Dropped the old story. Couldn't think of anything else for it. Here's a new one.

She was the kind of person who denied compliments from everyone. She was afraid of being conceited, even though we all told her that it was a stupid fear. She never let go of that fear.
She married right out of college, to her high school sweetheart, a handsome boy with messy hair and distant eyes. He was so kind and loving, showing her every form of affection imaginable, that we were all so happy for her. Could we possibly have been any less happy?
Their marriage was private; only a few friends and family members were allowed to see it, as they were uncomfortable with having a big extravagant ceremony. They denied the Christian God his apparent right to join them in union, opting that a judge marry them instead. Everyone was invited to the reception. There was so much food, which was surprising, since neither of them seemed to have enough money at any point in their lives. We joked that they had robbed the food pantry for the meal.
They decided to wait on children for the first few years of their marriage, and it was a good idea, from my point of view. This gave them the opportunity to spend as much time with each other as they could, basking in the warmth of their new life together. They took vacations and went to dinner and plays, and they spent nights cuddling, sleeping so that they were never more than inches apart.
One day, he came home, his eyes focused on the floor. She rushed to him, but her welcoming arms were pushed away as he shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes, and slumped into bed. He stayed there for hours, staring at the ceiling, before she finally came in, her eyes wide with fear and worry. She quietly lay beside him, and placed her head on his chest, wrapping an arm around him. There, they lay in silence for a long while, before he whispered, "Sean was killed his morning."
Sean was his brother, his best friend. He explained to her that Sean had been on his way to class when a speeding car hit him. He had lay there on the pavement for ten minutes before paramedics reached him. He asked for his brother. The driver never stopped.
He visited Sean in the hospital as soon as he got the call. He watched his brother, bruised, broken and mangled, die in his sleep. He returned to work, where he stared out the window, down at the streets, imagining that each driver was the murderer.
She held him as tightly as she could manage, knowing that no words would make anything better, and cried for Sean. They had known each other since kids, and he had been like a brother to her.

Shortly after Sean's funeral, she noticed something in her husband. It started simply; at first, he forgot to kiss her sometimes when he returned from work. Then he stopped altogether. Soon, he even ceased to say hi to her when he walked in the door. Eventually, he started sleeping on the other side of the wide bed, so that the only time they met each other in sleep was by accident.
She became terribly worried. What if he was blaming her for the accident, somehow? What if he was so depressed that he forgot she was there? She decided to try to help him, by making special dinners, and buying expensive liquors for them to enjoy on the weekends. One day, as we sat for coffee in her home, I watched as she diligently cut construction paper hearts to glue on a card for him. There was no special occasion, other than her love for him. She let her coffee get cold as she fretted over the task, and when one didn't come out just right, she tore it to pieces and put them in a pile to be tossed. She threw away far more than she kept.
She managed to talk to me through the silvery sound of scissors searing through paper, and we talked about normal things: work, classes, family, friends. She even managed a laugh as she told me a story about how a coworker had torn her skirt after her stiletto caught on a loose hem. Then she was silent for a long time.
"I really hope he likes this," she said quietly as she shaped another heart.
His only response to all her hard work was a "Thanks," and a short kiss on the cheek. She told this story to me with the utmost of excitement.
"It's the first time he kissed me in a week or so," she recalled happily.
I remember that I wanted to scream at him, hit him, throw him out of the house he had helped to pay for. Didn't he realize that she was doing everything she could for him, despite his pain? Didn't he realize that Sean's death hurt her too?

One day, about a month after Sean was killed, she woke up in her husband's arm. She glanced at the clock to find he was late to work. She tried to wake him, but he only squeezed her tighter and smiled softly. She looked at the clock again, thinking she had read it wrong, but the same time was glowing on the little screen. Then she noticed something next to the clock, a vase overflowing with brilliant irises, her favourite flower. She turned to look at her husband, but he was sound asleep, the smile engraved on his lips.
When she woke up again, he was gone, but the flowers were not. She sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes and stretching, when she caught the scent of something cooking in the kitchen. She tip-toed out of bed, through the living and peeked around the corner to find her husband swaying and humming in front of the stove. He had set out two plates, poured milk and juice, made toast. She backed up, accidently stepping on his cat's tail, and the cat's screech was replaced his voice as he pinned her to the wall.
"Got you!" he exclaimed, placing his lips on hers before she could let out a startled yelp.
Before she knew it, they were having breakfast. He spent the meal talking about how work had been over the last month, as she just gaped at him, uneasily enjoying the omelet he had prepared for her with extra cheese, just how she liked it.
After breakfast, he insisted that they cuddle on the couch and watch a movie. He picked her up and carried her to the living room before she could protest, and sat with her in between his legs as he rested against the arm of the sofa. When he was sure she was comfortable, he turned on the television, and magically found a good movie to watch. They sat in silence, his arms tightly around her, before she spoke.
"What's going on, honey? Are you okay? Shouldn't you be at work?"
"I took today off. I wanted to spend the day with you."
"Where did those flowers come from?"
"I just got them this morning. I went to the florist this morning and got them. I wanted them to be the first thing you saw when you woke up. I got there a half hour before they opened, though, so I had to wait around a bit. I guess I was just really excited."
"The florist opens at six, honey. You woke up that early just to get me irises?"
"You really like them!" he exclaimed, tickling her belly.
She snuggled closer to him.

They sat around for an hour or so, before she turned around and kissed him. She had to go to work, as she had a big presentation to give today, and unlike him, she couldn't take the day off. He let her go, not without at least three kisses, and she dressed, brushed her teeth and left, also after three kisses. She called me on the walk to work.
"It's amazing," she was saying. "Suddenly, it's like Sean was still alive. He's perky and animated and wants nothing more than to be near me. It's just like when we were married. I know it sounds strange, but I can't but wonder if something is wrong with him. But you know, Mary, he really is wo--"
There was a deafening sound, and distant screams. I called for her, but she didn't answer. I heard someone talking.
"He just came ripping around the corner! Did you see that? That asshole didn't even slow down!"
Someone hung up her phone. I paced around anxiously for a few minutes before another call came. Paramedics. "Do you know a Mrs. Renee Baker?" the man asked. Of course. She's my little sister. "She's just been hit by a speeding vehicle. We're rushing her to the hospital. Is there someone else we should call? Is she married?" I told them to call Danny.
I lived closer to the hospital, but Danny was there before me. He must have driven ninety miles per hour to beat me here. He was staring at her, my dear little sister, his wife, tangled in tubes and wires that whirred ominously in the corner. He was crying silently, holding her hand, petting her hair, matted with blood.
Six broken ribs, shattered pelvis, cracked skull. She was in a coma and her kidneys were failing. Neither of us were a match.
Danny stayed with her religiously, holding a constant vigil over her. He left the hospital only to get a week's worth of clothes and the irises. He placed them on the table next to her bed, along with a small box. Other than that, he ate and slept in that little dim-lit room. He took showers in the hospital, using the one used by doctors when they have to stay for several days. He called his work.
"I won't be at the office for a little while," he said, choking on the words. "My wife is in the hospital. She's been hit by a car."

They finally found a kidney donor. The operation would be risky, though, for someone in her condition. Danny told them to go ahead. He hated the dialysis machine that ripped her blood from her and put it back into her veins. The procedure was a complete success. A catheter attached to a bag, replaced once a day, replaced the menacing machine.
Danny and I watched as coworkers and friends took turns bringing cards and flowers for her. Our parents came, and Danny stood outside as they wailed over her body, fueled by the power of machines. I wanted to tell them to think of Danny, how their overwhelming sorrow and pessimism was killing him.
Danny had replacement irises brought to her room every week, when the old ones had died. He saw me standing the corner, watching him accept the fourth batch of flowers.
"They're her favourite. I want her to see them when she wakes up."
The next day, the doctors told us she would probably never wake up.
"She is breathing on her own now, and that's good, but she shows very little nerve response to any form of stimuli. She might be brain dead."
Danny let their words fall to the floor, refusing to accept the possibility of losing her. He said he would keep her on life support. He didn't care about the costs, which ranked in the thousands of dollars. It was the best decision he made since marrying her.
She woke up three weeks later. By now, Danny's face was covered with a beard, and his eyes were dull from little sleep. He was reading Dante's Inferno to her when her eyes fluttered open.
"What? Can you repeat that line, please?" she rasped weakly.
Instead of fulfilling her request, he dropped the book and threw his arms around her neck, kissing her.
"Renee!" he shouted. "You can hear me! You're awake!"
She smiled softly. "I heard you the whole time, honey. I tried to tell you to save some of your chocolate pudding for me, but I couldn't I guess."
"Jesus, Renee," he whispered between kisses. "Even in a coma, you want dessert!"

She was kept on close watch for the next week, during which she started to eat, and even stood up without help. The doctors said she would need intense physical therapy for close to a year before she was able to walk again. She defied them, as we thought she would, and was walking on her own within two months.
Despite her reassurance, Danny walked with her everywhere he could, and was wary about her crossing the street for months after her recovery. She started teaching, instead of returning to her job, and spent her free time writing books.
Every night, when Danny came home from work, he kissed her, and they cuddled. In bed, they could not have squeezed closer together. He never let a day go by without telling her he loved her.

Within the year, she was pregnant, and the end of the summer was welcomed with baby Hannah Baker, a beautiful and healthy baby girl who is the joy of her parents' lives. One day, as I was having coffee with Renee and Danny, with Hannah swatting at the toys that hung from the top of her stroller, Danny, gripping his wife's hand, looked at her with a smile and whispered "I love you to her." She responded with a kiss, and he pulled a small box from his coat pocket.
"I bought this for you when you had your accident, but I think that now, with all that behind us, with Hannah... well, I think now is the right time." He stood up, standing her with him, and opened the box, revealing a brilliant diamond ring. He looked into her watering eyes, which stared back at him in wonder. "Renee Baker, my beautiful wife, my friend, my everything, will you marry me again?"
"Yes, Danny. Yes I will," she whispered behind tears. She stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him. I smiled, feeling tears roll down my cheeks.

They remarried the following autumn, under a golden sun and brilliant leaves.


Fin


-----------------

I had to stop writing this at least three times. Writing this story made me cry.

Today, I woke up feeling horribly sad.

I seem to be having a particularly horrible battle with my self-esteem for the past few days. I try not to mention it. My lack of self-esteem is sometimes the cause for arguments. I don't want to argue. I just want hugs.
I feel like there are so many things in my life that I'm doing wrong. Like, I'm bad at Organic, Calculus, paying attention in classes, work, being a good friend/girlfriend/sister/human...
My stupid heat is broken again. Or rather, I should say, as usual. I'm so sick of it. I've put on a long sleeve shirt and a sweater and socks. I'm warm now, but I did just get out of the shower a little while ago. And I can feel heat rising to my cheeks. There's no one here to be embarrassed to, so why am I flushing? But I digress. I am simply so annoyed at the heat. It's on, and it's blowing air out, but the air is cool. Lukewarm. Like the temperature I keep my air conditioner on in the summer when I actually have it on. It's disgusting. I don't even know if it's worth it to call the physical plant again. They're probably already so sick of me calling about my heat, they'll probably lower the temperature for the room further. That'll show me, right? Whatever.
I find myself annoyed at nearly everything again. At this point, I have to wonder if I'm clinically depressed. I tell people that they're perfectly allowed to have bad days, because it's true. But with as many bad days as I seem to have... well, it can't be normal.
I guess today in itself wasn't that bad. The worst part was the cold, and having to do a job for crapping Don Kirby, who was my junky religion professor from last semester. And a I had a horrible headache all day. It's still kind of hurting, but whatever. It's better. But I had lots of delicious food, and I got paid, and got groceries and some Valentine's stuff.
Lisa and I went to the mall, and I bought a warm weather coat that I've been wanting for a long time at Hot Topic. It's the only thing I've decided to get for myself from the money Dad gave me as a yearly allowance from the taxes. I guess I'll save the rest or something. The coat is only in Medium at the mall here in town, so they had to ask another store for a large. So I haven't bought it yet, but technically I have. I'm pretty excited about it. It's a cute coat.

There's some chaos happening in my hall tonight. Very loud chaos.




I want to write. So I will


She tipped the glass back, draining its contents with a grimace. Brandy was not her favourite drink, but the frigid winter weather warranted something to warm her, and so she ordered some brandy on the rocks. Vanilla brandy, actually. The bartender saw her take it down, and came over to the place where she sat at the bar, far from everyone else, with the bottle, ready to refill her glass.
"No thanks," she whispered hoarsely. "I just needed one to keep me going tonight."
She placed some money, too much for just one brandy, on the counter, gathered her coat and scarf, and left. As soon as she stepped outside, the fierce wind, bringing a blizzard with it, blasted her in the face, screaming through her ears, distant cries of someone in pain. She shrugged her coat on, wrapped her scarf tightly around her neck, and stuffed her hands in her pockets. She had a long way to go before she got home. She hoped that the brandy kept her warm.
The bartender watched as she walked, not towards the cars, but into the woods. He shook his head; there were plenty of dangers in the streets, but walking in the woods at night was not something even the burly man would do. He could not help but wonder why she headed into the woods.

The wind was calmer in the woods, but it gave an eerie wail as it sidestepped through the trees. She was reminded of Dante's Divine Comedy, in which the character, Dante himself, heard such horrible cries and wails as he passed through the Inferno. This little town is certainly like some sort of hell. She dared not open her mouth to speak these words to herself. She knew that on nights like this, the wind would whisk your breath away as soon as you parted your lips, so she kept her head tucked into her scarf up to her nose. Her lungs still froze with each breathe she took behind the knitted barrier.
Finally, after an eternity of an hour and a half, she arrived at a little shanty. An old house, robbed of electricity and heat years ago, it was a foreboding place. Ivy crept up the walls and windows, though now, only vines stuck their tethers into the crevices in the brick. The leaves had dried and fallen months ago.


more to come, maybe.

It's too cold outside. I'm sick of it.

What would Sextus Empiricus say?

This is how I feel today. It was the best I could find for "frustrated." The rest was... porn. Or Charlie Brown. I don't feel like Charlie Brown. Today, I feel like an angry Edward Elric. At least it's a familiar face.

Today was a total disaster. I didn't get up on time, since I was [once again] too tired to get up, and slept for another half hour. Organic was... I don't know. Better than usual. At least I understood what was going on.
Philosophy sucked. I said words in the class today, which I hate doing regardless of the situation, but no one wants to comment on things the professor says. I'm sure I'm not the only human in that class who doesn't agree with the things being discussed so much so that feel compelled to actually think. Or maybe I am. Who knows? The professor just kind of answered it with "the way Sextus Empiricus would answer it," which made no sense. I didn't agree with those things either. Maybe that's why Greek philosophers are dead. [I mean famous ones, I guess.] Natural selection doesn't favour those who suck at answering questions correctly. I'm exaggerating. Natural selection has nothing to do with philosophers.
Calculus lab sucked. I was stuck with that Thomas human again, with his stupid grin. "Want to work together?" he asked, that lame shy smile from high school on his face. "Yeah. I guess." What I meant to say was "Yeah. Because Miller is going to make us anyway." I'm turning this class into a story... ew. But that's not the point. He started asking me all these questions. Like about my major, and if I read some book that probably no one has ever heard of before. And when I said "no" he replied with "I saw a kid in the hall just now who walked like the main character in that book." Um....wtf?
Dante was probably the best class today. It usually is. It's just interesting for me, and Steve Wrinn is just insane enough to make it fun. Thanks, Steve.
Then Organic lab. I don't think I can even talk about that right now. It was a mess. In short, I messed up right off the bat and had to start over. And the stupid thing took forever. And I had low blood sugar and coffee jitters. The friggin' end.
Today, I was working on Calculus homework. It's due in an hour. It's done, but the point is that I did it last minute. I hadn't planned to. I thought I would have it done by Monday. Guess what failed.
Also, I talked to Barbara Leo, my professor from Gen Chem. She said she could try to teach me NMR, since I obviously can't get it in lecture or workshop. I have to remember to send her times tomorrow.
Denny's. Lisa and I went to Denny's for dinner. It was delicious. I needed delicious. And we talked a lot. And then we talked a lot in the hallway. As it stands, Lisatime was the best part of my day. Then Dante. Then... when I go to bed in a few minutes.
I feel frustrated.
Yesterday at work, this woman called the helpdesk and yelled at me forever about some problem she had the night before, and how IT didn't help much. It was a projector problem. Classroom Services deals with projectors. Not us. Stop yelling at me. No, we are generally not supposed to leave when we are the only person on. She didn't stop yelling. She didn't let me talk. Then she said "Please look into this, okay?" and hung up. I didn't get a name, or number, or anything. I got yelled at by Joan. I wanted to hide. I hate these situations. I need to learn to deal with them better. I'm horrible at any form of confrontation.
Bed. I work at 900am tomorrow. That's already 5 1/2 hours of sleep. At least I only have calculus tomorrow. Too bad I generally fail at calculus during lectures, so I would want to sleep in the hopes of better understanding. Oh well.

-CH2-CH=C[CH3]-CH2-(CH2-CH2-CH-CH[CH3]-CH2)2-CH2-CH2-CH[CH3]-CH3 = Phytyl

This is kind of how I feel today, yet considerably more upset than this. But I couldn't find a picture that combined confused and upset.



I've decided to try to use pictures and photographs as much as possible. I suppose they'll show my mood, or maybe it'll just be something that made me smile. It might get me writing better things again. Or at all. I don't write much anymore, and that's not good for an aspiring author.

I guess I should really start this post with the weekend. It was really great. Lisa and I talked and stuff a lot on the way to Potsdam, and sang in the car, too! It was so crazy and energetic. Until I fell asleep, anyway. I'm not really sure how it happened anymore...
When we got there, we talked and cuddled and hugged and ate and watched movies and slept in a bed apparatus that we constructed. It was wonderful to not have to sleep alone. Sleepcuddles are definitely the best kind.
We watched Blindness, which sounded really good from the trailer, but it turned out to be not very good at all. Or maybe it was just that I didn't understand it. I don't think any of us have quite decided yet.
I hated leaving. It happened so fast. Like a flash of lightning, and then came thunder, in the form of devastation, loneliness, and a feeling of almost dread.
I feel like I need to scream. Maybe at no one at all. Maybe at myself. This same part of me wants to go to bed for the next three months.
I said a while ago that I desperately need to work on my self-esteem. I tried. It's hard. I've gone no where. What am I supposed to do? It's something I'm hesitant to discuss. My failure to do anything useful about it makes me feel like a disappointment. Like when I studied for six hours for the organic exam and got a 75. Maybe I was just failing myself at that point. But this is exactly it. This is my self-esteem problem, written, right in front of me. I can identify it, write it down, think about it, dwell on it cry about it, but no matter what I do, I can't make it better. Why? Is there some... deficiency in my mind that prevents me from accurately addressing the issue? I have no idea. Maybe I'll have low self-esteem forever. It's these kind of thoughts that made me fear that someday, people will just get sick of me and I'll be alone. I hate being alone. But there I go again, I guess.
Journals are hard. They kind of force you to write things that are disturbing or painful, because they're meant for whatever thoughts come to your mind. I always feel like mine are incomplete. I close mine, and I feel like there's something more I should have written, but by the time I close it, I don't want to open it again. It's a weird philosophy, I guess.
Speaking of philosophy, in class today, we made philosophical punnett squares.
I guess I should go to bed, since I have to crapping work tomorrow. I feel like I'm working way more than I actually should I guess I kind of am, since all the problems I'm encountering these first few weeks are really time consuming. Oh well. It's moneys.

Today, Lisa introduced me to a friend:


He's adorable and fuzzy. I need to find a place for him to be happy.


We also went to Wegmans. Weggies for short and demented sounding if you try to pronounce it.

With only the moon for company, she gazed listlessly at the stars, dreaming of distant days to come.

He's licky