Results &TKO #9

The sixth contestant voted out is Prof. Plum who recieved the most votes -- three. Immunity was awarded to Yellow Submarine.

Also, Princess Peach was Mel Gibbard.

TKO Question #8:

Do you think there is a difference between the "deserving" poor and "undeserving" poor? Who should help them and how?

Remember -- post by Saturday at noon.

A few rules clarifications: I was asked about immunity and how exactly that worked as well as ties.

If there is a tie on LEAST favorite votes, I determine who will be ousted by considering the following in order as needed: 1) Whomever has made the fewest posts, 2) Whomever earned the least immunity votes that turn, 3) Whomever earned the most LEAST favorite votes the LAST turn, and finally 4) Whomever earned the least immunity votes the previous turn. If there is still a tie, then I get to choose; eat me.

What does getting immunity do for you? Well, first, some recognition for being talented. Second, it helps with the tie-breakers. Last, if you should get the most LEAST favorite votes and the most FAVORITE votes, then you stay in. Whomever gets the most FAVORITE votes (immunity) cannot be voted out that turn.

Yellow Submarine #8

I missed the deadline due to a violent stomach illness and a very ill-timed power outage as I was finishing my response. I am posting anyway. I know this won't count towards the vote, but I want to respond anyway because if I am to be voted off, it will not be for negligence.

I have never shared the following story, and outside of the parties involved, no one knows it happened. Because of the type of neighborhood it took place in, it was never reported to the police. I share it with you now only under the cloak of anonymity and in referrence to the topic at hand.
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What would you do for a friend? How far would you go to protect them, even from themselves? I guess it all depends on the friends you make.

Your friends can either be an amazing force for good in your life or they can drag you to the depths of human nature. Astrologically speaking, I am a Pisces. Without delving too much further into what that means, the lead sentence applies double for me. It's symbol is the two fish swimming in opposite directions. One fish is always swimming upwards, the other is always swimming down. I call it the Pariah/Messiah dichotomy. Every Pisces is both at turns and which direction we're swimming in tends to have a lot to do with which circle of friends we're running in at the time.

My choice of friends has always ran the gamut of the good, the bad, and the ugly. The good do things like mix their own CDs, arrange online writing contests, or go to college to become elementary school teachers. The bad do the sort of things that aren't discussed in polite conversation, but provide chaff for the evening news. The ugly just plain need help getting their life straight. Most people fall into two of these camps, some all three, but no one ever only falls into one. I think its because good, bad, and ugly are only reflections of the most basic aspects of human nature and as such everyone has their turn at each... Certain people just lean more one way than the other...
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During one of my periodic Ugly phases, I met a guy named Danny. I met his whole family actually. I met his mother Viola, his girlfriend Crystal, and his sister Rachel. They were all waiting for a cousin to get off of work at the Denny's where I had been whittling away my insomnia. We were discussing certain issues of legal liability for some reason or the other and Viola and I hit it off immediately. Viola was very much the matriarch of the family and had taken an interest in the law much for the same reason I had. This was namely because everyone around us always seemed to be getting into trouble.

As we were sitting there having a rather enlightening discussion, a car drove by the window and sped away.

Danny recognizes the driver and was immediately up from the table and running to his truck in the parking lot. "I'm going to the house!" was all he seemed to be able to spare on his way out the door. I wasn't sure what all the hubbub was about, but I knew it was serious and there was a big possibility that something could go wrong. I caught up with him in the parking lot and told him I was coming with. "Alright. Hop in, but get my twenty-two. Its under your seat."

On the way over, he explains to me the scenario: Some close friends of the family had gotten on the wrong side of a few local gang members in a drug turf dispute and there was the possibility they might be going by the house to do something less than polite. He wasn't worried about the friends; they were big enough to handle themselves. He was worried because Crystal's five year old daughter Amy was still there.

When we got there we checked the house and everything seemed kosher. We started talking some more, one thing led to another and a few hours later I had built him a fence. A nice one too. I'm still not sure why any of that makes sense to me.

Later that day he introduced me to his brother Ronnie and his sister's boyfriend who, it just so happens, knew me in a different life when I was known as 'the Professor'.

I seem to collect nicknames and alter-egos. Among every circle of friends I remain not better, but seperate. My separateness is always so pronounced that it tends to take on a life of its own in the form of a moniker. Practically nobody of a certain association calls me 'Yellow'.

Where that particular name comes from is a whole nuther story altogether, so let's just say I helped him and a few of his friends out once upon a time and he vouched for me.

After that I was part of the family.
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A week later I was homeless, for reasons of my own. I liked being homeless. I had nothing to worry about save my next meal and my next nap. I had bags of clothes and things scattered and well hidden across town, I carried a tote bag with all my hygeine supplies in it plus a book or two from the local library and was able to stay relatively clean and well groomed in public bathrooms and swimming holes. I was able to wash my clothes as well. Between all these arrangements I was the most kempt, unhomeless looking homeless man you ever met. I just wasn't able to hide it forever because of the sleep thing.

The first thing that most people do when they're homeless is change their sleep schedule. I was no exception after the first few nights because while you can be warm and comfortable in an alley, you are never safe and you stand a good chance of being taken. Much better to sleep during the day and become nocturnal. One day, I was visiting Danny's cousin at the Denny's. I excused myself to the restroom and I couldn't keep from resting my head on my lap and dozing off in a stall. She was worried about me when I hadn't come out after forty-five minutes and had called Danny to see if I was okay. Danny came in there expecting to find me dead on the toilet. He found me still sleeping.

I apologized for startling everyone, and Danny got the whole story out of me. He asked why I hadn't told him before and I responded that I didn't want Viola to worry about me. He insisted that I stay with him for a while. I did oddjobs around the house so I wouldn't feel like I was free-loading. I found there was all sorts of stuff I could do. A load of dishes here, repairing a washer there, helping to clean the engine block of Viola's Fiero. All of it was appreciated, but I still felt that without monetary compensation I was a freeloader. Eventually I got back on my feet with the help of some good friends, but I couldn't forget the family.
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While all this self-betterment was going on in the front of the house, the destructive influence of the turf dispute centering around the seperate room at the end of the lot set the tone for the back of it. Josh was a friend of Danny's since they were two halves of an acorn. He was like a son to Viola and a brother in the family. But he kept dealing drugs, and eventually the gang put him under contract. When some guys came to collect on him, Danny was at his side and together they fought them off. This extended the contract to the family.

I was staying at a friend's house one night when I got a phone call telling me that Viola's place had been hit. Both Viola and Ronnie were there at the time and Mama's car was torched. Everyone was at the house. I asked my friend for a ride over and when I got there I told him I wouldn't be needing a ride back. He got the message and jammed out of there.
_________________

I was impatient so I hopped the fence and marched up to the door. Before I hit the front porch, the door had swung open and I was staring down the barrel of his nine.

"You know Danny, if this is how you treat a guest then I'm afraid your hospitality sucks."

He wasn't amused but he recognized my voice "C'mon in Yellow. Not for nothing, but we've been expecting some guys to crash our little shindig here."

"Is mom alright?"

"Yeah, a little shaken but she's okay."

"How's Ronnie?"

"How do you think he is? He's pissed! Matter of fact I'm glad you showed up. We got the boys together and we're about to go find those bastards. Do you want a pistol or a rifle?"

"No. no. no. no. no. no. no. no. You can't go out there."

"Why the fuck not?"

"And leave Mom, Crystal and Amy here alone?"

"Fine. So you stay, but we're going to find those bastards."

"No, you're not."

Danny had had about enough of this. He wasn't trying to stand there and debate with me. He reared on me and for the second time that night I was staring down the barrel of his gun.

"Are you going to stop me? Who's side are FUCKING ON ANYWAY?"

With the emphasis on his last words his chest was heaving and he didn't look like he was in the mood for further conversation. Any guy who ever tells you he's stared down the barrel of a gun and not been afraid is lying on one of those counts. Danny was a close friend, but friend or no, a man that pissed and paranoid will shoot you.

"I can take any one of those Mother Fuckers! And if you're not with me..." He cocked his gun.

I had maintained eye contact with him over the sight of his gun. I knew that to an unstable man, this was a test and any lack of resolve on my part would constitute an admission of guilt.

"Danny, in a fair fight I have no doubt you'd come out on top. You're one tough bastard and I should know, but bullets don't make that distinction. If they're going to cap you, you won't know they're even there until after they've already pulled the trigger. But let's say you do manage to take out one or two of these guys... They travel in packs. There'll always be another two to deal with. Then two more. Then four more. Out there you're vulnerable.

"But that's not what bothers me the most. If a contract's been put out on the family, then they're not going to be after just you or Josh or Ronnie. They'll want everyone. They probably have eyes on this house right now. If you're out there, mom and Amy and Crystal are at the mercy of anyone swinging by the house. This house and the protection it provides are your greatest assets, it is your fortress. If you're going to make it through tonight, if they're going to make it throught the night, you have to stay here. They're most likely expecting you to be rush out the door with a posse. Its not that if you go out there you're dead. Its that if you go out there we're all dead. They're going to finish the job and the whether they finish you or the family first will depend entirely on how much you pissed them off and how much they want you to suffer."

Now for the gamble...

"If you have any doubts that I'm speaking the truth, or that my loyalties lay anywhere other than with the safety and protection of this family, then by all means pull the fucking trigger."
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He remained fixed. He was searching my eyes for weakness or deception.

He roared.

I didn't blink.

Finally he let off a shot into the ceiling.That seemed to calm him down. With the tension gone he even laughed a little.

"So how 'bout it Professor? How would you handle this?"

"First off, I'd make them fight me on my turf. If you don't come to them, they'll come to you, most likely in a drive-by. Take your heavy furniture and push it against the windows. Keep Mom, Amy, and Crystal in the center of the house where their less likely to be struck by a stray round..."

In the matter of a half an hour of brainstorming and heavy-lifting we had turned the house into a compound. I won't bore you with the details of how or what we did, but the last detail of the arrangement involved me taking a rifle, getting to the roof of the church diagonally across the street. I was to keep a look-out and providing cover fire if necessary.

I took the rifle, wrapped it in a blanket and walked outside. I called back to the house," 'Preciate it Danny. I'll have the blanket back to you at the end of the weekend. Grandma sends her regards.." I walked across the street and two blocks past the church singing something from the score of "The H.M.S. Pinafore". Then I doubled back a different way under cover of darkness and scaled the side of the church until I reached the roof. Fortunately for me it had a lot of railings and overhangs which lent themselves to easy scaling. There was no moon out and I found a spot where the light was to my side and I could lay prone in the shadow of an over hang. I could see everything below, yet I was concealed in darkness. It was perfect. I set up watch for the night.
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I kept an eye on all the traffic, pedestrian and otherwise, not that there was much at two in the morning.

About two and a half hours into my watch, I saw a car pull around into the parking lot of the convenience store across the street from the house. Two guys jumped out, not in any specific gang colors, but obviously gang related. Their pants were sagging and their shoelaces were in, but untied to the point where the tongues were practically hanging out on their K-Swiss. The symbolism behind gang attire is too intricate to go into right now, but suffice it to say I could tell by what they were wearing that they were probably initiates, earning their colors by doing the hit. Of the two, one was obviously carrying heat in his waistband, but the other had a bottle in each hand. They left the door open and the engine running. These were obviously the guys, so there was probably another shooter in the car, probably as much there to shoot as to oversee the fresh fish. The one thing that I just couldn't understand was why risk getting out of the car and possibly compromising both your identity and your getaway? Why not just spray the house, get away and send the message?

I saw the guy with the heat take out a lighter and try to light a rag hanging from the first bottle. Then it hit me.

The bottles were make-shift molotovs filled with incendiary liquid. Probably a high proof alcohol or a gasoline or a mixture. The rags would have had to be lightly soaked in a slower burning liquid, like kerosene perhaps to provide a small time delay. They were going to burn everybody out and hit them as they came or otherwise turn the house into a crematorium. The second bottle was probably to speed things up or in case something went wrong with the first one. Either way, no one was going to make it out of there.

The only reason to go through all this hassle was if they wanted somebody and knew they weren't coming out on their own. In this case they had to have eyes on the house, and they probably had guys covering the other ends of the house which would mean they had to be in contact with each other. They were probably waiting for the fire to begin shooting, though. Someone really put some thought into this.

The rag was lit in the moment it took for all of this to dawn on me. In that brief moment before action I couldn't help thinking to myself, Danny, I don't know what you did to piss these guys off, but they're not fucking around. They're going to end this thing tonight.

What happened next went something like this...

CRACK CRACK

WHOOSH

CRASH

WHOOSH

(screaming)

POP POP POPPOPOPPPOP

CRACK

POP POP

SQQQUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAALL

The first crack was my rifle.

The second crack and the first whoosh was my shot busting the bottle of the lit molotov and throwing liquid fire all over the two poor dumb bastards. The way it was sticking, they must have used an emulsifying agent. Someone had been reading the anarchist's cookbook. I was impressed.

The crash was the second molotov being dropped in the confusion and the whoosh thereafter was the fire ball catching onto, and consuming their shoes. I felt bad about it later, but really, that's what the daffy bastards get for dropping it while they were on fire. I was not impressed.

Then came the screaming and a few shots fired at the house, plus one or two in my general direction from the overseer in the car. Judging from where he was shooting, my shot caught him completely off guard and all he could figure out was that I was on the other side of the road. I wasn't itching to fire twice to give him a slightly better idea where I was, at least not until I had some cover fire. By now fire was being returned from the house and the two punks were hiding behind a nearby car trying to remember in which order they were supposed to stop, drop, and/or roll.

Evidently the overseer wasn't too impressed with the performance of the pair, least of all when he motioned for them to get in the car, and they refused. Perhaps they just didn't want to risk getting plugged by crossfire or another phantom bullet on the way over. Perhaps they knew what sort of retribution was in store if they went along. Perhaps it was something else entirely, I'll never know for sure. One thing was certain though, the two had no intention of getting into that car and overseer was not at all pleased.

This presented a problem for the overseer. These guys failed their test, but they knew too much to simply let them go. They could be dealt with later if they came along, but leave them there as witnesses and you risk all sorts of fun legal incriminations or criminal reprisals for the higher ups. He turned his gun on the pair, either to scare them into coming or to silence them.

Luckily for tweedledee and teedledumb-ass, I was watching this whole sordid affair through my sights and I winged him before he could turn threat to practice. After I tagged him, he wasn't trying to hang around any longer. He popped off two shots and dove into the car which even then was speeding away, tires smoking and squealing. Two other cars followed.

The two would be bombers crawled away in the other direction an hour after the fire-fight stopped, probably when they thought everyone had forgotten about them or wasn't paying attention anymore. I had been watching them the whole time. If they were bent on redeeming themselves, they would have tried something earlier. It looked like they had learned their lesson.

I found out later that when they got home, their burns were so severe that they had to go to the hospital, and when they got there, they spilled all their guts and had to go into witness protection. I don't know if that last part's true, but I have a friend who's a nurse in the hospital and she corroborates the first part.
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I had a dream last night. When I told Danny about it the next day, he and I went at it. I told him that the way things were going was a lose/lose situation. One day this would have to end and the way he was going, when that day came he would have to choose between losing Josh or losing Amy or Mom. He didn't see the choice that had to be made. For an hour we went at it. I stuck to my guns. He defended Josh to the last. Upon realizing I wasn't going to convince him, I told him that I admired his loyalty, but not his foresight and I left.

Two days later, a psychic friend of mine from another circle later told me that you only get three chances to change your destiny and I had already had two. I would have to make a choice soon, and depending on which road I chose I would be dead inside of the year. Another friend corroborated.

At the time this could have meant either sticking around or going to my mother's house to battle my step-father, an extremely violent, narcotic addicted, ex-navy, ex-con.

I decided to go where I was needed most, Grim Reaper be damned. I was grateful to the family, but now I had to attend to the affairs of my family. Two weeks later I was six hundred miles away wrestling with a man who smelled of bad cigars.

I heard from a mutual friend that the day I had warned Danny about had come sooner rather than later. A week after I left, the gang had regrouped and had tried again, this time in broad daylight. Amy wasn't in the house, but Mom was and she was hit. Josh was out the same night.

I didn't take the news very well. Mom didn't take it very well either. I sent my respects to her hospital before she passed. I just wish I could've been there, cryptic warnings or no. She deserved better than that.
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So there you have it. Over the course of a couple of months I had gained a second family, been homeless, lied to everybody about it, built a fence, rebuilt a house, twice stared down a gun, told my best friend he was going to get himself killed, taken sides in a gang dispute breaking I don't know how many laws in the process, foiled two would-be arsonists sending them to the hospital, saved their lives by wounding their fellow ne'er-do-well, got shot at, had a contract put out on me (which has since been removed due to the influence of some other friends of mine), had a bad dream and a worse roe with my best friend, and moved six hundred miles away to rescue my mother only to be listened to too late after misguided loyalty condemned a good woman to die for the continued sins of another.

I have no qualms about backing you up with my fullest if it means protecting you or our shared interests, and I can take any abuse you send my way in the heat of the moment, but I'm not going to spare you my tongue when your actions mean dire consequences for either yourself or another.

But hey, I guess that's just the kind of friend I am.

Czar Red #8

This TKO has been the most difficult for me because I value honesty in relationships more than everything. If you cannot be honest with your friends -- not matter what the excuse -- they aren't really in a relationship with you but rather the image you project to them. That's always concerned me because I would rather see the blunt cold truth then cling to ideals that are only as substantial as my dreams.

That being said, I cannot recall a time I have lied to my friends. Lies of omission perhaps but those are a whole different monster than telling falsehoods. That doesn't mean that I'm the perfect friend; I'm not.

I'm impatient -- if I'm talking to you I want you to get to the point soon or I'll drift. I'm not the greatest listener either -- I try to remain as interested as I can in your current troubles but if it becomes clear you’d rather feel sorry for yourself than find a solution, I become a little non-responsive. I don't always know the right thing to say. I'm not sure what will make your world of hurt disappear so I end up fumbling for words or nod to break the silence. And lastly, I'm insensitive. I forget that not everyone is as careless as myself and I may just sting you with an unintentional callous remark.

Before you decide I am a Bitch, I like Ivory Angel fight fiercely for my friends. I value loyalty second only to honesty and you will always know that I’m standing beside you. I will remain defensive of you to the entire outside world – at once if need be. I’ll keep everything you tell me a secret – I’ll help you shield your big problems from the prying eyes of those that would judge you. I may not know the right thing to say, but I have a comforting shoulder and I'll hold you while you cry. My words can be insensitive but never my gestures. I remember the little things no matter how new of friends we may be. I’ll pick up your favorite drink before the party so you don’t feel alone with the beer drinkers or I’ll leave a cheerful note under your door when you have a stressful day. And I won’t lie to you.

Purple Rain #8

There is a lie and there is not telling the truth.

You see, a "lie" are always considered to be bad, while "not telling the truth" dosn't seem to have any emotional baggage on it. Sometimes when not telling the truth doesn't appear to be harmful, we call the statements "white lies". In the past when I've lied to friends, I never think I'm being a liar. It's always "little white lies." Yet these white laws weren't so "white" as they appear.

Back in middle school and most of high school, I hid a part of me away from them. Whenever I had been wronged or I was feeling down, I'd alway try to make sure my friends didn't find out about it. It's that I didn't want to be a burden upon them by making them worry, thus being a "good friend". Most of us have at least once said everything was okay when asked how things are going, even when things are quite the opposite. I took things to a new level though, and got quite creative in masking my pain. One time, a friend had walked into my room after I had cried, and he saw my moastened eyes. But I still lied to hide the pain; I claimed that I ad just finished practicing a bit of a play for a speech competition. You could say this fault of mine helped lead to the crazy, boxer-cald episode at the fire drill.

But I learned something after a while. I always saw it as my duty to comfort my friends who are in pain and feeling down, but saw it awful to talk about my problems. In the end, I was being a hypocrite toward myself. And when I started to open up, others had less qualms about opening up to me, allowing for truly rewarding friendships

Ultimatly, if a friendship is predicated upon a lie, then it really isn't a friendship. If I lie to get a friend, then that person isn't really friends with Purple Rain, but with who I'm pretending to be.

Okay, ignore the irony of me using my blog name.

But there are truly white lies also:

One time back when I was 13, before the era of military school, my family
decided to go to their monthly opera with our neighbors. I liked the idea because after all, I was friends with their two sons, aged 11 and 7. We saw a old, quicky German opera where the first act ended with the woman singing "To death!" as the curtain fell. Now, in old German, "death" was a term for sex, as I had learned from previous German operas. So really, the woman's final words were "To fucking!" as the music played trumpantly in the background. Strange, none of the girls I've been with ever seemed that excited about sex. And there certainly wasn't any triumphant music in the background and people clapping and cheering. What am I doing wrong?!

Now after the curtain fell, the 7 year old younger brother asked me what the woman was talking about when she cried "to death." There was no way I way I was going to corrupt this boy, especially since his parents were devout Christians that believed strongly in traditional values. So I lied. "'Death' is an old German term for 'marriage.' She loves him so much that she wants to marry him." , I replied.

It's actually currently an English, not old German, term for marriage. Especially common among young men.

Ivory Angel #8

Friendship. It’s been on my mind a lot lately. It’s kind of weird because while I’m a loud writer, I’m a quiet person. I don’t really have very many friends, possibly for the same reason I’m awful at relationships. I have a hard time trusting people. Really trusting them. I mean, it’s not like I go around thinking everybody is lying to me or trying to kill/rape me (though I do think that latter late at night when I’m alone and I see strangers. Sorry, I’m not crossing the street because you’re a bad person, it’s just the way I am…) , but while I might believe my friends are good people at heart, that doesn’t mean they can’t cause me pain, so it’s best to keep my distance. As far away as possible. I will never be dependent on anyone, if I can help it. But I will be dependable. The friends I take I guard with my lives. I am the wolf that stands between the pack and the hunters. If I take a bullet, the world stringing up my pelt as a prize emblem, as long as it’s for the people I love, my friends, I will be happy to see my own blood flow. Funny, it’s easier for me to die for them than trust them.

So, while I like my friends to be honest with me, because I can take it, I’m not the same with them. I’m honest in all the little things, but never when I think it causes harm, because taking away the pain is my highest priority. Yes, it’s hypocritical, but it’s also realistic. When my recovering bulimic, manic-depressive friend walks up to me and asks me if she’s fat, I’d never say yes, despite the fact she is a little…well, you know…soft around the edges. I think that just makes her more huggable.

In the same vein, sometimes a friend knows when to stay away. If my guy friends are after a girl, I have to back off and let them work, otherwise the guys closeness with me makes everyone believe we’re dating. It’s so damn frustrating. Can’t I have non-sexual relationships with someone of a different gender? On nights when I want to flirt, I have to go to the other end of the house from male friends, otherwise there’s no chance of a pickup. Similarly, when somebody spends two hours telling me how fat they are and wished they looked like me, ragged stick-girl, and can’t talk about anything else in my presence despite my reassurances they are beautiful, I know that my best support has to be by phone or email. If looking at me makes them feel pain, I won’t let them. It hurts, but sometimes it’s necessary. I wish I could just take their problems away. Like Christ on the cross, I want to absorb their tears.

Sometimes, being a friend means lying for them. There are the little things, like covering for a person in class when they’ve slept in, but there are bigger things too. “Is he gay?” some girl nudges me at the party. “No,” I reply, because it’s not my secret to tell. It’s his as long as he wants it, much as I think he’s overreacting to the possibility of being outed.

Sometimes being a friend is actually fighting against them. Stopping what they do, what they want to do.

“Bitch…” there was snow flying in my eyes, snow between me and the three boys, cold and wet and frighteningly white. It was like I was crying without the tears. It clung to my eyelashes and nostrils and made me paler than I already felt inside. “Stay away from this. This is none of your business.”

I felt sick when I saw them. “Addy” was sixteen and very beautiful to a thirteen year old nerd-girl who has nothing feminine about her whatsoever. Her breasts were the size of mangos, her thighs slender and tight. In the snow, she looked like an angel…a very frightened angel. The three had surrounded her, trapped her between a wall and their own throbbing, sweaty, disgusting male bodies. They told her she had two choices: take off her clothes or they would shove snow into her underwear. Either she could be cold and wet, or she could be cold and wet and have something warm and dry to change into afterwards.

I knew Addy from school. I knew Addy thought sex meant love. I knew Addy was going to do it, even before her sweater came off and drifted down among the snowflakes.

“NO!” I screamed. I didn’t care if this was what Addy wanted, because I knew it wasn’t right. They didn’t love her. She couldn’t get what she wanted this way, so I stepped out of the shadows holding a block of broken ice. The snow made it hard to see, and I suddenly felt very thirsty and cold. I hadn’t gotten in a fight since elementary school. I used to win a lot then because I played dirty and knew how boys were sensitive to pain, but three teenagers in a corner on slick footing was something more consequential. But at heart, I thought only cowards would do this thing and maybe if I looked mean enough, I could make them run away. I stepped in front of them, and I said in a voice that sounded quivery and small, “You’ll have to do it to me, too. And I’ll tell.”

Addy didn’t look grateful. She looked annoyed. And cold, with just her bra on. It was white, too.

The boys hesitated. Threats were one thing, holding a girl down in the snow and wrestling her clothes off was quite another. And I was a tattletale brat who was best friends with the school headmaster’s daughter… that probably had something to do with it. They let me go, at least for now. Later, they groped me in the halls when no one was looking, squeezing my breasts and my buttocks where the teachers couldn’t see. They put graffiti in the art closet talking about how I was a whore. It made me laugh, because I didn’t really understand what they were doing. Now I wish I had broken their necks.

And Addy still had sex with them a month later.

The moral of the story: was I a true friend? Probably. I couldn’t stand by and let anyone hurt Addy not after she was hurt so many times not even when I knew she welcomed that hurt. If she wanted to do it with them, I wanted to make sure it was her choice and it was in a different way. But after that I knew, and I will always know, that the people I call friends will not be able to protect me, not from anyone else and not from myself. Addy couldn’t stop them from molesting me just like she couldn’t stop herself from loving them. So in the end, I guess I have to depend on myself to be strong.

The most important part of being a friend means just knowing when to hold someone. Without asking why. I need a little of that now, I think.

Commander Cream #8

I would walk through fire for any of my friends and feel privileged to have the opportunity. I really feel as though my friends are these amazing people with one blind spot: fortunately I fit very neatly within that spot. I won't get into too much detail, but my friends are willing to listen to me whine at 1:00 am, are willing to drive through blizzards so that I won't spend a holiday alone and are willing to wait in the hospital for 37 hours straight with me. But will I lie to them? In some cases, yes.

I feel as though I should just repost my last entry. In that circumstance, I lied to Katie, and I have no regrets about that. What would our conversation have been like otherwise?

Katie: "Holy shit, what happened to you?"
Commander C: "Well last night when I tried to keep you from driving, you flew into a drunken rage and attacked me."
Katie: "I'm so sorry Commander C..."

What would the truth have accomplished? Katie is normally a very gentle person. One evening full of extenuating circumstances doesn’t change that. With the story I told, I endured a few jokes at my own expense about my clumsiness. I'd much rather endure the oh so clever (re: annoying) ribbing from my teammates than have to explain to Katie what had happened. Or worse, face losing her friendship because she felt guilty. (This really was a one-time occurrence. I had never seen Katie violent before nor have I since that incident.)

Katie never knew that I lied to her. However, I have been forced to lie to a friend, knowing that they would catch the lie. I once lost a good friend when I lied. Before I lost him, I thought that I knew him: I was wrong. His favorite possession was a beat up leather jacket. I never saw him without it. Rain or shine, he clung more tightly to that jacket than a toddler to a security blanket. I eventually found out why.

I’m not sure whether he intentionally showed me his arms or whether it was an accident. It was certainly the first time I saw him without his jacket on. I will never forget what I saw. His arms were covered in parallel scars. Some where white and thick: long healed over. More concerning were the deeper, raw red scars that showed clearly against his pale skin. Perhaps it was good that we were alone, for when I saw them, I was so shocked that everyone would have noticed my reaction. I hesitantly brought up the issue.

And then I learned the truth. The friend that I thought I knew so well was very unhappy. So unhappy that he had found a solution to his situation. He made me swear not to tell anyone. I told him that I cared too much about him to keep it a secret. He still demanded my word. Eventually I gave it to him. Something in his feverish blue eyes told me that if I told anyone, I would lose him as a friend. Fortunately, his eyes also revealed that if I kept silent, I would lose him more permanently.

I ditched my next class (US Government- ick, what a waste of time) and went to the counseling office. I was fortunate: our counseling office was actually well-staffed with well-trained professionals. So I told them what I had seen and what I had learned.

The next time I saw my friend, he looked through me as though I did not exist. I have never felt so invisible in my life. But I kept seeing him around for the next two years. He never spoke to me again. He never saw me after that either. He was alive, though. I don’t regret breaking my word to him. I don’t regret that I lied. I do regret the loss of a friend.

Black Knight #8

I'm very sorry about my failure to post on the last TKO; I thought it was a great TKO and I have a ton of thoughts on it. I'll probably post my answer late, sometime soon, but for now, I want to answer this one.

I had a strange insight while reading this TKO. Initially I thought that I was always a pretty honest guy, even abrasively so; but then I realized that wasn't really true. I thought of the friend that talks to me that I pretend to be interested in (conversationally) and am not; I thought of people I've pretended to respect and don't. I've thought of times I pretended to care about some minor tragedy or drama that, in truth, struck me as whiny. I've thought of times that I've held my tongue when I should have, a lie of omission.

I started to freak out a little bit. What am I? Some kind of huge liar? I lie to everyone.

Then I realized I had found the answer to a question I had been wondering for some time; what it is that divides my friends from the person I consider my love, a soulmate. It's real, bleeding honesty. It's not sex (although sex is an outgrowth of such honesty, if done right) and it isn't spending a lot of time together (although it's nice to hang out with someone who tells you the truth). It made me realize why even tiny lies are so dangerous, with the obvious exception of concealed surprise parties.

I stopped freaking out and felt kinda good.

NO VOTE & TKO #8

Princess Peach is being removed due to inactivity today. As a reward to the rest of you, there will be NO vote this weekend; everyone is still in. We are back on track now; I am posting the new TKO now.

Also, Sgt. Silver was Hajeer (ArabianKnight).

Remember: Two consecutive periods of inactivity is automatic removal. If you miss two not in sequence, I will contact you with a warning. Three period total is also automatical removal. I include these rules to make it fair to the players that are participating on time. The current inactivity counts is (1) for BK and PrPlum; perfect for everyone else. Does this look right to everyone? Post comments annonymously if I'm wrong.

TKO Question #8:

Shrek: Well it's no wonder you don't have any friends.
The Donkey: Wow, only a true friend would be that truly honest. -- Shrek

Only a true friend would be truly honest? Have you ever been forced to decide between being honest and being a good friend? (Were you ever forced to lie to a friend?) Which did you choose? Why? Do you regret it?

PS: Next TKO is political in nature again for all you politx hacks.

REMEMBER: POST BY NOON ON WED!

Czar Red #7

Thank you for the graciousness to extend the time; I told Marie before I left I was going to be gone for the weekend and I was really excited about this post, I'm sorry that I have to cram my answer into such a short time :/

You ask for shallowness and honesty? My perfect man ...

He'd have very expressive eyes -- I'd prefer blue. He'd be adventurous and love the outdoors. He'd look sexy pitching a tent and changing a baby's diapers. He'd be just a little needy -- enough to make me feel important but not so much that I suffocate under his weight. He'd be intelligent and headstrong but not afriad to admit when I'm right. He'd be sexually experimental -- he'd appreciate both gentle romancing and crazy encounters. He'd love all things geeky. He'd have a deep voice and smell oh-so-damn good. He'll be passionate about more than just me, whatever hobbies he persues. He'll be a heater, very warm to cuddle up against. He'll respect the little moments. He'd be a talented chef even if his speciality is grilled cheese sandwiches. He wouldn't mind admitting that a romantic movie makes him cry. He'll look sexy in a hat. He'll know how to knit and want a garden for our kids to play in. He'll be patient with me. He'll be taller than me and enjoy resting his chin on my head. He'll love me.

Yellow Submarine #7

"I am Don Juan DeMarco. I am the world's greatest lover. No woman has ever left my arms unsatisfied. I have given pleasure to countless women, each one more beautiful than the next. Yes, there are some who say 'Ah, but her nose is too big, and her! Her hips are too wide!', but I see what they do not. I see the beauty that is within a woman's soul, and once you show a woman that you recognize it, then she will show you all of her secrets."

All of that was shamelessly plagiarized and sloppily rearranged from 'Don Juan DeMarco'. See it. Live it. Love it. If you haven't or you don't already.

There is no great secret to love. I have in fact, stated it before, so I shall take this opportunity to expound upon the point. Just forgive me if I take a roundabout way of proving it.

At the risk of drawing the ire of all the self-avowed feminists on this site, Women are easy. I'm sure of course that excludes present company and men aren't much better. I'm also just as sure that at least two of you are quietly deliberating how best to skewer me with a pitch-fork. I only ask that you reserve your judgement until I am finished.

In my defense though, its true and the why of it truly saddens me. Most everyone is looking for love and acceptance from someone else to some degree. There are even a lot of guys who take this too far and can't let go. I actually moonlight as a relationship therapist to a few guys I know who have just such a problem. I only use women because it is in women (especially young women) that it seems the simple need for love and acceptance from another often becomes so pronounced that it turns into such an all consuming psychosis stoking the coals they are continually raking themselves over. You may meet a few guys who aren't satisfied with their body image and take it seriously to heart, but have you ever met a girl who was or otherwise didn't? Make whatever case you want about unreasonable social expectations or however else you wish to explain it, but don't deny that it is there.
____________________________________

I once had a conversation with my friend Brian. Now Brian was a gentleman of the first order and easily likened to a wooden nickel. During the course of the conversation he imparted to me how he got through high school.

"I spent my entire time in high school getting my straight friends laid. They would rent a hotel room to take their date back to and I would fix it up for them. They'd follow my advice and pay me after they got laid. Easiest money I ever made. Besides, I figured if I wasn't going to be getting laid, at least someone should through my efforts. Really simple stuff too. Incredibly boring. I would tell them, 'No honey, one rose just will not do. Make it three dozen and make sure they're red. Yes I know they are more expensive. What do you mean why? Because yellow means jealousy and white sends precisely the wrong message about your intentions! Do you want her to remain pure as the driven snow or do you want a bawdy wench? It means 'dirty girl', now just hush up and spread the petals on and around the bed...'

I had an almost 100% success rate, too! I only failed once and she was a devout Jehovah's Witness. What can I say, between an almighty deity and eternal damnation I was just no competition at all. I wasn't too disapointed, though he certainly was. We even had a little joke about it after that. Ever afterwards when they'd refer someone to seek my services they would call it 'gettin' lucky insurance' because, 'You're a hundred percent covered except for acts of god....'"

I don't want to give the impression that I condone my friend Brian's actions by telling of them to you. I only bring this story up to make a point. The reason my friend Brian was so successful (and sought after) is that he realized that to a high school girl who spends half her time tormented by her flaws and the other half thirsty to be loved despite them, such an effort on her behalf and the simple words "You're beautiful" would seem sweeter than any chocolates, any poem, or any flowers. In the mind of your average affection starved teenage girl, if a bit of sex would keep that validation coming, such was the price you payed.

When I was in high school, I once thought that women grew out of this. Some do, but I still see this tendency alive and well in women ready for their ten and twenty year reunions. Throughout my travels, in every new city I have found story after sob story of women who gave it up desperate to be loved, to have someone who cared for them...despite themselves. None of them found love. Wounded souls all. I could give several examples, but one seems to haunt me as I write of the need to be loved and the cost it exacts.
_____________________________________

When I lived in Casper Wyoming, I met this girl named Sunshine in ROTC. She was a year older, absorbed in unrequitted love for the company commander and had given herself up to hope a year earlier without result. Since then she had not stopped giving of herself to anyone who seemed to be able to give the barest promise of love. In that one single year after she lost her virginity she had amassed quite a reputation which only served to further alientate her and drag her soul and her name that much farther through the mud. What plagued her was a single cosmetic deficiency, she needed some dental work. This was why the superficial teenage boy CC wouldn't look twice at her. We became intimate friends. I was bent on showing her that she too could be loved and vowed to set the example of how she should be treated. Worried that physical intimacy would be contrary to my purpose, I refrained from pursuing it, though as time passed I noticed she began to look at me differently.

At the end of the year came the Miltary Ball. Every Miltary Ball has a Sabre Guard which stands as an arch of swords for every one to walk through as they enter the ball. The Sabres were standard Marine issue. (It seemed a bit tacky as we were an Army ROTC, but my Army Instructor was a scary, scary man so I declined to comment.) I had been thrown into ROTC and amidst its exacting structure of chivalrous meritocracy, I quickly became the fastest rising cadet there. I was on the color guard, the competition drill team and the rifle team. It seemed that everything I did was gold as long as it entailed wearing epaulettes.

I was the first to volunteer for the Sabre Guard duty. Every day after school for three weeks seven others and I held aloft our twenty pound swords. Another 'man' on the Guard was named Yates. He was physically smaller than everyone else there and had the look of a sixth grader his freshman year of High School. Naturally he had a huge Neopolean complex because of it. Naturally he was my superior officer and the second one to volunteer, aparrently not to be outdone.

Yates had asked Sunshine to the Ball. Sunshine had been asking the CC for weeks prior and she held out until the last moment still hoping he would take her even though he was already escorting someone else. The twenty-fifth hour having arrived, and absent another more compelling date, she aquiesced to Yates. Yates had no alternatives and truth was, he was desperate. It was painfully obvious to everyone but Yates it was a total pity date, but Yates was thrilled anyway. For three days before the dance he was walking around with his chest puffed out so much I expected him to start goose-stepping at any moment. Sunshine had said yes! This must mean that she had seen something in him worthy of saying yes! Laying ensconced in that simple piece of deductive reasoning was his pride and panache and he would entertain no other logical alternatives to the contrary.

I told her not to do it. I told her she would regret it. I told her she'd spend the first half of the night bored out of her gourd and the second half avoiding him and his jealous eye. She wouldn't listen. After seeing how jubilant Yates had become she had consoled herself in the knowledge, that if CC wouldn't go with her, she would at least be going, and after all "He just seemed so sad. Now look at him!"

The night of the ball the Sabre Guard went off without a hitch, despite the fact that we made our arms visibly shake and droop a little whenever someone we didn't like passed underneath. Our AI pretended not to be amused, but I knew he thought it was funny as hell when I feigned a cramp as the Principal and his wife walked under. (The Principal and my AI didn't get along.)

After everyone had arrived, we disbanded and we all changed into our formal attire. I alone remained in my uniform because I'm not going to rent an uncomfortable ill-fitting tux which made my head look like half a jellybean when I had a perfectly good uniform that already did that and came with a perfectly snazzy piece of steel.

Sunshine found me on the dancefloor," Yellow, you have to help me!"

"Why hello to you too. What's wrong?"

" Its Yates! He won't let me breathe!"

"Well what did you expect?" I couldn't stifle a chuckle.

" Just shut up and dance with me already!"

She had worn this lovely peach ensemble which seemed to have a way of accentuating all her more succulent aspects. It was enough to make a man ravenous. I made sure to tell her so, only in more suitably delicate terms. I even the caught the wayward CC casting a few sidelong glances in her direction and I brought this to her attention as well. Then of course, there was Yates. It was as if Cinderella had arrived with the frog prince. Yates had rented a limo, a tux, and a room all for this momentous occasion only to see his date flee. She was a social butterfly alighting from one man to the next in order to avoid his net. He was decidedly and understandably non-plussed.

"What are you doing dancing with my date?" roared the penguin.

"I believe you said it yourself, we're dancing. I assure you its at the lady's request. Surely you can spare her for a dance? Afterwards I will have fulfiled my obligation and would be only too happy to present her back to you."

"Yates wasn't having any of it. Step outside and we'll settle this!"

"What is there to settle? She's your date. I'm not going to keep her all evening."

"You'll give her back at once!" It struck me later that he was speaking as if I had stolen a pair of his shoes. At the moment though, my only retort was a raised eyebrow and a pregnant pause.

"Fine then. If you insist she is your's. My apologies Sunshine, but I won't get involved with this."

Sunshine drew away from me and looked as if I had gouged her heart with an ice-pick. We had been having a lovely time and I could tell she felt betrayed by the ease with which I intended to cut it short. I remained the picture of non-chalance.

"You think you can embarrass me and get away with it that easily? I demand an apology!" Mon Dieu, but Napolean was pissed off!

"If that's what's got you all riled up, I think you should take it up with your date."

"I'll take it up with you!"

The longer this went on, the more I realized Yates was not going to be satisfied. Sunshine had given him self-confidence for the first time since I don't know when. She had shown him kindness and was irrefutably an angel to him. Still, he needed someone to hate for her misbehavior. When Sunshine had chosen to dance with me I had become that villian. I was that single rat bastard personification of all the evil in the world which plagued him with worry and insecurity. In that moment I was everything he despised and was jealous of.

An interesting point before I continue. Yates had only two things going for him. He had his date and his rank. His date had already absconded to greener pastures, but he had no intention of parting with his chevrons. Yates had literally no other friends. ROTC became his social life. It was all he had and he cherished it. He was too enamored with his rank and the physical manifestations thereof to forego wearing them on his tuxedo. I have no doubt he probably voided his security deposit on the tux in the meantime and normally I would have found this either incredibly hilarious or painfully sad. However, as long as he wore his regalia he retained his rank and if I fought him then I would be open to the severest retribution for striking a superior officer, or at least a higher ranking one.

Such was the culture of ROTC that if this should take place I would fall under the strict disciplinary standards of the military and would be stripped of everything I had worked for and possibly expelled from the only high school in fifty miles. What's more, he was obviously bent on fighting and wasn't going to allow my innocence or my insouciance rob him of the satisfaction of his indignation. What could I do but assent?

"Outside then, but on one condition. We must remove our jackets. I will not fight you while you are wearing your chevrons."

He snorted his satisfaction with the arrangement and violently tore off his jacket, hurling it aside and he stormed out of the ballroom. Nope, definitely wasn't getting his deposit back.

I in turn calmly took off my jacket and sat down to a glass of punch and some light conversation with my AI.

What could I show him but pity? I wasn't going to add to the embarassment of being spurned by the only woman who ever showed him the courtesy of interest by giving him the supreme humiliation of getting his ass kicked by everything in the world he hated. He'd probably go home and kill himself. No. He had already suffered enough for one night.

Five minutes later, now madder than ever, he raged into the ballroom and turned every head in it. He looked at me. I looked at him. He saw who I was sitting with and knew that if he had attempted anything now not only would I not rise to the bait, but my calm would only make him look that more more out of his mind, very possibly jeaopardizing his rank and everything he had worked so hard for. In a moment of clarity he seemed to decide that it was better that only three people knew of his indiscretion. He apologized to the ballroom, made some lame excuse about trying to chase down a rodent (hey, I have to give him credit for his choice of allegory off the cuff) Afterwards he left immediately.

Sunshine and I sat down afterwards and she apologized for what happened. She later apologized to Yates. Yates apologized to me, and I would hear nothing of it. I even complimented him on his witticism. By monday everything was back to normal.
______________________________________________

The thing which makes so many relationships unhealthy is that they're inherently guided by selfish need. We're always looking to others to provide us with something we find lacking in ourselves. Either we're looking for someone else to compliment us perfectly or to compliment us at all.

Some people search for someone strong, because they feel weak. Some look for beauty because they feel ugly. Some look for intellect because they feel stupid.

Some people seek those they think are inferior because if they are better than their mates, at least then they can demand respect and appreciation.

Some seek inferior mates so they can improve them, like Svengali or Prof. Henry Higgins and bring a sense of worth to themselves for their acheivement.

Others consent to be run underfoot, because they think no one could love them otherwise.

Sunshine had her tooth. Yates had his stature.

Millions of people searching for happiness through the arms of another person who, most of the time isn't happy with themselves either. The cruel irony of it all is that of course, no one can give you anything which you cannot give yourself. Put another way, if you're not enough without someone to call your own, then you'll never be enough with them.
___________________________________________

I don't pretend that I have never succumbed to the seduction of self hate. For a time after a particularly, particularly nasty break up and all the chaos which ensued, I was convinced that no one worth loving could ever love me. How could they after I had acted so shamefully? For a time, I foolishly gave up on love. Luckily love did not give up on me.

I met a girl who knew who I was and where I had been and loved me unreservedly anyway. She showed me how to love and be loved wholely and for who I was, not what I was. She taught me the single most important truth in all the world.

To love is easy, but it all hinges on self-respect. To love is to recognize fault and be smitten anyway with the beauty of soul. It is easy to love another like this when you are happy with yourself. But if you could not afford this courtesy to yourself, how could you ever expect to afford it to anyone else?

It is simple. To love is to be loved and to love in return.

I guess my only dealbreaker is that I will have nothing to do with anyone who would expend my self-respect for her own nefarious devices. That itself is only due to the fact that without self-respect I could never respect her.

One last anecdote before I go on why I am a romantic:

My dad once sat down and explained to a twelve year old me how to kiss a woman properly. I asked him why it was so important that it couldn't wait a year or two. He told me," Because soon you will start dating and then soon afterwards you will have your first kiss. I want you to experience it as it was meant to be experienced because a single kiss from the right woman is not only worth dying for, but more importantly it is worth living for."

He then bought me a chocolate shake, which I liked so much I didn't care about the brain-freeze until long after it had already hit me. Worst headache of my life. I tell myself now that it was not the milkshake that made me feel like my brain was being chiseled by an angry monkey with a jackhammer, but rather it was my dad's wisdom being permanently etched into my brain.

I still hold that sentiment as my ideal in a relationship.

The kissing part, not the monkey part.

____________________________________________

I am Yellow Submarine. I am the greatest lover in the world. No woman has ever felt the brush of my lips or the warmth of my embrace and not melted beneath my touch. I have been blessed with the love of many good women and have given the most precious gift of all, self-respect to countless others, each one more deserving than the next. Yes, there are some who would say," But she is a whore, and her! She is ugly!" I see what they do not. I see the beauty of their soul. I know that once you recognize and respect the beauty they possess within, they will lay bare their greatest gift before you, the love of their soul. And there is no greater gift in all the world than the love of a good woman.

Purple Rain #7

A quick post since I got up late

"When you stare into the abyss, the abyss also stares into you" -Frederick Nietsche

Bullshit Nietsche. When you stare into the abyss, the abyss tends to giggle inanely. This is my first "dealbreaker", if you will; I can't stand stupid ditzes. Carrying on a conservation with one of them feels like trying to teach a 6 year old how to play chess.

Me: "Now, the knight moves in an L shape and...Hey! get that king piece out of your mouth!"
Kid1: "Chess is boring. How about playing with action figures?"
Kid2: "You have a few hairs on your chin, mister."
Kid3: (sobs) "I want candy!"

It hurts the brain. Like the 6 year olds, dumb ditzes can the inability to talk about anything deep and instead like talking about things I could care less about. Wait, stratch that, these are things that I am unable to care less about because they are at the way bottom of my priorities. I honestly don't care about Brad Pitts new look or who which movie actor hooked up with who. Ditzes have an amazing ability to turn a disscussion of any interesting issue to a superficial one. Although, come to think of it, I'd perfer the kids. At least I got paid.

The second "dealbreaker" for me would have to be being a "crisis queen", as I like to call them. No matter how small a problem is, it always manages to become a crisis. Maybe because I dated one, I've become kinda numb to all the "crisis's" that managed to be invented. Having gone through real crisises in the past, I'm more than willing to help with real problems. If you have a bad hair day and think the world is goign to end, you're wrong. News Flash! Men generally don't care what brand of perfume you are wearing or what particular style your hair is in. If we do, most likly we are gay. Of course metrosexuals have to come into play and ruin the general rule. Bastards.

Professor Plum #7

at a certain point, elements of popular culture multiply, mix, and merge until drawing distinctions between the simulation and the referent is not only impossible, but pointless. Or I just wanted to post this.

ricky fitts is desperately trying to get into the pants of the girl next door with the old "'wow-this-is-amazing-art'-and-by-'amazing-art'-i-mean-i-just-left-the-camcorder-running-after-video-taping-a-cheerleading-practice-and-then-came-up-with-a-sappy-backstory-to-facilitate-my-getting-ass" routine

Ricky Fitts: It was one of those days when it's a minute away from snowing and there's this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video's a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in."

cut to god on a cloud, looking annoyed

God: It's a piece of garbage in the wind, do you have any idea how complicated your circulatory system is?!?!

Mauve Momma #7

After discussing this with my beloved PF, I have come to the conclusion that I am easy.

Or at least, that I have very few dating dealbreakers. Not money, or cars, or height, or even body hair- I've seen it all. (ALL!). But I will quickly run down the four turnoffs that came to mind first.

1) Being skinny. This is my number one, ultimate dealbreaker. Most evolutionary rationales for mate selection amuse me, but this one is my weakness. I love a sturdy, cuddly guy- or as my high school boyfriend put it: "You're a chubby chaser." Please do not tell PF that I said he was fat- he isn't. But I like to be hugged, and held, and when PF hugs me, I'm warm all the way around. So skinny guys never had a chance.

2) Being blond. I have no rationale for this. It's some genetic level preference. The gene didn't extend to only liking Latino men, which would make some sense; it got as far as hair color and quit. I can admit that Brad Pitt or Justin Timberlake are fine physical specimens, but they'll have to wait in the other room while I jump Enrique Iglesias or Usher. Skin color isn't part of it, either: PF (who bears a striking resemblance to Jake Gyllenhaal), is so white I lose him when it snows in Chicago, but he's got a healthy head of dark brown hair, so he's safe.

3) Being anti-intellectual. PF asked me about insufferable pseudo-intellectuals, and I had to say- no, no, I gave some of them a chance to impress me with their quasi-beatnik poetry and deep thoughts about the future of the stanza. The only thing that's an actual turnoff is a guy who is both ignorant and somehow pleased with himself; who somehow thinks sports, movie, and pop culture knowledge is all any person needs to be in command of to have a good conversation with me. That'll be cool for a while, buddy, but sooner or later, I'm going to ask you what you think about Kerry's campaign tactics or the stunt the administration is pulling with the health coverage lottery, and when the blank face goes up, I'm out.

4) Having lame excuses for being unromantic. It is here that I have to totally disagree with Ivory Angel, who is otherwise a fabulous writer. Romance isn't fake, cheesy, or something that only exists in movies. It has to do with showing someone that you thought about them. And I can't stand a man who has his pre-prepared frontline excuses about how he can totally eschew romance because he's fighting the commercialism of it all, or because he respects that I'm an independent feminist woman so much that he wouldn't dare give me a flower, cook for me, or sing me a song. Please.

I don't want a business partnership, I want passion. I don't want to split the bill or figure out that if I make X amount more than you, I should pay 73% of our relationship costs. We'll take turns. This time I'll plan a dinner and movie date and pay. Next time, maybe you'll have a dessert and wine waiting when I come home. Or something, anything you like that you thought of yourself. That's what I want. So when I've come across those guys who are quick to pre-empt your expectations of caring (not even one-sided chivalry) with their weak anti-capitalist or quasi-feminist lines, I cross them off. I guess IA and I fish in different parts of the sea. A nice guy is welcome here.

Alas, I must go see if I can trick PF into rubbing my neck for the thousandth time. Hooray!

Ivory Angel #7

"Turnoffs?" What are these so-called "turnoffs"? Is such a thing possible?

I mean, I've dated attempted murderers, suicidal people, smokers, chokers, debaters, non-debaters, people with miserably low IQ (45 is probably too generous), geniuses, short, tall, kinky, vanilla, bad kissers, good kissers, arrogant mopheads & modest mice, social klutzes & people who navigate life-currents with ease, realists & optimists, blunt people, diplomatic people, rich men, poor men, women... need I really go on?

Everyone has flaws. I try to look past them. I guess the biggest turnoff with me is being too nice. Too fuzzy. Too generous. Then I know you're not good enough for me because if I don't have to fight for you I'm not sure you're worth having. Too many compliments looks like sucking up. I don't like worshippers- people following me around telling me how wonderful I am just makes me nervous. Such people seldom have good motives and often turn out to be stalkers. I have an unusual amount of psychotics trying to date me, so anybody who shows too much interest right off the bat sends up warning flags in my nervous system...

And stop opening the damn door for me! Does it look like I have broken arm to you? Do you think saving me the flex of a bicep is going to be enough to get into my bed? Come off it. I'm not a prostitute. I don't want to have to be indebted to you just because you have some dumb, outmoded concept of chivalry. I will pay for my own meals. I will pay for my own movie tickets. And if you like red roses, I will be there at your door bringing you a bouquet of a dozen because I don't like to watch flowers dying on my kitchen table (they looks like dried blood or a collage of peeled blackheads after two weeks) and don't think I do just because I am blonde and I am young and I am female. I have more money than you anyway and it always makes me feel bad when someone who's parents are still paying off $40,000 in college loans wants to pick up a rich heiress's check. Kill the romance thing. This isn't a fairy tale or a movie and I'm glad of that. After all, childrens' stories and hollywood glitterfests have less chance of being real.

Show a little courage. Show a little bite. Do you think smiling and agreeing with everything I say is going to make me feel better? My self-esteem isn't so fragile that one little word for you is going to send me into a hysterical fit running to the bathroom clutching a delicate piece of toilet paper and wailing WHY ME? OH WHY ME? So don't think you're going to hurt my feelings just because we disagree. Maybe you keep silent because you think I must be wrong and can't handle myself. Don't patronize me, I'm not below your level. My idea of a successful date involves at least one argument over politics, religion, hell...the arrangement of the napkins. It's all good. Talking to a particularly flattering mirror just isn't very fascinating and I'm going to assume you keep agreeing with every word out of my mouth because you are ignorant. If I'm that bored, you might have more chance of me tackling you and dragging you kicking and screaming under the white tablecloth just to make things more interesting, but you can damn well bet that after the fuzzy handcuffs are off, you aren't going to see me again.

I guess I do have a few turnoffs. If you're boring, I don't like you. If you're always submissive, I don't like you. If you're too nice, I'm afraid with you.

But, uh, that doesn't mean we can't still be friends...right?

Commander Cream: She is my Friend

She is smoking. I hate the smell of tobacco smoke. I hate how it lingers in my hair even after I shower. I hate looking at a friend smoking and imagining what her lungs look like. But she hadn't smoked for three months. She gave it up for me. Well, not really for me, for all of us.

We all gave up drinking and smoking for the season. It really wasn't hard for me. I don't drink and I don't smoke. Some of my teammates had been smoking for years. They wanted to win, so they gave it up too.

What am I doing here? Spending a Friday night surrounded by drunk high school girls is not really my cup of tea. I am much more the "catch a movie" or "stay home playing video games with friends" kind of girl.

Five hours earlier:

State finals.

There is something dreadful about being a goalie. None of the glory, all of the blame. It was sudden death overtime. No one had scored on me yet. It was my first state finals game. I would eventually lose three times in the finals. But I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that Ashley Choren was racing at me. Ashley, who scored the very first goal against me when I was pulled up from JV. Ashley who really was very nice, but at that moment, I hated her. Ashley, who put the ball past my left hand. I can still feel it whistling past my glove. I can still hear the sound of it hitting the net.

Five hours ago we had lost the state championship 1-0.

I am here because I lost the game for us in overtime. I am here because my teammates never blamed me. I am here because when I was pulled up from the JV team, no one made me feel like I was the second choice. The least I can do is make sure that none of them spontaneously decide to drive home. It was a good thing, too.

Katie. Katie could pose for a statue of a Valkyrie or an Amazon. She looms over a foot taller than my barely five foot frame. She is a big girl too. Not fat, just huge- big bones and big muscles. She eventually went on to play lacrosse for Yale. I bet she's kicking ass there. But at the moment she is a bit more intent on kicking my ass. Cigarette in one hand, my shirt in the other, she wants to know where her keys are. She really wants to know. Somewhere in her alcohol-fogged mind, she remembers that I have the keys. So I tell her a rather useful lie that I use when friends are drunk. I tell her that she dropped them out in the backyard. Usually that line sends people out into the grass to search for the missing keys.

Not Katie.

Instead Katie literally picks me up and throws me into the wall. Now, to be honest, this is partly my fault. I've had enough training that I could have gotten out of her hold. But she is a friend: I never thought that she would hurt me.

Flying through the air, it occurs to me that I was very much mistaken. When Katie's fist meets my face as I struggle to rise, I realize just how mistaken I was. The second punch splits my lip. Through the blood I whisper a lie and a truth, “I don’t have your keys Katie. Even if I did, I wouldn’t let you have them.”

At this point Katie collapses and starts sobbing. Great. Not just a belligerent drunk, a maudlin one too. Wiping the blood from my upper lip with my thumb, I try to decide what to do. The rest of my teammates are scattered around the room. Most of them are far too drunk to stand, let alone intervene. I don't want to fight back. Katie is a friend, even if she's a friend that could be convicted on assault charges. So I kneel down next to her.

She throws her arms around me and sobs into my chest. It's hard to maintain my balance.

"Katie. Are you okay?"
"I missed three shots. Three. We would have won if I had made even one of them."
"It's too late to worry about those shots. We have next year."

She keeps crying. It’s not about the game. I still don’t know what it was about. But I stay kneeling, my knees protesting. My shirt is plastered to my body, wet with tears. Eventually she falls asleep...or she passes out, I can't tell which. I quietly remove her arms and go and check on the rest of my teammates. No one has alcohol poisoning, I'm amazed. I hide their keys. In the morning, I will call them and reveal their location.

The next day I see Katie. She notices my black eye, my split lip. I'm wearing my arm brace for the first time in a month. She doesn't know how it happened. Katie is my friend. I tell her that I tripped going out to my car. She laughs, exclaiming, "I didn't do anything, and I was drinking! What's your excuse?"

Katie is my friend. I laugh along with her. It hurts my lip.

Commander Cream #7

So this is pretty superficial. The truth is, all the men I have dated have had three things in common: They were taller than me, dark-haired and left-handed. I think that most of that was coincidence. If I could determine more specifically I found attractive, or even unattractive, then my dating history would not be nearly so strange.

---

Do looks matter? On some superficial level, of course they do. But thinking about my friends, they are all good looking to me. Same thing with the guys I have dated. Somehow I doubt that I have lucked out and surrounded myself with the world’s beautiful people. It’s just that if I like people, I tend to think that they’re attractive.

That said, I do have one absolute physical dealbreaker for any potential significant other. He must be taller than me. Given that I stand at a grand total height of 5’2”, that’s not particularly challenging. But attraction for me is not about physical appearance. The real dealbreaker is superficiality (my own more than anyone else's). Everyone I meet seems very interesting in the beginning. But I get bored easily.

I’m rather embarrassed by my hypocrisy when I describe what I find really unattractive. So I’m going to introduce a rather poor metaphor in a fairly lame attempt to avoid “fessing up.”

The men I’m attracted to are like chocolate Easter bunnies. If you line them up, they all look pretty much the same. But nine out of ten are not solid chocolate. Instead they are a thin shell and hollow inside. The problem is, when they’re just sitting there, you can’t tell which ones are hollow and which ones actually have depth. You have to pick them up and nibble the edges a bit. Like most women, I strongly believe that the more chocolate, the better.

To extend the Easter bunny analogy, some guys cave in as soon as you start dating them. They begin to agree with everything. They write you bad poetry and claim that they cannot live without you. You’ve been on two dates. As sexy as our society finds vampires, I don’t want to date a leech. I love to argue and play the devil’s advocate. Agreeing with me defeats the purpose. Really, weakness is horribly unattractive. Insipidness is even worse. Fortunately, weakness and insipidness tend to go hand in hand, so I can eliminate those guys in one fell swoop.

But what then? Eliminating the weak and insipid still leaves something like 1% of all men as potential boyfriend material. There must be another round of eliminations lest anyone think my bitchiness is failing.

Hmmm…the next distinction is a bit hard for me to make. It’s more about whether our personalities will mesh. There is one litmus test that I can use. I have a rather unusual sense of humor. My friends are pretty used to it by now, but I can use it to screen new guys. For instance, there’s a running joke about my funeral arrangements. About a year ago, I decided exactly how I want my funeral. Usually when a new person hears that I have plans already, they want to know what I want done. Rather than explain in depth, let me just say that the dawning look of horror on their faces is usually amusing enough that everyone in room starts laughing. But the responses also tell me whether a relationship will work out.

I say: “The most important part is the bagpipes playing I’m too Sexy as the casket is carried in.”

His response: horrified silence. Not the guy for me.
His response: an attempt to talk me out of my plan. Not the guy for me.
His response: laughter. potentially datable guy.
His response: “I’m too Sexy sounds better on the didgeridoo.” definitely datable guy.

If he can answer my outré sense of humor with his own, that’s all I really need.

Oh wait, one more physical dealbreaker: he does have to be male. I just don’t find women attractive.

Results & TKO Question #7

The fifth contestant voted out is Sgt. Silver who recieved the most votes -- three. Immunity was awarded to Commander Cream.

Also, Blue Devil was Alan Tauber.

TKO Question #7:

Jim Olmeyer: Do you just want to lose weight, or are you looking to increase strength and flexibility as well?
Lester Burnham: I want to look good naked! -- American Beauty

There's a shallow edge to everyone. We're all friends here, so fess up. What are your guilty turnoffs? That is things you find unattractive in a potential partner that's a dealbreaker.

Remember -- post by Saturday at noon.

Black Knight #6

I've spent the last three months in this dingy room in the basement floor of the Hope County Psychiatric Ward. This place looks like it hasn't been redecorated since the Taft administration, but I don't mind. The meals are pretty gross here, and there's really no company to speak of; they don't let me interact with anyone else who lives here.

The space I have to live in is not very big. The doors to this room, except for the one that leads into the bathroom, are heavy steel; they put them on really fast when they had to move me in here. I guess they're secure enough. I'm not particularly mighty or strong, so it's not like I'm going to make an attempt to break them down.

The food, though, the food is the worst. It's laced with this weird drug that they say keeps me from entering REM sleep and deep dreaming.

About two years ago, I realized that every time I remembered my dreams, everything in them came to pass in a matter of days. Sometimes this was pretty cool; I'd dream about doing well in a job interview and I'd nail it, or I'd dream about sleeping with a beautiful woman and I would. Other times, though, I'd have dreams about disasters, tragedy, and they too would all happen. Of course I told no one about this.

But all the same, one night after dreaming that the President had been shot, I spent all day holed up in my apartment, scared half to death that someone would find out. That night I dreamed that they did, and so they came to lock me up less than a week later. They put me here.

Why the psychiatric ward?

It's not that they think I'm crazy or insane or anything; they know it really is happening. No, it's just that denying you REM sleep to prevent any more of my dreams from happening means your brain never really rests. And you slowly go crazy. So they put me here, in advance, with these lamps, just as a sort of "early bird" thing.

Sgt. Silver #5 (Late Edition)

The Long Journey Home

So there we were, twenty or thirty of us, at the beach, a few in our tuxes, others of us in more laid back clothing. Junior Prom had been a blast, and, just like planned. we threw an afterparty at the beach. Most of our parents would have known that we were at a hotel, and the few of us who didn't have an alibi left late at night, or early at morning, depending upon your perspective. My date and I decide to seclude ourselves from the festivities, and us being tired and all, we ended up asleep right next to each other. Due to the heat, we must have completely stripped off all of our clothing while asleep too, but we luckily covered in one of the blankets we had taken along with us. That night, I slept pretty well, not knowing that this day would go down in infamy as the day they got Sgt. Silver back.

Morning came, and I woke up, a little drowsy and not in the best shape of my life. My date woke up soon after me, and we decided it was time to get dressed. Oddly, our clothing wasn't nearby, like it should have been. So, slightly discomforted, we both looked around and didn't see any of our stuff. Something was wrong here. I stood up, and I found a little plastic container nearby. It didn't look like junk that you'd find around here, mainly because it looked new, so I decided it couldn't hurt to see what was inside. When I removed the top of the container, I found a metallic unadorned key on the inside, but clearly a car key.

Things were starting to make sense. It struck me. I just got fucked. And so did my date. This went clearly against the unspoken rules of punking each other. I was pissed.

I guess this prank may have been easier if I was on my own, but having to deal with the commonfolk, you know, those who have never been exposed to the truly malignant nature of their crazen friends, forced me to have to deal with a lot of side issues. So there we were, naked, sharing one blanket as a substitute for clothing. I walked over the hill that secluded the two of us from the remainder of our party and saw no one there. I did, however, see a few people unrelated to last night's party and quickly ran back to my date to get underneath that blanket again. This was not good. And it didn't make sense to me how they could have all left so early. At this point of the day, a few people were beginning to arrive at the beach, and so my date and I decided we were best off leaving quick. So I took the key in my hand, we wrapped the blanket around each other, and walked off the beach to the parking lot where we had arrived, en masse, in a combination of rental limousines and SUVs the night before. After we arrived at the parking lot, we spent a good ten minutes looking for cars we would recognize. You'd be surprised how many older vehicles have car alarms. I think we tried the key on at least 12 vehicles. I was getting extremely frustrated. This was unlike the stupid pranks we had pulled off that spring break, there was no immediate punch line, this one was taking too long. Well, actually, it kind of was like the night we paid a guy to rob Derrick of his clothes in the middle of the night, but I pretended not to remember that, besides, it was a group prank, no individual actor was responsible, or wanted to take responsibility. Anyway, I was looking around to see a car that I would recognize, and suddenly, to both my relief and absolute horror, that car turned out to be a crappy, broken down, red 1979 Saab convertible.

The pieces were falling into place now.

I'll spare you the details of my conversation, but, suffice it to say that, suddenly, my date didn't enjoy sharing the blanket with me. Both of us having recognized the car, it was clear who orchestrated this evil prank. We got inside the car and encountered a wonderful problem that I was well aware of. The top of the convertible was broken. Driven at fast speeds, the hood would flap violently and belligerently. So we tried to drive while holding on to the hood, except my date would much rather hold on to the blanket to keep it at shoulder height and I was driving a stick and had no hands free. We were going to have to drive this car with the top down.

You'd be amazed how fast a 79 Saab convertible can go when you're naked.

So are cops.

At both the speed and the nakedness.

15 minutes had passed on the freeway and I got pulled over, I couldn't believe my fucking luck. The police officer pulled up behind the vehicle, white guy, in his thirties, mustache, and buzzcut blond hair. "Do you know what I'm pulling you over for?" he asked. I had a couple guesses, but I left them to myself, besides, it wasn't like I had time to answer the question anyway, the officer soon asked "what in the hell are you too doing?" I spent a few minutes in the strangest impromptu performance of my life. It was definitely one of those questions your teacher would ask you, "you're delivering a graduation ceremony speech, suddenly a naked blow up sex doll is floating towards your platform, what do you do?" My best friend got to answer that question the year after. But my question would have been: "You're inside a car, pulled over for speeding, and are naked, as is a girl next to you. You both have a blanket spread across the cented of the car, a cop is on your left asking you about your nakedness and 90 mile per hour performance, what do you do?" My date was livid, and I was trying to convince a cop not to give me a ticket or indecent exposure charge. After I explained the pertinent details of my day the officer just broke down laughing.

I thought I got off.

I didn't.

He walked back inside his car where he had a blue-ish blanket, for what purposes he had it I don't know, but it allowed me to have a substitute for clothing. He then asked me to come outside the vehicle and walk towards the cop car. This was just great. He put me on speaker and started telling the story to "dispatch," or whatever the hell they were called, and asked me countless questions in doing so. I felt like an idiot, one who was hearing people honking their horns at him.

Just classic.

After a few minutes of sadistic enjoyment the cop let me leave without giving me a ticket or even asking me for my license, which was good, because I didn't have it. As a thank you for "making his day," as he put it, he let me keep the blanket and drove off.

After I dropped off my date, who would never be my date again, I got home. parked the car, and broke into my house the same way I did when I was younger and didn't have a key. No one saw me.

Later that night, me and my friends smoothed things over as one of us was dropped off at a hospital with a broken nose, not me.

I guess you're wondering what I did to deserve this. Suffice to say that my preceding prank is still hailed as better than this one. Maybe another post, but not now.

Purple Rain #6

On Sunday evening, after taking a small break from homework, I quickly checked the game to see the newest TKO. Be inspired by a photograph? I'm an engineer goddamnit; I'm artisically retarded. As a thought through what I was going to do, I noticed something. Or, to be more concrete, I noticed what I did not know. There is an object just to the left of the rightmost windowsill that I have no idea what it is. Is is a duffel bag, a trick of the light, or something else? I decided upon duffel bag, seeing what I considered to be straps and a handle and went back to my studies. Perhaps the misplaced duffel had some meaning. Two days later, I cam back to the computer to write my post (trying to not put it off to the last minute) and looked at the picture again. A duffel? What was I thinking? Of course at this time, I had not clue what it was. Today, I realized that I had fallen into a trap that many themselves fall into.

When faced with something we don't know, we often guess. And once we guess, we distort what we percieve to support our unwarrented guess. I concinvced my self that straps existed when clearly they did not, all because of my early conclusion that the object was a bag of some sort.

The main source of this problem stems from our paradigms. We set a way of looking at the world to help us make decisions, but sometimes the facts of the world don't really mesh well with our paradigms. So we subconsciously twist what we percieve to fit our mold. For example, one of the more common paradigms that people have is the "I'm perfect!" paradigm. We all know someone who believes they're perfect, and if something is wrong, it's always somebody else's fault. Heck some of have even dated these kind of people... *meekly raises hand* When something goes wrong, it is not immediatly apparent who is at fault, but the egotistical immediatly makes conclusions that it can't be their fault and must be someone else's. Paradigms can go both ways though, as those with low self-esteem often are blaming themselves for things that aren't their fault, working under the paradigm that they are worthless and can't do anything right. Somehow, I've managed to date both extremes.

So how can we solve this problem inherent within ourselves? Simple. Learn to tolerate the unknown. Many times we like to guess or make explanations without sufficient evidence because, let's face it, many times we don't want to say "I don't know." But for some situations, we have to get outside our basic nature and be comfortable with the fact that we don't know, instead of letting our preconcieved notions dictate what that unknown is. Don't find duffel bags that don't exist.

So what the heck is that object to the right of the windowsill? I don't know, and I'm not afraid to admit it.

Czar Red #6

* I apologize that this is so long; I couldn't bare to trim it so I'm going to post as is.

I slid out of the car, shakily walking to the front door. My skin was still glistening with sweat from volleyball practice; my kneepads rested at my ankles sticky and heavy. My muscles were tired and all I wanted was to fling myself onto the floor of the living room and let Timmy happily lick the perspiration from my arms.

I looked for him in the yard, but my puppy was nowhere to be found. I shrugged guessing he was inside jumping gaily on my brother.

When I came inside, I saw my mother first. She was hunched over in the rocking chair, her listless eyes staring out the window. I would have smiled if she didn’t look so pathetic – she was much too young to be sitting in that rickety chair.

“Should we tell her?” Dad asked her as he diverted his eyes from mine. She only responded with an apathetic nod.

He stalled for a moment, speechless. His words came stuttered and quiet. “Timmy got hit by a car.”

I reeled. Before I could respond, I was far away.

...It was a particularly hot July afternoon. Not that any day that summer wasn’t hot and horribly dry, but that day was brutally so. It was the fourth day in a row I’d worked in the fireworks stand. The stand was a wooden shack with shelves lined with brightly packaged explosives. My parents were paying me to sit through the grueling afternoons with heat waves so punishing that customers wouldn’t venture to our stand. The shoppers only came at night, but there was always a chance we’d miss a sale if we weren’t ready even during the most hateful hours of the day.

The only relief from the searing weather was a motorized fan in the corner. Every few minutes, it quit working killing the only breeze and only sound with it. I think that bothered me more than the heat. I didn’t mind sweating but I did mind the silence. Dad connected an intercom to the house, which was only about one hundred yards from the stand, for emergencies. But no one was ever around when I just wanted to talk to pass away the time.

When my younger brother told me over the intercom that “Dad had gotten a puppy,” I was more than skeptical. My mother hated dogs. I was angry that he’d tease me with such a sweet suggestion.

“Liar.”

“No, I promise.” His voice was scratchy but clear enough I knew what he was saying. But of course, I didn’t believe him. Who believes thirteen year old boys?

“Prove it.”

“I’ll bring him to you in just a minute.”

I was giddy despite myself. It was too good to be a true, but would he really lie? I jumped out of the stand so that I could see Dan walking from the house in the distance.

I saw him. Dan was carrying what looked like a very small brown lump. The “dog” didn’t move at all and I was quickly convinced he was carrying a stuffed animal. I spent the next few moments quickly calculating what I was doing to do to my pesky brother. As my hands started to clench and I was resolved that a punch in the eye was the only fair retribution for such ultimate a sin, Dan dropped him.

I expected him to bend over and grab the stuffed toy, but instead it ran. The puppy’s ears flapped in the wind as he sprinted in my direction. Dan trailed behind him, laughing as he tried to catch up with the anxious puppy. The weeds whipped at his face, and tore at his legs, but my brother was happy. I stood stunned for an instant before I too was running toward them. I dropped to my knees and pulled the puppy into my arms.

He was the most beautiful animal I had ever seen. His fur, a soft ebony, was splattered with tan on his paws. I fell in love with his droopy ears and loving dark eyes instantly. I dug my nose deep into the fur on his back and sniffing the sweet aroma his skin. I held in my arms a wiggling, licking, excited puppy.

We learned that day that Timmy loved black jelly beans. Dan and I hated them and while eating a bag of jelly beans in the fireworks stand one of us discovered he didn’t agree with our taste buds. When mother found out, she was furious.

“Don’t you know licorice can kill an animal?”

We were horrified; we’d only meant to bring the puppy pleasure. She assured us if we only fed him one a day, he’d be fine. So we began collecting them for him in a plastic baggy in the cupboard.

He loved eating them. He waited to swallow them so the sweetness could spread across his tongue. He always barked asking for another when he was finished. Dan and I couldn’t resist his eyes, and usually gave him a second...

... I realized, sooner than I’d have desired, that I couldn’t escape anymore.

"Is he okay? Did you take him into the hospital?" I managed to squeak out, stammering.

"No, honey, he died." My father’s eyes avoided mine.

"No," I screamed still disbelieving. I cascaded down to my knees, my face buried in the ugly shag carpet. A horrid shriek escaped itself from deep within my heart. Tears pinched their way from my eyes and burned their way down my cheeks. My tightly clenched fists pounded themselves upon the ground and I was screaming and screaming and screaming.

My mother rested her hand on my back and gently stroked me. Darkness flooded through my body, numbing my brain and silencing my shrieking. I didn't understand what my mother was mumbling to me, but the rhythm of the words soothed me. Calmness ran though me, when it became too painful to keep crying. I was silent but my deep angry breathing.

I opened my streaming eyes. Though my tears, I saw Timmy's chair glaring at me -- almost mocking my sorrow. He’d always curled up in the oversized chair in the corner. Just like a cat, we’d teased.

I ignored my powerful urge to destroy something. I wanted to pull the curtains from the wall and tear at the fabric just to hear it rip. I wanted to slam the lamp onto the floor and watch the base shatter into a thousand glittering pieces.

The next morning I awoke certain it’d been a dream. I ate breakfast as usual and opened the door to let Timmy in. I laughed at the irony; yesterday morning, dad had told us that our puppy couldn’t play with us before school anymore since we were always running late. I reached for the baggie that I was sure was still sitting in the cupboard and I went outside.

Blind terrible furry came over me and I ran into the fields. I ran past his dog house, the gate, usually shut in the morning, squeaked as it swayed back and forth in the sharp wind. I kept running until I came to the mound of freshly dug earth.

I opened my fingers that’d been clenched in a tight fist. Two shiny jelly beans rolled from my fingers onto the soil.