. It was like my spiritual cat nap. Ever since I moved past them, it's as if I haven't felt fully rested since then.

And, boy, am I sleepy.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

The Night Seems To Fade, But The Moonlight Lingers On, There Are Wonders For Everyone, The Stars Shine So Bright, But They're Fading After Dawn

--"Kingston Town", UB40

With the rising price of gas, I've had to give up one of my favorite simple pleasures. I love driving, especially when there's no destination in mind. I love the sense of freedom it affords and I love the feeling of timelessness. When you don't need to be anywhere specific, but get to see a lot in the span of a few hours, that's akin to happiness for me. Ever since I got my driver's license, I've always thought of driving as something someone does for fun and not as a chore. It's like I told Miss Vespa, "You need to get your license as soon as possible. Then you need to get yourself a proper car so you can go far and away whenever you want."

I know I've written about it before, but my favorite drive in the whole world is taking PCH at night up from Santa Monica to Oxnard. It's a ridiculous, pointless drive. It's forty miles up and forty miles back, and is an extreme waste of gas. But I used to drive it consistently all the same. I mean--it was never a weekly trip. If I were to average it out, I may have taken it once a month for the last fifteen years. It was something I did when I was upset or sad, or plain had to get my mind off of whatever was troubling me at the time. I never told anyone when I was going on it. That may have been half of the fun, nobody knowing where and when I was going. I also never told anyone I had been on it until a few days later. It was my deal. It was my private getaway. In fact, it was only recently that I ever took anyone else on these sojourns, which was only because her school (Pepperdine) was along the route. It made for an interesting rest stop along the way, as the view from there is gorgeous. Yet, for the most part, whenever I did drive it, I drove all eighty miles of it alone.


the place I long to be

Here's the thing--the reason I like the journey through this passage isn't because of where I ultimately end up. Oxnard is nice and all, but I've only stayed long enough to have a meal there once or twice. I've certainly never stayed overnight. Nope, the reason I like the journey is because of the experience. People are always in a rush to get where they're going. They always seem to complain how long everything takes to get to. Me? I've been frazzled by rush hour traffic before. I've even honked at a discourteous driver in my time. However, for the most part I just like being out on the road. I like the feeling of movement beneath and around me. I like the sense I'm going somewhere and nowhere in particular at the same time. I've even gotten in the habit of going especially far on my lunches just to have more time in the car. The trip from Santa Monica to Oxnard has never been about getting to Oxnard as quickly as possible. It's always been about seeing the stars reflecting off the Pacific Ocean just so. It's always been about feeling the wind rushing through the open windows of my car or, when I was lucky, through the open air of Jennifer's convertible borrowed expressly for making this drive. It's always been about finding that just right CD to blast through the curves and crannies of PCH as it winds its way up the coast. It's always been about finding myself by losing myself there.

It makes me sad that the cost of gas has made it prohibitively expensive to take this trip as often as I like. Saving money doesn't seem worth it when marked against the idea of losing something so natural to me. It's not the last time I make the drive--not by far. But I know somehow that it'll never quite go back to the days when I took off on the spur of the moment to clear my head. When I do make the drive in the next few months, I'm sure it'll be just as good. It'll feel wonderful to be back on that particular.

I just know it will never be the same again.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers