The Midnight Call

It's rounding near 3 am, and she hasn't been able to shut her eyes yet. Her mind keeps dancing, keeps racing with things that it can't process, like an old computer stuck on defragmenting. It keeps flipping and turning, looking at things this way and that, trying to place or reason events that flashed through her mind, aimlessly, and without connection. She sighs, flips over on her back, and stares out at the shadows sliding across the ceiling above, illuminated from crawling cars just outside.

There was only one way she was going to get any sleep tonight.

There is a person lying on the ground. He's been shot and stabbed.
Blood ebbs at an even pace from his lower abdomen. The knife wound seeps through his jeans. 

Everyone turns to you for help.

She wasn't a medical professional. She didn't even study medicine. But she knew if she could focus hard enough on something, she could possibly lull herself into a mental mum and claim those last few hours of precious sleep. She shifted her thoughts back to high school, in health class. The torrent of information bent slowly to her will, before she was able to pull up something useful.

Make the person comfortable. Calm him if possible. 

Recruit others nearby. Send two to get help. Send one to call 911. 
Tell two or three strong ones to stand by.

Lift his shirt. Inspect the wound. 
The bullet seems to of went through. No visible debris.

She couldn't imagine actually doing this to a real person. In  real situation, she would probably be one of the people sent for supplies. She wasn't afraid of blood or emergencies in general, but, she reasoned, the chances of her being the most qualified in this situation were pretty slim.

For a moment, she considered giving this person a name. Make it somebody she knew, or somebody she cared about. Perhaps even somebody she loved. The generic mannequin of a man in her mind began to ripple and move, like oiled water, filling out details that otherwise wouldn't of been there. First his feet, squared in boots, then his legs, thin and covered in black jeans. A prominent belt buckle. A black shirt. Calloused fingers.

Then his face emerged, twisted in agony. Droplets of blood painted his cheeks. Lips pale with panic.

She visibly frowned. Even though this was all in her mind, it felt as if she had actually just hurt him. Her heart sank. She couldn't change it now.

Grab something clean. Take the white tee off of the person in the back.
Tell the strong ones to gently hold him.

Slide it under the wound. Grab someone else's shirt. 
Gingerly press with the second one.

She could hear it. The room she was in was completely silent, but somehow she heard the roar of his pain. She internally flinched, and forced her tongue on the roof of her mouth. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. She looked over at the clock, and it was ten minutes past 3 now. If sleep was ever going to come, she was going to have to finish this. She mentally kicked herself for not going with something simpler, like a farming or cooking a favorite recipe.

Hold the shirts in place. Slow the bleeding.

Try to get him to settle. More movement means more blood loss.

She imagined the things she would say in this situation just then. Soothing, wonderful things. Words of assurance, words of care. Things that really should of been written down, if she had the mind to grab something to do so then. Not really anything of poetic value, but maybe something Hallmark might want in the future. She snorted at the idea.

She heard the sound of him hissing in pain, looking her dead in the eye.

Inspect the knife wounds. No visible debris.
Most are shallow, save for the one on his thigh, near a major vein.

Blood loss is steady, but not heavy.

Take my hoodie off.
Ready the strong ones again.

The odds of her wearing a hoodie any day of the year were pretty good, she reasoned. It could be 70 degrees outside, and she could still get a chill.

Slide it under his leg, above the opening.
Pull the sleeves up--

She paused. She knew the next step, but not how to go about it in this situation. She was working on a man, after all. And in a crowded situation like this, would she really check for something like that? The potential to cause more harm and then adding something bordering on fanfiction fodder made her squirm underneath her sheets.

She rolled over on her side, and pulled her legs up. The red lights on her alarm clock stared her directly in the face. She sighed.

He tucks on the other side today.

Pull the sleeves up. Grab a thick branch and tie the arms at either end.
Begin twisting. Keep the pressure steady.

Keep him calm.

Surprisingly, she seemed to remember most of what she learned, despite actually failing the class twice in school. She couldn't climb the ropes, or run the mile that was required, so maybe that had something to do with it too. Or maybe her teacher just didn't like the way she laughed at the tourniquet slides. They were made of construction paper, after all.

She yawned, but still didn't feel tired yet. Closing her eyes, she tried to think of nothing, but nothing came. Her head was still so filled with restlessness, and her right eye began to twitch as if she had too much caffeine. She briefly thought about getting out of bed altogether before turning back to her imaginary reality, focusing as much as she possibly could on details this time.

Maybe if she made it more like a story, she thought, then maybe sleep would finally come for her.

The faint whine of police sirens echoed between the buildings, and the chorus of car horns blared loudly in the slow moving jam behind her. A soft wind weaved its way between puffs of exhaust and into the fabric of the crowd around her, all of them stupidly still gawking and unmoving, just as they were from the start. The man in front of her, still bleeding but nearly not, seemed to settle as well as anyone could, given the situation. His breathing became slower, and he wasn't moving around as much, which was good for not only him, but for the people who had to hold him earlier. She took her hand that was still holding on to the gunshot wound from earlier, and carefully eased up on the pressure until she had a free hand. Thankfully, the blood that was on his clothes and skin helped stick the wad of cloth enough to his side that only a faint dribble ebbed from beneath it.

She breathed in, and wiped her brow. A streak of clotted cerise marked her forehead.

Idly, she rested her hand back onto his torso, staying gentile yet firm on the wet wad. Help would be there soon, and then everything would be ok again. Only, something felt off now...

She moved her hand, and pressed it firmer. Nothing. She placed her hand on his chest and splayed her fingers flat, concentrating. Nothing. She dangled her fingers in front of his nose and waited. Nothing.

He stopped breathing.

Of course, she had to make it dramatic. Her overactive nocturnal brain dictated that it must be so. Because, if she cant manage something as simple and easy as sleeping, then why should anything else be any less cumbersome?

Perhaps storytelling wasn't what she needed right now.

Have someone take the tourniquet. Have another keep pressure on the wound.

Head tilt, chin lift. Sweep the mouth for debris.

The idea of actually putting her finger in someones mouth was a bit odd. Especially since, in this scenario, they were coated in blood. Granted, this was his own blood, so she reasoned that it cant actually be any different than putting your finger in your mouth after getting a cut.

Listen for a heartbeat...none.

Two fingers up from the bottom of the ribcage. Start chest compressions.

1, 2...listen. 1, 2...listen.

She could end it here. Just let him lie where he is, and wish him well on the river Styx. After all, this wasn't even real to begin with, so the consequences therein had no real meaning. Or, she could just as easily imagine a medical fairy, and poof! Everything is back to the way it should be. No need for gore, no need for realism, and no need for buried high school things that she wasn't even 100% positive she had right in the first place.

By the same token, she could just imagine pretty much anything else and wipe the whole façade away. She could conjure an entire world where death, sickness and injury wasn't even a possibility. One where she was queen, and could rule it all with her feminine charm, beauty, and piles and piles of gratuitous, Scrooge McDuck money.

She smirked, and rolled her eyes.

A methodical process is what she wanted when she started it. And that process wasn't done yet. She took a short breath of air in, as she bit her lower lip in anticipation of the next step.

Pinch the nose...

Her cheeks, suddenly felt warm.

...and begin resuscitation. Seal his mouth with...mine.

1, 2...listen. 1, 2...listen.

Alternate breaths with compressions.

Keep calm, keep focused.

1, 2...listen.

1, 2--

A truck just outside her window sputtered into life as the man in front of her started coughing and inhaling ragged, rasping breaths. Her eyes flew open at the sudden collision of worlds, making her question which side she was actually on. She blinked a few times before she could remember.

Slowly, she reached back into her mind. She held her hand out just to be sure his breathing was ok, and then brushed away the stray hairs on his face. His eyes darted around for a moment before focusing on her face. The corners of his mouth weakly curved up in a smile of gratitude.

There...she had done it. She had saved her imaginary man. A feat altogether fruitless, yet, somehow, satisfying.

From where she was, she could see the inky skies of midnight giving way to the pastels of the morning sun, telling her that it was probably much later than she wanted it to be. Unfortunately, she still wasn't any closer to going to falling asleep. She rolled over with a small grunt, facing her back to the clock.

Only a few more hours to go before she had to wake up.

Maybe it was time for part two.



Until then.

That One Time I Kinda Almost Died

Long ago, I was in the Girl Scouts. I wasn't the super scout that everyone thinks about when they hear that, but I was a member for 12 years. I had merit badges and sold boxes of cookies, and could recite the GS Promise and Law flawlessly. I was a nerd, albeit a lazy one.

Usually, once a year, we would all go on a camping trip. Nothing major, just a nice extended weekend or so stuck out in the woods, huddled under platform tents or holed up in a cabin if it happened to be winter. The tents were a bit of a pain in the ass if you were unlucky enough to grab one last, as nobody wanted the tents under the trees by the river...too many web worms and spiders for anyones liking. So I would sometimes (though rarely) pass on those trips. But I always went to the winter ones. They were more fun anyway, and, who doesn't like sleeping by the fire, in a clean cabin, with a quilt and hot cocoa in tow?

I couldn't of been older than 14, this particular time. There were only about 10 of us, leaders included on this trip. I had my bag packed, my CD player in tow, and I was really looking forward to the days ahead. The snow was thick and fresh, and the air was just chill enough for frosted breath without being too harsh. Perfect.

The night when we first got there, the leader's daughter got really sick. She didn't boil the tapwater before drinking it, and had multiple projectile episodes throughout the first 24 hours. The water came directly from a lake that was a hop, skip and a jump away from where the cabin was, and apparently nobody told her. Admittedly, I drank some too, but I guess I got lucky.

The next day, due to the events of the night before, winds up being a 'free' day. We were allowed to roam anywhere we wanted, just so long as we took a buddy and avoided obvious dangers. I, as well as my friend and some other girls, opted for a snowball fight. Then when we got bored of that, we tried to slide down a pathetic bunny slope we made by taking two of the 'forts' and pressing them together. We were outside for maybe, 3 hours or so, before we all came scrambling inside for clean clothes and drinks.

Then, came the big event. The reason why we were all there.
An entire day at the Camelback ski resort.

Only some of us actually knew how to ski. So the one or two of us who did, had brought their gear along and did mostly that. The rest of us, who had never even seen the snowy side of a mountain before, headed over to the snowtube slopes. Well, 'slope' is kind of inaccurate in this case. Its was almost more like a snowy obstacle course that you had to traverse in a big, bouncy black tire. Most people were trying to stick to this or that, but we were determined to try and do it all.

I was shivering the moment we got there. The sun was as bright as a thousand incandescent flood lights, but not a whisper of warmth was in the air that day. I had on a pair of old shoes, worn jeans, a t shirt and one of those ever-popular Starter jackets that everyone was issued in the 90's. Stupidly, I remember thinking I was dressed decently for a day on and around cold, wet snow. Apparently to my adolescent brain, denim and cheap, K-Mart sneakers were waterproof.

We were there all day, and it was non-stop from the moment we got there. I did a lot of pushing, considering I was the biggest one there, including the leaders. When I did get my turn, I usually didn't get to go far. I wound up being pushed out of it more than in the tubes, so I slid on the ice and the white stuff a lot. I was soaked within the first hour, and I remember shaking a little from how cold I felt. Eventually, my body numbed over, and I took it as a sign that I could just go at it harder...y'know, since I was used to it now.

It was nearly dark when we left. Everyone was red-faced and smiling, and shared their stories on the way back. The skiers talked about riding the lifts and occasionally wiping out on the blue square paths. The chalet they wound up at apparently had killer hot chocolate and doughnuts. The others shot back with their tales, and the car was lit with giggles. I remember getting a headache the moment I sat down, so I just played my Discman until my batteries ran dry.

It only got worse on the ride back. I could feel my eyes droop, and my skin re-warm and shiver. The minor headache I had turned into a vice clamping down on my skull, and by the time we pulled into the driveway, I was desperate to get changed and under a blanket.

As quickly as I could possibly manage, I switched outfits. My skin still felt like frozen meat underneath, despite being in a warm building and rubbing my arms. When the other girls settled back into the other rooms, I grabbed someones quilt and sat directly in front of the fireplace. I was shaking, nearly convulsing now. I could feel myself registering heat, but I just couldn't get warm enough. So I pulled the chair I was in as close as I could to the glowing embers, without the risk of going up in flames. I remember my head feeling like someone had hit me with a sledgehammer then, pounding and blindingly painful. I started to feel dizzy, and my breathing felt off. Within moments I was swallowed by it all, and everything turned black.

It was a long time before I finally woke up. Hours, maybe. One of the leaders was sitting opposite of where I was, quiet and lost in a magazine. She smiled when she saw me finally stir.

"Boy, you must of really had fun today, huh? You came in, and passed right out!"

I mumbled something in response. What it was, I don't really know. All I knew was that I needed to get to bed, and get to bed now. I moved my arms and legs slightly, a little surprised at how difficult it was. My head, thankfully, didn't hurt nearly as much, though it did feel like it was wrapped in a thick, wet wool. I stumbled to my bunk, absolutely ungraciously, and slept a hard, dreamless sleep.

Morning came, and I was the last to rise. I was sore, rigid, and I still couldn't coordinate my movements too well. It was a bit of a task to focus, so I did the bare minimum when it came to getting ready for the day. I didn't really initiate conversation, and avoided eye contact too. Not like that was unusual. Even then, I was a bit of a weird loner, so nobody seemed to notice. And, for whatever reason, couldn't hear anyone too well that day, either.

"You don't remember?"

"Uh...huh?"

"Last night. When we got back."

"...Night?"

"Jeeze...
Carol and I tried to wake you up after you fell asleep in the chair. Megahn even threatened to take pictures of you sleeping. You really don't remember?"

"N-n...uh, no. I guess."

"Heh...yeah. You really were dead out. Here, look."

She showed me the photo Meg took. I remember having to stare it a little too long to register that it was even me. My face was bloated, my lips looked weird, and my hair was everywhere. If there was a more unflattering shot of myself, I dare anyone to find it. I looked so stiff. So pale. So very...corpselike.

I struggled through the rest of the day. When it was time to leave one Sunday, I still didn't feel like myself. I was in too much of a cloud to do anything other than what I was told, and I didn't even bother with my Discman the whole ride back. Which, made the fact that everyone got real chatty on the trip home that much more of a task.

I never told anyone what happened back then. It didn't really seem that important. In my mind, I ran my body into the ground having fun...you know, normal kid stuff. Next time, I would just have to be more careful, maybe even make myself take a break or two. No big deal, right?

Well, as bad as all that sounds, it's actually a bit worse than it is. If you don't already know, I have a rare blood disorder that makes me allergic to cold temperatures. Yes, that's right. Allergic. Hives and all. At the time, I didn't know that. Nor would I for years afterward. My mom had told me that we just get "red spots" if we didn't keep ourselves warm. It's a hereditary thing, going back to my grandmother. Maybe even further, I don't know. All I did know, was that winter tended to make me feel like I had been punched by a titan with a drinking problem if I stayed outside for too long, for...some reason.

I sometimes think back to that photograph. Does anyone still have it? I lost touch with everyone from that troop fairly quickly after this trip. Not because any of us meant to, but, high school was becoming more important, and, well, priorities change. Part of growing up, I suppose.

It's strange, seeing yourself in a state you don't recognize. Was I ever really just...sleeping?



Until then.

March on

It's dead. My laptop is dead.
May my precious little gray window into the online world rest in peace. A moment of silence, if you will.

...

Ok, well, maybe that's a little dramatic. But it's something out of my hands currently. I've boiled it down, with the help of my friend Sarah and Google, that it's either the motherboard or CPU. And I don't really have the skills to manage repairing either one of those. I'll try taking it to a technomancer once I get my tax return this year, but I'm not holding my breath. As for now, my husband is letting me use his while he's at work, so I'll have at least that. Though, to be perfectly honest, with the amount of downloading he does, and the number of malware/viruses he's unintentionally absorbed, writing on this one feels akin to bonking the cheapest hooker in the horde. So, I'll be a smart girl this time, and save everything I do on it to multiple online sources, lest the cyber gonorrhea dissolves it all.

I'm currently working on a few things now, so expect a new post or two soon.
Because we all know...the anticipation was killing you.

Until then.

And Then I Screamed

So, you may be wondering where all that promised content went that I talked about in my last entry.

I still have all of it...I'm actually staring down at least 4 draft entries as I type. But I can't do much with them for the time being. I don't have the other halves of the drafts in my phone, and typing out multiple paragraphs with just my index finger is a real nuisance. Why not just use my laptop, you say?

Because it's sleeping. It's sleeping soundly in a wordless, pictureless void. Drfiting, without color, without music, in the black hexidecimal rivers of electronic limbo.

Plainly speaking, the damn thing isn't working.

It happened right around Xmas. My innocent Acer, sitting on my kitchen table, waiting patiently for the holiday craziness to be over so we could both get back to business. And then, one night, a nefarious pointy eared villian took it upon herself to make a statement...
...and peed all over the laptop. With like, an incredible amount of fluid. Seriously.

I'm trying to resurrect it though. The first day, I let it drain and dry, then I dismantled it days later and swabbed everything down with alcohol. For whatever reason, I couldn't pry the keyboard out initially, so I only got to clean the motherboard on one side at first. I tried to start it, but it wouldn't budge. Days after that, I got it completely taken apart, and, OH JOY, I see corrosion. So now I'm waiting to get some stronger stuff to try to get that all off. Weirdly, 99% alcohol/denatured alcohol are sometimes hard to find. Ech...

I'd have it professionally looked at if I had the money. Because honestly, I'm not even 100% sure that all this will work or if I can help it without replacing things. The minor stuff isn't too bad, about $60 or so. But if the CPU or motherboard need to be replaced...I'm screwed.

So, that's how things are at the moment. It's questionable when I'll be able to post again. I may have to wait all the way until June, worst case scenario. Hopefully, I'll have something worth the wait.

Until then.

Confessions of a 30 Year Old

Lets cut right to the chase, shall we?

I love Calabrese.

No facking duh, right? Well, it's true. I love them. A lot.
Like, a lot a lot. To the point where I feel I have to write a Blog entry about it to sort out if I'm turning into one of those super creepy stalker types. F'reals. I can't tell. And even if I could, I kind of don't know if I'd want to admit it. I think that's step one, right? Denial?

So, where do I start?

I guess with the Blog entry I've been working on since October of last year. Yes, 6 months ago. It was my second time seeing them, but my first time actually talking to them. I freaked out. The whole night. It was ridiculous.

But I had planned ahead of time to make myself grow a pair, so I brought a box of treats. Yes, I brought candies and dumb chibi drawings to a concert. As offerings. No, I am not 14.

I talked to Bobby before and after the show. I was on some sort of insane auto pilot, because most of what I said didn't register until a day or two later. Thankfully, his eyes were a little red, so I'm guessing he was too tired to remember most of my drivel. Or maybe he had some janky beer. I don't know. I'm certainly not going to judge.

Why is it taking so long, you ask? Because it was them. It was an experience. And something as such should be crafted with care. Plus I'm still trying to mentally comb through everything. And hide the fact that I had a nosebleed over Jimmy's hip sways and inadvertently called Bobby adorable to his face. Please insert the appropriate rage comic and pre-pubescent squeal here.

Or, how about the year/Blog post before? The one where I was absolutely paralyzed, and nearly fell over at the idea of being in the same room as them. I barely could say two sentences to their dad after the show. It was mind-warpingly pathetic.

Then there was this year. More out-of-body babble. More dorky drawings. More chocolate. I'm sure they get piles of this stuff every time they go somewhere. Yet, somehow I feel like I should be doing it, regardless if it even matters. Oh, did I mention I accidentally hit on Davey this time? As in, wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more? Yeah, that happened. Didn't hit me until 2 or 3 days later, either. Apparently, when I'm not in full charge of my facilities, I'm a total slut for these guys. Sounds harsh, but it's probably completely true. And I'm sure they totally love it, considering what I actually look like. /sarcasm

Speaking of, have I mentioned the dreams? How they have solely become the kings of my midnight reveries? If you've been reading this Blog, you probably already know. Most of the time, we're usually friends. Sometimes best friends. And sometimes...more than friends. Yes, I've "seen" them naked. And they're pretty good kissers, if I'm being totally honest.

Keep in mind, I'm not the type to normally fawn over something new every year like some do. When I latch on to something, I do it with all my teeth and I don't let go. Not for a long time. Perhaps even until said thing is nearing it's terminal limits. Even then. And the last time I can remember I was like this was in high school. So it makes me wonder. Is this...normal? Is it even remotely healthy? Or should I just find a nice, white padded room to sleep in for a while?

To be fair, there is a reason for a chunk of it. A reason which, I haven't told anyone about, and I don't really plan on doing so. Well...not entirely. I do have hopes that I can tell them one day. Probably never face to face, if the current trend continues. I've halfway written a letter to them in my head, and I don't think that's going to see the light of day either. It's a bit too long and personal to just throw out on social media, and I'd like to think it might be awkward as hell if I gave them a summarized note next time they come around. So who knows. I'll probably just die with it instead.

Still, though. The power they seem to wield on me is pretty strong. I used to chalk it up to any number of things before. Anything to downplay it. Even coming up with the dumbest reasons, like secret spellwork underneath certain tracks that lured the initiated in. And, even if that were true, I'm sure they would know the law of magic, and some sort of consequence would of been had by now...right? Unless they were dealing with certain entities, and -- anyway.

Am I going crazy? Is it OK to be this... in love? I'm married, with a 9 year old for Christ's sake. It's sort of even magnified if you look at the fact that I'm not into music as much as I used to be. Not by choice, but more by time spent on finding things. So I'm definitely not one of those chicks dressed in black with the heavy makeup at the bar. I wear color. And...Pokemon tees.

I need help, I think.

If you need me, I'll be banging my head against the wall.
Probably with my headphones in.

Until then.

Death Awaits

"I'm old." she says, matter-of-factly, cigarette hanging limply between her lips, "I just can't do stuff anymore."

"But mom...Aunt Pat is 11 years older than you, and she can do most anything just fine."

"Yeah, but...she doesn't have medical problems like me." she says, pushing the foot rest up on the recliner, reaching for her pint glass of wine. "Oh...have you seen the new episodes of True Blood?"

"I don't watch that. Or any of the other stuff you watch. Remember?" she says, tired, "Besides, don't change the subject."

"What? I was just asking."she says, with a shrug.

"And you know what I was just asking too."

"Tch. Chris..." she says flicking her wrist in the air, "It's not that easy. I can't just start something like that. My knees hurt. So do my hips."

"Yet, you still wear flip-flops everywhere. Which, I'm sure do wonders for your joints and posture."

"They're comfortable. I'm all about comfort these days." she says, almost offended.

"But a good pair of sneakers could do you so much better than those!"

"My feet need to breathe. Plus, I'd have to wear socks with regular shoes. And I don't really want to do all that."

She looked at the floor in front of her, littered in cat fur and papers, stacked high with junk, and sighed. Her mother does what she wants. Always has, always will.

It wasn't long ago that she remembered how things were once. When she was younger, mom was able to keep up with the family, and actually cared how she looked at times. She didn't drink too often, and didn't smoke as much as she does now. She would even try to make it to events that were considered important, even if it interfered with her up-all-night sleeping schedule. She really wasn't perfect, but at least it seemed like there was an effort.

Today, though, couldn't even come close to that. Not even in a mock sense of the word. She simply didn't care anymore. And found any excuse or reason to back her up.

Where did the person she had known go? Where did the mom who used to like things run off to?

Was she ever really there in the first place?

She sat, still, cupping the bottled water in her hands. She took a sharp breath in, with heavy remnants of tobacco still lingering in the air. As much as she tried to remembered the good, the bad was never very far behind.

She was never allowed to have friends over. The house was too dirty, mom would say. But mom wouldn't try to clean it, either. And there were countless times when things needed mom's attention at school, and she was told to 'just forge it'. A bath was given, maybe, once a month. Her bed was the floor, without a room. Doctors would give advice on her medical problems, but mom didn't listen. Mom 'knew better'.

And, oh, the drugs....

"The past, is past." she said to herself, shaking the current train of thought from the forefront of her mind. She couldn't change what had happened. Much as she would like to try. Much as she would like to forget.

She looked to her right, and saw her mom fixated and glass-eyed at the TV.

"Mom, won't you even try?" she pleaded.

"I told you." she said, eyes never leaving the glowing box, "I'm old. So, what are ya gonna do?"

She sighed, feeling that familiar heaviness sink in again. She was helpless to the whims and stubbornness of the woman who had bore her. Nothing she would say or do could affect mom or change her mind. And somewhere, along the lines of life, mom had given up. Given up on hope, given up on happiness and given up on ever trying to better herself.

Mom was simply, waiting to die.

From outside, she could hear the faint chirping of birds in faraway nests. Late at night, wrapped in the cold, she thinks of nothing else.



Until then.

Thank You for Your Concern

If you know much about me, you know that I tend to keep certain things out of what I post freely online. Not for any real reason, but, more for my own privacy. That, and I tend to think that most of what gets left on the cutting room floor either falls into the "That's Un-incredible!" and/or "Who Cares?" categories. But feel free to stop me on this one.

So, I'm breaking my own self-imposed rule.

I have a daughter. She's 8, soon to be 9 years old, who loves video games and My Little Pony. She's into girly things, like princesses and makeup, and puts rainbows on everything that can take marker or crayon. And boy, does she love to eat.

Oh, and, she has autism.

I know what you're thinking. "Oh, how horrible!" or, "My cousin's nephew has that!" or something else along those lines, right? Or maybe just some general sympathy towards my bad luck?

Please don't. It's because of things of the like that I keep it mostly to myself. I'm not embarrassed, nor am I in any sort of denial. But when she starts having one of those days where she gets very physical and a little out of hand, I feel obligated to tell the other parents at the playground this. She's not pushing those kids around to be a bully. She's not yelling because she's a problem child. She didn't mean to throw the ball in your child's face. She's not ignoring your child because she's rude. She has communication problems. She has social interaction problems. And every day, she gets a little better. Even if today doesn't show it.

Then, come either one of two things.

The first, is how they can relate. Or how they read something on it 2 years ago, and completely understand. This relative has it. Their neighbors' kid has it. X Y Z celebrity's kid has it. They use Mongolian rain water and peanuts for therapy. Have you tried it yet? I heard of this program that doesn't exist anymore that might help...would you like me to email it to you?

I understand what they're trying to do, but, really, it's completely unnecessary. Pretty much unwanted, if I can be perfectly honest. I know what she is, and I know what she has. I've been to the pools of resources and caves of information so many times that I feel I could write books on it. So the anecdotal tales of folks I've never met or the snippet of of information that isn't even relevant anymore just feels like treading water. I know they don't know this, so I try my best not to seem ungrateful or snooty in any way when it happens. Even if I'm secretly rolling my eyes at them.

There's a downgraded version of this I get from time to time too.

Do her brothers and sisters have it? Oh...she's an only child? How sad! It's so hard, isn't it? You can hardly tell she has it, though!

Again, I understand what they mean. They're trying to sympathize with something that most don't know a great deal about. Only, in this version, it always leaves me a little depressed. It's like getting a verbal effort ribbon from parents with 'regular' kids. She's all I've known in terms of raising a child, so, who can say how hard it is? Who can say how sad it's supposed to be? This is what normal is in our family. And I don't ever really think about it like that until things like these come up.

The second, is downright stupid.

She's retarded...so what? She still shouldn't be so rough! My kid is 'special' too, y'know! This area is for children! Keep her out!

To clarify, no, she's not retarded. But thanks for understanding. And I'm sure your drooling idiot is the unique little snowflake you think he is. She is tall, so she looks older. I'm 5'11" myself, so it's obviously hereditary. Mentally, though, she's still 5. So, she still likes to play with baby-ish stuff from time to time. I mostly try to discourage it, but, sometimes when she can't process things, the baby stuff acts like a safe zone. So, sorry your kid didn't get to play with the foam blocks instantly. I hear theres a nice pile of paint chips in the corner, though.

I wont lie. There is, sometimes, a lot to deal with. I have meetings with her teachers seemingly every month, and with it comes an avalanche of paper. She's a picky eater, so we wind up cycling through the same dinners all the time. And getting Medicaid and SSI was a small battle in and of itself. But these aren't everyday things. So, while it might be tough at times, it's never tough all the time.

So, really, thank you for your concern. But, I think I've got it covered.