Death.

Unexpectedly, you lose your job. (Or a loved one. Or something or someone important to you.) What do you do next?

I try to focus through the dark. A dark that seems darker than dark. Is that possible? The tears finally stopped leaking, my eyes are left swollen and sore. Almost dry. Who would have knew it was possible to have dry eyes after crying for days. Days that seem to blur together.

I realize I’m standing in the middle of the room clutching myself in hopes this is all a dream. A horrible dream that I wish to wake up from. I don’t move as the door opens, a friend standing in the door way. Her eyes red. Has she been crying? Why would she cry? This is my death. I’m supposed to be sad.

My friend walks in the room and sits on the edge of my bed. She doesn’t turn on a light. She starts to cry again. I reach my hand out. I want to make her feel better but instead, my hand just slips through her emerging on the other side. I crouch down in front of her, trying to see into her eyes. Urging her to be okay. She must be okay.

Aggravation settles deep within me. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. They are supposed to be happy. Making jokes, searching for what they want out of life. Not this. I throw my hands up in the air and remove myself from the room. I have to find something. What am I supposed to be finding?

The house is empty. Nothing. No furniture. Just a piece of lined paper with writing on it. I bend down, slightly, to pick up the paper but stop, remembering what happened with my friend. I straighten back up and stare down at the piece of paper. I slide my foot toward it, but instead of it just sitting there, it slides across the wood flooring. I take two steps, bend, and pick it up.

Dear Self,

I wanted to accomplish so many things in life. None of which I did. No one will remember you and your few friends & family will not remember you in about three weeks. Three weeks. That is all you were worth. Nothing more.

Now you’re dead. What do you have to show for it? A wooden coffin that is right now being thrown off a bridge into a large body of water to float away into the hemisphere. A few tears were shed today while you were hiding at your funeral.

I couldn’t read anymore. I drop the paper and hurry toward the front door. It swings open, moving through me as if I wasn’t there, a shiver runs through my body. More people. People I don’t know. Why are they here? They walk through the paper and it shreds into a million pieces and flies away through the air.

A gust of wind. I turn and exit my house. I blink.

My house? It’s gone. Confusion clouds my judgement. This cannot be real. Why didn’t I move on? The next life. Something else. I look around, noticing all of the streets connected to one another with no street signs. No houses, people, animals, or buildings. Nothing.

What will I do next? Everything in my life is gone. I’m gone. What is my next move if I’m lost? Will I ever be found?

(Not sure this is what it wanted. But I started writing & this is what I got.)

15 Minutes.

Daily Prompt : You have 15 minutes to address the whole world live (on television or radio — choose your format). What would you say?

(I find myself standing on a stage in front of millions of people. A hush has fallen over the crowd. It’s quiet. Except for a couple coughs and readjusting their seat. They wait. Cameras flash as people take pictures. Film crews, many, surrounding the stage that I shakily stand on. It’s Christmas Eve. The world has gone crazy on the debate whether or not Santa Clause is real. The world is watching. I fumble with my index cards as I look at the crowd, one more swoop through, and wonder if anything I was about to say would mean anything to any of them. I clear my throat.)

Dear People of the word, (My voice sound weak. Almost hoarse. I know if I’m going to get this to work, I must sound more proud. I straighten my back and take a deep breath. Starting over.)

Dear People Of The World, (A couple people smile in the front. I wonder if they know how nervous I am. How everything I was about to say I meant and I believe.)

Lately. (I adjust my skirt.) We have had a big debate on the existence of Santa Clause. Whether or not he is real, or an old fairy tale our parents told us to keep us in line – since no one has ever saw him. Thinking on this topic makes me think of a cartoon I watched the other night, “Yes, Virginia”.

(I stop for a moment and take a breather. I glance down at my hands, which are knotted and intertwined in themselves. A pretzel. I didn’t realize I could get my hands to look like this. The crowd, the world waits for me to continue.)

I have tried, many times in my lifetime, to explain why people should always believe in Santa Clause, whether you are 6 or 106, and until I watched that cartoon, alone in my cold living room, did I hear the best way to explain the reason. (I wipe my forehead free of sweat.) Out of curiosity I Googled the clipping from the newspaper in the cartoon and realized it was a real clipping from a newspaper from September 21, 1897 and written by a news reporter by the name of Francis Pharcellus Church.

I want to read this news paper clipping from the New York Sun if you’ll have me.

(Out of a small pocket on my jacket I pull out a folded piece of paper. I unfold it, shaking just a little, and run my eyes over the words that were printed on the sheet. I couldn’t believe I was standing in front of these millions of people. The world. Explaining to them why anyone, no matter how old they are, should believe in Santa Clause. I begin:)

Virginia O’Hanlon wrote to the sun, this is what she wrote, “Dear Editor, I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Clause. Papa says, ‘If you see it in The Sun it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Clause?” After a quick response, Mr. Church replied, and he wrote:

‘Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except for what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginia’s. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.’

(I folded the piece of paper and placed it back in my pocket, never looking up at the crowd. If I were to drop a pin, I’d hear it. I closed my eyes and took a moment for myself before lifting my head and revealing a jaw dropped audience. A couple, sitting in the middle of the front row, smiled, tears speckled their cheeks. I felt my heart expand. The crowd stood on it’s feet, applauding. I smiled.)

Thank you. (I took my bow. I took that moment to enjoy everything. Even if I didn’t win over everyone, even if I didn’t win the debate, I believe that I got my point across. The love and beauty, never being written so well since, still rings in my head from that clipping. I enjoyed it. If one person, or two, enjoyed it as much as me. Then I did my job.)

(I turned on my heels and began walking away. I didn’t stop until I got back to my hotel room where I dropped, roughly, on my bed and pulled a sheet over my face. I was still fully dressed as the last bit of sun peeked it’s “Hello!” through my window. I didn’t know what would happen the next day but I was proud. I was happy, and for me, that was enough.)

Daily Prompt : Live to Eat

Today’s Daily Prompt is called Live to Eat. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to write this, but I will give it a shot.

“Some people eat to live, while others live to eat. What about you? How far would you travel for the best meal of your life?“

I remember a time where I could actually answer this question that I live to eat. That every moment of the day I was wondering what I would eat next. That everything in my life revolved around food. I remember, when I lived in Marietta the first time, I sat in the kitchen in front of the ice box and anything I could reach I ate. I didn’t chew it. Just shoveled it into my face and swallowed.

Food is one of my issues, always has been.

I used to call myself an emotional eater, but it began getting farther away than that. Emotional eaters eat when they are sad, mad, extremely happy. I didn’t have to be sad. Mad. I did it because it was there and I didn’t have anything else to do. Is boredom eater such a thing? Or is that still emotional eater?

As the years pass I have slowly come up from the depths of issue eating. I still have my issues, and I think I always will. I do find myself, even to this day, thinking about food constantly. It’s not that I want to, but it’s something I cannot get a grasp on. I know it’s possible. I know a person can go from this state to knowing better and doing better. I’m just not sure how long it’s going to take me to do it.

Sadly, the only way I can find that I can get over this is to have no food in my house and only buy it for the moments that I need to eat. But is that honestly anybody than having the issue to begin with?

I will one day get passed it. Find a way that I am not always fighting with food. Finally be able to put the guns away and use a fork and knife instead. One day I’ll be able to look at food and it not look like a three headed devil beast drooling out of the mouth. Until then I’ll find a way not to die from a heart attack. I’ll find a way to look at food and not wonder to myself “is this going to fill me up?” and know for sure it will fill me up.

How far would I go to get the best meal of my life? I’m not sure if I would. I have some really good food in my 25 years of living. Although, I’d love to go have pasta in Italy, or a Philly cheese steak from Philly. Other than that? Probably as far as my kitchen because I’m one hell of a cook. There lies another issue with food I have. I’m a good cook so as I’m cooking it I’m eating it. Then, I eat again. Maybe I should start cooking horribly. That might fix my issue all together.

Dear Mom:

The Daily Prompt today :

“Write a letter to your mom. Tell her something you’ve always wanted to say, but haven’t been able to.”

I figured I’d go ahead & do this prompt. So here goes:

Dear Mom.

Next year will be ten years. April 10th. It doesn’t seem like it’s been ten years since you passed. I still miss you like crazy.

I don’t remember your voice, & I hate to admit that. Tim & I are doing good. Or the best we can.

I hope daddy is with you. & y’all are watching over us. It would be nice to have two people on our sides.

I wish I could have told you one last time that I loved you more than you’ll ever know. I wish I wouldn’t have found those letters you wrote. I wish I could have read them. I know you loved us & I know you were sick. Every day passes & I miss you a little more each day.

I love you & always will,
Your daughter:
Barbara

Daily Prompt : What is your worst quality?

It’s been awhile since I’ve wrote. Been writing a lot and then of course work. Cannot forget the days I choose to sleep in. Since I’m connected to internet for a few hours I figured I’d write something really quick.

The daily prompt : What is your worst quality?

I thought about saying ‘nothing’. That I’m perfect and awesome. Although, just an FYI, I am awesome. But everyone knows they have horrible qualities, and for a person to say no then they are lying to themselves and everyone around them. I did have to think about this question though. Not because I honestly believe I don’t have any. But because I’m used to everything about me and I’ve accepted them. Anymore for me I don’t find it ‘bad’.

After thinking a few minutes and asking other people I have decided that my worst quality is that I’m loud. I’m not talking sexually loud, either. I’m talking that I am really loud. Mostly when I’m tired. Or when I’m excited. Now you’re thinking “well, I get loud when I’m excited.” Take your excited loud and multiply that by ten, add fifty, and multiply that again by one hundred. You’re almost to the extent of my loudness. That’s when I’m excited. When I’m tired, it’s two times worse.

Yes, I’m totally be serious man!

I try my hardest not to be loud by nearly whispering when I’m going around people. They say it’s because I’m just so animated. Being animated is one thing, being loud and annoying is completely different. For me, I’m loud and annoying.

Then of course, if we’re bashing ourselves – my laugh is a really bad quality.

A life well lived?

Today, as I was watching last weeks episode of Vampire Diaries, I figured I would see what the Daily Prompt, What is a Life Well Lived to You, is about. I’m sure this answer will be different from one person to the next.

For me, though, it’s pretty hard to answer. Not because I’ve never thought about it. That I don’t go to sleep at night and dream about what my life will feel like when it’s fulfilled. What I want to accomplish before I die.

For the most part, when I think about it, I think about being a published author. That I’ll be happy. Publish book after book and become an author that people love the books from. Read the books over & over until the binds undo. Until they are forced to buy another copy because they cannot read that one anymore.

But is that all I want out of life?

I know it’s something.

But for me. Sometimes I wonder if it’s enough. It would be wonderful. But my life is missing one thing, and I am having trouble finding it. Happiness.

I’m not sure I remember what happiness feels like. I’m talking straight up, loving life, happiness. I lost it once. I’ve been searching for it since. At one point a few years ago I thought I had found it. Grasped it tightly in my hands. But just as quick as I thought I had it, it was gone.

I tell people a lot that I haven’t been happy since my mother passed away. Honestly, I’m not sure I was even ‘happy’ before that. I was only fifteen when I lost her. Was I happy? Did I know what happiness was? Was I actually even happy? Does anybody really know what pure happiness is?

I talk about this a lot with friends and family & they all tell me that one day I’ll be happy. That I am happier than I have been in a few years. Am I? Shouldn’t I be able to tell that I’m happy BEFORE my friends & family?

What I am getting at. For my life to be well lived, not only do I want to be a published author. But I would like to be happy. Happy. Pure enjoyment smiling all creepily happy.

Daily Prompt ::

I planned on writing on the daily prompt. Especially since I haven’t been on much lately. After reading through the last few, since I’ve been away, I realized that I won’t be able to write about them. I seen one that sounded interesting, “write a post without using any three letter words” – I sat here for a moment and thought about writing that one. Until I realized that, yeah I know other words in the English language, but without some of the three letter words, it doesn’t always make sense. Plus, I don’t always think about it.

I like my three letter words.

I kept scrolling through and found one about ‘writing something that I wish could get published about something in the headlines’. I don’t watch, or listen to the ‘headlines’ so I can’t write about that either. I could fake it? But that would be worse than using five million three letter words.

Times like this, though, is when I wish I did listen to headlines or watch the news. That way when people ask me for my opinion on something I’d be able to write about it. But I can’t. Fact, I haven’t even read the other posts to see what they are about because I’m so anti headlines. Maybe I am not totally anti headlines, I just don’t have any…. I just don’t care.

I do have people tell me all the time “just because you don’t care right now will probably change as you get older”. I know I’m still young, but by 25, didn’t most care? Except me. I just don’t care. Possibly when I’m 45 I’ll care about something. Until then, I’ll just write about puppies playing in flower pots, or large rainbows with a small bowl of gold at the end.

Mostly because I’m choosing to stay in denial. Anyone want to join me?

Well crud! That wasn’t even today’s post. Today’s post is about ‘what did I let slide and how would I fix it today‘.

When thinking about that all I can think of is a job I had at twenty-one. I think I was twenty-one, anyway. My past kind of blurs together after awhile.

I actually enjoyed this job. At the time. One of the better ones I had. At the time. Cheap Store gave benefits, and I had the hours I wanted. The ladies I worked with were awesome and fun to be around. I enjoyed going to work every day.

One Thursday night, one of the girls and I closed together. After we restocked the shelves and closed all the registers we went to the back to count the money. Like you do anywhere. We finished counting and was one hundred dollars short. That’s where my nightmare began.

I want to point out really quick that the girl that closed with me that night and I hadn’t been there all day. We came in at four. Before that it was the two managers. It came out that it was from the assistant managers drawer, and not mine, and now we had to find it.

The next day we searched the whole store for that missing money. Had to find it. Had to save the assistant managers ass. What did it take to do that? Yeah. What you’re thinking is more than likely correct. For the next three days I was accused of stealing the 100$ out of HER register when we had our own sign in into machines.

They asked me the next day.
“If we pull the camera’s, what will we find?”

I replied with “that you guys are fucking stupid and I didn’t get in her register.”

I ended up quitting. Giving them a piece of paper that basically said ‘eat me, you fucking cunts.’ I gave up. I walked out. The day they accused me of stealing.

You see, you can call me anything you want. I don’t care. Don’t EVER call me a thief. Because I am not a thief. At the time my dad was still alive. If I needed 100$ that bad, all I had to do was ask him.

What would I have done differently? First I would have hit the general manager straight in the face. Because she was an old ugly whore. :) Second. I would have told them to pull the cameras. I had never gotten into something like this, because I am not a thief. Thinking about what to do in a spot like this was new to me. I should have told them to pull it. See that I was never in her drawer. Because I wasn’t. If I was, & I had done it. I would have told them yes.

I haven’t been back to that Cheap Store since. But I do know one thing – the assistant manager is now the manager there. The old manager moved from that store to the one here in Marietta, and was fired for embezzlement. Who outed her? The wife of the man she was sleeping with.

Karma! Remember that.

Me now? I have one hell of a job. Great friends. & I honestly haven’t been this happy in a long time.

I’ll be even happier when I finish my book. Just saying. =)