Indie Ink: Another Life Lesson

Note to self:  For future reference, when Megan tells you she has an omg!brilliant idea for how to spend Friday night, do not listen.  Stay home, put on ratty pajamas, and watch Sixteen Candles or one of those other movies about high school kids who were much cooler than self.

I was going to kill someone.  Loud music emanated around the room so loud that I could feel the beat in my chest, but it was nowhere near as shrill as the laughter of the drunk girl sitting next to me.  She kept touching me like we hadn't just met five minutes ago and kept singing the wrong verses to the songs followed by a bout of giggling.

No one told me that the only way to actually enjoy a fraternity party was to be super drunk so the sheer idiocy wouldn't register.  

"I don't know about you, but this is the best party I've ever been to," she slurred.  She tried to stand herself up from her spot on the worn leather couch, but ended up falling onto the floor.  She giggled and added, "Awesome."

I was momentarily torn between helping her out and taking a picture on my iPhone of the stupid drunk girl who molested me to share with the world.  My good nature kicked in, but I was too late.  Random drunk girl had crawled across the shag carpet to random drunk guy in a tie-dyed tee-shirt and draped herself across his lap .  It seemed the natural evolution of a party like this.  There would always be kegs of beer, stupid drinking games, disco balls and random drunks to find one another across a dirty carpet.

It turned out that college parties, like most other things in life, were highly overrated.   I wasn't sure what I had expected when I had agreed to come.  Maybe it was just the idea of being a junior in high school sneaking off to a college party with her ne'er-do-well friends, but I had been intrigued by the thought of hot guys who could talk to you about politics as easily as quote the latest South Park episode.  Unfortunately,  the guys at this party seemed incapable of any conversation beyond a basic grunt for more beer.

This had been a huge mistake.  When Megan texted me with the information, sneaking out to a college party had seemed like a good idea, a way to get myself out of the rut of high school and never feeling quite right in my own skin.  It would be one of those things that I could one day wax philosophical about as I remembered how much fun I had and what I learned about myself.  Maybe it would even be like a scene from a stupid teen movie where I meet the great love of my life over a game of quarters.

Instead, I had nearly been thrown up on twice, my friend had ditched me for the promise of a game of darts, and my father the career military ninja, was going murder me when I came home reeking of pot and beer.

"Jamie, there you are!" Megan squealed as she came down the stairs with a shirtless frat boy in tow.  She stumbled toward me - good thing I didn't believe her when she said she'd be the designated driver - and wrapped her arms around my neck from behind the couch.  She petted my head, god only knew why, and said, "Aren't you glad we came?  I'm glad we came!  This is Travis!"

Shirtless frat boy grinned at me and winked.  "Hey."

I rolled my eyes.  College boys were almost worst than the guys in my class.  I tapped my watch and said, "We need to go or we're going to be in trouble."

Megan continued to pet my head.  "Nah.  It's cool.  We've got time.  And Travis has a friend for you."

Travis winked again and said, "I do."

"Gee, thanks, but we really need to go.  Both Megan and I have really overprotective fathers.  And mine is legally allowed to shoot people."

"Cool."

I stood up and made my way around the couch until I could wrap my arm around Megan.  She giggled and said, "Jamie is always so serious."

"Yep.  That's me," I said.  I began to try to move us toward the door, but Travis-the-loser-frat-boy kept getting in my way.  I glared at him and said, "Move."

"My friend really liked you.  And I like Megs.  We can have fun."

"I feel like I'm trapped in a very special episode of a sitcom," I replied.  I grunted as I pushed past Travis and dragged Megan the remainder of the way out of the frat house.  I wasn't sure how college parties got the reputation for being cool, but this was one experience I could cross off my life list.

Megan waved back toward the house to no one as I guided her down the sidewalk.  She shook her head and said, "Party pooper."

"You're never allowed to talk me into some 'important rite of passage' again.  This sucks."

Megan pried free of my grip and almost crashed to the ground.  I managed to snake my arm back around her before she faceplanted into the concrete and pulled her back up.  Megan laughed and then her face quickly drained of color and she frowned.  "Jamie, why is that tree upside down?"

"Oh man.  The only life lesson I'm getting out of this is a long lecture from my dad when I drag your sorry ass back into my house."

"Your dad is hot.  I'd totally date him."

"That's gross and mentally scarring."

"It's a compliment.  You come from hot stock."

"Please stop talking.  I'm already reconsidering our friendship," I commented.  It felt like we had been walking forever, but we had only gotten a few yards from the house.  I peered down the street to wear Megan's car was parked and cursed under my breath. 

Megan rested her head on my shoulder, putting even more of her weight on me, and said, "Don't be silly.  We've been friends forever.  Nothing can come between us!"

I nodded because there really wasn't anything else to say.  I wanted to hate her, but I mostly hated myself for getting into this situation in the first place.  I used to be smarter than this.

Once we reached her car, there was another ordeal to pull the keys out of her jacket pocket and get Megan situated in the passenger seat.  I slid into the driver's seat and glanced at the dashboard.  I groaned and rested my head against the steering wheel.  This was just not my night.

Note to self #2: Learn how to drive stick shift.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, lisa challenged me with "I don't know about you, but this is the best party I've ever been to! she drunkenly slurred." and I challenged Sir with "she came to and her whole life was how she remembered it"

Indie Ink: Everything Falls Apart

The apartment started to fall apart around the same time the first cracks in their relationship appeared, Livvie had noticed.  A bad fight about trash and the garbage disposal broke; nights of sleeping on couches and ignoring one another after feelings and egos were hurt matched up with the bathroom’s flooding thanks to a faulty pipe; and almost-indifferent declarations of “what are we even doing?” came about when the coffeemaker had blown up one sullen Sunday morning.  It was no surprise that Steve didn’t want to hear her complaints about their refrigerator. 

What else was left?  What more could they take?

Still, she couldn’t let it go, not quite yet.  She put down her newspaper and held up a spoonful of her breakfast as though she was providing proof in a trial and said, “The milk is warm, Steve.  If the refrigerator was working properly, that wouldn’t happen.”

“Livvie,” he breathed out in an almost-sigh.  There was so much in that one word and yet, none of it mattered.

“I’m serious.  Warm milk is good when you can’t sleep, not so much in Cheerios.”

Steve concentrated his gaze on her and offered up his best placating expression.  “I checked it this morning.  It’s not broken.  It’s just a little hiccup.  It gives it character.”  He said it with the fervor of the pulpit and the agenda of a flimflam man.  Livvie didn’t really believe him – he was a graphic designer, not a handy man – but she found herself acquiescing anyway.

She picked up her paper and swallowed the spoonful of cereal a la gross milk.  She used to enjoy these long silences between the two of them.  It had felt almost romantic in a way, that they could be together doing their own things, and all was right with the world.  Now it was stifling and all she could think about.  Wrong, wrong, wrong…too quiet…wrong.

After her fifth attempt at reading the same line of an article on nuclear disarmament, she gave up and focused her attention on Steve.  He was still handsome to look at, even with bedhead and the wheezing that passed for breathing from his battle with a cold, and a part of her wanted to reach out and touch him.  But she didn’t.  She watched him drawing in his notebook with one hand while he shoveled a bagel into his mouth with the other.  His eyes were shut and she knew he was lost somewhere in his own head.  Sometimes she wished she could visit the places that his imagination traveled to.  Just the two of them, together, lost in between galaxies and dreams and specters only the mind could create.  He would hold her tightly against his chest and she would rest her head on his shoulder just so as she wrapped her arms around his neck.  Things would be the way they were; the way they were meant to be when there wasn't real life and trivial crap to get in the way.

Now it was all flourescent kitchen lights and conversations-that-turned-into-arguments about who was supposed to mail the bills and an apartment that was falling to pieces.   They were battle worn and weary of one another.  They knew each other in ways that proved how much they had loved (or was it loved?  She didn't know any more) each other, but it provided each of them with years' worth of ammo and god, she hated him for it.  She hated it almost as much as she loathed herself for never leaving, but who else was she if not Livvie of Steve-and-Livvie?

After what felt like minutes, but was probably nothing more than a few seconds, Steve opened his eyes and caught her staring at him.  He dropped his pencil and wiped his hand over his face self-consciously.  It created a momentary pang in her chest, seeing how far things had shifted.  Long gone were the enamored gazes and the smiles and blushes that formed when noticed.  If she was staring at Steve, it meant something wasn't quite right.

"It all started with the goddamn garbage disposal, I think," Livvie said. 

"I told you I'd get around to replacing it soon," Steve replied, crossing his arms protectively over his chest.

She hadn't known she had said that out loud.  She hadn't meant to.  But she found herself quickly getting caught up in the moment.  She rolled her eyes at mention of the inevitable soon.

Steve still knew her well.  He shrugged and said, "I need to buy some parts."

Livvie leaned back in her chair.  "It's fine."

"What does that mean?"

"The same thing that soon does, I suppose," she replied.  She picked up her spoon and mindlessly pushed the cereal around in the bowl and let out a low huff of air.  She shook her head, refusing to look at Steve, and tried to clear her brain of the junk bogging her down in hopes of achieving some sort of clarity.  Trying and wishing would be her downfall. 

How was it possible to love someone so much and wish they would fade away at the same time?  And why couldn't she do anything to fix it or put them both out of their misery?

She glanced around the room and couldn't stop her eyes from landing back on the refrigerator, which was buzzing out an off-key tune.  "We need a new refrigerator."

"I told you--"

"--it's broken.  Maybe beyond repair."

"No, it's not."

"It's not working like it should and we can't live like this," she replied.  She ran her hand over her face and added, "Why are we living like this?"

He stared at her and shrugged.  She didn't know if she should kiss him or punch him, so she shoved out of her seat and stormed off.   Nothing was going to change this way and something had to change.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Sarah Sparks challenged me with "Have a broken fridge involved." and I challenged Carrie with "I can no longer stand the guilt and I need to confess"

Indie Ink: Colors Change for No Good Reason

"This is possibly the worst day of my life," I pause to sigh dramatically for effect and pout in Mike's general direction.  I continue before he can interrupt me though and say, "And yes, that includes the day that my bicycle crashed into the ice cream vendor at the pier."

Mike laughs and I hate him a little bit.  He chucks my chin and says, "I warned you to get the brakes on that death trap of a bike fixed."

I sit down on the front steps of the school and shake my head.  "That is not helping."

Mike wraps his arm around me and I'm inundated with smells that are so Mike - soap and wintergreen and pencil shavings.  I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes.  In this moment, everything is okay and I can forget how my life has fallen apart in front of me."It'll be okay, Elaina.  You always land on your feet."

I keep my eyes shut, but I'm back in my guidance counselor's office.  Instead of guidance, he stomps all over my dream and tells me there is no way I'll get into Yale without animal sacrifice.  He says it so easily, like it doesn't matter that every conversation with my father since I was five has been about Yale and following in his footsteps.  He says it with crumbs stuck in his beard between hacking coughs and shrill phones ringing.  Sucks to be you, Elaina.

"You didn't even want to go to Yale."

I roll my eyes and laugh mirthlessly.   Mike nudges me in the side and says, "You'll figure it out."

"You seem so sure of that."

"Because I know you.  You're relentless to a scary degree and you'll figure out what you want to do and where you want to go and god help anyone who stands in your way."

I smile reflexively.  "Thanks, I think."

He slides a few inches away and turns to face me and suddenly we're in this moment where time slows down and my heart hammers in my chest and my head is screaming to move away, but I can't do it.  All these feelings that I've been sitting on for months are bubbling up to the surface and the soft, endearing expression on Mike's face is all it takes for me to kiss him.

Logic and every reason best friends should not hook up begin to run through my head, but they're thwarted as Mike's fingers curl in my hair and he pulls me closer until I'm almost on his lap.  He tastes a lot like he smells, less the pencil shavings, and I feel like I will never get enough of this.

He pulls back and caresses my face which freaks me out because he's Mike, but also makes me shiver in a way I'm not used to.  He smiles and says, "I've been hoping you would do something like that for over a year."

I arch my eyebrow.  "What?"

"I figured you knew how I felt about you, but didn't want to ruin our friendship...and I didn't want to mess things up, so-"

"-so you were a big chicken?" I say with a laugh.

He rests his forehead against mine and holds my hands in his.  It's something we've done millions of times over the years, but it's different and exciting, my skin tingling.  "Are you freaking out on me, Elaina?"

"Surprisingly no."

"Are you sure?"

"Surprisingly, yes," I say and I kiss him again.  Maybe finding out I had no chance at Yale broke my brain and I no longer have impulse control.  It's a brief kiss and I pull back to look at him, making sure that this is really happening and I'm not having hallucinations brought on from a nervous breakdown.  I wouldn't be the first teenager to go crazy on the quest for the Ivy League.

"It really happened.  No take backs," Mike says.  He always can read my mind.  He stands up and extends his hand to me, lifting me up onto my feet.  He pushes back a stray piece of hair from my face and says, "We should get you home."

"Want to stay for dinner?"

"You need support when you break the news to the parents?"

I shrug and try to sound casual. "Well, yeah, but I also just want to hang out with you."

He grins and squeezes my hand, "Sure."

"Good," I respond, even though it hardly does justice to how I feel.  In the span of one afternoon, I've gone from having one dream destroyed, but another one, one I was so scared of for so long, has been realized.  And who knows what will happen, but I'm definitely enjoying the moment.

---

This week’s IndieInk Challenge came from transplantedx3, who gave me this prompt: "For every dream that's shattered, another one comes true." I challenged Amanda with the prompt "I can’t get you off my mind."

Note:  This is a scene that features one of the characters I like to revisit, Elaina.  Other pieces with her can be found here.  Happy Thanksgiving to those that celebrate!

Indie Ink: Don't Look Back in Anger

“Callie, so much has happened in your life even without even including the meteoric rise to fame at sixteen years old.  I couldn’t help but wonder, is there anything you wish could’ve been different?”

It’s always the same with these guys.  They think they're Dan Rather in the making except they're stuck on the teen beat and ask stupid questions.   If they insist on treating me like an idiot, I can only do as my publicist and agent suggest and play dumb.  I flip my long, blonde hair and narrow my gaze on the perspiring loser in sweatpants sitting across from me.  “Not really, Dave.  I never look back.  My motto is what’s done is done.”

He laughs in that faux Hollywood way that means he thinks I'm barely functional.  He jots notes down with one hand while the other keeps straying into my personal space and grazing my thigh.  Note to creepy guys everywhere:  thigh high boots and short skirts don’t mean I’m a personal plaything for groping.  I shift in my chair to create a bit more distance between our almost touching knees – creepy dude sweat is so gross – and laugh right back at him.  I say, “I’m much more interested in living in the moment and enjoying what’s happening right now.”

“And who could blame you, considering you’re currently celebrating three consecutive number one songs, an album gone platinum and a sold out tour.”

There is something depressing about hearing your hard work and accomplishments shortened down to one sentence.  I try not to let it bother me though.  I need to be on my A-Game with the press at all times.  I nod and smile at Dave like my publicist instructed me to do.  We rehearsed this interview (along with several others) for hours and I’m afraid her head might explode if I veer off script.  No one wants a rogue pop star on their hands.

“But…” his voice raises an octave like he’s about to catch me in an A-HA question.  Like any of this can phase me anymore.  Like I’m not beyond it and more concerned with what to wear to the AMAs – the Vera Wang or Stella McCartney.  I stifle a yawn and bat my eyes expectantly and he says, “…but I can’t help but wonder if there is some part of you that not only thinks about the past, but has trouble letting go.  How can someone come from such a trying childhood and not occasionally revisit her history?”

I nod again like I’m considering the statement.  I’m so bored with this crap.  Yeah, I had a crappy childhood. Who didn't?  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dave, but I choose not to dwell on my past.”

I smile brightly and touch his arm.  I notice his pen slip for a nanosecond mid-scribble and I know I've got him.  He won’t know what hit him and I'll be able to get the hell out of here.  None of my fans want to hear about a girl who grew up with a nomadic aunt for a guardian while her parents went off to find themselves.  I don’t particularly care to look back on my pitiful origins either.  It’s over and done with.  So what if I have issues with being alone – it’s not really a problem for me anyway as I can't recall the last time I was by myself for more than two minutes – or can’t let myself trust people?  I am fine.  More than fine.  I’m a fucking star, who graced the cover of Rolling Stone magazine at sixteen years old.  I have enough money to feed a small country and to insure my aunt can continue her flighty existence with hobby after expensive hobby.  And surprise, surprise, my parents finally found themselves six months ago…at the gate of my Bel Air home.

“Not even a little bit?”

I giggle like I’m about to offer up some secret inner-working of my soul and respond, “The thing is, life is hard all over, ya know, and the only reason I’m different from any other sixteen year old girl with a sad story is because I write fun songs that people can dance to.  I feel like if I focus on the past, it lessens the gratitude I have for God and my fans.”

He raises an eyebrow, but he wouldn't dare call me out on my load of crap. He says, “Some say if you forget the past, you’re doomed to repeat it.”

He’s getting on my nerves with his profundity of nothing and sweaty brow.  The truth is that there is no way I am going back to living in a shitty apartment with no heat or air with my crazy aunt.  I’m done with that and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure it never happens again.  Door is slammed shut on my humble beginnings.    My jaw tightens and I know I’m making the fish face that my manager hollers at me about.  I force myself to smile through it, but I end up coming off even worse, like an alien freakshow about to suck out poor Dave-the-blogger’s brain.

As if he can sense weakness bubbling under my sunny exterior, Dave presses, “Your parents are back in your life after abandoning you when you were three.  How does that feel?”

“It’s complicated,” I state.

“Do you worry they’re back in your life simply because you’re the Callie McCallister and worth millions?”

“I try to keep my personal life separate from the professional, but I will say this.  We’re all learning as we go.  Will it work out?  I don’t know.  Yes, it’s hard sometimes,” I pause, resisting the urge to shoot daggers at mister wannabe hotshot reporter.  I take a deep breath and breathe – in spring blue sky, out tar black – and continue, “If people really want to know more about who I really am, I think my emotions truly come through in my new single, Inner Me.  I wrote it late one night on a tour bus while we drove across Kansas.  You see, Dave, music is the way I allow myself to deal with life’s trials and tribulations.  It’s what allows me to sit here and tell you that I never look back and feel good about it.”

I don’t give him a chance to respond.  I stand up, shake his hand, and hurry off toward my assistant.  I’m so over this.

---

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Floreksa challenged me with "I never looked back" and I challenged Bran mac Feabhail with "If I had known yesterday that he would be gone, I would've done things differently."

Indie Ink Challenge: Life of a Wannabe Couch Potato

“I like being a couch potato,” I stated.  I shoved a chip in my mouth and stretched out on the ugly-olive-but-oh-so-comfy sofa that my brother and I had found on Craigslist a couple of months ago. Our last one suffered a horrible demise during a run-in with a bitchy coven of witches, who overran the apartment with pestilence.  I cannot explain the levels of awful that was without shuddering.

My brother rolled his eyes and sat down next to me with a book in his hand.  He had the same light brown hair and blue eyes that I did, but even sitting down he towered over me in height.  Sean also looked much wiser and cooler than I did, which was never fair and I wondered if it was just because he was older.   The one thing I was sure of in that moment as he flipped the pages of his four hundred page novel…he would never make a good couch potato.

When Sean didn't say anything, I continued, “There’s something wonderfully normal about vegging out on a rainy day with some junk food and nowhere to go.”

“Yeah, it’s like Christmas,” Sean replied without even missing a beat in his book.

I glared at him and said, “This is the first Saturday in forever where there wasn't peril at the hand of jackasses that we had to handle or you weren't in annoying dictator mode.”

“I’m hardly a dictator.”

“ Isn't that what all dictators say?”

“No, they throw lazy bums like you in jail for insolent behavior and go on with their day.  I’m just not that lucky.”

I continued to glare at the side of his head.  Over the years, I've had to listen to a lot of girls go on about how handsome and great my brother was.  If only they could see him in all his snarky glory.  I yawned, stretched out again, and began the important task of flipping through the list of programming on the television.  It had taken years of whining, but I had finally convinced Sean of the wonders of cable.  Maybe in another ten years, he’ll be ready to try TIVO.

I glanced over the list of upcoming shows.  This was part of the trappings of cable. I already knew what I was going to watch, but I felt compelled to see what else was on.  It wouldn't have surprised me to learn that the cable companies were in league with a few demons on the invention.  It definitely screamed evil in that I-love-it-and-can’t-stop-myself way.  I popped another chip into my mouth as I scrolled through the long list of channels and upcoming programming.

And I gasped in horror.

Sean’s eyes snapped up from his book and focused on me.  “What’s wrong?”

“My day.”

“A minute ago life was grand.”

“That was before I was in the middle of a freaking television crisis of epic proportions.”

“Sounds awful.”

“Did you not hear the epic proportions part?”

Sean shrugged.  "I honestly don't know how to respond."

"This is serious, Sean.  I was planning to spend my afternoon catching up on Ghost Hunters International, but I just noticed there is a Teen Mom marathon on MTV.   I haven't seen the current season, but it's such an awesome train wreck - always makes me feel better about my own lame existence."

Sean dropped his book and snatched the remote out of my hand the same way he would a weapon - quick and efficient, leaving me to wonder if he was part ninja.  He put on the National Geographic channel, smirked at my groan, and said, "Problem solved and neither of us will be stupider afterward."

I crossed my arms.  "That was not one of the choices."

"I'm not watching Teen Mom."

"But Macy and Ryan are fighting again--"

"I am not watching Teen Mom, Cady.  I prefer not to partake in a sociological experiment gone completely awry, leaving me worried about the future of the human race if these are the people procreating."

I was not beyond a full-fledged pout-turned-tantrum if necessary.  I unfolded and refolded my arms in a very bratty manner and said, "That's what's so great about MTV shows."  His look was unflappable as he picked his book back up.  Sometimes I hated my brother.  A lot.

I grabbed the remote from his lap and said, "Ghost Hunters it is."

"That's not much better."

"You're ruining my happy lazy day."

"You know as well as I do that nothing on that show is accurate."

"It's a television show, not a dissertation on the proper techniques for dealing with ornery spirits and poltergeists."

Sean shrugged in the way that said I could do what I want but it wasn't the right thing to do.   It was a fixture in my childhood.  "Do what you want, but it seems like a waste of time."

"Seems like a waste of time," I mimicked in my best Sean-is-boring voice and I stuck out my tongue in his direction.  I flipped through the channels and settled in on Ghost Hunters as a new episode was starting.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Sean was back to reading his book.  We might not have the same ideas for how to spend a quiet day, but the lack of impending doom was a nice break.  I said, "Wouldn't it be great if the biggest decision of the day is whether to watch Teen Mom or Ghost Hunters International?"

"If you say so."

"I have nowhere to go and nothing to do and I'm going to enjoy it."

"Okay."

"I mean it," I replied.  I turned my attention to the show for a few minutes.  Not that I would tell him, but Sean was right about this show.  There really was a disturbing number of inaccuracies in how they dealt with ghosts.  

I tapped my foot against the coffee table and fanned myself.  It suddenly felt a bit hot in the living room, despite the wind billowing in from the open window.   I resisted the urge to get up and pace around the room.  It turned out being still and zoning out were not for me.

My brother glanced at me and said, "Let me guess, this is boring and you want to go do something."

"Yes please.  I'm not made for mindless television all day, just at night," I said.  I hopped up off the couch and slipped into my boots and jacket.  I bounced on the balls of my feet while I watched my brother amble around the room like an old man, gathering his keys and wallet and patting his jacket pockets.    Once he was ready, I flung open the door and hurried into the hall of our building.   "Sweet freedom!"

I wasn't looking at him, but I knew my brother was rolling his eyes in my direction as he locked the door. 

---

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Stefan challenged me with "Two things happened at once, it was which one to act upon that I couldn't decide..." and I challenged Sarah Cass with "It was a case of mistaken identity." (Her response is here.)

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Note:  My piece is pretty liberal with the prompt - but it's what came out, so I decided to go with it.  This is another piece that uses my character, Cady.

Indie Ink: The Last Twenty-Four Hours

“You know, the ancient Egyptians had a beautiful belief about death. When their souls got to the entrance to heaven, the guards asked two questions. Their answers determined whether they were able to enter or not. ‘Have you found joy in your life?’ 'Has your life brought joy to others?’” – The Bucket List

“You’re going to die tomorrow.”

“Excuse me,” I said, glancing around the room nervously.

The old woman who moved like she was bent in half stepped closer to me.  She tried to take my hand, but I pulled it protectively to my chest.  She sighed, the type that said this-is-nothing-new, and said, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you’re going to die tomorrow.”

“What?  How?”

“I cannot tell you the details.  I hope this information helps you.”

**

She’s crazy.  She’s crazy and old and weird.  And she smelled like tuna fish.  I am not going to take to heart the words of a woman who smelled of tuna fish.

But she was right about the lottery numbers.  And the flash of bright light in the sky. 

Dammit, what if she’s right?  Am I just in denial?  Should I be preparing?  After all, if she’s wrong and I’ve spent my day living to the fullest would I really be upset?

**

So tomorrow is the last day of my life.  It seems somehow wrong that I’m going to die on a Saturday.  It couldn't happen right before I was supposed to go to a long, dreary meeting?  I wish I knew a few days in advance as I would've totally called out of work.  Not sure what I would've done with the time, but it would have to be better than editing reports from co-workers that had never met a Grammar text book. 

Only one day left.  I keep repeating it over and over again as though it will finally make sense.  I’m obsessed with how it will happen.  Mostly, I hope it won’t hurt.  I want to be one of those people that others always say, “Well, she didn’t suffer” or “she didn’t feel a thing.”  Of course, with my luck, it’ll be some freak accident involving space garbage, which will make me infamous in death.  Please no fire.  That is not on my pre-approved list of ways to die. 

I must stop worrying about this. 

Why couldn’t the damn psychic tell me exactly how it would happen?  Is that messing with fate or something?  Worried that if I knew a bus was going to mow me down, I wouldn’t go near a street?  Okay, that’s probably fair.  If I could avoid dying, I would.

Anyway, I’m not really one of those girls who suddenly wants to climb Mount Everest – hiking, ew – or the demented type who thinks it would be fun to go on a crime spree.  I’m still me, just with an expiration date hanging over my head, and I’d be worrying too much about people’s feelings to ever steal, murder or whatever people on crime sprees do.  My big plan is to be happy. 

**

I've made plans with my sister and friends for this morning.  Breakfast and shopping – might as well spend that cash in my savings account on my friends – and enjoying the camaraderie.  I’m not sure if I should tell them.   My sister knows.  I tell my sister everything and she would be pissed if I didn’t mention something this huge.  Not to mention, she knew something was up when I returned home after finding out the news.  At first she was more than a little skeptical, but after I went through the list of all the things the lady was right about, she’s been taking it hard.  I guess that’s to be expected.   Death is always harder on those left behind.    The question is – do I tell my friends?  Is it better to give them the chance to say goodbye or is it okay to be selfish and behave like it’s any other day?  After all, I don’t want to spend my last day with lots of tearful goodbyes and further rumination on how it will happen.

If you can’t be selfish on your last day on Earth, I don’t know when you can be.  I don’t think I’m gonna say anything.   I want to have fun, dammit.  Enjoy everything that makes me happy and not allow fear to hold me back.  Sky dive – or is that how I die?  Dammit, stop thinking about it!  – dance, laugh, and play.  I want to focus on the good and not all the what if’s and never-meant-to-be moments.  I want to see all the movies on my must-watch list and skim all those books sitting on my bureau that I meant to get to.  I want to make the most of it, proof that I lived a good life.

I’d like to believe there is a heaven, where I can catch up with my parents and let them know I’ve moved beyond my anger (though, let’s face it, I’m sure a “remember that time you gave me food poisoning” conversation will sneak in there) and I’m just happy to see them again.  I’d like to believe there is this other realm where we are our best selves at all times – wise and kind and fearless.   But there is something oddly appealing about the idea of reincarnation too; a chance to get everything right with a clean slate.  Sometimes I like the idea of coming back and getting another chance at life, but it seems like a lot of work and can’t a girl have some peace in her after life?  I’ll wait to make that decision until it comes up.   The only thing I know for sure is that I do not want to become a spirit trapped on earth or end up on an episode of Ghost Hunters, accused of molesting red neck boys in their sleep. 

Whatever waits for me, I like to think that I’ve lived a good life.  I was kind and generous more than I was selfish and mean.  That while I made mistakes, I learned from them and constantly tried to be better.  Isn’t that all any God can really ask of us – to learn and grown and continue to be our best selves?   

I’m not as scared as I expected I would be in this situation.  I’m still not sure I like knowing exactly when it’s going to happen, but it does give me time to spend my last day living and not worrying about the small things that can invade our lives.  

I guess I’m ready.

**

I ended up telling my friends the truth.  There was some disbelief followed by crying and hugging.  I think I hugged more in that one hour than I did throughout my life.  I didn’t really want to say anything, but it came babbling out.  Besides, I didn’t want to make my sister carry the burden of that knowledge alone or get blamed for my selfish choices.  That seems like a shitty going away gift to someone.  “I’m dying and everyone is going to hate you.  Bye-eee!”

I bought my closest pals Coach bags with my savings and made them promise to find me one day in heaven and tell me what happens with Jason and Sam on General Hospital.  I don’t know if any other planes of existence get ABC.

**

The good thing about death is that I have no recollection of the very last seconds.  I don’t have to carry the memory of a horrible death – was it horrible? – around with me for all of eternity.  The bad thing so far is that there is a lot of paperwork to fill out in the afterlife before you can officially “move on.”  I still don’t know what that entails, but at least I avoided the poor bastard line that led to some scary looking shadows.  I’m faced with one final choice as myself – do I take a leap of faith and go to heaven or do I go back to what I know and try living again?  It’s a big choice to make and I’m still not sure I know the answer.  I purposefully left that line of form 22-B blank until I talk to one of the transitional counselors.  I’m leaning toward heaven.   It would be nice to see people I’ve lost and loved again, but even if that’s not possible, the idea of heaven is a lot more appealing at the moment. 

**

So it’s settled.  Transitional counselor thinks my best option is reincarnation, and after mulling over our conversation, I agree.  There are still a lot of things for me to learn and according to his thick file folder on me, I have not fulfilled my true potential, so off I go.


I just hope I don’t come back as a jackass.

---

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Sarah Cass challenged me with "Tomorrow is the last day of your life. If you live it well, you will go on into heaven (or your version of it) - or hell depending on the life you've led. If you live it how you WANT to spend your last day, you will be reincarnated as anything you want. What do you chose? And what is the outcome?" I challenged Major Bedhead with "Around mid-morning one day, you realize that everything that is happening seems really familiar. After much thought you discover that you are reliving a day from your past; OR a dream/nightmare that you have had is now happening for real."  You can read Major Bedhead's great response here.

Indie Ink Challenge: A Day in the Life of a Rebellious Non-Rule Breaker

Entry 1, 8:14 a.m.

Today is a new day!  Forget embracing ennui and have fun.  It’s time to throw caution to the win, ignore the rules, seize the day, and many other clichés that I can’t think of at the moment.  Rule number one to break:  the idea that any clear thoughts should be expected this early in the morning.

I’m going to take a mental health day from work.  I’ll have a chocolate milkshake for breakfast with a handful of chocolate chip cookies.  I’ll dance around my house in my underwear like the female version of Tom Cruise in Risky Business, except without the prostitutes and my song of choice would be “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé.   I’ll color outside the lines…on purpose.  And when I finally leave the house, I’ll jaywalk and drive way over the speed limit.    

Carpe Diem!

Entry 2, 8:32 a.m.

I’m starting to feel anxious about taking a mental health day.  There is flop sweat and shaking hands.  What if my boss finds out?  What if I don’t look sick tomorrow?  I think I might need to steal my grandmother’s oxygen tank.

Entry 3, 8:42 a.m.

I’m not sure this milkshake for breakfast was a good idea.  There was no nutritious value and a whole lot of sugar.   Somewhere, Jillian Michaels is crying out in pain and my stomach hurts.

Entry 4, 9:01 a.m.

Dancing around in your underwear is not as easy as it looks.  First, my stomach has been in revolt since I had the double chocolate breakfast of milkshake and cookies, and then as I pumped up the music and shook my booty, I could feel my cats judging me.  Way harsh.

Entry 5, 9:56 a.m.

I’m getting the hang of this no rules thing.  I’m wearing clothes that don’t match and I didn't bother to shower.  I did have a momentary lapse where I wondered if I would look homeless rather than rebellious, but decided a true rule breaker just didn’t give a damn.  It’s time to jump in the Honda Element, or the speed machine, and go somewhere wild.  Rules of the road, I laugh in your face.

Entry 6, 9:57 a.m.

I just can’t do it.  Despite my Jersey upbringing, I’m not comfortable barreling down the road way over the speed limit.  What if I killed someone, or worse, got pulled over by a cop?  On a no-rules type of day would I be expected to respond with smack talk and spit on the officer’s shoes?  Is crying to get out of a ticket still allowed?  Telling the truth is definitely out – that screams one-way ticket to Crazyville and I have plans this weekend.  Maybe some rules were not meant to be broken.  Maybe I should stick to jaywalking as a sign of my disdain for traffic regulations everywhere.  I guess that’s something.

Entry 7, 10:22 a.m.

Okay, jaywalking was a huge mistake.  A man-child on a bicycle in a bright red helmet nearly ran me over and shouted obscenities in my general direction.  How rude!

Entry 8, 10:25 a.m.

I’m doing this all wrong.  I need to get serious about breaking the rules and defying social norms.  It’s time to pull out the Johnny Cash albums for inspiration.

Entry 9, 10:31 a.m.

Wow.  Did you know that Johnny Cash once killed a man just to watch him die?  That’s a hardcore rule breaker.   No wonder prison inmates loved the man.

Entry 10, 11:13 a.m.

Listening to “Boy Named Sue” on repeat has worked wonders for my bah-humbug! to rules day.  I drove to Starbucks and parked like an asshole.  And I don’t care.  If other people don’t think parking spots exist for a reason, why should I?

Entry 11, 11:15 a.m.

Gotcha, Starbucks Barista!  She asked me how my day was and I defied social norms and babbled on about how I really was feeling.  I told her all the sordid details of my financial woes and plot to (not) rule the world!  So what if my financial woes aren't helped by the purchase of a five dollar drink?  I’m taking a trip on the wild side.

Entry 12, 11:31 a.m.

I cut an old lady off in line at the bank and I didn’t thank the teller after I took my money. 

Entry 13, 11:47 a.m.

I littered.  What is wrong with me?  I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Entry 14, 12:10 p.m.

I worked on the latest draft of my novel.  Forget you, Strunk and White’s Elements of Style.   I've got this under control.

Entry 15, 1:00 p.m.

Is it sad when you don’t understand your own writing?  He be da fugly man like big tattoos and bald head and he took her traveling through time in a thingy-majig.  What does that even mean?

Entry 16, 1:03 p.m.

I can’t take this anymore.  Rules exist for a reason.  Do I want to live in a Lord of the Flies sort of world?  No, I certainly do not.  I remember what happened to Piggy – oh, poor fat Piggy. 

What was I thinking?  I’m a Virgo.  Rules were hardwired into my brain at birth and fused together with a dash of perfectionism.    Sure, maybe I could learn to let go a little sometimes, but I’m okay living in a world with rules.   I wish I could say I had some sort of epiphany like characters from John Hughes movies always have about mundane things, but mostly, I just want to put on some clothes that match and pull my copy of Elements of Style out of the garbage can.  

---

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Carrie challenged me with "Ignore the Rules! Doubt Everything! Some rules are meant to be broken" and I challenged Tereasa Trevor with ""It's hard to believe it's already been a year since it happened."

---

Note:  I spent Sunday through Wednesday panicking and pondering what I could do with this prompt.  I was over-thinking it, but couldn't stop myself.  Finally, I turned to a friend who is also a creative type and said, "help me."  Best decision I made because talking to her helped me slowly formulate this piece.  And I kinda like it.

Indie Ink: How She'll Be Remembered

One day her epitaph will read, “Here lies Maggie – she was a beautiful mess” and she’s made her peace with that.  It’s just a fact of life, or her life anyway.  One of those things that was born out of a did-that-really-just-happen moment and over time metamorphosed into a dictionary-like definition of who she was.  At least in his eyes, and as much as she likes to believe she is this fierce independent woman, his view of her matters the most.

Besides, there are worse things a girl can be known for in life.

It used to bother her.  She wanted to hate him for it – who wants to think her entire existence can be narrowed down to those three words? – but he was always so damn aww-shucks about it that it didn't feel right to get mad.  Now those words are like an elixir when she's spazzing out about mundane things.  When she forgets where she leaves her keys or misplaces the glasses sitting on top of her head, he tilts his head back with a hearty laugh and says, “Sweetheart, you’re a beautiful mess.”  She smiles, breathes in and out and calms (and usually notices the glasses on her head and cringes in embarrassment).

He never says it with an ounce of unkindness or sarcasm.  His gaze is always adoring as he looks at her like “how did I get so lucky to have this beautiful mess in my life” and sometimes she thinks it’s just too much and there must be something more sinister, but it’s hard to fake his sincerity.  It’s another reason they’re a bizarre mishmash of a life thrown together.  She’s frazzled imperfections wrapped in a snarky cloth.  Sincerity has never been nor will it ever be her forte and he’s earnest and thoughtful and optimistic.

Somewhere in the universe, someone made a mistake and some sweet farm girl is suffering through a day with a surly fellow reading the Sunday paper and complaining about all that is wrong with the world.  She thinks maybe she should feel bad about that, but it’s not in her nature.

Sucks to be you, farm girl, but this beautiful mess is going to hold onto what she’s been given.

---

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Random Girl challenged me with "she was a beautiful mess" and I challenged Kelly Garriott Waite with "start a piece with the line, 'One day of work was all that stood between me and...'" and her wonderful response can be found here.

---

Note:  This piece definitely pushed me out of my comfort zone.  Work has been busy the past two weeks again and I've found myself blocked in some ways, so this was a great time for this type of challenge.  My goals with this were to try something new and not to over-think it too much.  Not sure if I succeeded yet, but I tried.

Indie Ink Challenge: I've Never Been a Fan of the Monster Mash

It's Indie Ink Challenge time!  

---

I remember the first multimonsterathon, the convention for scary creatures to bond and exchange ideas for best doing their jobs. I had been forced to go, the wife nagging me about the special presentation in my honor and how I couldn't miss it. “Drac, they bought you a blood-stained plaque and everything.”

I’m still not sure who thought up the whole idea and why they weren’t immediately run out of the monster union, but these days anything goes. If they had asked me, I would’ve told them that it wasn’t the best idea.  Surely the man-eating squid wouldn’t get along with Frankenstein, and I could only imagine the nightmare when Godzilla’s cousin found out he had to room with the three-headed dragon. No, it really didn’t seem like the sorta thing that was going to be easy to deal with.

The reality was far worse. Humans make such a big deal about our ability to scare people and plague their lives with ghoulish nightmares, but if they saw us like this…maybe a good mob of townsfolk with pitchforks and fire was just what this crowd needed. Maybe it would’ve reminded the other creatures why we did this job.  We needed to cultivate the best ways to ignite fear deep in the hearts of a generation of people who watched things that made me blanch.  I mean, really, Saw V?  Wasn't it covered in the first movie?  We needed to reinvent the horrors that made each of us famous, bringing such torment into someone's life that the story gets passed on for centuries.  

Instead, the multimonsterathon was like any other convention out there, filled with schmoozing and bragging. A lot of people don’t know this, but there are a lot of egos running amuck in the monster world. One dinner with these creatures and you want to claw your own eyes out before Wolfman ever gets the chance.

“Guess who just landed a commercial?” the mummy said.

Only to be topped by an exclamation from the Creature of the Black Lagoon, “My agent just called me. I’m the villain in an upcoming Hollywood Blockbuster.”

The honorary luncheon was nice – some of the best virgins I’d tasted in decades – but it just served to remind me of the good ‘ole days. Times when a monster could do respectable work and leave humans quaking in their boots. Nowadays, thanks to shows like Buffy and Supernatural, everyone’s a critic.

Someone actually said to me, “Was that supposed to be scary? And what’s with the accent?”

He wasn't so high and mighty when I pounced on him in the cellar.  There was a look of fear on his face right before I drained him dry and left his body out as a reminder why Dracula was number one.

Yes, it seemed that even I wasn't immune to showing off, but there really was something to be said for a well-placed corpse to lend credence to the legend.  


While it was good to see the original Mummy-man again, I'd much rather sneak into the science museum one night than attend another one of those insipid gatherings.  It turns out that despite the hollow loneliness coursing through my veins where blood should be, I hate other creatures of the night.  

---

This week’s Indie Ink Challenge came from Stefan, who gave me this prompt: write something fictional and exciting. I challenged Jules with the prompt you didn't expect to fall in love. Jules' great response is here.

Indie Ink: the knight in shining armor

I decided to see how close to the deadline I could push this week's Indie Ink Challenge.  For some reason I thought I'd have more time to write on vacation - not the case thus far. I was lucky enough to get another great prompt from Tim King - The story opens with your main character at the checkout counter of a convenience store, and s/he is $1.50 short - and I challenged Chaos Mandy (her great response is here).  I totally own that I just wrote this in a hurry to make the deadline and it hasn't been edited properly yet.  Also, this week 
I'm playing with my recurring character, Cady.

---

I stared longingly at the Snapple and aspirin on the counter of the convenience store.  The twenty-something guy in the blue smock behind the register didn't seem to care much about my plight.  Just repeated, "Yeah, you're short 1.50" as he shuffled the three dollars in his hand for effect.

"I realize that," I gritted out.  My head was in the middle of hammering out a full-fledged symphony.   I checked my pockets hoping that I could will two bucks into existence to no avail.  I sighed and said, "Forget the Snapple and just give me the aspirin."

"Don't do that.  I've got it," a familiar voice said.

I caught Lucian out of the corner of my eye and felt torn between happy to see him and utterly humiliated.  I bit down on my lip and nodded in order to keep from saying something mean and unnecessary.   I bit down even harder, tasting blood on my lip, when strange sensations burned across my skin where his hands brushed up against me as he moved to the pay cashier. 


He offered me a dazzling smile, the type that reached his eyes and made the midnight blue coloring seem so bright.  He handed me the plastic bag and it gave me the opportunity to get a good look at him.  His jet black hair was wet and pieces clung to his forehead.  He was wearing his usual cargo pants and tee-shirt attire, but it looked good on him, and despite the lighting in the store, his creamy skin made him look almost ethereal. 

Everything about him hit me in waves in a way I wasn't used to.  I had liked guys in my time, but this just seemed to good to be true.  In my life, that usually meant he tortured small animals for fun.


Lucian squeezed my shoulder and said, "You look like hell, Cady."

I wanted to roll my eyes, but it would've hurt too much.  "Is this how you woo all the girls?  Swoop in to save the day and then insult them?"

He winked and said, "Only the special ones."

"I'm honored."

"Everything okay?"

I shrugged.  "Rough day."

"Well, I'm glad I could help, even in such a small way."

My body betrayed me and I smiled.  What was it about this guy that turned me into this girly-girl that I never was before?  "You're a regular knight-in-shining-armor.  Thanks."

"You almost sound like you mean it."

I met his gaze.  He always had this amused flicker in his eyes.  I was both jealous and suspicious of anyone who could take on life that way.  I wasn't sure what to do or where this was going or if I even wanted to go along for the ride, but at the same time, I couldn't imagine never seeing Lucian again.  And how sad was that?  Some girls require wining and dining, but my heart can be won for a bottle of aspirin and a Snapple. 

"I'd invite you out for coffee if you didn't look about ready to pass out on your feet.  Can you get home okay?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

"I'll be fine," I replied.  I realized I was still smiling like a crazed loon and skirted around him to make a getaway.  Our hands brushed against each other and I felt my face flush with heat and I wondered if his lips felt as soft as they looked.

I think I hit my head harder than I originally thought.  When I swayed clumsily on my feet, Lucian was there to steady me.   I couldn't help but notice he smelled like soap and a peppermint.  Oddly appealing.  I shut my eyes and said, "I'm okay, really."

"I'm helping you home.  I promise not to tell anyone that even you occasionally need help.  Please tell me the other guy looks as just as bad," Lucian replied, leading me out of the store. 

I shrugged.  "It's a long story."

"It always is with you."

I nodded.  I wasn't used to this type of closeness with anyone, let alone a guy that made everything go blurry around the edges.  I was torn between making a run for it and enjoying the warmth and safety of his arm draped around my shoulder.  I knew what I should be doing.  Lucian was a potential complication and those never boded well. 

"What can I say?  I'm an enigma."

"Well, you're definitely something."

I chuckled, despite the pain that thrummed through my veins.   "Right back at you."

Fiction: Careful what you write...

It's that time of week where I post my Indie Ink writing challenge.  Remember the days I used to be mad at myself for not posting until Wednesday?  Ha, I've sure learned my lessons about procrastinating.  I wrote about three different things before settling in with my other ongoing character, Elaina, for this week's prompt.  This week I challenged Runaway Sentence, whose great response is posted here, and was challenged by Sherree.  My prompt was "It's not what you said, it's how you said it."  This was such a great prompt and it sent my mind spinning in many different directions.  This is the one I've chosen to share tonight.

---

I entered the cafeteria with a fake stride of confidence in my step.  The past twenty-four hours had been a life lesson in humility, or humiliation, maybe both.  My fellow students and a few adults, who clung to the greatness that was high school, were a little angry with me for something I had recently written.  Who knew stating the obvious would create such drama?

Note to self:  no one is ready to hear the obvious stated, which is probably why it's always so obvious in the first place.

I’ve decided to blame my latest foray into loserdom on Mr. Jenkins, one of my school’s English teachers and the faculty advisor for the Cougars newspaper.   “The pen is mightier than the sword, Elaina” and “There's a great amount of power in a few well-placed words, Elaina.”  Why wouldn’t I take that as a sign to write a scathing op-ed piece on the uselessness that was the Homecoming Dance?  Life isn't like Sixteen Candles and our football team hasn't won a game in twenty years.  Homecoming alienated a large portion of the high school population and turned the rest into dance-crazed lunatics.

The words had to be said and Mr. Jenkins didn’t stop me.   I’m guessing it was one of those he-wants-you-to-learn-that-fire-burns moments adults are so fond of forcing on you. 

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” Mike said as he sat down across from me at our usual lunch table.  He was very cool about not acknowledging the dirty looks people had been sending my way.

“I expected this sort of reaction from the rah-rah crowd, but even the persona non grata freaks are giving me the evil eye.  You'd think I slaughtered a puppy in front of toddlers." 

Mike shook his head as he dumped the contents of his brown bag on the table.  He said, "You're demented."

"And a social pariah."

He cocked his head to the side and shot me an appraising glance, the same one he'd been shooting my way since kindergarten.  He was probably wondering what God he had pissed off in a former life to end up with me as a best friend.  "It'll pass eventually."

I shrugged and said, "I hope I live to see that."

"I think you're overreacting a bit."

"I'm overreacting?   Principle Henry called me into his office and said that I was a rabble rouser.  He told me that I had to write an apology in the next edition of the newspaper and threatened to force me to join the social committee to show me the error of my ways.  I really hate high school.”

“I know, and thanks to your This Cougar Knows column, everyone knows.”

“Newsflash - it's your job to keep me from doing stupid things like this.  You know how I get.”

He rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, I do know how you get and would’ve stopped you if you bothered to mention it to me.”

“And that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“Do you hear yourself sometimes?” he asked with an exasperated sigh. 

I waved him off and said, “That’s not the point.  The point is the entire school is angry with me for saying what we all know to be true.”

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think it was what you said, so much as how you said it,” Mike replied.  He shoveled a banana into his mouth and off the look on my face, added with a full mouth, “You basically referred to the popular kids as power-hungry ninnies and the rest of us as cowardly losers.”

“I was talking about myself in that cowardly loser bit.”

“I know that, but the rest of the school does not.”

“Idiots.”

“I wouldn’t use that in your apology.”

I glanced down at my sandwich, pretending not to feel a hundred sets of eyes watching me with disdain, but made no effort to eat.  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling out of place in a way I hadn’t since the first day of high school, and tried to put on my brave face.  The problem I’ve always had with the brave face is that I’m terrible at hiding how I feel and people know I’m not brave or confident.

“Hey, don't get that look.   I'm sure something much more interesting will happen soon and you'll drop off the school radar.  I just wouldn’t plan on getting nominated for Homecoming Queen this year.”

“Are you telling me there isn’t a massive yearning to have a bitter, sarcastic sixteen year old wear the crown? I'm shocked.”

“You’re too young to be so cynical, Elaina.”

I grabbed a chip from Mike’s brown bag and popped it into my mouth.  “My father is in politics, Mike.  I’ve been cynical since the womb.”  I turned my head and caught a group of cheerleaders glaring in my direction.  I groaned and said, “I guess I should refrain from sharing my thoughts on prom and stick with scathing reviews of the hot lunches."