first responder

I am a first responder.
I come on to emergency scenes and I help people get through them. I have lifesaving skills. I breathe life back into those in their darkest, most desperate hour. Generally, I stumble upon people in need of my craft, but lately I have been seeking disasters out.
I keep my ear to the ground. Sometimes you can feel an earthquake coming hours before it actually hits. You get down low and press your ear to the soil. Soil is a better conductor for the sounds you are listening for. You press your ear very close to the ground. Then, you exhale and inhale slowly and, just before you dispel your next breathe, you pause and listen. You will hear a faint grumbling. The further away, the more faint it will be. Just repeat this process until you have figured out the concise location. This could take seconds or it could take years.
This is how I came to find her. I had my ear to the ground and heard and intense rumbling. It was so loud it came near to deafening. It seemed as though I was at the epicenter of a 9.5 magnitude quake. That, up until this very moment, I was completely unaware of the fact that I had been living in Chile and that it was May 22, 1960 and not March 31, 2010. The big one, Gran terremoto de Chile, was coming for me and I didn’t have anywhere to go, because a first responder needs to be where the action is. A first responder does not have the luxury of fleeing the scene. A first responder is responsible for staying the course and seeing things through like the captain of a sinking ship.
I had always come across disasters; I’ve never been part of one. As I lay there, waiting and listening, I pondered the specifics of my existence. If I am the first responder, then who will respond to me? Are there second responders that receive a signal when the first responder is down? Perhaps there is a beacon or all of the second responders live in a cave and when a first responder goes down, there are flashing lights and sirens and they emerge from the Earth’s crust to aid the fallen responder.
I was close to solving the mystery when I opened my eyes and saw her. She was staring at me with the largest set of eyes I had ever met. She asked me what I was listening for. I told her earthquakes. I asked her what she was listening for and she said teardrops.
We were listening for each other’s call. We were instantly locked in embrace. In the first second, it felt like we had been in this place for years. Our bodies were molded to fit one another not like two plucky strangers, but like identical twins. We were like two people that came into their respective forms together. Though our lips could not recite each other’s names, our hearts were long-time acquaintances. Each heart beat out the rhythm of a devotional power ballad written on behalf of the other heart.
I told her that she was the most beautiful disaster I had ever seen. I called her Cañete. When she kissed my face she told me my cheeks tasted like salt. So, to her, I was Sal. I can’t say that I remember what people called me before I first responded to her. I can’t say that anyone did call me before her. If you told me that my 35 years of roaming were spent as a nameless person, I would believe you because I have no memory of this time.
All I know is right now. Right know we are Sal and Cañete as I imagine we have always been and will always be.
Cañete trembles and shakes the earth apart while I water the soil with saline tears. When we become so far apart that we cannot find each other, we simply press our ears into the soil exhaling, inhaling, and pausing until we have figured out each other’s concise locations. When we are together, it as like the place on the ocean floor before the ocean shelf drops into oblivion. We are the place that is neither Earth nor ocean, yet perfectly both at the same time. We are the tipping point between pain and pleasure and we are eternally bound for the moment.

describes the universe

There are times when I know I am about to make a bad decision before it has happened. Some might call this foresight. However, in order for foresight to be complete follow through must also exist. It’s not enough to just know; there must also be doing. My trouble stems from the fact that I see the options ahead of me along with the myriad of consequences, but I cannot find the drive to take heed of the outcome.
I’ll give an example: hypercolor t-shirts. Adolescence is no time to wear heat sensitive material. My young body producing the kind of sweat that carries an odor for the first time in all of my life and strange lumps protruding and pushing upward on the flesh that used to be perfectly flat. The result was predictable: lightened spots under the armpits like the inverse of sweat stains and light round circles over the burgeoning breasts. Yet, I still fell hook, line, and sinker.
You are the hypercolor to my adult life.
I knew even before I contacted you what would happen. There is a certain amount of predictability to our situation and I don’t know if this implicates you more than me. Regardless, when we found ourselves in a cold embrace, I was not surprised. Our bodies pressed against each other on the couch were like puzzles pieces that fit together but do not reveal corresponding pieces of the picture.


it’s as though everything we had done prior had led up to this moment. i should be present, because it could be the happiest moment of my life.

We held onto each other as if we were desperately trying to hold onto ourselves and we felt something slipping. Something was getting away from us and we needed to hold tighter, except the tighter we clung the further this thing, this us, slipped away.
I kept my eyes closed. I was afraid of looking into your eyes and seeing the truth. I didn’t want to see the way you looked at me and I wanted even less for you to see the way I looked at you. I was pretending you were someone else. Someone who is real, someone who is not you at all. I focused hard on your nose until my vision blurred and I could think of you as the stranger I see in passing on the bus and have always wanted to press my face against. Except, my face was pressed against yours and I could not bear the thought. So, I thought about other things instead.

there were no vows made, no grand expressions of affection. yet, we always imagined there would be more. yet, all we had was my constnat breath whistling through your ear as though your ear were a wind tunnel.

On occasion, I would open my eyes. It was cathartic to gaze upon you, dashing my dreams and then, close my eyes and rebuild them. In these moments I would imagine a great divide. We weren’t actually here, so close, feeling each other up on your sofa. There was an infinitely expansive universe between us that grew exponentially with every whisper, with every caress. My lips were booster rockets that propelled you into oblivion. My hands were groping for solid ground on a new planet. This planet was not held within the boundaries of your skinny jeans. This planet was in the new universe that we were creating, that our void made a reality.


in the end, as people, our desires carry us away from our needs. they are our undoing and resurrection—a cleansing forest fire that will surely create new life.

The next morning, as I sit stirring a swirl of creamer into my coffee I felt as listless as god must have felt as he swirled his finger through the empty universe of his own creation. I looked into my cup and saw un-actualized potential in the reflection of the stranger peering back at me. I looked up at you, I saw the darkness I hoped to escape by being with you in the first place.
Before I set the momentum of this train in motion, I was terrified that I would feel something real. That I would fall in love and there would only be heartbreak and sorrow for you are not a creature who can love. I was entirely unprepared for the stark reality that is going through motions that are absent of any real feeling. It is a hollow place. It is dark and cold. Furthermore, it is disorienting. You cannot tell up from down or forward from backward. So, you just stay in one place, stagnant and unmoving. I was about to fill the silence by telling you all of these things I was not feeling and wished desperately to be feeling. I needed to create an emotion, because feeling nothing is worse than feeling something really bad.
I was relieved when you told me I had to go. Our new universe found a way to tell me to keep my mouth shut and I listened. The walk was cold and rainy. It seemed fitting and gave me something to feel. The void was filled. We both got what we had wanted all along.

trading places

If by some magical implement or potion we traded places. I became you and you became me. Would you still ignore me? Or, would I have the power to make you long for me while I looked away?

falling: Jennifer's Body

She looked so peaceful. …
If we were related, like lions from the same pride, I would have laid down next to her and nuzzled my face into her open palm. We would be warm with love and any other creature who happened to pass by, even a sparrow, would want to share in the display of love and serenity.
…and we would sleep and dream of the human versions of ourselves standing upright, running, tumbling, picking flowers, holding hands. We would dream of the warm sun kissing our faces with freckles. We would imagine ourselves as Kerri Russell before she went Felicity and cut off her hair. Our respiration would be in perfect rhythm and our eyelashes would embrace each other’s as we lay with our faces pressed so near to one another that we would come as close as any two physical beings have ever come to being a Venn diagram.
We would not have the words to express the feelings in this moment, but the reflection of our eyes in one another’s would send a message to our souls that this is what it means to be content and this moment would be with us even when we were apart. We would love and be loved and the world would fall away. Far away.
But I am not a lioness and either is she. We have no fur. There is no love. There is only her and the cold, damp pavement.
I came upon her with an innocent curiosity about the curious girl who was sleeping on the pavement. I thought that perhaps she did not know she had dozed off. Perhaps she was waiting for me to find her. She would open her eyes and tell me she had waited so long that she had fallen asleep. As I approached I realized that she was not asleep, because people don’t normally sleep with their palms up. That is when I saw the blood.
An ambulance was called, not be me but by someone who could keep their wits about them while I stared at her. I kneeled down and pressed my ear against her mouth as if she were to whisper that she was ok. I felt her breath, but she made no sound. I crouched over her and held her hand hoping our dreams would come true. She opened her eyes, but could not hold me back. We were in trouble.
She had been drinking. Perhaps to forget about things that were said and not meant. I imagine she told someone she loved them, but they could not love her back. She was out on a ledge and she was alone there. She needed this fact to fall away. She needed to push it out of her heard. She drank until she was a ghost and no one could see her. She couldn’t even see herself. So, she couldn’t tell that she was reliving the trauma and going out on the ledge again. She was just thinking of you and all the things she would have said differently and, just as in love, she lost her footing and fell and I found her.
The paramedics arrived before I could really grasp what was happening. They moved her gently, but quickly and attended to her. It was a ballet ensemble. She was the swan and they danced around her attending to her great needs. I stood outside and watched their performance through the ambulance window. I felt the pieces of me falling away like a puzzle assembled in the air, without support. Eventually, no matter how beautiful the picture, it begins to buckle and the pieces give way.
I knew how she felt.
I have fallen while grasping to the ledge that is you. Except, the paramedics have not arrived and I am bleeding out for an eternity.
Jennifer fell because she knew she loved you more than she could bear. She was purging you out and crying was never going to be enough.
I couldn’t go through life in confinement, as afraid of pleasure as I am of pain. I went on that ledge because I had to. Just like Jennifer. And, in the moments just before the crash, we knew exactly who we were and who we could never be for you. The landing pushed you out of our heads for good and now we can be quiet and content, knowing it can only get better from here.

Aloicious and Potato

I feel like I can’t remember the last time I had a day off. That is the thing about not having a set schedule. Your days off are so erratic; it’s almost as if they will never come and, once they pass, it’s as though they never happened. Is this one foot in the grave or one foot out the door?
Today was going to be different. I was NOT going to waste my day cleaning my room or doing laundry. This is what ordinary people do and I decided to stop being ordinary. It’s a conscious decision, which requires deliberate action.
The first thing to do is to get out of my pajamas, which are actually whatever outfit I was wearing the day before minus the bottom half. This seems like another ordinary behavior that I will have to work up to changing.

One day I will own pajamas.

Once one is no longer in her pajamas one feels motivated to do something. Mostly because it really does feel awkward to stand in the middle of your apartment, naked with nothing to do. The shower becomes a logical next step along with lather, rinse and repeat.

I have always wondered why it’s important to repeat the process of lather and rinse and in what intervals is it required for best results. Is it a suggestion to consider the process every time you’re in the shower? The shampoo bottle’s way of saying, “Psst! Remember me? You ran me through your hair the other day. The strands of your hair and I got along very well. I enjoyed my time with all of the, but there was one in particular that really tickled my fancy. I was hoping we could be reintroduced. I want to see if there is a real connection there.”
Or is it a command. Lather, rinse, DO IT AGAIN! AGAIN! AGAIN! Perhaps the person who wrote these instructions suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder and they are not convinced that the first or any of the subsequent times did the trick. “Why is your hair so dirty? Do it again. Will it never be clean?” So, you repeat the ritual until there is nothing left to lather and you’re left holding clumps of your hair while sobbing in the shower.
Perhaps the pen that wrote these instructions is attached to the hand of a sadist. “Show me how bad you want your hair to be clean! Not good enough. Do it over. You call that scrubbing?! My grandmother’s toothless gums are more abrasive than those puny flower petals you call fingers.” The berating continues until the first sight of blood. Then, a gentleness sweeps over the situation like a silk sheet. “There. There. You did a good job. Now, I know how badly you want to please me and I love you for it.”
Maybe it is just a way to get you to buy more shampoo.

Generally, I sing in the shower to avoid thinking about these things, but my roommate is home and she hates my singing voice. (Note to self, obsessing about shampoo instructions is another thing ordinary people do. You must knock it off.)

I picked out my outfit keeping my goals of not being mediocre in mind. I donned a multi-colored scarf with a black and white, horizontally striped shirt. Ordinary people can neither pull off horizontal stripes nor can they mix patterns. I’m really doing this.
Before leaving the house, I grab my owl-shaped mug, a bag of my favorite tea and set off for the market. Ordinary people don’t like crowds or wondering around the city without a plan. I shall embrace both today.

The big glitch in my plan is that non-ordinary people don’t lie to themselves on a daily basis. They don’t need to. They have the luxury of being comfortable with both their actions and their motives. I am comfortable with neither. I can’t even accept the fact that the reason I am leaving the house at all is in hopes of bumping into you. Exemplary people are compelled by compulsion. They are constantly in motion. They are not waiting around for a catalyst in human form. They are imbued with the mantra “carpe diem.” They are not scampering around the city in hopes of being caught in your gaze. I am.

I don’t have time to ponder the distance, if any, between ordinary and me. I know what time you go to the café and I am running late.

As I walk, I ponder what I will say if I see you. How will the scenario play out? This is another thing ordinary people do that exemplary people do not. Exemplary people let life happen. Ordinary people imagine how it might happen and what they might say when it does. Neither of which ever comes to fruition.
As I round the final corner to my destination, I look at my watch. I’m somehow right on time. I planned this perfectly. The stars are in aligninment and I am in my position. Now what?! I got too distracted by shampoo. I forgot to think of what I would say.
I open the door with my owl mug in hand.

~I look up in time to almost walk right into you. There is an abrupt halt and a drop of coffee splashes onto your hand—your amazing, wonderful, glorious hand.
I’m so sorry. Let me get you a napkin.
It’s ok. Really, it is.
I just can’t believe how clumsy I am. Have I said I was sorry yet?
Yes. Yes. You look familiar.
I am. I work here.
(I see you everyday, except for the ones I have off. On those days I only imagine seeing you. At night, I dream of seeing you and every breath I take is a longing to see you.)
Are you working today?
No. I have the day off. I am just out, taking in the day.
(I imagine this is the sort of thing and exemplary person might casually say in passing.)
Must be nice.
It is. I see you all the time. I feel like I should know your name.
It’s Matthew. What’s yours.
Matilda.
Your name is Matilda?
No, but it’s what I would like you to call me. I’ve always wished my name was Matilda.
Very well then, Matilda, it’s nice to finally meet you.
Likewise.
Before we part you ask if I am free tomorrow evening. I tell you that I plan to see a band perform and I invite you to go. You say yes.

I melt and seep into the pores of the sidewalk.

That night, we meet on the sidewalk and embrace like old friends and exchange knowing glances. I take you into the space where everything will happen. I bring you to a table and introduce you to a group of people.
These are the people who are most important to me.
That night leads to shoe shopping, which leads to a happy life together. We have monogrammed towels and discuss the front-page story of the newspaper while our dogs, Aloicious and Potato, yip at our feet and beg for splashes of orange juice to hit them on their noses. The sun shines and the birds sing show tunes.

The candy man can ‘cause he mixes it with love and makes the world taste good.~

I look up and see that you are not at the café. Either you haven’t arrived or I managed to just miss you. Poor timing is just such a thing I would do.

I get my hot water for my tea. I say hello to people familiar and unfamiliar. I leave. I wander the market aimlessly and I go shoe shopping. None of the specifics of my day diverge from the plan I made up in my head. Almost everything happened that I thought would. The sun was out and I had a smile on my face. It was a nice, normal, ordinary day. I suppose I can’t really complain.

fly zone

I fly through the air. I fly, not like a brave, graceful Eagle—not with the ease that comes from the knowledge that you are on the top of the food chain. I fly like a baby bird uncertain of her wings ability to keep her up. A baby bird that longs for nothing else but to remain in her nest having anything necessary from the world brought to her—the safety of not having to see the superfluous aspects of existence.
I am like the baby bird who has been pushed out on a perch and told to go for it.
But, I don’t want to. I can’t do it. I want to be back in my nest. I want to be anywhere but here. I can’t be this person for you. I can’t be this person for myself. I can’t. I can’t! I can’t!!

Here I am flying. Soaring. Questioning. Doubting. Struggling. Fighting. Conquering.

My demons? I cannot make them out. They are so far beneath me when I am up this high. I can’t even make out that they have faces. I can only see their silhouettes. They are rendered expressionless to me.
It is like when you are racing in a canoe away from the shore. You get to a certain point when you can see people and they are flailing their arms around, but you can’t tell if they are cheering or jeering and it doesn’t matter. Regardless, they are too far away to influence your feelings on the situation. They could be raising the dead or commencing a wild rumpus. This is of no consequence to you.

My demons cannot reach me. I am untouchable in this space and time.

I am far away from even myself. I have never had this feeling before. It must be what dying feels like. I am not hovering over myself, watching myself say inappropriate things to the people I care about. Instead, I feel myself go through cell division. There is me over there and me over here and I can’t tell which me is in the foreground and which me is in the background. Which me is judging me and which me is receiving criticism. However, the animosity comes as soon as division takes places and the divide increases exponentially until I am so far away from myself that I am unsure whether I really exist. I swipe the air, but I can’t touch me. I feel as though something clings to my hands, like reaching into a spider web. Those are the traces of me I have left behind, but I can’t actually feel the substance of me. This is an amalgam of relief and anxiety both of which I can neither feel nor register while I am in the air.

My flight is my death and my birth. As I dive into the grave, I simultaneously feel my head emerge from the womb. I am coming as I am going. This is why I think things fell apart for us. I am an un-anchored tangent and you are a tetherball. You bounce and fly through the air, but you are centered. On my best days I am inconsistent. This led to mirrored resentment. We hated each other for everything we were not. We hated ourselves for everything we were.

In the air, I have no recollection of you or us. If I passed you flying, I might look at you with a strained recognition. Where do I know you from? I might think that I saw you on the train, but it wouldn’t occur to me that we shared intimate moments. That at one time we pressed our heads together in the dark and dreamed each other’s dreams.

Up here there is no trace of anything. There is no mourning. There is no regret. There is only newness and excitement. There is clarity and a faint whistling of air that sails past my ears, like the light tickle of a feather.

My flight is my bliss.

right shoe to left shoe: a proposition

[A man in his early 30s enters the room. He is not the type of man who takes joys in frivolous expenditures of money. However, he does appreciate having nice things. This is evident in the shoes he chose to wear on this particular day. Upon entering the living room, he walks over to his favorite chair and sits down. He is looking over the NASDAQ figures. There is something about reading stock market fluctuations that makes him feel ill at ease. His pigeon-toed posture often gives this uneasiness away. This puts his left and his right shoe toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye. While he takes in the paper, his shoes are take in each other. This ritual has gone on for sometime and is one that is comforting and enjoyed by all involved parties. These moments are candid and treasured.]



-Can I ask you a question?
=I hope that was satisfying.
-What?
=Your question.
-I’m sorry?
=Your question, You asked me a question. I was wondering if it was satisfying.
-I’m confused.
=People often ask one another if they can ask a question without acknowledging that the inquiry is itself a question posed. I find it humorous.
-Oh—
=if I had a question, I might announce that need or diplomatically state: “With your permission, I have a general inquiry.”
-[silence]
=(a look of concern sweeps over the room) I’m sorry. I’m being difficult. … Again.
-Yes. It’s fine.
=You were going to ask me something, before I went on my tangent of grandeur.
-Well, yes. … I have something to tell you, but I need to know something. I am wondering if you will promise not to get upset?
=I don’t know how to respond to that.
-(meekly) With a smile? A nod in agreement?
=You’re asking me to listen to something and not get upset. This leads me to believe that you believe whatever you’re about to tell me would upset a rational being, that you’re going to tell me this something regardless and expect me to transcend my natural emotional state and not get upset. You know I’m not an existentialist!
-You’re partially right. You’re partially wrong, too.
=(Has progressively inched forward up to up until now. At this point, reclines a bit) Enlighten me.
-Well, first off, I would never say what I am about to say to you to a rational being. So, that part is moot. However, all that other stuff you said about transcendence was spot on.
=(brief pause) Well…I’m going to tell you yes, but really I am not sure if this is a promise I can keep.
-I did this all wrong. I’m terrible at this sort of thing.
=This sort of thing?! What does that even mean? I feel like I should be bracing for impact.
-I have been think a lot about you and me, me and you—us and something has popped into my thoughts that I just can’t seem to shake. I don’t know exactly how to put it, but—
=Oh god. Here it comes.
-I should just have out with it, before you faint…again.
=(pause) That was one time and I told you that when we got to the butterfly house that insects make me nervous. It doesn’t matter if they are beautiful insects. A bug is a bug. I knew I’d never live this down—
-I think you’re neurotic! There it is. I said it.
=(straightens up in a corrective posture)
-See?! I knew you’d be upset.
=That shows what you know, Nobel Laureate. I am not upset. Not upset in the slightest.
-No?
=Offended, but not upset. Perhaps it is neurotic to note the difference?
-You’re taking this the wrong way.
=So, I’m neurotic AND wrong?!
-I keep saying things wrong—err..poorly. What I meant to say is that you’re acting like being neurotic is a bad thing.
=Well, isn’t it?
-I suppose it could be to some.
=To some?
-Yes, I suppose, but not to me.
=I wonder what we should put on the plaque?
-You’re being sarcastic and I’m being serious.
=How can you blame me? We start with you telling me that you’re going to upset me, but I shouldn’t get upset. We beat around the bush, for what seems like an eternity. At one point, I thought I was going to get the “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. This quickly devolved into the “it’s not me, it’s you” song and dance when you so callously called me a lunatic and told me not to worry, because it’s a good thing.
-We started with me asking you a question and, for the record, I said you were neurotic not a lunatic.
=Don’t be shirty.
-I’m not. Let me explain where all this came from, so you can understand why this is a good thing.
A handful of months ago, I thought I wanted to take a break from us.
=I need to lie down.
-Stop that. Let me finish. I have a point.
=Carry on.
-Thank you. This thought came to me during hot yoga. I felt incomplete and wondered what type of mate would complete me. Everywhere I went, I thought about this and not a sole I encountered satisfied or satiated my curiosity. After about a month of this, it occurred to me that this idea of completion is kind of bullshit.
You know?
There is nothing missing in me, I don’t require completion or the supplementation of another being. Figuring this out became a sort of centering and defining moment. An awakening, if you will. I might even call it an epiphany—perhaps.
I digress. This has also led me to think more freely about you and this is when I noticed your neurosis. You are so tightly laced, because you fixate on minutia. You notice the little things with ease, because you are tightly laced. You rarely filter things out in social settings, because you’re mind is always elsewhere. We see new places and encounter new things together. You listen to me with one ear and the world with the other. Because of this, you are always discovering new things. You surround yourself with creation. Your collections are diverse and thought provoking. In short, you stimulate and intrigue me.
If you weren’t neurotic, you would be another boring lost sole. I would never see you. I would never notice you.
I don’t want to be completed anymore than I want to complete you. What I do want is for us to occupy each other’s time for the near, foreseeable, and distant future. I kind of hope you feel the same.
=(long pause) It seems you might be a tightly-laced lunatic, too.

[He is done reading the paper. He gets up and prepares breakfast.]

he loves me...he loves me not...where is he?

I am looking for a man.
This is not an all-encompassing search that occupies the fullness of my being. It does not define who I am. It is as innocuous as my red hoop earrings. Yes, they are big and perhaps they do draw your eye at first. However, after awhile you stop noticing them. They never cease to exist. They do not turn to vapor on my earlobes, but their noteworthiness diminishes—like a dandelion in a steady breeze. Much like the dandelion, though my spores are often blown about leaving me with nothing to show, my presence means the planting of love all around me. I am the fertilizer of love. The seed, the bud, the promise, the hope.
Today, I saw a dapper man crossing the street. He is the kind of man who sends out his shirts for cleaning. His collar smacked of starch. He has a medicine cabinet full of grooming supplies. His nails are clean. He has crisp edges. He is a well-presented package.

He is of no interest to me.

Just as I am of no interest to him. My image made no reflection on his pupils. I felt him pass right through me. It looked like he felt a chill, but perhaps I flatter myself. I am his inverse. We don’t even exist on the same plane.

I am not looking for him.

My someone has dirty nails and nasal sprays. His socks are mismatched and his hair is unkempt. He is rough around the edges and soft to the core. He has become a bit desperate. He is not desperate in the way that causes him to long for a woman—any woman. He is desperate in the way that causes him to let go of pretenses and allow himself to freely give and receive love.

My heart is big. My heart is full. My heart longs share the bounty of its riches.

My someone knows he is worth more than his current appraisal. He has taken his lumps and, at the end of the day when the sun sets on his troubles, he finds solace in the act of his fingers interlacing and commingling with my mine. He is comforted by the compression of our palms.
When we collapse into bed, my head fits perfectly in the crook between his shoulder blades and the rhythmic beating of our hearts combined creates a symphonic opus. It is the sound of one million butterflies fluttering their wings in unison. All the while we sleep and dream of our gravest fears that otherwise have no power to burden us for during waking hours of togetherness, they are pushed to the inarticulate corners of our consciousness. They come in passing and, on their best days, are vaguely remembered in passing.
As we breathe, the rise and fall of our lungs in like the rising and setting of the sun. So, when we finally awake, it feels as though we have shared countless sunrises and sunsets in the span of 7 hours.
When we meet on the street in the dead of winter, we embrace and the warmth of his breath fogs my glasses. When this happens, he traces the shape of a heart on my lenses with his finger. His love clouds my vision.

Our love is like the sweetest Popsicle and the most quenching lemonade on the hottest of days. It is the moment, when holding your breath, right before you are forced to pass out or let go.

It is a head rush and I want it.

i'm just a coaster, but my wheels won't go

You had something to say. You told me it had nothing to do with me, as if that would make me feel any better. You said something about an awkward situation with another person. I have to admit that I stopped listening and slipped inside my head somewhere around these words.
As I got ready, I had a feeling there was someone else. I had the opportunity to back out on our plans and spend time with someone else. Would that have made those words go away or would it just prolong the feeling of hanging on a wire, inevitably fated to fall without a net?
Am I being overly dramatic? I would say that in relation to the emotions coursing through my small frame and oversize glasses, that my drama level is barely a blip on the radar—least of all yours.
What does awkward situation mean anyway? Is it a situation that brings you intense sadness or happiness? I imagine difficulty. Difficult words cruising down difficult roads. Choosing bumpy terrain in an attempt to avoid dead-end turns. It turns out one of those bumps was me.
You said you enjoy my company and there was nothing I did wrong. It apparently wasn’t enough either.
We had an amazing time on our last encounter. The air seemed sweeter that evening. We exchanged warmth as we lay in embrace. Then, one soft sweet kiss passed from your lips to mine. Bliss.
Now, I am faced with awkward situations and I find myself awfully confused. If I am the one who is constant and kind, why am I the one being pushed away?
I may not have clean fingernails or be soft around the edges. However, I have an enduring spirit. I will rejoice in your success and wipe away your tears when the world pummels you. I will take pleasure in in your whimsy and squeal with delight when the occasions present themselves. I will be steadfast. I will hold you close when the world forsakes you and hold you up when everyone wants to know whom you are and shake your hand.
Constant.
But, somehow, this is not what you want. You want to keep me close enough to lay eyes on, to watch over, but not so close that I feel a sense of ownership. A carrot that dangles never to be eaten.
This is my path, perhaps chosen from the beginning. Perhaps continually stumbled upon by accident like an end table that is perpetually bumped into when the lights are off.
Fate. Happenstance. Semantics. Trivial.
I hope your path leads to happiness, but even more than that, I hope it leads back to me. I can’t wait, but I can hope.
Goodnight.

TRIBUTARIES

Jodie Marie Johnson: "Ahh,Valentines Day. The anniversary of the day I met the man I thought was the love of my life. Boy was I wrong. Today I reflect on my past and thank him for all my beautiful children and the lessons I learned. I am so glad I was finally able to get me and my kids out of that life and am so grateful for all the people ...that have come into my life and helped me to start over. Life is good!"

Samantha Klasinski: "nothing like spending valentines day watching a marathon of stories about people who snapped and killed their lovers. gotta love cable"

Megan Penny Wright: "My valentines present today: plenty of sleep and an hour at home alone, not even the dogs are here. So nice."

Gabe Garcia: "makin love to my skateboard for valentines day. shes so pretty"

wax on, wax off

I must admit that I find the ritual of waxing quite peculiar. Don’t get me wrong. It is a ritual I engage in, but a peculiar one all the same. In the days of trapping, one would pay a handsome price for a pelt. Now we pay someone to take ours. The other sensation I find peculiar is being in a room with a stranger, completely naked from the waist down but completely clothed from the waist up. It is like the sort of juvenile, wham-bam-thank you ma’am love that happens in the back seat of a car. I would almost feel more comfortable if I were completely naked. There is more of a feeling of continuity there.
My appointment was for an extended bikini wax. I choose this service because, in my mind, it is the perfect balance between matron and porno crotch. I do not find the idea of having either very appealing. The extension takes enough away so that I feel the vestibule is accessible without taking so much away that I need to use the terminology “bacon strip” while referencing it. Perfect, no?
I walked in and went through the usual motions: discarded bottom vestiges, laid on table and placed the ceremonial towel that is yanked away almost as soon as it is set. The woman began as she does, asking me how life was, pillow talk of sorts. Then, she asks if I “wanted to follow the same lines or try a shape?”
“like what?”
“A heart.”
“A heart?”
“For Valentine’s Day.”
“Really?!”
I am still a bit befuddled by the exchange, but happy to be hairless again.

the mattress mistress

Love hurts. In fact, it literally kills people some people. I do not believe this happens is because love is bad, or evil. Love is pure, like salt. Love also knows no boundaries. This can be dangerous in the wrong person’s hands. The motives of one pursuing love must be as pure as the driven snow, because of love’s all-encompassing elements. When this reverence is not observed the result is devastating. Love will buck and break itself much like a poorly trained pit bull. The ensuing disaster can be fatal. The 1990s brought on such a tragedy for one unlucky man.
He was in his 50s and his quest for love was driven my vanity. He took a young girl to be his beautiful trophy. I thing to dote over and look sweet on his increasingly-aged arm.
I imagine the events to have transpired like this:
He surprised her with a jet-setting trip for a few days, because she loved spontaneity. It reminded him of his younger days and he felt young by proxy. As they wandered through the bustling airport to their departure gate, he got very light-headed and needed to sit down for a spell. He chalked it up to dehydration and did not want to upset his sweet Juliet before their romantic get away.
They had dinner reservations and a night of painting the town red on the agenda. As she primped herself in the suite’s vanity mirror, he presented her with a bejeweled necklace. It resembled a strand of twinkling raindrops resting serenely on her emaciated and protruding collarbone. She loved it!
They enjoyed a four-course meal and the finest of champagne. The bubbles tickled their noses ever so slightly and buoyed their spirits to a state of effervescence. They danced until they believed they could not dance anymore. Then, they danced all the way home.
The intensity of their evening came to a head on the 400-thread count, Egyptian cotton sheets. He loved the moistness of her young, supple skin pressed against the thread-bare dregs of his life-atrophied body while he thrust and thrashed on top of her. She often had a glassy, distant look in her eyes when he exploded and shuddered in the briefest of deaths. He would tell her he often saw a light at the end of the tunnel at the moment he was cumming inside of her. He was preparing himself for the sweet surrender. The flash of bright, vivid colors that flooded his plane of vision and the dancing of the hairs all down his spine. This time instead of color, he saw the best moments of his life and then black.
He was found in an Accra hotel room. The body he left behind was completely void of dress, his mouth brimming with the foam of a rabid dog trying desperately to control an infectious disease. For this man, it was love. He could not keep up with his Juliet and his heart gave out. The young woman left the hotel without declaration and her identity may never be known.
Urban legend has it that the events of his death transpired on Valentine’s Day. Incidentally, no one has ever died on Single’s Awareness Day.

cavaties and paper cuts

That is what results from faux-romance driven holidays that focus on consumerism, candy, and card stock.
So, this is February. The time of the year when all the couples in the world pair up and forget the existence of all other human life. In actuality, my truthiness statistic indicates that approximately 90% of all couples break up on or around Valentine's Day. If you have not experienced this phenomenon, then you're dodging a bullet that surely cannot be dodged for very long.
Suitable alternative? Have no fear; I've found one. I find it better to celebrate a different holiday than the violent, fat, naked baby holiday pushed by greeting card and chocolate companies. What's the holiday you ask? Why it's Single's Awareness Day! On this day you will find me in neither pink nor red, for the colours of S.A.D are navy and chartreuse.
How do you celebrate this wonderful holiday? Another good question. Thanks for asking, readership.

My suggestions include:
1. Make and name a piñata after a past lover. The difference between the piñata and your former love is that it's ok to beat a piñata with a stick until you are able to get the sweetness to come pouring out.
2. For every nice thing you say to a single person, say 5 not-so-nice things to that obnoxious couple ahead of you in line for [insert tedious errand required of most grown ups here]. you know who they are: "no i love you more, schmoopy." Or just go out of your way to do something really nice. (For instance, when you're buying your local homeless-run newspaper, like i know you were already planning on doing anyway, give them an extra dollar.)
3. Fly a kite and/or catch raindrops on your tongue (these are climate-based suggestions).
4. Pamper yourself. Get a foot and/or hand massage. Regardless of your gender, your hands and feet work hard for you and deserve a reward from time-to-time.
5. Replace one green vegetable in your meals with dessert all day, and if you were already planning on eating dessert--double dessert!
6. Just get rid of that box of letters and move on already!
7. Part your hair on the opposite side, so you can see how you look to other people.
8. Learn how to count and say your A,B,Cs in another language (or learn the alphabet of your native tongue).
9. Try a new food you always thought you would hate, but this time do it pretending you've always thought you'd love it. (this is especially good for people IN relationships to do w/o their significant other. This is good because there isn't anyone there to say "i knew you'd like it!" it can be your little secret).
10. Get ridiculously dressed up and go to the grocery store. You'll feel like a celebrity--everyone will stop and look at you (not that they don't already).

The wonderful thing about this holiday is that you don't actually need to be single to celebrate it. Much like you don't need to be African American to celebrate Black History Month, which I might add is this month as well. You just need to be willing to spend a consumer holiday not being a consumer whore! Instead, grab a pal (your Single Awareness Partner) and do whatever satisfies your flights of fancy--you know you want to!
Let me know if you want me to be your S.A.P., I'll be learning a new alphabet.
xo

Bah Humbug!

This marks the beginning of my favorite anti-ritual. I do not fancy myself a Scrooge. I can find the good in most things. However, there are some things that I can neither justify nor abide. February is the home to one of these such things—Valentine’s Day. I occurred to me that I don’t know a thing about the holiday that I despise so much. So, this year we are going to start off with a history lesson.

Saint Valentine's Day is an annual holiday held on February 14 celebrating love and affection between intimate companions. [barf] The holiday is named after one or more early Christian martyrs named Valentine and was established by Pope Gelasius I in 496 AD. It is traditionally a day on which lovers express their love for each other by presenting flowers, offering confectionery, and sending greeting cards (known as "valentines"). The holiday first became associated with romantic love in the circle of Geoffrey Chaucer in the High Middle Ages, when the tradition of courtly love flourished.
Numerous early Christian martyrs were named Valentine. The Valentines honored on February 14 are Valentine of Rome (Valentinus presb. m. Romae) and Valentine of Terni (Valentinus ep. Interamnensis m. Romae). Valentine of Rome was a priest in Rome who was martyred about AD 269 and was buried on the Via Flaminia. His relics are at the Church of Saint Praxed in Rome. and at Whitefriar Street Carmelite Church in Dublin, Ireland.
Valentine of Terni became bishop of Interamna (modern Terni) about AD 197 and is said to have been martyred during the persecution under Emperor Aurelian. He is also buried on the Via Flaminia, but in a different location than Valentine of Rome. His relics are at the Basilica of Saint Valentine in Terni (Basilica di San Valentino)
No romantic elements are present in the original early medieval biographies of either of these martyrs. By the time a Saint Valentine became linked to romance in the fourteenth century, distinctions between Valentine of Rome and Valentine of Terni were utterly lost.

Before Chaucer began his flowery writing, romance and Valentine’s were not even mention in the same room let alone the same breath. I am left to marvel at how the connection was ever made? The martyrs weren’t even two lovers. That makes for epic tradition.

I’ll leave you all to ponder this history lesson and I will let the seething begin tomorrow.

Gullible's Travels: Pt 3

I was only away for a day and a half. However, by the end of my trip, I was quite ready to return home. I find it funny that I rarely identify as a Seattleite in most travel situations, but in some instances I am keenly aware of the ways in which I cling to Pacific Northwest culture. I will use Los Angeles as an example. I hate driving. Being strapped behind the wheel in this particular city really makes me appreciate the luxury of being a pedestrian in Seattle. In SLC, I was thankful for fashion and a culture of fitness. When I begin to think fondly of the place I am only marginally enamored by, I know it’s time to leave.
When preparing for the trip home, I decided to plan for the inconveniences that I did not plan for on the first leg of my journey. My flight was scheduled at 7:45am. My plan was to wake up at 5:00am, leave by 6:00am, and arrive to the airport no later than 6:45am. This would allow plenty of time for any heartache that the John Wayne International Airport might want to throw my way. I woke up at 5:00am, as planned and was ready to leave by 5:30am—ahead of schedule. There was not a single car on the freeway. I arrived to the airport at 6:00am. I checked in and breezed through security. By 6:25am, I had breakfast and coffee in hand. Everything was going my way. I looked up at the flight monitor and saw that my flight was delayed by one hour—SONOFABITCH!!! This sort of thing perfectly fits with my track record of always arriving to things early or late, never on time. I ate, pouted a bit, and napped until it was time to board my tardy plane.
The flight was empty, which enabled me to have an entire row to myself. After take off, I kicked up my legs and slept until it was time to sit up and begin our descent. At that point, I slept sitting up and woke up as we hit the tarmack. It was a beautiful, dream-filled sleep.
I stepped off the plane, acquired coffee with ease and got lunch. I often wonder why airline food must be completely void of quality? I sat down at what seemed like a real restaurant and ordered a club sandwich. This club sandwich was comprised of Jenny-O lunch meat and Hormel pre-cooked bacon, yellowing shredded lettuce, a single tomato seed and a pound of mayonnaise all stuffed between two stale pieces of Wonderbread that they were calling “sour” dough. I paid $10.00 for this delicacy. Again, my appetite was discouraged by an overwhelming number of big-boned people crowding around me and engaging in worrisome food ritual. I only ate half of my sandwich.
The Vikings/Cowboys game was on the TV monitors at my gate. There was a woman intently watching when a jumbo ginger man sidled up to her asking why she would to pretend to be interested in something that was clearly a “man’s” thing? I was passing the time by texting with an old friend when this went down. I joked that I was going to ask that man to make an honest woman of me and set my roots in Salt Lake. That I would have a wardrobe full of floor-length, floral dresses and have my uterus ripped to shreds by a plethora of freakish gingers, clawing their way out of my previously pristine body. I’d be “living the dream.”
As we boarded the plane, we walked down a long corridor and came dangerously close to twin propeller planes. I nearly fainted. To be truthful, I was not terribly pleased to see that we would be flying on a very small jet, but I am relieved it is a jet all the same. We settled into our seats, fastened our seat belts, made sure our tray tables were up and that our seats were locked in the upright position. Then, a god-like voice came of the PA. “I am really sorry folks, we just found out about a last minute plane swap. So, we’ll need you to de-board and change gates. Again, I am sorry about the inconvenience.”
Seriously?

Gullible's Travels: Pt 2

I woke up to the plane screeching to a halt on the runway of the Salt Lake City airport. I was looking at a two-hour lay over and the only thing on my mind was the timely acquisition of coffee. Much to my chagrin, I have become one of those pre-coffee, fire-breathing, people-hating monsters and post-coffee peach. For some reason (you know the reason) being in SLC put me on heightened alert. This made finding that first cup of the day all the more urgent as I felt monster me bubbling up to the surface. I walked around for what seemed like an eternity. In this time, I found countless fountain soda machines, three bars, and candy shop, Cinnabon, and a fast food mega-plex before stumbling a lonely Starbucks. As I took inventory of my surroundings, I noticed a majority of the people around me were obese. It was a sea of large and in charge people in sweat pants. My general feeling is that caffeine is a victimless crime. Certainly, not a deadly sin. Gluttony, however, is. So, wouldn’t one figure that in a religious city shouldn’t the need to over stuff oneself with non-nutritive foods be harder to sate than my need to caffeinate? Another general observation, if someone were to set off on a journey around the United States in search of the city that is Mecca to attractive people, I would strongly urge this person to skip over SLC. It’s all pock marks, halitosis, and front butt syndrome here.
My cup of coffee helped me relax and come to terms with the fact that my first meal of the day would be burger king. No sooner than I had convinced myself to be at peace with my reality, did a quite enormous man sit down next to me with enough food to feed a vastly small village and commence cramming. … Coffee was going to have to be good enough for me.
The flight into Orange County was uneventful. I will say that I have never been on a plane with so many people reading the Bible. I was not sure whether I found this observation to be comforting or terrifying. The landing was more bouncy than I would typically prefer. It felt as if we would bounce right off the jet way. We did not and I am relieved for small miracles.
Upon my arrival, I was faced with a choice between diving head long into my social circles, as a diversion, and only see my family in passing; and taking the time to face the music. One was an emotionally stunted path, the other an emotionally present. I decided that for what it was worth, I made the trip and that I shouldn’t be anything other than ok with my actions from there out. Incidentally, I opted for a happy medium.

Gullible's Travels: Pt 1

What a nightmare. …
There are many varieties of bad dream. The one I encounter most is one where I find myself in what I imagine to be in the most terrible situation. I stop and tell myself that there is no way any of what is happening can be real. It is only a dream. It can’t hurt me. This is much like when a movie hero encounters a monster of her own invention and announces: “You can’t hurt me. I am your righteous creator and protagonist of this plot!”
The exposition of this dramatic nightmare was a last-minute trip, conceived of and planned under duress. The catalyst: the impending death of my grandfather. I did not want to process what seeing my grandfather in the hospital meant, let alone what it would be like to see the sad, fatigued, and stressed faces of my family. Over the years, Samuel Baca García has had a string of heart attacks, each one leaving him with diminished function of his heart.. The most recent attack has left him with a feeble 15%. I imagine that if abuela were still alive, she would quip that Sammy has lived his entire life without using much of his heart. Why should it matter how little is left now? There are of course extenuating circumstances. There is kidney failure needing dialysis and an infection interrupting dialysis. Essentially, what sounds like a lot of bad news to me. It was a bit much for me to handle. So, I did what any well-adjusted and rational person would do—I put off packing until 6 hours before my flight: midnight.
Packing actually went off without a hitch. I travel often enough that almost all of my liquids are TSA approved. I am also shameless about using other people’s shower supplies. I have gotten over my urge to dress by mood and only bring the bare essentials. I had everything assembled for my pilgrimage and was off to my brief, but necessary slumber.
Like most nightmares, the bad began with sleep. I woke up in the middle of the night convinced that I had not turned on my alarm clock. Without investigating the situations, I flipped over the switch. I woke up an hour later mortified, because I realized I had actually switched the alarm clock OFF! Ultimately, I woke myself up at 3:30am and discovered that I had turned the alarm volume completely off while I was asleep. How I manage these things, I will never know. …
Quickly, I took care of the matters of hygiene and set my sights on online check-in—the greatest invention ever created by man. After 15 minutes of clunking around a website without an iota of success, I was utterly exasperated and felt like a dunce, outwitted by the Internet. There was no time to fret. I had a bus to catch!
I ran. I don’t know why, and this will quickly become the one thing I did right that day, but I ran all the way to the metro tunnel and arrived with a handful of minutes to spare. No sooner than I entered that tunnel did I begin receiving suspicious looks from metro security. “This can’t be good.” It took me all of a minute to realize that the tunnel was closed and my bus was operating on the surface streets. SHIT! I fled my subterranean trap and emerged onto the street panicked. By some strange miracle, I knew exactly where to go. However, I had to be quite firm with the street urchins in my frantic hustle to catch that bus!
I caught it without a moment to spare. The bus ride to the airport was mostly uneventful, save the fact that people on downtown originating buses at 4:30am are operating in a non-cohesive mental state. Thank goodness there were enough of the less mentally cohesive on the bus keep themselves entertained, much like a plexi-room filled with plastic balls and toddlers.
Once I disembarked from the bus, I raced to the self-check kiosk. The clock was ticking; the race was on; [insert relevant quip about being in a frenzied hurry here]. I was momentarily thwarted by a set of rogue automatic doors. They persistently opened and closed becoming the airport equivalent of a mutinous miniature golf hazard and I the ill-fated golf ball. I had not time for the game and had to keep moving.
Next obstacle: check-in. The electronic kiosk was being, pardon my French, a little bitch. Attempt one: fail. Attempt two: same. Attempt three: SHANNON SMASH! After speaking with a Delta representative, we figured out that somehow I got booked on two return flights. Hence, all of my thwarted attempts at checking in. F.U. Priceline! Boarding pass in hand, I headed toward security.
My apprehensions toward security lines at the airport are similar to my apprehensions about getting behind the wheel at two in the morning. It’s not me I’m worried about, but everyone else around me. I travel light. I always have my travel documents out and at the ready. As well, my liquids are always in the proper receptacle and ready for whatever the XRAY machine might throw at them. What threw me for a loop was the presence of two check in lines: the one for the casual, some might say unprepared, traveler; the other for people like me—the expert traveler. This promised to be the smoothest part of my day. As it happens, the express traveler line is a veritable grocery express lane with no one monitoring the item limits and, therefore, no one adhering to them. If I were the line monitor on this particular day, you might here me say: Yes, a small carry on bag IS traveling light, congratulations. You, lady in front of the expert traveler, exceeding carry-on limits does not count as traveling light. And you, gender non-specified person burdened with numerous miniature people, express lines are more express when they are not clogged up by your progeny. I would make an example of these two people and send all non-compliant persons to the proper line. I ended up that the casual travelers made it through the line much faster, because everyone fancies themselves an expert. VANITY, old friend, you got me this time. …
At this point in my tale of woe, I need you to invoke an inner Home Alone-esque montage chalk full of running, confusion, aftershave and screaming. Finally, I arrive at the gate. I am the last person to board the plane and as I roll in the gate agent informed me that they were about to shut the doors and that I was “lucky.” Incidentally, lucky is not the word I would use to describe my morning, but to this person I just seem like a tardy schlemiel. So, fair enough. I muster a blank look, offer up no explanation and quickly board the plane where people are still standing in the aisle, cramming their personal effects into overhead bins. I am confident that I slowed no one down. I took my seat without incident and fell into a deep slumber. I had an exhausting morning.

my room

Every once in awhile, I stop and take a look at my surroundings and the image of that moment is a perfect summation of my life at that point—regardless of whether or not I know what that summation might imply. I first thought to notice these passing moments after seeing Demetri Martin perform at the Moore Theatre. He recalled a time when he was frantically tearing through his apartment and suddenly let’s out, “where the fuck is my tambourine?!” The above photo illustrates my version of one of these priceless moments.
Description:
- a red eye mask and peach, satin robe hung on rogue nails left in place by a previous tenant. (the nails, not the eye mask and robe)
- Catholic art and paraphernalia on the facing wall.
- current reading material and my alarm clock on my unmade bed.
- cotton candy pink wig hanging on the lamp on my nightstand.
I am unsure as to what exactly this signifies about my current situation. I just know that it does and that those assumptions are best left up to a higher power—you! All I am fit to offer is a cursory explanation of the aforementioned items.
Explanation:
- eye mask: I am often prone to bouts of insomnia. What I notice most during these periods is that my eyes simply refuse to remain shut and I am often caught spending quality sleep hours staring at the ceiling. Having a shroud over my eyes removes this urge and, ultimately, helps me fall asleep in a timelier manner. (a side note, it also helps keep me from waking up when I am lodging at a hostel and people—assumption, tourists—are keeping any number of competing hours to see the city in each of their respective ways.)
- robe: I had many an instance while living in a dormitory in Denmark when the inspector would pound on the door as he was entering my unit—without any previous warning that he might be coming. The nights in this dormitory where often very wild and my state of dress at night was not always appropriate for public consumption. Having a robe nearby means I can quickly be covered regardless of my previous clothing state. This is important when you know someone spontaneous is also the holder of your keys.
- evidence of the Catholic within: no matter how far I have come from my Catholic upbringing, there is enough of it that still remains—the guilt. If not for that, that fact still remains that Mary is awesome, even if she is a virgin.
- the book: I read before the “see-no-evil” eye masks cloaks my eyes from the world around me. I helps turn my brain off and keeps me from being up all night scribbling in my journal. I mean literally just scratching random, non-cohesive hatch marks into my journal. It’s a terrible habit.
- alarm clock: I am an public radio news junky. The middle of my bed, left unmade because I do not believe in the practice of perfectly setting sheets to be mussed the very same day, happened to be the place that I received the best reception. It also functioned as a reminder that absolutely under no circumstances could I lie back down. Tired Shannon often tries to sabotage responsible, punctual Shannon. Tired Shannon must be stopped at all costs!!!
- wig on nightstand: I wish I had an elaborate story about sexy role play and spicing up “our” love life. That my partner gets all worked up when I tart up like Lady GaGa and show him my p-p-p-p-poker face. Or, perhaps, that I am having an affair so secret that I am hiding my identity from both the world and my lover alike. Not that I am currently striking out in the virtual and actual dating realms and am currently in drought season. Not that I bought it for a New Year’s Eve party, which I left before midnight to go home alone. Regardless, this year is new. I have plenty of time to the stuff previously mentioned. I had to work super early anyway. …
As previously stated, I am not sure what exactly this all implies about me, but it is something isn’t it?