From my Wayback Memory

Sibling murderous intent.

I remember wanting to hurt him. Wanting to make him dead, wanting him to die forever. I can assume he felt the same way. The way we would tear and beat each other. From mimicked WWF moves to ninja kicks it was to dominate, to hurt to kill. But as soon as someone got hurt then hurtee was "just playing" and the hurter was the malicious one. But the hurter did feel remorse after the act, but in the moment of the attack all intent to hurt was there on both sides.

My defense was to bite and scratch. Stereotypical female response, but it work and what else did my pudgey body have against an older, more athletic brother? He never bit or scratched with intent, he used more blunt striking. Hitting my head on to the cement floor, kicking, punching, sitting and suffocating. I can't even count how many times I cried out, "I can't breathe." He usually replied, "But you can talk." But I couldn't breath mentally, I felt the gravity pulling this body into my chest and the panic of knowing soon the breathing could and would stop. He always stopped before it did.

I hated the fighting.

Seeing

My eyes are hazy. Like looking through dry contacts or dirty glasses. Or both. When

I put the OPTIVE drops in my eyes focus a little better. People keep asking me if it

was worth it. I tell them, so far yes and my eyes still need to heal completely to

see where they land vision-wise. I am a fuzzy 20/20 right now. I do have a little of

the light halos and glaring. I don't know what ghosting is but I though I had it

yesterday when I saw a being float by my left eye, but that might have been an

actual ghost.

I should have asked Echo Bodine, she sees ghosts. I saw her on Saturday at

Border's doing a book signing. I think she was positioned awkwardly in the store.

She was at a table right at the entrance to the checkout. I see the thought behind

the placement, to get the most people past her. But people walking to the checkout line won't

stop to chat or buy a book when they already have made their purchasing decisions.

And if there are people behind them in line, they will not want to hold up the line,

it is Minnesota.

I didn't talk to her. I think I wanted to. I read a book of her's. Maybe she

only had that one there or the others. I only read one. I didn't know if you could

talk to authors unless you were having them sign the book. No one else was talking

to her; I assume that was her brother at the table with her. I overheard one of the

Border's employees talking to her about Facebook.

I didn't know what to say to her. I smiled and said and awkward, "Hello" to

her brother/male companion as I passed.

Obviously she doesn't read minds.

Vampires Make the Best Lovers

Who's not in love with a vampire. For real, who isn't? I am through two books of
the Twilight series. I saw the movie first. Then I had to read the books, just like
everyone else. Stephanie Meyer, she can really channel the teenage unlitmate crush.
The strong, handsome, eyes-only-for-you, protective, strong, intelligent, romantic,
soul-mated boy.

But who isn't in love with a vampire?

Voldemort.

Who would win between Edward Cullen and Voldemort?

Voldemort already shut down this battle. Remember Cedric Diggory? Yep, Edward Cullen. He didn't even get a shot off and Voldemort took care of him.

Voldemort. Bad Guy of the Century.

Aside from the nose thing Mr. Fiennes is just that Mr. Fine. Robert Pattison, yes, indeed he was chiseled from the hotness tree, but can he rock the absence of a schnoze?

Lasik Vision Correction: Not so Elective After All

My upcoming Lasik eye surgery is a matter of survival. As an emergency kit stowed in a hallway closet is peace of mind, my laser vision will be one step to ultimate survival. If the Armageddon happens, I will be able to see. And being able to see, will make me a superior being to those that will have to rely on contacts and glasses in a do-over earth. Contacts will dry out, irritate eyes and have no place to store overnight. Saline solution will become a crutch currency and the wreckages of Walgreen's will be never alone for the constant shuffling of debris from the ocularly dependent.
Those with glasses can match my stride if their frames were not blown off their face in the blast. But soon the glasses will break or be misplaced or be blown off the face.
With my eyesight, others will join my coven of survivors. As their leader, I will reach out and befriend other laser vision survivors with tales of my own elective corrective vision surgery. And we will be friends. Eagle eye friends. I will befriend the remaining 2 eagles on barren earth and my eyes will speak to them. My laser vision eyes will communicate to the soul of the eagle. And then I will know why it is bald.

Fountain of Youth or Hey! Pizza Face!

A sucker is born every minute and happy birthday to me. Now a month into my 25th year and as people older than myself like to point out, "you're a quarter of a century now," I am well aware that I am supposed to or at least pretend to be an adult. But what do adults do, I wonder? Watch the news? Check, I can't help that since a certain date of alarm we've all be very aware of breaking news with the 24hr news networks. What else am I suppose to do? Get old, I'm down with that, or at least I thought I was.
Peering into my toothpaste-splattered mirror, my vanity erupted into worry. Do I have to get a face-lift? How will I pay for that? Wait a minute; I don't even want to go! As quoted myself after the infamous 2001 knee reconstruction, "surgery sucks." Quicker than Quakers, my worry lines eased into a self-assured smug, I realized I had already turned the clock so far back it was a sundial. Across my Irish/German/English/Danish and foremost Scottish cheekbones stood the fountain of youth. I am the proud owner, shall I say curator or cultivator of a magnificent crop of sturdy and immovable blackheads, occasionally visited by their much beefier cousins; pimples, zits, blemishes and as the British say spots. My skin looks more the pop-star-lusting pre-teen than any card-carrying twenty-something. On the edge of embracing my chronic torrential acne, I balked, did the years and dollars I spent attempting to grind, medicate, squeeze and, my favorite,
visualize them away mean nothing? What about the hours of recreational dermatological excavations in the shower? I stood in light boxes for you, endured freezing treatments and was filled full of years of problematic pills to eradicate my acne. And yes, I did the Accutane and no, it didn't work. But I did enjoy the novel length waivers and cautions I had to sign in order to take the drug. My developing years were plagued by my constant epidermal eruptions, causing clichéd self esteemed. Now I take no "miracle pills" and may have a little too much self-esteem (if that's possible). Surprised at myself with the apparent lack of concern for my destined to be defective complexion, I realized I was an adult; scratch that, a quarter centenarian. I guess I had perspective, and I always thought that meant a vanishing point. And it did because what's a zit on my forehead? Nothing, if anything just another reason to be asked for my ID and
questioned about its authenticity.
I can say now that time was the answer; the battlefield of my face has been quiet. Occasionally bumps rise again like a long forgotten rebellion, threatening forests of hair follicles. Relatively soon, they retreat, the relinquishing their strategic pore holdings and leaving their protest signs in the sebum. What do I have to do to maintain this pallor peace? Toxic astringents? Benzoly peroxide bombings? Slaughters with salicylic acid?

Go Blog Go!

Check it out! Unearthed from forgotten depths of the internets, Go Blog Go, my first blog has been located and re-mastered with dolby digital! Check out me from 2006ish!

Word

Concourse B, Gate B10

I am 28 years old and I packed a suitcase full of dirty laundry for Thanksgiving and that is not a smart metaphor. I have four chapsticks in my plastic 1-quart bag of 3 oz containers with one lip-gloss, a full sized deodorant and mouth sore pain reliever gel. Looks like I am anticipating a post-turkey tryptophan-laced mass-makeout session with questionable oral health participants.

I packed a toothbrush. It didn't fit in the 1-quart bag I picked up in the security checkpoint line. I know it isn't liquid and didn't need to be screen separately but its friends were in there, you know, the mouth sore gel and the horde of lip applicants. I put the toothbrush on the bottom of my purse. Figured that would be cleaner than placing it directly on the conveyer belt through the x-ray machine. What am I supposed to do with all my toiletry accoutrements now that they have to be segregated by viscosity? My glasses, contact case and toothbrush have nowhere to live now that the pastes and ointments have to suffocate in a Ziploc. So they run free. Free as the movie stubs from The Dark Knight that haunt the corners of my purse. I suppose they could go in a case. A case for the contact case. A case for the eyeglasses. A case for the toothbrush. Too many cases. Toothbrushes are always gross anyway. If it looks dirty later, I guess I'll throw
it away.

The girl in front of me in the security line has a brand new American Girl Doll, looks like Christmas came early. I know it's new because the doll hair is still braided in the oft-imitated never-replicated sleekness of a factory fresh $90 credit charge. She got the Swedish one. Kjersten or something, there is a "J" in the name, a silent "J."

Four moving sidewalks, two escalators and a tram ride to my concourse. Concourse B is hidden out back, that's where they keep the tiny planes. Secret tiny planes. I bet we will be stealth in our arrival to ND. Invisible even. In our tiny plane. Tiny secret plane.