The Tell-Tale Pup

Puppies arguably rule the world.  With sweet eyes and small, gentle kisses on your skin, they make sure you know who saved who, who walks who, etc.  Despite how furious mankind should be about puppies possessing mind-controlling powers, we let it slide.  Worse, we care for the little tots with all our hearts— so when they get sick and show their powers have been weakened, what do we do? 

We freak out and think they’re dying.

This was the predicament I faced last weekend. I was watching a friend’s dogs— one a dashing old man, the other fresh from the womb— and innocently thought it would be the best weekend of my life.  No, seriously; they’re hypoallergenic, have perfect black orbs for eyes, and are happy to play fetch and/or sit on the couch to watch TV.  With such adorable qualities, you can imagine that I went into the weekend anticipating nights of endless snuggles and soft fluff. 

How silly was I to think that a few nights with a puppy would be simple. 

It’s 1 A.M.  0100 hours.  I’m settling down for bed, and I hear a rapping, a tapping, by my chamber door.  It is the puppy, failing to escape from his crate in an effort to follow his training and not poop indoors.  I had been told earlier that day that he could sleep through the night without any accidents, so the idea of a raging fire inside his belly evades my thoughts.  As any tired and emotionally incompetent person would do, I tell the puppy to shut up.

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I try to peacefully slip away into my dreams, but they quickly turn to nightmares as the rapping and tapping inspire visions of dead people scratching through their coffins.  I have no doubt that the puppy intends for these visions to haunt me as punishment for not serving him.  With a groan of defeat, I release the beast from his cage to relieve his jitters.  Little do I realize those jitters foreshadow a dark and putrid bog with vicious capabilities of eclipsing an entire home with its scent.

He frantically fumbles around the bedroom.  I assume his nerves are shot with anxiety, as his OG Mom and Dad are away for the weekend.  It isn’t until he eyes a landscape painting on the floor, awaiting its hanging ceremony, that the truth becomes evident.  Its depiction of lush green fields stirs his heart, and his faith in the painting becomes increasingly clear:

He squats in allegiance.

I dart out from the comfort of bed and into the world unknown.  Swiftly, yet softly, I scoop him up into my arms and hold him close to my beating heart.  I understand now.  But my understanding has arrived too late, and just as I plop him on the floor to retrieve his leash, a black lagoon erupts from his hind-side.  The creature meekly crawls away, ashamed of his failing to follow protocol.  I console him as best as I can; while on my knees in a hunched over position, I gently caress his shoulder fluff while throwing a mess of paper towels over the spill. 

Sometimes, apologies and tears aren’t enough.  0200 hours.  The situation has seemingly ended, and I hold the poor little guy in my lap to ease the pain.  When I lie down on the couch, he hops up and falls asleep on my stomach— much to the older dog’s dismay.  Since sleeping roles have been rearranged, I now have a twenty pound dog on my calves, and a ten pound dog cozied up by my sternum.  Sleep is impossible, but I’m more concerned about the literal shit we had just gone through.

0300 hours.  The puppy rises.  He wastes no time jumping off of me, in search of an isolated corner.  I’m in a neighborhood I’m not familiar with, so I decide it may be best to let him do his business inside and just clean it up.  Going outdoors this late at night scares me.  After all, there’s no way there’s much poop left inside of him… Right?   

donald-trump-wrong-meme-wrong     

Although this pass of intestinal debris has more shape and less size, I see a new color that contrasts against the kitchen floor: red.  My mental state collapses as my fingers race through Google.  It’s terrifying to diagnose one’s self as dying via the internet, but I promise it’s even more terrifying to diagnose a puppy as dying, especially since there is no dependable WebMD for dogs. 

I panic.  I tell myself it’s a hemorrhoid as I wash the puppy’s bum in the sink.  Desperate for answers, I divide the fur surrounding his butthole with fleeting hopes of finding a hemorrhoid, or even the smallest of lesions.  There is nothing.  I scurry back to his poop and examine it for worms or other harmful substances.  Again, there is nothing.  I can’t possibly diagnose this puppy by myself at 0330 hours, so I call the closest animal hospital.

“Hello?”

“Um-hi-yes-I’m watching this puppy and— he’s five months old— and I think he’s pooping blood— what should I do?”

“How is he acting?”

“Fine, other than pooping everywhere.”

“Is he up to date on shots?”  As I answer, she softly chats in the background with a colleague who brings her food.

“I’m not sure.”

“You can bring him in.”

I sit in peeved silence for a moment.  “Well, I know I can bring him in, but do I need to?”

“If you don’t want to right now, stay on the lookout for vomit.”

“Ok.  I just want to make sure the puppy makes it through the night.”

“I can’t promise that,” she sullenly warns.

Legally, I understand why she can’t promise that.  Emotionally, I’m distraught, and I hang up feeling more clueless than before.  I do what every pet sitter fears doing: I text the owner. 

In approximately three pages of texts, I give her all the details— the butthole, the lack of obvious foreign substances, the different shades of black and brown— and I pray she has the sound on her phone turned up.  After 0400 hours slips by, I know that the puppy’s destiny is in my hands. 

He has one more go at it, but this time he manages to push out definitive shapes with softer odors than before.  I become confident that he is done pooping for the night, but my thoughts still hop around from Hookworms to Giardia, like a wild connect-the-dots puzzle without discernible form. 

By the time his Mom calls me in the morning, I’m convinced he’s on the mend.  I communicate this with her, but I’m also willing to take him to the vet.  After all, ignoring blood in a puppy’s stool is a dangerous game.  However fortunately, the Divine is with us, and she reveals that her brother is a vet.  He thinks it’s related to separation anxiety, and I praise the high heavens above for delivering this puppy from illness. 

As he starts to gain his spirits back, the puppy once again becomes master of the household.  He nips my ankles, tugs on the senior pup’s long, silky ears, and finds things unseen to the human eye to chew through.  Later that evening, I catch him running around the dining room with a giant block of mush in his mouth.

My first thought?  He has a secret stash of excrement somewhere, and I have to let him lead me to the source.  I silently follow him with a sharp gaze and I finally see the candle for my path.

It’s actually, literally, a candle.  A red one, to be precise, and it is placed decoratively by the fireplace with some clones.  There are a few chunks missing from the side of the candle, and they are not-so-surprisingly carved with small, sharp marks that could have only been made by puppy’s teeth. 

I laugh. I cry. I call his mom.  We share our relief; the puppy wasn’t pooping blood, he was pooping candle wax. Despite salvation, a quiet bitterness remains within me.  For approximately 18 hours, I had been consumed by ominous grief.  Feces and gore had rid me of immediate hope for the poor pup, while also depriving me of sleep.  With a firm grip on the puppy, I lock him in an embrace as I settle down for a highly-anticipated nap.  He would not chew on anything while I was asleep.  He would not scratch at his cage door with a vengeance.  He would be trapped in my arms, and I could finally sleep without worry… 

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The older gentleman dog had logged 8 hours of sleep during the fiasco, so he was a jealous mess when I refused to walk him far from the house, for fear of the puppy getting sick again.  We returned from his potty time, and I once again had two dogs holding me down.  In an ideal world, this is everything I wanted for the weekend.  However, just as the puppy can’t escape my grasp, I cannot escape the gravity of the adult dog on top of me.  We remain motionless and restless. 

The puppy really is on the mend, though, and other than throwing a raging PooPooParty that weekend, I had a great time.  Crazily enough, I’m still fervently looking for a pup to call my own.

Just… No kids.  For a long time. They’re pooping anarchists 24/7, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.

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(Stacie Scott AP)

’Til next time y’all,

Lizzie

Escape The Friendzone: A Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Story

(This is a semi-color coded story.  If your first answer is A1, follow the red.  If your first answer is B1, follow the green.)

You’re really lonely one night and tired of single-dom.  As a millennial, you do what everyone’s doing:

You download Tinder. 

You’re swiping through a few hots and a lot of nots.  One person, however, catches your eye.  They make self-deprecating jokes in their bio and there are cute pictures of them with fluffy animals.  Instinctively, you swipe right.  A few moments of swiping continue to go by, and the little voice in your head says It’ll never happen, it’ll never happen, it’ll never happen. 

But then…

It does happen!  You make a match.  The pressure’s on for someone to say something. Do you…

A1.) Compliment their listed Spotify anthem

B1.) Let them say something first.  Your bio should make them come to you 

If you chose A1…  Congratulations, their Spotify anthem is “All Star” by Smashmouth and you’ve just asserted yourself as a total dweeb.  Not to fear; dweebs are a delicate and delightful breed.  You anticipate their response with joy, only to be disappointed when they say “Haha thx” and you have to ask another question to get the ball rolling.  Do you…

A.) Ask them to tell you more about what they like to do
B.) Unmatch them.  No need to waste time on someone who can’t carry a conversation.

If you chose B…. You didn’t even make it to the friendzone.  Game over. 

If you chose A…They eventually tell you about how they play guitar and do stand-up from time to time.  You have hope; if they do stand-up, surely they must be funny.  You ask them to tell you their favorite joke, and you force a laugh when they hit the punchline.  You’re an understanding person who likes to take time to get to know people, so you get this person’s Snapchat ID.  In your first Snap to them, do you…

A.) Send them a picture of what’s in front of you
B.) Send them a selfie

If you chose A… Chances are they’re going to ask what you’re doing, and you can prolong your conversation on your interests.  On the inside, your yearning to talk about something else.  Maybe they’re just bad at digital communication?  You suggest meeting up so that you can get a better feel of the situation.  Do you…

A.) Suggest a time and place

B.) Let them suggest a time and place

If you chose A… A coffee-shop date is set.  When you meet them, they’re surprisingly… boring.  That’s what you get for not going with your gut and pursuing someone you couldn’t hold a conversation with.  F.  Friendzoned, if you’re even worthy of that much commitment. 

If you chose B… They pick a sketchy afternoon activity: a nature walk.  You realize you’ve never met this person before and that it’s dangerous to just meet up with them on some vaguely established trail, so you send your friends all the information you have on them.  When you meet up, it turns out they’re not creepy, nor did they intend on being creepy.  They’re just awkward.  You’re awkward, too, so you hope you can be adorkable together.  It turns out, however, that you genuinely cannot have a conversation outside of your interests.  F+.  It isn’t a terrible date, but you have no intentions of getting past the friendzone at this point. Your story is over before it really ever began.

If you chose B… They think u cute.  You already knew that, given that they swiped right on you, but it’s nice to hear them say it again.  You remind them they’re also cute, because fair is fair.  You flirtatiously suggest having the Two Cutes meet up, and they agree to it.  Do you…

A.) Suggest a time and place

B.) Let them suggest a time and place

If you chose A… You tell them to meet you at a local bar.  If the date is bad, at least the burgers won’t be.  When you see them walk through the door, you pat yourself on the back for making such a good decision.

If you chose B… You low-key stress about what you’ll wear and what you’ll order to eat at the restaurant they chose.  All things considered, however, you relax.  You know you can carry a nice enough conversation with this person, so you’re confident you can make it through the night.

(scroll past B1 to finish your story.)

If you chose B1…  They notice some obscure Harry Potter regalia in the background of one of your pictures, and they ask you what house you’re in.  They assure that it’s vital for you to have been sorted on Pottermore, not somewhere like Buzzfeed or Quizzes.  Your heart is pounding; you think you’ve found your Tinderella.  The rest of your conversation turns into playful debate over dumb stuff, like “Who’s the best NFL team?” or “Does pineapple belong on pizza?”  After you two finally agree on something (that something being Beyoncé is a damn queen,) they give you their number for further conversation.  The ball is in your court.  Do you…

A.) Text them and promise to advertise their number to everyone you know
B.) Feel awkward about them having your number, so you keep messaging them through the Tinder app.

If you chose A… Texting soon proves you have a lot in common.  They like DIY projects, prefer dogs over cats, and admit that their guilty pleasure is ice cream.  This person certainly has good taste, and you long to meet them.  Eventually, you both throw subtle hints back and forth until you agree on a place and time to meet.  Do you…

If you chose B… The conversation still stands, but it’s not as frequent as before.  The same jokes are made and the atmosphere is still lively, but it isn’t as genuine as it used to be.  In an effort to save a potentially good relationship, you extend an offer to meet up.  Do you…

A.) Tell them it’ll be casual

B.) Open up like the honest freak you are and subtly admit you’re nervous

If you chose A… Your date is set at a local festival and you’re excited to meet them.  You have no expectations, other than to have a nice evening.

If you chose B… It’s ok! People like honesty, and odds are they’re nervous, too.  Just don’t let that nervousness overcome your soon-to-be date at the bowling alley.

—-

In a nutshell, your next few weeks of talking to each other are excellent.  This person gets you, and you feel like you get them.  Eventually, mutually understanding each other becomes a threat: will you allow yourself to ease into a relationship, or will you become so comfortable that it’s not even fun anymore.  Even worse— will you become so comfortable that you’re afraid of it?

As time passes, one of you decides to take a step back— but when someone says “take a step back,” they most often mean abandon the project and run for the hills.  For whatever reason, that level of trust and comfort isn’t welcome at the moment in one or both of your lives.

No matter what you chose, you would’ve never made it.  The friendzone isn’t an attack on your character, but a defense of theirs (and vice versa if you’re the one implementing it.)  Being vulnerable in an intimate setting is just too much to handle sometimes.  Take a deep breath and know there’s nothing you could’ve done to change the outcome.

If you’re in the friendzone, I get it.  It Sucks, capital S.  Dwell on it, obsess over it, cry about it, but let it go eventually.  You don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with you, as generic as that sounds.  I know you’re thinking But I do, and you know nothing about my life, blargh blargh blargh, and if you hold out for something to change, power to you.  Just stay strong if things don’t change.

If you’re the friendzoner, for the love of God, be more considerate.  Don’t keep talking to them right away like everything is ok.  Don’t send them Snaps of every day life— even though you’re just trying to be friendly, I guarantee that’ll just give them hope to hang on to.  Sorry, but now is not the time for hope.  If you really want to be their friend, come back casually in a month or so.  Very, very casually.  CASUALLY.  Or, don’t come back at all.       

‘Til next time, y’all,

Lizzie

Your Period Is Valid

Before I start, let me get this out of the way: there is nothing shameful about menstruation.  It is a human experience, not just another stigmatized female condition.  A period is a period, period. Openly discussing it shouldn’t be a problem unless you’re genuinely squeamish at the mention of blood.  If that’s the case, this post isn’t for you.

There were two first-ever days of my period.  The very first day, at 11 years old, I was exhausted and had no idea what was going on.  A quarter-sized amount of blood graced my underwear and dried to a light-brown before I noticed it.  I used the bathroom when I got home from school, and innocently (and hilariously) thought, “Did I poop my pants today?”  I changed underwear and that was that. 

The second day, I was lining up with my fifth grade class to go to PE.  As an eternally weak-bladdered individual, I decided to leave my place in line to tinkle before a highly anticipated elementary dodgeball tournament. In the bathroom, I saw it— another drop of “poop,” strangely in the exact same place as the day before.  I tried rubbing it out, but to my dismay, it was there to stay.  It wasn’t until I washed my hands that I had my “aha!” moment. 

When you’re 11 years old, things that make you adult-ish give you a sense of pride.  Beaming, I exited the bathroom and returned to my place in line behind a friend.  I leaned over into her ear and whispered, “Hey, I think I started my period.” 

She seemed as happy for me as I was, but after the general hoorahs she suggested that I tell the teachers.  I hesitated; I was unopposed to free bleeding— after all, I had no idea pads existed at the time, and was convinced tampons were for actual women.  At the last minute, I quietly confessed my speculation to a teacher walking by.

It was a good enough excuse to skip dodgeball that day.  She asked me a series of questions to make sure we were dealing with a period, and not some other anomaly.  After explaining that the same spot had stained my underwear two days in a row, the beginning of my time as a menstruating female was confirmed. I was then cautiously handed a panty liner.  “You’re sure you know how to use this?”  Blinded by childish pride, I nodded and skipped off to the bathroom. 

In fact, I did not know how to use a liner or pad.  For the next three years, I put pads on sideways and folded the ends under the mid point of my underwear.  It wasn’t until my mom accidentally walked in during installation that I learned the truth. 

My periods quickly started to consume me, and fiercely destroyed my life. 

Imagine being 12 years old and pleading to your mom, “Don’t make me go to school today,” because you feel physically unable to get out of bed. 

Imagine having a male principal in middle school, and having to ask him for ibuprofen while barely standing up straight, clutching your stomach in agony.  Imagine your disappointment when he forbids the teachers from giving you more than two pills.  At 13, you’re used to taking 12 pills a day during the first few days of your period. 

Imagine the countless lies I had to tell in order to be excused from the classroom, or to hide away from my friends in the bathroom.  “I think I have a stomach flu.”  “I’m running a low fever.”  “I have food poisoning.” 

I would’ve rather experienced all of those things, but I was stuck with debilitating cramps.  To the outside world, my cramps weren’t enough.  The fact that I couldn’t walk, that I couldn’t focus on anything, didn’t matter unless I could translate my pain into a “normal” experience.

Several years later, this is still the case.  Within the last year, I was rushed to the hospital because of my cramps.  That same day, I held a straightening iron to my belly— yes, that very hot styling device that straightens women’s hair— in an actual attempt to burn myself so that my contractions would maybe calm down. 

What did I tell the professionals I missed meetings with? 

“I’m sorry, I’ve fallen very ill today.” 

Such words don’t give that amount of pain justice.  Worse, sometimes people like to ask what’s wrong.  I’d like to be honest and say “my uterus!”  But a fear of not being understood overcomes me; more predominantly, a fear of someone not trying to understand overcomes me.  So I make up something simple to cover the truth. 

I had to go through four different types of birth control to find my saving grace.  The first three were all pills, and each of my experiences with the pill eventually led to throwing up my breakfast, every day. 

It was inexpressibly terrible to only have one week out of the month to see how my medicine was working.  I would give it a trial period of a few months, then admit defeat and face my frustrations again. 

I began perusing birth control when I was 16.  I didn’t find the right one until I was 21.  Had I given up the fight, I probably wouldn’t be able to write this to you, on this day.  I’d be curled up in bed holding fire to fire.   

Battling off my cramps has been one of the biggest victories of my life, but a new challenge arose when I started birth control: battling off opinions. 

Think of it, a 16 year old girl who just wants control over her body, with these questions and claims thrown in her face:

-“If you start taking birth control now, you’re going to be infertile when you’re an adult.”

-“Birth control can make you even more moody on your period; are you sure you want that?”

-“Birth control should only be used when you’re sexually active.”

“Birth control shouldn’t be used as a contraceptive.  That’s an act against God.”

-“Don’t tell anyone you’re on birth control.  They might think you’re a slut.” 

The list goes on and on, but these were the most pointed indictments.  I started wondering (and still wonder to this day): Why THE HELL is my pain STILL not seen as enough?  Also, why are so many people concerned with how I take care of my body? Shouldn’t they be happy that I’m taking steps to be more comfortable with myself?

It wasn’t until after my recent trip to the ER that I started regularly using tampons.  For a long while, I wasn’t a fan because I thought they were uncomfortable, but the assumption was “She’s never going to have anything stuck up inside her.”  I’ve actually had someone say that to my face— she was joking, but I was considerably offended.  Let me bluntly lay this down for you, in case you didn’t already know: how I take care of the downstairs does not signify how I throw a basement party.  More simply, for those of you who need cruder terms: tampons ≠ sex.

I eventually gained trust in tampons, then abandoned them for the Lena cup.  Typically, people like to brag about how they’re saving the environment and their bank account with menstrual cups, but I just want to brag about how much it has changed my life.  I don’t feel it whatsoever, and I can leave it in for 12 hours— can I get an amen? 

It isn’t that graceful at first— I can honestly tell you it has popped up in my face and has bounced into the toilet— but you get there.  To the young women reading this right now, I urge you to give it a chance.  You will have moments of horror where you think it has been lost in the great abyss, or feel that your soul is being pulled out through your cervix by a micro-plunger, but once you get the hang of it (and you will get a hang of it!) I promise it’s worth it.  Need I remind you again?  12 hours!  Furthermore, I’m happy to say I woke up to soft white sheets this morning. They evaded the likes of a murder scene. 

Jokes aside, I know menstruation can be terrible.  I also know that it can be empowering.  However you feel about it, know this: It’s increasingly important for women to claim their bodies.  Our pain is enough and we need to be able to talk about it. Get loud about it!  You’re experience is valid.  You are more than enough.    

‘Til next time, y’all.

Lizzie

Hannah Montana: Friend or Faux?

Before you ask, yes.  I meant to spell it that way.

The year is 2007.  I am a sprouting 12 year old girl, awkward in shape and sound.  Anything I can ever talk about are the Jonas Brothers or Hannah Montana.  When I learn that I can send them fan mail via my Dad’s new computer, I seize the day.  This is my time, I tell myself as I gingerly put my small hands on a keyboard specifically designed for big hands. 

I don’t remember exactly how it went, but I do remember the opening line going a little something like this:

“Dear Miley or Hannah or ???, 

I’ve written a song for you.”

With a beautiful, blissful, childlike ignorance, I added:

“You don’t have to pay me, I just want to hear my song sung by someone else.”

I proceeded to write about frustrations, rocking on, and making life what you want it to be.  Sound familiar?  Maybe you’re thinking of this:

Boom. Taking it back to the present tense, in the past, in 2007.

A few months later, Hannah is singing my song…. I think.  I’m unable to confirm anything because I don’t have a copy of the email OR the song— apparently 12 year old me thinks lyrics can be written on the fly and memorized forever— so I just sit and listen.  One thing I know for certain: this has the same gist as my song did.  Another thing that is certain: the musical arrangement gets preteen Lizzie boppin’.  Confused over how to feel, I ultimately relish the moment because life’s what you make it.

Flash forward ten years later: Writing lyrics puts me in agony.  Starting a blog fills me with anticipation.  But here I am/ writing to you/ the sky’s more blue/ in Malibu than it is in Indianapolis.  Seriously, this place has a Great Grey Dome Designed by The Gods covering it 99% of the time, giving us either rain, tornadoes, or a shit ton of snow.  Currently, there’s a light fog outside of my apartment, and the thoughts in my head start to mimic its soft movements— swirling, swirling, swirling— until they resurface this random memory from my childhood.  I am driven to compose another message.  This time, it will be to the world.  This time, everyone will know how I singlehandedly undermined The Disney Channel as a 12 year old girl: by sending bomb-ass fan mail to Hannah Montana.

A good portion of my teenage years were riddled with the question, Did I or didn’t I?  Alas, as epic as it would be to claim rights over one of the most hoppin’ children’s jams of 2007, I simply can’t do it.  The guy who is credited for writing it also wrote songs for Big Time Rush, Hilary Duff, and Kelly Clarkson.  I guess that’s ample evidence that he’s kind of a big deal and definitely more songwriter-worthy than 12 year old me. 

What a ride.  ’Til next time, y’all.

Lizzie

Arroz con Pollo

Contrary to popular belief, Arroz con Pollo is not simply chicken, rice, and queso. 

Wait, you already knew there was more to it than that?  Do me a favor and pretend you didn’t, that way you can share an aha moment with me at the end of this post. 

Anyways, Arroz con Pollo is actually full of all the good stuff that gets your system going, yet also slows you down.  This slow down has me wholeheartedly motivated to do nothing but lay in bed the rest of the night. 

I write this to you as I contemplate going to the gym.  This would mean a 3 day streak of working out, which is how long it takes to make a streak with someone on Snapchat.  I have a hard enough time committing to sending someone a picture every day, let alone making myself sweat on purpose.  But hey, as long as I can watch HGTV while pedaling away, I guess I’m good to go.

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All of this blabber has actually been a terrible lead up to what I really want to talk about: writing.  You see, someone asked me if I actually wanted to be a writer today— if I’d actually thought about it.  This took me off guard, considering I just spent the last four years working towards an English Writing degree. With zero tolerance for that question and a soft press on the End Call button, my phone screen went blank— but my mind was racing. 

“Have you actually sat down and thought about being a writer?”  (x1,000)

I screamed into the patterned throw-pillow next to me before grabbing my laptop and opening Word.  My first response: how could I incorporate this into a story?  WWVD (What Would Vonnegut Do?)

At first I started thinking up plot points for a bildungsroman— a high-school girl wanting to go to college and major in Creative Writing, and everyone (as is the fate of arts and humanities majors) doubts her.  She would blossom in college, and she’d be an amazing writer at the end of it all.  Who doesn’t love a happy ending?

I had everything figured out— the characters, the setting, and the sub-context all danced in my head— but I couldn’t write it.  I can’t.  Even now, my fingers hover above a dimly lit keyboard, afraid of what I’ll type next.

Needless to say, the encounter was enough to lock me down in Crying Mode.  Panic overcame me, just as it did on graduation day last week— the fear of no one taking me seriously as a writer and of having nowhere to go broke me down. 

But here I am now, presenting myself to you as a writer.  I’ll formally apologize to the Arroz con Pollo for thinking it was so simple; there is so much more to it that makes it a glorious dish, beloved by everyone I know.  Now, it’s my turn to prove there’s more to me than meets the eye.   

Come along as I eat more food, allude to more Vonnegut, and curse about dumb things more than I should.  It’ll be a funky ride, and I want to ride it with you.

That sounds kind of erotic, but I’m going with it.  ’Til next time, y’all.

Lizzie