Monday, September 24, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Resident Evil: Extinction
Last night I went to the movies by myself and ended up meeting a stranger in the ladies room and then sitting with her and her husband. Hah. It all happened because I have this extreme inability to stay silent when other people are near enough to hear me. So, I said, "Hi!" as we both washed our hands and it ended up a few minutes later with, "You should come with with us!". And I did.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
I'm going to have gastric bypass surgery (roux en-y) in December.
This is how it is to be fat:
It lives under my skin like another being, its not me, but my prisoner, my prison, my pain. I can’t escape, now enslaved to the restrictions and the desires of my rolls. Eat more. Stop moving so much. Stop trying.
It is a lens in front of my eyes, making me look at the world, my friends, and myself differently. Is that chair big enough? Will it hold? I don’t want to go there, we might have to walk a lot. How can she complain about her size 8 jeans not fitting anymore? I must be worthless, no one asks me out. Sure, I’m nice but who could get past the double chin and the width of my hips? They must always say I’m “sweet” because they are too nice to say “fat”.
It is a leech, eating away at my body and my spirit. It steals my breath when I carry myself up the stairs. It consumes my energy when I dare go out to that festival or that amusement park. My self-confidence is swallowed whole by stretching skin and too much weight. Ambition and desire have long been devoured by the need to stay home and hide, where I feel less hideous.
It is my obvious secret. I can’t talk about these things with people who might care because I did this to myself. No one made me eat the way I do; no one else forced me to skip the exercise for a nap. How can I complain? This isn’t a disease, it is my own doing. How could I complain any more than the drug addict or the person facing bankruptcy because of gambling? This is self-induced.
It is the end of my dreams. I tell myself I don’t want to get married because I believe no one would ever be attracted to me. I’m not attracted to fat men, how could I expect any different? Even then, how would I find a dress big enough for me? This is why I didn’t go to prom. And then if I did get a dress, would the aisle be wide enough for both me and my father to walk down together? Suppose somehow someone does decide he loves me that much, I do find a GIANT dress and a church with wide enough aisle, what happens on the wedding night when he sees me naked? I don’t want to see me naked. And maybe I shouldn’t go to Europe because they aren’t overweight like Americans, it might be even worse over there. In fact, maybe I shouldn’t go out to eat with my friends because they might be thinking about how much I’m eating and not about what I’m saying to them. How could I face these challenges? I might as well give up hope altogether.
It is my constant torment. I diet and exercise enough to lose 20 pounds (which doesn’t feel any different at all to me, my jeans aren’t any looser) only to gain it back and more when I finally decide that effort isn’t worth the reward. I see no escape in this hopeless future of feeling tired and ugly and uncomfortable in my own skin. It is exhausting smiling so much when I just want to go hide and cry.
But let me tell you what it isn’t. It isn’t the death of hope or the only thing left for me. I’m going to have weight loss surgery.
So, understand why I get defensive when you say, “Doesn’t that surgery kill people?” Because, honestly, I would rather die trying than continue living this way; it is a half-life. Understand that, to me, twenty-five thousand dollars doesn’t sound like too much if insurance won’t cover it. I can’t put a price on what it feels like to even hope, let alone what it might feel like to experience freedom. Understand that I have tried other things, this is the only thing I think will work permanently. I didn’t just come to a snap decision, I’ve researched. I’ve studied. I’ve asked questions. I’m ready.
Finally, I just wanted to let you know that I don’t want to hear the horror stories you’ve heard from this or that person. I don’t want to hear that you are worried, that I should “be careful” or that maybe I should consider this or that alternative. I’m about to go through the most scary, exciting experience of my life this far. What I need is support and encouragement. What I need is to be honest about the biggest secret I’ve ever had.
Can you do this for me?
It lives under my skin like another being, its not me, but my prisoner, my prison, my pain. I can’t escape, now enslaved to the restrictions and the desires of my rolls. Eat more. Stop moving so much. Stop trying.
It is a lens in front of my eyes, making me look at the world, my friends, and myself differently. Is that chair big enough? Will it hold? I don’t want to go there, we might have to walk a lot. How can she complain about her size 8 jeans not fitting anymore? I must be worthless, no one asks me out. Sure, I’m nice but who could get past the double chin and the width of my hips? They must always say I’m “sweet” because they are too nice to say “fat”.
It is a leech, eating away at my body and my spirit. It steals my breath when I carry myself up the stairs. It consumes my energy when I dare go out to that festival or that amusement park. My self-confidence is swallowed whole by stretching skin and too much weight. Ambition and desire have long been devoured by the need to stay home and hide, where I feel less hideous.
It is my obvious secret. I can’t talk about these things with people who might care because I did this to myself. No one made me eat the way I do; no one else forced me to skip the exercise for a nap. How can I complain? This isn’t a disease, it is my own doing. How could I complain any more than the drug addict or the person facing bankruptcy because of gambling? This is self-induced.
It is the end of my dreams. I tell myself I don’t want to get married because I believe no one would ever be attracted to me. I’m not attracted to fat men, how could I expect any different? Even then, how would I find a dress big enough for me? This is why I didn’t go to prom. And then if I did get a dress, would the aisle be wide enough for both me and my father to walk down together? Suppose somehow someone does decide he loves me that much, I do find a GIANT dress and a church with wide enough aisle, what happens on the wedding night when he sees me naked? I don’t want to see me naked. And maybe I shouldn’t go to Europe because they aren’t overweight like Americans, it might be even worse over there. In fact, maybe I shouldn’t go out to eat with my friends because they might be thinking about how much I’m eating and not about what I’m saying to them. How could I face these challenges? I might as well give up hope altogether.
It is my constant torment. I diet and exercise enough to lose 20 pounds (which doesn’t feel any different at all to me, my jeans aren’t any looser) only to gain it back and more when I finally decide that effort isn’t worth the reward. I see no escape in this hopeless future of feeling tired and ugly and uncomfortable in my own skin. It is exhausting smiling so much when I just want to go hide and cry.
But let me tell you what it isn’t. It isn’t the death of hope or the only thing left for me. I’m going to have weight loss surgery.
So, understand why I get defensive when you say, “Doesn’t that surgery kill people?” Because, honestly, I would rather die trying than continue living this way; it is a half-life. Understand that, to me, twenty-five thousand dollars doesn’t sound like too much if insurance won’t cover it. I can’t put a price on what it feels like to even hope, let alone what it might feel like to experience freedom. Understand that I have tried other things, this is the only thing I think will work permanently. I didn’t just come to a snap decision, I’ve researched. I’ve studied. I’ve asked questions. I’m ready.
Finally, I just wanted to let you know that I don’t want to hear the horror stories you’ve heard from this or that person. I don’t want to hear that you are worried, that I should “be careful” or that maybe I should consider this or that alternative. I’m about to go through the most scary, exciting experience of my life this far. What I need is support and encouragement. What I need is to be honest about the biggest secret I’ve ever had.
Can you do this for me?
Friday, September 07, 2007
"Hey there Pumpkin!"
I hate it when I have something on my mind that I don't want to share with everyone. I wouldn't call it a secret, exactly, just one of those things that you only talk about with your close friends, and then when you feel comfortable, everyone else. But I'm not a very private person, so it feels strange not to share things.
In other news, so far, this semester is great. I only go to oxford two nights a week and I'm only taking thirteen credit hours and one of my classes actually has creative writing as the homework, so its amazing! Of course, when I'm turning things in I pay a bit more attention to things like sentence structure, grammar, and spelling.
I sure like the baby. I like to watch her sleep and hold her when she cries and hear the sounds she makes when she's eating. I like laying my hand on her back while she sleeps so I can feel her breathing in and out. I love the way her toes curl in and the way she grunts at me when I touch them. She sure doesn't like being messed with. Mostly, I haven't found anything I don't like about her except that nasty umbilical cord, but everyone assures me that it will fall off soon. *shudder*
Well, I'm going to go make that CD for Katie that I said I'd make several weeks ago. . .
Sarah Jo!
In other news, so far, this semester is great. I only go to oxford two nights a week and I'm only taking thirteen credit hours and one of my classes actually has creative writing as the homework, so its amazing! Of course, when I'm turning things in I pay a bit more attention to things like sentence structure, grammar, and spelling.
I sure like the baby. I like to watch her sleep and hold her when she cries and hear the sounds she makes when she's eating. I like laying my hand on her back while she sleeps so I can feel her breathing in and out. I love the way her toes curl in and the way she grunts at me when I touch them. She sure doesn't like being messed with. Mostly, I haven't found anything I don't like about her except that nasty umbilical cord, but everyone assures me that it will fall off soon. *shudder*
Well, I'm going to go make that CD for Katie that I said I'd make several weeks ago. . .
Sarah Jo!
Take that!
I was reading the last chapter of the last Harry Potter book when it happened: the noise. It came from behind me, to my left. Soon, it became apparent that an insect has somehow infiltrated the sanctuary of my bedroom and was now hiding inside the lampshade. As I moved closer to investigate, the enemy dropped so quickly I only saw the black flash falling to the floor near my bed. I crawled across the bed and peered over its edges, trying to get a closer look at my adversary. As if anticipating my every move, it flew up, towards my face, circling my head before landing on the ceiling, mocking me. A wasp. Before I knew it, I was off the bed and running towards the doorway, casting a suspicious eye on my attacker. Too late, I realized my mistake. There, on the bed, still open and waiting, was my book. I couldn't just leave it there.
Now, the wasp was crawling down the wall, creeping closer to the doorway, to me. I had no choice. Cautiously, I crept into the room, leaving a wide berth between myself and the monster. As soon as my fingers touched the rough cover of the book, I was fleeing the room, swinging the door shut behind me. The battle was lost, but the enemy was trapped.
Finally, reinforcements (my father) arrived. He lead the front lines while I waited (cowered) outside the bedroom door. He checked the walls. He checked the ceiling. He checked the light. No wasp. In a desperate move, he pulled aside the curtain to reveal the breach that allowed the enemy to gain access; the window was open about two inches at the top. Clearly, this is how the battle began, but did the monster once again use this hidden portal to escape the battlefield, or was it lurking in some dark corner to catch me unawares. No, I couldn't allow this to happen.
While my father watched my back, I gathered clothing to dress in the bathroom. As I went to fetch a shirt off the floor, I was it. I spied the enemy. I sounded the alarm. Swiftly, my father brought fate to the sneaky little monster between a shoe and the carpet.
After some intense labor (no time at all), the corpse was disposed of and the battlements reinforced. Once again, the bedroom is safe.
Now, the wasp was crawling down the wall, creeping closer to the doorway, to me. I had no choice. Cautiously, I crept into the room, leaving a wide berth between myself and the monster. As soon as my fingers touched the rough cover of the book, I was fleeing the room, swinging the door shut behind me. The battle was lost, but the enemy was trapped.
Finally, reinforcements (my father) arrived. He lead the front lines while I waited (cowered) outside the bedroom door. He checked the walls. He checked the ceiling. He checked the light. No wasp. In a desperate move, he pulled aside the curtain to reveal the breach that allowed the enemy to gain access; the window was open about two inches at the top. Clearly, this is how the battle began, but did the monster once again use this hidden portal to escape the battlefield, or was it lurking in some dark corner to catch me unawares. No, I couldn't allow this to happen.
While my father watched my back, I gathered clothing to dress in the bathroom. As I went to fetch a shirt off the floor, I was it. I spied the enemy. I sounded the alarm. Swiftly, my father brought fate to the sneaky little monster between a shoe and the carpet.
After some intense labor (no time at all), the corpse was disposed of and the battlements reinforced. Once again, the bedroom is safe.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
The story of a dream
The other day I had a horrible dream and woke up crying. Okay. That happens occasionally. But then today I had another dream that caused me to wake up crying. This is excessive. In this dream, my mother was having a baby and I was going to the hospital to visit her. On the way to the hospital, I met some cool girl with funky hair, piercings, and tattoos. She seemed really nice, but then when we got to the hospital, I found out it was a set-up and there was a shoot out! This person was shooting at me with some kind of automatic weapon and I was hiding but then one of the bullets hit me and bounced right off. It hurt, but I didn't die, which was good. So, I walked towards the person with the bullets flying at me and I reached up and broke the gun. The other person died, I guess. Finally, cops and paramedics showed up and I looked down at myself to see that I was covered in open wounds and it REALLY HURT. I started crying. I woke up. How terrible. Naps ARE evil.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
Wondering
So I guess it happens that people aren’t always who they’ve always been, and things that you could always count on aren’t there anymore. So I guess it happens that things you expected to stay the same suddenly change. But here I am, and I don’t feel any different than before. Is there room for me now that everything is different, or will I remain part of the past with all those old memories and that box of photographs?
Friday, August 24, 2007
Introducing:
This is a video of Kiersten and her daddy about an hour after she was born. I believe its Kiersten Gabriell(e/a) Lee Lewis
6lb 7oz 19in. born Friday, August 24, 2007 at 1:11pm
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Fun times
At this very moment, the central air AND the refrigerator are broken. Is this like the preview of hell? The night included: warm egg yolks spilling all over my hands, sweat, trying to decide which items should be saved from yesterdays grocery trip, oh, and arguments. You know, because yelling at each other makes everything better.
When are we going to Gatlinburg?
When are we going to Gatlinburg?
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Creative writing feels like delicious.
So, I've decided that while I really love to write, I especially love to share what I write. Sometimes, however, what I write has nothing to do with me. So, I'm creating a second blog to put all the stuff I write and want to share that maybe no one cares about but it will make me feel better having it somewhere. Anyway, if you are interested, its here and if not, just don't go there, kay?
Sarah Jo
Sarah Jo
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Things I waited to say (until after you walked away)
The other day at work, I was inspired to write two poems with exactly the same title, but with two different messages. I had a lot of fun writing them, so I want to share them with you!
Things I waited to say (until after you walked away)
Silence does not mean that I’m mad at you
its just, I expect my words to betray
all the feelings I haven’t the courage to express
(until after you walk away)
You call me a friend to my constant delight
but I cannot help but to wish for much more
and although sometimes it seems that you feel the same way,
it is never enough to be sure.
Your quirky charms make me smile like a fool
even when you aren’t around,
but its so much more than words could describe;
it’s your presence, your scent, and your sound.
How could I, being me, (without sparkle or shine)
ever hope to deserve one such as you?
Still, insecurities cannot refute what is plain,
this declaration is long overdue.
So, I’ll say it this once, despite all my fears,
despite what my cautious heart begs me to do,
It’s been far too long that I’ve waited to say:
I’ve fallen in love with you.
Things 2
Silence does not mean I’m not mad at you,
holding my tongue is the best weapon I can muster.
And after all the excitement your shining eyes promised,
I’ve never experienced anything so lackluster.
You once called me a friend to my constant delight
but I do not think that the label will stay
for I intend to keep every piece of my heart
now that you’ve so gallantly thrown it away.
So, forgive me if I’ve failed to articulate
the many reasons this romance met its demise
its just that all the quirky charms that drew me near
are the very ones I’ve learned to despise.
How could I, being me, (without voice to defend)
ever hope to recover from you?
Still, somewhere inside is the woman I was
is the love of myself I once knew.
So, I’ll say it aloud, despite what happens next
because I cannot hope to survive this anew
(although all this seems vaguely familiar)
I’m finally finished with you.
Things I waited to say (until after you walked away)
Silence does not mean that I’m mad at you
its just, I expect my words to betray
all the feelings I haven’t the courage to express
(until after you walk away)
You call me a friend to my constant delight
but I cannot help but to wish for much more
and although sometimes it seems that you feel the same way,
it is never enough to be sure.
Your quirky charms make me smile like a fool
even when you aren’t around,
but its so much more than words could describe;
it’s your presence, your scent, and your sound.
How could I, being me, (without sparkle or shine)
ever hope to deserve one such as you?
Still, insecurities cannot refute what is plain,
this declaration is long overdue.
So, I’ll say it this once, despite all my fears,
despite what my cautious heart begs me to do,
It’s been far too long that I’ve waited to say:
I’ve fallen in love with you.
Things 2
Silence does not mean I’m not mad at you,
holding my tongue is the best weapon I can muster.
And after all the excitement your shining eyes promised,
I’ve never experienced anything so lackluster.
You once called me a friend to my constant delight
but I do not think that the label will stay
for I intend to keep every piece of my heart
now that you’ve so gallantly thrown it away.
So, forgive me if I’ve failed to articulate
the many reasons this romance met its demise
its just that all the quirky charms that drew me near
are the very ones I’ve learned to despise.
How could I, being me, (without voice to defend)
ever hope to recover from you?
Still, somewhere inside is the woman I was
is the love of myself I once knew.
So, I’ll say it aloud, despite what happens next
because I cannot hope to survive this anew
(although all this seems vaguely familiar)
I’m finally finished with you.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Thats what SHE said!
I would like to share some important things I learned yesterday. While they are separate lessons, they are all intimately related.
First: When bleach is poured into the place marked "liquid bleach only" in our washing machine, it simply runs out the bottom of the machine onto the laundry room floor.
Second: It is not a good idea when separating the laundry to leave the blacks piled up in front of the washing machine on the laundry room floor.
Finally: Black dye for clothing cannot undo the damage bleach has wrought.
In other news, after the urging of several parties, I watched the office. Every episode. And yes, it is amazing and wonderful and other positive adjectives. You were right. Now, I feel the need to spread the Office gospel, because I have been converted and I am new! Haha. And I do feel the need to share a quote from Dwight: "I know what you are thinking: Won't that just shed more light on the penises?"
More excitement? There is. I'll tell you about it, and then answer your questions:
I went on a date. (I know, right?)
I'm turning 21 REALLY soon. (Yes!)
Katelyn and I are writing a book together. (Yes, when it's finished.)
I tried asparagus. (No, it was green. Of course I didn't like it.)
I'm going to Europe. (August, 2008.)
Now I have a real cell phone plan where I can actually talk to people and stuff. (T-mobile.)
I now officially hate my job. (New people, old people gone, negativity, stuff.)
I guess that covers it. Now we won't have anything to talk about, will we?
Sarah Jo
First: When bleach is poured into the place marked "liquid bleach only" in our washing machine, it simply runs out the bottom of the machine onto the laundry room floor.
Second: It is not a good idea when separating the laundry to leave the blacks piled up in front of the washing machine on the laundry room floor.
Finally: Black dye for clothing cannot undo the damage bleach has wrought.
In other news, after the urging of several parties, I watched the office. Every episode. And yes, it is amazing and wonderful and other positive adjectives. You were right. Now, I feel the need to spread the Office gospel, because I have been converted and I am new! Haha. And I do feel the need to share a quote from Dwight: "I know what you are thinking: Won't that just shed more light on the penises?"
More excitement? There is. I'll tell you about it, and then answer your questions:
I went on a date. (I know, right?)
I'm turning 21 REALLY soon. (Yes!)
Katelyn and I are writing a book together. (Yes, when it's finished.)
I tried asparagus. (No, it was green. Of course I didn't like it.)
I'm going to Europe. (August, 2008.)
Now I have a real cell phone plan where I can actually talk to people and stuff. (T-mobile.)
I now officially hate my job. (New people, old people gone, negativity, stuff.)
I guess that covers it. Now we won't have anything to talk about, will we?
Sarah Jo
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
I DO have standards . . . and you don't meet them.
Ashley J mentioned the other day that something seemed "off" with me. Maybe I agree. I dunno. I'm not sure which version of me she is comparing the current me to, since she has been in Michigan most of the time for the last three years, and well, three years is a long time. Maybe. . . she just isn't used to me anymore. Or something.
Summertime is lovely, if not unproductive. Yes, the stress of school is gone, kind of like the waves disappearing, giving me time to breathe. But, without a little motion in the water, it just turns to a stagnant, dead pool. Nobody wants that.
Today, I had an "ouch" moment. You know the moments where you realize what you wish would happen is never going to happen? I mean, I can pretend for weeks, even months at a time, that everything is going the way I would love it to go but then. . . . *ouch* Oh well, its not good to hold on to false hopes anyway, right?
Ewww! Today, I customer informed me that he was passing a kidney stone. While. I. Waited. On. Him. Ewww.
So, Katelyn and I started writing books together. Its going well and its SO much fun. Its amazing to get to create characters and put them in situations and decide how everything turns out. I am learning that authors aren't crazy when they say that characters make them do things. After all, if Leena did this, she wouldn't be Leena, would she? But then, you don't know Leena. I don't know if you ever will.
Yesterday, I decided that I like Micheal Buble. 'specially the romantic tunes.
Oh! I have another story! Denise said she was at the drugstore the other day and some man told her she looked familiar. She said she worked at the License agency. He said he was there the other day and that young red-haired girl was just a joy, and she was cute too. Then, he apparently wished to revise his statement by insisting that he was a "christian man" and he meant it in a "christian way". Haha. When Denise told me this story my response was:
"He was old, wasn't he?"
"Yeah"
Yep. Old guys and sex offenders have the hots for me! Oh, and I can't forget the toothless, alcoholic black men at the drive-thru. I'm thinking the next shirt that I order should say something like, "I DO have standards. . . and you don't meet them." It's gonna be great!
Well, I think I'll go daydream and wonder, plant some angst and see what blooms.
Sarah Jo
Summertime is lovely, if not unproductive. Yes, the stress of school is gone, kind of like the waves disappearing, giving me time to breathe. But, without a little motion in the water, it just turns to a stagnant, dead pool. Nobody wants that.
Today, I had an "ouch" moment. You know the moments where you realize what you wish would happen is never going to happen? I mean, I can pretend for weeks, even months at a time, that everything is going the way I would love it to go but then. . . . *ouch* Oh well, its not good to hold on to false hopes anyway, right?
Ewww! Today, I customer informed me that he was passing a kidney stone. While. I. Waited. On. Him. Ewww.
So, Katelyn and I started writing books together. Its going well and its SO much fun. Its amazing to get to create characters and put them in situations and decide how everything turns out. I am learning that authors aren't crazy when they say that characters make them do things. After all, if Leena did this, she wouldn't be Leena, would she? But then, you don't know Leena. I don't know if you ever will.
Yesterday, I decided that I like Micheal Buble. 'specially the romantic tunes.
Oh! I have another story! Denise said she was at the drugstore the other day and some man told her she looked familiar. She said she worked at the License agency. He said he was there the other day and that young red-haired girl was just a joy, and she was cute too. Then, he apparently wished to revise his statement by insisting that he was a "christian man" and he meant it in a "christian way". Haha. When Denise told me this story my response was:
"He was old, wasn't he?"
"Yeah"
Yep. Old guys and sex offenders have the hots for me! Oh, and I can't forget the toothless, alcoholic black men at the drive-thru. I'm thinking the next shirt that I order should say something like, "I DO have standards. . . and you don't meet them." It's gonna be great!
Well, I think I'll go daydream and wonder, plant some angst and see what blooms.
Sarah Jo
Saturday, May 12, 2007
You should really read this one:
I walked into work this morning and my boss informed me that I had a letter. A letter? At work? Apparently everyone else felt the same curiosity. Who would send me a letter at work? I examined the envelope. It only said "Sarah" and then our work address. Whoever this is, obviously doesn't know my last name. I looked at the return address. "Manno" in Lebanon. I don't know anyone named Manno, and I don't know anyone in Lebanon. Perhaps a customer?
I open the letter:
WHOA! Stop right there! Flirted? I don't flirt. Whats going on here? I continue reading. The letter goes on to describe in detail just how I made this person feel. Then, he describes himself. I remember him. Oh no! I remember him! (I'll tell you all about that in a minute.) Next:
My hands are shaking and I think I might get sick. Really.
Oh. My. Gosh. Is he serious? Is this for real? Oh yes, he certainly is. Well, he goes on to explain what I already knew; he is currently an inmate of Lebanon Correctional Facility. He wants me to write him. He wants to see where we can go from there. He says that we can be friends "for now".
What did my co-workers say? "You should write him back! Look at his nice handwriting! He sounds smart. Maybe it's nothing serious. You know, he's just in the place for minor offenses. At least ask him what he did."
Would you like to know what he did? Because, thanks to the Internet and the information he so willingly gave me, I know EXACTLY what he did. Domestic Violence. Gross Sexual Imposition. I dont even know what that second one means, but it does sound good! And he's 32 years old! I'm not writing back to some 32 year old sex offender inmate who wants to tell me what else he noticed later. In fact, next time he comes in , I'm hiding. Thats right: Hiding.
My thoughts? Since when did being nice and bubbly mean I was flirting with someone? Now do I have to STOP being nice and bubbly around men? And why is that my very first love letter comes from a much-older criminal person? What happened to the nice young men? Dang it!
Write him back, indeed. Silly girls.
So, I remember asking what was so hard about someone thinking me to be absolutely amazing. I would like to revise. What is so hard about someone I find amazing finding me to be amazing as well. Geez. Next time, I'll clarify.
Sarah I-don't-want-anymore-letters Jo
I open the letter:
Sarah,
Hello. I feel weird doing this, mostly because I don't usually write to
strangers I see, but also because I'm really shy.
But here I go, because when I saw you and talked to you, there felt like
there was something I couldn't ignore. I don't know how to describe it, really,
but it was there in the way you smiled, the way we flirted back and forth . . .
WHOA! Stop right there! Flirted? I don't flirt. Whats going on here? I continue reading. The letter goes on to describe in detail just how I made this person feel. Then, he describes himself. I remember him. Oh no! I remember him! (I'll tell you all about that in a minute.) Next:
. . . I hope I'm not overstepping my boundaries here, but you are a very friendly and absolutely gorgeous young woman. You have a wonderful personality and I
loved the way you were "dancing" to the songs in your head. Yes, I did mention
you are pretty, and I meant it. I think your smile and your freckles are your
best attribute. There are other things I noticed, but I'll save that for later.
My hands are shaking and I think I might get sick. Really.
But I felt a nervous calmness around you. Like it was easy to chat with you,even though I was nervous and every word you spoke was like a symphony.
Oh. My. Gosh. Is he serious? Is this for real? Oh yes, he certainly is. Well, he goes on to explain what I already knew; he is currently an inmate of Lebanon Correctional Facility. He wants me to write him. He wants to see where we can go from there. He says that we can be friends "for now".
What did my co-workers say? "You should write him back! Look at his nice handwriting! He sounds smart. Maybe it's nothing serious. You know, he's just in the place for minor offenses. At least ask him what he did."
Would you like to know what he did? Because, thanks to the Internet and the information he so willingly gave me, I know EXACTLY what he did. Domestic Violence. Gross Sexual Imposition. I dont even know what that second one means, but it does sound good! And he's 32 years old! I'm not writing back to some 32 year old sex offender inmate who wants to tell me what else he noticed later. In fact, next time he comes in , I'm hiding. Thats right: Hiding.
My thoughts? Since when did being nice and bubbly mean I was flirting with someone? Now do I have to STOP being nice and bubbly around men? And why is that my very first love letter comes from a much-older criminal person? What happened to the nice young men? Dang it!
Write him back, indeed. Silly girls.
So, I remember asking what was so hard about someone thinking me to be absolutely amazing. I would like to revise. What is so hard about someone I find amazing finding me to be amazing as well. Geez. Next time, I'll clarify.
Sarah I-don't-want-anymore-letters Jo
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