And in Hindsight...

After venting my spleen in my last bitter blog entry, I talked to my father and then my sister. In their wisdom, they both helped me put things in perspective.

I have no reason to feel any envy for Sophie's seemingly good fortune. Yes, she won a million dollars, but at what cost? To get that money, she sacrificed her dignity to the altar of reality TV. All she did was prove that in modern society, people will go to ridiculous and obscene lengths to obtain material wealth.
As I spoke to my family, I realize that my dignity and pride, all that I really have, do not have a price tag. That I would rather be poor, I would rather be what I am now, than sell myself out in exchange for some lousy dollars, which after taxes (unless of course, Sophie decided to commit the white collar crime of tax evasion) will be a mere pittance.

So she has some money. What is money but a pile of paper? Some numbers? It will bring her no joy, no nirvana. Material goods provide a temporary pleasure, but they cannot beat the euphoria that comes with drumming at a powwow, and watching people dance to the songs that you sing. She will never experience the Eagle Dance, the Hoop Dance or even a simple Candy Dance. She will never dive into the river after a good powwow, or sit in a tipi on a rainy night. She will never get to drink Sumac tea with a clan chief, or participate in a sacred water ceremony.
I am truly blessed.
In this year alone, I have reaped so much good fortune of my own, of a sort entirely different from monetary gain. Sophie may have money, may have 15 minutes of fame, but she certainly can't say that's she's part of something sacred, that she's helping keep a culture alive. If anything, she's now a part of the machine that destroys culture.

Money isn't forever, and neither is fame. On a grander scale, it means absolutely nothing,

So here it is. I feel much better now. If I weren't recovering from my breast reduction, I'd whip out hand drum, and sing White Sky. Oh fuck it, I'll sing White Sky anyway, drum or no drum.

A Word About Sophie Clarke

I went to school with Survivor Winner, Sophie Clarke. And let me tell you, it was no picnic. She was obnoxious. At least from my point of view. I had a locker near her, and she used to simultaneously antagonize me, and make strange attempts at being my friend. Pretty much, she liked fucking with my head. When I went through my punk rock phase, she'd gleefully mock me, claiming that she was more punk than me, knowing that it would aggravate me. She would tell me that if I dyed my hair pink it would 'look gross, like period blood,' because of the natural dark shade of my hair (did she not know that you have to bleach dark hair before it can be dyed a wild color?). She claimed she would dye her hair pink too, and it would look better. She made fun of my crush on Elijah Wood, constantly asking if the picture of him of Frodo, that was displayed in my Return of the King planner was in fact, a girl. Most annoying, and most disgusting of all, when I came out as being Wiccan, she made fun of me for weeks, asking me if I was like 'Sabrina the Teenage Witch,'. Those are the moments I remember most. That and giving her a swift kick to the shins for being an annoying bint. In all the years I knew her, she proved herself to be an ignorant, intolerant, obnoxious two-faced little bitch.
Her annoying, childish behavior led to my intense dislike of her. I had no idea why she constantly acted like this. It was like she couldn't decide whether to bully me, or be my friend. My mother used to tell me that it seemed like Sophie had some bizarre lesbian crush on me. She stared at me enough times. You couldn't call her teasing bullying, it was more irritating than hurtful. Perhaps if I wasn't Autistic, her behavior would have been easier to ignore, and I could have simply laughed at her. But the fact is, people with Asperger's or NLD have thin skins, and are easily provoked.
When I moved, she kept sending me so many Facebook and Myspace requests that I had to block her. Did she ever figure out my vitriol? She probably has, and attributes it to 'jealousy'. Sophie, I'm not jealous of YOU as a person. I wouldn't want to be you for five minutes. I'm jealous of your good luck, and that's about it. Other than that, I think I'm pretty damn awesome.

What else do I remember of her? She was in the National Honor Society. She was in the NHS, and I recall overhearing her discussing giving exam answers to another student. That's right. She was a cheater. She was a cheater, an antagonistic wannabe bully, and her sisters used to try and get teachers fired, simply for their amusement. She was an archetypal spoiled rich kid, who had everything handed to her.
And now she's won a million dollars.

Apparently she said "I'm part of the 1% now". Well good for you, Sophie. You're part of the 1% of over privileged, corrupt bourgeoisie that are currently public enemy #1. Congratulations. The rest of the country, that 99% are screaming for your blood, as they take to the streets. Vive la sans-culottes! I certainly hope you were joking when you made this comment.

Some people will comment on this blog, Sophie's ass-kissing hangers-ons and fans. They will insult me, in defense of their queen, like the good little white knights they are. They will say "Oh you're just jealous".
That's right. I am. I am jealous that this person, who lacks decent character, this utterly fake and obnoxious person, who has had everything handed to her, has a million dollars, while each month, my family and I, as well as so many other Americans, struggle to make ends meet.
But that's just about all I'm jealous of, when it comes to Sophie Clarke. I don't want her life, I don't want to be her. From now on, people will only want to be around her for her money. At least when you're poor, you know who your true friends are.
Just once in my life, I'd like to see the underdog win. Someone who truly has been in the bottom of the pit. Someone who knows about foodstamps, welfare, social workers and SSI. Someone who knows all about the constant never-ending bullshit that comes with poverty.
Why do the people who already have everything, get more?

And that's it. My rant is done. I will say no more of this tiresome bint, who went from that obnoxious girl who vaguely resembles a monkey, to a reality star, who seems to have finally grown into her looks. Good for you, I wish you the joy of it.

It was the Breast of Times, it was the Worst of Times

Breasts. Tits. Boobs. Hooters. Knockers. Funbags. Whatever you call them, society is obsessed with them. Everyone, male or female, gay or straight, young or old, seems to have some strange fascination with them. But I am not writing this blog to discuss and analyze society's obsession with breasts. No, I've got another, more personal topic related to breasts.
Tomorrow, I am getting a breast reduction. I will be going down from a mammoth H cup to a livable, decent C cup. And so I've decided to write, perhaps self-indulgently about the journey my tits and I have been on, for you see, we are bosom buddies, and have always had a complicated relationship...

When I was a child, I couldn't wait to start growing breasts, and I didn't have to wait very long. I first started to bud when I was eight. I remember looking in a bathroom mirror in the elementary school bathroom, on the eve of my ninth birthday, and seeing, for the first time, two distinct nubs under my purple t-shirt. I was excited. I squealed in joy. I was getting breasts! Soon, I'd get pubic hair, and then my period...puberty!
I asked for a training bra in fourth grade. It seemed like the right thing to do. I was so pleased with the onset of puberty, and was certain that it would be fun. I got my white cotton training bra on Easter, promptly put it on, and HATED it. It was so uncomfortable! Ridiculously so! I refused to wear, even though I had asked for it. I tried, I tried to wear it, but I just couldn't do it. I never really wore it, and eventually, when I was twelve, gave it to a friend who seemed to need it more.
Even as my breasts grew and grew, I still refused to wear a bra. In fifth grade, I had an embarrassing moment, when I bent down in a loose tank top, and the boy I'd had a crush on saw my bare breast. I was humiliated, and I remember him whispering with his friends, feverishly.
When I was in sixth grade, I was a B cup, and still refused to wear a bra. I got picked on by the other girls. They especially complained if my t-shirt had a hole in it, and I had a wardrobe malfunction. They were so offended, why I do not know. Prudishness, passed on by Puritanical ancestors? Latent homophobia? Jealousy? Even the school therapist told me to conform and wear a bra. I didn't want to. They were uncomfortable, and I had a lot of issues with sensory and textures at the time. Stupid Autism.
Finally, by 7th grade, I surrendered, and starting wearing bras. One the first day, I borrowed one of my mother's, and when some of the girl's saw the strap slip out from my shirt, they giggled and said retarded things like "Sara's wearing a hot pink bra". Really? Really? It was gray. Gray. I'm aware they were fucking with me, but that doesn't make it any less annoying.
While I wore bras, I still had days were I went bra-less, and always, took them off the minute I got home. I mostly wore sports bras, and soft cups, but I tried underwire now and again.
My juvenile breasts attracted attention. Since sixth grade, there had always been rumors that I stuffed my bra. I was offended. My breasts were the real thing, and I always told people so.
I'm sure the boys in my class noticed them, I later found out that one of my nicknames, 'Tree', not only referenced my bushy hair, but also my breasts, which were abundant, while the rest of me remained slender. I was shaped like a tree, essentially. Big foliage, skinny trunk.
By eighth grade, I'd gone up another cup size. C cup. I was used to wearing bras now, but found them horribly uncomfortable, especially underwires. I used to tuck the fabric of my shirt under the wires, to provide a cushion. It annoyed one of my classmates, Teal, but then again, she seemed rather annoyed by a lot of my quirks, such as running on my toes, and writing smutty romance stories at the tender age of 14.
By eighth grade, the stuffing rumors had also stopped (though a girl once asked me at a Halloween party if I stuffed and when I told her no, she shut the hell up). No one has since questioned the integrity of my tits. At least not to my face.
Back in the 7th grade, I was reading a Seventeen Magazine article about a girl who had a breast reduction. They didn't disclose her cup size, but the pictures showed that she was very large. I remember thinking 'That will never happen to me'. I think I challenged the gods, with that statement.
By the end of 9th grade I was a D cup, and my mother and sister began to suggest the possibility of a reduction. I was offended by this. I loved that I had naturally large breasts, even if I couldn't wear cute bikinis and swimsuits. Even if the kids at school were put off by the size of my chest, and the costumers in school plays always tried to hide my chest with frumpy costumes. (I always managed to fight them, and find something that highlighted my figure. I knew women paid lots of money to have boobs like mine, and that I was gifted. My friend Nicki often called them The Tatas, and her fascination with them amused me. To quote something we once wrote in a story "You got more than a handful there, cause those are some huge tatas!"
But there were still doubts. Sometimes, I'd look at my naked body in the mirror, and be disgusted. The other girls were smaller, perkier, mine, had weight, they didn't stand proud and tall, and too me, they looked saggy. My mother tried to reassure me, tell me that one day I'd find someone who would love my body just as it was.
Before we moved to Bellows Falls, I went up another cup size. DD. In my new home, my breast attracted more attention than in Willsboro. I got groped by a boy for the first time, though he didn't ask permission first. My breast ceased to be mine somehow, for it seemed friends were always poking them. I got ogled at Anime cons. I began to deflect my self-consciousness by making jokes about them, discussing them candidly. This backfired on me, because eventually I got called out and insulted by someone, who remains nameless due to the peace I've made with them. They called my breasts 'saggy mammaries' and accused me of being obsessed with them. It's not that I was obsessed, it's just that I'd hyper-focused. I do that. A lot. This person ripped apart my character in other ways, but let us not dwell on the past. I often wonder why I receive such negative attention for my breasts. It's not like I went out and got silicone implants, it's not like I wanted to have big breasts. Well, I did when I was a little girl, but what did I know then?
In 2007, I met Scott at Anime Boston. He seemed fascinated with my breasts. But then again, most guys were. Most girls were too. My friend Kate was President of the Boobs for awhile, and would often grab them or rest her head on them.
As our long-distance relationship progressed though, he began to say things that bothered me. He would say he preferred small breasts, that he liked them perky. I told him he's bet on the wrong horse, natural DD's aren't 'perky'. He said as long as I could see the nipple, I was fine. I began to dread undressing for him.
But the first time he saw my naked breasts, he was fascinated by them. He seemed to fall in love with them. He became obsessed with them, said praised them. My self-esteem was considerably bolstered by this. My mother's prophecy had come true. I had found a man who loved my body as it was. At least it seemed so.
During my senior year, I started taking the pill, and my breasts began to balloon, and I gained weight. I blamed stress, my grandmother was dying. I kept buying new bras, but none of them fit. I began to feel horrible about myself.
I went to Lane Bryant that spring, got measured. The lady did a double take. She said I was an H cup. AN H?! My aunt was that size after she'd had a baby. I think I began to cry. I felt despair creep. And in that little dressing room, I decided, that I would finally get a breast reduction.
When I told Scott, he was excited that my breasts were so big. He told me I had 'hentai boobs'. That they were hot. He had a fetish for them, playing with them, and insisting on tit-related sexual practices that I'd rather not describe. I began to feel that he only loved my boobs and not me. I began to feel that people only saw my breasts and not me. As years passed, I began to feel resentful, all the jokes, all the stares. People acted like my breasts were public property. Just a few months ago, a friend lifted them up, without even asking 'to see how much they weighed'. My best friend told me they looked weird and scary. I hated them. I hated them so much. All the jokes I made, couldn't ward off my pain, anger and humiliation.
And yet, a sliver of pride remained. After all, some women pay thousands of dollars for such large tits. You see porns stars with K cups, but they pay MONEY for those, they're fake.
But pride didn't make my back stop hurting, didn't make shopping less humiliating. I HAD to get surgery and fix this shit.
I went to a plastic surgeon in Springfield in spring of 2009. I was hopeful. He said I was a prime candidate, took pictures for insurance reasons. But he didn't explain the procedure very well and treated me like I was stupid. I asked if I would still be able to breast feed. He said, no he was going to do a free nipple graft, it was easier than a pedicle. He would remove my entire nipple, and put me at risk of infection and nerve damage and hurt my chances of breast feeding my kids, just because he was too lazy to do a pedicle! Not only that, he didn't even really try that hard with my insurance. Medicaid denied me. No proof of rash or strap mark. I got proof, but he wouldn't take it. He was a lousy surgeon and in hindsight, I'm glad it's not that buffoon cutting me up. I'd rather have a squirrel chew my tits off than let that misogynist, outdated sawbones lay a hand on me. I even wrote a poem about all this crap.
Another year or two passed. In 2011 I went to Dr. Ridgeway at Dartmouth-Hitchcock. A woman. She listened. She looked at my breasts and decided that I really needed the surgery. Hope. Again, hope.
But insurance changes prevented my surgery, and I waited another 8 or 9 months. In October, I went back to the doctor, and with my new insurance, I found out that they could just do the surgery, and then I had to wait for my insurance to approve it. We made the date, I signed the papers, and it was done. December 12th was the big day.
For the past two months, it's been easier dealing with my breasts. Sometimes, I think I'm going to miss being this big, after all, in a way it set me apart from the pack, but then I remind myself of all the pain, and misery I've endured. I think of all the things I'll be able to do. I'll shawl dance, drum better, run and jump and go clubbing without fear of embarrassment. I'm tired of being the girl with big tits. I'm tired of men only liking me for my 'big ol' titties' as some cretins like to call them. I worry a little, that I won't be as popular or something, but I was never popular anyway. I worry about negative changes, but I can't turn back now I suppose.
My tits and I have a complicated relationship. We love each other, and yet all we do is hurt each other. Sometimes it feels like they've become sentient beings at that I'm hurting them by doing this. Maybe it's time to get these puppies under control.

What I'm Thankful For

Well here it is, the cliche 'what I'm thankful for' Thanksgiving blog. In past years, I would have scoffed at this, rolled my eyes, because honestly, I didn't always have anything to be thankful for. I was tormented in school and didn't have many friends as a kid, and as an adult I'm usually very depressed around Thanksgiving. So, the past few years have proved barren in terms of thankful proclamations at the dinner table.
But this year was different. So much has happened in the past year, that I cannot help but become mushy and start to blubber my gratitude towards the excellent fortune I have received in 2011.
Not to say that there haven't been bad times this year, but personally, I have been blessed many times over. So let us hear it, what am I thankful for this Thanksgiving?

1. My Breast Reduction:
In February of this year I went to Dartmouth Hitchcock to have a consult with a plastic surgeon regarding the size of my breasts and the possibility of a breast reduction. It was successful, and we only had to wait for my insurance to approve it. But in spring my insurance underwent several changes, and I was denied surgery for yet a third time. But I knew it was over. My insurance changed again, and I went back for a second consult. This time, I was lucky and got a surgery date for the 12th of December. So I am thankful that soon, I will no longer be in the constant physical pain that come with having over-abundant breasts, and instead be in constant physical pain that comes from a major surgical procedure to make those breasts smaller.

2. Receiving Social Security:
As my readers may know, I have an Autism Spectrum Disorder. As a result, functioning in school and the work place is difficult. I have to undergo therapy, and take medications to keep the symptoms of my disorder in check. In 2010, I had applied for disability, and gotten denied right away. I challenged their decision, and got a lawyer (who didn't do much). By March of 2011, I was approved and started getting checks in the mail. This has made my life easier, I can now contribute to the household, and buy things I need.

3. Getting Out of an Abusive Relationship:
In April, Scott dumped me. I'd been with him for four years, and during those long years, he treated me like shit. There were bright moments at times, and I did love him, but I was miserable. I couldn't talk to my friends, or do anything I enjoyed. He made me stop talking to other men, he threatened to leave me if I smoked pot, or went to college or did any of the things people my age experiment with.
He dumped me two days before my birthday, and I considered a reunion, but when he told me that if I could rekindle my friendship with my male friends, then he could 'fuck whoever he wanted,'. Sick of his illogical and childish behavior, I said goodbye forever.
I loved him, and I was sad at first (especially right after the breakup itself), but eventually I realized that this tragedy was really a blessing. I'm a free bird now, allowed to do as I please. While I still feel bad about how things ended, and the time I wasted, I don't think I regret taking back my life and becoming my own woman again.

4. The Drum
One winter day, I ran into a man named Whitewolf, who happened to be looking for drummers. I had no experience, but he accepted my offers anyway, and thus I joined The Voice of United Spirit Singers. After that my life turned around. I wasn't angry or sad or scared anymore. I was taking my meds, stopped resisting my therapist. I was regaining some of my sense of self. I learned how to drum, how to sing Native American songs. I learned about my heritage, I learned about who I was as a person. I went to powwows and met wonderful people. I learned so many things after embarking on the journey of being a powwow drummer.
I am thankful for Voice of United Spirit and her singers, most of all. They have become my family, and I love them as I would love my own blood. I don't know where I would be without them or what I would be doing. Perhaps I would still be in an abusive relationship, becoming more and more despondent as the days go by. I don't know and I don't want to think about it.

5. All the Small Things:
After all describing all the big changes that I am thankful for, I want to make an honorable mention to all the little things that have made my life sweet. My friends, my family, my cats. Sleepovers with Kenny, and meeting my niece. Going on drives with Becca, and to the fair with Arielle. Late night swims with the gang, the Shelburne Museum with my mother and sister. Cemetery trips. Swimming in the river, and watching movies. Lady Gaga.

Guilt and Contrition

Thinking back to my last post, I do actually feel rather guilty about the comments I made about person number two. While I did mean what I said at the time I said it, that does not mean I do not feel bad about it now.
If the person these comments were directed at, realized that these words were about them, I am sorry if I hurt their feelings. I was feeling angry, and now that I am no longer feeling angry, I am willing to have a talk with them about the problems within our friendship.
The fact is, I love Person Number 2. I have known them for many years, and I say these things not only out of frustration, but also out of concern for that person's well-being. I want them to be happy, but I also want them to understand that some happinesses do not last forever.
My feelings were hurt by some words this person said to me. Perhaps they flung these insults about callously, not realizing what effect they would have on my pride. Perhaps, they were taking out their negativity on me. I do not know.
So here it is, I have to talk candidly with this person, tell them how I feel. But I am afraid. I am afraid of making the situation worse, mostly. My relationship with this person has suffered in the past.
Perhaps, they never even saw this blog. So perhaps this whole post was pointless. After all, most people have better things to do than read the ramblings of a socially awkward, Autistic, powwow drummer.

Things I'll Never Say (to your face)

Sometimes, we want to say certain things to certain people. But for one reason or another, we don't get around to it, usually because we are afraid, or because we don't want to hurt the person's feelings. Tonight, I am going to make a bold move, and write out these things, these things I want to say. They are addressed to friends, to enemies. They are supposed to be anonymous, but if someone figures out the identity of the person these message are addressed to, I suppose I will need to face the consequences.

1. You give me the creeps. Every time I am nice to you, I regret it, afterwards. Because as soon as I am nice to you, you attach yourself to me like a leech. Then when I call you out on your clingy obsessive behavior, you lie and say you're just trying to be my friend, when really, I know you're trying to get into my pants. Speaking of lies, you seem to tell A LOT of them. Do you even believe the bullshit that comes out of your mouth? I mean, who are you trying to impress? Well, me obviously, and the rest of the girls in town, but do you actually think it works? It doesn't. It makes me distrust you. Do you know WHY I keep avoiding you? Why, after I declared interest, I suddenly recanted? It's because you give me a very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Do you wonder why so many girls tend to ditch you? They get interested, and then out of nowhere, they stop talking to you, cut off contact? It's because you're a creeper. It's because you're a liar, it's because you probably give them the same bad feeling in the pit of their stomachs that I get. Half of the stuff you brag about, (which is mostly not true anyway) is nothing you SHOULD be bragging about. It's all stuff that sets up GIANT FUCKING RED FLAGS.
Also, it's called mouthwash. It's not expensive. Why bother dousing yourself in so much cologne that, if I lit a match you would catch fire, if you're just going to breath stank breath in my fair visage?

2. Sorry, the rant has removed due to the friendship of magic.

3. I'm sorry things ended the way they did. I'm sorry your life hasn't been easy. But I can't save you, it wasn't my job. I loved you, and I tried to make you happy. But like I said, happiness comes from within, and all that happy horse shit. You abused me. You claimed that you did not, but you did. Calling me a cunt is abusive. Telling me that if I don't stop talking to my best guy friend, you'll leave me, that's abusive. Forcing me to do things, by wearing down my defenses by begging and pleading until I say yes out of sheer exasperation, that's abusive too. I wasn't a saint, I did treat you like shit, but lemme tell ya, I treat my lovers the way they treat me. But I took responsibility for my actions, unlike you.
But once upon I time, I loved you. I loved you so much, and I wanted so much from you. I loved you so much, that I lied to myself just to keep you. Made excuses, bent over backwards. I'm never doing that again. I'm not sad it's over. I'm free now. I can try new things, and meet people and go on adventures, and not have to feel guilty. I feel bad about it ended, but I don't feel bad about having to end it. Sometimes I'm still in disbelief, but then I remember how bad things were, how miserable I was, and I thank Creator I got out before it could have gotten worse.

4. Sometimes I think you're boring and pretentious, but there's something about you, that I am just drawn to. I want another chance, and I'm sure you know it, but I'm afraid that it will never happen. But I still hope. I just can't help it.
BTW, if you're not interested, just fucking be honest and say so.

Halloween Memories Part 2

I had too many memories for just one entry, so I decided to make it a two-parter. I covered my childhood Halloween memories, so now I suppose I must chronicle the Halloweens of my adolescence and early adulthood. If you don't give a fuck, I suggest you turn back now.

Halloween 2001, Age 12: That year, I decided to go as a dance hall girl, like my sisters did when they were around this age. I had an old salmon-colored bridesmaid dress that I used for dress up. My mom trimmed it in black lace and tucked the skirts back to form a bustle. We bought fishnets, and I wore my little ankle boots. I got to wear really dark red lipstick, and a fake rose in my hair. I was very impressed with how pretty I looked.
A girl in my class, also named Sara, was throwing a Halloween party, but I opted not to go, in favor of trick or treating one last time. I wore my costume to school again, which garnered me lots of attention, as it usually did. When I went out with my sister that night I carried two bags, hoping I'd get lots of candy. I didn't. I don't even think I filled one bag. I also had to wear my jacket because it was so cold. Instead of looking like a glamorous can-can dancer, I ended up looking like an Ellis Island immigrant. I got very stale gum from an old lady.

Halloween 2002, Age 13: I decided to eschew trick or treating with a firm hand, and go to Sara H's party. I would be going as a gypsy. It was a pretty neat costume, with a patchwork skirt, and scarves and boots. An off the shoulder chemise accentuated my premature busty figure. I actually looked like a gypsy. But I didn't wear the costume to school. Instead, I dressed up like a punk rocker (not realizing that months later, I would actually adopt the style full-time). I looked pretty epic as a little punk. Sophie Clarke (of Survivor fame) was in my English class and she stared at me rather creepily as I sat there with my spiked hair, chains and torn clothes. When school was out, I walked home and got ready for the party.
The party wasn't as fun as I'd hoped. The boys teased me every time I got up to go to the bathroom. I tried singing karaoke with the girls, but after awhile they didn't want me singing with them (for reasons unknown to me). Victoria asked me if I stuffed my bra. Never have, never needed to, not even then. The highlight of the evening was when I won the costume contest for my gypsy costume. I was very pleased with this, and quite surprised that I had actually won something and that they liked my costume. When I got home, I watched the end of The Faculty and mooned over Elijah Wood while eating candy.

Halloween 2003, Age 14: Obsessed with The Lord of the Rings, I decided to go as a wood elf. We made a tunic, and I wore a pair of tight green pants and some neat leather boots. Katie tinted my hair green, and tried doing forest camouflage on my face. Mom bought me a plastic sword.
A week before Halloween, I went to a party at my mom's work, where I would end up meeting my best friend, Amanda. She was a vampire, I was an elf. I told her I like her jacket and we became fast friends.
At school, I dressed as a goth vampire. I took my sister's feather witch hat, and pinned down the crown so it would look like an Edwardian hat. I had a bad day at school. I got teased at the pep rally, and some bully named Eli snatched my hat. I got him back though. He hid, but I found him, grabbed my hat and kneed that fucker right in the balls. I didn't even get in trouble, and his female friends didn't blame me for it, even when he whined.
Katie and I went trick or treating that night. As usual, the two of us had quite good time. When I got home, and washed off my costume, some popular kids pelted my house with onions. Or maybe that happened in 2002. Regardless, I never found out who did it, but I will always have my suspicions.

Halloween 2004, Age 15: Our last Halloween in Willsboro. This year I was going as a pretty flower fairy. I wore a wispy green skirt, and a green belly shirt. Mom made me beautiful gold net wings. We got a lot of pretty shimmery green makeup. I wore this costume to the party at mom's work, where my wings kept falling off. I also froze my ass off. But Amanda got some really pretty pictures of me from that night.
Because I froze my ass off, I couldn't possibly wear that costume on Halloween night. When I went to school on Halloween, I dressed as a Medieval lady, in a red houppelande. With my short hair and glasses, everyone assumed I was Harry Potter. Sophie Clarke antagonized me all day with "Are you Harry Potter? Are you Harry Potter?". If she's grown out of her obnoxiousness, I do not know. When I got home, my mom, sister and I turned fairy costume into a punk fairy costume. Mom sewed my gold wings into a leather jacket. I wore a black mini, a black shirt, holey tights and boots. Katie did my makeup. She put on some bunny ears (she was a were-rabbit) and off we went. It was a great night. The best Halloween ever. We got lots of candy, and some creeper thought I was supposed to be an angel. My ex-boyfriend's little brother shouted at us from his back, but it didn't seem to matter. We ate apples by the river.

Halloween 2005, Age 16: We moved to Bellows Falls, VT earlier that year. I'd made some friends in a local Anime club, and we put together a trick or treating expedition. I dressed as Sally from Nightmare Before Christmas. My mom made the dress, and we used white tights that we drew stitches on to make my rag doll arms and legs. My godmother bought me a red wig, and we used eyeliner to make stitches on my face. My friends and I all met up at the library, and then we went trick or treating. We were an interesting group. There were ninjas, fairies, changelings and pirates. Arielle wore a goblin mask and a pretty dress. Whenever anyone asked what she was supposed to be she said "I'm your ex-girlfriend".
Sometime during the night we all got split up. This distressed me quite bit, and as a result, I was in a rather surly mood for the rest of the evening. By the end of the night, most of the party reunited, and after some of them went home, Hannah, Caitlin, Nina and I crossed the bridge into Walpole, NH to trick or treat there and visit Caitlin's grandma. When I got home, my mom had a pizza waiting for me, and thus ended my first Halloween in good ol' Fellows Balls.

Halloween 2006, Age 17: Like last year, my friends and I were going to go trick or treating. I was disappointed however, when Hannah decided to go trick or treating with some people who I rather disliked at the time. But as always, I had Arielle, and other friends.
I was going to go as the Evil Fairy Queen. Mom bought me a black and white velvet gown that was supposed to be a zombie bride costume, but would work as a fairy gown too. She also bought me black glittery wings, and an evil fairy crown and wand.
At school that day, I borrowed Caitlin's insanely high platform Mary-Janes and wore the shredded veil that came with the zombie bride dress. I got laughed at by some bullies, but I thought I looked pretty awesome. I told everyone I was supposed to be Anne Boleyn's ghost, but none of them got it.
Also like last year, I was to meet my friends at the library. Hannah, Caitlin and Nina were there with my then enemies. I felt left out and hurt, but soon Arielle arrived and soothed that hurt. We met up with the rest of the group and headed out. That night was a riot. We tried trick or treating at the funeral home, and got yelled at by the director. The lights were on, and naively, I assumed they were doing something for the holiday. They were not. They were holding a funeral. Mortified, we left hurriedly. Who has a fucking funeral on Halloween?
As we walked around town, we collected more people we knew. We all got pretty rowdy, and when a cop drove by Arielle called him a pig. He pulled over, and we all ran like little bitches while Arielle dove into the bushes. He fined her 500 dollars!
It was a crazy night, and we all got lots of candy. It was the coolest Halloween ever.

Halloween 2007, Age 18: This was a Halloween that should have been awesome, but turned out kind of lame. I went as a Japanese Ghost. Mom made me a white burial kimono, and some tabi socks. I wore a black wig, and we painted my face like a corpse. Then we dumped fake blood all down my front. This was one of the coolest costumes I ever had. I couldn't wear it to school though, so at school I just dressed up as a cat.
Arielle and I went trick or treating, and we brought our friend Tony. All night long, Tony kept introducing himself to everyone person who handed out candy. Eventually Arielle and I got a little annoyed at this. Then Tony and Arielle had a fight. Arielle and I ended up going home much earlier than we wanted, because we were so cold and frustrated. But we had a good amount of candy, and mom ordered pizza because we hungry.

Halloween 2008, Age 19: My friend Kim and I went trick or treating even though we were both much too old. I had gained weight in the past year, and had a lot of trouble planning a costume because of this. Mom bought me a witch costume, made of black velvet and green satin, with fishnet sleeves. The hat that came with it was too small, so she bought me a new one, of green satin with feathers and a spider decorated veil.
This year turned out great. Kim and I had a good time together, and even though we didn't get much candy, it didn't seem to matter. No one seemed to mind that we were adults going trick or treating. If only all Halloweens could be this nice.

Halloween 2009, Age 20: This Halloween, things were looking grim. I was having trouble getting a costume, and all my plans kept falling through. Everyone was bailing on me. But shortly before Halloween I got a job working at a movie theater in Plattsburgh, NY with my Dad. I moved up to Alburg, VT to be with him. Since I had to work on Halloween, and I didn't know anyone in the area, I couldn't go out. But I was determined to celebrate anyway. I couldn't afford to buy a costume, nor did I have time to make one, so I just whipped something up from what I had on hand. I wore my magenta and black tutu, my Nightmare Before Christmas shirt, my striped leggings, silver knee high combat boots and cat ears. Dad bought me some glitter eyeshadow, and I did my makeup as goth and glamorous as I could. Glitter got all over the bathroom.
We drove to work. It was raining, and there weren't a lot of trick or treaters out.
At work, my teenage coworkers oohed and aahed over my outfit. I told them I was just a catgirl, but what I was really supposed to be was a "Zydrate Addicted Scalpel Slut Catgirl".
I watched two movies for free that night. First, I watched Nightmare Before Christmas in 3D, and then I watched Paranormal Activity. I smuggled some candy in to eat, a big bag of Wonka Candy and a Mr. Goodbar of epic proportions. The movie was boring at first. The teenage girls behind me kept squealing like little idiots every time something would happen. It didn't get scary until the end, but the camera work made me nauseous.
When the movie was over, I ate my dinner and read a book while waiting for Dad to finish security so we could clean. Then I changed out of my impractical clothes, and into a witch shirt and khakis, so I could work. I spent the rest of Halloween cleaning movie theaters and bathrooms. When I went to bed that night, I was so spooked by Paranormal Activity, that I slept with the lights on.

Halloween 2010, Age 21: My last year trick or treating. It should have been great but it was a drag. I made a neat pirate costume with a bunch of skirts, a chemise, a shawl made into a vest (the chemise was see-through), boots and a black velvet pirate hat trimmed in gold and a little feather. I went out with Arielle, Allison and Arielle's boyfriend (at the time), Leighton.
A dreary night. I was cold, and I kept getting nosebleeds. People stopped giving out candy at seven PM and we spent most of the night in a bad mood, looking for houses still giving out candy. Arielle and I sniped at each other, and Leighton kept whining about needing coffee. We decided to go home, and I vowed I would never go trick or treating again. I was just too old, and an activity that once held so much joy and wonder for me had lost its charm. I got home, got into pajamas, and ate my candy while watching The Walking Dead with mom.

This Halloween, I'm 22. I'm going as an Evil Fairy again, and my friend Kenny and I are throwing a party. Halloween still has not lost its magic and wonder for me, but I'm ready to celebrate it like an adult, now.

Halloween Memories Part 1

Halloween has always been my favorite holiday, even when I was very small. I can remember every Halloween I've ever celebrated, as far back as the age of three. So I am going to bore you with my recollections of Halloweens past. If you are tired of my self-indulgent writing and wish to read no further, I do not blame you.

Halloween 1992, Age Three: This is the earliest Halloween I can recall. We were living in Starksboro, VT at the time. Starksboro is a very small, very rural town. In order to trick or treat, we had to drive to nearby Bristol. I was going as a Medieval princess that year, my Mother was in the SCA at the time, so we had plenty of historically accurate garb on hand. My costume consisted of a green gown trimmed in fake pearls, and a surcoat with a tapestry pattern. I recall that my sister Katie went as an Elfquest Elf, my sister Laura, a clown and my sister Cele was some kind of witch or vampire. My Dad took us trick or treating; I used an old easter basket to hold my candy. I was so little that I rode on my Dad's shoulders. I very vaguely recall meeting up with my aunties and cousins, and being traumatized by my Aunt Elizabeth's alien mask. When the night was over, my Dad took us home and we ate some candy while watching Ghostbusters. I remember wishing I'd gotten some Dots and eating some fruit leather the health food store had been handing out.

Halloween 1993, Age 4: The formula of this Halloween is identical to the year previous. We drove to Bristol to trick or treat, we met up with aunties and cousins, I was traumatized by various masks. This year I was going as a witch. My mother made me an adorable little dress out of velvet and cotton patterned with a Halloween theme. She bought me a vinyl witch hat that she decorated with gold and silver stars and moons. It snowed that year so I wore my little snowboots with the fake rhinestones. Cele went as Joan of Arc, Laura as a vampire and Katie as a gypsy. Mom took us trick or treating this year, and I remember Laura getting in trouble for eating her candy before we got home. We were never allowed to touch our candy until we were home, for reasons I did not understand, also we could only have a couple of pieces. No candy binging in our house, at least not until I reached my teens.

Halloween 1994, Age 5: This year, I went as a star. It was the coolest costume ever. My mom made me a huge foam rubber headpiece covered with silver fabric. I stuck my little head in a hole in the center, and the whole thing was secured with an elastic strap. I wore black leggings and a turtleneck and a little silver tutu. Mom painted little gold and silver stars on my face. I used to have a picture of this epic costume. Laura went as Barbie, Katie went as a dancehall girl and Cele went as an Arabic woman. Her costume was all black and we kept losing her in the darkness. I remember an old lady exclaiming over mine and Laura's costumes. The next day in Kindergarten we had to draw pictures of ourselves trick or treating, but I colored in the black night first, then realized that no one would be able to see my self-portrait. As a result I had an anxiety attack and couldn't finish my project. I had to stay in all recess to try in finish it, but I don't think I ever got it done.

Halloween 1995, Age 6: This was our last Halloween in Starksboro/Bristol. That year, I wanted to go as a fairy princess. My mother made me a costume, but it wasn't what I expected. It was a long white gown and a dark plaid cloak. I wore a blond wig, and a wreath of fake leaves. She painted leaves on my face. It was a fairy costume in the more traditional Celtic sense, as opposed to something glittery and pink. It looked really cute. Katie went as a druid, Laura was a dancehall girl (using Katie's costume from last year) and Cele was B'Elanna Torres from Star Trek. We went trick or treating in Bristol as we always did, and as we walked back to our car so we could go home someone drove by us screaming "Nice costume, kid!". I never knew which one of us she was shouting at or if she was being sarcastic or not.

Halloween 1996, Age 7: In December of 1995, we moved to Winooski, VT. This was our first Halloween there. Trick or treating here was easy, all we had to do was step out the door and roam the neighborhoods. No driving required. That year, I went as a witch. My mom made me a dress out of velvet and polyester, trimmed with black lace. Under it was a patchwork patterned petticoat. She bought me a black velvet witch hat, and I wore a curly red wig. Katie and Laura went as zombies, but Cele did not go out that year. Dad took us trick or treating, and it was so windy that year that my hat and wig kept blowing off. At one point my hat blew so far away from me and I started to cry. My Dad retrieved it for me, and a friendly lady giving out candy gave me a barrette to keep my wig and hat on. I don't remember getting too much candy.

Halloween 1997, Age 8: My mother helped me concoct a gypsy costume out of my neon green belly dancing skirt, and a blue satin blouse. We added a coin necklace and some scarves. Laura went as a warrior princess, and went rick or treating with her best friend. Cele stayed home again. Mom took Kate and out, Kate went as some kind of goblin, druid, but the mask was really uncomfortable, so she left it off. Everyone thought she was the Grim Reaper. We got a lot of candy this year, but I could eat a lot of the chewy stuff because of the jaw spreading hardware I had in my mouth. After we got home, Cele decided she wanted to go out, and she and Katie went to a different part of town and came back with even more candy, plus a little statue of Frankenstein.

Halloween 1998, Age 9: This would be our last Halloween in Winooski. I was going to be going trick or treating with my best friend, Faith, who had Down Syndrome. I was going as Bastet, Egyptian goddess of cats. I wore black leggings and a turtle neck, and a red tabard (in lieu of one of those filmy linen dresses). Mom made me a cool collar with gold fabric and fake jewels. We painted my face with intricate cat makeup, and did my hair in the Egyptian style and sprayed it black. Laura went as Tank Girl, Katie was a tree spirit, and Cele was a ghost bride. As Faith's babysitter, Laura had to tag along, so she went with me, Faith, Faith's sister, Rose and Faith's mom. Katie and Cele went trick or treating together. I got an obscene amount of candy that year. Since Faith's mom drove us around town we could visit more neighborhoods. At that point in my life, that was probably the coolest Halloween ever. At least, I consider that costume to be my coolest ever.

Halloween 1999, Age 10: Earlier that month, we moved from Winooski, to Witherbee, NY. I was a very nerdy kid, and decided to go as a Gibson Girl (don't know what that is, look it up) I wore a lacy white dress, and a large hat with flowers. Mom gave me an Edwardian Pompadour. A week before the big day, I went to a Halloween Dance and nobody got what I was supposed to be.
Halloween was on a Saturday that year, and my Dad took my trick or treating. There was a curfew for the town, and we only had from five PM until 7 PM. I found this ridiculous, but I had a good time, anyway, even though that year I was the only kid in the family going out. Kate stayed home. I didn't get a lot of candy, but I really treasure the memory of spending time with my Dad. When I got home, I broke my tooth on an ice cube.

Halloween 2000, Age 11: What a year this had been! My parents had divorced months earlier, we'd moved twice that year and now it was just Mom, Kate and I living in Willsboro, NY. That year, I went as a witch. Mom bought me this gorgeous sheer black witch hat with gold stars, at Spencer's and I wore a black dress, with another dress, made out of a gold-striped sheer fabric right over it. Mom bought me some pretty lavender lipstick and matching eyeshadow. I went to school in costume, and even though I was the class loser, no one made fun of me. I participated in the school's Halloween parade (though I was the only 6th grader to do so). Katie took me trick or treating. We had a good time, even though it was freezing cold. When we got home, we ate candy and watched The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Cemetery Review #2

At last, a second installment of cemetery reviews! Last month, I had the good fortune to visit two very old and gorgeous cemeteries in Manchester, New Hampshire. I'll be reviewing them, and I'll be reviewing an old favorite from Windsor, Vermont. Enjoy!

1. Old South Church Cemetery, Windsor, Vermont
Old South Church Cemetery sits in the the churchyard of the Old South Church in downtown Windsor. It is a very simple and small graveyard, but it is quite pretty and attracts tourists in the fall. It seems to have been founded sometime in the mid-to-late 18th century, and is no longer active. The last burial seems to have taken place in the late 19th or early 20th century. The oldest gravestones are in the back, while the newest are in the front, a common layout with most graveyards, It has plenty of slate headstones dating from the late 18th and early 19th centuries, featuring soul effigies, urns and weeping willow trees. There are a few interesting epitaphs, including one that briefly describes the deceased cause of death: "Thrown from a Train,". Another describes "A Negro Servant who Died in Christ" and there are also a few beautiful poems, and even some Shakespeare quotes to be found.
The gravestone are in decent condition. Some of the them are damaged, especially the slate ones. Some of been repaired, but there are plenty of fallen stones, and even an old slate gravestone that has split, and is now coming apart in flakes. But most of the monuments are legible, except for a few cases where it has faded completely or where there the stone had broken off and gone missing, save for the base. A few broken and misplaced stone lean against the door of the cold storage crypt. My guess is that the damage is caused by a combination of vandalism and nature's wear and tear.
The grounds are fairly well kept. The grass is mowed, but there are lots of un-raked leaves and fallen branches. One grave stone is almost complete overgrown by brambles, which is a shame, as it is a beautiful old slate monument with a carving of a heart.
There is very little garbage in the cemetery, except for the odd bottle or drink container now and then. Overall, the cemetery is in rather good condition. Some family plots are cordoned off with ornate iron fences, but the cemetery itself only has fencing along the back and the sides of the property lines. The front of the cemetery is completely open, you can stroll into the cemetery at anytime, though I wouldn't recommend doing so after dark, as the police would most likely be patrolling the area.
The cemetery has a small population of squirrels and crows. The crows' cawing lends a rather eerie atmosphere to the cemetery.
I have never experienced anything outright paranormal in the cemetery. I have never seen or heard any ghosts in the Old South Church cemetery. But there are certain spots in the back corner and right behind the church itself that give off strange vibes. My favorite part of the cemetery is a small hill near the cold storage crypt. There is a grave on that hill belonging to a 13 year old girl named Sarah Millins, who died sometime in the 1810's. I feel oddly attached to this particular grave, for reasons I cannot explain. Every time I visit the Old South Church cemetery, I feel compelled to leave a flower at this young lady's grave and share a few kind words with her.
There appear to be a few graves belong to notable locals. I haven't seen this cemetery in over a year, but I would like to visit it again sometime soon. It is a Vermont cemetery worth visiting, especially if you enjoy slate headstones and interesting epitaphs.

2. Pine Grove Cemetery, Manchester, New Hampshire
This is without a single doubt, the biggest cemetery I have ever visited. It is so big, that you can't see all of it in one day. It is the largest cemetery in New Hampshire, according to a caretaker I talked to.
It appears to have been founded in the 1850's, when the Valley Cemetery ran out of room. It is still active, with lots of room to expand. It has a public mausoleum (which I did not visit), and even a pond with little stone bridges. There are thousands of gorgeous monuments, with lots of ornate statues, carvings and very opulent mausoleums belonging to the wealthy denizens of Manchester, featuring stained glass. There are gravestones, both modern and from the last century featuring photos of the deceased. There are two Civil War memorials. There is also a large chapel and a caretakers buildings. I could spend hours telling you about the individual mausoleums and graves I fell in love with, but not wanting to bore you anymore than I already am, I won't.
The monuments are in fantastic condition! I saw only a handful broken stones, most of them old marble ones from the 1850's.
The grounds are incredibly well kept, the grass mowed. There were fallen leaves, but that is to be expected. There were very few fallen branches. The newer sections are better kept than the old ones, and the section with the big Gilded Age mausoleums are better kept than the older part of the cemetery dating from the 1850's.
Is Pine Grove haunted? I did experience some strange activity at the Hill Mausoleum. Pictures I had taken of the inside of this particular mausoleum yielded strange phenomena, such as mist and orbs. I have also experienced freezing cold drafts coming from the mausoleum and feelings of utter terror. As a result, I avoid this monument. Otherwise, I do not think the cemetery is haunted. Overall, the place has some very comfortable, and almost familiar feelings for me.
Plenty of wealthy and notable people are buried there, but I couldn't tell you who the hell they are. Some of my favorite monuments consist of a statue of a woman and a little girl, a large sandstone monument (that's starting to crumble in places), a stone tree trunk featuring a life-sized lamb and dove and a pair of ceramic monuments shaped like open books.
This cemetery is definitely worth a trip to Manchester, and it's perhaps the most beautiful cemetery I've ever had the opportunity to visit.

3. Valley Cemetery, Manchester, New Hampshire
This is the most interesting cemetery I've ever visited. The cemetery was founded in the 1840's and was designed to be a garden cemetery. Most of the graves are located on a terraced ring of land, in the center is a valley which gives the cemetery it's name. There are very few graves in this valley. Valley Cemetery is no longer active.
The cemetery features a few slate stones from the 1840's, a couple of statues and a some mausoleums. There is also a lovely chapel, with a fountain, though that fountain appears to need repair. There are lots of beautiful carvings.
The cemetery is in sad condition, but thankfully, there has been an ongoing project to restore this beautiful, historic location to its former glory. A lot of gravestones are broken or damaged, and there are a few gravestones in the center valley of the cemetery that are overgrown and abandoned. The damage to various monuments appears to be a combination of the elements and vandalism. Some gravestones have been repaired, and some have not. There is some trash here and there, left by inconsiderate people. But like I already mentioned, there is a restoration project underway, and they're doing a wonderful job. The cemetery, even with its damage is still quite breathtaking.
While I did not experience anything outright paranormal in this cemetery, I did sense feelings of sadness and anger in areas where gravestones were broken or abandoned, especially in the center valley, where there were some isolated and overgrown stones. Otherwise, the areas that had been restored, felt peaceful. I also had overwhelming sensations of familiarity in certain parts of the cemetery, particularly near some damaged stones with ornate flower carvings, and near a mausoleum that overlooked the valley.
The cemetery contains several notable people, including several governors and mayors. There is also a website you can visit that contains information on the cemetery, you can find the link here: http://www.valley-cemetery.com/
Valley Cemetery is a gorgeous piece of history that shouldn't be left to abandon and ruin. I would definitely see this cemetery again and would recommend other to visit it, but as always I ask that people treat this beautiful place with respect.

The ABC's of my life

A is for Abenaki- I'm Abenaki Indian and very very proud. Except when people say we're not a real tribe anymore, and then I get pissed off.

B is for Breast Reduction- Being of a rather busty nature, my back can't take it no mo'. So it's time to surrender to the scalpel and get a new set of knockers.

C is for Cats- Preferable to people. Except when they pee on the floor and kick cat litter all up in this joint.

D is for Dominic Monaghan- Former hobbit and jolly good egg. Is teh sex.

E is for Egg Salad- Something I'm rather good at making. Don't leave it in the sun.

F is for FaerieInCombatBoots- My favored username on the internets for the last eight years.

G is for Graveyards- Cemeteries, boneyards, corpse gardens. Love 'em to death. Pardon the pun.

H is for H Cup- An unbelievable size. My bra cups, bigger than my head.

I is for Internets- Where you can always find me.

J is for Jack Sparrow- Captain Jack Sparrow, if you please.

K is for Kittens- Balls of fluff with sharp little claws. Good cure for depression.

L is for Lady Gaga- Say what you want, her music stole my heart.

M is for Morpheus- The Dream King goes by many names, this is one of my favorites.

N is for Noodles- Om nom nom...

O is for Otters- They eat on their tummies.

P is for Paranormal- A favorite subject to discuss and research.

Q is for Queen Anne Boleyn- My role model when it comes to love and ambition.

R is for Repo! The Genetic Opera- Zydrate comes in a a little glass vial.

S is for Squirrels- Totem animal and all around fluffy good eggs.

T is for Terrance Zdunich- Listen to 'Needle Into a Bug' and you'll understand why he's on this list.

U is for Underwear- You can never have too many pairs.

V is for Vagina Monologues- The best play I've ever been in. Take that Shakespeare!

W is for Winooski- Four years. Many memories. Some good, some bad.

X is for Xanadu- I've never seen Xanadu. I just needed something that begins with X.

Y is for Yan Yan- Tasty snack. Greasy little sticks, sweet creamy stuff.

Z is for Zoloft- A pill a day keeps the crazy away!

Why Dating Sucks When You're Autistic

As it is, dating is confusing for the average person. But when you have an Autism Spectrum disorder like Asperger's or Non-Verbal Learning Disorder, it can be downright harrowing. It's bad enough that we often have issues in everyday social situations, but add hormones and romantic feelings to the mix and we have a clusterfuck of epic proportions. But why is dating so difficult for those of us on the Spectrum? It depends on the individual, but here are some reasons why it's a pain in the ass for me...

1. Eye Contact
One of the symptoms of Autism and related disorders is an inability or difficulty making eye contact. I have had this problem all my life. When I talk to people, my eyes do not rest on them, rather they move all about the room, or stare off into space. I used to get in trouble with teachers at school because of this. People think I'm being rude to them. People misinterpret my inability to make eye contact all the time.
This is where dating comes in. All the 'experts' say, that when it comes to romance, that eye contact is key. When you make eye contact the object of your desire knows that you're attracted to them. Hence the problem, when you can't make eye contact, what's your intended paramour to think? Unless they're aware of your 'condition', will they assume you're not interested? When I met my ex-boyfriend, Scott, I had trouble making eye contact. He didn't know I had NLD, and thought I was displeased with his appearance, which was not true. I thought he was very handsome, I just had trouble looking at him because of the shit going on in my head.
So what can I do? I can practice eye contact with friends and family, I can practice in the mirror. Or I can just let my eyes roll around in whatever damn direction they want to.

2. Social Cues
When you have NLD or Asperger's you miss 'social cues'. Reading facial expressions is difficult, as is discerning the tone of voice. I can't tell if someone is being sarcastic or not, so sometimes when someone asks me out I think they're joking. (Though this could also stem from being teased a lot in high school, and thus no longer being able to trust people.)
Just yesterday, when I was conversing with a young man I rather like, I had trouble telling whether or not he was happy to see me. Even though he was smiling, I wasn't sure about his tone of voice. Did he actually want to be talking to me? Or was he just waiting for me to go away? Was I wasting his time? While I greatly enjoyed being in his presence, I found myself second-guessing everything. Second guessing doesn't help you when it come l'amour. In fact, it's rather hindering. When I can't read cues, I get distressed, I get confused, which is not conducive to the forming of a romantic alliance.

3. Social Graces
We're not rude. We're just stuck in our heads, so sometimes we forget social graces, such as greeting people or making polite inquiries as to one's health. We tend to talk about the same subjects over and over again, and sometimes we say things we're not supposed to. I'm unfortunately blunt. I once told Scott he had a zit on his back. Scott is such a vain man, and such a thing would send him into a frenzy. I knew this, and but let my impulses get the better of me. It ended in him calling me a bitch, and shoving me. While not all people are so unreasonably violent, saying the wrong thing can ruin any romantic prospects. So I have to work on my manners. Like I said, I'm not mean or rude, I just have poor impulses and am so lost in my head that I forget how to be a person and not a squirrel.

4. Hyper-Focusing
We hyper focusing on things, whether they be a specific object, subject or person. Basically, we get obsessive. We can annoy people this way, by talking about the same stuff over and over (see above). This can repel any potential lovers. Trust me, I know. Also, sometimes, when we fall for a person we hyper focus on them, coming off as creepy. I had an ex-boyfriend who displayed the symptoms of Asperger's who actually stalked me for several months following our break up. We get so wrapped up in what we're feeling, or what we're doing that we forget ourselves, and we end up doing something foolish. Look at the infamous "Chris-Chan". Christian Weston Chandler is a young man with high-function Autism who has acquired a reputation for stalking young women whom he desires to have as a 'sweetheart'. This has caused him a lot of grief, humiliation and a large page on Encyclopedia Dramatica. It's rather sad, and I do feel bad for him. I myself have gotten overzealous in the pursuit of love, and have made myself enemies and scared off the object of my affections. This is why hyper-focusing hinders any hopes of romance.

5. Emotional Imbalance
Sometimes we're either too numb or feeling too much. This affects all our relationships, romantic and platonic. People think we're either uncaring or crazy. We're not, we just have trouble gaging our emotions and their reactions. Therapy and medication helps, but not by much.

6. Anxiety
I don't need to go into this one too deeply, do I? It's obvious, anxiety severely hampers romance in all its fields. It makes dates difficult, and it makes sex incredibly awkward. Watch to anxious people try to have sex with each other. It's a total clusterfuck. Pardon the pun.

So there we have it. This is why dating is such a pain in the ass for me. And this is only the tip of the iceberg. I'm certain there's more brain weasels making it a chore for me to find love. So if you're interested in getting into my black skinny jeans, or I'm interested in showing you the Love Weasels, bear in mind, it's not you. It's me. Really. It's me. If it was you, I would say so.

Desire and Despair

There is a very good and very obvious reason that when Neil Gaiman created The Endless, that he made Desire and Despair twins. They go together.
Have you ever wanted something, or someone? Everyone has felt desire at one point or another, it's only human. Desire can be a rapturous feeling, like riding a roller coaster. Desire can lead to creativity, life and all sort of wonderful things But desire has a dark side. It can be painful, it can keep you awake at night, when you see the object of your desire in another's hands, it induces feelings of anger and jealousy. People have done hideous things in the name of desire. Henry VIII is a prime example of how desire can lead to disaster and destruction. In the wake of his passion, many lay dead or heartbroken, including his wives, best friends and children.
So have you ever wanted something or someone, and gone to great lengths to obtain it, or thought about it constantly, made it the first thing in your mind, only to have it denied to you? It hurts. It hurts to have your object of passion denied you. When your heart has been ripped out and thrown on the ground only to be stepped on by uncaring, unfeeling assholes, is when Lady Despair take residence in your empty chest cavity.
Ah, despair. That gray-clad crone whose touch makes me think of freezing cold hovels, and dreary damp days. She lurks in cemeteries and refugee camps and she lurks in my heart.

Despair feels like wanting to cry, but having the tears freeze in your eyes before they have a chance to fall. Despair is like sitting by yourself at lunch everyday, because everyone thinks you're weird and won't talk to you. Despair is that feeling you get when you ask someone out and they look at you like you're a monster. Like sending a love note that gets ignored and ripped up, and you find the remains on the ground, knowing they've been unread. I can go to great lengths about what despair is like, because I know her like the back of my hand, it's like I've always known, it's like she's been by my side since the day I was born, waiting for me.
"Be happy now," she says.
"But I'll be coming for you sooner or later. I always come back,"
She always comes back. She is a constant. Desire comes and goes, settling in my heart and my belly, setting things afire and getting my hopes up with her promises and her insinuations. She's a tease. But when she's had her fill of me, she departs, taking everything she can, while her sister Despair creeps into my empty chest cavity and mind, making herself comfortable, giving me headaches, stomachaches and the longing to fall asleep and never wake up.
All this puts me in mind of a quote by Neil Gaiman, regarding that foolish emotion known as love, he writes:

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.”

Thank you, Mr. Gaiman, for perhaps the truest words ever spoken. It's true. If only he'd never once looked at me, perhaps I wouldn't be having tea with Lady Despair.

What I've Learned About Love

"I learned love is like a brick you can, build a house or sink a dead body," -Lady Gaga, Judas

Truer words never spoken, Mother Monster. Despite being the advanced age of twenty two, I know very little about love. Even though I had my first boyfriend at the tender age of eleven, I am still woefully ignorant of how romance and dating works, at least in a conventional sense. I have my own methods of attracting a lover, and my own habits when it comes to personal relationships, some of which, have lead to disaster. The following is a list of the various lessons I have learned about that crazy little thing called love. Some of them came to me easily, but others, took me a little while to figure out.

1. Long Distance is a Bitch.
I've been in two long distance relationships, and both of them ended in disaster. The first came to me at the tender age of 17. I was dating a young man named Arthur, whom I had known in school. We both left the little town of Willsboro, and moved to Vermont, though on opposite sides of the Green Mountain State. We maintained a relationship for five months, and despite the fact he lived only three hours away, he never visited me.
My second long distance relationship, lasted four years. I met Scott at Anime Boston in April of 2007, and we ended the relationship in April of 2011. It was a very toxic romance, fraught with emotional and verbal abuse, and a great deal of stress. Contributing to a majority of stress, one of the factors that led to our inevitable downfall, was the the fact that he lived in New Jersey, and I live in Vermont. The distance was painful. When we were in love, it was difficult going long periods of time without seeing each other. It was difficult raising money to pay for the bus tickets, and when we did finally see each other, we were so emotionally stressed out, that every visit was a CATASTROPHE. Another problem, was that neither of us really knew what the other one was doing, inciting paranoia, and a shit load of mind games. Eventually, the long distance, combined with our personal issues caused our messy breakup. Lesson learned? Long distance sucks. At least it does for me.

2. You Can Be TOO Honest
I am a ridiculously honest person. I am honest to the point of telling you too much information, or hurting people's feelings with my lack of tact. If I keep secrets, I start to feel physically sick. As you can imagine, this often ruins relationships for me, especially romantic ones.
Scott wanted to know everything I was doing. He used my honesty against me. He knew I didn't like keeping secrets. So I'd tell him everything. I'd tell him everything I did, everything I thought, everyone I hung out with. I told him if guy hit on me, I told him if a girl hit on me. I told him if I was thinking of an ex-boyfriend, or if I was curious about dating women. Each time he'd get pissed, and when I ask him if he as mad at me, he'd say no, that he was glad I told him. Then he'd tell me to stop hanging around whoever it was that had displeased him by showing me more attention than he did.
People would tell me that I didn't need to tell him everything. It was none of his business. But I started to equate not telling him every detail of my life as lying. I'd feel sick and anxious. My candor was another factor that lead to our split. Lesson learned? Your lover doesn't need to know everything, unless it directly effects them, or if it's something really serious, like cheating or cancer.

3. Don't Put Up With Bullshit
Scott was emotionally and verbally abusive. Rather than getting the hell out of there early on, I stuck around, often fighting fire with fire by hurting him the way he often hurt me. I would push his buttons, because he'd play with my head. This wasn't right, and I am ashamed of how I behaved. I wish I could apologize to him, because I did love him and should never have hurt him. But he should not have hurt me either. His idea of love was to own me, to control me. He told me who I could talk to, he forbid me from wearing certain things, he called me names. He forgot my birthday. He was selfish 99% of the time. And yet I loved him, so I put up with him for years, hoping it would get better. I learned this lesson the hard way (though it could have been MUCH worse). If he treats you like shit, don't stick around for it to get better. Don't stay with him because you love him and you don't want him to be alone. Get the hell out, before you lose your mind or your life.

4. I am a One-Lover-at-a-Time Kind of Woman
After becoming single, I flirted. I looked at my options. I learned that I'd rather have one serious-ish lover than several not-so-serious ones. That's all I'm gonna say about this lesson, the rest is between me and Creator.

An Insight into the Autism Spectrum

Those of us who have Asperger's and Non Verbal Learning Disorder are poised on a curious threshold. Unlike people who have severe Autism, we are not entirely confined within ourselves, though we are not wholly able to identify and immerse ourselves within the mundane world. This can prove difficult when it comes to living a 'normal' life.
Those who don't know of our particular condition often think we are ignorant, selfish or insane. They see us, having panic attacks in public, or hyper-focusing on a particular subject or object, and they think we are strange. They think our parents did a lousy job raising us. They notice when we don't make eye contact, or when we miss social cues, and think we're rude. When we say what's on our minds, even if it's tactless, they think we're mean.

My parents did not do a lousy job raising me. They did a great job considering the circumstance. Four kids, all of whom with their own problems. The relentless grind of poverty. They did what they could with what they had, and my sisters and I became intelligent, decent people.
I am not selfish or rude. I'm either so lost in my head that I forget where I am, or my emotions are ruling me. I can not hide my emotions well. I am not stupid, either. I've had teachers think I am, but I am hardly stupid, it's just that I learn things a little differently.

But worse than those who do not know about Autism Spectrum Disorders, are the people who think these disorders are fake. They assume that Autism, Asperger's and NLD, are just excuses invented by lazy parents. Or that the people who are directly afflicted, the diagnosed ones, are pretending, that they're really just losers who don't feel like being social, so they have to pretend they have a 'disease' to get out of behaving according to society's whims.
There are individuals who accuse us of using our disorder as a 'crutch', as an excuse. That we use it to garner attention and pity. That we revel in our disability, and use it as an excuse to do what we want.
I do not do what I want. I am not allowed to do what I want. While my NLD does explain some of my behaviors and feelings, I try my hardest not to use it as an excuse. I do not use it as a crutch. I know what I can accomplish and what I have difficulty doing.

We're stereotyped a lot. People think we're emotionless. That's not true. In my experience, I feel too much. I'm sensitive. Yes, there are moments when I may seem numb, but that's because I don't know how to process my feelings.
People think we're savants, we're all good at music or art. Not true, again. Some of us have a particular knack, but we're still like average people, we have our strengths, weaknesses and talents.
We're all different. Not every person on the Spectrum is exactly the same. We're like wacky little snowflakes. For some of us, noise is a problem, for others it is not. Some of us like to be touched and crave contact, and some of us not at all. Me, I like hugs. Hugs help. Being touched without warning does not. Warn me before you approach me.

Sometimes, I wish I was 'normal'. If I was normal, maybe I'd be a happier person. I wouldn't have to endure stares and gossip. I could go into large crowds, and have a job or even go to college. People tell me I can get a job or go to college, but I don't know. Maybe. Maybe.
Sometimes I have to explain to my own relatives what's wrong with me. They don't understand the anxiety, the rituals, the hyper focusing. Some of my friends don't understand. I've had people treat me differently once they find out. Or maybe I just think they have. That's the tricky thing. Sometimes I don't know what's real, and what I'm misinterpreting.
I don't always want to be around other people on the spectrum. Sometimes it feels like our triggers clash. Some of us don't like noise, and some of us make a lot of noise, hence there is some clashing. But, I try to be around others on the spectrum. I like talking to people who have the same issues I do, I don't feel so lonely. I like talking to parents of children who have Autism, because they know and understand just as well.
I make jokes about it. People think I'm being offensive, but it's my method of coping. If I didn't laugh, I'd probably kill myself. Because sometimes, having NLD is painful. It's so painful. The isolation, the confusion. The emotional rollercoaster. Relationships are hard. I make friends, but I can't keep them. I'm either distrusting, or I trust too easily and confide in the wrong people. I'm too candid at times.
I could spend hours telling you my particular quirks, but that would eventually aggravate me, and then my brain would start to splutter and stutter, like an old boat motor.
So I'm going to shut up. I'm going to shut up and hope you enjoyed reading this. You probably didn't. I wouldn't. It's much too dense for me. I have trouble reading dense things, sometimes.

Shameful Scars: My history of self-harm

I wouldn't say it was an addiction. It's not like I did it everyday. It's not like it was a big secret. My closest family members knew, they saw me do it enough times. My friends knew, I'd told them about it. Therapists knew. My boyfriend knew. Maybe even a few teachers knew. And everyone who knew, always said the same thing "Promise me you'll never do it again". I'd promise, I'd swear, never again, never again, but then before I knew it, there I was, doing it again.

I started self-harming in second grade, though at the time I didn't know that's what it was. I would pull out my hair, either one strand at a time, or in little clumps, until I had tiny bald spots. My mom noticed, told me to stop. I could not stop. For years and years, any time I was anxious, frustrated or angry, I would pull out my hair. If I was anxious, I pulled it out strand by strand, carefully, removing the follicle. If I was angry, I'd pull it out in painful little bunches, forcefully, punishing myself.
I suppose I started pulling out my hair because I was anxious. Because I didn't know how to cope with my feelings. Maybe it has something to do with the Non Verbal Learning Disorder. I don't know. All I know, is that I don't do it so much anymore. Sometimes I do it without thinking, but I don't do it when I'm upset anymore.

There were other incidents of self-harm in my childhood. I once pressed a bottle cap into my thighs until tiny welts formed. I did it because I was frustrated and bored. I was nine years old and wanted to go swimming, but I could not. So I sat on the kitchen floor, and laid a newspaper across my legs, and pressed a plastic bottle cap into my flesh, ripping through the paper, and leaving imprints. Hours later, my mom noticed the welts that had formed. She asked me if I was digging into my skin with my nails. I told her no, I used a bottle cap.

This taste for self-harm carried into my teens. The first time I remember doing it, I was fifteen. A boy I had a crush on, and his friends, were teasing me after school one day, being assholes. Maybe they were joking, maybe they weren't. Either way, I stormed off, frustrated and hurt, and hid in the girl's locker room, where I took a piece of notebook wire, and scratched the fuck out of my arm. I was angry at them, angry at myself. It hurt like a bitch, but it felt oddly cathartic. Afterwards, I looked at the puffy, stinging scratches. I showed them to a schoolmate. She didn't say anything. She didn't show any concern for the fact that I just physically harmed myself. I worried about scars. But for years, there was only one, a tiny white line no thicker than a human hair.
I also had a habit for digging my finger nails into my arms, or into my hands, when I was angry, when I was being bullied, until I left little white crescent shapes in my flesh. I hoped to draw blood, because somehow, that would show the world just how angry I was. Even now, despite being 'recovered', I still lightly dig my nail into my palm if I'm annoyed. Not hard, never hard, but enough for me to silently express my feelings, especially if politeness restrains me from revealing my true thoughts.

I never had the balls to use razors. That's the stereotype, isn't? That all people who self-harm use razor blades. That they do it because they're so numb that they can't feel otherwise.
Maybe that's how some people do it. Maybe that's why some people do it. That wasn't how or why I did it. The problem wasn't numbness, the problem was that I was feeling too much, and wasn't sure how to express it. Or that I was angry and wanted to punish myself. Or that I that I wanted people to see that I was in pain, that I was hurting, and needed their support. And sometimes, sometimes, I just wanted to see if they cared what I did or didn't do.
I tried using a razor once. I made a tiny nick that didn't even scar. I mostly used my fingernails, or pins, thumbtacks, wires. I tried broken glass, but found, I was too scared to press down hard enough. I wanted to hurt myself, but I didn't want to die.
I made scratches, gouges. Sometimes I did it hard enough to bleed, hard enough to scar. It would burn and sting. I would attack my arms, my face, my breasts and stomach. I hate my breasts and stomach. I mostly attacked them or my face whenever I felt ugly. Sometimes I told people what the marks were from, other times, I let them assume that they were cat scratches. Sometimes people ask, but mostly they ignore it.

What triggered these brutal assaults? The first time I really did it bad enough to scar, I had just been dumped by a guy I was falling in love with. I did it in front of him. It was impulsive. I was angry at him, angry at myself for not being able to stay in a relationship. I wanted to show him how much pain I was in. The scar has finally faded, but for years, it ran along my arm, a pinkish-brown ribbon, reminding me of my shameful reaction to heartbreak.
From then on, I did it when I was fighting with my family, I did it during or after a fight with my boyfriend. I did it after being bullied online. I did it when I was off my medication and couldn't cope. Anxiety, anger, frustration, disappointment, humiliation. Those feeling swam through my while I did it. Those feelings triggered the acts of violence against myself. Then after, instead of feeling high, like some say you're supposed to feel, I'd only feel ashamed, stupid. I'd broken another promise, or I'd have to go to the hospital again. I'd disappointed my parents, my friends, my boyfriend.
I'd treat the wounds with bag balm. They didn't make band-aids big enough to cover them up. I didn't hide the scars with long sleeves, or makeup. I have friends with their own histories of self-harm, and they don't hide their scars either. What's the point? I don't hide the fact that I used to self-harm either, I'm rather candid about it.

How did I stop? How did I break free of it's stranglehold? It seems like it happened overnight, but really it was a few years progress. In the Windham Center they got me to admit I was addicted, though in reality, while I wasn't addicted to the scratching, I was perhaps addicted to the hair pulling, though as I'd explained countless times, it was most likely a compulsion related to my disorder.
But neither the Windham Center or any form of group therapy saved my sorry ass. Rather, I like to think I did it myself, with a little guidance from Creator. I started taking my meds (I was bribed into it by my sister with promises of visiting her in Baltimore), and stopped resisting my therapist. Things started to get better. Then, out of the blue, I joined Voice of United Spirit Singers, an intertribal Native American drum group. Without me realizing it, the drum began to heal my heart, putting me back together slowly, but surely.
The last time I self-harmed, was April 12th 2011. That day, my boyfriend of nearly four years, dumped me, because I had attended a party. Well it, was slightly more complicated than that, but it was the straw that broke the camel's back. It was two days before my 22nd birthday, and I was due to leave for Baltimore the next day. And here he was, calling me a whore, telling me he couldn't do this anymore. All the stress and fear of my impending flight, all the anxiety I'd been suffering, combined with the shock of someone I loved breaking my heart, made me snap. I got drunk and I self harmed again. I begged to go to the hospital. I was losing my mind. I don't remember what brought me out of it. Maybe it was Xanax. Maybe it was my father. I just don't know. I don't care, what did it. All I know is April 12th was the last time I ever self-harmed myself. I do not want to do it ever again, and I know why. The Drum. It is Voice of United Spirit that saves me from myself. And I know, that as long as I sing with her, I will be OK.

Special note- I wrote this for cathartic reasons. I do not endorse nor encourage self-harm as a method of coping. I urge all who do hurt themselves to seek help.

Rants and Ravings

I've been irritable lately. Maybe it's the stress I've been under, but regardless of the cause, I need to vent about some things that have been annoying me lately.

1. If you have facebook, and I imagine a majority of the world population with internet access, does, you must have noticed what I'm bitching about. Those little chainmails, that people implore you to post as your status for one hour, in the hopes of curing cancer. Seriously, they all say "Post this and we will be one step closer to the cure!". No. Reposting bland copypasta won't cure cancer. If you want to help cure cancer, donate to a cancer research foundation or something like that. Posting these stupid chainmails is futile. You think you're helping, but you're really doing nothing. Actually no, you ARE doing something, you're pissing me off.

2. Today, I was in Target, looking at the bins full of cheap items. I love these bins. You can find so many cute little things. But today as I was poring over these baskets, a woman was walking less than a foot behind me also browsing. You're probably sitting here wondering why this is pissing me off so much. Well, for one thing, I have personal space issues. Big ones. I don't like having strangers stand to close to me when I'm shopping. If I go to look at something and someone's already standing in front of it, I'd rather wait for them to finish up than have my personal space invaded. So with woman practically nestling herself between my butt cheeks, she was already pissing me off. Rubbing salt in the wound was the fact that she kept clearing her throat. Every 3 seconds. For fuck's sake, it's called a fucking cough drop. You can buy them right in the store! I can't fucking stand it when people are in public constantly clearing their throats and coughing. If my parents hadn't raised me better, I would have turned right around and told her to back the fuck off. I know she wasn't riding my ass on purpose, but it irritates me that a lot of people aren't aware of personal space when they're shopping. Maybe I should start wearing a sign that says "Autistic Person, Please Stay Back at Least 3 Feet".

3. Target's CD Return Policy. You can only return CDs if they are unopened and come with the receipt. Horrible policy. Most people return CD's because they listened to the album and didn't like it. No one buys an album, doesn't open it and then returns it. Target, are you fucking stupid?

4. Music Censorship. I'm an adult, thank you. I've heard all the naughty words before. And parents should be the judge of what their kids are exposed to, not the government. Last time I checked, this was still a free country and people were still allowed to make their own decisions about what they listen to, watch and read.

5. Lady Gaga's song Fashion of his Love. It sounds like bad Christian pop. Usually I love her work, but this song is one of her rare misses. Maybe I need to listen to it again, but my first impression wasn't a good one.

Well, that's all I can think of right about now. I'm still irritated, and this wasn't as cathartic as I had hoped, but oh well, it helps me practice my writing style.

Book 3 of the Vow Renewal Weekend: Sunday

And here we are, at the third and final volume of the tedious and self-indulgent memoir I have embarked upon.

Part 1: An Autistic Squirrel

I woke on Sunday morning, to bright sunlight streaming into the small apartment. The day of the Vow Renewal. It was already sticky and humid and we had much to do before we left. We had to deflate the air mattresses, pack everything up and get dressed.
I dressed simply in a hot pink, nearly magenta, cotton and crocheted lace skirt that fell just above my knee, a black tank top and a pair of flip flops. I wrapped my large black and white gauze scarf over my shoulders like a shawl, and put on my jewelry.
For such a simple outfit, it had been such an odyssey getting it together. Months ago, when I first learned of the vow renewal, I had already begun planning what I would wear. The original idea was to make a sun dress, out of black cotton printed with cherries, but I couldn't find a flattering pattern. So then I had decided to make a skirt out of muslin, dyed purple, we'd even purchased the dye, but we never got around to it. So in the end, I decided to wear what I already had. It saved time and money.
Once dressed, I did my makeup. Concealer and powder to hide the sunburn on my nose, soft lime green eyeshadow, mascara, bright pink lipstick. The effect turned out out great. For once, my skin actually looked flawless. I was rather impressed with my appearance.

After everyone had dressed, and we had gathered up the deflated mattresses, our bedding and our bags; we loaded everything back in the car and left for the wedding. We stopped at Dunkin' Donuts for breakfast. Their breakfast sandwiches are pretty damn delicious, even if their coffee tastes like dish soap.
I don't remember much about the drive over, other than it being very warm. I was in a sour mood, mostly due to anxiety. I always feel out of place at family functions, so I can't help but feel nervous whenever I go to one.
We stopped at a country store to use the bathroom and pick up some chicken for the barbecue. I love country stores, especially ones in rural areas. They always have interesting things, like local products and novelty candy. This country store even had a little miniature golf course. I would have enjoyed playing a round, but we did not have the time.
When we arrived at the cabin, a few of the guests were already there. I felt awkward as I greeted family members, I don't know why. I'm just a socially awkward person, I suppose. Once I'm at my ease, I can be rather charming, but in the first uneasy minutes, I can be as about as exciting as an autistic squirrel. Actually, that does sound interesting, never mind. Ignore that simile, please.

I don't remember too much. This was all a year ago, after all. I recall doing the usual schmoozing, and socializing. I remember trying an ale, called Old Speckled Hen. At first I liked it, but then I found I had no taste for ale. I've always preferred hard cider, or as I've recently discovered, Smirnoff Ice. I couldn't finish it. I don't even think I finished a quarter of the bottle. In fact, as I was drinking, I was starting to feel surly, and agitated. This happens to me quite often. If I drink when I'm anxious, I end up in a foul mood. If I drink when I'm in a good mood, I end up giggly. Since I was already tense, being at a family event and all, you can imagine where my mood shifted. I put down the bottle, and didn't touch any booze for the rest of the day.

The ceremony was at noon. The minister had arrived, the whole family had shown up and my Aunt Jenny had changed into her wedding dress. She looked lovely. It was white, with an empire waist, and some beading. I told her she looked beautiful. My Uncle Ben wore a Hawaiian shirt.
Everyone was starting to head down to the scenic area where the ceremony would be held. I was still feeling all out of sorts, so I popped an Ativan, and joined my mother and sister to watch two people renew their vows.

Saturday Part 6

Let's get on with it....

Part 6: Battle Weary
The very last ride I remember going on that day was the Desperado Plunge, the log flume which appears so frequently in my other memoirs.
The line wasn't long, and we got seated in our little barrel shaped boat very quickly. I sat in the front, my Uncle Russ in the back. I was a bit apprehensive about sitting where I was, because I don't like to get soaked when I'm not in a bathing suit, but I figured it would be alright this time.
For the most part, it was. The ride went as it usually does, starting out slow, then rushing over white water rapids, before going through that creepy building full of dummies.
Then the best part, down the steep drop we plunged, my arms in the air. The camera snapped our picture, and we hit the bottom with a splash.
The boat was floating back into the station when it jerked to the side suddenly, why I do not know. I lost my balance, and slammed into the side of the little boat, my elbow making painful contact with one of the screws on the handlebar.
That was my second injury of the day, including the vicious wedgie I had endured in Splashwater Kingdom.
We left the ride, me nursing my injured arm. A large bump had risen on my elbow, with a little bloody scrape right in its center. My uncle noticed, and thought it was a puncture wound. I assured him it was not, and we did not have to visit the infirmary.

It was time to go. We'd ridden all that we could, and now had to meet my mom in Schroon Lake. So we trekked back to the lockers, collected my things, and made ready to leave the park.
I was sore. Between the wedgie, the arm injury, the sunburn, and walking around all day, I was pretty battle weary. I had a headache from riding too many roller coasters. But I regretted leaving early. When I go to amusement parks, I like to stay until closing. But we had to do, what we had to do, and so we left.
We stopped at McDonald's, where my uncle offered to buy me something to eat. I was starving. I had been too excited to eat when we were in the park, but now, I just couldn't pass up a hot meal. I ordered a double quarter pounder with cheese value meal, and my uncle and I sat down to eat. While we ate, we talked, and I collected brochures for tourist attractions, that I thought looked interesting.
Then we went to find Aunt Jenny's cabin.

We drove through the Adirondacks, and I spent the trip admiring signs for restaurants and campgrounds. We drove past a very large Christian campground. It made me think of those weird Mormon compounds out west. I made some comments about the place, and wondered how interesting it would be to infiltrate one of these Christian "family-friendly" camps.
We got lost. That's how we ending up constantly driving past the Christian campground, and it's horse stables. Eventually, we made it to my Aunt's rented cabin. It was small, and charming, surrounded by forest, with a view of the lake.
My mother and sister were there, along with my Grandma, my Aunt Jenny and Uncle Ben. My Uncle Russ and I shared the highlights of our day, my wedgie, making Uncle Russ high-five Sasquatch, the rides. I discovered I had a nice little sunburn on my nose and cheeks.
After passing the time pleasantly enough with my relations, my mother decided it was high time to get back on the road. Katie's friend Chad had a place for us to stay that night, in Saranac Lake, and we had to get there before it was too late.

I spent a large chunk of the journey from Schroon Lake to Saranac Lake, dozing. I was exhausted, from running around with my Uncle all day. After a little while, my sister suggested we go and get something to eat.
We stopped at a little diner with a nice rustic Adirondack theme. A lot of restaurants, shops, and motels in this area really like to play up the wild 'untouched' quality of the Adirondack Mountains. This is for the tourists, mainly. For years the Adirondacks has been a vacation spot for Americans. When people think of these mountains, they picture fishing in clear rivers, pine trees, cabins, moose. And while not all of this part of New York is a picture of tranquil wilderness, the places that cater to tourists tend to play up this pretty image.
We sat down at a booth, and flipped through the menus. We all ended up ordering the same thing. A hot turkey sandwich, open-faced. The kind you need to eat with a fork. If I remember correctly, it came with stuffing. I think we may have had soup or salad, too. It was pretty good, but I couldn't eat all of it. After we finished, my sister bought us some home-baked chocolate chip cookies (this place also functioned as a bakery, general store and information center. You'll find a lot of places like this in upstate NY and VT). Then we got back in the car and continued on.

We drove through the Adirondacks. Despite the darkness, I saw a lot of familiar sights. I used to live in this part of NY, and would drive up to Lake Placid with my mother, where she used to work for a mental health agency as a peer specialist. We drove past some lakes that are said to be bottomless. I remembered being frightened of them when I was fourteen.
We drove through Lake Placid, and I was assaulted by memories. Going there with Families First Girls Group (not a pleasant memory). Swimming in the lake with my sister. Walking around downtown as a teenager, while my mother worked. Buying chocolate covered expresso beans, and books. The gas station we stopped at when I was coming down with the flu. We drove past the fancy restaurant named Goldberry's and I remembered how badly I wanted to go there. The town was lovely, lit up the way it was.
Soon enough we were entering Saranac Lake. I may have been dozing, when I heard my sister and mother exclaim with surprise. They had seen something that looked like a wolf, dart in front of the car. A wolf? In Saranac Lake? Maybe it was a dog. Or a coyote. I don't know. I never saw it. But the thought of a wolf running around made me uneasy. I don't like driving in the Adirondacks at night as it is, there's something slightly unsettling and sinister in the darkness of the mountains and the trees.

Finally we made it to Chad's. One of Katie's friends for years, it was the first time I'd ever met him, and her friend Chelsea. He owned a house, and adjacent to that house, an apartment building. It was in one of those vacant apartments where we would be sleeping for the night on air mattresses. After showing us around his house, he helped us carry our things to the little apartment. It was a cute little place, and I wondered what it would be like to live there. I pictured what I would put where. What room would be the living room? Where would I have an office? I've always wanted an office. My dad had one, and my mother had a studio, when I was growing up.
Once we were somewhat settled, my mother and I went to the nearest corner store to get some cold drinks, as it was very hot that evening. I remember getting green tea with honey.
When we got back, Katie had decided to spend the night with her friends. Mom set up the air mattresses (I think I may have tried to help), and we got comfortable for the evening. I lay on the mattress in the big main room, reading about Henry VIII and his six wives. I was falling asleep, as I learned about the negotiations for the marriage of Katherine of Aragon and Arthur, Prince of Wales. I was very very exhausted, but I wanted so desperately to read.

But finally, I couldn't fight it any longer and put the book down. I slept on an air mattress in the little room I envisioned as an office. I can't remember why I had moved to that mattress. I think the other one had deflated.
I slept deeply, exhausted from my long day. I only woke up once, and that was when I had rolled over and hit my head on the low windowsill. I lay there, muttering to my mom that I mustn't, mustn't fall asleep, as I probably had a concussion, but she reassured me that I was fine (though I felt as though I had cracked my skull) and so I drifted back to sleep, albeit reluctantly.
Saturday was over, and tomorrow, would be the main event, the entire purpose of our adventure. The vow renewal.

So ends, Book 2: Saturday.