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I have been in sick jail this week. It's been the kind of sick that sucks your creative juices dry.  The kind of sick that requires an IV of NyQuill to your veins.  The throat dry and rattling kind; the chilling body aches kind; the walking around bent over with a robe that whips around your bare ankles like you are forever going to be hunchbacked from this point forward kind.  The kind of sick that makes you start to question all of your life choices from the moment of your conception; it may even bleed over to questioning some of your parents' choices like why did they want to have you in the first place. When this type of sick takes over your world everything pauses and then proceeds to continue in a very Matrix quality slow motion as you reevaluate most things in that smoky haze of wakefulness and drug induced sleep.  What if this is what my life has made itself into being now? I began to wonder.  I looked at my animals, all cozily taking claim to their chosen real estate on my lap, my arm, two inches from my head (my black cat never one for overt neediness).  Is this what they feel like when they are sick? I asked myself. I have read that dogs, when not feeling well, truly believe that they will never feel better again.  They grow accustomed to the feelings of pain, of sluggishness, of disjointed displeasure and they adapt the best that they can and perhaps that is why they look so terribly pitiful with their wide sad eyes and dopey faced frowns. My husband would say I become one of those forlorn dogs when sickness comes my way.  I cease to want to adult altogether, reverting to the childlike version of myself.  He is correct of course for I really do become quite helpless.  I haven't always been this way, however.  During my first marriage and when I was single I was quite capable of taking care of myself, although he would be the first to disagree.  My first marriage I fractured my femur in both legs twice and when I was single I lived in a townhome that had fleas in the basement and I had attracted the unwanted attention of a stalker who was leaving me creepy notes on my front door, so maybe I wasn’t taking that good care of myself after all.  Fast forward to the now when all I have to do is stay in bed when I’m sick and he takes care of pretty much everything else.  He makes sure I take the appropriate amount of medicine at the appropriate amounts of time even when I turn into a churlish child and throw a mini tantrum at the thought of having to down the bitterly thick red liquid and the exessively large pills that will forever get stuck between my throat and esophagus.  (I don’t really think that’s a thing, but it does feel that way.) Maybe the real issue is that I was just not made to suffer like most, one reason I will never be child laboring, preferring to be catered to rather than the catering sort.  Should I be embarrassed by such an omission? Perhaps.  And honestly I do feel bad in the moment, but isn’t it nice sometimes to just give into what your body wants, what your body needs without feeling a certain type of way about it.  So many times I have all of these rules in places that surround my daily life ( i.e. no drinking alcohol Monday through Thursday, only diet coke on Saturdays, 60 minutes of cardio six days a week,  heavy weight training four days a week, hot yoga on Sundays, chocolate only on the weekends, writing the first draft of my blog on Wednesday, working on my book five days a week), that getting sick is a way for my body, my brain to reset and just be in the moment for awhile.   It’s quite refreshing in a way to live a few days without all of those rules that forever imprison my brain into the confines of what feels like four very sharp corners.  And maybe that’s why we get these viruses to begin with.  It’s a way for our brain to signal to the rest of our body that we need a break from life, even if it only means for a few days. I’m recovering now, so no need to be too worried about my overall health.  And I’m actually getting better before the voices in my head began to spiral too far down the rabbit hole of thinking I may have a far worse disease, potentially cancer, because isn’t that where all things lead to these days?  My brain has reset as well and my rules have been put on pause, not indefinitely, but until a new week shakes its bright glorious head in my direction.  But for now I’m going to relax, revel in the clarity that this break has afforded me, and be thankful for a body that is healthy the majority of the time.

Dear Mr. Twain: Or can I refer to you by your real name, Samuel Clemens.  I always wondered which name you preferred.  When you created the pseudonym did it help you to get into a character? Give you much needed distance between the your creations and the person who you are? I can relate to that actually. Always towing the line between the different versions of myself. Or perhaps you were never afraid to show the world your true self, the good, the bad, the controversial. I did see you speak recently, or rather it was Richard Thomas who did the speaking, but for my own imaginings I pretended that it was you.  It was the one man show entitled MARK TWAIN TONIGHT! It was developed and performed originally by another actor, Hal Holbrook Jr. in 1954. It even won him a Tony award for his efforts.  Sadly, Holbrook died in 2021, but performed the same show I saw tonight for more than 60 years.  Thomas is the only actor who has been granted permission by the Holbrook estate to revive the play and I’m really glad that he did for I saw it and loved it (sorry I’m being so redundant here; obviously you can tell that I saw and loved the play, why else would I be writing about it now). I hope you don't think my writing drivel or worse yet not worthy of your time, especially if you are reading it from another world, and if I’m being honest I don’t really blame you, but I couldn’t resist writing to you today. One of the reasons being that the world you lived in, the world I live in are not altogether that different. Unfortunately, humans have not grown all that much. We have more technology in the form of communication devices. I’m sure you would have boycotted such contraptions; called them idiotic machines that were designed to dumb an entire population of followers down; turning people into robotic versions of themselves, incapable of thinking and doing much of anything without their help.  Gone are the days of relying on common sense, you would scoff, when the answer to any question is a push of a button away.  But that’s really not even the crust of the matter. People are still hating others based on familiar, past prejudices.  If someone doesn’t look like you, sound like you, behave like you do, then there must be something wrong with said person.  And the people who are in power look pretty much the same as in your day; balding white men who think that they are quite the opposite of who and what they really are.  Men who are afraid to admit to the many blaringly obvious things; afraid that it will somehow put a hole through their already faulty armor.  It’s the same issues that Huckleberry Finn experienced although you wrote him to be an empathetic sort of person.  He had that childlike innocence to ask the hard questions; breathe into them; seek out his moral compass and realize for himself what was actually wrong and what was right. I’m rereading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn I want you to know. I tried to find a copy of the book on one of those late night early mornings when I couldn’t sleep.  My mind racing about the world and the things the human race is doing to it and to one another.  I tiptoed out of bed thinking that surely I had a copy of your best praised work in one of my many book cases.  You can only imagine my shock when I discovered that I did not.  I had about six companies of Tom Sawyer, but not one of Huckleberry Finn.  I’m embarrassed to even call myself a fan at this point.  I promptly ordered a copy and received it the very next day (technology does have its perks after all). I had forgotten your introductory warning, but was reminded when I opened the first page. “Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative,” you write, “will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.”   I don’t altogether agree with such a warning if I’m being honest.  Or maybe you were being facetious, knowing that if you said one thing, your readers would probably do the opposite. This text does need to be taught in schools, analized, even thoroughly examined, not that it has done us any good. Do you know that many schools have wanted to ban your book?  One publishing company even reprinted your words so that the N word would be replaced with slave.  I disagree with this of course because at this time in history Huckleberry Finn grew up believing that using such a word was acceptable.  Heck, he even thought that he was going to hell for helping a slave, but he had this thing called morals (I know so shocking to hear), something that  the world has not seen enough of these days.  When Finn is given the opportunity to return the slave Jim to his owner, he finds that he “knew deep down inside of me that I would never be able to do this to Jim, and I knew that God knew I wouldn’t be able to do this. A person can’t pray a lie—I learned that” (119-120).  Finn even goes so far as to actually prefer going to hell than doing something the world has told him was the right thing because he knew it to not be so.  And this is what I am dealing with today. The government telling us one thing: fear your neighbors who look different from you because of where they are from and how they came to be instead of reveling in the facts of the why of it all. People are refusing to see that differences in cultures, differences in appearance, does not make one bad or evil, drug dealers or rapists, it makes them beautiful for the colors that they add to the world.  I don’t know why more people can’t realize this Mr. Twain?  How did you come to such a conclusion yourself all those years ago and were you prosecuted for thinking such things?  You certainly would be today, I will tell you that much. Do you think our world will ever live harmoniously or is that a pipe dream that would only make you chuckle at the rose color in my glasses, force you to take another swig of your whisky, a puff of your cigar, and proceed to go back to your writing where you can control the narrative; you can control the characters who you have made to be decent amidst the camaflauged frauds. I’m almost embarrassed to admit that I am an aspiring writer and if you were alive today I would send you some of my work in hopes that you would read my haphazard sentences, my stunted words and give me advice on how to  authentically allow myself into my created worlds and then how to formulate my thoughts into a more seamless fashion. If you’ve read this far don’t worry my rambilings has almost concluded.  The last thing I want to express to you is my thanks. Thank you for leaving behind such brilliantly written gifts; gifts that I will continue to encourage young people to read for it does such a brilliant job of showcasing a past that should never be forgotten even if it makes us shudder with embarrassment for what has been done. It is the only way for new generations to never forget what has happened so as to not repeat such atrocities, maybe that’s why today's America has gone so far off course.  We are just too afraid to admit that what our ancestors thought would Make America Great only proved a short sightedness that didn't help the country then and certainly doesn't help anyone today.

We’ve made a decision.  It's been something that we have been pondering for some time.  This summer helped and the Christmas break solidified what we already knew.  We are going to move to Mexico (Playa del Carmen specifically) full time when I retire; hopefully in the next five years, so what is the next step?  Buying an apartment; one in which we will live in the foreseeable future. At first it all seemed so very exciting. Our realtor flooded us with possible apartments, condominiums. We had our budget, are desired location, the have and have nots of what we wanted and didn't. And we have narrowed the list down significantly, but the more I think about it, the more daunting such a task is quickly becomming. What if our investment falls flat? What if the area that we purchase significantly declines over the next few years? What if there are hidden damages that we are obvliously unaware? I know there are risks to most good things in life but this week I've been feeling like I’m riding a mini roller coaster, one that doesn’t make you too terribly dizzy, but still causes quite a bit of anxiety, maybe even a bit of nausea. So, with all that in mind I thought I would show you the contenders for places that could potentially be our home at some point. It is to be noted that the downtown area, where we are looking, in Playa del Carmen is not very large.  Literally a good 20 minute walk can get you to most places, so location for me is not a make it or break it. All options are two bedrooms. And I have named them based on how they feel to me. Option #1: The Hacienda I love this option for many reasons.  It's so authentically Mexican in style and personality.  I mean, just look at the bathrooms.  Then there's the large porch that you can enter from the living room and the master bedroom. It also has a shared pool and rooftop (although it's devoid of any furniture but you do have a view). And you have your own laundy room in the apartment itself. The location is only a few blocks from the beach.  You can actually see the ocean from the main balcony. The downsides: It is unfurnished, which can be a good thing for we will have the opportunity to pick out our own stylized furniture, however, it will not be move in ready. Also, the neighborhood itself.  Right now it'a fine, but has the potential to become more run down if the other apartments do not maintain or improve their situation. The bohemian in me sees myself floating around barefoot in a gold flowy dress, wine glass and book occupying each hand until I land on that beautiful porch. Option #2: ANAH Penthouse (THE WINDOW) The positives: private rooftop with hot tub, fully furnished, shared rooftop pool, and free yoga classes on Monday and Wednesdays. The negatives: There are no balconies attached to the downstairs, a bit further from the beach, no laundry room in the apartment or on the premise (or at least it wasn't listed in the description), the most expensive of the three, and the highest maintenace price of them all. But this does speak to my bougier side. I can see myself in a robe, one of those silky situations that has bell sleeves and is dark green in color; a very dirty vodka martini in hand as I watch the sunset out that window. Then…. Option #3: The Wildcard It’s smaller, but priced well, shared pool, furnished….no laundry unit in the apartment or on the premise that I can tell. But it has character. I would definately get rid of of the small table and chairs and expand the living room. The porch stretches from the living room to the master bedroom. I can of course see myself here as well. A cocunut rum and coke light swirling in my glass as I swing on the hammock like some sort of exotic monkey. So, dear reader, you can see my dilemma. Three viable options and I can see parts of myself living in each property. It is possible that we will find a fourth or maybe even fifth option, but for now these possibilties are the top contenders. We are lucky to have family that live near the area, so they have been visiting the properties for us. But... would love to hear your opinions, thoughts. Where should our future home be in Playa del Carmen, I’m interested to know what you think. Drop it in the comments if you feel so inclined.

I have grown used to trying new things over the course of this blog.  And if you have read up to this point you know how I have had my struggles.  Navigating solo in Mexico City being one; forcing myself to join a yoga studio in Playa del Carmen being two; continuing my self care journey throughout the summer in another country being three, and expanding my tattoo being yet another.  Parts of me have questioned the why in all of this.  Why am I doing the hard things when there's comfort around every corner? Why do I insist upon putting the awkward girl in situations that will only make her and the situation more awkward? It's possible that I like to feel accomplished, even if my accomplishments are not really a thing for some. But does it ever get easier? The short answer is yes it does.  You would think going to the thing would be the hardest part, but it’s not.  The hardest part is when you show up to said thing, make short clipped introductions if that is needed and then you wait while people around you share hugs, laughs, inside jokes and you find yourself grimacing out a smile or two.  Trying to pretend that you are in fact part of all that warmth, but you know that you aren't and you feel it and you’re pretty sure that they feel it too.   I have gotten used to these feelings of mine and now instead of running back to the safety of my shell, I sit in it.  Allow my brain to do what it does best: ridicule me, tell me how I’m not good enough, no one wants to be my friend, etc.,etc.  The list of negatives can be quite lengthy, quite daunting.  But you know what?  I’m always surprised when I have finished the thing that I have most dreaded because I did something at the end of the day that my silly brain was trying to talk me out of. This week's challenge was taking pole dancing classes.  Now reader, I am not a dancer, have never been a dancer.  I am not coordinated or balanced in any shape or form, but I love a good workout and the owner of this particular studio is a friend of mine. “When are you going to take one of my classes?” She would often ask in her slight southern lilt that was unequivocally her own. I would him and haw around it, knowing that I’m not going to be good at pole dancing.  I have enough trouble walking down the street without tripping or falling. But  when she asked me again over a few glasses of wine, I found myself agreeing that, yes, I should take her classes.  I think I can do most things when I’m on my second glass of wine. I showed up at her studio to take the 12:30 AM class on a random Saturday and I was nervous of course, but not as bad as I thought that I would be. When I thought about this I realized there was probably two reasons why I wasn’t as nervous: One, I had taken an introductory pole class before Christmas and two, I knew the instructor of the class.  So, I wouldn’t have to stand awkwardly in the back and envy the friendships these women all had and want to ask them how can I be included in their club? The cute little studio. The Diva Dive doesn’t just offer pole dancing classes, but lyra, silks, ariel yoga, as well as pilates and ballet.  It has been open since 2013 and is the first pole and aerial fitness studio in the area.  Sally has been teaching such classes for over 20 years. She actually was a classically trained ballet dancer for over three decades and she most definitely looks the part.  Fun fact: she joined the circus as a teen and I think that’s perhaps the coolest thing a person can do. But, you can only imagine my trepidation and why I didn’t really think I would be a good fit for such classes.  I love Sally, but one look at her abs made me want to swear off fried foods and chocolate forever.   I walked into the studio and was relieved that her smiling face was the first one that I saw. And then another girl, Samantha, who she had introduced me to earlier, helped get my station set up.  This was a Pole Conditioning class for level 2-4 students and I am most definitely level two, although once the class began I wondered if I shouldn’t have repeated the level one class. The first part started simple enough.  A few weighted arm exercises, push ups, nothing too extreme or outside my wheel house, but that was only the beginning.  She soon began to teach the class a variety of spins and I felt like the problem student; the one who is constantly not getting it.  How do I put my left ankle past my right one and then my hands to swing in the opposite direction of everything?  I think I asked her to repeat the sequence 45 times, or at least that's how it felt in my head.  I watched as she beautifully spun, doll-like, around the pole, arms outstretched, smile brightening her face into a glow.  She was constantly telling me to look at myself in the mirror for that would really help, but did I really want to look at the girl with the too long grayish cream short set (they were once white, but had an unfortunate non separating the clothes episode), lift her 5 foot 8 frame around a pole, with what I can only imagine was a face that had a tongue sticking out of it?  I think not. “Did you have fun?” G asked when he picked me up a few hours later. And I found myself saying that I did, because it was the truth. Unlike many fitness classes I have taken in my life the women at this studio went out of their way to welcome me. Many even encouraged me specifically to not give up; everyone’s first few times are the same they said. I was also impressed with Sally’s teaching.  She definitely has a knack for making everyone feel comfortable, targeting the ones who need the extra help without making them feel bad about it. I went back again to the Monday night class and have never been so sore in all of my life, but with Sally’s guidance was able to do a stunt that I never thought I would be able to do.  I realize that most of my thinking about how I look and feel, especially when I do something where a lot of my body is showing, takes place in my head.  Something that I have tried to overcome throughout my life, probably going back to as far as the first grade when I walked into the classroom and didn’t know anyone and felt the awkwardness wash over me like a too wet blanket, one in which I wanted to hide behind.  But what good would that really do at the end of the day?  Why be alive if all you want to do is hide from it?   I will continue to persevere if you were wondering, something that I feel sometimes is my superpower, and I am going to include these pole classes into my weekly workout regiment from now on because I can use more woman empowerment, more times to feel sexier, more attune to my own body, the beauty in it, the strength for what it can do for me.  But even if I took the physical fitness part out of the equation (yes, my abs, legs, arms are still screaming at me) how it helped with my mental fitness as a woman who is constantly trying to feel better about herself is something that I feel all women can really benefit.

I dread going back to school after holiday break.  If you don’t already know I’m a high school librarian. I've been in education for 20 years now; I know I can't believe it too.  It’s a something that I should be more thrilled about, but at this point in my life I’ve allowed my cynicism towards education to take over my once rose colored glasses.  Actually, if I’m being completely honest the rose coloring stayed rosy for probably one point two minutes before they quickly clouded over to the reality of the situation.  I soon realized that being an educator is less about teaching and more about counseling, providing food services, clothing, school supplies, and of course what so often feels like the most underpaid baby sitting service. But I digress… The holiday break is a happy time for so many, but there are the students who dread such things because this is when they have to spend time with a family that doesn't provide much of anything for them. Then there are the stories that inevitably come my way, told from students who have no one else to talk to or who don’t understand that there are certain things that just should never be shared and that is sad, but it’s the reality of our world and the kids that have to grow up in it. I currently have one student in particular who likes to frequent the library on a daily basis.  He smells badly most days, has the mental maturity of perhaps a four year old, overshares about his personal hygiene and life, so what happened next should have not been that surprising. He came up to the circulation desk and very matter of factly told me and my fellow librarians that his mother died over break.  We were all taken aback by such an announcement, but one look in his eyes only revealed a blankness that didn’t hold much hurt or pain.  He then proceeded to take out his phone, wanted to show us his mother on her last days in the hospital, and when she had already passed away.  When he asked if I wanted to see said pictures, my head was screaming at me to say no, of course not, who would actually want to see such a thing as that on the first day back from Mexico no less, and it wasn't even nine o'clock, but he needed to share, like so many do, and so I found myself nodding my head slightly up and down as he scrolled through each picture. “She was an organ donor,” he said. “That’s great,” we all replied, voices rising in pitch. “But her organs were all dead.” “Oh,” we gasped. “It was the thought that counts,” my coworker replied, not really knowing what else to say. A part of me wanted to chuckle as I looked at our individual  facial expressions.  Sympathy with a slight horror traced lines on our faces, which was in such contrast to his face. He was speaking like he was telling us about the weather or what he had eaten for lunch instead of a life changing moment in any person’s life.  I’ve been told the loss of a parent stays with you for always.  It may dim in pain at times, but it will never completely go away. I began to really think about why he lacked the appropriate emotion for such a life changing event.  His inability to see the change to his future.  His complete ignorance that surrounded his situation and if that is actually better in the end?  If you do not realize your pain or are too ignorant to grasp it, could it actually be a good thing?  The sharpness of the world would probably not hurt quite so much.  Your feelings would be muted as you walk around being blissfully unaware of what life can do for you and what it can’t. I was reminded of the short story,  Flowers for Algernon .  When I taught eighth grade this story  was part of the curriculum.  It centers around the character Charlie.  Charlie has intellectual disabilities and is offered an opportunity of a lifetime. He undergoes an experimental surgery that will make him intelligent.  A mouse named Algernon also goes through the same procedure.  At first both subjects prove the surgery to be a successful one.  Charlie soon realizes that his friends, or the ones who he thought were his friends, were actually making fun of him the whole time.  He becomes quite isolated after that as his brain becomes smarter and smarter until his intelligence eventually begins to decline.   Would Charlie have been better off, is the question I posed to my eighth graders, if he had never had that intelligence, the knowledge of how cruel the real world can be.  The world is terrible, there’s no denying it, but would it be better to not know all of that terribleness, to not feel it so deeply?  It’s a wonderful short story that was later expanded into a novel.  I would recommend the short story version if you are so inclined. A part of me does think that ignorance can be blissful and some would say, people who really know me, that I choose to live my life blissfully.  Rarely turning to the news, but rather living a life with my head in a book, in my own writing, in reality television then anything of real substance.  I do believe that is better in a way because a life of true knowledge can potentially lead to a lot of negativity for what is understood.   I wish I could fix the world, I really do, but I know that I can’t, not really.  There is just too much evilness out there and at times it seems so very overwhelming.  But what I can do is give the students of the world a reprieve by opening a space filled with books that can take them away from their life for a while, provide a listening ear as they tell me their stories, and hopefully this will be enough to live a life that I am proud of.

It’s my favorite type of humor…the self-deprecating sort.  It may hit a little too close to home at times, the truth being hidden, perhaps even buried between a kind of reality and an imaginative one.   The types of people that don’t take themselves too seriously are the ones I enjoy the most.  They can make fun of the one thing or the many that bothers them about themselves.  The time they fell up the stairs because they got too distracted by the air, wind, or just people in general.  Or the time an entire day was spent with spinach shoved between their front two teeth and the day of course was one of those important jam packed ones with evaluations, interviews or perhaps even a date. Or maybe it’s just the person who I am that likes to surround herself with others who are similiar.  I’m the one who will always mispronounce the word, wear the sports bra backwards, get the stain on any article of clothing including a book, iPad, purse, hand, foot…you get the idea.  It all makes for good fodder once the embarrassment has healed somewhere between yesterday and today, but when is it all enough? I ask myself all of this because I have trouble embracing the person who I am on all the days that end with the letter y.  I don’t know where it comes from, although I have my suspicions. I began to research about this idea of one person being a certain way when another is not and there have been studies done about such things, mainly looking at twins.  The Minnesota Study of Twins Reared Apart is one that comes to mind. They took identical twins separated at birth, and studied them throughout their lives. It was revealed that they did share surprising similarities, even when raised apart. But it was also found that they experienced significant differences.  I briefly read about other studies and they all had the same conclusion.  Yes, genetics do play a huge part in the forming of a personality, how you see yourself in the world, but so do friends you meet, an illness that you may have had, slight parental differences. But all that still does not answer my question. As long as I can remember I have never felt completely enough in my own skin.  Always focusing on what I didn’t have, instead of embracing who I was and loving myself for it.  My sister, on the other hand, raised virtually the same way, never seemed to have much of a problem in this particular area.  Being the one to accept each compliment with a demur look that said, “Thank you very much, but I already know how wonderful I look.” All of this brings me to the start of a new year.  A reflection, a hope that maybe one day I will grow past what I can never change about myself: the too large belly, too long forehead, hair that grows at a snail's pace, fingers that are chubby, speech that is awkward, introvertness that is crippling, a brain that refuses to react how I wish that it would, and instead walk a bit taller, more relaxed with a brow that attractively arches and believe, really and truly believe that I am that person who stops a room with just one look, one word. I always have these grand ambitions to reinvent myself, but is that really necessary?  Maybe the person who I am is enough and I don’t have to revert to different characterizations.  I can actually hold onto the confidence that always feels like it’s slipping through my fingers like some sort of devilish fish.  Believing is half the battle I often tell myself; faking it is as well, but you know how I feel about faking shit.  I believe in authenticity, even though that’s coming from a person who prefers her characters over her own self, so maybe authenticity is slightly over rated. But I will tell you one thing that I am going to promise myself in the new year.  People that do not serve my narrative do not deserve to be around me.  My time, my conversations, my person is something that is deserving and if it’s not honored, then I’m not here for it.  So the thing I am doing in 2026 is trimming the fat from my life. Only adding the meaty fulfilling sustenance that makes me feel worthier, happier. And if that means I disappear for awhile, prefer the company of the people that really get me, my two cats, one dog, my books, my thoughts lost somewhere between my brain and the computer screen, and let’s not forget my multi step skin care routine that has now become an obsessive habit than so be it because that is unapologetically me.

People can find you along the way—some of which you’d rather never see again. Perhaps there was a time where they did hold a special place in your life, but their presence unfortunately has run its course like a road that used to be beautiful, but now is worn down with too much debris to be able to walk comfortably through.  But then there are other times when you meet someone, if you are lucky more than a few someones, and you feel like your soul may have found a missing piece.  You finally feel warmed from the inside out and are shocked that it took the universe so long to introduce you in the first place.  But maybe that was the whole point because this version of you only exists now and the other ones, the one that was immature, or had certain lofty ideals, wouldn’t have understood the new friends that you now hope stay in your life for the rest of it. This has been on my mind ever since we arrived in Mexico two weeks ago, but what is different on this trip is that I feel like I’m actually going home.  And maybe that’s because I’m finally coming out of my shell. Cautiously peaking through the rough exterior to allow my soft underbelly a chance to blossom in this new world.  My sign is a cancer if you don’t already know, so I am a someone who feels things maybe a bit too deeply sometimes, which can cause cuts to sting and burn.  When this happens I sneak back into my shell, preferring the calm confines of my walls than the harsh realities of the world. I began to think about the why in all of this over sips of tequila with someone whose birthday is only a day after my own.  We are both cancers, we discovered through a smile as the tequila settled itself, warm and rosy, over our minds. We went to brunch the next day, a bit bleary eyed from the night before, but we both remembered our conversation and recounted it like you do when the alcohol copies and pastes the night’s highlights, but you need the full story and that can only come about with a combined rehashing.  We remembered conversing about our shared signs and the she did something that surprised me, she gave me the necklace she was wearing, I gripped the thin chain in my hand and watched as the gold pendant caught the sunlight.  My eyes instantly teared up when I realized the pendant had a small crab engraved in the metal. The symbol of the cancer sign. I would have done something so similar, I thought at the time, if I had such a necklace to give.  I’ve talked about how difficult it really is to make friends as an adult, in another country no less, and I finally feel like I have begun to tiptoe outside my comfort zone.  But that does make a kind of sense doesn’t it?  Where else would a crab come out of her shell if it wasn’t by an ocean?   I find that I have become vulnerable as my shell melts itself away and I can’t help but to wonder how long it will all last until I harden again.  Will it be on the plane, flying home, or will it be Monday morning, getting ready for a day where I do a lot of pretending?  I suspect it will slowly happen over that five hour drive from Dallas to Fayetteville when reality really punches me in the head for what the next few months will inevitably entail. But then I will be back in Mexico before I know it, on the beach, and that hard shell will melt away again because this is my home now, not because I permanently live here yet, but because my heart begins to sing a warm, cheerful tune whenever I hear the ocean waves, walk the fifth avenue, share a bottle of wine with new best friends and the buzzing in my head finally quiets down.

I can’t actually say that I met Rob Reiner.  We didn’t exchange any pleasantries, I didn’t ask for his autograph or even have my picture taken with him, all of which maybe I should have. Then, there would be proof that what happened actually did in fact happen. But…we did share a dinner.     It was the summer of 1995.  I had just finished my freshmen year of high school and my parents treated my small family of four to a vacation.  It was the first trip that did not require our maroon station wagon, suitcases securely racked on top of the hood,  multi colored beach towels flapping on the inside of each of the back seat windows (if you know you know). Needless to say my family had upped their game as far as vacations were concerned. I felt very luxurious as we made our way to our flight, tucked in, and fully ready to put my trust and care in the faceless pilots and smiling attendants who took care of us as we arrived to our destination: Hawaii.   The dinner took place in Maui, second leg of our trip. My dad’s friend got us a discount to a hotel that I don’t think we would have been able to afford otherwise and it was here that I attended my very first luau. It was an intimate affair with only about 10 tables of six. “It’s cool that a celebrity is here, isn’t it?” A member of the wait staff whispered to my dad when we first arrived.  “A celebrity?” My father promptly asked.   “Yeah, Rob Reiner's here with his family.” My initial thought was that this is the man who was at one time married to Penny Marshall. Which is weird that I would even know such a thing since they were only married for a short period of time; actually divorced the year that I was born. My second thought was that he directed one of my all time favorite movies, The Princess Bride. He was with his family: current wife Michele and two small children and they were sitting at one of the most central tables. He wasn’t trying to hide his celebrity, but he wasn’t flaunting it either, he was being a father, a husband; someone who was on vacation and just wanted to enjoy the evening.  There was one man who asked for his autograph and picture and Reiner smiled ever so slightly and did oblige the request.  My family would never have asked for such a thing, but what if they had?  Would I have even kept said picture if it was taken, this being before the cell phone era? My family wasn’t really one of those photo album making kind anyway. And if I had wanted to say hi, spark a conversation, what would I have said to him anyway?  I like your movies. Can you please cast me in your next one and change my life forever? I don't think any of that would have gone how I imagined it would in my head, so it was best that I just watched him from afar. At one point I had to go to the bathroom, it was one of those one room affairs, so naturally there was a line and Reiner’s wife came to stand behind me with her son.  She made a joke and I wish I could remember what it was. I do remember that she laughed and I joined in even though I guarantee you I didn’t get it, but she was celebrity adjacent. I would have laughed if she had said the sky was blue.   She was with her son, however and I can't help but to wonder, was that the one that would inevitably murder her thirty some years later. I have done the math just so you know and he would have been two at the time, so it makes sense that she would have helped him to the bathroom.  And there it is. I was in the proximity of a moment in time that could have been changed. Did they know then how sick their son was? Were there signs? A dark clouding of the eyes, a downturned lip, a gray waxy coloring? Or did the Reiners compartementalize reality because it was just too painful. How does one admit that their child has a problem that could disrupt their life and end yours? There are many memories, the older I have become, that are lost to me, but this is not one of them.  I clearly remember Reiner, his wife and his dark haired son and I do hope that they were happy then and it wasn’t one of the last times that they were, that they had many more happy moments before mental illness snuck its way into their lives.   I hate that all of this fascinates me so much.  What causes someone who has so much potential, so many opportunities, to disintegrate into the darkest of places?  Because at one point they were just a typical family, on vacation, and they were happy or appeared to be so as they enjoyed their salted pork belly, purple sweet potatoes with the sounds of the ocean playing like a melody behind them.

My husband asked me on Monday what I was going to write about this week.  “I really don’t know,” I replied.  We aren’t going anywhere until my Christmas break, so I won’t be drawing inspiration from my anxious traveling.  “But I’m not too worried,” I hurriedly added.  “I’m sure I will think of something.”   I was worried just to be clear.  I never really know when inspiration will strike.  Sometimes it’s watching television and I have to quickly pull out my phone, go to my notes app, and type the idea, before it’s lost into the cosmic graveyard where all brilliant, but forgotten ideas go to be buried with their hearts heavy and leaking, their heads dragging three quarters of a mile behind them because if they were only remembered the world might have changed for the better. On Tuesday an inkling of something did come to me and it actually stayed as if begging to be thought of, written about, so I began to turn it over in my head, like I sometimes do to make sure it could live between my brain and my computer. It started out more like a question acutally; one that I find myself always asking this time of year and maybe reader you do as well if you are someone who cringes when the Christmas decorations come out, all of that over-inflated reindeer, elves, and candy canes littering the front yard of so many. The overly cheerful music that plays over and over again and again causes your ears to begin to bleed. The old men who dress up as Santa Claus so children can sit on their wrinkled laps make your spine tingle. Why would a grown man want to be around kids? You ask yourself. And you can't help but to stare at all the people who populate the world and more importantly your place in it. Why are they so cheeriful amidst the cold and the crowds? It's like they have quite literally come out of whoville with their upturned red tinted noses and round bellies full of gingerbread cookies, sugar rimmed ham, hot chocolate and whatever else you eat to get into the Christmas spirit.  If that all turns your stomach to a putrid green, causes you to roll your eyes at the inauthenticity of it all, the fact that there is soon going to be endless amounts of family time, smiles that threaten to break your whole face into half, limitless amounts of sweets and carbs in your future, then you may have wanted to adopt a new holiday.  FESTIVUS is the holiday in quesiton (if you know, you know, but if you don’t than I will enlighten you). This new holiday appeared on an episode of the late 90s sitcom Seinfield . I rewatch this particular episode every year (It’s season 9, episode 10, entitled “the Strike” if you were wondering.)  and if you haven’t seen it then shame on you, where have you been and I don’t think we can be friends.  A lot happens and it’s not just about Christmas or should I say the lack there of, but it does center around George’s father Frank, who decides to bring a holiday that he created back called Festivus.  Festivus is an anti-commercial holiday that traditionalizes an aluminum pole, airing your grievances, and feats of strength.  And I don’t know about you, but I would forgo Christmas for such an alternative.  A holiday where the exchanging of gifts is not a thing. It always feels like it’s more about the giver than the receiver anyway.  An opportunity for family members to apologize for how they treated you throughout the year.  Sorry for the name I gave you, sorry for not spending enough time with you, sorry for not being there when you needed me, just sorry for anything else I may have forgotten, but here is this present so whatever you may be aggravated about should be forgotten amidst all of that bright Christmas wrapping, tinsel, and don't forget the sparkiling card.   Maybe instead of all of those gifts we air the grievances that have annoyed us throughout the year, then we can start afresh, anew, all the dirt and grime now out in the open to be discussed, analyzed, gotten over.  I think this type of communication would be a great deal healthier than burying that grievance somewhere between yesterday and today.  Feats of strength can be useful as well, especially if you are of the more aggressive sort.  It may help to prove your worth to that brother, sister, nephew, aunt or at the very least help others to see what they could potentially go up against if they were to cross you in the end.  I find that it doesn’t hurt for humans to have a certain kind of pecking order. I would have my grievances of course, like everyone else, but I warn you they may be more extensive because I tend to hold on to things.  I often pray that I will one day forget whatever it is that annoys me about a certain person so that it doesn't fester in the pit of my overly full stomach like some rotten undigested meat.  It would be so cleansing, I sometimes think, like the best colonoscopy, to have a designated moment in time to air my grievances with the world and the people who live within it. Maybe one day people will get tired of celebrating a holiday that was at first based around Jesus’ birth, even though historians have collectively agreed that he wasn’t born in December, some believe that it was actually some time in March.  I have read many reasons why December 25th was the chosen date.  It may be that it aligned with the Winter Solstice and the Pagan Festival Co-option and that's why we celebrate this particular date. Whatever it is I think we can all agree that Christmas has gotten out of control. There's just too many fat Santas, devilish elf on the shelves, runaway Polar Express trains, obnoxious advent calendars where you either dress up or drink yourself to death.  Wouldn’t a simple airing of grievances and a wrestling match be better, less stressful, and accomplish so much more?   This is all just food for thought as you rush around trying to please the ones’ in your life that need all of that pleasing. Festivus is a holiday that is not a celebration, but rather something for the rest of us to enjoy who do not believe in such commercialization of a moment in history that was meant to be one thing and is now unrecognizable. But maybe, just maybe we can come back to ourselves and recognize this season for what it is: a plunge into inauthentic humanity, and honestly I'm okay with that if we recognize such a thing for what is it. It's the inauthentiicity that bothers me, and isn't that true with most things? So, if you can regonize why you like Christmas, not becuase of Jesus, but because of something that is dark green, oblong in shape and size and sometimes a bit worn down, than I suppose it's okay in the end.

In all the books that I have read, pages and pages of romance in my youth, globs of fantasy in my young adulthood, and as an adult literary fiction with a spidgen of the appropriate amount of horror, if there is such an appropriate amount, and despicable characters, lots and lots of despicable characters, there is one story in particular that really resonated with me; I still think about it in fact. Now for those who know me, it may come as a surprise that I still think of such a story as this, for it is very not the me of today. It's more what the younger Elizabeth enjoyed. The one who lived with her rose colored glasses tightly pushed high up on her nose, her heart open to a world brimming with delicious possibilities for her future self. ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, the 1985 Canadian made for television film starring Megan Follows, is the story that I am talking about. I grew up watching this movie. It's actually in three parts and I revelled in every blessed minute. When I was older I read the books penned by author L.M. Montgomery. They always say the book is better than any film adaptation ever could be, but in this case the movie really did justice to the books. In fact, I enjoyed both of them equally. If you don’t already know the story I won’t bore you with the minute details, but at its core is the main character Anne Shirley.  Anne is an orphan and is adopted by a brother and sister who wanted a boy to help them around the farm.  Of course this would probably never happen today, but this story takes place in the early 1900s so that arrangement wasn’t terribly unusual.  They didn’t get the boy that they requested however, but was instead met with over imaginative, spitfire Anne Shirley. There were several things about Anne that stood out to me then and I still remember to this day. First, she insists on being called Cordelia because “it’s such a perfectly elegant name” (32), but resigned herself to her real name Anne, even if she believed it to be very unromantic.  When Marilla, her adopted mother, scoffs at such a notion and refuses to call her anything but her lawful name, Anne makes another request. Can everyone at least spell it with an e ?  And the last thing. Anne wants to find her bosom best friend, “an intimate friend, you know–a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul” (66).  Anne does find that intimate friend in the character of Diana Berry and their relationship, in my opinion, is one of the most inspiring, most iconic in all of literature.  Upon Anne first meeting Diana she asks her, “Do you think you can like me a little–enough to be my bosom friend?” (97).  I always felt that I shared quite a few things with Anne Shirley or maybe she influenced me to behave in certain ways; the first media influencer who I was swayed by I guess you could say. When I was in seventh grade I wanted to die my hair red, like Anne, and change my name to Cordelia, like Anne. I even wrote one paper in my English class and signed it Cordelia McKintock. My mother refused both of these notions. I know, rude. And I resigned myself to using Cordelia McKlintock as a pseudonym if I ever became a published writer. Second, my middle name is Anne and I revelled in the fact that it is spelled with an e even though my mother said that I was named after my grandmother who did not end her Ann with an e, which I must admit confused me. I am glad that my mom did decide to tag that e on to the end of my Anne for I really do think it looks better that way. It gives it an extra flare. (Now if your name is Ann and it does not end with an e, I apologize for saying such things. I like the name Ann no matter how it's spelled if I'm being completely honest.) Third, and most important to this particular blog post, finding my bosom best friend.  My Diana Berry if you will.  I’ve had two friends in my life that would rival something that means a bosom best friend.  My cousin Amanda and my childhood friend Jessica.  Both girls had to put up with me repeatedly asking them to be my bosom friend.  The first time I asked Amanda, she looked at me quizzically at first and maybe a bit panicked.  I’m pretty sure she had never watched Anne of Green Gables or read the books and I did not really provide her with much context for my question, maybe she would have understood me better if I had explained the story.  Needless to say I was rejected by the both of them.  I only ever saw Amanda once a year and I’m sure she was thinking, I have loads of friends back home who I talk to on a daily basis.  But alas, I didn’t let that deter me for I continued to ask her every year.  Bless her for not telling me to shut the fuck up already.  And Jessica.  Jessica was too much of a pragmatist to understand such a strange, weird, and too intimate of a question.  Also, what a committment to make in the fourth grade to another person. All of this brings me to my current state of things.  I have struggled with finding friends in my adult life and I really think Anne Shirley and her quest for a kindred spirit ruined me.  I have always wanted that friend to confide in, my ride or die.  Someone who laughs at my jokes, never at my expense.  Someone who would help me bury a body, no questions asked.  Someone who is like family, but better because they chose you.  But Anne found her kindred spirit in childhood, not as an adult and maybe that's the real key to all of this. That's not to say you can't find a friend, even a best friend, as an adult, I think it just looks a little different. Life expectations, responsibilites get in the way sometimes of maintaining friendships in adulthood. People leave, but may return again and that is ok as well. And another thing, not everyone has to be your particular best friend; not everyone even has a best friend. Some times I take a notion and romantisize it in my mind and then get depressed if fiction does not become my reality, but that's not fiction's real job. Fiction's job is to take us away from the harsh stings of whatever makes up our day to day, not to infiltrate into our real life. I sometimes do miss the dreamy version of myself. The one who longed to live in a romantisized version of her life. She is still in me perhaps, buried deep within loads of cynicism and stoniness, resurfacing every 20 years or so like some sort of Hailey’s comet, even though that is visible I think every 76 years, and maybe that's how long it will take for me to revert back to who I once was. Maybe it's Montgomery herself who would have been my bosom best friend if I had met her. It's her stories, her words that will always stay sunkissed and cherished in my heart and that makes me happy that I was introduced to her by an Ann, without an e, for reading her stories shaped the person who I am today. I would never have gone around ptitfully asking classmates if they would be my bosom friend. I would also probably not have been mocked or judged for living in my own little Anne Shirley world, but I would rather that world than the one we are currently living in. My world involves flowery words, titillating hearts. A place that is always autumn, makes you feel like you are being held in a tight embrace. It's a place where you are loved because of the simple fact that you are you and isn't that what we all really want in the end.

I am of the mindset that there are two types of people in the world.  Those who prefer New Orleans or those who prefer Las Vegas.  Both cities offer a sprinkle of debauchery, a smattering of throwing caution to the wolves along with maybe a bit of your dignity, which you may have lost in an alleyway somewhere.  Only a few days is needed in both cities of course to get the wild out of your system before you regroup, try to forget the things that might have been said or done.  You smooth down your work attire once you've left, plaster a sticky smile onto your worn face and reenter normal society with hopefully no regrets. The stories will linger and you will love to recount them once the sting of your embarrassing antics fades away.  I prefer New Orleans; it may be the grittiness of the city.  How everything smells a bit like if urine and trash had a love child.  Or it may be the fact that there’s music around every corner, some performed by children who I always worry should be in school instead of on a street corner beating on upside down white buckets.  You at times feel like you're in a whole other country; one that is ancient and haunted by ghosts who are eager to greet you with their slender skeletal fingers, which makes a kind of sense being that New Orleans is one of the oldest cities in the United States. It was founded by the French in 1718.  (If you were wondering, the oldest city in the U.S. is St. Augustine, Florida, which was founded by the Spanish in 1565, and if you were not wondering such a thing I’m saddened by your lack of curiosity.)  So yes, there is a lot of history, and I haven’t even begun to talk about the food.  I think we had oysters for lunch every single day. Our favorite place to taste such a delicacy, and we have tasted our way through NOLA's oysters, is Gallier's Restaurant. We have found the oysters to be larger, the servers to be the friendliest, most interesting (and that's saying a lot for NOLAs), and if you make it to the happy hour, best deal in town. And I have to always order a bloody mary. We finish the evenings with Brother’s Fried Chicken.  If you don't already know it’s this chicken place located in a small convenient store and I don’t think I want chicken if it’s not located in such a place ever again. The first full day we met some friends who have moved to Biloxi for part of the year.  They were kind enough to make the 90 minute drive to spend the day with us.  The day started out with oysters of course and a shrimp po boy the size of my head. Afterwards we went for a much needed walk and I found a bookstore along the way.  Faulkner House Books.  It felt like I was walking into someone’s home and perusing their collection instead of an actual store.   The collection of new books features some strange titles and some mainstream ones and of course I had to purchase two, you know, to support the local business.  When I was paying I told the clerk, who I could only assume was the owner, that  I could have gotten lost in her shelves with such wonderful titles to keep me company, but I had friends waiting for me outside, which she replied, without skipping a beat I might add,  “Next time you need to ditch those friends and stay a bit longer.”  Of course I would never do that, I thought.  I actually was trying to hurry so that they would not have to wait too long for me, but on second thought…aren’t books my friends too?  And aren’t I essentially ditching them? We then found another store I fell in love with.  It was properly called Road Kill.  It had a bit of a gothic vibe with victorian clothing and shoes hanging in the window front.  I found an owl purse, yes I said owl purse, which I bought with pride and a belt. Have you ever heard a voice telling you to buy something and you know if you ignore said voice you will regret not buying said thing.  I don’t get that voice very often, which is probably a good thing, but on this day I did and on this day I obeyed. I’ve never done a ghost tour before and our amazing friends wanted me to have the experience, even though they have already been through one.  We had a great time of course until I became aware of something, an annoying something, a something that would make me have to draw attention to myself, which is one thing that gives me the hives, hurts my heart from the inside out.   I was pickpocketed.  No, this isn't the 1800s where you may find Oliver Twist's bedeviling smile as you turn you head slighly to the left or right as he skips away with your life savings held securely in his back pocket. Two credit cards.  Gone.  Driver’s License. Gone.  Cute Frida Kahlo coin purse. Gone.  Lots and lots of self loathing?  Very much present.  I don’t know exactly when it happened.  Sometime after I purchased the owl purse and before we began the ghost tour.  I don’t remember anyone bumping into me or my attention being diverted in any kind of way. But I remember wearing my crossbody purse with the purse part behind my back at some point.  I know, I know, rookie mistake. You live and learn of course.  A purchase was made of 600 dollars to a grocery store.  Great, I thought, at least I’m providing a good Thanksgiving meal.  Then, they spent 120 dollars at a bar.  Ok, I thought, all of that pickpocketing stress probably got to them and a drink or a plethora of them was definitely needed. Then there was a slew of random Disney, Hulu, Uber type purchases and I thought enough is enough although it does sound like a good day filled with great food, great drinks and some entertainment, even if it was all done in my name. We did get to finish the ghost tour if you were wondering and I did enjoy the whole thing, even with the cloud of my own stupidity hanging like a wet blanket over my head.  I was not deterred from having a good time, even though it happened on the first full day of our trip. I still managed to eat my weight in oysters and fried chicken, drink my weight in all the alcohol, and listen to my weight in music.  I still prefer New Orleans over Vegas, even after this small inconvenience, and I will be going back you will be happy to note. My New Orleans bad ass character must have shifted out of place for a moment and I did feel the shift. Self doubt was clouding my judgment at some point in the day, knocking my character out of place. The pickpocket could feel it as well and struck at just the right moment.  There’s a lesson to be learned in that.  What you say to yourself, even if it is just to yourself is expressed in how you walk, talk, and just are as a person and other people, criminal people, will and can pick up on that, hone in on your weaknesses and use it to their advantage and that’s what happened to me.  My aura was beige when it should have shown bright reds, yellows, and purples.  Please, never be beige, dear reader, always be bright, always lively, and always bad ass so the pick pockets will most assuredly leave you alone.

When I'm writing this, tomorrow will be Thanksgiving and we are making our way to where I grew up, a town that is quite literally in the center of Missouri.  Now we haven’t done the whole Thanksgiving thing with my family in years.  In fact, I think G has only really ever gone with me one year on this particular day.  We usually escape to Puerto Aventuras, bake on the beach for a while, or Mexico City to go to a wrestling event or two or twelve of them, drink beer and eat our weight in tacos or perhaps it's the other way around.  But my grandfather died a few months ago and I wanted to spend some time with my grandmother, not to mention I have an aunt who I would really like to visit.  So, here we are with my anxiety mounting the longer I think about the logistics of our visit.  Something about going home makes me relive the past me’s self doubt; all the times I was bullied for looking a certain way, being a certain way, and then the plethora of times I was rejected by some sub par male specimen. I could of course go into detail about how I’m not the only one who goes into a panicked frenzy whenever going back home. I could have even researched a bit further to only discover how suicide rates potentially increase, relationships potentially end this time of year specifically. But I’m not going to regurgitate what many of you perhaps can already guess if you yourself have survived such a time.  And it’s quite possible that I’m lazy this week because we did go on an excursion of our own before all of that family funness.   We found ourself in New Orleans until Thursday.  I find that I have always quite enjoyed the grittiness of this city and I will write about it next week, but for now this post is dedicated to family, the ones who you are born into and the ones who you create for yourself either by including your fur babies or the souls who you meet along life's way.  I think for me it is the people who don’t judge me for what I say, there will always be a mispronounced word somewhere, and what I enjoy, books, tattoos and cats, lots and lots of them.   I find it odd sometimes and I actually had this exact conversation with one of our Springdale moved to New Orleans and soon to be Costa Rica friends quite recently.  Why is it that we so often feel that family judges us, doesn’t like what they see and either choose to ignore the person who we are or try to manipulate the last few shreds of what they recognize into something that they can actually enjoy being around.  But aren’t we a product of them to begin with? I think.  And isn’t that so very ironic that they refuse to see what their genetics, scientifically merged, created for better or worse, or maybe I’m overthinking the whole thing, which wouldn’t be the first time.  I may in fact be the judgemental one in all of this if I'm being completely honest with myself.  I judge others for not getting what I need in a friend; I judge others for their nonacceptance of me; I judge others for judging me to begin with, when maybe they really aren’t doing all of that judging in the first place, but are just playing catch up to the person who I've now become, which is very different to the person I once was.  But that’s why you create your own family, isn’t it?  And that might prove to be almost better for these people choose the person who you've become from the very beginning. On this Thanksgiving weekend I do expect to spend time with my born into family and I hope to enjoy them for who they are and wish that one day they will accept me for who I am, with all of my mistakes, all of my idiosyncrasies, all of what makes me, me and I am happy to report I did do this and the following is what I learned. Generations are becoming older, my grandmother, my aunt, my parents and it may not be all that important for them to accept the new version of me because all that they really want to do is remember the old version of the person I once was for perhaps that takes them back to when they themselves were younger. I began to ponder what it is we need at the end of our life? Do we want to suddenly be bombarded by a world that we no longer understands, wants us to disappear or worse treats us like we are no longer someone who has any value? I for one refuse to do that to them. If that means sitting pleasantly enough, recounting past stories and glamorizing my current ones, so be it. Life is too hard for the people who have little time to live within it and what they need at the end of the day is your time; even if that means to sit and stare at a tree or a blank wall, your time makes their existance relevant. I really hope someone does that for me when the time comes because to be relevant in your own story is all that anyone can ever really ask for at the end of their life.