Failure and disappointment..

I have no real coherent words right now. I will probably end up rambling through most of this, not making sense, just letting the words roll off my tongue to my fingers to this page for someone to read.

I know in my heart that everything happens for a reason, that fate is going to take me on a ride I might not want to be on, that what I want might not be the best for me. But this – never in a million years did I suspect that you would betray my trust, my love, everything that I gave you. You held my delicate heart in your hands, but you let it fall – you let it break.

I know I deserve better, but why did you have to deny it all? Pretend that you didn’t even know me, snuff me like I was nothing but a speck of dirt? I just don’t understand why. I’ll never understand why.

My world is blurry right now, clouded by tears that I never thought would drop down my face – tears formed from pain and agony, tears that reflect in them bitterness of which this situation lies (lies – what a coincidence – considering all you ever did was lie to me). Everything is a blur, nothing stands as it is anymore, it has become one mixed up piece of shit.

My scars have become too big to heal, you ripped them open as if it was your fifth birthday and you were getting the best present in the world – with no conscious, no thought – you just went and tore into them. I’m bleeding tears, cut wide open – I wish you could feel what I feel.

I’ve been left gaping open – vulnerable to more attacks. I attempt to close myself away, but it is to no avail. I just don’t want to feel right now.. let it all go numb.

</3

On a whole other note, I miss my friends like it’s my job. I need you all right now.

Screw writing anything that people have to think about ever again.

Just a little enlightenment on…

Premarin

Premarin, along with Prempro, Premphase, Prempac and Premelle, is a human estrogen replacement drug used to reduce the symptoms of menopause in women. It is also prescribed to help eliminate the risk of osteoporosis, and to reduce the chance of heart disease in women over 50. The drug is obtained from the urine of pregnant mares, and put out in many forms. The name Premarin comes from PREgnant MARes’ urINe (PMU). Approximately nine million American women are taking Premarin; this is reduction of 25% from the twelve million taking it in 1999. Out of the fifty-five million post menopausal women, one third is on estrogen or hormone replacement therapy; 49% of these women are using estrogens excreted by the pregnant mare. The only producer and distributor of Premarin is Ayerst Organics Ltd., a subsidiary of Wyeth Inc.

Premarin was introduced in 1942 before synthetic of non PMU organic alternatives existed. The industry thrived, mostly in Canada, until there were reports of mares living in unhealthy conditions and foals being mistreated. The Ontario Government then issued regulations in 1968. Still, in 1975, Premarin became Wyeth’s biggest selling and most successful ever prescription drug.

Once the most prescribed drug in America, it is now the fourth most prescribed in both the U.S. and Canada. It holds 75% of the estrogen supplement market worldwide, and is Canada’s most lucrative pharmaceutical export to date. Premarin is expensive, though. A typical regiman costs about $400 a year.

There are approximately 431 current Canadian and U.S. PMU farms. There are two sides to this issue, those who are for using pregnant mares to produce this drug, and those who are against it.

Pro-PMU people focus on the fact that mares live out on 1,000+ acre pastures with their foals for up to six months of the year. On most PMU farms, mares are 175-185 days pregnant when the collection period begins. Mares are collected for 160-180 days usually during the months of October through April.

Anti-PMU people focus on the fact that pregnant mares are kept tied indoors for at least six months of the year.

Mares usually produce 90-100 gallons of urine during their collection time, and the farmers try to maintain a constant urine volume to meet their quotas and the urine grade. To produce Premarin, the mares are impregnanted and fitted with a UCD (urine collection device). They are kept for their last six months of pregnancy in stalls 8 feet long, by 3 1/2 wide, by 5 feet high. Right before foaling, they are taken “off line” and allowed to foal in outdoor paddocks. Within six months of a successful breeding, the mares are returned to the PMU lines again. Mares that do not become pregnant within a very short time are often sent to the slaughterhouse. Foals are sometimes fattened for feedlots and then sold for slaughter. Some are sent to auctions or are rescued by organizations. A filly (girl) foal has a less then one chance in 10 of not going to slaughter, a colt (boy) foal, less than one in 50.

The UCD’s used to collect the urine are not very hygenic. They allow urine to soak the skin of the vulva, sometimes causing infections or painful lesions. The stall size is not big enough for the horse to lie down and sleep. Many supporters of PMU says that “horses can sleep standing up anyways.” Horses can lock their knees and doze off, but they must lie down for deep sleep (three hours for every twenty-four). As a result of lack of exercise, the mares often have problems with stocking up, soreness, and hoof wall seperation, as well as forms of respiratory distress.

The other problem is that horses cannot move very well while tied up. They are tied in the front and in the back, therefore they cannot turn around or walk more than two or three steps forward or backward. Horses are, by nature, wanderers. The mares are also fed too much to keep them in profitable slaughter weight if needed, but given not enough water to keep their urine concentration high.

The foals born of these mares are more than likely going to be sent to slaughter. Tom Hughes of the Canadian Farm Animal Care Trust has publicly stated, “Most of the foals from the average PMU farm will be sold purely for meat.” In 2002, fifteen thousand foals were sold directly to slaughter sources by PMU farms. The meat is exported to the European and Asian markets for human consumption. The total number of mares, replacement mares, stallions, and PMU foals impacted by PMU production is over 75,000 per year.

A “Recommended Code of Practice” was put in place for the PMU farms, but it is completely voluntary to follow it. It suggests that horses be “exercised as is necessary for welfare”; that bedding of some kind “should” be provided on the non-skid (brushed cement) floors; that horses “should be offered water no less than twice a day”, and so on. There are no consequences if the guidelines are not followed.

To read about what those who support PMU farms believe: Veterinary, equine community dispel accusations against the pregnant mare urine industry; as well as The Pregnant Mare Urine Industry: Caring or Cruel? by Rebecca Gummeson.

Links to more information about the cruelty of PMU farms: Equine Advocates, and my source for this post.

Where do you stand?

Defining Myself

As I continue to grow and learn, I begin to wonder how I can define who I really am. When someone asks, “Tell me about yourself”, what exactly should I say? I could go on about what I love, which consists of so many things it could take four thousand years to cover. I could talk about my major in school or who my friends are or my favorite movies, books, quotes, plays, etc. I know there has to be at least a little something that makes me different from all the other people who walk this Earth, even if I can never truly find out who I really am and what exactly I want out of life. So, here we go.

My family. I have a mom, a dad, and two younger sisters. Seems simple enough? But what does that say about me? So, I am the oldest child, which often means I have paved the way for the younger ones.. I have gone under the wrath of my parents more often.. I have made more mistakes. Does being the oldest make me more responsible? Or am I a bigger risk taker? I have no idea.

My major in college. I currently have two, Equestrian Science and English. They encompass both of my two biggest loves – horses and writing. Simple. I love horses and I love to write. I was once called a stuck-up rich girl for being involved with horses. Little did the person know that I don’t even own a horse, and I have done every piece of work with horses by myself, for myself to get to where I am today.

My friends. I do not have many close ones, probably only about three right now. I have a hard time with “best friends” because I tend to be quite sensitive to many things, therefore blowing things out of proportion and losing friends. All of my friends are different, though. Some are quiet, more reserved, only speak their mind when it is necessary. Some are loud, funny, crazy, do things on a whim. Some are opinionated. I don’t know what they would tell anyone else about me, though.

I honestly and truthfully think that the best way to attempt to define yourself is by the small things that most people wouldn’t notice while looking at the big picture. The likes and the dislikes, the opinions of for or against, the way one carries themselves.

I sing. But only when I am by myself either in the car or in my room. Occasionally I will sing in public, but only rarely.
I put my right shoe on before my left shoe.
I save all my change.
I hate getting up early; I love to sleep. At college, I would take a nap every day. Sometimes they could be up to four or five hours long.
I like to be organized, but my room rarely is.
I have too many pet peeves to count, although one day I will post about them.
I love to write letters, handwritten, on cool stationary. I will write to anyone who wants a letter. Anyone.
I hate doing laundry. (Who doesn’t?) I let it go so far that I have it piling up. I might have a ton of clothing, but I will finish it in 3-4 loads because I am good like that.
I have slight OCD.
I lose about almost everything. I have currently lost my checkbook, but surely I’ll find it somewhere.. sometime soon.
I don’t really like the color green for clothing, but I own one green tank top and my room is painted green.
I would die if I was stuck somewhere that I couldn’t write.
I am addicted to Xanga. Literally addicted.
I would rather ride a horse than do anything else in this world.
Someone once told me that if I don’t marry someone who loves horses as much I do, the marriage will be a failure. I am now scared to get married.
I am scared of love. In mostly every form. I don’t want to be let down or disappointed or hurt anymore.
I will never go one day without having my toenails painted.
I wish I was rich. Really fucking rich.
I love pearls. I would wear my pearl necklace every second of every day of my life if I could.
I cannot stand sharing a blanket with someone while I sleep.
Usually, the only time someone ever calls me is because they want something. Only about two or three people ever call me “just to talk”. It is kind of upsetting in a way.
I can often times by standoffish, cold, or just want to be alone. I like to have time to myself every day. If I don’t, I go crazy.
Sometimes, I really, really, really hate people.
I am not as smart as I would like to think I am. Yet I play it off that I am.
I need to read more. I need to read really good books that will spark intellect within me. (Any suggestions?)
I wish I was more cultured. I am a poor excuse for a human being sometimes.

I have no idea how to define myself. I am a 19 year old white girl of Polish, German, and Italian descent who just wants to make it through life. I want to ride a lot of horses, write a book (although I am sure I will not), marry someone and have kids. I just, for once, want to be able to impact someone’s life in a positive way. I am confused, very confused. On who I am and what I want and how I will achieve many things.

But mostly, I am scared.

Changes

As the world moves, we move with it. Some people hate it; they try to fight it. Others embrace it, go with the flow, let life take them wherever it may. It is inevitable that we all will change more than once in our life - physically, emotionally, mentally, psychologically. I, personally, used to hate change. But I soon figured that it is a part of life, and the only way to get through it is by accepting it.

I realized tonight how much people in my life have changed since I first knew them. Relationships have ended, either purposely or by mistake. People’s values have changed – either become so distorted they cannot even be recognized anymore, or stronger in intensity. Some things that we used to hold important or near to our hearts is something we do not even care about anymore. Humans evolve, plain and simple.

I often sit back and think about some of my relationships. Are they worth it? I have learned that with trust comes responsibility. There are times where those I thought were the most trustworthy have betrayed more times than I can count, and the ones I thought would betray me were the ones who stayed the most loyal.

People hold on to what they have out of the fear of never finding something or someone else. We can con ourselves into believing that no one better will ever come along when we are in abusive relationships. We remain best friends with a person we fight with constantly and talk behind their back when they are not looking. We push away the people who care about us the most, only to find that they are the ones who never left – always hanging on, being there for us when we came running back – yet, we were the ones who treated them like crap.

I am slowly learning to let go of the bad and hold onto the good. I lost a friend about a year ago; her and I just stopped talking as much – we never had the time to see each other or catch up. Tonight we saw each other and spent a good five hours talking, laughing, really truly being ourselves. We have always been friends, we just failed to recognize it. When other people were walking away from us, when they were finding out that they were better off without us, we somehow held on – in our minds, in our hearts. I find that we still hold most of the same values and morals, that we never have wavered in what we believed in – that we, out of all the people from high school, have probably changed the least from our true selves.

Having a wake up call now and then can teach one a lesson. I am only 19, still learning and growing and becoming who I really am, if I can ever figure out that person. I am bound to make mistakes, forget about the people who truly care, keep on plowing a path I shouldn’t, but I know in the end that those people who have secretly been on the sidelines cheering me on and never giving up are the ones I want in my life forever. I sometimes overlook the quiet ones, the ones who never cause drama or who don’t say much – but I cherish them more than they think.

I think that I need to reassess some things in my life. I need to let go of what is holding me back and causing anxiety. The hardest part is climbing the mountain. A journey is not one without some bumps and falls along the way, but when the person who picks you up and joins you is the one you least expect it to be, you then realize who your best friend really is. I am not sure what is going to happen in the future, but no matter what – I will move with the changes that happen around me, either with them or against them, either forward or backward. Sometimes, there will be things that happen that I will not agree with – and I will have to decide if being involved is right or wrong.

It is okay to move on. I know that, I just have to learn to do that.

Desert_Moon quotes Milton, Sunsfan and the American education, thenarrator with another fantastic piece of work, MockGod wonders where high expectations have gone.

Letters from Father

The darkness outside enveloped the lodge we were sitting in, fireflies lighting up beyond the windows, crickets being noisy. I knew what was coming, for I had snuck a glance at a letter my parents received in the mail from my high school, one they told me I could not see. Teachers, advisors, coaches told us to find a place in the room where we could be by ourselves; the four of us chose to sit together in a squarish type circle. Letters were handed out – long ones, small ones, some with pictures or drawings or cute stickers; we all got varying amounts. I received six. We opened them, the entire room silent – and suddenly, sniffles could be heard around the room. Boys I had never seen cry in my four years of going to school with were tearing up, faces red, hands clutching tissues. For some reason, I chose to read my father’s last. We never had a good relationship, I was scared about what was inside the card he sent me. By the time I got to it, my face was streaked with tears that could not stop, tissues were starting to pile in the middle of our circle. I opened it. Inside was a picture of me in a pink and black outfit with sunglasses on, posing in a signature style. In purple marker was written, “I you. -Dad” A letter written on plain white paper in black ink was folded up inside. I cried. And cried. And cried.

This was the end of my senior year in high school, too late to begin anew it seemed, too early to be sad about leaving for our first years away from home. The letter my dad wrote me is currently misplaced, but I know it is somewhere in my room.

August 17, 2004.
The humid weather in Missouri made the trip up four flights up seem longer than normal. It was move-in day. I was surrounded by my mom, my dad, my two younger sisters, and my maternal grandparents. All my things were being moved into my cramped dorm room, barely big enough to fit everything both my roommate and I had brought. The bunk beds were disassembled, furniture was moved around, my bed was set up and other necessities placed where needed. Sessions were attended, and pictures taken. My parents needed to leave, to finally go home and let their first daughter start a journey they would never have expected. The walk from the bridge to the car seemed short, my mom walked on my right hand side, my dad up ahead. When we made it to the car, my dad hugged me. He was crying. It was not normal crying, it was straight out bawling. My mom was crying too, but my dad – he was losing it all. They left. I walked away, only to start on the path which would change my life forever.

August 22, 2004.
I receive my first care package and a set of letters from my family.
The one from my father reads this:

“Dear Kate,
Since my handwriting is not too good, I’m typing this out. Sometimes I can’t even read what I wrote.
I can’t believe you are in college. It just seems like yesterday that I was holding you in my arms on March 27, 1986, driving you to school at St. Mary’s or driving you to (my high school’s name) when you were a freshman or sophomore. I am so proud of you. You decided many years ago that you wanted to go to WWU and you stuck with your decision. I supported you all the way and knew that you could do it.
As I gave you a hug last Tuesday night and said “Have Fun” it was the beginning of a new chapter in our lives. I cried and had a hard time for a few days realizing that you are now an adult and really will make the right decisions in your life. As tears come to my eyes when I think about you, I realize that they are tears of sadness, happiness, fears, excitement, and yea, just plain old tears. Emotions is something you probably don’t think your Dad would have but I do.
I’m happy for you because I know you will do great in college. You will make lots of new friends, get good grades, and work hard.
I’m so excited that you got into Chi Omega. That was a lot of hard work just to get where you are now. I never thought I would call you a “sorority chick” but hey what the hell…
Also, congratulations on getting a job working on the magazine. That’s right up your alley. Probably better than sorting mail anyways.
Well, if I write everything in my first letter that won’t leave much for the next one.
Have fun, study hard, work hard and call me when ever you want.
My screen saver is now a picture of my 3 beautiful girls. I love you.
Enjoy your time in college.
Love, Dad” [sic]

Yeah, I cried.

August 30, 2004.
I get another set of letters from home.
“Dear Kate,
Sorry my last letter made you cry, I’ll try to keep it all in check.
Wow time is just flying by with your college days.
It seems like you are very busy and are having fun. You have such a great personality, it’s not wonder you are making lots of friends. Your friends back home will always be ‘your friends’, but making new friends is what life is all about.
The opportunities for you and your sisters in the future are endless. Some of them will work for you and others will not. Be positive and expel upon the ones that benefit you.
Ok, I’ll get off my soapbox now. What the hell is that… I’m not on a soapbox, just sitting in my office typing this letter at 1:30 a.m.
Ok, I’ve got to get some sleep.
Talk to you on-line sometime.
Have fun, study hard, work hard and call me when ever you want.
I love you.
Love, your Dad!” [sic]

My dad only wrote my four letters my first year in college, I think he just gave up or got too busy with his life. I always wondered what it would be like if I had a better relationship with my father, if I really could go to him for anything, if I was a “daddy’s girl”. I wish I had a better relationship with my mother as well. I would write about all the letters she wrote me, but she wrote one almost every week.. and that would take way too long.

My dad is human, and he makes mistakes. But I love him as much as I can.
My dad turned 46 today. So, cheers, Dad! Thanks for being a cool cat and all that jazz. I love you.

[He doesn't read this. But enjoy it anyway. I guess that seeing a part of my life might make you see me in a different light. I'm not all words and writing, only some of the time.]

The_Quality_Content_Revolution features The Blackwood Project; Desert_Moon and memories; Anatole69 talks reality; Sunsfan likes it sublime.

Why Life is Meaningless Without the “Little Things”

I remember back in grade school I used to eat lunch with this girl who always got her napkin written on by her mom. It would say many different things on different days, such as “I love you. Have a good day.” or “Good luck on the (fill in class name here) test!” or “I hope you have a good Friday, I can’t wait to go shopping tonight.” It did not really matter what it actually said on the napkin, just the fact that her mom actually wrote her something on one every single morning. I was seriously so jealous. It was such a small thing her mother did, but I guarantee it made that girl’s day.

“Little things” make this world go round, some days. Even up to now, I still love getting things that many people would think were meaningless. My mom wrote me a letter in a card every week when I was at college. I never really told her how much they meant to me, and I never sent any back.. but sometimes those cards she bought at the store for ninety-nine cents were the highlight of my week.

Making someone’s day can be done with the slightest thing – the smallest saying – the littlest object – a thank you or similar appreciation. Giving flowers to an elderly woman who lives alone, passing out cups of Puppy Chow to your entire floor or fraternity/sorority house (I did that my first semester of school), giving your excess change or leftovers to a homeless person.

At work we are pushed to “go beyond the expectation” to make every customer seem as if they are receiving special attention. Instead of pointing someone in the direction of where something is at, walk them to it if you have the time and are not bombarded by other people; letting them use a lifejacket even if they do not have a driver’s license or a state I.D. with the trust in them that they will return it; trying to fulfill their request if it feasible. The one thing I really love about my job is that I interact with people all day.

I once gave my mom a card thanking her for everything she had done for me in my life. She promptly asked, “What do you want?”. I merely wanted to show her how much I appreciated her, I did not want anything. I think it has been ingrained in us all our lives that by giving something to someone unexpected, you want something in return. Why can’t people just be kind and generous in the first place, and not want anything back?

Often times, the things we think are little are in actuality big to some people. I think one of the things people lack is being able to say “Hi” to a stranger, to ask them how their day is going. I try my hardest to say hi to people, to see how they are, to befriend them in a way that may or may not be long lasting. I have never been good in finding real long-lasting friends, so I figure that by having many very short-termed ones, I can learn at least a little bit of something from all of them.

Doing something and seeing someone smile is the best thing in the world. I honestly think that without random acts of kindness and so-called meaningless things, this world would be in a worse place than it already is. This world is often looked at negatively, that there is so much poverty and violence and so much wrong with it – yet, there are times when the smallest things can change a little bit of the world.

I do not believe that we will ever be able to rid the world of all its ills, but we can try to make the lives of those around us and in our community a little bit better, in an effort to save the world from more ills. It is tragic thing, that this world is so downtrodden in some parts. Yet, we need to look around and try to change things a little at a time. I know this sounds so redundant and repetitive, but it holds water. I have helped Habitiat for Humanity build houses in my own community, and I will tell you – it makes a difference in the lives of the people that receive those homes.

One extra effort, one “little thing”, one “hi” or “thank you” or smile, just one thing.. and maybe, someone can pass it on to another person. Maybe I am being an idealist, which I rarely am, but this is something I truly believe in.

Life without the little things is truly meaningless. (The “big” things are few and far between, we need to learn to appreciate the “small things”.

[I don't know if this is even coherent, but at least I am trying to get some kind of point across. I am bad with essay-type things.]

My random act of kindness for the day was allowing a handicapped woman leave out of the incorrect gate at the waterpark because it was closer to the car she was leaving in.

Desert_Moon’s train to a place with a twist; thenarrator gives us Peter, part four; MockGod uses memory in the way it comes to mind; LiveToWrite addresses the most recent challenge; nightblindness introduces us to characters better than ones in books.

[Word Thought That Came From My Drive Home]

I remember when he said that he would never leave me. It seems like just yesterday when that one monumental sentence slipped out of his mouth into my awaiting ears. Unfortunately, I was naive enough to believe him. After all the pain and agony and tortuous moments, I believed every word he vomited. To think that it was such a picayune thing for him to say, as if it meant nothing to him. Still, I feel the pain he inflicted on me. It holds me back from feeling what I desire, from saying what needs to be said, from being the woman that inside I know I am.

There are days where I want to call him and just yell, until he either hangs up or I finish what I have to scream at him. I want to resurrect what he imposed on me, to use it against him in ways he could never imagine. I have so much anger towards him, which I sometimes fail to let go of, and inside it bottles up. I have not forgiven the past, therefore I cannot move into the future without being torn up and shaken around. It has been one of those days today. It has been one of those days for the past week or so. Except for yesterday. That was a good day.

People are just pissing me off right and left. I abhore going to work because I know that someone will be stupid or immature, but I will not say anything to them because boss lady will yell at me for what they did. For some reason, the innocent people are always the ones who get fucked over. I am real sick of it, and I will be glad to leave this place behind as a worker after this summer. I have met some great people, but the abuse I receive from most of them is enough to really wreck havoc amongst normally civilized people. I absolutely hate being corrected when it is not an action that needs to be corrected.

I am in a ranting mood. I am sure I could go on for ages. I have not posted lately, mostly because of lack of inspiration and drive. I would never make it as a writer. I have not wanted to do much lately, I almost called off my lesson this afternoon. I just want to sleep until August 15th when I go back to school. And the week and half later when I will see Marc.

My lesson was good, though. As much as I dislike riding a mare, especially a quarterhorse mare, I try to make the best of it. I think I have improved since the beginning of the summer, and at least I am riding. I would go into horse talk mode right now, but I really do not want to confuse or piss off people.

Back to your regularly scheduled program tomorrow. Maybe. I am just not in the mood to do anything. Or see anyone. Or, really, be here. I want to be in New York, with the one person who probably cares about me the same amount that I care about him. I am just in a sad mood. I’m sick of my so-called friends (except Michelle, she called me tonight to see what I was doing, but unfortunately I didn’t get her message until like just now – sorry girl, we’ll do something soon, I promise). No one is ever around. Yeah. I said it. It’s the truth. Deal with it. I know some of you read this. Well, eh. Yeah.

Night.

Creative Writing Challenge VIII (6/29/05 - 7/13/05)

**Courtesy of the brilliant mind of my Xanga friend, enchantress Dippity.**

You are not expecting anyone, and a stranger arrives at your door. At first, you do not know who this person is, but gradually, as you speak, you realize that this is someone you once knew. Maybe you knew this person a little, maybe you knew this person intimately. Are you happy to see this person? Why did he or see seek you out and come to your house today? Describe your feelings, and whatever this may conjure up.

The curtains were still drawn even though the clock was nearing close to noon. Sunlight would make my head ache more than it was already. I cradled a tall glass of lemonade, the condensation seeping onto the palms of my hands. My light brown hair was pulled up into a slightly off-center messy bun, and my red painted toenails were peeking out from the long-legged gray Aero pajama pants I had come so fond of recently. My black tank top showed off my uneven tan lines, a trademark of working in the sun with rolled-up sleeves almost every day. I sat at the oval kitchen table, sipping at the cold liquid and reading the local news section in the paper. A silent Saturday was what I needed after last night’s antics. I lazily let my mind wander until the shrill noise of the doorbell pulled me out of a daydream.

It’s probably just the UPS man, I thought, until the bell rang a couple more times, this time rapid and impatient. All I could think about as I walked to the door was how horrible I probably looked. Glimpsing into the mirror, I attempted to straighten out my hair and wipe the smudges mascara off from under my hazel eyes. The bell rang again. Calm your ass down. Peeking out of the window, I saw a girl younger than me, hair pulled up into a ponytail and face framed by loose strands and curled bangs.

I opened the door, still wondering who the hell was ringing my doorbell with such haste on a Saturday afternoon. It was probably a Girl Scout trying to sell me cookies, and I definitely did not need those. “Hi, can I help you?” I said, answering the door with my glass of lemonade in my hand, looking as if she had just woke me from the best nap of my life.

“Hi, I know you do not know me anymore, but I know you. Well, I used to know you. You know, in the past, like a couple years ago,” she said, hurrying through her words as if she was in some kind of word race. “Can I come in?”

“Uh… who are you?”
“I will tell you. Just let me in, please.” I opened the door a little wider and let her pass me into the kitchen. Her ponytail bounced up and down, but her steps were flat and unlively.

“It all looks the same,” she said, peering around the kitchen and the rest of the house, running her hands on the walls and the table and even the backs of the chairs. I am such an idiot for just letting a crazy 16 year old into my house.

I studied her as well as I could while she roamed around the downstairs of the house. Her eye makeup was so thick, I thought that she could barely see. Blush covered her cheeks, and thick eyeliner sat below a heavy light-colored maroon eyeshadow. She stood about 5’6”, and she walked with no self-confidence. Her arms were crossed at her chest, her steps small and staggered, her back hunched slightly.

“You look really different than you did three years ago,” the girl said, looking me up and down. “You look a little hungover right now, actually.”

“That’s because I am,” I said, rubbing at the mascara that might not even be there anymore. Suddenly, she bounded down the hallway to the stairs. I heard her footsteps climb the stairs two at a time, and I followed behind her, wondering what the hell was going on.

“Wow, this room looks so different. I remember when it was yellow.”
“Ok, seriously, who the hell are you? I am a little creeped out.”
“I’ll give you some hints.

I sighed. “Fine.”
“Alright. Well, I know everything you did from the moment you were born until about the age of sixteen. It was around that age that you started to push me away. I realized that you were growing up, and you didn’t need me around anymore. I was just holding you back.”

I was officially scared for my life at this moment, because it seemed like this girl who claimed to know me was really just a stalker who stopped when I was just getting my driver’s license and dating my first boyfriend.

“And yes, I remember him.” Oh God, she’s reading my mind. She continued, “You still love him, don’t you?”
Sheepishly, I looked down and mumbled a barely coherent yes.

“I was there the time you fell on the driveway because your bike tires slipped on the car soap. I was there the time you fractured your thumb catching that girl in softball conditioning. I was there for the first time you ever kissed a boy. And the time Mom hit you with a wooden spoon across your ass and it broke in half. And the times where Dad make you lick soap for being bad, or when he would throw water on you to wake you up.”

“What the…,” my mind was going a million miles per second.
“I was also there when you kept messing up. When you lied to Mom about where you were going, when you got that C in English class, when you asked Ryne to the Winter Formal dance – only for it be a complete and utter bust, and I was there when you laid in bed every night and prayed to not wake up the next morning.”

Tears were running down my face. I had to be imagining this. “What else do you remember?” I asked her, suddenly realizing exactly who she was.

“I remember every tear, smile, laugh. And all the trips to Disney World. I was there when April fell off her bike and you ran to get her because you were so scared. I was there when you were seven or eight, and you would sit at the top of the stairs, listening to Mom and Dad fight.. hoping that they would stop as the tears streamed down your face. I was there the first day you ever rode a horse, and fell in love with it. I don’t remember much past the age of sixteen, just what I could see from a third person’s point of view.”

“I know. I grew up and I had to move on. I am sorry, but it had to be done. After a while, you made me do some stupid shit,” I said.

I was still crying. She started crying. She apologized, and as we hugged, she felt so light and airy and free. “Well, I have to go now,” she said, turning around. She knew the way out, better than I did some days. “Bye,” I said. I hoped she would be okay.

This would be the last day my past conscience would haunt me.