Those Damned Tears

MistWeaver: Who's your favorite pothead?
Voice: Tsk, tsk. Been bad, have we?
Weaver: No, actually. Just sad. Of course, when I cry I have the handy talent of making my eyes go completely bloodshot. Not even bloodshot. Pink. Fully and completely. And the rest of my face looks like crap, too. I'm not one of those attractive cryers who look all dramatic and beautiful. I just look like a drowned duck.
Voice: While I find all of this absolutely fascinating, it does bring to mind a more pressing question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: And that, fair lady (or man, or whatever you are), is the heart of the matter. Crying. I've been doing way too much of it over the past few days. And try as I might, I can't stop.
Voice: You still haven't answered the question. Why have you been crying?
Weaver: A variety of reasons. The most pressing being that I've been so tired, every little thing makes me cry. Even when I don't want to. On Saturday, it was the fight I got into with Mama and Brian. On Sunday, it was the stupid email Mama sent me regarding the fight I got into with her and Brian. Today, it was Deb in the cafeteria lecturing us on how we need to be a team and how we don't pull our weight, and how... Ugh. Just... everything. And the entire time, I was thinking about how I really wanted to quit and that I'd been considering it for a while, but that I couldn't because throughout it all Deb made it clear that they needed me.
Voice: Why did you fight with Thelia and Brian?
Weaver: The same as always. About how we need to be a team, and how I don't pull my weight... Not to mention how I force them to drop everything and drive me everywhere (namely work), and how I work too much and it's costing Mama money and ... oh look. There I go again, almost. No respite from the stupid tears, not even in the middle of the school library. I guess it's a good thing that I didn't go to math.
Voice: Is that where you're supposed to be right now? Math?
Weaver: Yup. I've been stopping myself all month from skipping, telling myself that I need math, that missing it is a bad idea. I gave up today. Screw Math. Screw stupid pipsqueak Carder and his stupid discrimination. The best thing to do is study it myself and show up for test days. I almost wish that I would get caught skipping, for once. I can identify with certain characters from certain books... That reckless feeling where you want to get caught so you can yell to the world how you really feel.
Voice: And this is your way of yelling at the world. All those who care to read, step right up! Take a computer and boot 'er up.
Weaver: When you put it that way... I guess this is my way of yelling at the world. Teen Angst R Us. Although I feel closer to 70 than to a teen, at the moment.
Weaver: Do you know who happened to come in while I was trying to clean myself up in the bathroom before coming here?
Voice: If I knew, you wouldn't be asking.
Weaver: It was KD. Yes, KD. The one that I never particularly liked, and thought to be shallow and inconsiderate. I've never hidden my opinion of her, either. But when she walked in, inconspicuous cryer that I am, she took one look and asked me what was wrong. Gave me a hug, too.
Voice: Has your opinion changed of her?
Weaver: To be honest, not really. She's still pretty shallow and mean. But at the same time, even the shallowest person has a heart. I don't know where I'm going with this.
Voice: Maybe towards the idea that she's a tolerable person?
Weaver: Yeah, I guess. And I'm probably going to go watch her Drama class second period since I think that I've changed my mind about going to math at all. And I should probably reread my reply to my mother's email. I was so tired, and crying so hard, that I have barely any recollection of what I wrote. I have a vague memory of thinking it was really bitter-sounding. Am I right? I can't remember. Maybe I am just a selfish bitch. Bleah.

Oh, and a note: I'm still trying to figure out whether I miss Ryan. I haven't really talked to him in like two weeks. More if you count talking to him sober. I don't go to Youth anymore. I think our last meaningful conversation was when I told him that. I'm trying to figure out whether to invite him to the Dance next week. We had agreed that if we had one with guests, he'd come and we'd have a blast. Then again, I'm not even sure I can go. But it's formal! And I've wanted to go to a formal dance forever...

--

Rise and Fall and Rise Again

Voice: You look worn out. Have y ou come for some peace and rest?
Weaver: I don't have time for peace and rest. I know I look worn out, but it's everything that's been crushing down on me that causes it.
Voice: Interesting choice of words. Crushed? What exactly is going on in your life?
Weaver: Part of it is good: I have a job.
Voice: I know that you've wanted one for a while now; that's good, then. Where are you working?
Weaver: Superstore. Cashier. 8.25$/hour.
Voice: Sounds reasonable. Better than minimum wage at a fast food place, no?
Weaver: Oh, it's not the job that's getting me down. I love the work. It's memory, repetition, greetings... all stuff that I get off on.
Voice: There's a 'but' in that statement, isn't there?
Weaver: Indeed, there is. I have to tell Brian that I start work fifteen to thirty minutes early in order to get there on time, and I usually have to wait a good half hour to fortyfive minutes after I'm finished to get picked up, regardless of what time I tell him I'm finished. He drives like a maniac, and I feel anything but safe in the car. But it's my only recourse barring my father, and that's an option I won't take no matter what.
Voice: Do you really hate your father that much?
Weaver: Yes.
Voice: That's direct.
Weaver: Would you have me dance around the subject the way that he does? He's fucked with my life, my brother's life, and my mother's life most of all. He can rot.
Voice: You know, in a few years you'll--
MistWeaver: Stop right there. I've heard that I'll eventually be great friends with him from everybody on the face of the earth, along with "you know, Weaver... your parents' divorce doesn't have anything to do with you..." FUCK! I don't think I'm to blame for my parents' divorce. I don't give a shit if I'll love my father in the future: I despise the ground he walks on right now. It shows something about my mother's character if she's one of those people telling me to be nice to my father.
Voice: I believe you've mentioned that already. Care to elaborate?
Weaver: No. Screw off.
Voice: If that's what you want, I'll leave you to the mist.
Weaver: No! I'm sorry. I'm alienating everybody. I guess it's a sign of how bad I'm doing if I'm snapping at a voice in my own head. Here, let me give you an example of what my life is like.

The mist thickens, closes in around her, completely opaque.

An image appears in the mist. Weaver, her hair glowing white in the semi-darkness of a bedroom, sleeping. All is silent. All of a sudden, music starts blaring from a stereo and she jumps up, eyes wide, hops over the back of the couch she's sleeping on, and turns down the volume. She blindly stumbles into the shower, looking too exhausted to be alive.

The scene cuts to her in an empty kitchen. She is frantically searching thorugh an agenda, realizing that she has a test that day, and that she has to memorize quite a bit of text from Shakespeare. Wearily, she flips through the book page by page, looking for suitable passages to memorize.

The scene cuts again to her on the bus, staring at the book MacBeth, writing out feverishly lines over and over again. As the bus pulls into the school, she looks up in surprise. As she moves to shove her stuff in her bag, she catches a glimpse of a paper: one of the study guides, the one that dictates the parameters for the lines she has to find and memorize. It's thick, but she takes a moment to flip through it, remembering that she's not allowed to pick any of the lines that are demonstrated in it. Of course, that's easier said than done, since there are at least twenty different passages quoted in the study guide. Her eyes catch on one, a longer one that shows the motif of ill-fitting clothes. Her eyes move frantically in disbelief as she realizes that this is the same quote that she chose to memorize after combing the book with a fine-toothed comb for one that wasn't in the guide. Her shoulders slump dejectedly, and she shoves the rest of her books in the bag.

A bell tolls, like that of the school bell, and the scene fades, returns to the mist. It clears, and there is a brief glimpse of the true MistWeaver, before she shakes her head sadly and begins to fade from the misty place.

MistWeaver: Back to the real world again.

Ahhh!!!

Weaver:Oh my god! Oh my god!
Voice: What? What's going on?
Weaver: NaNoWriMo starts in 8 minutes!
Voice: What?
Weaver: Can't talk! Must prepare! Bye!

The Over-Dramatization of Just Like Heaven

MistWeaver: I suppose my father does have his uses.
Voice: What do you mean?
Weaver: I mean that I just saw a great movie with a great friend and may be going to Montreal at the end of the month, all because he's in suck-up mode.
Voice: I see you've softened somewhat towards him.

Weaver snorts.

Weaver: Softened, my ass. If he thinks he can buy my love, he's sorely mistaken. On the other hand, I think that every dollar spent is a little bit of retribution for everything he's taking away from my mother. But that's not what I came to talk about.
Voice: What did you come to talk about, then?
Weaver: I came to talk about the movie I saw. Just Like Heaven, with Reese Witherspoon.
Voice: Considering your earlier comment, I assume it was good.
Weaver: It was more than good. It was excellent. Amusing and supremely conductive to a case of the warm fuzzies. Even the dude from Napoleon Dynamite had a good role, much as I disliked that movie.
Voice: I'm guessing that you're going to expand on your review.
Weaver: Yes, I am. Now would probably be a good time to warn for...

SPOILERS!!!!!

Weaver: Just so that I can talk all that I want with a clean conscience.

You see, there are just some movies (and books) in this world tha tmake me feel good. Not just good, but great. They make you want to squeak and squeeze the book (or yourself, in the case of a movie tightly and wish you could share in the feelings. Usually this is when there's love involved, and it's believable, just for a second, that happily ever after does really happen.

Voice: Even when the said person is like you, and can predict the supposed 'plot twists' and surprises?
MistWeaver: Especially when the person is like me and can predict everything going to happen. It's like you know it's going to happen and that just makes it all the sweeter when it does. It feels like they try so hard to make things unpredictable, give things unhappy endings, that sometimes you can forget just how nice it is to see other people happy, in love.

In JLH, 'twasn't easy, the ending. Everything wasn't perfect. I predicted that he'd build the garden for her on the roof. I wasn't sure if she would remember him, or if they would have to start over as real people instead of the circumstances that were thrown at them.

I guess the story all comes back to balance. They were destined to meet, and that fate was interrupted. Thus, the world unbalanced itself and had to regain that balance in some way. That's why only he could see her, feel her. She wasn't dead, therefore she wasn't a ghost and semi-tangible to all. The little imbalance caused by her accident made her semi-tangible only to him, because until they righted things by meeting and falling in love, that little imbalance would remain and probably grow.

Voice: I believe I speak for many when I note the insensibility of that which you just said.

MistWeaver: That's okay. I understood it and that's all that really matters.

MistWeaver sighs.

Weaver: Some things just hit me hard in that movie though, as I'm sure they were supposed to. For instance, when she can't remember him after she wakes up. That broke my heart almost as badly as it broke his. I get all worked up just thinking about it. He went through so much to save her life, and after everything he did, all the research he did to bring back her memory, all the stuff they did for each other...

HE FREAKING FAILED!!!!!

Through a freaking accident, her breathing tube got freaking cut off and she freaking DIED!!!!!

And then...

MistWeaver sighs again, tiredly.

Voice: Needing sleep?

Weaver: I need to talk about this more. Where was I? Oh, yes. Screaming out in indignation and fury over the injustice of it all.

Anyway. He fails. She fades. He cries--well, I can't remember if he really does but I sure as hell did--and leans in to kiss her comatose lips. Holy shit! I think. Can't she feel what he does to her real body? Indeed she must, because as she fades from view, her eyes widen and her hands fly wonderingly up to her lips.

Who else was betting she was a virgin?

Fuck yeah, I was. No pun intended.

Now, this must be the final connection needed to set things straight, because she comes alive! Yes, that's it. Spirit reconnects with body. She wakes up.

Voice: I'm sure that at this point, others are complaining about the corniness and predictability of it all.

Weaver: Be quiet, you. Yes, it's predictable. Yes, it's corny. But do I care?

Fuck no!

But then she doesn't remember him. After all of that, SHE REMEMBERS NOTHING!!!

That alone is enough to send me back to tears. So sue me. I'm in an emotional mood.

He realizes this, and stumbles back in shock. Blinded by tears, I'm sure, he pushes past the security guards and run for his life.

Sorry about the over-dramatization of it all. But that made me so sad...

I get these emotional moods sometimes. I just crave a happily-ever-after story to make me happy, to let me drop the cynicality and sarcasm that make up a lot of my existence and dream about one day finding my own happily-ever-after.

Voice: Do you think that you'll find it?
MistWeaver: No.
Voice: Then why imagine it?
Weaver: Because imagining is what I do. Sometimes these kinds of imaginings depress me, make me long for what I can't have. But sometimes, I can almost taste it. Besides, there's always that tiny little cursed piece of hope that is present in all I do.
Voice: Would that tiny little cursed piece of hope perhaps be the reason that you imagine?
Weaver: Exactly. It's the reason that whenever I fall for someone, I fall hard and long. There's always the chance that they'll like me back, way after that hope should have died (or been squashed out). Like the guy I will almost admit to liking. He has a girlfriend, even. And hates me, kinda. Like, what the fuck? Who in their right mind would persist under those conditions? Never making a move because she's too fucking shy, always just talking and listening and wondering. Hoping. And that's not even to speak of the other one...

Hell, if it weren't for the fact that nobody reads this, I wouldn't be admitting this right now.

Voice: Everyone has their weaknesses and strengths. This is probably both for you. You're loyal. That's a rare and beautiful thing. Being too shy to ask anyone out... Maybe you'll grow out of it. Maybe one day it won't matter. I know that you think these things, and they are a part of that little kernel of hope. Just remember that que será, será. Whatever will be, will be.

There's a moment of thoughtful pause where the mist swirls around Weaver's feet and she comtemplates this, nodding absently.

Weaver: I think that I've just been a recipient of one of your rare moments of advice. Thank you.

A faint tugging pulls at Weaver's grey skirt. All of a sudden there is a lot more mist, and Weaver looks away into the distance towards the source.

Voice: I think that your dreams are calling you again.

MistWeaver nods and begins to walk away, fading bit by bit as she does.

Weaver: Good night.

Fil.

MistWeaver: Every time I appear here lately it's been mistier and mistier.
Voice: That's because lately you've been bringing your material world more and more into focus, and the mist is trying to reject it.
MistWeaver: That would explain a lot. Every time I've disappeared into here, I've nearly done exactly that: disappeared.
Voice: But for some reason, you're here now, successfully.
Weaver: I know why that is.
Voice: Why?
Weaver: It's because of him. Fil.
Voice: A new paramour?
Weaver: My father.
Voice: Oh.
Weaver: And to a lesser degree, my mother. Oh, how I love my mother. She's strong, and she's holding on tight. But she doesn't recognize the mist for what it is. She doesn't embrace it.
Voice: Many people don't recognize the mist. Why don't you tell me your story?

MistWeaver nods and sits down on the stone obelisk-chair that appears.

Weaver: I have only half an hour, but I'll tell as much as I can.

You see, my parents are getting Le Divorce. My mother, as I mentioned, is strong and beautiful and great. My father is only nice on the outside. He's a compulsive liar, remembers next to nothings, and lives in his own world. And his world is based on what's supposed to be. Who determines that? In his mind, society does.

He's been abusing my mother for years. Not physically, but emotionally and mentally. He never believes anything she says until it's been repeated for him by another source outside his family. He's had her second-guessing every move she amkes, everything she does, since I was born, or even before. Although he has no real friends, my mother had many of them, and because they would do anything for her and wouldn't let her put up with his crap, he moved her all the way across the country to a place where, three years later, she still has no support base.

He's a subtle man, a business man. Almost anybody who hasn't lived with him will say that he's a decent, good man. When he lies, he twists his words until it's my mother's fault, or anybody else's fault. He's suave, handsome.

But everything about him is so wrong!

My mother made him a labradorite pendant. Labradorite is a beautiful glowing stone that absorbs negativity.

It turned black on his neck.

The stone slowly turned blacker and blacker, lost its fire, and charred. Not from any heat but that of his body. Labradorite has a 6.5 hardness. This is no soft little stone.

What more proof is needed? He said it was the negative energy between him and my mother, but my mother has had a large labradorite pendant for years, and it still glows bright gold on her neck with its inner fire.

A few months back, they finally agreed to get a divorce. My mother wanted it to be the happiest divorce in history. She wanted to throw a divorce party. She didn't see why there had to be any hard feelings. They'd been married for 23 years, after all.

My father wants revenge. He wants to clear her out of everything she has, including my brother and I and all of her friends. A few weeks ago when she asked him to move out and threatened to put his stuff in the garage for him to pick up, he called the cops on her. He told them that she had threatened him with a knife and he feared for his life. When she heard of this and called him, he told her he'd make the charge go away as long as she agreed not to touch his stuff.

She hadn't been going to. My mother isn't vindictive. He filed charges anyway. The cops dismissed them. Apparently random accusations happen a lot with divorce cases.

MistWeaver sighs, and her seat charges from hard stone to cool mist, wrapping tendrils around her. A song by Hungry Lucy starts to play softly in the background.

MistWeaver: That's the background. But since my brother and I are old enough to have the choice of who to live with, he has to woo us over. Let's not forget the fact that a good father-child relationship is what all the self-help books and all of society say is needed!

In short, I'm not cooperating with his plan.

My time is almost up, so I'll try to wrap up my story.

His latest thing is emails. He's been emailing me, asking me what we can do to spend more time together, asking me to make a go at having a great relationship with me, telling me he loves me.

Voice: Sounds sincere.

Weaver: That's the problem. He always sounds sincere. He sounds sincere when he tells my mother that he's going to take her kids away from her. He sounds sincere when he tells people that my mother is crazy. He sounds so sincere that a great many of them believe him.

He doesn't make me angry. He makes my skin crawl.

As she speaks, the mist stirs, as if swirled round by a giant invisible hand.

MistWeaver stirs.

MistWeaver: I have to go now. School awaits. And another email awaits from him too, I'm sure. Thank God he's away until Thursday.

The Hopeful Death of the Stupid Comments

Weaver: HA! Take that you stupid comment spammers! I enabled word-verification service. Thank you, Blogger help. That means that only real people can post from now on: you have to do the 'copy the word in the box' test now, which stops the automated services. I've never been so happy for that little word box. I'll never complain about it again. The mists are once again as pure as they ever get.
Voice: I see that you also deleted the comments from before. I feel much cleaner, thanks.
MistWeaver: You're welcome. The mists have too much spam already. And now, to leave them to go back to the real world. I'm hungry, and my father's in the kitchen, I think. He's lost in his own mists, and the voices that talk to him there aren't nearly so nice...

Stupid Comments Again

MistWeaver: Okay, I give up. HOW THE FUCK DO YOU STOP STUPID PEOPLE POSTING STUPID COMMENTS THAT ARE STUPID ADDS AND HOW THE FUCK DO YOU DELETE THEM?!?
Voice: Woah, calm down. I honestly don't know. ALthough I'd really appreciat it if you found out.
Weaver: Dammit. Calm down. Calmmm. Downnnn. Woooooo. Okay. I'm calm. I'll try to find out. Talk to you later.

The Mists slowly close around her, not quite enveloping her form as the anger dissipates anything that gets too close. Swirling faster and faster, the Weaver disappears.

Back to School and to the Dogs

MistWeaver: Aye yi yi. Can you believe there are only a few short days until school starts?
Voice in the Mist: Considering I've been to school... Yes.
Weaver: I've been going to school for many years now, and have decided somewhere along the line that back-to-school should be a fun time.
Voice: That makes sense. If you dread it all the time, all that you'll accomplish is making a necessary event miserable for yourself.
Weaver: Well... yeah. There's that. There's also the fact that back-to-school means school supplies, which means pens and pencils and notebooks and stationary!!!
Voice: I don't think I've ever heard anyone get so excited over school supplies.
Weaver: Is it really my fault that I love pens? And staples and post-its and notebooks and binders and other such things too, of course.
Voice: I suppose you blame it on the fact that you're a writer, don't you?
Weaver: I suppose you stole my line.
Voice: I was sick of you saying it.
Weaver: Actually, I blame it on Pamela. She's to blame for everything. A kind of universal scapegoat. But the fact that I"m a writer probably had something to do with, too. Ever since I can remember, Staples has been my favorite store. I just love the aisles of business supplies. I especially love black pens and purple pens, with as fine a tip as is possible to get. Perfect for my small writing.
Voice: Wow. You're actually scaring me slightly, and I'm mist. I don't scare easily.
Weaver: Wow. That's amazing. But for your sake I'll move on to different things. Like where I am now.
Voice: On a beach somewhere hiding from the beginning of school?
Weaver: I wish.
Voice: On your computer.
Weaver: Oh, my, god. However did you guess that?
Voice: And the fact that you're typing onto the internet had abosolutely nothing to do with my conclusion.
Weaver: You're stealing my lines again.
Voice: So sorry. So, where are you typing on your computer. That's the question.
Weaver: Well, I set up another hammock (that makes 4 of them) in a spot in the shade and have been finalizing edits on Broken Wings. I'm on page 83 of 161 and determined to finish before school starts.
Voice: So why aren't you doing that now?
Weaver: I've been working on it for quite a while now, and I'm taking a break to write other things, like my blog. Unfortunately, my nails are now so long that it's getting harder and harder to type quickly. I'm probably going to go file them down afterwards, just for simplicity's sake.
Voice: Why didn't you do that before?
Weaver: Probably because I adore having long nails, and mine are gorgeous. I haven't had my file, though and they haven't been taken as good care of as I might have done if I did. They're going to break soon, if I don't do something. Also, there's the dog to think of.
Voice: The dog? What has that got to do with anything?
Weaver: Yes, the dog. Whiskey, my absolutely gorgeous (and tiny) mini-daschund. She's lying on top of me, curled into my breasts and fast asleep. Whoops. So much for fast asleep: she just kinda woke up from some noise and is giving her cute little sleepy barks at something, but unwilling to actually move.
Voice: A small dog must have an annoying yip.
Weaver: Actually, she's got a bark deeper than a lot of big dogs. And she's using it on that annoying Murdoch from across the street. A slightly bigger foofy dog who likes to pee on Leroy's head. And Leroy, mature terrier that he is, turns around and pees on Murdoch's head right back.
Voice: I believe I speak for many voices all over the palce when I say 'ew'.
Weaver: Oh, well. Nothing to be done about it. Murdoch just wandered off again.
Voice: Is that the same dog that pees on your newspapers?
Weaver: One and the same. And on that lovely note, I'll be back later. I must... take care... of a little problem.
Voice: Just remember that killing dogs is bad karma.

Voice: MistWeaver?

Irritation and Fun and Tiredness

MistWeaver: Man, am I exhausted.
Voice In The Mist: Why's that?
Weaver: I volunteered at the Calgary International Reggae Festival from about 10 AM this morning to 8 30 PM. Was forced to stay until 11. Didn't get home until 12. It is now 12:19, and I'm exhausted. I hate waking up early.
Voice: Indeed. So, was it worth it?
Weaver: Fuck yeah! I had a fine time. A boring time, most of the time, but a fine time.
Voice: Why boring?
Weaver: Since I was the youngest person selling tickets (and the latest, thanks to Fil), I got the fun job of putting bracelet wristband things on people so that they can go in and out. How fun! Not. The most irritating and boring job ever. I like working a till. It's fun. I don't like ripping backs off of bracelets and putting them on people. At least later I did security: put on sunglasses, look menacing, and occasionally chase someone away from area I'm guarding. Still. It's still monotonous and grunt work.
Voice: You do grunt work for Brian.
Weaver: He pays me. And his work is not monotonous and boring. It requires skin.
Voice: Skin?
Weaver: Er... Skill.
Voice: I hope that's what you meant. So what's the 'fun' part?
Weaver: Well, you know how I couldn't write because there was no computer with which to do it?
Voice: Yes...
Weaver: And you know how I really needed a laptop to write on?
Voice: Yes...
Weaver: Wellmamaagreesandshegotmeandkaiandherselfalllaptops.
Voice: What?
Weaver: I have a laptop now. An Acer TravelMate. Gorgeous. Silver, named Lurreal.
Voice: Wow. Congrats.
Weaver: Yes. I just had to share my joy with you. Oh, and there's another thing I'd like to share joy on.
Voice: Let me guess. You finished your book now that you have Lurreal and it's been puclished and is on the New York Times bestseller list.
Weaver: No. I wish. But my book has sold its first international copy, before it's even been finished!
Voice: Wow. That's big. Where? America?
Weaver: We're in America. North America. But no, not the USA. Egypt, of all places. My friend Mindi, who used to live there, sent a copy to Egypt, I'm assuming. And I hope that Donna, who posted a comment on mistynano2004.blogspot.com this morning, doesn't mind the sharing of the joy, because here's the email:

Aya,
Right now in Egypt there is a girl holding in her hands a copy of your book 'Broken Wings'. That girl is me.
Mindi Thurmon sent it to me. She told me you wrote this and along with it told me she thought it was amzing the way you followed your dreams and managed to write a book when so many other kids start, but never finish, or dream to, but dont even start.
Now all I can say is that I agree with her, because it really is amazing. And its inspiring. You are such a talented writer, dont ever stop writing. But I dont even need to say that, because what i know of you has showed me you seem like a person who will never give up on something she loves.

When I read 'about the author' and read your motto, it helped me to realize what makes my life beautiful. Its Mindi. And you know why? Because she is my life, and she is nothing less than beautiful. Now that she is coming home, I wont ever take that for granted.

donna

~*~

Voice: Wow. And that copy of the book wasn't even finished?
Weaver: Yup. I wish my blog didn't have an anonymity-ifier on the comments. I'd email her back and thank her, ask her for her address so that I could send her a copy when I'm finished. She really made my week with that email. Donna, if you read this, thanks! Also, if you don't feel comfortable with me posting your email, tell me and I'll take it off.
Voice: Thoughtful of you.
Weaver: Well, it's her email. And I agree: Mindi truly is a beautiful person. I hope for my own selfish sake that she isn't moving back to Egypt as Donna implied, because I'd miss her tons. Unfortunately, I haven't talked to Mindi since around the end of the school year, at my birthday party.
Voice: One day, you'll have to tell me more about this famous birthday party of yours.
Weaver: I will. However, it won't be tonight. I'm pooped. It's almost one, and I need to dig out my contacts from my eyes and sleep for several days. Too bad I have no sense of time. I may sleep for only an hour instead and not know.
Voice: You'd know all right. You'd still be unbelievably exhausted and you'd snap at anyone nearby.
Weaver: True. But I'll try my luck. G'night.
Voice: Good night. I hope you're here to stay this time. It's good to have you back.

Stupid Comments

Voice In The Mist: Now, it's one thing for you to ignore me. It's another thing to allow random users to post spam in my personal space. And it's been there for almost a day so far! Why haven't you removed it?
MistWeaver: To be honest, I don't know how. I swear to you, the exact moment I saw what had been so rudely put up, I tried. But for some reason, the power to edit and delete comments is not easily available to me. I'll look it up sometime soon when it's not one o'clock in the morning and I'm not extremely tired.
Voice: *sigh* I guess I'll have to settle for that. Good night, then.
Weaver: Good night.

Oh, and I haven't forgotten you. I think of you all the time.

MistWeaver leaves at this point. But in so doing, she misses the soft swirling of the darkened mists and the faint outline of a smile that appears in the gloom.