Its that time of year, the food, the gifts, the sress and hustle and bustle. Family dinners, often twice a day (!?) When did our family get so big? Driving back and forth across the city delivering gifts. Whom have I forgotten this year? Are we sending out christmas cards? Are we giving something to the plumber? Finding a dress for christmas eve, buying food, shuffeling snow, trying to get the car to start... It it too much?

This morning I lit a fire in the fireplace, and poured my morning coffee. I put on som soothing jazz and then I took in the christmas tree and placed it by the window in my livingroom. And as it warmed, the smell from the tree came towards me, and like a delicate touch it caressed me, relaxed me and remided me of christmas past, the ones in my childhood. And suddenly there was no more stress.

Merry Christmas!

#1

Aftermath

I’m shell-shocked. The results of my actions are starting to sink in. What am I doing with my life? Why did I do this?

As I woke this morning in my hotel room, this unfamiliar space, it took about a minute to recall the previous day. And as it ran through my mind like a movie reel, I got this feeling like I was watching a car accident, one I was unable to prevent. It seemed as though yesterday was lived by a totally different person, like my body had played host to an alien being. Certainly all its actions was quite unfamiliar to me.

I got up and took a shower, feeling numb and cold, the steaming hot water was much needed to clear my mind. I tried my hardest not to think further than shower – rinse –repeat, fearing it would call forth a highly unwelcome panic-attack. Toweling myself dry with stone hard hotel-towels with one hand and picking out clothes of my bag with another, I multitasked as much as I could to try focusing on anything but my pounding hart. But as I packed my bag to go out to get breakfast, I could not help looking at my mobile, and the 37 missed called that reminded me of what I had left.

Come to think of it, ordering that espresso, will probably not help my nerves. But I desperately need the caffeine, feeling worn out after that huge breakfast I just had. Nothing wrong with my appetite I remind myself and smile as if that is the upside to outweigh all of this. But it is actually a comforting feeling, this fullness, that I so rarely allow myself. And, come to think of it, it is actually not a bad feeling to sit her with my espresso, looking at the walls surrounding the Vatican and having no place to be. Nobody even knows me here. And I know no one. I don’t even know my day, the week or the restof year, since the path I was on have been so abrubtly ended, and a new path lies undicovered ahead of me.

I only have right now, this moment, and this moment fills me with a sense of satisfaction. A huge sense of well being. Like I have been in a race, and this is the goal, that I am now allowed to rest. The feeling of content rolls over me and makes me think of the desert after a rainstorm, that first morning cigarette and the pleasant feeling after sex. Could I have ever guessed how god it would feel to take one self out of the rat race, and if I did would I have done it sooner?

I put my feet up on the chair across from me, and turn my face to the sun, and contemplate about ordering another espresso.

An impulse

I am many things. I am strong, creative, social, stubborn, and efficient. I am a daughter and a sister, an aunt and a grandchild. I am 28 years old, single, sometimes lonely and a bit fed up. But one thing I am not, is impulsive. If one would ask around, ask my friends and family, for one word to describe me, I bet you a million bucks that the word “impulsive” would never get mentioned. I can’t help it; I don’t like not being in control, taking chances or risks. What if it hurts me? What if it breaks me? I always keep my eye on the ball, always thinking of what I have to lose, not what I can gain from a little impulsiveness in my life.

Yet… yet I now find myself standing in the middle of the street in Rome. Suitcase in hand. Trying to find a nice place to stay. For how long, I don’t know. I don’t even know why. When I woke today I could never have anticipated the outcome of this day. But now I am here, in a foreign country, were I have never been before. I quit my job. I left my apartment. I called mom and said goodbye and at the airport I decided to take the first plane to anywhere. And anywhere, faith would have it, was Rome.

This is truly the first day of the rest of my life.

Dreams

It’s that kind of dream that keeps running in and out of your head all day, but fades a little bit every time. A detail lost each time you try to recall it and wonder about the meaning of it. At the end of the day most of the dream is lost and all you have left is how it made you feel; scared, or happy or sad, maybe in love or burning with hate, anguish or victory. And you ask yourself why your subconscious pulled out of its hat this particular dream and why it wanted you to feel like this.

It is ten o’clock in the morning and I can still taste my dream as it lingers, like mist before my eyes, like a movie shown over and over again. At the tip of my tongue it tastes sweet, but becomes somewhat bitter the more I taste it. The warm, swelling feeling of love is replaced by wonder. Why did I dream this? Does my subconscious feel the need to mock me with what I can’t have? Or is it telling me to be patient, it will come?

I still feel its weight in my arms as I reach for it.

Wallpaper

She was wallpaper. Or so she imagined. At every party or out to dinner with her friends she would be the one blending in to the background, merging with grey and becoming invisible. Unnoticed. A stranger or two would perhaps walk by , but without looking in her direction they would pass and go on being merely strangers. Like ships passing in the night. Her friends on the other hand would hook up, for a night or two, or for more long term relationships. And they would fall out of this world of ones and zeroes and become twosomes, the some ones. And yet she was still a no one in the background. No matter how few people she went out with she never got noticed. And soon she did not go out at all. She was wallpaper.

She had evolved and gotten used to being this shade of grey, like asphalt. She understood that by accepting who she was, she was surely amplifying her own social status, or lack thereof. Even worse, her hole person was affected by this; always with her head held down, letting her hair cover her face, always dressing in grey or black, the urban jungle camouflage, moving alongside the walls from corner to corner. Sometimes days would pass without her talking to anyone. Scared of losing her mind she would talk to her cat just to recall how to have a conversation, even just a monologue, how to relate to another living, breathing thing. Sadly she had realized that talking to a cat would mean that she had already lost her mind.

It was the loneliest of days; Sunday, and in spite of a chilling winter breeze she went out to buy the newspaper, just to see people. Just to talk to the man in the newspaper kiosk, even if he would not even look up from his work, or at all see her, not really, even if all he would say to her was; “That will be one-twenty”, and she would give him the money and take the newspaper and bid him farewell. Even if that was all, those crumbs were more than she had gotten all week.

On her way back, making her way through the people standing in queue outside the theater, not seeing her, not making way for her to pass, her eye caught a glimpse of steel blue eyes. A tall, handsome man stood out from all the rest with his beautiful eyes as blue as ice, yet warm looking. He caught her eye not because he was beautiful but because he literally caught her eye. Their eyes locked for a second, what felt like eternity and he saw. He saw her. She had stopped walking and stood frozen in his gaze. The masses flowed around them like seaweed under thundering waves, back and forth, but she stood, like a pillar of salt, firm and forceful.

It lasted no more than a heartbeat, a second, as the man broke contact ad stepped into a waiting cab. As he drove passed her, surely forever lost, she was drowning in a clash of contradicting emotions. Fear, adrenaline, excitement, joy and loneliness. Everything pounded at once through her body and mind, from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head. Like bulls in Pamplona pounding deathly through the streets it charged through her soul. With unease she took a faulty step, shuttered and with haste she walked home and locked the door behind her, suddenly feeling like the only person in the whole, wide world.

Weeks would pass, but the memory of being noticed left a trace of a smile on her face. A crocked smile like she was remembering something funny. At least that was what people who noticed her thought. They would see this ethereal being in a black winter coat and a red scarf, her hair in brown waves falling down her back, and her brown almond eyes seeing passed them and beyond to something too far away for them to grasp.

Her eyes kept searching her surroundings everywhere she went. Cafes, restaurants, shops, the sidewalk, the park, and back to the theater. Ignoring the interested glances from every other man, she had only eyes for the one she had seen weeks before. Like a drug ebbing out of her system she got more and more desperate for a new meet.

And then suddenly. On the busy sidewalk swarming with its grey masses of nobodies, she saw him. He was walking towards her, with what she perceived as determination in his steps. His eyes, oh, how she had missed his eyes! Her hart beat heavily with anticipation as she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, walking towards him. He looked straight at her, ignoring everybody else, bumping shoulders with them every two steps, but never loosing his way.
As they closed distance, her cheeks turned red with embarrassment over how desperate she had longed for him. Longed for him to rest his eyes upon her soul again. To see her, really see her, helping her to step out of the shadows. Guiding her to wrestle loose from the wall, limb from limb, and becoming visible.

A tapping sound caught her attention. One-two-tap, one-two-tap. People were moving out of the way from him who had her hart, and their distance closed in. His icy blue eyes were a mere arms length away when she, as their eye contact broke, noticed the source of the tapping-sound. And as the earth shattered in a million pieces he walked passed her with a white stick held in his right hand tapping the asphalt every two step.

With a one-two-tap she was wallpaper again.

One step for mankind?

It has been on my mind all weekend. It has made me angry and frustrated, sad and afraid every time I have allowed the thought to creep up from the back of my mind and forward to my consciousness. I just can’t shake it, and maybe I’m not supposed to. I am after all human.

I read in the paper this Saturday about a thirty year old woman being raped by three men seen fleeing from their crime. I am sad to say that in my country, which allegedly is the best country in the world to live in according to the UN, assault and rape has become a common crime happening way to often for comfort.

Rape is a violation of body, privacy, freedom, mind and soul. It is taking something from another person using violence, scarring them for life. I get a lump in my throat just by thinking about it. It is, I believe, the worst thing anyone can do to another person. And to do this, in stripping this victim of all that is holy and tearing down their safe world and leaving them with nothing but fear, in a body they no longer own for themselves, you would have to be a monster. A rapist must be without conscience and humanity. How is it even possible to do this to someone? And when it is done, how can one live with himself?

In the cases that we have seen in media this last year it has too often been reported that there have been two, three or even four rapists in one assault. My mind keeps going back to this summer, when a girl, twenty years or so, got assaulted and raped in her own home, by two men. And this other girl, barely eighteen gets pulled from the road and into a van with four men. What monsters, what filthy cowards! What awful creature who thinks it can do this to another human being. Grown up men who rape a defenseless girl in an act of misplaced domination. Don’t they, themselves, have mothers? Sisters? Daughters? A hart?!

I hope they have nightmares of the victim screaming, I hope they see her eyes every time they close their own. I hope they are tormented every day for the rest of their life, like she surely is.

The punishment for said crime is ridiculous! It underestimates the worth of a girl, of her life and her freedom, her peace of mind. She is ruined for life, and IF the rapist get caught (90% of all rapes are not reported), and IF he gets convicted (the police dismissed eight out of ten cases), he is sentenced for just a few years in prison even though the law opens for a sentence up to ten years (twenty one years if there are more than one rapist). The punishment for the victim is harder and longer than that for the rapist! The victim’s punishment is for life! They claim that in my country there is gender equality. But if that were true, I imagine the punishment for rape would be much harder.

I wish for a superhero. I imagine him, cape and all, going out into the night, saving my sisters and punishing the evil. I wish for humanity to grow in our cold society and for us, everyone, to take to the streets in protest of what is happing. Not just for the victims in my country (eight - to sixteen thousand every year) but all over the world. For all the women, men and children who have been robbed of their self-worth and left in shame, and for their loved ones picking up the pieces. A march against rapists who take, with no moral, something they have no right to take. Who do it hiding in the night, in cars waiting, at war using it as a weapon, in pairs of two and three, like cowards, like beats of man. Like the roaches they have become, I want them to feel not even worthy to be crushed under our shoes. How can we allow this to continue? To read about it and not care enough, to know and yet ignore the frustration and hate, the anger and the fear.

My street is unsafe for me to walk in at night. I hate the men who made it like this and the system who allowed it to continue. And I hate us for not rising up against it. For this I am sorry I am only one..

In a heartbeat

Old Mrs. Holden was the neighborhood watch out. To the neighbors, most days only seen as a head with peering eyes in the window of the yellow house at the end of the road. All day she would spend looking out the window, a cup of tea in hand. Watching out for strangers, making sure the neighbors’ grandchild didn’t kick his football in to her roses or anyone littering on her property and noting the coming and goings of everyone who set foot in to her street. From the time the sun rose until it set she would sit in the window watching the neighbors living their lives. The seasons were changing as time passed before her very eyes. Like sand it slid by her, through her fingers. But although time seemed ever flowing, her own life, on the other hand, had come to an abrupt halt when her beloved husband passed away.

One morning, after fifty-two years of companionship, her husband Dan, had died. She remembers nudging him as she got out of bed and calling back at him that today it would be eggs and bacon for breakfast. She did not think much of it when he didn’t answer back. All the years they had been married, she had learned not to bother him too much before he had had his first cigarette of the day. But the rest of the time he was the warmest, most loving husband, brother and father anyone could wish for. Mrs. Holden made the breakfast, got the paper and poured the coffee before she called on Dan again. The silence that answered back made her hart skip a beat, her lungs locking the air inside. In some way she imagined already knowing, and as she ran upstairs as fast as her bad knees would carry her, she had begun sobbing loudly.

What followed passed as in a daze. Dan lying pale in bed, his eyes looking past her and beyond to another world, to an angel calling his name, or maybe to death as it came to take him. The ambulance, the doctors, her daughter and her son-in-law. The funeral. It passed by as if she was watching it on TV, not really being involved in any way, unsure that her hart would ever start beating again after it had stopped that dreadful Sunday morning. Not actually caring for it to do so.

She suddenly found herself alone in a dark, empty house, sleeping on the couch because she was afraid of the big, empty bed, staying inside all day scared of the world that had gone from warm, safe and familiar, to cold and scary and big. Like it was rotting before her eyes the world grew even darker as its colour, its allure, withered. But most of all, Mrs. Holden was waiting; waiting for death to come take her to Dan, take her home. She was full, as if life had been this huge meal in which she had eaten greedily, but now suddenly was felling full up. And though the dinner-party went on, she had pushed her chair from the table, risen, and was waiting impatiently under the green, glowing exit-sign.

From the moment she had met Dan, properly introduced as a son of a friend of her aunt, she had openly put her hart in his hands. Unheard of at it was in those days, she had cast coquetry aside, not willing to waste time fulfilling her destiny as she so clearly saw it; becoming Dan’s wife. Marriage followed a few months later and as pearls on a string, predictable and quite ordinary, house and children, even a picket fence, followed in its natural order. But as ordinary as their life seemed to be, their love was nothing more than extraordinary. It was that kind of love that made love-songs great, and novels read by thousands. Dan was her lover and her life partner and life did not, could not, go on without him.

March 22nd started out as any other day, and they all started the same way nowadays. She got up, put on Dan’s blue robe and inhaled its aroma. It had been several months since the funeral, and his smell was all gone from this woolly piece of garment. She reminded herself to get another piece of his clothing from the hamper, fearing that she would forget how Dan had smelled. Or worse, forget him all together. Her daily, monotonous routine started with a quick trip to the bathroom and like a robot she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, careful not to look in the mirror, scared of the old woman with the empty eyes that would look back at her. Next it was the kitchen, making herself the usual cup of tea with one sugar and a drop of milk and a piece of bread with cottage cheese. She put that and today’s newspaper on a tray and carried it to the small mahogany table by the window. She sat down just in time to see Jenny Leman kiss her husband, Thomas, goodbye. Her eyes instantly started to water up by the very sight of this familiar sign of affection, so she turned her head to the right awaiting young Robert taking his dog for a walk before school, always precise. What a precious boy, Mrs. Holden thought to herself, taking a sip of her tea and looking down the road for the boy.

What she saw made her hart rush to her throat, the porcelain cup sliding form her fingers and shattering at her feet. In Briarsons garden, right by the big oak tree, stood Death. His black coat blowing in the wind, his reap hook by his side and his dark hooded head facing her house, her window. And Mrs. Holden instantly knew that Death had finally come for her too. He was waiting for her, and now she could go be with Dan. Her feelings was those of relief, and calm, welcoming the thought that it would be over soon, that she and Don would be together again. Her hart finally made its presence clear as it started beating feverish. If death came for her now, she had so much to organize!

She had to clean the house, so it would look presentable for when they found her. And she too needed to get cleaned up, she suddenly realized. Would she have time to go to the hairdresser, she wondered. Her hair was a mess, looking, she imagined, like an abandoned bird nest. Maybe she could also buy a new dress for the funeral? And what about all Dan’s things? She needed to give it away to charity. She felt a little embarrassed that she hadn’t mustered the strength to do that yet. Certainly Death would grant her time to call her daughter, which whom she hadn’t spoke n with since the funeral. She needed desperately to apologize for not being there for her daughter, for not remembering that her daughter had lost a father and, to some extent, also a mother.

Would she have time for a quick visit, and maybe see her grandson one more time? The boy must have grown so much since the last time she saw him. When was that?, she tried to recall. He had Dan’s eyes and the dimple on his right cheek he got from her. He was five now, and already a big boy. She suddenly realized how much she had missed holding him and telling him stories. She missed the smell of his soft skin, lemon and milk, and his chubby hands holding on to her old, frail fingers.

Oh, but death would give her time to do all this?! And to go see a lawyer, off course. She needed to draw up her last will and make sure that her old friend Julia got the green emerald necklace she had always envied. Come to think of it, she had not spoken to Julia since Dan’s funeral. Avoiding even her best friend, she had pulled the plug on her phone, and hid behind locked doors whenever, if ever, anyone should find their way up her driveway. I hope everything is well with Julie, Mrs. Holden thought to herself, remembering how frail Julia had looked the last time they saw each other.

She stood up and knocked on the window, calling attention to herself, signalling to the hooded figure outside, with a finger tapping her watch, that she needed time, more time. Could he come back tomorrow maybe? Or next week? Come to think of it, one more Christmas with the family would be nice, and she and Julie had always talked about taking a photography-class one summer in Paris. Could your reason with death, she asked herself.

She kept knocking on the window, but Death did not move. He doesn’t understand my signals, Mrs. Holden thought. I must go talk to him. She stepped over the broken pieces of her tea cup and walked quickly to the hallway. Hastily she put on her grey slippers and stepped out as the early morning sun rose higher in the sky, its light caressing her face. In her mind, as she hastily walked down the sidewalk towards Death, she decided that she would just explain to him that although she had waited and prayed for him to come take her, she had just a few tiny things she needed to do before she went. A few days she wanted to live life again. Just a few. Maybe a year or two. Surely Death would be reasonable?

Her steps had slowed, her mind wandered and when the neighbour’s dog jumped towards her on the other side of the fence, barking aggressively, it gave her a sudden start and she leaped backwards. Her left slipper slid of her foot as she lost her footing and fell into the road, just as Mr. Collins backed his big truck hastily out of his driveway. Always late for work his reckless driving made him a menace everyone kept an eye out for. She felt a sharp pain as the truck hit her at full speed and threw her back against the fence and on to the sidewalk.

As she lied on the pavement, her life bleeding out of her, her hart fighting for one more second, one more breath, she mustered a last effort and turned her head towards the place Death had stood earlier. The question was written in her eyes; why hadn’t he given her more time? What she saw erased the question mark burning in her eyes, and replaced it with astonishment. Were Death had stood, now hanged a big black canvas, caught in the branches of the old oak tree, half hidden by the butting spring leaves. As the wind rose, it caught hold of the canvas and Mrs. Holden saw Death reappear as she had seen it from her window earlier.

Mrs. Holden’s hart had finally stopped. Her blood coloured the black pavement red as it folded our around her body like angel wings. Her last thought had been one of regret. Regret for the months spent by the window, watching as life went on and she did not. Now, in an instant it had all changed, and Mrs Holden had gotten what she had prayed for, just in time to realise that she didn’t want it at all. A heavy breeze came and took hold of the canvas, freed it from the branches' grasp and flew it away, far far away.

Muse in a box

A little brass bell rings as I push the door open, alarming the shopkeeper of my arrival. He turns from the shelves and smiles at me. He is tall and thin with dark, black hair, and brown eyes. I notice he has a warm smile, and he reminds me somewhat of a librarian. His soft voice fills the small space as he greets me with a heartily “Hello”, followed by the usual, “May I help you?” I meet his smile, and with a quick glance around onto the many shelves, I nod, realizing I will never find what I am looking for on my own. He gestures at the counter and we both move towards it. As he walks behind it, putting the old wood and glass bureau that serves at a counter between us, he asks, “Are you looking for something special?” I answer honestly that I don’t know what I want, what I need.

In my mind I add that this was an impulse, suddenly seeing the shop where I have never noticed a shop before, squeezed in between a pharmacy and a hairdresser. And the sign, in bold antique-looking letters, reading “Inspiration”, found my attention. And inspiration is just what I need, I thought to myself. The shop, with its big, dusty, windows and brown, frail-looking wooden door instantly called to me, and welcomed me in. Going in I did not know what to expect and I was both excited and nervous.

My trail of thought is interrupted by the shopkeeper who is waiving his hands and motioning bizarre gestures while he explains, “We just got in some more inspiration yesterday which is all the rave nowadays. I can hardly keep up with the demand!” He smiles at me, his hands frozen mid-air, and clearly awaiting my not-so-enthusiastic: “And what is hot these days?” “Oh my, haven’t you noticed?”, he asks rhetorically. “Vampires, baby!” He leans forward over the counter, way across my comfort-zone and almost shouts it out, as if I was hard of hearing. He continues his tirade with his arms waving flamboyantly, “The supernatural put in natural context. Like its ordinary. Reality meets sub-reality”, he lowers his voice and adds, “It’s sensuality and it’s sexy, the danger, the biting. What is forbidden is always what we lust for.” His cheeks turn red by the very thought, and he straitens up, dusting his shirt for some imaginary dirt, clearing his throat.

“I don’t think I want to write about vampires”, I tell him. I look around for words to explain what I want, not sure what it really is. “I just..”, I begin, “I just want to write about life and love, small reflections of the world as I see it. I need inspiration to create characters and bring them to life in a short story or essay. I miss the feeling of words flowing effortlessly, and the heart pounding with haste because I know I’m creating“, my voice fades, and my eyes catches hold of his, awaiting his reply. I feel I need to add, “You see, I’m not a writer, I just do it like on a hobby-basis. To relax, to flee from the world a bit. You understand?”

His eyes light up as if turned on by the light bulb I imagine going off over his head, and he starts gesturing enthusiastically again. “I have just what you need!” He walks quickly to a small table in the middle of the room with a lot of different boxes on it. He picks up a light blue box with a thin white ribbon on it, not bigger than a jewelry box. “This one is perfect for you”, he says as he walks towards me, holding out the box carefully like he was carrying a precious gem, or a raving mad cat. Picturing just that, I smile. My eyes are locked on the box, and though I still don’t know what it contains, I already feel the need to own it. I want it. “This is inspiration for beginners”, he tells me. “It’s a bit of everything; love-stories, science-fiction, mystery and poetry, to mention a few. This is inspiration for short-stories. This is”, he adds solemnly, “inspiration for you”.

I’m instantly hooked and without thinking of what it costs, I reply, “I’ll take it!” He rings it up and hands me the box in a grey paper bag with the picture of a pen and a piece of paper on it. I take it and a bit embarrassed I ask, “How do I do it? How does it work?” He smiles at me, suddenly calm and serious. “You go home, and open the box. Make sure you are alone. And then you start writing, and inspiration will fill you with words and joy will ring clear in your heart as you write your stories of love and loss, and the world as you see it. The inspiration will roll over your mind as a tidal wave washes the shore, and brings with it the bounty of the deep sea. It will leave you as a lover leaving your bed at night, the sheets still warm from his skin and you blossoming with the sense of satisfaction and rebirth” He exhales as I hold my breath with the want for everything he just described.

I thank him for all his help and patience, and turn to walk away. As I walk out the door, he calls out at me, “Come back and see me next month! I’m getting in a supply of folklore inspiration which is all the rave in America now!”

Over and over and over again

The routine is killing me. Over and over again I repeat and re-do everything. Once a day, once a month, every second month. My work has become this effortless repeat of routines. Efficient? Yes, for sure. Creative? Fun? Engaging? Hell, no.

It kills creativity. Budgets. Sales-statistics. Accounting. Black and white. All is black and white. And repetitive. I am in a roundabout, going in circles, trying to catch my tale. My mind is rotting, floating effortless above it all, not having to try, to work hard at anything no more.

I see myself as a robot in a booth. Working on the things that never end, the job that is never done. Next month it’s all the shit all over again. And again. I will someday turn to dust in front of this computer, with my pencil and calculator by my side. Is this a career? Pushing numbers from one column to another for the rest of my life?

I realize I can with 99 % certainty predict what I am doing on this exact date, two, five or ten years from now. I am slowly losing vitality, curiosity and creativity.

I do crosswords on Saturdays, thinking that my effortless job and rotting brain will lead me to senility if not challenged. And with huge disappointment I realize I am loosing word by the minute, my vocabulary is leaking synonyms by the bucket.

I need a change. I am scared of change. Terrified. Now I am best at what I do. I am on time, and don’t do mistakes and I know everything there is to know. Change will make all that go away.

I have to put my confidence on the scale and weigh it against….Against everything else. Especially, I think, against my sanity.

But for now I have to go balance the interim accounts…

Anger Management

She is the tiniest person I know of. In fact, I bet I can pick her up between and put her in a thimble.

She is the most selfish, ignorant, shallow, hollow, mean person I have ever met. I hate the fact that she upsets me so. I hate that for the first time in my life, I can’t see past those small ugly feelings that reside in the dark corners, that I can’t find one (ONE!) good thing about a person.

She is the only person that makes me have to count to ten whilst speaking with her. I thought it was only in movies people did that, but one cannot fully appreciate this until one finds oneself dizzy with anger, hands shaking.

One – and you want to kill her.

Two – you decide to let her live.

Tree – you remember how the breath again.

Four – you imagine yourself hitting her

Five – you realize she will probably kick your ass. Psychopaths are unusually strong.

Six – take a step back.

Seven . Time to breathe again.

Eight – Rise above.

Nine- Be the bigger person.

Ten – Walk away…. Or slam the door in her face.