Chapter 10.

I couldn’t shake the idea of him - as much as I tried, as much as I wanted to keep myself on this independent path of redemption from my emotional three-year atomic warfare, I’d catch myself quickly reeling at his tenderness. "It’s a facade,” I said out loud in a desperate attempt to convince my heart to fall in line with my head. I look out the window and wait for the light to turn, watching almost impatiently as the perpendicular traffic speeds by. A red car, a truck, a school bus full of anticipatory kids all eager to go home, all eager for their constant. I rest my head against the glass and let out a heavy sigh. I can feel the warmth from the sun pressing through to my skin and in all my stillness I suddenly feel sick. My stomach’s in knots, twisting and turning and I can’t control this unbelievable ache as if I were on death row. I’m brought to the place of execution once more and stare out at the crowd. All the faces are recognizable - all the cuts and bruises and breaks were visible. Was I willing to sacrifice the safety of my torments - was I willing to sacrifice my own ugly, melancholy constant? I had known them for so long, and here was someone, some stranger, beckoning me to leave it all - to come into this new life of hope and peace and joy and real, genuine love. He was beckoning me to trust. “But what happens when you have no reason, at all, to trust anyone? Why should I trust when everything in this world desperately tries to convince us that nothing is in fact trustworthy?”

The light turns to green and I continue down the road feeling my emotions slide along their spectrum, with the tree-lined streets blurring across my view. Tears build up and I come to the next intersection and slow to a stop. I crumble onto the steering wheel neglecting any potential neighboring vehicle's judgements, and pull at my sleeve and bring it to my face. I pause. He’s standing there beside me, reaching out to me and pulling me towards him. His arms are strong and cradle me and I feel this deep need being met in one simple action. My insides reach back and grab a hold of the peace that he brings, giving me every reason to believe that he exists simply for me. I finally feel alive and worthy and purposed and hopeful. He whispers in my ear that he loves me, and I bury myself into his chest. I shake my head and the light, again, pushes me forward. I wrap my arm around myself in an attempt to soothe the ache that one unimaginable person has brought - I can’t be away from him, I realize. I don’t want to be away from him.

I pull into the driveway and put the car into park. The cat slowly crawls across the street and birds hover in the towering oaks. I take the key out of ignition and open the door, placing both feet on the ground before pulling myself out. I stand and become drenched in the sun and I lift my arms, spreading them wide. I tilt my head back and close my eyes in a feeble, physical attempt at vulnerability. I’m open and willing. I’m open and accepting. I’m open and afraid, but open and wanting. “I surrender,” I yell, and a smile appears on my face. “I’m trusting you,” I bellow to the heavens and return to attention. I open the back door and quickly grab my things resting on the seat, and then head inside to call him.

Chapter 4.

The paisley wallpaper seemed faded when paired with the dim light, softly trickling from beneath the shade of the lamp in the corner. A soothing melody echoed in the background. Sometimes I could make out Parisian phrases, other times I couldn’t hear a thing.  

I was laying there, somehow in an emotional daydream. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what to do, all that I wanted to do was feel. I wanted to feel every bit of him. I wanted to feel his skin, feel his heart beat, feel his hand gently drawing circles about my arm. I wanted to feel his mind. And I wanted him to feel me, too. 

I looked up at him, eyes wide, begging him to see. I wanted him, in that moment, to see through my eyes past my mind and into my soul and cure all my aches and pains and brokenness and anxieties and frustrations and wants and hopes and dreams. I stared at him, bearing my existence, which no words seemed just to describe. 

An honest, gentle, angelic warmth of a smile crept about his tendered face. All his lines seemed softened by the light, and I fell and rose with each inhale and exhale. 

“I’m in love with you,” he said. I could feel my cheeks flush, and a flurry began in my stomach. I questioned, within a seconds worth of time, every bit of reason, every nook and cranny of my heart that had been hardened and blackened and blued. I trembled, I reeled, and I couldn’t wrap my mind around the enchantment that after two weeks someone could love me. 

But he did. 

He said he did. 

I muster all of my strength, and again, beckon him to search me. I feel fragile and lay my head down on his chest. 

“I’m in love with you, too.”

We both laid there in silence, and I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was envisioning the future. Maybe he thought he just made a terrible mistake. Maybe he saw, two years down the road, a tired, haggard man who was angry, resistant, and exhausted from his game. Maybe he was just reeling in the moment. Maybe he was thinking how much he loved me. Maybe he was content. 

“Promise you won’t let me go,” I said, breaking the silence. 

He didn’t understand where it was coming from, I’m sure. He looked up at me, just as he always had done, and said, 

“I promise, I won’t.”

I was afraid, even in that precious and pivotal moment, and I couldn’t figure out why. I had a feeling that things wouldn’t be easy, a hunch that the ride we were about to embark on would be a tough one. I was ready to be married, I was ready to be a wife, and I was ready for the work, compromise, and dedication that would come with that. I was afraid I’d want to escape or come up with some easy excuse as to why we weren’t working. “We’re just not right for each other.” “It’s me, not you.” “I just need time to figure out who I am.”

I was tired of excuses; I was tired of running away. I wanted him and I wanted a relationship and I wasn’t going to give up – and even if I should try, I’d want him to not let me. I’d want him to not give up, too. 

The Fault in Our Stars.

“I'm in love with you," he said quietly.

"Augustus," I said.

"I am," he said. He was staring at me, and I could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. "I'm in love with you, and I'm not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I'm in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have, and I am in love with you.” 

Ulysses

“Her antiquity in preceding and surviving succeeding tellurian generations: her nocturnal predominance: her satellitic dependence: her luminary reflection: her constancy under all her phases, rising and setting by her appointed times, waxing and waning: the forced invariability of her aspect: her indeterminate response to inaffirmative interrogation: her potency over effluent and refluent waters: her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil inscrutability of her visage: the terribility of her isolated dominant resplendent propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm: the stimulation of her light, her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her silence: her splendour, when visible: her attraction, when invisible.” 

The Climax.

I felt raw. I felt as if I'd been sliced open, haphazardly, with blood and guts and everything gore spilling out and onto anything that I touched and anywhere I went. I was plagued and diseased and yet so numb that any form of self pity couldn't even be contrived. I grasped at my chest in a futile attempt to find any sort of existence. Life, it seemed, had been slipping away, and finally, at this moment, ceased. 

Eat, Pray, Love.

"'Go back to bed', said the omniscient interior voice, because you don't need to know the final answer right now, at three o'clock in the morning on the Thursday in November. 'Go back to bed', because I love you. 'Go back to bed', beacause the only thing you need to do for now is get some rest and take good care of yourself until you do know the answer."

All the Kings Men.

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 "For when you get in love you are made all over again. The person who loves you has picked you out of the great mass of uncreated clay which is humanity to make something out of, and the poor lumpish clay which is you wants to find out what it had been made into. But at the same time, you, in the act of loving somebody, become real, cease to be part of the continuum of the uncreated clay and get the breath of life in you and rise up. So you create yourself by creating another person, who, however, has also created you, picked up the you-chunk of clay out of the mass. So there are two you's, the one you yourself create by loving and the one the beloved creates by loving you. The farther those two you's are apart the more the world grinds and grudges on its axis. But if you loved and were loved perfectly then there wouldn't be any difference between the two you's or any distance between them. They would coincide perfectly, there would be a perfect focus."

Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.

I was awake.

I had laid there, lifelessly, for what felt like years. I begged my eyes not to open, pleading insanity and began hoarding my sheep. If only I could stay like this. If only I could drift away, into a wide, open, breezy pasture that saluted one sole tree, looking content, and far off in the distance. I'd count sheep all day, I thought. Nothing but counting would matter - 14, 15, 16 - I imagined them in a line, waiting patiently as ever for their shepherds duty. All that the sheep wanted was a number, and all I had to worry about was giving them one - and that was easy. I would begin to know them by heart - the way number 9 walked, the way number 21 was rather sensitive, the way number 17 always wanted to be number 1, the way number 1 felt a huge weight of obligation, of being first in line. The way number 6 looked to me for comfort, nuzzling its face into my side. The way number 13 played, eyes wide and happy, the way 12 would protect me, the way 8 would sigh, the way 19 would call to me, the way 4 would reach for me, the way 2 would love me.

Time went by and my sheep became my life - I had purpose, and I cherished each of them. I was always watching, ready to relieve, to restore, to reinvigorate.

Then one went missing. I looked everywhere - I begged and begged the other sheep to help me look, to bring it back, but they consoled me instead, and promised the one would return. Days go by and I feel frantic as if I'm slipping from my little world of perfection.

I'm now missing two.

I try to forget and move on. The other sheep meaningfully proposed dreams and ideas and theories that I could cling to, and so I did.

I began to feel better. The sun was out most days, and I could get along just fine. Counting wasn't as easy as it used to be, especially after the first two losses, but I managed and started focusing on new things. I wanted to explore, I wanted to commit, I wanted to pursue. I started looking at other pastures in my off time, and some of the sheep came with me. They nodded in agreement as we went from one scene to the next, acknowledging and approving.

We finally made it back to our field to find the remaining sheep waiting. I was relieved they were still there, and was overflowing with hope and trust. I was excited, and clambered into my hut for sleep. I was exhausted.

My enthusiasm overflowed into the next morning, and the next, and the next. I planned and planned and went over all of our possibilities until my creativity was shot. I was connected to my sheep, I felt them, I heard them, and I knew them. And they were connected to me.

Slowly but surely, however, one by one went missing. At first I tried to accept the reality, that I would love the remaining sheep with all I had in hopes that they too, wouldn't leave, but I couldn't easily shake these obvious voids. I dearly missed those that had been lost. I helplessly reached for the others to send out a search party, but again, I was only met with words. This time they were cold and I felt as if I had failed them. They had high hopes for a shepherd who could count well. That's all they ever wanted, was just to be counted. Nothing more, nothing less.

I cried out to them, begging for forgiveness and to let me try again, but they walked away and out of sight. I collapsed to the damp ground from the morning dew, and my body began to tremble. I was alone, and I wasn't enough.

I didn't just want to count and I didn't just want to give numbers.

I wanted it all to mean more than just that.  

My eyes opened.

The dull, white, and unbecoming ceiling was an oxymoronic slate above me. Though years of paint had gone up on the interior walls, the ceiling had been neglected and always remained the same. I stared straight into it, and found that its outward appearance was a great deception. It had so much to tell me, but sat there silent, instead.

I give myself a few moments to become readjusted. I gently roll to my side and push up and greet the sun cascading before me. My hair is a mess and I've been in this sweatshirt for days.

I clamber out of bed, down the hall, and into the living room.

There's a fire going and I smile at Dad's non-verbal form of affection. I grab a cup of coffee and blanket and curl up beside it. Mom and Brother are busy both in the kitchen and in the other room, and my soon to be Sister greets me from the door. Family and friends both write, call, and take me away, and I can't help but feel their warmth - not just for me, but for my sheep, as well, and what they mean to me.

There's a reason why He's called a Savior - that even when I could feel so dejected, defeated, beaten, and broken - I feel the safest on my knees, where I can only look up. I suppose it's a place we all need to be sometimes.


And what a place at that.


 

The Pearl.

"He had said, "I am a man," and that meant certain things to Juana. It meant that he was half insane and half god. It meant that Kino would drive his strength against a mountain and plunge his strength against the sea. Juana, in her woman's soul, knew that the mountain would stand while the man broke himself; that the sea would surge while the man drowned in it. And yet it was this thing that made him a man, half insane and half god, and Juana had need of a man; she could not live without a man."

Dreamland

"I'd felt myself stretching tighter and tighter, like a rubber band pulled to the point of snapping. And now, I could feel the smaller, weaker parts of myself beginning to fray, tiny bits giving way before the big break."

The Paris Wife

"More and more I found myself at a loss for words and didn't want to hear other people talking either. Their conversations seemed false and empty. I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone."

The Horse Dealer's Daughter

"Only now it had become indispensable to him to have her face pressed close to him; he could never let her go again. He could never let her head go away from the close clutch of his arm. He wanted to remain like that for ever, with his heart hurting him in a pain that was also life to him."

Sons & Lovers

"Miriam loitered behind, alone. She did not fit in with the others; she could very rarely get into human relations with anyone: so her friend, her companion, her lover, was Nature. She saw the sun declining wanly. In the dusky, cold hedgerows were some red leaves. She lingered to gather them, tenderly, passionately. The love in her finger-tips caressed the leaves, the passion in her heart came to a glow upon the leaves."

The Bell Jar

“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

Quiet Riot, "Mama Were All Crazee Now"

"The unreal is more powerful than the real, because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because its only intangible ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die. But things as fragile as a thought, a dream, a legend, they can go on and on."

Silence is a fickle thing. For some of us, it's appreciated, for others it's dreaded. Being immersed in good 'ol Mama Nature, "Hello, Clarice," or (dare I say it) the silent treatment - each leaves us feeling anywhere from way up, to way, way, beneath-the-earth's-crust magma low. What's interesting, though, is how much silence surrounds relationships. Is this normal, or are we simply living amongst couplings who happen to have a surplus of duct tape?

Why are we so obsessed about discussing normalcy, when in fact, normalcy isn't (sorry daydreamers) normal? We can spend hours chatting about last night's game highlights, yet when it comes to the behind the scenes/off the field discourse - silence reins supreme.

Just like relationships.

Humanity is eager to speak about the positives (call us optimists), and consequently, bury away the negatives. Soon, we have an over-booked graveyard and a full moon coming. We trivialize and affront those who are "having problems," "working things out," or worst of all, "seeking help," all at a low whisper. Its almost like we're scared into the "Sleeping Beauty reality." Of course - Prince Charming will come, wake you up from an evil slumber, wed and bed you in only a matter of days. But what if Aurora was enjoying her shut eye? Maybe she'd been an insomniac for years and a man (who just so happened to be a Prince) penetrated her spatial proxemics, all for the sake of his Napoleon complex? Because of our unwillingness to say, "Hey, Princey and I are struggling. We're trying to understand each other and it's not easy," we again, influence future generations that things, in fact, should be easy, and if they're not - something's obviously wrong with you (or him).

Seldom you hear (or begin to see) from your parents that marriage is difficult, and I surely appreciate the gesture of honesty. But that's it. Everything else should be a walk in the always incandescent, smiley, happy-go-lucky park - work, school, friends, xy and xx. As much as I enjoy glasses half full (especially rose-colored ones), I'm trying not to be confused by the unspoken rule of life. We keep a lot to ourselves. Sometimes it helps, but a lot of the time it hurts.

Whether or not we have real expectations regarding life, love (thank you Notting Hill), and the pursuit of happiness, I suppose it really doesn't matter. Because soon enough, we each fall into situations that make soap operas hit a little closer to home. And then we can start to, finally, understand. Much like any instance, we never quite know how someone's feeling until we too, get pulled over for going 83 in a 65.

It's okay to be okay, and it's okay to not be, too. And maybe that's why this profound silence continues to live on. Waiting for the rest, while now, ironically, growing quiet in contentment.

"If people are truly, madly, deeply in love with each other, they will find a way." Remember that.

Cheers,

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You are the Wolf, I am the Moon.

"I know women are taught by other women that they must never admit the full truth to a man. But the highest form of affection is based on full sincerity on both sides. Not being men, these women don't know that in looking back on those he has had tender relations with, a man's heart returns closest to her who was the soul of truth in her conduct. The better class of man, even if caught by airy affectations of dodging and parrying, is not retained by them. A Nemesis attends the woman who plays the game of elusiveness too often, in the utter contempt for her that, sooner or later, her old admirers feel; under which they allow her to go unlamented to her grave."

My Cat Ate My Homework.

I've been out of school for a while now, and, to say the least, I feel rather stupid.

I can't for the life of me figure out the square root of 16, let alone the fact that I've reverted to counting on my fingers*. My vocabulary has diminished to only simple verbs and minimal adjectives when conversing, and my discursive skills seem to be comparable to an illiterate six year old - or, rather, an indifferent, untied-Vans-wearing teenager. Needless to say, I haven't written in some time, which I blame largely on an ever so distant mental stimulation.

And that depresses me.

After all, I find great enjoyment inscribing frivolous encounters and revelations. Each day I become inspired by some event, some individual, yet words seem to fail me. I get this grandiose anecdote in my mind with a solid tag-line to boot, but then I start using 'like' in place of subordinating conjunctions and I give up - I totally like just like hypocritically like became my like biggest pet peeve.

Like, like, like.

And I cringe.

Needless to say, I never thought I would miss the monotonous grind of our educational system. I obtain great contentment waking up early to find myself sitting in the back row, neatly sharpened pencil in hand, and an outdoors scene being doodled onto a pad of paper**. Most of all, though, I never realized how much more intelligent I was when being consistently challenged and mentally tested.

It's amazing to think that a lot of our knowledge is fleeting, and unless it's being routinely fed, we begin to lose it.

I wonder just how many months it takes to forget the things we've learned, how many days it takes to forget the things we've felt, and how many minutes it takes to forget the things you've just told me***.

I suppose it's neither here nor there, but I reckon we have to rely on Truth - that there's a season for everything. This just happens to be my season of having a bad case of ineptitude****.

So, whether you're feeling rather dull and commonplace, remember that you probably are.

But that's the beauty of the situation, because even though you may think your contribution to society is few and far between, we have an active God, which is something I daresay admit to forgetting.

All this to say, there is a plan for my life, and this just happens to be a part of it - even if it means I'm a slower-than-usual, surgery-recovering, always tired, sarcastic and stubborn piece of work.

Eventually my brainwaves will start functioning again, that I have no doubt. After all, God knows how much my heart leaps when simply buying school supplies. All it takes is a little faith, and He'll take care of the rest - stupidity and all (I hope).

Cheers to adolescence.

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*Which takes some time, by the way.

**I take notes, too.

***It doesn't help that I have a terrible memory.

****Spell-check helped me on that*****.

*****See what I mean?! Terrible.

Not To Scare You Or Anything.

I like to say that I'm ready to be married.

I like to say that a lot.

And, for the most part, I think a lot of female colleagues I've talked to are in the same boat, which I'm sure is quite startling to the XY club.

I'm ready to be married, in a sense, to find my partner and get to the good stuff: learning, battling, and growing in faith. It's exciting to me, to share a life with another individual, the good, the not so good, and the thoughts and ideals in our mind that we like to keep packed away. I'm ready to trust. I'm ready to believe. Moreover, I'm ready to create a life with someone who will walk beside me. Not in front, nor behind, but beside me, and take it one lovey-dovey* day at a time.

I have it all planned out.

But knowing my Father, and His great sense of humor, will come at me from left field - completely polar to what I was expecting. I like to say I'm not looking. I like to think I'm not looking, but deep down my peripheral vision has the creativity of a seven year old. I'm sure it has something to do with the estrogen.

That's the beauty in plans, though. You make them, yet the probability of those desires coming to be is a complete mystery - just how I have a list of qualities I'm (not actively, of course) looking for: he must love cats, drool over Egg McMuffins, and share in my chai addiction. However, years from now, I'll probably be exchanging vows with a dog lover, fast-food hater, and a calorie-counter king**.

You never know what you're going to get. But that's the most enchanting realization, I suppose. At the end of the day, I do know what I want, but I don't know what's best for me. And that's where the light shines through: my King who knows me inside and out, action from reaction, thought from craving, from want, from need, from hope, from truth - sees me in my undoubtedly overwhelming transparency. And with that solidified notion, I uninhibitedly surrender. And wait.

And I keep telling myself that, "I'll just know when it's time," but as each day goes by I wonder how even that is possible.

How will you just know?

Is it like God slaps you*** and says, "Here, look, it's him" with doves fluttering about in a divine nature? Is it through tireless dating? Is it through our standards being met and the individual exceeding those?

These questions position myself to becoming increasingly aggravated at my own ill-supported-by-any-concrete-evidence ideological fantasy, so I stop.

I think there's a healthy balance between the two: actively searching and waiting. What I do know for certain, though, as Luke covered in Acts, is we, as women, should be keen on finding a man who is seeking God's own heart, and continue to trust in Him wholeheartedly - with or without a significant other. And with that, I think everything else will fall into place.

And you'll just know.

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* My primary love language is affirmation, then touch. Be prepared hubby, be prepared.
** I'm just sayin'.
*** In a genuine, I-love-you-unconditionally kind of way.

Revenge, I Say!

Humanity can always be found reaching; Whether it's for that dream job, dream husband, or the last smidgen of tamale casserole*, the stars never seem quite enough. We consistently binge ourselves of wants, like a typical i'm-an-emotional-wreck-and-can't-get-my-hand-out-of-the-fridge day, and go from one to the next, taking little notice to the effect that each rise and fall brings. Theses wants, though, are vastly different than our true, genuine needs: a God to lean on, and the occasional dirty chai to sip on.

I'm beginning to learn more and more to just what extent I'm really not in control. I'm not in control of where I'm going to be in two weeks, I'm not in control of who I'm going to be with in two years, and I'm certainly not in control of what I'll be wearing tomorrow. As frivolous as it may seem, I find myself yearning to take hold of the reins, and lead Santa's helpers** to where I presume the next stop to be located.

However, as experience shows, houses are missed, presents are not delivered, and a particularly dramatic crash ensues.

Although the metaphor seems somewhat vague, it still rings true. The continuum that the earth runs on is time - seconds, minutes, hours - so comprehension other than that is somewhat of a difficulty. I find it hard to think beyond my ever-so-favorable tunnel vision, and catch myself aching to make things happen, my way, and in my time.

Even when I think I'm doing something that breathes right, something that feels right, something that looks right - it could still be wrong. A couple of months ago I wouldn't have understood. I would have found myself teething in resentment, anger, and left with a bitter heart. But now, I have been blessed with a sort of comprehension; I can look at each situation with open, trusting eyes.

It's not easy.

But that's when grace steps in.

I'm growing, and I'm continually reassured in the most simplistic of instances. Once I would have overlooked them, yet on this date I cherish them.

I was told simply to "be at peace" the other morning, and I accepted it. Nine hours later, and I'm attacked, wherein which I realized these words of wisdom were obviously preparing myself for what was to come.

I understood.

And in that I find total contentment.

My Father is teaching me, and slowly but surely, as any worldly individual, I'm catching on - and rejoicing in it.

Welcome to the Chai Factor.

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*Whatever you do, don't set the casserole in front of you.
**I'm ready for winter when you are, God. Hint, hint.

Any Way You Want It.

Aristotle was a stately man when dealing with rhetoric and poetics, combating the puristic Sophist beliefs of virtuous (and might I say distasteful) discourse. Little did he know, though, that since the 4th century BC, the 21st-ers have taken it to an all new extreme.

What classifies an honest man?

Society today has learned to manipulate any, if not all, modes of communication in an attempt to save face, in an attempt to get face, and in an attempt to hide the it's-two-in-the-morning-and-I'd-like-to-go-to-sleep-even-though-we're-in-Vegas face.

After a quick trip six hours down the I-15, the grammatically correct trio made it to the City of Sin, and might I say it continues to uphold its reputation, if the "Girls, Girls, Girls!" men on the corner didn't already scream the notion enough. You wonder how many people, especially here, are telling the truth, even with the most elementary of interrogations.

"What's your name? How old are you, really? How many kids*?"

But in turn, how many people can actually be trusted? Even sharing your first initial causes worriment to some, afraid of a reenactment of Scream-meets-The-Hangover. But then again, there's the mass social networking tool of Facebook, where I'm more than positive that it's the largest stalking agency to date. So on a comparative level, Vegas is just a flashy, nude version of the website, and I'd like to think that both contain strategic false impressions.

I'm not ragging on the town, however, should that be the ideological assumption made, because a lot of good came out of a place characterized by a lot of bad. A friend had stated prior to the trip that company triumphs even the most mediocre of places, and he was right. Meatloaf is more than just a loaf of meat, kissing a smoker isn't always like licking an ashtray**, and gambling two dollars was as disheartening as predicted are all things I've recently learned, along with taking a step closer in understanding just what it is that I want.

While away on our vacation, I was going back and forth on a job offer in Alaska. During the interview, the woman asked me several expected questions, your typical figuring-out-if-you're-not-a-creeper inquisitions, and then stopped me at one.

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

At first I let out a laugh. I didn't know how to respond, and on top of that, didn't know how I would frame the statement in such a way to entice her attention.

I stuttered a bit, and finally blurted something out along the lines of, "Is this a trick question?" I have always been asked what I wanted to do with my life, and it seems as though the response consistently changes. How could any one person give a surefire answer? I decided to give it a shot.

"At the end of the day, I want to be enjoying what I'm doing, and doing it well."

I'm not sure if that's what she wanted to hear, but I hoped she'd appreciate my strong taste for honesty. Aristotle was surely shaking in his grave at my discontinuance of rhetoric, yet as more and more time passes, I'm figuring out that being me is all I have to give, and with that comes a little bit of sarcasm, a little bit of laughs, and a lot of realness.

I'm real, and it's comforting in knowing that, even in the 21st century.

Although flashing lights and glitzy (abhorrent) glamor draws you in, Vegas spits you out with a bit of insight, believe it or not. I suppose this means that what happens there, doesn't necessarily stay there.

Viva!

CourtReplies

*And how old - very important question.
**Not from personal experience.