11.1

[I hate writing today. I had so much energy and hope for Catherine after I found her again. I tried to write at 1:30 am and Curtis just yelled at me to go to sleep. I gave up trying to make it sound like her and just hit submit. Here we go again.]

My brain won't stop screaming at me. "Stop writing, self! It's the wrong decision!" But I just want something halfway almost decent just to prove I can write. If I can't anymore--if I can't take an idea and deliver on it--what am I? Not a novelist, that's what. So I guess I'll just continue to write anyway. And besides, I have friends who read into everything I write. I feel like I'm writing Childe Harold's Pilgrimmage. Nobody will believe it's not actually me sometimes.

P.S. part of the reason why Catherine is so dead is because there's so little of me in her.

10.31

Ros and I attended the best high school in the state. We won at everything (spelling bees [does anybody ever know why it's a bee?], basketball tournaments, and social activism [and I recognize it's not a competition. We still won.]). People wore sweaters and scarves and the boys rolled up their sleeves when they worked at computers not because the desks were dirty (they weren't) but because it was what you did with sleeves. Girls' skirts were pleated or layered but just generally cute and nobody thought it was weird to wear skirts, even though jeans are a sure-fire guarantee that Rocky the jock can't see up your skirt when you forget to cross your legs in anatomy class. Basically, as you can see, high school was hell.

10.30

[I have decided to restart Catherine. I was just . . . hoping? Hoping is the right word. I was hoping for something more alive and vibrant and I just can't seem to do it. I guess it's true: change one thing at a time. I was trying to do too much (a female protagonist, a third-person narrative, a happy ending) all at the same time, and it just tanked. So here's try number two. I'm starting over. Thanks for hanging in there for as long as you did. I hope things are better the second time around.]

Catherine is the name of nobody famous. Catherine the Great, Catherine of Aragon, Catherine Zeta-Jones--you get the picture. Old dead ladies that nobody cares about. And whether or not they're all dead (Catherine Zeta-Jones looks half-skeletal anyway, give me a break), people laugh when I say that it's just me and aunt Cathy holding down the fort. And then mom tells me that self-deprecating humor is for losers.
Good job supporting your only daughter. When the judge asks why I ran away, I'll cite verbal abuse.

Since I'm basically destined to be dead and famous, I thought I'd enjoy being alive and unfamous for as long as it lasted. I chose boring, boring coursework, and boring, boring books to read. I did boring things on the weekend and generally avoided excitement. It's difficult to fit in and be invisible in college unless you do. The only flaw in my plan (the only gaping hole) was Rosalyn. Is Rosalyn. Will be Rosalyn. She is in all tenses simultaneously in a feat sure to make God himself contemplative. She is energy and explosion and my best friend. Rosalyn isn't bad, though. She drags me out of our caveroom and into the screeching light of day. She listens to my rants. She shares her rants with me. (I feel like hers are more vibrant than mine, because she has lived ever so much more life than I have. After she complains about guys proposing endless love to her, I start to feel like I've read a harlequin novel titled Rosalyn: The Taming of the Soul with her and some shirtless, muscled Mexican on the cover being attacked by a snake that symbolizes his sexuality which she tames violently with a sword of her own battle-hardened psyche. Basically, Rosalyn is amazing, and her stories are the best.)
Hey, self!
Yeah, self?
Can I ask a stupid question?
Of course, anything for me.
Why am I friends with Rosalyn?
This is an excellent question. Let me explain it to me. We met in high school when she got in trouble and had to go to the school library while I was tutoring there. I taught her Math. She taught me life. It was an environment like those tiny white birds that clean the crap out of alligators' teeth. Symbiosis. Mr. Patterson would be proud that his biology lesson was not a waste. Little did he know that one student would use one thing from his class one time to explain something completely unrelated. Thank you, high school, for teaching me that anything is useful if you break it first. So Rosalyn and I became friends before I knew her, if that makes any sense. We got to know each other in the library where she couldn't be loud, and by the time she invited me to her house to meet her whole family (there are six of them), I had already shared with her my deepest secrets and there was no looking back. We were best friends.
So, self, I guess you could say that the force that brought us together was elemental, unavoidable, and completely perfect.
Thank you, self. You did a most admirable job, if I don't say so myself.
Aren't we clever?

I'm nineteen, which mom says is a horrible age for me (I should be eight again when the world was simple).
I'm in college, which Ros says is a great place to be (all the smart boys go to college).
I'm wrong in all the right places, which I says is a mighty fine way to screw up your life.
I'm Catherine, dead and famous. Pleased to meet you.

[Curtis is writing last lines for me. "And Petey said to Julianne 'Thank you so much.'" "And they all lived happily ever after, except for the three lying dead on the floor." "And they all rode away to find new adventures. . . " I think he wants to go to bed. I like Catherine more already. I have plans.]

10.29

The people downstairs are playing music very loudly. I'm alternately glad that they're not hung over from last night and sad that I should even ask.
I've seen her leave our house wearing different pants. I wonder if I should ask or just keep my nose out.
I can clearly hear her phone conversation, but I keep walking because I know I shouldn't listen.

I ask how you're doing.

Was I justified? No.

10.28

I have no call to be here, but my byronic melancholy drove me out of doors. I pace and I cry and I cry out: oh, God! Give me purpose in life. I'm lost and alone.
I it's cold out. I roll down my sleeves. It's cold out. I pace on. Wander? Don't mind if I do.

I haven't found my meaning before I hear a pale, wordless scream from the woods. My head snaps up. A third of all women are raped before the age of thirty. I hope it's nothing; kids are playing ghost. A second scream rips out of the woods. Two? No. Three. I turn. If it was me, I would want some passer-by to turn. I walk into the woods. Nothing. Campus safety arrives. I leave.

Forty minutes and five empty, wordless screams. The campus safety official says there's still been nothing.

I should have run.
If there had been words, I would have run.
I should have run.
In the future, I'll sprint.

10.26

She wished her heart would slow down. "Hey yourself." She immediately told herself to stop being a ditz and sound like a human again. She had little hope of it working.
"So, you're home."
"Obviously. And you?"
"Well, I'm calling from in front of your house. You wanna go on a walk?"

Catherine smiled.

"I'll take that as a no, then?" Marco sounded puzzled that she hadn't responded.

"Ah! Yes, yes I'll go on a walk. Let me get my shoes on."

Catherine's mother called from the kitchen. "Where are you going, honey? It's almost supper time."

"Out. I'll be back for supper, don't worry."

Catherine rushed out the door and saw Marco at the corner, waiting. She walked to him, taking the time to pull her thoughts into order. They had been friends for only two months, but it had been a long time. Maybe he was ready for a relationship like she was. She looked up once and saw him smiling. It felt like sunlight through the windows in a cold car. Catherine's gait sped up. She stopped thinking, for the first time in a long time, about how she looked, or what she might sound like, or how she should stand, or what Marco would think of her shirt, or anything. She just smiled back.

When she arrived at the corner, the two stood awkwardly for a moment, unsure of how to greet each other. It occurred to Catherine that this was one of the first times they had been alone. So she just smiled at him again. Laughing, Marco stooped to open his backpack.
"I got something for you," he said. "I hope you like it. I wasn't sure if you had one . . ." His voice trailed off as he rummaged deeper into the bag. "Ah! Here it is."

From the bag, Marco produced an umbrella. It was plaid.

Catherine felt like crying, but laughing was more appropriate, so she did that instead. She reached up and pulled Marco into a hug. "Thank you," she whispered. She couldn't see Marco blush.

The two walked around the block twice. They talked about the stupid things people talk about when they have something else to say.

Catherine hated Jurassic Park. "It was completely unbelievable."

Marco loved mall kiosk salespeople. "They'll give you stuff if you just hang around and look skeptical."

Catherine needed hot milk when she was sick. "Mom says it's saved my life more than once."

Marco disliked when pop musicians tried to branch out. "She can't sing salsa."

Catherine loved boots. "Not like other girls. I loved boots before boots were cool."

Marco didn't understand moles. "What do they do, anyway?"

The two rounded the last corner. Catherine knew her mother would call her about supper soon. She slowed, and looked at Marco.

"Why are you here?"

He stopped walking, and he seemed shaken.

"Marco, why are you here?"

He stammered a bit, and then said "You know how, when you have something to say, and you're not sure if or how or when or why you should say it but it's something you've got to say anyway and you don't have any clue if you're going to do it right, and yet--you know what I mean?"

She nodded.

"Ok. Let me do this right. Cath, I really like you. I really do. If you'd caught me last year, this would be the point at which I would ask you to go to a movie with me next Saturday with the intent of movies every week and maybe meeting your folks and inviting all our friends to a picnic in a park and possibly, but not necessarily letting you see my room and asking, but not expecting to see your room and finally you know, going steady and proms and futures and all that crap."

She felt like she was choking on an ice cube, and the cold was spreading through her chest, and it just wouldn't melt, and she was going to die there because she was stupid and choked on an ice cube.

Marco continued. "I would do all that again today, except I have just gotten out of . . . ugh." He grunted. The look on his face was displeasure to see, and Catherine knew that he didn't want to say the next words, but he knew he had to, and that just complicated things. If he were horrible, he wouldn't say them, and she could leave with a clean conscience because he would be horrible then and that would be fine. But he wasn't horrible and she knew it. Marco cleared his throat. "I just . . . this summer, I fell in love with a girl. Not like, head over heels or anything, but I knew I loved her just the same. And she . . . she was . . . " He pursed his lips and frowned like he was two years old and trying to figure out how to argue his way out of a spanking.

"Marco?" Catherine said, low and soft.

"Yeah?"

"You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

"Good." Marco replied. "That makes it easier to do it. Here's the thing. She cheated on me. Then she told me about it in front of my older brother, just because she knew it would hurt me the most to do that. I wish I could say she's just a bitch who tried to hurt me, but I still can't." Marco took a raggedy breath. "I still can't. I have no idea what happened still. I'm trying to figure it out."

"So?" Catherine didn't know what to think, so she didn't. She just waited for Marco to speak.

"So. I can't ask you out. I can't ask to drag you into this. I can't ask you to date a broken man."

The two stood overlong. The tree above them dropped blood-red tear-shaped leaves that floated around and between them as they stood there. Catherine's mind churned through every option. Say it's ok? Forgive him? Leave him standing on a windy corner because the past is still more important to him than a future? Cry? She found reasons for and against every choice. She argued both sides with herself, mind yelling at conscience, awareness shouting at perception. She didn't come to a clear choice. She wanted to be with him because he was fascinating, and they clicked so well, and he was so beautiful, and he liked her. She wanted to run from him because he wouldn't put her first, and he was still hurt, and she was afraid that he was afraid. Nothing was right. Nothing was perfect like she wanted it to be.

Marco sniffed like he was holding back tears. Catherine pulled up her new plaid umbrella and they stood and listened to the leaves scudding across the ribs of the umbrella.

Catherine looked up. "Marco?" He opened his eyes. They were full of tears. "We don't have to decide anything today, ok? I won't go anywhere yet." Marco pulled Catherine into a hug that squeezed the breath out of her.

"Thank you." He whispered it without whispering it. She barely heard it over the sound of leaves and sunlight.

Marco kissed her cheek, picked up his backpack, and walked away.

Catherine assumed Marco had as good as asked her out, and now it was her choice of what to do. She didn't know, but it didn't bother her. She finally realized Marco wasn't perfect, but she was learning something she thought was more important. He was honest.

She stood in the leaves until her mother called her for supper, and she left the tree to empty itself to the sidewalk, crying blood-red tear-leaves until there were none left.

10.22

[not finished, but you deserve to read it anyway because I like the taste of lemon water]
Marco wasn't perfect. It took Catherine two months to find out.
Before that time, her assumption was that he was, in fact, perfect in every conceivable way. Apart from the heavenly gorgeous amazing incredible stunning smile that a loving God had planted on his masculine face, he had an eye for detail and a care for others that she never thought she would find in a guy. This fact she noticed very quickly indeed. Her rain boots were plaid. No one's rain boots were plaid, not in the entire school. This was a fact that made Catherine unceasingly proud.
"They're not from Walmart," she said, by way of explanation.
"Oh." Rosalyn was not impressed.
This non-support from her best friend made Catherine feel like the shade of an apple bruise. So she went around all day feeling like the shade of fruit that had been dropped from a counter and left to brown and sicken. She felt unappetizing. So when she saw Marco, she wasn't in the best possible mood. Between third period Biology and their mutual lunch break, the couple developed a pattern of meeting at the water fountain on third floor between their classrooms. She stood bruised apple shade at the fountain and waited for him. He stopped ten feet away and frowned.
"How can you look so sad in plaid?"
Catherine thought it was probably the corniest thing anyone had ever said to anyone, but it made her feel like the taste of water with lemon in it. Just right.

They sat just so in the cafeteria. On one side of the table, Catherine Rosalyn, on the other, Marco Enrique Erica. It was an odd social mixing. Three fourths of the way through nearly every lunch, Rosalyn would make an odd pronouncement and the entire table would dissolve into an argument about the relative worth of Uggs versus flip flops or Florida versus California or the Rolling Stones versus Michael Jackson. The argument never mattered, but Rosalyn continued.
"I'm sounding the depths," she explained. "They don't sound more than four fathoms yet."
She persisted until she struck on a topic that satisfied her. She found it in her God versus Pantheism argument. Marco assaulted her with the writings of an obscure Mongolian mystic, then Plato's republic, then the book of Job. She countered with Coleridge, Exodus, and Gilgamesh before turning to Catherine and nodding. She stood up, took her tray, and walked out. Marco, rounding the corner of his argument about Mesopotamian cultures, halted and swallowed, nervous.
"Did I offend her?"
Enrique and Erica continued feeding each other corn chips from a single bag.
"Seriously, though. Did I, like, attack her or something?"
He looked so small and careful that Catherine laughed to see the difference. "No, you didn't offend her. She approves of you, idiot." She threw her fork at him and laughed again. "She said she wouldn't let me date anyone who couldn't think."
"So?"
"So you can think."
"That's a good thing?"
"It's excellent." Rosalyn had never approved of anyone before. Catherine thought it wasn't quite fair, of course. Rosalyn usually rebutted that she could find a pig with wings before Catherine could find a jock with a brain. She hadn't. Catherine felt like it was a perfect day.
Two hours later, she got a text from Rosalyn. It was a picture of a pig with wings. It said "Good luck!"
Catherine didn't cry, but she felt like it would have been justified.

Marco asked her out in midOctober, when the weather and the trees and life were changing. He called her phone, which she didn't pick up because Rosalyn said it would be bad form to appear too desperate. Her mother called up the stairs "Catherine, there's someone on the phone for you!" Catherine pulled back from her textbook and stood up. Her mother yelled again. "It's a boy! What should I say to him?"
Catherine decided to start breathing again. Maybe it was him. She was completely unsure of if he would really call her house.
She grabbed her best lip balm and put it on, then changed her shirt. Her mother yelled up the stairs again. "Catherine, are you deaf or dead? There are no other options."
Catherine ran down the stairs and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" It was too-breathy, like the voice the other girls made when talking about boys they'd had sex with and the feel of their stomachs and the roughness of their hands. She took a breath and tried again. "Hello?"
"Hey."
She wished her heart would slow down. "Hey yourself." She immediately told herself to stop being a ditz and sound like a human again. She had little hope of it working.
"So, you're home."
"Obviously. And you?"
"Well, I'm calling from in front of your house. You wanna go on a walk?"

[in progress--I'll finish when I'm not at 1am]

10.24b

I'd like to meet
Wanna establish familiarity with the guy;
Are you interested in dating?
send me a note 




I am Alesia
Good day.
It's interesting to meet u!
Write me please.

Alisa

10.24

I think I shot a man in my sleep tonight but my head left the matter unclear. It was as if I didn't need to know or that my head began to show how I never ever really know the whys of all my woe. My head (it said, for it knew best) that I was an inconstant show. "What's that?" (I said, to my head) "Inconstant me? I'm trustworthy. I'm faithful, if I'm slow. I never go from friends I know nor shoot the friends I don't!" "There's the problem! There, you see!!" (it said, a rebuttal from my aching head) and an idea took up to grow. Perhaps my head has never said if the man was dead because I ought to know that it doesn't mean a gosh darn thing if my head should cover o'er the whole darn show in a single go or ever tell if he fell by my hand or another man because the [ ] I ought to know is that my head's the pro.
Dreams are best for all the rest. I'll stick to the sleep I know.

10.18

Catherine breathed in deep, and smelled the earthy musk of the still-wet garden. The muffled thump of a dance party beat through the door in front of her. Rosalyn opened her eyes and drew her mouth into a thin line.
"Are we going in, or shall we stand on the doorstep absorbing the popularity?"
Catherine had promised her father that she would check to see if there were parents, check the exits, carry mace in her pocket, and loudly announce to several people that she had AIDs and or gonorrhea to deter any possible sexual offenders. She intended on carrying through on exactly none of her promises. This was her chance to be popular. This night was her night. She had to seize life by the throat and kick it in the crotch. She just had to ring the doorbell. She reached forward and confidently pressed the glowing circle, her portal to instant fame.
She waited. Nothing happened.
Rosalyn sighed and opened the door directly. "Nobody can hear you in there. Let's go."
Catherine had seen teen party movies, but she never expected her life to become one. That's why, until she got to the party, she hadn't ever considered how much she wanted to go to a party where people sprawled over couches making out, drinking unspeakable liquids, and smoking rolled-up pieces of paper with drugs the quality of toenail clippings.
The party was disappointingly too-tame. The Macdonalds were home, and upstairs. Dan Macdonald was downstairs, playing music on his stereo and not even trying to put his hands in girls' shirts. No one was drinking anything or smoking anything. Catherine was very slightly disappointed. She expected mayhem. She wanted mayhem. There was no mayhem.
When Marco walked in, Catherine found the mayhem. Her ears filled with the sound of the blood rushing in her head, shutting out all other noise. Her chest felt full and tight, and it got difficult to breathe. She grabbed Rosalyn's hand and squeezed. His hair was curly and just long enough to cover up his ears just at the top. Catherine tried four times to follow the line of his ear through his hair and had to stop to look away each time. His hair was just the right length for running hands through. She tried to not picture him with her hands in his hair. She wanted very badly to know what that would feel like--what it would be like to pull a man (and not just a boy) a man (not like the boyfriends she'd had) a man be pulled in for a kiss and he just tall enough that he has to bend his neck down and she just short enough that she has to bend her head up, and he just broad enough for the perfect embrace, and she just thin enough for his arms to perfectly encircle her waist--what it would feel like to be perfect. She watched him walk over to the minifridge and rummage through it for a soda. He picked up a glass and poured the drink in and wait for the fizz to die away. Every other person drank from the can, but he drank from a glass. For some reason, this struck Catherine as a very important thing. Marco set the can down on the counter and looked up to survey the room for the first time.
Rosalyn was a good friend.
For Catherine, time froze as Marco's gaze swept to her and paused.
Rosalyn was a very good friend.
He smiled.
Rosalyn gave Catherine's hand a final squeeze and stood up, leaving exactly one free chair in the entire room. Rosalyn was a very good friend indeed.
Catherine licked her lips just a bit. Mayhem? Who needs it? This is just right. Marco walked toward her.
Marco sat down next to Catherine, and her world exploded just a little bit. She didn't let it show. She was collected, but at risk for hyperventilation. She just needed a little more air, is all. Don't judge her.
"You were in my"
"Chemistry class, yes."
"Yeah, I remember you. Brainiac!"
"I don't think so, I mean, I was just average." She hoped the heat in her face and neck wouldn't burn through her skin.
"Ha, fat chance of that. I remember you. You're . . . Catherine, right? Pretty cool."
Catherine hadn't ever prayed for death before, but if she were to begin, this seemed like a good time.
"Hey, I don't think we've ever been properly introduced. I'm Marco."
She shook his hand with the stiff formality of someone who had had taken statistics and knew the mind-blowing improbability of having all of one's dreams come true simultaneously. The thought occurred to her to check outside for her new convertible and personal money tree.
Marco smiled, and Catherine melted in the brilliance of it.

Rosalyn drank three sodas and talked two different boys out of their chairs to dance before Catherine stood up suddenly and turned to Marco. He stopped halfway through his story about dissecting a frog with his dad. He looked up at her, his mouth half open.
"You wanna go outside?" Her question was as sudden as a gunshot in still woods. He seemed to churn through the thought.
"Yes?" It was phrased as a question, as if he wasn't sure if it was an invitation or a polite way to get rid of him. She walked up the stairs and turned around. He blinked twice, set his glass on the end table, and bounded up two at a time. He laughed and grabbed his shoes.
"Out?"
"Out."
"Why?"
"That's for me to know, and you to find out."
"I love a woman of mystery."
She slipped into her flats and walked out into the night and the still-wet garden and the yellow acidpaper streetlights. He followed, hopping on one foot and tying his shoelace. She had no idea where she was going to go, and she didn't care. She had never liked the way people described their emotions: dancing, soaring, twinkling, shining, or any other nonsense. So the way she felt as she closed the door  was not anything of the kind. She felt like a mountaintop stripped of snow by the sun, with a field of flowers flying out through the scree to meet the sun.
Rosalyn had won an eating competition by plowing through the better part of a pizza, and been asked to prom by Dan Macdonald twice before Catherine and Marco got back. They had talked about foreign movies, the best type of car, the oddity of going to school as a profession, the fact that parents made love, the way hopes of teenagers never worked out, and the smell of old books.
Catherine walked halfway down the stairs and pause. Rosalyn saw it, and extricated herself from Dan's predatory pleading. When she got outside with Catherine, she asked the most important question of the entire year:
"So?"
Catherine just smiled.

10.17b

Well . . . (from Lesia Haley [burton.grayer@aol.com])

Hey!
Wanna date?
Alesia

[This latest missive is the most concrete, most comprehensible, and most depressing. Still, I'm incredibly excited about her interest in me, anyway.]

10.17

This is it.
This is the end.
I've really done it now.

I don't suppose I have much time left.

It hurts to be awake. Actual pain.

10.16b

She's right there. I'm glad I can't see how bright her smile is, or how lithe her arms are, or how dark her eyes are. All I can see is the back of her head. If I could see her ear through her hair, I'd be done for.

10.16

Catherine took an unattractively large bite of pasta and had to suction in the straggling strands. Rosalyn laughed at what was essentially a killing blow to hotness.
"Shut up, Roz!" Catherine said around the mouthful. It only further cemented how non-hot she was at the moment. Two tables away, Marco discovered the corn in his teeth and tried to pull it out of his teeth with his tongue and lips, which only caused his face to contort like a weird snarl. Catherine swallowed.
"If he's allowed to eat corn, I'm allowed to eat spaghetti. It's only fair."
"Decidedly not!" Rosalyn argued. "Your role is to be as hot as you can forever. He can eat corn and grow a mustache and run through the mud, but you have to be immaculate." Catherine, mouth now full of spaghetti, tried to protest.most of the sound came out as a muffled mmpfh. Rosalyn disagreed. "I know it's unfair to you, Cath, but hot women are cursed to forever be hot. That is, until you finally tie a man down and he has to realize you poop too. Really, you should poop in front of him on your honeymoon, just to make sure he gets the point. Basically, all marriages are ruined by the timing of the partners' poops." Catherine was incredulous.

Marco stood up in the middle of the cafeteria and announced loudly "I would like everybody to listen up! What I'm about to say is very important!" Eventually, the cafe quieted to murmurs. Marco stood up on his chair and yelled "Enrique has something very important to ask, but he's too shy. Can everybody give him some support?" His voice was full and strong and everybody heard it and Catherine wanted to know if he was this embarrassing all the time, or just this once. If he yelled a lot, he might drop on her scale from a perfect ten to perhaps a nine point fivefourthreesevenseven, or thereabouts. She wasn't trying to be exact.
The rest of the students started chanting "Enrique Enrique" and banging trays and clapping at a slow rhythm that slowly sped up. When they had reached a fast waltz, Enrique stood up and the chant dissolved into a roar.
"Hey, everyone. I just want everyone here to know I'm in love with the most beautiful girl in the world, and I want to ask her out." He turned to Erica. Rosalyn gasped and grabbed Catherine's arm and shook her violently. Enrique, quieter now, asked "Erica, will you be my girlfriend?"

Rosalyn was ecstatic at this point and practically squealed. "I knew Marco didn't like her. What did I say? What did I say?" The last trailed off into a high squeal.
Catherine just rolled her eyes and looked at Marco looking at Enrique looking at Erica looking at her hands. Nobody could hear what she said, but Marco jumped up on the chair again and yelled. The whole cafe roared out again, but Catherine could still make out his yell among the bedlam. She just stared at the way he threw back his head and let the sound ripple up from his shoes into his chest, where it built and exploded out, and she thought maybe he was just right. If he could do such an awesome thing for a friend, what would he do for a woman? She immediately tried to picture how he would ask her out. The perfectness of it wouldn't fit in her head, so she gave up and watched him jog around the cafe with his arms in the air.
Rosalyn turned and whispered deep into Catherine's ear. "Well, he's got endurance, at least."
The two giggled at the joke only they could hear, and Catherine shoveled an unattractively large bite into her mouth.

10.15

[I can't finish that story now. It will wait a day or two, I think.]

I am tremendous. I can step from one continent to another without wetting my feet. I can stand up on the bottom of the ocean. I can smell the moon.
I'm sure you've heard of me. I'm famous. I'm on tv. Most people can see me coming for hours. If I stand still too long, I cause wild temperature fluctuation. If I take a nap, I ruin local economies underneath me. I'm the leading cause of Brazil's deforestation. Like I said, I'm sure you've heard of me.

I'm the tallest man alive, but also the loneliest.

10.11

[I'm addicted to writing scenes. I can't help it; they're so much easier. Sadly, these scenes don't expand to be stories often enough for me to justifiably try to claim that I am a short story writer. I'm a struggling short story writer, trying to get quick fixes of scenes--like I'm taking meth to cope with my cocaine addiction.]

Marco wasn't aware of his effect on her. Catherine wasn't quite sure he needed to, especially, because it was kind of embarrassing, really. She knew girls weren't supposed to think this way. She knew that nice girls were nice, and didn't think about nice boys and the shape of their nice jeans over their nice butts, or the way their nice shirts slid across nice shoulders when they turned to be just overwhelmingly nice. Catherine knew this, but that didn't stop her from staring at Marco when he walked (though walk is tame, perhaps swaggered) through the cafeteria (though not swagger, really, it's just he walked purposefully, and some would describe it as a swagger. There wasn't any arrogance in it anyway). He had nice arms and she had more than once thought it would be nice if he were to wrap her in them. But she wouldn't ever tell him. And he wouldn't ever know. She had only told Rosalyn about it, and only on pain of death and because of permanent friendship. Rosalyn thought they would be great together, but only because their babies would be "so unspeakably cute." But both had sworn secrecy on the subject, and Marco continued to wear shirts that were just ever so slightly too tight and Catherine continued to look and think she was just ever so slightly horrible for wanting to know what his skin would feel like.

But it wasn't really truly fair, she thought, that she couldn't tell him about it. This is a liberated society, after all. And she was a powerful (empowered [power-hungry]) woman. And she was attractive (in more ways than one [both sexually and intellectually]), or at least that's what Rosalyn said, and Rosalyn had excellent taste in friends (at least, that's what Rosalyn said). Catherine thought Rosalyn was sweet, but perhaps a bit too free with her praise. Still, Marco didn't know quite the effect that he had on Catherine. She bit her lip pensively, but would never describe it that way aloud to Rosalyn for fear of dorkslaps. Marco sat down at a table a row away and started talking to his friends. She decided to not stare.

The next time she looked up, Marco was eating corn on the cob. It was, in her opinion, the least sexy food in the universe. He laughed at something Enrique said, and she could clearly see corn stuck in his teeth. This brief moment of humanity did not serve to humanize him at all. Instead, she wondered if he would brush his teeth when he kissed her.

Of course, Marco wasn't aware of his effect on her. She planned to keep it that way.

10.10

[Today is a palindrome, if you ignore the year. I said that last year on 11.11. Good luck?]

[I can't write anything today. I have tried. It was crap. I will write again in the morning.]

I can't feel hot breath on my face yet, but I know it's coming. I'm curled in a little ball in the boll of the tree and I can't feel the hot breath. I'm terrified to open my eyes and see it coming, but the good thing is that I can't feel it yet. I saw it from a ways off and immediately dropped to hide and I'm really excited that I can't feel. Maybe it won't find me. Maybe it will pass me by.

I can feel the hot breath on my face. It smells like death. Maybe, I think sadly, it's the other way around. Death smells like tiger breath, and I've been wrong all along.

It would fit. I would think death would curl too in the boll with me.

Good thing I don't have time to figure that out.

10.9

I can't lick the last of the ice cream out of the bottom of the bowl. It's right past the end of my tongue, and even though I'm sticking my whole face into the bowl, I just can't seem to get it. I'm super frustrated and only kind of angry but I decide to cry anyway.
I have a ring of ice cream around my forehead and chin. I bet I look ridiculous.
It feels so good to cry, I start to laugh.

Catharsis.

I'm trying to get the dog off of me, but he's snuffling my face as I lie on the ground. I'm laughing and hoping he doesn't shed in my mouth. He'll get off eventually when he gets bored, but for right now, I'm hugging him and he's smelling me.
I'm covered in fur from my head to my toe. I bet I look ridiculous.
It feels so good to laugh, I start to cry.

Overjoyed.

I tell her I have to move to Illinois, and I'm not sure what that means for us. She starts crying and asks if she can move with me. I say I'm not sure that's a good idea. She says she loves me. I smile and shake my head. She says she loves me again. I'm not sure what I can do about it.
She's bawling and her eyes are bright red. She looks ridiculous.
I feel great.

Schadenfreude.

10.8

The Bible says "thou shalt not covet," but what it feels like is "keep trying, kid. You'll never stop wanting what you can't have. Go ahead. Beat your head against a wall. You're set up for failure. If you get it let me know." What it feels like is "shut up and sit down, idiot. I give you things on my own time, in my own way, and it would be best if you just developed a pinch of patience and waited for a split second." What it feels like is "I'm going to give everybody else what you want and then tell you to not want it. Have fun." What it feels like is watching the girl in front of me text the boy she refers to as "My Nathan <3" and wondering why she exists geographically two feet from me, but the idea of her is miles off.

"My Nathan <3."
Anger.

10.8

I said I would delete it. But I'm against deleting memories.

Well, here goes everything. Crumple stuff squash crush tear rip squeeze push force shove mush cut break.
Click. It's gone. The other was the sound of my heart.

10.6b

Coy. Careful. Cautious.
I asked her if I could hold her hand. It was cold out and the stars we were staring at were sharp and clear and cut through the dark like ribbons of light from heaven. I asked soft, under my breath, sucked in air, and watched as her own curled up through the cold.
"Is it alright if I hold your hand?"
She pulled off her glove and held her palm up and giggled when my icy fingers laced through her soft warm ones.
I was probably wiser than she was.

Cautious. Crippled. Cut.
I asked her if I could hold her hand. It was hot out and the sun was beating down warm and smooth and full. It blanketed us in layers of glory. I asked soft, under my breath, sucked in air, and watched her hold hers as sweat not caused by heat grew on my forehad.
"Is it alright if I hold your hand?"
She angled her shoulder away from me and laced her fingers together in her lap and said to me that it probably wasn't a good idea.
She was probably wiser than I was.

10.6

She walks in seafood like the night.

She wears krill on her fingers and whelks on her toes.

She being brand/name tuna

Half a league, half a league, half a league downward
into the briny surf rode the six hundred.

[Accidental sea-themed poetry]

10.5b

[if you're reading this, go to the sidebar and read the series from 9.27 on--they're all labeled "thomas." To Janelle, thanks for talking about the characters with me. To Kyle, thanks for being a moral compass that always points north even when my prevarication drags me down. To Lyssa, I'm sorry I ruined a good story. Just read the happy ones again and never read the sad. To Christen, Katy, Mum, and anyone else, who, I am sure, will find this, don't think less of me for it. To myself, stop writing such incredibly depressing things for a while. To God, this is yours now. Do with it as you must. To my inspiration for this long extended epic, forever is shorter than I wish it was. I'll see you on the other side of it.
To all, I give my joy with life. If the shells were in the same place as the gun, they would have a layer of dust thick enough to choke a cat. I'm fine. Please enjoy what I hope to be the last part of this depression. God bless.]

I pulled her in for a closer hug and whispered through her hair. I said forever and she said "for all time, Sam" and giggled soft and low. She was a thing of beauty, you know, all happiness and light and vibrancy and joy. And hot, you know. All curves and thin and smooth and just perfectly proportioned and short enough to be right for me but tall enough to be completely irrepressibly languid and flowing like the feel of watching a cheetah in slow motion flowing and pouncing and striking. Let me tell you, she's a killer.
Forever is a long time.

We weren't cute together like those couples on tv and we weren't incredibly mushy like those couples on tv but we were right together. You know that? That unshakably perfect feeling like the end of the world could come and you would last right through it because nothing wrong can destroy the right. And we were together for just long enough for me to say forever and for her to say "for all time" and to really really mean it.

I had to overcome my fear, you know. The last relationship I was in was pretty o.k. too but there wasn't that unshakable rightness about it. We just kind of hung out and made out and went out and things were good and then that was when this girl she said she--well you know how it is, you never really notice your potential feelings for someone until they admit their feelings for you? Like there's someone you've never even thought about particularly and then their friend comes up and says hey my friend likes you and you're all like well that's awesome and then you think about it and the more you think about it the more attracted you are--well anyway this girl I dated and who dated me, she said she loved me. Well. It shook me down to my toes let me tell you and I didn't know what to say, but I thought about it and I thought about it and I kind of realized I could love her back, you know, given enough time. Well it was about that time that we started getting really serious and she started saying things about how her love for me would mean things that were exactly what I wanted and so I asked her to love me that way, and just so, and really love me, and I got just to that day of everything was just right and I found out she was also sleeping with my best friend (I mean I'm sixteen at the time you can't take everything so seriously but she was still sleeping with my best friend and I at the same time and it destroyed everything she meant with me). And she left me and yelled all sorts of profanities and told me she hoped I died of syphilis and that she never really loved me and looking back on it now I think it all makes a lot more sense in the context of this story she told me one time about how her uncle used to look at her and it gave her the shivers I mean he was effed up but he effed her up and then she effed me and that effed me up. The whole thing wasn't very fair. And I was very afraid of this happening again and so it took time. It took ages. I mean a whole six months and she and I never so much as made out really and we just took our time and really got to know each other and you know I'm about to turn seventeen and she's about to turn fourteen and we finally got to this point that we were able to say forever and it meant so much to me to know she wouldn't ever leave.

She knew my whole story, you know, all about the hurt and the pain from the last girl, and she was still able to look past it and see me inside it and it was all so unshakably right. That was when school started and she said she would still see me around, but my job and her school and time, you know? Time was so short. So I told her she wasn't mine and she could do whatever she wanted and so she did.

Time got apart from us being away and it was a whole year later and she was about to turn fifteen and I was about to turn eighteen, and I had a better job and I wanted to find out if for all time for her was the same forever for me and I found her at school and asked, low and soft in her ear, but she didn't really respond right away and she looked weird at this kid across the hall, so I grabbed her waist like I used to like we did when forever and she just stared at this kid and I looked at him and he looked at me and I didn't know what was going on I just wanted to yell forever at this kid and at her and at the paint on the walls and the florescent lights that hummed just at the same frequency as my brain as I just wanted her to say "for all time" just like she used to, but she didn't. All she said was "I'll explain it later" and I left just as scared as before.

She never did say for all time but she said it with her eyes and that was enough for me, you know. She said it with her eyes and she never really did say anything else but I knew she knew the story about the girl from before and she didn't want me to hurt and she had promised for all time. She didn't have for all time to offer anymore, but she had that night and if it was all I she had, it was all she could give me. I felt so horrible afterward I left her house and I cried for the first time since that girl had left me years before and I cried so hard my face hurt because if forever didn't mean for all time I guess there wasn't anything left for me.

I didn't kill myself after that because I'm here talking to you today, but if my father kept his shells in the same place as the gun I don't suppose I would be. I would be gone forever, and let me tell you, forever is a long time.

Forever is a very long time.

10.5

[It seems that I can't write a story that ends with two people happily together unless the story ends in the middle. Sorry, all. Have this instead: http://community.sparknotes.com/2011/09/30/nbk-to-totally-bk-in-one-post-or-less because SparkNotes is inexplicably interesting.]

George slapped the emotion down, but it bounced back up. Slap, slap, slap like he was playing basketball with his subconscious. Slap: "George, she's not right for you," he told himself, "and you'll only end up hurting her." Slap, slap, slap, slap, yes but--slap, she's so--slap, maybe once--slap. So he just looked at her with alternating emotions. George wasn't quite sure why this was such a problem now when it wasn't a problem just a few short years ago, but he was accustomed to it being a problem nonetheless. And it's not like he was alone in this; everybody had the same problem. Why was he saying problem so much? Negative connotations don't develop overnight. Slap slap slap slap. Her arms are so smooth--slap her mind is so empty, her laugh means she's interested--slap interested in leaving, she's smiling a lot--slap you're trying to be funny.
Slap slap slap.
This was going to be another very long day.

[I've noticed I try way too hard to be funny around attractive women and I think I don't want to know why]

10.2

I have never pulled an all-nighter.
I have never consumed coffee of any kind.
I have always had a song in my heart.

When that changes, I'll run scared. Until, it's business as usual.