Category: writing

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Regarding Foley

More than anything else we do in our lifetime, it is what the youth of today learn from us that creates our legacy. Notice I didn’t say ‘what we teach’ because what we teach and what they learn can be universes apart.

You can’t escape hearing about the Foley Debacle these days. It is everywhere and for good reason. With all the finger-pointing going on, it’s easy to ascertain that not only did people know about it for years, but so many people knew about it as to create the classic abused/abuser environment.

As an abuse survivor, it took me years to unlearn some basic truths that I learned as a child. These truths were not true in the socially acceptable circles out in the open. But on the most very basic levels of my Self, they were rock hard truths.

In a classic familial abuse situation, it is the children that learn to read the parents. They learn to assess the feeling of the room before even walking in the door. They learn to read their parent’s feelings and attitudes and intents to gauge the danger level. The children become parentalized and must watch out for their own safety and welfare because no one else will do it for them. Parents/adults can’t be trusted.

Let’s say that at some point, those kids get to a place where they are brave enough to tell someone what is happening. They hone in on an adult that can be trusted. They somehow find the words to speak the agonizing truth of the situation. And here is where they learn their next lesson: will they be believed? And, if they are believed, will they be protected? A child learns many truths about life in the aftermath of telling their secret.

In this Foley situation, the things that bother me the most, and there are so many to pick from, are 1) the kid(s) that came forward years ago were not believed to the degree that they should have been and if they were believed, their feelings and the danger of the situation were minimized, 2) the adults in control ‘stuck together’ and most likely shuffled off those particular kids to new places to keep them quiet, 3) new interns and pages were told that ‘this is just the way Foley is’ and it then became THIER responsibility to monitor what happened in this completely power-lopsided relationship, creating the illusion that children can control the abuse that happens to them, 4) immediately after being found out in the mainstream media, Foley’s camp turned to ‘he’s an alcoholic’ and ‘he was abused as a teen’ and ‘he’s gay’ in order to divert responsibility and 5) these kids and young adults are treated with less respect and have less protection than working adults do with sexual harassment statutes in place.

I find it indescribably sad that our youth are going to what should be an exciting and knowledge-packed place and supposedly having this spectacular experience learning how our government works and the ins and outs of how things get done and instead are learning the very worst kind of lessons about dysfunction, which apparently, is how our government works.

We can teach our youth all kinds of things that we wish they would learn, but it’s what we do and what we allow to happen to them and to this country that they will internalize. That is our legacy.

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Running Away

It was a flowered suitcase. More of a valise, actually. The elasticized sections on the zippered top measured into thirds and partially hidden inside the silky fabric, starting from the left, were three pairs of panties; rolled, a light blue flannel nightgown handed down from my sister: well worn around the seams, and my faded Mr. Bubble T-shirt which I owned because of meticulous cutting and saving labels and box tops for what seemed like eons but what in fact was probably more like an entire month the previous year.

The large area of the case, normally reserved for clothing for the savvy traveler who appreciates a fresh change of clothes while abroad, in this situation was full of notebooks and drawing pads, pens and pencils, reading books such as Grimm’s Fairy Tales and the H, B and I encyclopedias. H for the Human Form with clear plastic pages that with every turn inevitably created the back part of a man or woman, complete with bones, muscles, veins, organs and a flaccid penis or halved uterus, respectively. B and I for the wonderful illustrations of butterflies and insects. The final items rounding out the contents were a Holly Hobbie doll, practically new, and a pair of plastic pants to go over my panties, sewn by my own mother in my own size in an attempt to cut down on not only the laundry but the smell. Sadly, I don’t think it would have saved me from the humiliation of wearing them in front of friends. They crinkled.

The year was 1977. I was six and incredibly upset. As I lugged the suitcase up from the basement, the injustice of the situation did not escape me. Not only did I have to run away, I had to also carry my own luggage. And all of this because my mom did not think I was old enough to sleep over.

I was a bed wetter. Oh, the humiliation. With each bump-step, bump-step, I became increasing sure that I was in the right and that my mother was in the wrong. Should I be locked in a cage simply because I could not hold my urine? bump-step Should I be forced to stay home when every other girl in my class would be spending glorious evenings together playing Barbies and Smurf Family all over town? bump-step Was it fair to ask me to be the only girl that hadn’t played Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board late at night while giggling and secretly being completely freaked out? The mystique surrounding that game was luscious, sparkly and completely opaque to my eyes. I would never find out if the ghosts were real if my mom would not let me sleep over using my plastic pants.

bump-step.

And now on the landing, I looked for my olive green, corduroy jacket with the ripped right pocket from the time I tried to jam both gloves in at the same time. Those small, darling topstitched pockets were more ‘Pockets’ than pockets and unfortunately, were not made for a glove set. There was really only room for my chapstick and one tiny vial of perfume no bigger than a pen lid, scent: green apple, my favorite, which now resided only on the left, near my heart.

There was one dollar and sixty-three cents from my bank in my back pocket. Along with over ten dollars I had stolen from my sister’s room. This being an emergency, and since she would never see me again, I suspected it would be fine.

I gave the entry hall one last look, a tear rolling down my cheek as the seriousness of what I was about to do settled in my heart. Oh, my dear, dear parents. They would miss me, yes. And they would understand that they had wronged me. There I would be, living in a hovel, a gutter, dirt smeared on my face. The tears began falling in earnest now, my suitcase heavy in my hands. I would eat leaves and scraps from trashcans. The neighbors would refer to me as that sad, dirty girl that had no parents that loved her.

With a heavy sigh, I opened the front door and plunged into the early evening air. Tears on my face, snot dripping, but oh, so brave! I marched down the sidewalk just as my mom drove home from her errands. Well, fine! Good! I was glad she would see me. She’d soon be sorry for treating me like such a baby.

From the corner of my eye, I saw her form get out of the car, open the hatch and remove a brown bag of groceries just as I reached the street. The neighbor, also exiting his vehicle, asked me, ‘Where ya off to, now? With your bag? And it’s about to rain?’ which, apparently, was more questions than I knew what to do with. I stopped in my tracks, teetering on the edge of our property between Home and Out There. I looked at the neighbor. I looked back at my mom. She yelled, ‘Leah! Get the bag with the Rice Crispies cereal in it!’

My decision was swift and based mostly on hunger. I grabbed the cereal bag and dropped my suitcase at the door. But I kept my sister’s ten dollars.

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Dissociative Disorders

In rewriting parts of my book, I had the chance to get a little deeper into the frustration of how dissociative disorders are classed and diagnosed. Here is an excerpt:

During my stay at a mental hospital in 1999, not only did a doctor diagnose me accurately with DDNOS, but I didn’t make myself forget the diagnosis, which had happened a few years previous. This is after being misdiagnosed any number of times with any number of ailments, some of which were correct for specific personalities but never the entire picture. Diagnosing someone with DID or DDNOS can be particularly difficult if the therapist only sees one or two of the personalities during their visits together. I was lucky to meet some very competent doctors during that first mental hospital stay.

The full definition of DDNOS can be found in the dictionary:
DDNOS is a diagnostic category ascribed to patients with dissociative symptoms that do not meet the full criteria for a specific dissociative disorder.

Because there are only a handful of specified dissociative disorders, there are any number of people falling through the cracks without a diagnosis. Add to that the fact that many states and doctors don’t acknowledge DID as a ‘real’ illness, and you can see why there are so many people not getting the help they need. After all, if your doctor doesn’t believe in the illness you have, how can they help you heal?

This is a serious problem and needs to change. We need better words and clearer diagnosis. It was nice to see that I’m not the only one frustrated with this current diagnosing system and the words that are used. This letter to the editor from Kenneth A. Nakdimen, MD says pretty much the same thing.

If you read my book and would feel comfortable giving me specific feedback, please let me know. I’m getting plenty of feedback from editors about what they think should be ‘streamlined’ but I’d like to know how those of you that have read it feel.

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Thoughts About Being Positive

I’ve had thoughts just floating around and around for the past few weeks and I’ve had a really hard time getting it down in a concise and readable way for others to understand that also comes from a place of loving. But, I think the gist of it is this:

Why do people spend energy and time sending out negativity? Isn’t their life just as busy and full as mine? Don’t they have only the same limited hours in a day and juggle things around trying to fit them all in? Why would they choose to spend any of those precious moments writing hateful and venomous things about other people?

The most used argument is that everyone has the right to write about whatever they want in their blog. And I mostly agree with that. In most cases, we do. But the part I don’t get is why? What has happened in that person’s life that makes it fun to trash other people for sport? Possibly residual resentments from their upbringing? Maybe they were teased or emotionally abused (or worse) and so they unconsciously need to unload that somewhere? I think if they focused on themselves for a while and went through their own emotional stuff, they wouldn’t feel the need they do now to tear others down,

I tend to think, for the most part, that it is not just plain jealously, because of the amount of pleasure these people seem to get out of their ‘sport’ and how zealous they are about trying to tear other people down. I think it borders more on an obsessive behavior, where they are finding their self-worth in hurting others.

Another common argument is that the people ‘on the top’ that are getting hit with the negativity, should somehow not care because ‘they are famous’ and so this is what goes with the territory. Since I’m not one to get into the trash magazines about movie and music celebrities and I don’t agree that being famous is synonymous with asking the world at large to judge you for every choice you make for the rest of your life, I don’t agree with this argument, either. If someone has worked hard, been recognized for their effort and reaps the benefit of being ‘on top’, then great for them! I wish we could all support each other and say, ‘Way to go! Nice work!’ or if we don’t agree with what they say or what they’ve done, how about, ‘I don’t agree with what you said/wrote/did but I hope you get everything you hope for!’ because them getting what they hope for and work towards takes nothing away from me. There is enough ‘good stuff’ out there for everyone.

Honest debating and real discussions are great. Not agreeing is great. Diversity is what makes the world a great and wonderful place to live. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, just as I’m sure there will be those that don’t agree with what I’ve written here. But resorting to name calling and trash talking and negativity can’t be the best option. And if you have the time and energy and get the inclination to put negativity out into the world, how about putting that excess energy into something positive, like volunteering for your local candidate who might get elected because of your efforts and create some real change in the government? Or, how about looking yourself in the mirror and telling yourself that you love yourself, since that might be lacking. Be positive with yourself and let it come out of you and give it to others. You will be a truly happier person.

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Badges. Get Your Badges. (and HuffPost)

Get your BloggerNetwork.org badges here. It includes instructions if you need them. If anyone feels adventurous and creative and wants to make some more badges, please do and send them to me. I’ll post them and make them available along with a link to your site if you want.

The Huffington Post is looking for submissions. If you have a story related to overcoming fear, they would love to get it for a new section of their website that is launching very soon. Email Romi for more specifics.

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Whodoyou, Whodoyou, Whodoyou Think You Are?

Bless your soul.

Is there a writer’s group in Simi Valley or Ventura County? If so, I can’t find you. Please contact me or I will be forced to start my own. And if I did start my own, who would come?

I want to get together with people and write stuff and drink beer or coffee or something.

For a good time, call me.

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Good Days

I wake up in the morning and before I even open my eyes, there it is: a weight resting squarely on my chest. I cautiously feel around my thoughts to see what this weight is before jumping to conclusions. It’s possible that I just had a bad dream.

Oh, right. I’m just not quite awake yet. Sometimes when I first wake up, I have left over thoughts flying around in my mind. And some of them could be left over from years and years ago. They are just shadows, tiny endings of experiences that hurt me or things that made me very sad. But they aren’t happening right now and that is what I need to focus on.

I imagine a light. Yellow and white but not too bright. It’s warm and healthy. It’s healing. It starts in my chest and expands until it fills my body.

Some of the remaindered and leftover thoughts try to stick around. They pop up and tell me, ‘You are such a failure’ and ‘Nothing you do matters’ and ‘Nothing will ever get any better.’ Some of them go far, far back and are more like, ‘No one cares about you so you better concentrate on surviving’ and ‘People want to hurt you and take advantage of you’ and ‘Everyone is a liar.’ But as soon as the thoughts come up, I look at them, evaluate them and see if they are true or not. They aren’t. What a relief. And I send them on their way.

I know that if I think too much about what I have to do today, it will feel too hard. I’ll start feeling overwhelmed and probably not get out of bed. Once I allow myself to go down that downward spiral, it’s very hard to climb back up and could take me days. The best defense is a good offense. Some days I do better than others.

There are days when catastrophic thinking is hard to shake off, but it doesn’t happen very often. I thank God for that. And The Universe. And Love. I know my meditation routine by heart and slip easily into a place where I feel only Love and a connection to everything and everyone. It’s beautiful. I stay as long as I need to and then climb out of bed.

I don’t think about getting up or showering or even what I’m going to wear. I don’t think about any of those things because I don’t really NEED to think about them. I know how to do them all without thinking. And if I make the mistake of thinking about it, I might not do it. So, I just do it.

As I finish up washing my hair and shaving my legs, I smell the soap. It smells clean and invigorating. I’m looking forward to the coffee. I grab an outfit from the two that I laid out last night: one is for slightly warmer weather and one for colder. That way, I don’t have to think about it when it feels too hard. Of course, I can always change my mind and get something else from the closet if I want. And sometimes I do. But mostly, I stick with what I prepared the night before.

A thought of work will come up and for a second my heart starts to race. I feel behind. I feel like I’ll never be safe and secure. I feel like everything I’ve worked so hard for could be taken away in a second. My breathing gets faster and faster. I start to sweat. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die. But then I catch myself. I tell my heart to slow down. I remind myself to take some deep breaths. And I tell myself that I’ll think about all of that in about an hour when I’m more awake and I’ve eaten some protein and had some coffee.

I go downstairs to begin my day and do stuff.

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Bad Days

I wake up in the morning and before I even open my eyes, there it is. That weight laced with desperation. That sinking feeling that tells me nothing is ever going to get better and I might as well just give up now. Give up at what, I’m not really sure. Not that it matters.

I contemplate actually opening my eyes. But what is the point of that? Why would I want to see things better? Smarter just to lay here and try my best not to listen. And definitely not see, think. Anything. Maybe I can go back to sleep. It’s only 5:15am. Plenty of time to sink back in.

My brain does not cooperate. My own worst enemy. Why? Trying to not think ends up worse than thinking. Pushing away the thoughts that at first sneak around behind and then try to cover my head, soon begin simply jabbing at my gut and my thighs. Prodding sharply. I give in and acknowledge them. And then they cover me up.

Nothing will ever get any better. In fact, it’s already getting worse. It doesn’t matter what I could ever try to do. Ever. All the projects I get excited about and then plan. All the projects that I hope will somehow make a difference in someone’s life. They amount to nothing. Nothing. And no one cares. And why should they? I mean, really? Who am I to try and do anything, anyway? I’m just one more person in the world that thinks farther than they can actually reach. But realizes it too late to save themselves the public embarrassment.

I’m beginning to suffocate. If I don’t open my eyes, I’ll die.

What do I think I’m doing with my life? I should go back to school. I should want to go back to school. I should go get a regular job where I drive to an office and see normal people that do work-type things and drink coffee. I should want to want a regular job. I should make sure I have health care. I should have an IRA and heavy savings accounts. I should take vacations twice a year for 3.5 days each and be happy that I have an office to go back to. I should stop trying to make something out of nothing and give it up already. I’m not really a business owner. I’m not really a project director or designer or good at talking with clients or anything to do with what I am supposed to do. My work is crap. Total crap. No one wants to see it. No one likes it. I could never be one of the people that are talked about later as someone that contributed to something great or amazing or worthwhile because everything I do is so mediocre and inconsequential. Trying to create another place for people to get together online. Who the fuck cares? The code is crap. The design is crap. It won’t ever get done. If it does get done, it will suck and no one will want to be a part of it anyway. I’m not painting anymore but if I did, no one would buy them. And if I tried to paint again, I wouldn’t be able to. I think I’ve lost whatever talent I had before.

If I don’t get out of bed, I will never get out again.

I have spots on my arm that haven’t healed in over 6 months. I think I scratch them when I’m sleeping or nervous. I don’t know why they don’t heal. What is wrong with me? People notice them and I can see in their eyes how ugly I am. Hideous and weird. And fat. So, so fat. And my writing sucks. I write a blog that is just like a million other ones. And I write things that are of no importance to anyone. And the people that do write me, I can’t even answer. At least, not all of them. So many that I can’t even write back. So many people that need help and want someone to hear them and tell them that they are OK. And they are OK. I just don’t have the time to tell them that. I’m such a failure. I should be writing them all back so they know. But who do I think I am writing anyone? What could I possibly have to say that would make a difference? I don’t really know anything. I have no good advice. I don’t know ANYTHING. I only know what I’ve gone through and half the time, it makes no sense to me. We’re never going to have enough money. Rent will be due and we’ll be late. Projects are due and we are late. The electricity will get turned off if we don’t make it by 5pm. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t breathe.

In the shower I try to wash it all away. But I could scrub for hours and it wouldn’t work. Hours. There is just too much. Somehow, I’m supposed to go downstairs and begin my day and do stuff. Stuff that doesn’t matter and that I suck at.

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13 Year Old Hormones Boys

Tyler is my affectionate kid. He always has been. He’s the one that would fight to sit next to me on the couch and not just hold my hand, but move his thumb up and down on the side in a tiny caress when he was only 5 or 8. In the car, when we were driving 4 hours each way for drop offs at his dad’s, he would run his fingers through my hair from over the back seat to keep me awake. He gives great hugs.

But that was yesterday. Today, he’s 13. He doesn’t want to sit by me on the couch. He won’t ever reach for my hand. Kissing? His mom?? No way. I’m sure he’s had some momentous Freudian revelation. I’m positive that he’s right on track and being age appropriate and all kinds of other crap but I don’t care. I miss him.

I miss his ‘Where you goin’ mom? Can I come?’ because now, if I want to have him run an errand with me, I practically have to threaten to ground him to get his hiney in the car. And let me tell you, those outings are LOTS of fun. So much openness and bonding time, it’s crazy. We don’t talk about how he feels about life, religion and politics anymore, which we actually used to because he had an opinion on everything, and surprisingly (or not. shut up!), some of his thoughts made much more sense than mine. He doesn’t ever call me anymore. I always have to call him. He answers every phone call with ‘Holla.’ Every. Time.

I miss hearing detailed accounts of how his day at school was, complete with animated impersonations of teachers, because now it’s all fine. “How was school?” “Fine.” “How did your test go?” “Fine.” “How is Red doing?” “Fine.” “What does Jessica Alba look like?” “Fin- what?” and then a heavy siiiiiiiigggggggghhhhhh, because I am SO not funny. After which, he plugs in his shuffle and we listen to Coheed and Cambria louder than I can think or drive, which is very effective in ending any further conversation. Coheed and Cambria is the most perfect angst ridden music for boys ages 12-19. The lyrics talk about everything a teen boy is worried about. It’s so relevant.

Have I mentioned I’m a Car Singer? And, once I learn the lyrics, or sounds that closely mimic whatever the real words are with semi-correct timing, I sing loud and long. I think it kind of kills the rebellious angst he’s trying to create because it irritates him so. I’m slowly trying to reprogram him with music that I actually want to sing, like Gnarls Barkley, but it hasn’t taken yet. GB has too many lyrics that make sense and not enough talking about killing your girlfriend, I guess.

He’s a winker now. When did he turn into a winker? Tell me! He’s this close to turning into a guy with a girlfriend. And I fear I will hate her. Even if she’s super sweet. I have no choice. He wears only t-shirts and only if they say things like ‘Welcome to the GUN show’ and ‘Have you seen these GUNS?’ with arrows that point to the sleeves. At this rate, he’ll be able to teach at the Brawny Academy in a few years.

First, he cut off all his curls and then all the blue and now he’s got about 1/20th of an inch all over his head. He drenches himself in Axe, a poisonous smell that as a mother used to being accosted with it by three (3) boys, can smell on other teen boys about 2 miles away. What ever happened to smells like Fresh Scent or Old Spice? I hate Tsunami and Phoenix. Those are a natural disaster and a myth respectively, neither of which I think Ty wants to be. He wants to keep it real, yo.

In his room at his dad’s, where he has his own TV, he can watch football, use the laptop to be on his MySpace and AOL and also be on the phones, house for speaking and cell for texting, all at the same time. When I went over there last time to pick him up, he was interacting with 18 people, although perhaps not particularly effectively, since there just isn’t that much of a person to go around. And there is nothing left for me! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

And right as I’m typing this, sharing with you my own angst-ridden tale and feeling so sorry for myself and missing him and feeling my heart ache and on and on and on…………..he calls me.

“Mom.”
“What, babe?”
“Titty caca.”
“Umm, what?”
“Titicaca. It’s a lake. It’s the real name.” laughing
“Oh. Right. Cool.”
“MOM! It’s a REAL lake. In Peru. We learned about it in school.” more laughing
“Well, Ty, that is AWEsome. Thank you SO much for calling me to let me know that you learned about -”
“Boobs and poop?” more and more laughing

I don’t know what I was talking about. He does still love me.

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Dressing for Success

I dress up for my daughter. On days that I don’t see her, just showering and putting clothes on seems sufficient. Combing my hair – optional. Make-up – what? But on the days I see her, I shave, tweeze, apply makeup, coordinate clothes so that they not only match but look CUTE and make sure my nails are done. And, I curl my hair. And this just to pick her and her friend up from school and drop them off at dance.

When I was fifteen, the last person I wanted to be seen with was my mom. When I was eight, she was the most beautiful person in the entire world to me. I would sneak into her bedroom and look at all the wonderful things on her vanity and pretend to be her. I helped myself to the mysterious bottles inside the cabinet that smelled like her and brushed my hair out, looking at each angle and beyond in the infinity mirrors. By the time my image got so small that you couldn’t see it, my eyes would shift and I would work my way back to the stool I was sitting on. Yep, still not my mom.

Somewhere between then and age fifteen, my mom became one of my least favorite people. And she was SO dumb. She knew nothing about me and my life. She only wanted to hold me back and make me wear stupid clothes and go to stupid church activities with a whole room full of other people just like her that had no idea about real life. I didn’t want to go places with her. I only spoke to her when it was absolutely necessary. Basically, she had nothing to offer me. And, she wore polyester pants and floral print shirts. I mean, c’mon.

It took me until my late 20s to grow up and figure out how great my mom is. I look back on all those wasted years and feel a little gypped. She has so much wisdom to share and she’s quick witted and funny. We could have been hanging out all this time. Think of all the stuff I missed while being so dense. I mean, c’mon!

The fact that my daughter, who is fifteen, chooses to invite me into her world and routinely asks me to hang out with her, is amazing to me. I feel like I have been given this gift and I cherish it. And so, I dress for her. I want her to feel good about how I look when she takes me places. I would never want her to feel embarrassed and have that be the reason she doesn’t want me along.

I’m sure there are other reasons she might not want to include me, like when I start to sing to Bananarama while shopping in the RiteAid or try clothes on over my clothes so I don’t have to go to the dressing room on the other side of the store or when her friends want to invite boys over so they can make out on the couch and I just happen to speak to that girl’s mom totally, completely by chance that afternoon and mention that the boyfriend is coming over and she’s welcome to stop by at about 11pm and bring me that cd she borrowed. It’s a cruel summer, man. THAT kind of stuff – totally acceptable reasons for her not to want to invite me to hang.

Sometimes what I think looks good and what she thinks looks good are slightly different. I’ll come down the stairs and ask her what she thinks. Ever the diplomat, she’ll cock her head to the side, put on a little smile and say, ‘Pretty good! Ummm, do you have a shirt that is a little less old-woman looking and a little more, oh I don’t know, cute?’ And in that moment, I want to apologize to my mother for making fun of her floral-print shirts. But, I smile at my daughter and invite her to come and help me pick something else. After rejecting the midriff showing and too-tight selections, we inevitably come across something we can both agree on. It does not involve flowers.

But, no matter what clothes I wear or how cute I curl my hair and how much I beg it to stop doing that odd and distracting swoosh thing near my right ear, I am acutely aware that I am one very lucky mom to be invited into the inner sanctum of teenage girls. I get to hear about how they really feel about sex and drinking and drugs and cliques and school and life and politics. I am continually surprised at how much some of them seem to feel about things that I hadn’t even heard of at their age, much less have an opinion on.

I am by no means The Cool Mom. I will call your parents if you use my daughter for an excuse to have sex with your boyfriend at the park. And, I will tell you that even though you like to call me Mom, and give me a hug when you see me, you are totally missing out if you don’t hang out with your own mom, who loves you like nobody’s business and cares more about you than anyone else could in the entire world. And possibly, wears polyester pants, but, dude. C’mon!

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Further Proof I'm not Crazy

Remember the spider leg in the shower? This morning I woke up in a start because I felt a stirring on my arm. And lo and behold there was a spider near my shoulder. A mere breath away from my ear where it could have burrowed and laid babies in a white wispy sack nestled near my eardrum. I would have been able to hear all 500 of those babies stirring and waking and looking forward to pillaging my brain. And spelling words like WITH NEW RADIANT ACTION and PIG. After I bolted upright, I swept him off my arm and onto the carpet in one deft motion which, frankly, I can’t believe I pulled off a mere .12 seconds after I was dreaming about chucking logs from one pile to the next with Carrot Top in the Adirondack mountains and singing ‘Dinah woncha blow? Dinah woncha blow? Dinah woncha blow your horororn?’. (?)

When he hit the carpet, the spider and I stared at each other. It was a Matrix moment, as I reached over his head to the nightstand to deftly grab the magazine. My plan? Smash the crap out of him using the rolled up pages of The New Yorker. It was touch-n-go for an agonizing few moments as he attempted to wrangle the magazine away from me but in the end, articles about fashion and upcoming events in New York won out. He was dead. I was panting. And the mangled New Yorker was never to be read again.

And then I peed on him. Isn’t that what everyone does? You scoop their bodies up with a tissue, throw them in the toilet and then realize you have to go pee? You don’t want to waste a flush. I think it might be a left over ritual from when we were cavemen and had to pummel our enemies with clubs. I’m sure we peed on them when we were done.