I think every one could do with a Monday morning massage. Okay, so maybe I just don't like Monday mornings and think that anything could brighten them up. I dropped in on a friend of mine last night who happens to be a massage therapist, so if you need a recommendation for a good massage therapist in town, I would have to say Kneading You is the place to go. It happens to be right behind Jersey subs, so you can pamper your belly, too. Yeah, just another satisfied customer. Anyway, on to better things like what a diva does on a Monday.

You average diva wakes up on a Monday morning around 4am. She takes a shower, dries her hair, and spends the next three hours putting on her face and fixing her hair. I am a unique diva, however. I wake up rather late and stumble into my clothes. In the old days, I used to be a bit more exciting. I used to wear the cloak. I used to party into the wee hours of the morning. Hmm, perhaps, I have lost myself. I better go find me.

If I travel these back roads and find myself here in this place where dreams merge, will I find my tiger. Will he turn upon me and with one slash of his claws break through the facade and the scar tissue around my heart? Will he turn to me with his sharp teeth and devour me? Will he turn to me with gentleness and lick my face gently with a sandpaper tongue? Will he look the way he does in these dreams? Or will I wake up and find that it was all a dream and I am still wrapped in layers that even the tiger can not penetrate?

So I awoke this morning to the confirmation that the cats are plotting against me. First, I woke up with the wrong cat trying to snuggle with me. I don't care what my roommate says, his cat is not cuddly unless you want to cuddle bricks. Second, I went to the kitchen to feed them and found that they had broke into their food supply already. Apparently, they were too tired to fulfill their obligations as pillows and backup alarm clocks after that. I am still pondering how to punish them. I could make them eat zucchini. I have been receiving gratuitous garden vegetables which I appreciate as it supplements my diet quite nicely.

All roads in West Virginia lead to Fairmont. All roads in Pennsylvania lead to Pittsburgh. All roads in my mind lead back to my heart, and every one of those roads comes up against a wall of brick. Whether it be real or only an illusion, nothing seems to penetrate except pain. Is pain supposed to be the key? Why do people want in so badly that they tear through or break whatever is there and leave it all in disarray when they leave?

I suppose I should tell a little story about how all roads lead to Pennsylvania. Despite waking up with a tremendous headache yesterday morning since I have taken to not sleeping properly, I was feeling better by eleven when a friend of mine expressed a need to ride in the hobbitmobile. After all, riding in the hobbitmobile is the coolest thing on the planet. Okay, so she needed a ride to the airport and the hobbitmobile was fit enough to take on the trip as well as large enough to hold three adorable boys in the back seat. (Had they been full-size, not-so-adorable boys this would not have worked out so well for my friend.)

I showed up at her house to find that we both had decided that a red shirt and blue jeans would be the best option for such a journey. The boys were all wearing red and blue, too. We looked like we planned this whole thing. Not as good as when my brother and I were both wearing the exact same shade of purple shirt, but it was close. We waited for the return of the great and magical car seats, tucked the boys into the spacious backseat, tossed some luggage in the trunk, and then we were off.

We detoured for some snacks and even stopped at McDonald's who is on my crap list again. They like to hire people who do not understand that the term "and" really does imply you want more than one of something. For instance, if I order a Big Mac meal with a shake for a drink and then say "and a Big Mac" and another shake (particularly, if that shake is a different flavor), I expect to receive two Big Macs, one order of fries, and two shakes. Needless to say, those punks didn't give me my shake. Last time this happened, I finally did get my shake, but they put some tea in it (I should have sued them like those Muslim gentlemen who got pork in their food at Denny's), but I let it pass. That McDonald's burned down a couple of weeks later. Can we say "karma"?

Anyway, the trip to the airport was pretty uneventful. Once we got there, I successfully got us lost trying to find the right part of the terminal. We did finally get Karnsy on her way in a lovely rental car and she made her way north. I was headed back south, however, which led to problems as the highway I wanted to take had a wreck and my exit was backed up. In my attempts to head south, I ended up going through Pittsburgh. Even after I left Pittsburgh, every road I got on wanted me to go back to Pittsburgh. I finally found a road I knew went toward my shire and got on it. Thus ended my great road trip with my first trip through a toll booth--great fun.

This made me late for another engagement, but I had to go feed my cats. Since my air conditioning is on the fritz, my house was unbearable, my cats were cranky, and the smell of my roommate's race horse's emissions was permeating the house. That doesn't make me happy and tomorrow morning will probably be spent trying to make all possible odor producers submit to the power that is cleaning. I did make it to the engagement, quite late, after responding to the many phone messages left on my machine. I came in just in time to see two chicks kissing. Have I mentioned that I find watching movies, older ones in particular, in large groups distasteful? It seems like a waste of that many people in one room. We could be getting to know each other, doing service projects, playing games, or any number of other things. Do I sound like someone's grandma yet?

We then went to get our traditional half-price appetizers. Ah, the joy of a chicken critter in the evening. We didn't have any peanut tossing competitions or water fountains this time, but we still had a good time. Some of us even went to a friend's house to play Risk and watch a movie. You think it goes slowly normally, try it when four of the five players are sucked in by the shiny box. Yes, I was the one not watching the movie. A good double-team got me out of the game fairly early though. *pout* I shall have to get myself a nice rematch sometime. In the meantime, I shall conquer the world in another way. Oh, but how, any ideas?

I realize it is hard to get by without some hobbit time. I realize that people get used to counting on the Empress. It's easy to take for granted that as long as their is a Horizon to build, I will build it. It is easy to expect that I will be there to allay your building. It is a foregone conclusion that if I love you and you try to kill yourself, I will skip a test to rush to your bedside. It goes without saying that eventually I will post something here or somewhere on the web that will entertain you. I can't deny my own reliability.

I will not, however, continue to let people make me feel I am wrong when I am not. I am tired of people overlooking the fact that they think they own me. I am a multifaceted person whom you will never understand and certainly never own, so quit acting like you know me better than I know myself. You can't even tell me what I had for breakfast and how I ate, let alone why I chose to have it that way. Don't bother asking because it really isn't important. A lot of things are not as important as the world wants us to think they are--for instance, how we look at this instant. People who can't at least try to see me for me shouldn't be surprised when I don't let them put a leash on me and drag me around.

Speaking of things that don't really matter, I have slogged through some more fiche today. It's amazing how many titles are still hiding out that even the recycling queen can find no use for. Ours is a wasteful society. We waste energy (don't get me started on how that is a personal responsibility and...). We waste time. We waste talents. And when we haven't wasted enough on our own, we try to waste it for other people as well. How could I say such a thing? Look around you. Look at the scraps of paper fluttering on the street. We're a country that comes up with colored ketchup. Don't tell me that is even remotely essential to happiness. Some of us even buy our food based on how snazzy the packaging is. Why on earth I have to go through two to three layers to get to most foods is beyond me (and still there is less trash outside my house on trash day than any other occupied house on the street).

Anyway, I spent most of the day trying my best to maintain a cheerful disposition. The library was okay. I only had two books, so the fiche got a lot of love from me. I have been told that somewhere out there is a cart of books that shall soon be mine, all mine. You know this excites me. Everyone lives for Bella's book reports. I haven't commented on some of my recent finds because the author's took the path of most potential earnings and turned what could have been an entertaining storyline into pure smut. When I put a book down after two chapters, you know it is bad. I made it halfway through Madame Bovine Ovary the first time. I'll stop there. Anyone who hasn't heard it yet should count themselves lucky.

Home was full of it's normal joys. I got to fold and put away my laundry. I need to revamp my wardrobe. More and more, I realize that my clothes don't fit me. Jeans and t-shirts are not the apparel of divas, queens, IMPresses, and cat ladies. Okay, maybe they work for cat ladies, but not crazy cat ladies. I must get back into my eccentricity before I freeze in a rut of hopeless ooze (which can be absorbed well by a cotton t-shirt and jeans).

The evening really ended with a fun game at Family Home Evening. We played police artist. One person would describe a character or famous person and another would describe them. Let me recap for those who know me: when trying to draw me, Dan asked, "Is she filled out?" Silly boy--what a question. I now have a great picture of Yoda and a great picture of Big Daddy Bishop though. Our crayon contributions to my happiness.

Bonne Anniversaire, mon ami Steve! Sorry, not the one you're thinking, unless, mais oui, tu est Steve;)

I should remind people that just because they do not allow me to speak or listen to my words does not mean that I am wrong. Also, just because you misinterpreted what was written here doesn't make you know me any better than Nolan Ryan whom I have never met. Of course, plagiarizing my words or emotions does very little for you. You can have all the wealth of the world and still know that what you claimed as your own was my blood. Intriguing how that works, isn't it?

Today, class, we shall begin with that age-old (well, the age of the automobile) question for measuring true happiness: Have you licked a car today?

Now many of you will be asking why one would lick a car. I will get to that momentarily. First, however, you must be counseled about the cars you may choose to lick. It is important to only lick parked cars. It is also recommended not to lick strange cars unless their strange owners are not around to call the cops on you for deviant behaviors. Also, for true happiness, one can not lick just any car. You must lick a sexy car. My recommendations (and my Christmas list) include the 2005 Eclipse, the 2006 Mustang, the General Lee, or a classic corvette. I strongly discourage the licking of Elements, Scions, Aztecs, and any car with more rust than paint. And on to answering some of those other important questions.

REASONS WHY LICKING CARS BRINGS HAPPINESS

10. No carbs.
9. No fat.
8. No calories.
7. Cars will not lick you back.
6. Cars will not file charges for sexual harassment.
5. Cars are friendlier than people (when not in motion).
4. The prettier the color, the better the taste.
3. It is completely nonsensical and sometimes you need a little nonsense.
2. Cars come in so many flavors...
1. Because Bella believes.

Anyway, it has been a big day, First, a belated happy birthday to my darling Matthew. That would be my godson. Today, I wish a happy birthday to Gail and Howard. I also need to wish my lovely Erin congratulations. Yesterday, she was married to a man with the same wonderful name as my cat. I dropped in on their reception this evening, and it was so much fun that it wore me out. So now it is time to sleep.

It was four years ago today, that the web gave birth to this website with all its rantings, all its bad humor, and those few moments of clarity when the reader must stop for a moment and realize that some depths of a soul are beyond their reach. Of course, that requires the reader to truly read and truly appreciate. I suppose I'll have to let you judge your own level of comprehension, since I find most people don't really listen to me anyway. Even when I am among the louder voices, they take no notice (or perhaps they are being polite).

Last night, for instance, I dropped in on some friends where we played random games for a while before we all realized that Monday morning comes much to soon. We played a couple of rounds of Scene It, which requires you to be a bigger junkie than even I. Yes, even I. It is an intriguing game though with fascinating questions. Then we played murder in the dark or some such. It was made all the more interesting by three hobbit orators who created intriguing tales of death and mayhem. This is when I realized I read a lot more murder mysteries than the rest of the crowd. Bad, naughty hobbit, must read some more children's books to fill her mind with fluffy goodness. Got any recommendations? I also had a problem with my voice escalating to rather high decibels though everyone claims they didn't notice.

So this is where I point out that living vicariously through others (and thereby assuming I have knowledge that, quite frankly, I don't) is not the life for me. I get reminded again and again that other people find this to be useful, but secondhand information or stale information from, oh, about three years ago doesn't give one any excuse for current behavior or prejudices. And as much as I may love some people, it begins to irk me that they feel they must be in control of others. That's not love, hon, that's sick--no matter how helpful and intuitive you try to color it. It's like trying to tell me how to start my car when you have never driven my car or even a car old enough to have the fabled carburetor. It's like trying to tell me how to love when, despite accusations otherwise, I am more than capable of loving and do it quite well. It's like trying to tell me you are trying to help me when you have no idea what the problem is (or even if there really is one at all). It's like telling a doctor how to perform heart surgery when you have never even cracked a biology book, and it's still sick. We each have our own lives to mess up. Why do we feel so compelled to interfere in everyone else's.?

Anyway, no one really cares about that. It's Monday and that means Monday Mormon Moments. Really, the rest of the day was pretty uneventful. Aside from a product change over at my kiosk. It's something I alluded to ages ago and never found the time to complete. You should be able to pick it out of the line-up. I fear it is a little girlie, but latest rumors point to the fact that I really am a woman. If I have to explain this to you, you may want to go back and review high school health or are they teaching this in grade school now? Oh, I deviated.

So we gathered together for FHE. Who is we? The same people who come every week because we know it is good fun. We had a lesson on the Savior and how important it is to remember that he did atone for our sins, but we need to accept that and try to be better. Of course, had you wanted the lesson, you would have been there. Then we played a rousing game of Murder in the Dark. (Okay, we found something we like and stuck with it.) I finally got to be the murderer, and I confess that though it's a game, I really didn't like it. There goes my second job as a hitman. Then we ate cinnamon rolls and I came home to fill the net with my happenings and mirth. Go play with...hmmm...a bar of soap, and I'll be sure to be back later for more entertainment.

So we live in a world where we start to treat ourselves the way that some of us treat our dogs. On one hand we have the mongrel mutts we try to kick into the gutter despite their loyalty and ability. On the other, we have those dogs with papers. The dogs with papers are more desirable because someone shelled out a lot of money to prove they are worthy of esteem. In some cases, they don't even go that far, they just had the luck of being born into a certain family and thus they "deserve" better than the people who were not born into the right social circle. Amazing how that works? *snorts* For a little fun, I dare you to berate me and then ask me where you fall and why.

I get a little weary of being told how unworthy I am of things in this life. In the long run, I really don't care, but in the short run, it is very wearying. I can not chase stars because Neil Armstrong was not my father. I can not direct because Steven Spielberg is not my father. I can not really be a librarian because I didn't spend four years sleeping in class to get a piece of paper that tells me I can read and understand about AACR2, call numbers, labels, data retrieval and creation, the difference between an 050 field and an 086 field in a bib record, and so many other intricacies. *rolls eyes* I have a confession to make. I believe that personally, I was capable of doing this job at the age of 10. In fact, at at that age, I did help out in my school library until some books got reshelved wrong (books that I was told not to shelve and thus hadn't touched), and they asked me to stop helping out. I fear it was more to prove definitively that someone else was not capable than a belief that I had shelved those books. That's okay because I just proceeded to read the entire Mrs. Chatterbox series among others in the morning. Thus began my ongoing career as a dramatic reader of children's books.

If you are going to build something in the air it is always better to build castles than houses of cards. ~Georg Christoph Lichtenberg (1742-1799) - Physicist and philosopher

Dreams are...illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.~Marsha Norman - The Fortune Teller (My soul's book is quite a bit happier than the one I write in my reality, when it isn't trying to kill me. ~Bella)

Lives based on having are less free than lives based either on doing or on being. ~William James

Just when you think you know exactly how it's going, some other possibility shows up and it gets even better. ~Nils Ekstrom - Business owner

The thing you are ripening toward is the fruit of your life. It will make you bright inside, no matter what you are outside. It is a shining thing. ~Stewart Edward White (1873-1946)

I found those quotes in my e-mail. I finally got some sleep, after battling the mighty insomnia. My body and mind are both overactive. I have been trying to take it easy and relax today, but I can't even sit still for a half hour and read my e-mail. I decided I needed to make some ribs in my crock pot and wash my laundry. It's ironic that despite not being a big fan of barbeque sauce, I have decided to make barbequed pork ribs. Thus far I am happy with my homemade sauce, but only time will tell it creates delicious ribs.

So while I try not to vacuum the floor or go on a wild rampage in the stuff in the spare room, I feel like reflecting. Something about the smell in the laundry room (and having to move someone else's clothes they forgot from the washer) reminded me of the laundromat. Have you ever sat in one? A lot of people might find shame in admitting they didn't have a working washer and dryer in their house, but as I come to grips with the white trash baby girl behind the exotic, eccentric web diva that you love so much, I find there should be no shame in this. I spent many hours in a laundromat, watching our clothes. I confess that even I wouldn't steal worn out, oil-stained blue jeans or hand-me-down blouses, but my mom felt it necessary to keep people from being tempted, so I would sit there on a bench, reading a book, inhaling that smell of clean, and maybe even relaxing. Ah, to be young again and without a worry. Sadly, even then I had my worries. Ever get the feeling you were never quite a child?

When our washer did work, it usually required tweaking. Our television for the longest time was the same way. When my grandfather and uncle came to live with us for a while, he decided I was a genius since I could make these things work. Now that is one way to earn and keep my love, tell me I am a genius even when I don't think I have done any great act of thought. Some things just work for me. I fail as a teacher, however, because I can't put into words how it all works. In some cases, I actually don't know. I have mentioned before that some days I just go into autopilot. I suppose that should be a warning. If you get between me and my destination before I reach it, I tend to react poorly. It has no reflection on you. It's just part of who I am, and no amount of berating me is going to make me feel that you are any less selfish for expecting me to drop things for you.

Then there are days like today when I feel worthless, and some people who love me still come to snuggle my head while I type. I am always worthwhile to my cat. People wonder why some of us become so attached to our pets. Loyalty is very hard to come by in this day and age. Anyway, I may have to add to this entry and post a tribute to the cats later, but I think I may be losing the battle with this desire to vacuum the floor.

Among the weekends cheap thrills were watching a movie about golf with friends. One of those friends proved to be as garrulous during the movie as me. Of course, I was being rude. They were trying to figure out the complicated intricacies of golf. We watched The Legend of Bagger Vance. Maybe I should try to find my game. As per usual, I have lost the urge to play. I tire of pseudo-friends, inquisitive fools, and eavesdroppers who think they understand me. Most people in my life are eavesdroppers whether they know it or not. Here's the memo: Bella is a private person. You can not penetrate her. You don't know her dreams and aspirations. And if you think she is just going to tell you her "secrets" without you proving you're her friend, well, she isn't, so quit trying to sweet talk it out. I can taste the arsenic under the sugar, and I don't like the flavor.

Speaking of flavors I don't like, the beginning of the new year has brought back the joy of drunks. Just a small notice to pedestrians: you really don't own the road. The sidewalks were invented to protect you from those other drunks who may go zooming, or should I say swerving, down High Street. If you happen to be walking up High Street in the middle of the road, the chances of getting hit by someone rounding the corner are higher than you think. Yes, I did see two gentlemen strolling up the middle of one of the lanes of traffic on High Street late Saturday evening. Just a warning to other drivers.

So yesterday we decided that Monday Mormon Moments should be moved to become Sunday Spiritual Sessions. Welcome to a world most complicated and strange. If I hear one more person who voted to move it to Sunday tell me, "they [everyone else] decided", I am going to become very unhappy. That's like someone voting straight-party Republican and claiming they didn't vote for our current president. That's not really my point. In retrospect, I wish it had started this week because tonight is the fabulous Fall Fest, but that is also neither here nor there. I managed not to injure any of the deeply tanned young ladies hiding in their black clothes as they flocked along the dark streets.

But yesterday is gone. Quotes from that day including, "You're sliding backwards", "I'm a man in a skirt. I don't think I can pull that off at all", "You could never wear my shoes", "I have the highlights, so I'll be a girl", and "I don't know miles." Hey, some of them are far more amusing in my head. In fact, most things are far more laced with emotion in my head.

This morning began with a bump and a slam. Actually, I think it started when I got some water from the staff lounge and found that water had decided to begin pouring down the wall. I love this building from pipe explosions to other random drips, we never have a dull day. Although, it could have started when I realized that I had the Mrs. scriptures in my car and her phone is not hooked up yet.

Anyway, I got to return her scriptures this evening when I presented her with cake. Everyone loves cake. I fear they don't appreciate my slightly confusing lessons, but they'll never tell me. Don't you love "nice" people? Anyway, we had a good time. I always enjoy games with random questions led by hobbits. No, I am not talking about myself. I also like when youngsters (picture an adorable two year old) drop in to visit us. Speaking of cute wee ones, I think Rodney wants tucked in.

Fluttering flames leap out to lick my wings
Inferno brought by such simple things
As the rushing wind between their ears
The salt that feeds me from my tears
The way I dip and feel my soul slip
When he dances slowly, one hand on my hip
The other barely caressing my shoulder
As we draw closer and he grows bolder
Then he forgets for one instant the taint
On my skin, but he has no complaint
And the flames flutter, burning through
Until I laugh, and I laugh because I knew
The image that danced inside his head
How he thought he had me, we were wed
In some way that does not bring us near
Except to fluttering flames that I fear

I felt my readers might need a little poetry that they couldn't understand. Not that anyone is dumb. Poetry is very personal, and good poetry (as much as I despise it all), is laced with emotions that speak more loudly to the writer than any reader. I am a firm believer in poetic license and riddles. How else could I be a incognito hobbit of mystery?

Random quote of the day from me: "You thought you caught an angel but then you realized we didn't have wings."

I discovered a great song for the hobbitmobile. If the hobbitmobile had a CD player, you know I would be cruising with the window down, playing that song for the world to hear. I know everyone would be excited about the opportunity to ride in my sexy car. Now to conquer dumplings and from there, the world.

Tiptoeing carefully through the cotton candy clouds that soften the sounds of footsteps, I step closer to the edge of the monitor. Then I tap lightly. *tap tap tap tap* Happy Birthday, Dave, you awesome little hobbit you. Now go out and celebrate.

So it was another glorious day. I got more books of a questionable nature to catalog. I say questionable because I find it hard to believe anyone will ever read and appreciate some of them. Of course, this is coming from a girl who had to pry her nose out of a math book this morning, so she could send it on it's way to the library in which is belongs. What I am saying is that I try not be biased about books unless I find that they contain information that is blatantly wrong. Even the poetry books that annoy me so much are at least art. I hope the poets who wrote them put heart and soul into them and not a desire to prove to someone else that they are worth something.

Of course, this is also coming from the diva who is considering trying to better her game. No not golf. No not the name game. No not the games people play in relationships. I am thinking more along the lines of pool. "What's your favorite magazine?" I am sure the feeling will pass with the shame of being heftily schooled at pool by two boys no less. My compatriot in arms had to sink all of our balls by herself. She seems to have forgiven me already though, so all is well.

So we wake up every morning and face the day. Some of us face it with a smile. Some of us creep out of bed with trepidation, wary of what we may trip into. Some of us bound into the world trying to tackle it before it tackles us. Others slide out of bed slowly, crawl into the kitchen, feed their little fluffy demons, and then attack other demons. In other words, my day was spent attacking dirt and fabric (not at the same time). I am now up two skirts and down two projects. Still I have a huge pile of them awaiting my attention.

Ah, if only I had something exciting to write about like taming a wild horse or winning a prize. But I do not seek pieces of paper or golden statues. I'm just looking for my very own hobbit to snuggle and call snookums. Okay, maybe I am just calling my cat snookums. Either way, I still have much more to do before the day is done, so off I go. Have a good one.

I must confess I am feeling a bit less reproachful of myself this afternoon. Of course, I woke up with a wonderful backache and wished I had a personal masseuse. I did get squished at church though and a good squishing can make all the difference. For those who are not aware of the great power of a squish, these are tremendous bear-hugs (usually given by a tall blond) that lift you off your feet, knock the wind out of you, and sometimes even realign your spine. AH, the power of a good, loving squish.

Some days I find myself staring at this blank space and wishing I had something more exciting to say. All I have are random thoughts on what I have been reading (it's Sunday, so picture a pile of church magazines and scriptures), and/or some commentary on random online ploys. For instance, if I spit on a pedestrian, I can win a PS3. A couple of days ago, it was for hitting bushes with boxing gloves. As fun as all of these things seem, I know I am going to have to fill out a hundred question survey and still not get a PS3. It's like those freaky people who kept trying to give me a gold watch with diamond chips, but only if I subscribed to magazines I would never read. Needless to say, I never got that watch. Yes, that is why I am continuously asking about the time--all because those evil people promised me a ritzy watch and never sent it.

Anyway, as nothing exciting is likely to happen until I make it out for Sunday Spiritual Sessions, I think I shall stop typing now. Take care and beware the rabid wolverine that's about to knock on your door.

It's been a long week and it has barely begun. Sunday Spiritual Sessions while great fun somehow throw off my week. Last night, I found myself avidly cleaning my living room. That was my new Monday Mormon Moment. After all, "cleanliness is close to godliness". Something stirs in the air and I hear lamentation--not about gas as the radio announcer was so concerned but about the wonderful tradition of man's inhumanity to man. I guess gas prices would fall under that category, but I am thinking more of identity theft, manipulation, misquoting, abuse of power, and other forms of deception. You'd be amazed at what I see every day, every where I go. You'd be amazed of what I notice about you and choose to disregard because, for reasons beyond my understanding, I would rather just love the world than condemn it, no matter how many times I get stabbed, as a friend put it yesterday, "in the heart" for it.

I do not, however, enjoy the mistaken impression that friendship equals ownership. I must digress again and make comment on the fact that being my friend requires very little besides respecting me and making a little time for me now and again. Of course, in this busy world, I realize that is hard, and so I lodge no complaints when my offers are rejected, though I do worry when I haven't heard from people in a while. I expect the same courtesy.

So it is late and I want to sleep, but not at my desk. Surely, you all know there are risks to sleeping at your desk.

TOP TEN THINGS TO DO TO A SLEEPING COWORKER

10. Add more work to their pile.
9. Rearrange their work so it will all tumble over when they wake up.
8. Make a puddle of water right under their mouth and convince them they have a drooling problem.
7. Record the funny noises they make to play back at office parties.
6. This is the chance you're been waiting for to practice body art.
5. Haven't you always wondered what they'd look like with a mustache or a unibrow?
4. Take pictures and fark them (Mez, you know what I am talking about).
3. Two words: hot water.
2. Try shaving cream and a feather.
1. Leave them sleeping there when the office closes for the day.

Sometimes I wonder what brings the reader back to sites like this. Are they hoping to catch me licking my wounds? Hoping to see they hurt me enough to bolster their own waning confidence? Hoping to find something here that gives them meaning? Hoping to discover who Bella really is? Hoping that she has found one of her patches of light and put it out for the world to see? Hoping to plagiarize emotion and claim it for their own? Hoping for assurance that I didn't see behind the mask? Wonder what inspired each post? Was it you? Was it me? Was it a wasp in a window, buzzing away while a train whizzes past on the tracks that are only ten feet away?

My wonder probably stems from spending too much time being part of who I am--one of those indefatigable Mormons. I spend more time than you would imagine in church classes or at church activities. One of the common themes is how the scriptures basically were inspired journal entries left to help us find our faith, build our testimonies, and understand doctrines of the gospel. I spend time taking this all in, trying to absorb it into myself and still those exist who would find fault with me--not for any failing of my own, but for not being "born of goodly parents". My parentage is, frankly, none of their business anyway, but in defense of my very blood, no one who walks this world as a mortal of flesh and blood has a right to pass judgment on them or tell me I am not worthy of as much as another who had the "right" lineage. I ride no one's coattails though we all have the same Heavenly Father. And if I struggle a bit more to do the best I can with what he gave me and seem to be winning some competition I didn't join, then I must express my pity for the fool losing a race that is not being run.

I am simply me. And lately, I wonder who that is. The chick in the cloak needs to be breathed back into life. She needs to step back out into the world with all her defiance and scream, "You haven't beaten me". The Toreador needs to take the stage again and dance for no reason but the feel of the sun upon her face. The Malkavian needs to break her chains and lose touch with the world that tried to pin her down, break her, claim her, make her into some plaything (handily tucked away when a better toy comes along). And then there are the parts of me that even my riddles can not describe and thus my reader must wonder, what is she hiding?

Nothing as sinister as one would think, or is it hope. But we do all have our secrets, and we would be well to keep them from those we would not wed. Secrets too often are used as weapons of war when "friends" betray friends. Lies, too, are used, but I prefer not to think of these things, for that is the past, is it not? One would hope their friends are not fools enough to attack the people they can count on. For instance, my beautiful Aravan and I still talk. We do have to discuss milestones in the life of my darling Katassah after all. The young one has entered school, if you can imagine. Only a few more inches before he towers over me, I am sure. Saw some advice for her in a book I was cataloging this morning. Of course, it was a quote from the famous book Peter Pan:

"It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day. If you could keep awake (but of course you can't) you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like tidying up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on earth you had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it were as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight. When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions with which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your mind and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out your prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on." J.M. Barrie

So I hope that Katassah has had his bad memories tossed away. I hope he awakes to those pretty memories. I hope that my mother is busy weeding out my mind as well. I hope I awake in the morning with no memory of the world I have seen beneath the surface that the "real" world rolls on. Sweet dreams.