Ch. 11

Nickel was at the base of our stairs with a big box at his feet. “Finally,” he said as I walked up fresh from my fallout with the Ostrich, still sweaty. “Carry this, would you?” He was up the stairs with the door closed before I could spit out the dry chocolate muffin and debate.

I lugged the burden, rang it on the rail, and nearly tipped back as the contents rattled and clanked with every stair. The box had been changed to nondescript cardboard. “What is it?” I asked.

He clapped his hands on it and the original label reappeared. It was an oven. I set it on the table next to our other oven, dirty from taco night two weeks ago. “Set it up, would you? I crave something. Not sure what though.”

I plugged it in. “It’s set up. Why’d you’d get another oven? We already have one.”

“This one’s clean. And it has a broil setting. We can broil things! What’s broiling?”

“I don’t know. I open a bag and my meal’s ready. Why didn’t you just clean the other? Can we even afford this?”

He was taking pictures of the new oven. “I sold the other on Craig’s list. Equal exchange. They get a new oven, so do we. One that can broil.” He had taken pictures of the old oven the day we bought it too. “We’ll sell this one before it gets minging too. So don’t take forever with the girl.” He sat in his recliner with a bag of crisps, the contents different from the label. He tried one; it was the wrong flavor. He wanted Hot n Spicy, not Au Gratin. The Hot n Spicy were in the cupboard in a Cheddar bag so he changed the Au Gratin to his preferred kind.

“She might’ve told me to cut my Achilles at the edge of a cliff.”

“Going back tomorrow?” He wanted a view of the hubbub outside, troubadours suckering customers with chart music till the crowd was thick then dispersing them with an original, but his recliner was in a corner with no windows and he had converted the others to drywall panes to help him sleep through yesterday’s daylight. He flicked the wall and it flashed and turned into a window. It was dusty. 

“Our landlord will ask questions if you keep renovating. So will anyone outside looking up.”

“No one notices windows. And I can handle questions. I have all the powers of the universe at my disposal.” He slapped his chest and the plaid shirt he’d been wearing all week changed to a polo. His odor, skin flakes, and the stains stuck in the fibers gathered into a gunk that he flicked out the window and into the troubadour’s donations.

“And you use it to be lazy,” I muttered.

“When are you going to see the Austrian again?”

“Why didn’t you just magic the old oven clean?” I asked.

“It’s science. And this one can broil food. Do you broil meat or baked goods?” He tossed me a Coke and got another for himself. He never drank Coke. His was Grouse or Scotch of some sort. Mine was too. I set it down. He only drank alcohol native to the country. We spent a week in Belarus—thankfully a summer week, and he had vodka at every meal. He even tried borsch-vodka, beet-vodka. That had him puking. “Plus the inner workings of an oven are too complicated to just guess at. I don’t want anything igniting my knuckle hair.”

“It was a waste of money,” I said. “It’s time to move on from Scotland.”

That got Nickel out of his chair. “I thought she told you to drop dead.”

“She did.” I went into my room and loaded my backpack. We traveled light but had camped here long enough that I had things—two cashmere jumpers as dusty as the floor, a letter opener shaped like a broadsword, an unwashed mug for cocoa. My pack was already bursting. I’d leave them for the next tenant. Maybe my pocket could fit that letter opener. It was pretty cool. “Just let me stop at the post office and we can head out. How do you feel about Liechtenstein? Everyone should be able to say they’ve been to Liechtenstein. The world would be better if we all said Liechtenstein more.”

He stood just outside the door frame as it was too short and he’d knock his forehead whenever he entered drunk or groggy like when he was brushing his teeth. He blocked my escape. “You don’t even know where she might be.”

I tracked her by the blog and where the views came from. I ignored the first few views assuming crawlers looking for an email address to spam. “The last views were from Liechtenstein. There were five this week. Two from Liechtenstein, two from South Africa, and one from the Ukraine. Are you up for more beet-vodka?”

“Where’s the Austrian? Where’d you send her?” He followed me around the room as I gathered dirty socks and dirtier underwear and the postcards from Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Ayr. I couldn’t find the cord for my external hard drive which was loaded with tens of thousands of crappy cell phone pictures—quite a few repeats to get rid of blur—that I’d share one day. I remembered the cord had fallen behind my bed and at the time I had said I’d get it later. That was three weeks ago. Nickel pulled me out from under the bed so roughly I bumped my noggin, but I had grabbed the cord. “Why are we leaving if you didn’t help her?”

“She doesn’t want help.”

He let me go. He went into the common area and shoved the old oven into the new box. The trays crusty with burnt cheese jangled about and cracked the viewing glass.

“She told me so! She said this is the life she’s been ready for and she had her fun while she was away and she enjoyed it but she’s ready to settle down whenever she has to and she won’t have to worry about anything ever again. She told me this is what she wants.”

“When has that ever stopped you?” he yelled. He hefted the box to our stairway and kicked it down. It slid the first two steps then tumbled and everything spilled. Shards covered the landing. “You’re doing this because they’re the same. Nele is just like her and before you fail to convince her that there’s a better life—again—you want to bail. You’re being weak.”

“She’s nothing like Nele,” I protested. “She’s never had a sexual thought in her life.”

“You spend your whole day hitting refresh on your phone’s email even though you know it’s set to auto-update. And you tell me I waste money but you spend ten times the amount on data just so you can always have internet access, no matter the country, no matter the cost, and you’ve never needed it for anything but Angry Birds. You check the audience stats on that blog and pray for the view to come from a small country because if it’s Russia, we’re fucked and frozen. Aren’t you tired of staring at your email for a message that will never come?”

“I can handle it,” I said.

He stomped down the stairs and kicked the oven before leaving. I watched him tread the streets with a scowl. I was sure he’d knock someone’s cap off if they got too close.

~

Her good-natured teasing was gone the next day. So were our stellar conversations. I couldn’t get her interested in anything I said. My stories didn’t even get lols anymore. It stayed like that for a while. Then things got worse—a lot of talk of how she couldn’t believe this is how her life turned out, a lot of talk like this was it, talk how there was nothing good in her life and everything was just a disappointment. But I could always tell her it was okay. I’d tell her about our future, how our first date would go, how it was a paradox because by the time I could hold her and comfort her, she’d be free of those nasty people’s abuse and she wouldn’t need it, but I’d still hold her at night, every night; I told her how we’d get a dog. She told me to stop living in a fantasy. She had gotten bitter. She was harsh towards me. She’d apologize and I’d tell her it was okay, I could handle it.

I was out of money. Life was expensive. I could live off ten dollars of groceries, but even a cent over and I was asking the cashier to put something back. Few café owners let me just sit in their shops picking at the cheapest food they had, usually half a sandwich. Hostels were for rainy nights, if I could afford it. Usually I couldn’t. I had found a fight club in Munich but I hardly had energy to lift my fists so usually I went home with a concussion and fifty euros. They only let me fight once a week. If I could win, I’d get a hundred euros and could fight again tomorrow but I had nothing left. This one café owner had let me work for her for a week. I had offered to work for tips. Europe doesn’t tip, she told me. I suggested minimum wage. She looked at my passport and said I didn’t have the right visa for it. I wore her down to pay me in internet access and lunch. Then fight night came and I had just enough energy to stay in long enough to get my nose broken, which bruised both my eyes, and I’d get swollen split lips, which were already naturally big—I liked to say they were kissable. But I couldn’t work like that. It scared the customers. And she didn’t need me in back washing dishes either. She didn’t need anyone for the late shift. I begged for all of this. She didn’t believe me that my next fight would go better and I wouldn’t get hit once. I told her I’d stop altogether, a lie, and she let me work another week. Fight night came again and it was worse and she pointed to the door.

: I didn’t see you on yesterday.

Everything alright?

Me: Just got busy.

: ok

The screen stayed that way till my cocoa was cold.

Me: I wish hot chocolate stayed hot. It’s basically the same as chocolate milk when it’s cooled, but I can’t stand it.

: sorry

I should go

I’m not in a chirpy mood like you want

Goodnight

Me: You don’t have to go. Or be chirpy.

: Yes I do

If I’m not it affects you

So I’ll just stay away till I have the energy to talk about nothing like it’s fun

Me: You should let me come get you. That’d perk you up. Where are you?

 : You think it’s just that easy don’t you

Do you know what they’d do to me if they caught us

What they’d do to you

Nothing will directly involve you

Me: But we’re not doing anything. We’re waiting for a chance. What if the only chance we get is the one we make by taking this huge risk?

: You’re American.

They’d stop us at the airport here

I can’t go anywhere without my father present

and he’s not even here.

I can’t go anywhere because my uncle is in charge of me

Me: We could try a train

: That’s not the problem

Me: We’ll leg it. We’ll bribe the border guard. Or beat him up. I’ll let you take him. Get out some frustration.

: Train car feet plane none of it will work!

give up

get used to the idea

Me: please stop telling me that.

I’m trying really hard to stay hopeful

: be hopeful or don’t but it’s going to be like this forever.

maybe you should stop living in a fantasy.

brace yourself for reality

My cocoa was already salted, but a few more drops couldn’t ruin the taste. I wiped my eyes. I sipped my drink. It tasted awful.

: I’m sorry. I know I’m being difficult and this is hard for you too.

Is there anything I can do for you?

It was definitely love because who else could instantly turn suffering around with a gesture? I tried to joke.

Me: Maybe just not beat me over the head with the truth. I’ve already taken a few too many knocks lately.

I felt good enough from her simple gesture that I got in the long line and ordered another cocoa and mixed it with my cooled cup. She still hadn’t said anything.

: ok

I should go then

Me: No, stay. I’ll be bored without you. Or do you need to go?

: I can’t do both

I can’t stay and not tell you how shit this fucking place is

Me: you can tell me. I’d rather you’d stay and tell me.

: no

My mind was full of creaking cogs. She was upset today, but she was upset most days and she still stayed on even if it was just to say hey and then an hour later to apologize for not talking more.

: bye

Me : I’ll talk to you later?

: maybe

maybe if I find one thing to be happy about

but what is that?

what’s there to be happy about in my life?

I’ve got nothing

I wanted to say me. I was a good thing. But I was too scared she’d say I wasn’t enough.

: and now I don’t even have you

now I can’t even talk to you

if you can’t keep me hopeful

at least keep me sane

what about all those promises

Me: You still have me! Always

I’m always here, always yours

Talk to me, cry, vent, rant, do whatever you need

I’m here

: you just asked me not to be honest with you

you want me happy and chirpy and I can’t be that because my life sucks

Me: I just meant I need a few days to recover. It’s been hard here too. And you’ve been really down lately and the whole situation has been getting to me so to stay hopeful, I just wanted a few days where I can renew my spirit.

: do what you have to

don’t try anything too hard for you

Me: I’ll come for you right now

: don’t bother

Me: I just needed a break! I’m so drained lately. Why can’t I have a break?

: take it

just head back to the US and relax

I’ll be here whenever you decide I’m worth it again

Me: I never said you weren’t worth it. You’re worth the world. I’d march right in and get you. I don’t care if it killed me if it meant just another second with you.

: I don’t get a break

but go

relax

complain that your drink is cold

I don’t get to see the sky but let’s give you a break because your fucking drink is cold

I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was gaping at the screen and blinking and shaking my head and trying to think but nothing came out. My fingers rested on the F and J keys, feeling the bumps.

: I should go before I screw this up anymore

I couldn’t even type I love you before she signed off. 

Ch. 10

Morning broke out late the next day. Overcast hid the sun till it was above the mountains, then it shone through and dispersed its covers, sending down mist through the heather of the Pentland Hills.

Nele zipped through, skating the slippery downslopes to speed ahead. My balance was already zilch with friction and without it, I wobbled along taking baby steps on the slightest incline and using my hands and knees as much as my feet to get up the steep parts. My only speed was on my butt, going down, usually the wrong direction. At the flat peak of a hill, which from the bottom appeared the highest spot for miles while at the top was just a viewing point for greater things to come, Nele stopped. She held in her breath and panted through her nose to hide her lungs desperation for air with yawns, coughs, and a stony face. I was more open with my exhaustion.

She was already grabbing her ankles to stretch her quads when I arrived. “Just another morning where I beat the pants off you. Oh sorry, you’re not into that,” she scoffed. She watched my face for pain. I felt it from the burning in my chest that the wet air did nothing for.  When I had arrived this morning, she was surprised, but I immediately called myself a jackass and she had said it was fine, no big deal. Since, she had insulted my form, my clothes, my balance, and my pained panting face. “Don’t try to blame it on your ankle either.”

“It hardly hurts.”

“It still hurts?” She spun on me. “You shouldn’t be running then. Does someone really have to tell you to take a day off? We could both use it.”

“I thought you might be lonely.” Normally my smile could disarm her bad moods. She was having none of it this morning. “And it hurts less than my lungs.”

She took off for the next valley down the switchbacks that crossed the mountains so hikers never had to go straight up or straight down unless they wanted. She wanted. I did not. When I caught her to catch my breath, she told me, “I’m not going to wait all day for you. I have to keep my heart rate up.”

“I hear anger is great for that,” I muttered between sputtering out phlegm.

Her laughter died in the weeds after a few forced chuckles. “I’m not angry. But I’m here to get a workout and I’m waiting for your slow ass all day. Maybe you shouldn’t hydrate with Coke if it’s too tough for you. You wormed your way into my routine and while you kept up, I could put up with your annoying quirks like those constant smarmy remarks or your breath but if you’re dragging behind I’m going to leave you. Guess all that fight club isn’t great for your cardio. But you know, I’m starting to believe that story. Not that you never get hit because now that I’m looking for it, your nose is a bit off and so are your eyes. And you have those fat lips. Do constant beatings give acne too?” She smirked and waited for a reaction. “I’m only kidding of course. It’s probably from never showering. I thought the scent was just from our workout so I could put up with it but your whole apartment reeked.”

“That’s my roommate actually.”

“You’ve always got an excuse. It’s your ankle. It’s your roommate. There’s always someone or something to blame it on but really you’re just a failure. You try and you fail. It’s okay. Some of us have shitty lives.”

“No, really. You ran into him in the hall. Tall, smelly Australian. Curly hair. He said you’re rather bouncy for a runner,” I told her, indicating he meant her bosom which was shoved into a sports bra and exposed but covered with goose bumps on this frigid morning.

“Looks like you’re the only one in that place not interested in a woman. Why not send him out to jog? At least he’d appreciate the goods.”

“He’s never up this early. He only saw you because he’d spent the night at some chickadee’s place and was headed home to crash. It was late for him, early for regular folks so I guess it was leartly.”

“You had that whole place to yourself for a night and you didn’t bother doing anything? You were texting me! Sending smileys and winking faces. Why not invite me over?” When she paused and was met with silence, she added “Not that I’d go.”

“Of course not.”

“I wouldn’t,” she barked.

“You never look at my butt.”

“Never.”

“It’s a nice butt. I do a lot of squats. No shame in a peek.”

She looked away, just in case her eyes got ideas. “I’ve never looked at it. Only at you.”

“And you wouldn’t look unless you were interested.”

“Where else would I look if not at you?” She glared at a cloud shaped like a bunny. “We’re talking! Do you think I’m going to talk to you for a month and never look in your direction?” She was more terrifying than any alchemist I’d encountered and she wasn’t even after my life or freedom. She just felt rejected and embittered. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend,” she said. “Or even a boy-toy. Just something for a night. It could be right here, right now, right in the heather. It doesn’t have to be good but give me one last time.”

“Experience to put on your resume?” I joked.

“I’m not a whore.” It was only funny when she brought it up and I squirmed. “I don’t do boyfriends anymore. I never grew up with them. I didn’t need them then and don’t now. They were a nice change while teaching abroad though.”

“No middle school boyfriends? Not even childhood marriages officiated by your bestie on the footie field?” I asked but she shook her head and went into a stretch where she touched her toes. “How come?”

She shrugged with her face still at her knees. “Boys never want to meet my uncle. They think he’ll kill them or something.”

I had stared down her wrath so far with only a few tears in my eyes and only a slight quiver in my squeaking voice. “Is it because you’re an alchemist?” I asked. There was no sense in not asking now.

~

: okay so if I'm unhappy and I kill people because it makes me happier, it's not evil

I see. Don't tell the alchemists that.

Me: But it wouldn't make you happy.

We were having an argument. I loved arguments, debates, philosophy, skeptics, utilitarianism, logic, taking sides I didn’t care about just to experience the thrill of a heart attack and the cardio-paralysis that came with realizing I was wrong. There were few better than her to do this with, but in the past few months, our conversations had been understandably less conflict-based. But tonight had been filled with intellectual stimulus we hadn’t had since sitting in German cafes, fawning over each other but going for the throat anyway. I impressed her with my rudimentary knowledge of Hermetic Laws (the rules mostly ignored by Western countries but that dominated courts in her land and its neighbors). She asked if I knew of it from books, and I listed off several I had read years ago and gave little plot summaries. She loved that I was a book geek. It was the closest she got to sexually aroused. Once, I was waiting for her in the bathroom which was taking a while and I wouldn’t have asked because some answers are gross but she told me she had been throwing up. While waiting, I had done linear equations and graphed them on my napkin. I don’t remember why, but I swear I thought she’d take me back into the bathroom for some very romantic alone time.

But somewhere during this discussion, I had stopped impressing her and started being at odds with her views. It started with a quote, “No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks.” She hated it. I kind of liked it. But the thrill started so I supported it.

Me: Or maybe that's being too optimistic. There's a sick pleasure related to it, possibly, but the pain caused as a consequence (police, war, social discord, etc) would be more of a pain than the momentary pleasure.

: that's not optimistc. there is always a right and wrong. sometimes there is nothing right about a particular thing, no matter how happy it makes you. it's why the world still functions. if we lived by that saying you just gave me, the world would actually become chaotic.

Me: It's not that there is no wrong things. It's that these evils wouldn't actually make anyone happy. They'd still flinch at it. The chaos would make them unhappy. And so they'd avoid it and go for digestives and tea instead of killing.

: you said they would choose it because it makes them happy

so technically they would be happy with the evil

which ultimately according to you makes it not evil

Me: Would the evil make them genuinely happy? No.

: I'm sorry, you're assuming? lol

so this is based on assumptions?

Me: Okay, let's take it back then to the killing. Why is killing inherently bad?

: You're taking something that isn't yours

Me: Why should I care?

: you don't have to care about that, which is why, if we all lived believing that, there would be chaos

Me: But I do care about that. Murder is nearly a universal crime. Everyone cares.

: for arguments sake

let's say

you didn't care about the chaos

then it wouldn't be evil

is what you're saying?

so it would be okay because it's your happiness

Me: I'm talking of the golden rule. I don't want anyone to kill me so I shouldn't kill anyone else. I don't want things of mine stolen so I shouldn't steal

: nobody ever wants the same things

Me: We do in a very general way. When we get to the specifics is when there's conflict and we compromise. Not everyone gets all the happiness they want

: again, lol not matching up with that quote

Me: how? Does anyone choose evil because it's evil in my argument?

: killing might not be evil if you were born taught it's a survival instinct

Me: Then when you examine it, it's a necessary evil but still taking something I wouldn't want taken from me

: you said you get into the path of evil because it makes you happy but you're saying that it actually only causes these people harm. you're assuming that.

Me: No, I'm saying you get onto the path of evil because you think it will make you happy but it's evil because in reality it causes you harm. If I eat 2 gallons of ice cream every meal and feel fine, get no cavities, don't get fat, then what's wrong with it?

: okay pick something more extreme

suicide bombers

they kill

many many people at once

but they totally believe it is the right thing to do

and it makes them happy to know they're doing it

and then they do it and they're dead after that

and at peace

Me: then they're deranged people who never suffer the consequences. If they were really going to be happy because of it, they'd do what every other deranged person has done throughout history and planted the bomb instead of being the bomb. If they stayed alive, they’d be miserable. They think they'll get into heaven, but in a fair reality, they'd get to hell.

: that's what YOU think! that's not what your quote says

: It’s exactly what it says! The road to hell is paved with good intentions. They go to hell thinking they're doing something good.

: but according to you it's good if it makes you happy!

who are you to twist it and bend it for yourself?

we made those things up for ourselves.

and with it we grew to believe them

now we believe them

and that's all it really is.

There’s no wrong.

Me: Do most people want to be killed in their sleep? No, that's why every culture has laws against murder.

: okay so explain murderers then

Me: Madness. You can't explain madness.

: madness to YOU

not to them

or other murderers

so it's not evil in their heads and that makes it "not evil" according to your quote

Me: My quote doesn't say that.

They are doing what they think will make them happy but they are wrong and they are not happy with it. It's an assumption that is absolutely 100% right.

: you're assuming they're not happy!

lol so I was right, all of this is based on assumptions

because we assume there can't be anything that twisted but the truth is, there are

Me: That's why it's madness. We don’t want this to happen.

: madness was not a part of your quote

madness is an opinion

the quote is biased towards what we have grown to think is twisted and what isn't

we made it all up.

what's allowed

what's evil

what's not.

Me: The quote says if you are unhappy doing something you thought would make you happy, stop freaking doing it!

: okay, so I murder people and I'm happy doing it. so I won't freaking stop doing it

that means, it's not evil

but you think it's madness

because you think it IS evil

you assume I'm not happy

but I actually am

Me: you're assuming they are happy

you're making up these people!

: I'm not

Me: They're not even real

: I'm telling you there is a side of this you’re not getting. They could be unhappy doing it, but you're assuming and they actually could be very happy doing this

you just don't want to think that there can be anything as fucking twisted as that

your initial quote can't stand on its own.

Me: of course not!

It's 15 words.

: yeah but it's 15 of the wrong words together

don't fucking say it if it doesn't make sense

Me: It makes sense

Responses were slower now. The thrill had died and we were tired of conflict. It was usually now that the bell rang in my philosophy class and everyone would go home, chatting with their opponents about which asshole professor had given homework this weekend. Today there was no bell, but the debate was over. I still felt some tension.

Me: Are you angry at me by the way?

: I don't think you can convince me of that quote lol

I'm happy it sunk in with you, I don't think it has with me.

lol

let's leave it there

Me: You're not angry, right?

: I like to agree to disagree when someone's trying to convince me of something that I feel is complete bullshit. Which is reasonable because then they think that the fact that I think it's bullshit, is infact what's bullshit.

so it's equal

Me: Disagreeing is a fine option

I just don't want judgment passed on me because I liked a quote that you didn't.

: I hated that quote lol

It doesn’t bother me for you to enjoy the quote

just don't try to convince me of it

Me: stubborn =P

I'm only teasing of course!

: I am very very stubborn

oh well

Me: You have a good reason for hating it

: =P I'm not stubborn for no reason

I'm a smart alec

Me: That's the whole point of stubborn though. If you had a reason, you'd be reasonable. If you don't, you're stubborn.

: woah

I'm reasonable

but your quote was....

I have no words for it lol

Me: I was teasing. You're not stubborn about this. You just hate it for your reasons.

I'm not sucking up but I feel like I am. These arguments, they're petty discussions. They're playful and generally I laugh about them but I've had them end friendships or cause turbulence and generally I don't care because they're with online people who are just temporary anyway, but I feel like I'm being suck-up-ish to prevent that but I don't mean to be if you think I am. Maybe I'm digging a hole though and this adds to it.

I just want to make sure this is just a friendly debate and not anything actually serious

: of course it's serious

Me: :l

joking?

: no

why would I joke about something as serious as the conversation we just had?

Me: we were disagreeing, but just in a friendly way. Right?

: no.

we were disagreeing.

I don't think there's anything friendly about disagreeing on serious matters?

Me: is this going have an impact on us?

: how wouldn't it?

we just compared two religions and somehow you're very critical of other religions because you think everyone is a "sheep" but Buddhism is completely acceptable because they sell it so there's something deeper and more meaningful about religion in the Buddhist way.

Me: no

I didn't say that

I didn't say everyone is a sheep

: you think most people are

that's what you said

Here, in full panic mode, I scrolled through earlier discussion to see where I had said it because I knew I hadn’t called everyone sheep, just the doormats who let everything happen without questioning the doctrine. So I wasn’t look at the new IMs.

: WE ARE OVER COREY

lol

I'm just kidding

Me: I just said that sheep don't contribute to it.

: I'm kidding

that was funny

aww this would have been so much more fun if I actually got to see your reactions

Me: I know comedy is best when there's tension and release...but I think some medical professionals would say this tension shaved a few years off my already short life expectancy

I was holding my breath waiting for responses!

there were moments when I was slack jaw and scrolling through the conversation trying to see what I said wrong!

: lol

Me: That was too funny. Emphasis on *too*

: whaaat? it was funny

Me: *too*

=P

thank you for not letting it go on a minute longer

: Now you're just gonna die in a week if it's already taken off a few years!

YOU CANT

WE STILL HAVE LOTS TO DOO

Me: you'll have to do something to restore my spirits

: maybe

I'll think about it =P

Me: such a generous lady

: and very smart

Me: brilliant

who's better?

: nobody unfortunately

I've kinda broken the balance in the world

Me: I think you've restored balance. You balance out all the crazies

: Maybe

Maybe I’m just another crazy

lol

I think this was the best played tension moment ever!

I should've let it go longer but I was worried my charge would die out before I told you I was joking and then it would just be too mean

Me: Yes. A night of wondering would be too mean. Such a kindness you've given me by telling me

: Can’t have you crying over a joke

you were already crying in my dream last night

wait on a serious note, do I make you miserable?

Me: Only the situation has ever affected me like that (maybe you if you had lost charge before you told me! but still probably not).

I love you

Ch. 9

According to the garden’s timekeeper, a flower clock made of white peonies and the much bigger black peonies arranged among manicured hedges, it was noon. According to the clock tower on the horizon, it was only nine. The foot traffic had picked up since my time at the post and people weaved through each other, zipping past bagpipers, strolling for the guitarists, ignoring the juggler, nearly stepping on the spray painter’s cardboard canvas that was spread on a towel atop the brick street. The street musicians had spaced themselves perfectly so that their songs never overlapped—except the bagpipers’ whose screeches tailed identically dressed children all the way to prep school.

The sights amazed me upon my first visit. You never got this in Illinois, not in Springfield, definitely not in dinky little Chatham, not even up in Chicago. Years later the wonders continued but my interest stayed inside. I kept my head down. So it was a miracle I noticed Nele in a crowd outside my apartment. It was mostly women ogling a shirtless man in an unbuttoned satin vest. He had mutton chops and spiked hair, both dyed fire truck red. I couldn't tell you his talent, but he could draw a crowd. Maybe I noticed because she shouted, “Cory!” and rushed around the circled crowd. I didn't notice that. But the fiery performer shouted it too and he had a mic like a customer service rep and an amp and so an exaggerated feminine “Cory!” blasted the street of Edinburgh. I waved to everyone gawking our way, playing the fool to hide embarrassment.

Nele ignored it.  

He heckled us as we left. “Keep the date here! I’ll give you a show if you give me the coin you’d spend on boozing her up. I've even got a spare rubber so you can give me those funds too. I promise a full refund if in nine months you need it.” The crowd laughed but were soon to disperse.

“I thought you might be stuck limping the streets,” she said. “How many extra miles did you go to the post? And on a busted ankle!” She hooked her elbow to mine and dragged me. “Runners should know better. Who would I embarrass tomorrow if not you? You could've been fallen in the streets. Lost, alone, in pain.”

“I was. I had to work the streets to pay for medical bills. Then I remembered medical treatment’s free here.”

Her arm snaked around my waist and pulled us hip-to-hip. Hers knocked mine as she sashayed. “Worked the streets? Like turning tricks?” She had the crooked smile of a devil.

“Lots of tricks! Card tricks.” I pulled away. My hips were hurting! Hers had a real force behind them, the way they shook. My ankle was already bruised, no sense damaging my hips too. But Nickel had said to flirt. Get her feeling romantic, get her to pillow talk, get her vulnerable. We were a flight of stairs from my pillow, but this was the chance. Flip on the charm! Even if it’s awkward, she’ll laugh if she likes you. Right? You were told you were a charming guy! What would you say to her? “There’s this one trick where I make them pick a card, then tell them to lick it so it’ll stick to me. I snap my fingers and presto! My clothes are off. All that’s covering me is the three of diamonds. Which a bit of saliva isn't going to make stick for long so when it falls, I wink and say, ‘Try licking again.’” The wind swept the street and chilled my sweat. I shivered. “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.”

She laughed and shook her head as we climbed our way to my pillow. I offered her a drink, one of my Cokes, chilling in the recliner’s fridge. Nickel must've stuck them in for me. He was a considerate guy. She refused one and opted for water that she helped herself to. I got a Coke but after I popped the tab, it tasted off. Could soda expire? Surely not since grocery day.  Water wasn't enough for Nele and she grabbed my Coke from my hand. “Is this spiked?” She took another taste, a big swig of my Coke. “But you just opened it. That’s magic. Definitely have to show me that trick sometime.”

“My roommate did this. I couldn't show this.”

“I meant the card trick,” she said and handed me the soda. Not one for alcohol, I left it in the cup holder.  She walked the place. I called it chaotic organization. Nickel was more honest. It was small and trashed. On the counter, there were soda cans missing a single sip; the syrup congealed from sitting in the sunlight for a week. The plastic wrap of digestives got blown about the place, just like Nickel’s sheddings. She explored our cupboard which was mostly empty except my crisps, a good post-workout snack. Salty, starchy, what else was food supposed to be? There were two bags and she chose the regular (my favorites) over salt & vinegar. She ate one and made an odd face and ate another of my crisps. “Why would you change the flavor but not the bag?”

“My roommate uses them to wrap Christmas presents,” I blurted out, desperate for an excuse. “I think it’s weird too. It’s hardly even Fall.”

I came to steal her away before she ate from any of my other mismatched containers, still sealed, but she forced me to rest in the recliner. “Keep trying to get up and I’ll sit on your lap,” she warned. “Or maybe your face. Go ahead. I mean it.”

I stayed in the chair.

She opened and slammed drawers searching for plastic bags. She cracked the ice tray over her knee like Bane breaking the Bat. “For your ankle,” she said. “So you never told me about a roommate. Did you? You don’t tell much.”

“I prefer jokes, bad ones, to information.”

“I’d rather information.”

I reminded her, “You hardly tell me about you.” She had yet to admit to alchemy and an emergency where she was destined for a demon pregnancy.

“Maybe I will. You first. What do you do? What do you like?”

“I like Europe. It’s full of bakeries and cafes. You don’t see those in the US. Just the smell was enough when I couldn't afford a treat. And the owners are so kind. They let me sit inside to get warm.”

She went into the bathroom with her purse. The door was thin plastic. She kept talking and I could hear clearly. “What about money?”

What else would I hear while she was in there? “I like money too.” While she was in there, I rearranged the mess. It was Nickel’s, mostly, but I scattered a few of my clothes about. My boxing cut-off, my hand wraps, a razor, anything manly enough to suggest I was more than just a baby-face.

“How do you get it?”

“I’m breaking the first rule by admitting this, but fight club.” I also spritzed air freshener and because my deodorant was in the bathroom, even my pits smelled like strawberry aerosol.

“Breaking a rule? Never, you’re too sweet.” She emerged from the toilet without flushing. Her hair was in a ponytail with her fringe straightened. A scent wafted out with her exit and it smelled like sugar cookies, made with love and lard. She put her perfume in her bag.

“I’m serious!”

“Then why aren’t you ever injured?” She put the ice pack to my leg and sat on the arm rest. Her butt was on the fridge, getting chilled.

“I’m injured now.”

“No black-eyes. Never a broken nose.” She touched my face.

“I’m too good.”

She got up. “Too cocky and too gentle to sell that story.”

No one ever believed me. I’m a man! I could grow a beard. It took six months and looked awful, but dammit! I could do it. “I also sell things. Turn junk to treasure. Lead to gold. Sometimes gold to lead, when there’s a pencil shortage.”

She was still drinking from the Coke, chugging it to the last. Then she sucked the rims of the bubbles. She said it wasn't that early, right? School bells rang for the first class. “It sounds like a common problem here. The Scotch are very studious.”

“They’re also passive-aggressively angry. They scribble furiously, tearing through tests, snapping pencil tips, accidentally etching answers into the desk. They’re still upset about the whole England thing.”

My couch hid under laundry. She discovered my system that clean clothes go on the couch and dirty ones went on the floor with the dust balls. She scooted the lavender-scented mess into a pile and laid on the couch with her feet up. Her yoga pants were tight to her lithe legs. Hiding with the couch was my laptop too. It was password-protected. “Afraid I’ll see your history?” she teased. I lied and said it was Nickel’s and that I didn't know the password.  

She still hadn't noticed my workout gear so I apologized that it was out and immediately whisked it away. She told me we both already reeked (though her cookie perfume was a wonderful mask) and that we could drench our bodies in sweat and her nose wouldn't mind. Not one bit.

“What’ll you do if the English teaching doesn't work out?” I asked. “You’re not really going to prostitute yourself, right?”

“Wouldn't I make ends meet?”

“You’d be rich after a month. But come on—it’s prostitution.”

“It’s a plan. Potentially. It’s not respectable work. I wouldn't tell my mum about it, of course, but it’d be my choice. I wouldn't hide it from—say—a boyfriend.”

“Ever think of turning lead to gold like me?”

“Sounds a bit like magic.”

“My roommate insists it’s science. He’s an alchemist. Those are pretty neat people. Right?”

“Yeah. Neat,” Nele said. She pulled me from my chair. Apparently my ankle had rested enough. “Give me a tour of the place. It’s not spacious, but maybe give some history. Like here’s a bed. Brought prostitutes to it yet?”

“It’s my roommate’s. But yes. A hundred of them. I do the laundry too and I never change his sheets.”

She sat on an orange blob sewn into the comforter.

“So, do you know any alchemists?” I asked.

“No alchemists. A few prostitutes. Want to make it one hundred and one?”

“Like Dalmatians!” I shouted. “We should watch that. Have you seen it? It’s a classic. Pongo and Perdita and Dipstick and—I shouldn't admit that I can name them all, should I?”

“You should stop talking.”

“I can’t,” I said.

“It’s wrecking the mood.”

“I want it wrecked.”

The look on her face—you would think I had just smacked her. “Oh. Sure. Of course.” She gathered her purse and picked up her soda can and spun about to find the trash but it was everywhere. It was disgusting really. She left it on the counter and left.  

~

“Hello. I love you,” I said into the mic, loud enough that the baker in back heard me as she drizzled chocolate across fresh brownies. Her store was loaded with slobbering fools. All the tables were taken and even the extra chair at mine was nicked so three could sit at a table for two as they devoured their diet. I had been nursing a brownie bite for the past two hours, picking at the crumbs that fell off as I rolled it across my plate.

“I think our connection is stable for a change. Hello? Can you hear me?” she asked. It had been two and a half months since I’d seen her save for weekly updates to her profile picture and it was nearly a month since I heard her voice. We rarely got these chances. Her chaperon was always just a room over, but today everyone was out securing their fortune by marrying off some other daughters and her cousin was tasked with watching her. He locked the windows and parked himself on the sofa, but left her to her room. The window was too high (also too low) to jump from. He had ordered her Pizza Hut. My message must've gotten through just then because she said, “Thanks.” Her voice was a whisper. It didn't sound like her. “Still in Austria?”

 “The weather’s nice.” It was pouring and cold. I was out of money nearly. I hadn't shared that with her, but I was skimping on nutrition so I had enough for a train, plane, or automobile when it came time to free her. The winter frosts had turned to downpours so I could no longer sit outside cafes with a butt wet with snow when all the seats were taken. I had to save my computer so I could save her.

“I should be enjoying this travel. So many places, so many new languages. Even the ones I know, I don’t know the dialects. They’re easy to pick up. But I’m not allowed out. I’m not allowed anywhere. I haven’t picked up any words because I haven’t heard any but at the window. I hate it. I really hate it. I’ll never go to any of these places again. I couldn't. They’re wonderful places but I’m limited to a room and I hate them all. Especially here. Never come here. It’s one of the few alchemist run countries so we’re the majority here and everyone’s rich and wealthy and they all do karate or whatever luxuries are on their streets because they can afford it and no one has to work. They’re spoiled. They’re walking around—they’re spoiled and I hate them. Every one of those people I’ll never meet—I hate them. Never come here.” Her scorn sounded so polite with her accent.

“Where is it?” I had my earbuds in so I could hear over the spoons clinking coffee mugs as sugar got stirred in. So when I spoke, I yelled. Those waiting in lines stared, but those with tables had secured them an hour ago so they were used to my volume. The employees had given up after the owner had told them I seemed sweet.

“It doesn't matter. You can’t get in. It’d take six months to get a visa to here and they only give them out to English teachers and corporate dicks. Even if you had family here, you wouldn't be guaranteed one.” She was on her phone, leaning out the window. She had dropped it once but caught it by the chord stuck in for charging. A bird chirped into her receiver. “And I’m starving here. I can’t pop out for a snack without a chaperon and like I’m hell I’m walking with any of those creeps.”

“I’d share my brownie with you.”

“You hate sharing food.” I really did. It was the only crime that should cost a thief his hand.

We had long silences that got interrupted by “You there?” and I (at least) knew she was but I wanted to say something but had nothing to say.

 “Are you okay? You’re being quieter than usual. Where are the jokes?” she asked.

I was hungry. The brownie-bite wasn't enough for dinner but where could I get ten-cent ramen in Austria? Where could I get a pot or a stove?

“Not that you always have to joke.” She didn't believe me when I assured her I was fine, just tired, maybe a bit sick. “I’m sorry this is hard on you. What can I do to help?”

“The baker just came out with this big batch of delights. She even let me have one. It’s delicious. Already gone too. She has to know I've been here longer than anyone and spent a buck or two. What’s the conversion rate? I forget. She’s so nice. And smells so good. Like a baker! Obviously. It’s so intoxicating that even in that dopey outfit she seems cute.” The baker looked my way and smiled and I clapped my hands to my mouth and made eye contact with the profile picture of the girl I was talking to, the girl I loved.

“You should ask her out,” she said, her voice never dipping in cheer.

“Maybe if you hadn’t seduced me first,” I said. “She could be a serial killer or dog hater, but the smell alone is enough for immediate infatuation.”

“I never smelled like a bakery.”

“You’re special. You've got the soul of a baker.”

“What’s that mean?” she asked. The wind blew into her mic and came out as ear torture.

The conversations at the tables rose as the order volume surged to be heard over the table until people ran out of things to say and a customer was undecided between a chocolate turtle and a meringue cookie. They went with the meringue. We had another silence.

I had never seen her naked. Not even close to it. “The hardest part is sex. It’s already been a year—you’re not allowed to divulge that secret to anyone, not even a corpse. And living at hostels, there’s always a bunk bed or shared showers or girls. I can’t even really take care of myself.” Maybe she’d sneak a sexy selfie. Something in the mirror. Something that showed her face and her curves.

The call ended.

Me: I guess our connection finally died.

: yeah

i’ll talk to you later

Me: I love you. I’ll try to be on later but the hostel’s internet is awful but it was nice chatting with you again. Your voice is wonderful, even as a whisper. I miss the real thing though. And watching your lips move while you speak and having to pull my eyes up so you won’t think I’m thinking anything bad but really I am because that’s just who I am. Sorry…

But when I sent it, she had signed off. As the message was pending sending, I watched that circle for about an hour wondering if she was okay and if maybe she got the hint and would be up for sending something like that. 

I love you and I hope it helps and I hope we can talk more soon, even if it doesn't help. 

All my skimping (and my parents' unending financial kindness) has left me with $5,000 in the bank and two weeks till payday. I only mention this because my parents bought my laptop. That's the only way this makes mathematical sense. I don't know how I feel about this.

Also, upon reviewing my finances, I realize I could spend. And I got this ad for a website called Wish that ships clothes on sale internationally. But because I'm in Korea, all the clothes that pop up are the clothes popular in Korea. And men here are pretty...fashionable. And flashy. I don't think I can pull of flashy. But I kind of like how the clothes look on the mannequins. But they seem like too much of a hassle too. I'm being neurotic about clothes.

I couldn't wear this. But I wish I could right now and I'm not sure why. 

These are the scores I like to see, but still disappointing (especially that problem solving weak-ass shit). 

But the games are definitely rigged. The tutorials for each are mandatory the first go and they start you at level 1 where you score 20 points or something menial compared to later levels where you get 1,000 points. There are a set number of rounds per session so wasting time with these low levels is bollocks. The memory matrix games starts you in a 2 x 2 square where you have to remember the position of one square. Hooray you did it! Then you move up to 1 square in a 3 x 2, then 2 squares in a 3 x 2, and so on until you're half way through the game with barely 1,000 points! Later games, I'll get 36,000 points. Some games even require them to be played two or three times before you're at a stage where it's challenging. 

Those complaints aside, it was still quite a while before my memory was above 50th percentile. But the rust has been shaken off and I'm getting back into form.

Before I took out the trash

As a writing exercise, I took the sight of my trash and exaggerated it to interesting proportions. From the description, I could extract four sections to use in stories as if left as a single chunk, it's too much to bear. But it worked my ability to imagine from memory, to alter reality, and to use concrete nouns and verbs to set a certain tone (one of disgust). My actual garbage is not this bad, hopefully it's never been this bad, and it's been since emptied.

The pizza boxes piled high hid the trash bag. But the bag was split and spilt. Soda stuck the floor and a used Q-tip was trapped and colored brown. Syrup or ear muck? Leaves from broccoli, carrot peelings, and the grisly bits of pork spattered the wood floors and rotted. The bright letterings of a potato chip bag was legible through the thin plastic bag. Ripped underwear still smelled of ass crack, but that was the more pleasant scent tangled in its fibers—now rot, mold, and last week’s supper emptied from the catch fouled it. McDonald’s bags contained other trash, gathered from beside the pillow, but the bag had reeked when brought home and the chilled air had not dampened the smell. The toppings of a double quarter pounder were scraped by napkins but had missed the opening of the bag and slicked the sides of the plastic. Ramen, Kit-Kat, and ice cream sandwich wrappers blew when the door opened. The hand-vac was full and needed another to suck off its dust. The battery was dead and the charging chord exposed and frayed. Wet naps, browned from use, wadded in the bottom of the bag, keeping its space spotless and soggy. 

I love you. 

Writer's Block

I've never admitted to writer's block. I've always been steadily productive when I wanted, though I was often lazy or discouraged. Writing is hard when the idea isn't fresh and it took me much longer to finish my first novel than it should've. I finished the first half in a few months after an unusual episode of Bones inspired me, the rest in spurts over the next year. A large chunk was lost to computer troubles. It was fifteen pages, probably. They were good pages. And it was nearing the end of the story. And I had just gotten to Wales. So I spent a lot of time feeling sorry for my lost pages before starting NFG and then finally finished Ben Dau. I still think it's a great piece of angsty supernatural schoolyard adventure, but I can see why it never got really accepted. You tried to tell me when that scamming agent accepted it that it was genuine. Remember? I cried twice that day.

Spade petered out. Too little action, too much nostalgia, too much other stuff. The Blogger lost steam when I realized the plot was trivial and shameful. Let's Write Right was a lot of work to type up the awful story, type line by line suggestions and revisions, and have no one appreciate it. And eventually NFG suffered for it. It was already suffering from the start of the second book. I should've ended it with TK having to decide whether to trade his life for Stan's or some other major moral choice, not introducing Sven and continuing on till eternity with plans for demons, psychics, and betrayals. Too much Hollywood action, not enough character-driven story.

Then the whole sub shitstorm. I should just get over that, I know, but it hurt. What's safe to write? What's going to get me fired? What'll be misunderstood? What'll be unappreciated? What'll matter? I'm not much for writing controversy, but I wasn't hesitant to go with an idea because it might be morally questionable. Ben kills his best friend, by accident, to end Book 1 of Ben Dau. TK jokes about the carnage of his corpse.

And I'm not consciously afraid of that stuff, but I feel like everything I put down is boring, safe writing. I don't know what to write. I had brilliant idea for something for you too so I hope I get past this. Sorry I don't have a hint. 

We were talking about feelings in dreams earlier and I've never had a dream of crying, but a few nights ago, I had dream where all I did was taste something. I'm not sure what the drink is, but I'm told it's a yogurt drink. It also tasted like apple juice.

I have silly weird dreams. 

Ch. 8

Nele and I walked the wide streets after our run. She strolled. I hobbled. I had twisted my ankle on a downslope because the heather was slick. It was still early and only the buses were running, sputtering down the streets, backfiring, making me, as an American, jump though the country had no guns. No one crowded the streets, gawking at the oil stains of stone buildings or snapping pictures of the cock atop St. Giles. There was no one with change so even street performers stayed in bed. It was just us on the wide street. We were constantly bumping hands.

“Is it much farther to your place?” Nele asked. She had stopped to wait for me and for the WALK light though there were no cars. “We should really get you off your ankle.” The light turned and she went ahead.

“About a mile back the way we just came.”

She turned around in the middle of the street. “Then why didn’t we stop?” She came back for me and by then the light flashed so we stayed on the corner.

“I need to check the post office for a package.”

“Did you order something?”

“I sent something.”

“Where’d you send it?”

“Here.”

“But you’re here.”

“And I should check on it while I’m here.”

The light turned back to WALK. She didn’t walk. “Why didn’t you just give it to the person?”

“I don’t think they’re here.”

“So why’d you send it here?”

                                                                                                          

“Because they might be here.”

“They might be a lot of places!”

“The package has been mailed a lot of places.”

“Why don’t they pick it up?”

“I don’t know if they know it’s here.”

She gave up. She just walked off across the street, despite the light.

The clerk at the post office asked me how I was today and I told her I needed to check on a package. She asked for my name and I told her the recipient’s name, which was foreign enough that she didn’t know it was a girl’s name especially since the name derived from an alchemic movie star that no one in the Western world knew of. She rummaged through some unclaimed packages and said, “You’re in luck. Here it is.”

“That’s too bad.” I walked out. She stared at my back and then the door that closed until she shook it off and stuck the package on the shelf.

~

Me: I’ve got something for you.

: why

i’m not in germany

Me: Me neither. I finally got down to France. Like actual out and around. Paris has a lot of people. Lot of smokers too, but I think the UK was worse. Something like 70% of girls 16-18 smoke in the UK. That’s what I heard anyway.

: i’m not in france either.

Me: They have post office’s here.

: i’m not giving you the address

i couldn’t check the post even if i wanted

Me: You’re not curious? I’d be dying to know what it is. Begging, offering sexual favors—but you’re not really the sexual type. I’d brush your hair. I know you don’t like massages. They always make you giggle, right? Am I imagining that you told me that once?

: No.

You’re right.

Why do you remember that?

Me: I remember everything you tell me.

Versailles was colder than Wales but better than Germany. There was no snow, but my breath came out in puffs. The narrow street was foggy with life. The buildings were four high with the first floor obviously businesses, cafes and shops, but the ones above were a mystery. The sandy walls were broken up by hundreds of windows. There were only two designs, arched or rectangular. The left side of the street favored arched and the right liked rectangular. I sat under the blue umbrella of L’Aquarium. Only my table had it and who else would sit outside a mostly empty café, just a foot-swing from the chalkboard Specials menu, when inside was warmth? Some blonde in a scarf joined the table. Everyone in France wore scarfs.

Me: Except your birthday. October 12?

: 10th

Me: Damn. I was off by one day last time. I guessed the 11th and remembered that was wrong, but forgot if I was over or under.

: 10/10

Like a perfect score

Easiest thing to remember

A pigeon weaved through the tables and got at my foot. Maybe it’d mistake my frayed shoelace for a worm. It was fat. It wasn’t afraid. I could’ve punted it down the street.

: What’d you get me?

Me: It’s a surprise.

: You can’t mail it.

I wouldn’t be able to check the post.

Me: I want to give it to you in person anyway.

My coffee was in danger of freezing. My teeth nearly cracked on the iced chocolate chips in my muffin. Neither were very good. But they were cheap. My laptop was low on power, but I wasn’t worried. As a kid, my friend the scientist, educated our lunch table on tricks to extend the power of a battery. The most obvious and assured way was to stick your AAs in the fridge, but let’s say you were on a car ride to Grandma’s and while you were over the river but not quite through the woods, your Gameboy died. A sure-fire way to get you through to Grandma’s without sleeping was sticking them in your pits, one in each.

: I’m leaving Austria tomorrow.

Not sure where I’m going yet.

Or how long I’ll be there.

They don’t tell me much.

But maybe I’ll tell you when it seems like I’ll be somewhere for a while.

I love you.

Thank you.

I had typed “I love you too…” and was adding her name when my battery warning popped up. I had 7% battery life, 20 minutes it estimated. The computer shut down before I could punch the six keys—her name, space, enter. 

I love you.

One day we'll eat ice cream together. 

Last night I had a dream that I was in the Star Wars Episode I-III senate hall with all the floating platforms for the senators. I don't know if you've seen it so here. It was filled with old men who were possibly donating to the hagwon, because I was there with my fellow teachers. I was sitting next to Australia and explaining the difference between good writing and bad writing which is actually something I've been doing lately in reality because he's asked. I was also next to Scary-teacher, while Katherine-teacher was in the center giving a presentation. At some point, Australia put his hands over my ears and I just thought he was being weird and I ignored him. You know when you have earbuds in and you start talking really loudly because you can't tell how loud you're being? I was doing that. And so when I finished my spiel to Australia, Katherine-teacher was glaring at me. I turned to Australia and asked, "Was I being really loud?" and Scary-teacher said "Yes" and gave me her death stare.

I'm labeling this a nightmare. A funny one.

I know I don't have to write here, but I think I will. It felt weird not doing it. You don't have to read regularly or at all. But everything is here just in case. 

Odd

So lately I've been feeling odd about this blog. I still want to write in it everyday, just in case, but I started it thinking this might be our only means of communicating but you're pretty consistently available for chatting, which is great. But when I have something important to say, do I say it here? Or wait till we talk? It's not life-altering or anything, not for us anyway, but I do have information that I feel odd about. I could just say it here, but I'll just wait till we're talking. It's not good news.

But it doesn't have to do with us so that's good. I love you and I hope we talk soon. 

Cookies

Have you ever seen the movie Stranger Than Fiction? Probably one of the best movies I saw during high school that I didn't appreciate. It's got comedy, romance, literature! And cookies. Will Ferrell is an IRS agent auditing Maggie Gyllenhaal for refusing to pay 22% of her taxes because while she's in favor of repairing pot holes, she doesn't want to pay for national defense, corporate bail outs, and campaign funding. She's a baker. After a day of auditing her in which he tries to make nice, she offers him some cookies. He doesn't like cookies. But didn't his mother ever bake him some after a hard day? His mother didn't bake. He only got store bought. So now, an adult and slightly in love, he's being offered cookies because he just had a hard day--Maggie made sure of it. And they're delicious.

I'd like some homemade cookies. But I have no oven. Yet. 

Disappointed

I suck.

I have a load of excuses that I'll get out of the way first:

I'm a bit sick. I'm tired today. I've been tired lately. I'm still learning the controls and rules. I haven't been a student for a year and a half. I'm still shaking off the brain-rust. I had novacane which was injected into the back of my mouth and I have to believe some of that numbness spread from my teeth to the old thinker. Korea and my lack of daily communication with a wide range of people who are my intellectual equals has atrophied my brain (there's only one person keeping me from being near-vegetative mental status and that's you). It was a first try. The games are rigged as a marketing ploy to keep you hooked so you automatically do worse in the beginning and then continue with the service because your score climbs each time but really it's programmed to do just that. I was hungry.

And done.

Okay, have you heard of Luminosity? It was an iPhone app, and is now on computers and maybe other devices. It's full title and motto are Luminosity: Brain Games & Brain Training. Improve your brain health and performance with brain games designed by neuroscientists to exercise memory and attention. They have commercials and online ads and everything. 

I took the free test and scored 29,000; 22,000; and 4,200. Do these scores mean anything to you? Me neither because I don't have a reference point for what's good for each and as the one I think I did best on (I completed three out of three bird pictures!) is that 4,200 so obviously the point system isn't standardized. I bought the service. Two years for $3.33 a month? Hell yeah that's a good deal! If I could find four others interested in splitting the cost with me, I could get that down to $1 a month for two years, but I don't have that many friends. The "brain analysis" they promised me was a sham, but whatever. Those three scores don't seem to be recorded or up for comparison with others, but the daily test scores are. 

In school, I ALWAYS scored 90th percentile or above. My best was 97th if I remember right and I don't remember anything below 93rd. I made standardized tests my bitch. Even the practice ones. 

So when my best score (problem solving) is only the 80th percentile, I'm pissed at myself. Especially since my others are 31st (speed), 29th (attention), and 24th (flexibility). My memory hasn't been tested yet so I can't get my overall score or my Brain Performance Index but goddammit I'm pissed.