The Space Between the Curtains:
Memories of my childhood floated around the back of my head as I lay on my back, staring out at the rain. Sometimes fuzzy and at others, clear, they were all of the same thing, just at different stages of my life. I have always loved the space between the curtains and the windows. I never really hid there so much as escaped there. Hours I would spend standing behind the curtains or lying on my back so that my head and shoulders poked through to the window panes. It was almost as if some other dimension existed there. It was a magic of sorts, the way the light seemed to exist there in that soft, fuzzy way. I always felt like I was glowing. At those times I would let myself imagine all sorts of things, and in that magic place they all seemed so attainable. "Theresa..." I let my concentration dwell upon a single rain drop among the many on the window pane and watched it slowly roll downwards. "Theresa.... what are you doing?" "Shhhh," I said. I slid over a bit on the bed and motioned for Tim to come and join me. He laid his head right next to my own and peered out of the window, trying to see what I saw. "Isn't it a magical place here?" I asked letting the curtains fall around us, locking us into my private sanctuary. He smiled out at the rain. "Yes it is. .... I like it." We lay there for days it seemed, but in actuality it was merely a few minutes before he propped himself up on one elbow. "Why is it you seem so sad today?" he asked, reaching out to push my hair out of my eyes. I shrugged not knowing what to say. I thought that perhaps sometimes people should be allowed to be meloncholy without an excuse, that sometimes it was just nice to be meloncholy. It made me feel human. After all, no one person is happy every minute of everyday. What I actually said was, "I don't know, I suppose you must have hurt my feelings." "When, Today?" "No, maybe it was days ago, and I've just stored them away so that I could be sad today in the rain as I feel is proper." "Ohh, I see," Tim whispered gently. "And where are they, then?" he asked me. "What do you mean?" "Your hurt feelings, where are you keeping them?" "I don't know, I hadn't thought about it." Tim took my face in his hands and turned it about in the light. "Ah ha!, there they are, just there," he said with a triumphant smile. "I shall kiss them and make it better." And with those words he gently lay a kiss upon my right cheek, just under my eye. This happened a couple weeks ago. But as hard as it may be to believe, it did in fact happen. Tim and I truly had this conversation, and have others like it quite often. Perhaps we are simply two creative minds revelling in finding another. Or perhaps we are just crazy, but in either case, the point is that we are real to each other. The rest of our afternoon was spent being quite lazy and eventually ending up on the couch watching three hours worth of "Family Guy." ~Theresa

Realization:
I lead a small life. A good one, but a small one nonetheless. Every morning I get up before the sun and go to work. I'm a nineteen year old babysitter. I make six dollars an hour, and I get extra for gas. I have two car seats in my car for the two smaller children I play nanny to during the day. There is one other, she's eight, so she just sits up front with me and constantly messes with the radio dial. Nine hours out of my day is spent in a small little world with these three small children. We play, we dance, we make "art projects," we watch "Stanley" and "Dora the Explorer," you get the idea. At nine in the am and about two in the pm, I rock Colin to sleep for his naps. In the mean time I help Sydney who is two and a half, and don't forget the half mind you, change dress up clothes or I make lunch or read stories or help her find all the pieces to her Russian doll. She looks up at me with that angelic blonde haired blue eyed face and says, "Treesa you're my best friend" and I laugh at the truth of it all. I tell her, "That's wonderful, you're my best friend too." Both Angel and Skye have moved away and out of reach. But I digress. Around five thirty/six o' clock every evening I get into my car to go home. My clothes are usually covered in smashed cookies, cracker, peas, etc.; I usually have glitter in my hair, glue under my finger nails, scribbled, wobbly drawings hanging out of my bag and pockets, and baby finger smudges on my glasses. I sing in the car to any song I want to hear. When I get home I spend time with my family. I talk to Tim and on some days I go see him. He cooks dinner, I do the washing up. I am the infinitesimal speck on the map of life. But I'm a happy speck. And somehow, I think, that makes me bigger in ways. Maybe not huge, but surely at least an ink blob spot of happiness on the map of life.
~theresa

If you should catch me:
One leg curled up close to me. The other, stretched and thrown over a pillow, the side of the bed. One arm snuggled beneath my pillow. The other, snuggling the covers up close to me. The blankets pulled up close around my shoulders, neck, covering half my face. Makes me feel safe and gives the effect of being held. I'm buried beneath the blankets somewhere. Follow the leg that's hanging out to find the rest of me. The fan produces gentle wind to caress my skin and to keep me from getting hot. When hot, the nightmares come again and I can hardly breathe. But, when just a bit cold, peaceful rest embraces me and I drift away. If you should catch me sleeping, worry not about the waking. I can hear you whisper and I know you as the one who loves me. Gently pull aside the covers and slip between to lie beside me. I can feel your warmth through my t-shirt, and your familiar hand as it rests against the small of my back. Such comfort as our bodies settle in again. Such comfort in the way we fit together like two picture puzzle pieces. I don't have to open my eyes to know it's you. I can smell your scent: your soap mingled slightly with the cologne you put on this morning and the fresh laundry smell from your clothes. You don't have to speak for me to know it is you. I know your tender mouth as it gently kisses my forehead. The shape of your lips, small and plump, a perfect cupid’s bow. I am drifting off again subconsciously aware of your own breathing evening out. And so we settle in, breathing in and out together, comfortably beside each other, and love, unspoken and unseen, embraces us. ~Theresa 

A little Brother's Heart:
My little brother is undoubtedly the love of my life. Even the love I have for Tim, while being close to equal, is still an entirely different sort of love. If it came down to a choice between my younger brother and Tim, I would choose Malcolm. The bond of family is strong between us. He is 12, seven and a half years younger than I am young. While being noisy and obnoxious as most boys, he also possess this shy, quiet nature at times that reminds me of my father. I think he is one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever met. When you talk about things that are important with him, he gets really quiet and you can see him working it out in his mind. Some people would consider this slow thought process the same as being stupid. On the contrary it makes a difference to think about what you are going to say. He will listen quietly to all sides and angles and when you are through he'll work it out in his mind and then come out with this answer, or comment or question that reflects a greater wisdom than many twice his age posses. He and I share a common interest in pirates and spend a lot of our free time watching any movie remotely related to such things. When I first moved here for school, I would go home every weekend and take Malcolm to a movie of his choosing. This usually meant a good one. My little brother is a movie maniac and can quote his favorites from beginning to end, line for line. It gets pretty funny sometimes because he can do voices rather well. *laughs* He is going through puberty at the moment though, so his voice is changing. He is also starting to grow hair on his upper lip... well not really hair, more like fuzz but he struts around like he's a man. There is nothing I wouldn't do for him and his big brown cow eyes. He has a darling soft little heart and will be a lucky catch for any girl he ends up with. ~Theresa

Hypochondriac:
I have a headache again. For the past couple days I’ve been getting these massive headaches that start at the base of my skull.... travel up and around my temples and wrap themselves around my forehead. Then they seep down my neck and shoulders and throb for hours. They make me really dizzy and out of it. You know the kind of out of it you get when you take nigh-quill and try to stay awake. After about thirty minutes you’re moving your feet around trying to make sure they are still there. Tim thinks its stress because I have been rather stressed out. But I, the ever hypochondriac, think it's a tumor. "You do not have a tumor," Tim said.
"It could be a tumor. That's how they start you know. You get bad headaches, everyone tells you its stress and then one day you die from a tumor and everyone is surprised."
"It's not a tumor, dearest. You're just under a lot of stress and you're unhappy there. That's all... take a couple Advil and get some rest. You'll be fine. You won't die... I promise."
"I looked it up on the internet. I have the same symptoms as tumor patients."
"I love you. It's not a tumor."
"I love you too. But just admit it COULD be a tumor."
"Fine it COULD be a tumor, but it's NOT a tumor, so just take some Advil and get some rest."
"Ok............. but what if it is a tumor?"
"*laughs* Dearheart,"
"Yes?"
"I love you, go to bed."
"*sighs* I love you too. Call me in the morning."
"Of course. Remember to take some Advil."
"Taking it now."
"Good, goodnight, dearest, I love you."
"I love you too."
It did work. However now my headache is back. Tim called and reassured me that I do not have a tumor.
"Remember that time when you could have sworn you had a heart disease and that you were at risk for a heart attack. You swore you had all the signs of a heart attack, and do you remember what it ended up being?"
"*sheepishly* Heart burn and a pulled muscle in my arm from work."
"Heart burn and a pulled muscle. See?"
"That was different, this time it really is a headache."
"But NOT a tumor. *laughs* It's a tension migraine, silly."
So maybe I don't in fact have a tumor. But I’m not ignoring the possibility. *laughs* sometimes I feel like such a freak. ~Theresa

My Dearest:
Tim came for a visit this past Friday to spend the weekend with me. I can't help but love spending time with him. Friday night after he got here we both fell asleep watching Samurai Jack which is one of my all time favorite cartoons. After a few moments of sleep I was awakened by his heart beating against the palm of my hand and his light snoring. Tim snores like a small infant, in that sort of very soft "I’m a little congested" type of way. It's adorable. Anyway after I woke up I just stared at him, watching him sleep. Marveling over his delicate, long eyelashes and how they just barely brushed his cheeks when his eyes were closed; tracing his tiny little earlobes with my finger tips; and all the while feeling his heart pulse life through him under my hand. I don't know how long I watched him before I slept again. I just remember waking to him pressing his forehead against mine own, softly chanting "wake up, wake up, wake up." We spent the evening watching Friday Night Standup and laughing like school children at a sleepover who are relishing in the granted permission to stay up late. I have never slept more peacefully than I sleep when Tim is beside me. Saturday morning was lovely. I woke before him and watched the sun filtering through the blinds in the window and fall upon our skin. Our legs entangled in each others and the sheets and blankets tossed carelessly about us. Tim rolled over and whispered, "Dearest, can you turn the sun out?" Laughing softly at his darling request, I drew the shades closed and we lay in bed until late in the afternoon. Then after showering we remained lazy and watched cartoons over a late breakfast. Later that afternoon we decided to take a walk over to the store and get some stuff for dinner later. It was a nice little breather, but it was extremely hot out, so it didn't last for very long. We stayed in bed for the rest of the day, watching movies like "Pirates of the Caribbean," and some other TV type movies that are never really all that good. We stayed up late into the night talking and then I combed my fingers through his hair and massaged his neck behind his ears until he fell asleep. In the middle of the night he woke me just long enough to kiss me and tell me he would miss me today when he had to leave. We spent the morning snuggling and talking and trying not to think about our goodbyes. Upon his leaving, he handed me an eight paged letter he had written before his trip and told me to read it after he left. About the contents of that letter I will say only that they were dear and sweet as they were also too personal to share here. I miss him already and cannot wait to go home. He truly possesses all my love. ~Theresa

Light through Glass Wings:
Sometime, a long time ago, someone gave my grandmother a glass bird as a Christmas tree ornament, and being a grandmother she of course made a big fuss over how pretty and wonderful it was. After Christmas was over I suppose she just didn't have the heart to put it away because she instead hung it from the ceiling in her plant room. After that it became sort of a common gift to give her. We would get one for her every Christmas. It was one of my favorite things to do; to wander around knick knack shops searching for the perfect bird. Her plant room soon became one of my favorite places to visit when we'd go to New Orleans for family get togethers and such. There are now close to twenty some odd glass birds hanging from the ceiling. Walking into that room is somewhat like walking into a whole different world, like finding the Garden of Eden. On fine days the sun light filters through all of their tiny, delicate bodies, lighting them up and filling the room with slowly dancing lights. It has a sort of spiritual/religious effect to lie there looking up at them and watching your skin turn color as it is embraced by the warm prismatic light. It reminds of the huge stained glass windows in churches that I often find myself marveling at. I think that if peace had any kind of physical attribute, that it would resemble that room, those stained glass windows. I should like very much to live my whole life surrounded by stained glass so that I could watch the light filter through and feel it touch my face. My grandmother is an artist of the greatest talent. She does watercolor and my whole life I have never been any good with it; I admire anyone with the talent for watercolor. She was always able to capture that sort of light feeling in her work, and made great use of it. She used to work in a gallery in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Should you ever visit there, and you happen to meet paths with a watercolor done by one Anita Fournet, know that it is hers. When she began to get ill she was sort of slowly removed from everything I held dear about her. Her illness was a slowly loosening grasp on her memory. She first was unable to go to the gallery because it was dangerous to drive. Then she just sort of slowly isolated herself from places in her house. She didn't work in her art room, she neglected the plants, and then she just would sort of lie there. I remember the first time I had to face that she just didn't know who I was anymore. She slips further and further away from us now. It is sad to think of her as not so much leading a life as an existence. Sometimes she comes round and I think she realizes what has happened to her, that she has been neglecting the things that make her soul happy. Whenever that happens she just gets angry, angry at the whole world. And I think too that she is probably afraid, and rightly so. Pity upon those who lead a mere existence and are not afraid. ~Theresa

Papa the Quiet:
My papa, like momma, was born in the outskirts of New Orleans and grew up with a lot of brothers and sisters. In fact there were six boys and two girls in his family, and they and their parents all lived in a small two bed room trailer that somehow or another my grandmother was able to keep spotless. If you were a boy in that family then you were expected to know how to make a living by the time you were eight, and on your twelfth birthday you were given a bill to keep track of. If you were unable to pay it you were letting the whole family down. Papa got lucky and ended up with the electric bill (sarcasm), but in any case I guess he did learn something from that. Like I’ve mentioned before, my papa has one amazing head for numbers and besides that he is an excellent carpenter. When he was twelve he built his first china cabinet which he sold to his older brother Phillip but which now resides in our house. He also built a boat which he sold to his brother Francis so that he could buy a better one off of his other brother O'Neal. He owned his own house and car by the age of nineteen which is right around the time he met my mom. My papa has always been like this strong silent background type of fellow. I used to be afraid him when I was younger. And not the sort of afraid where I thought he might harm me, just sort of an "in awe" type of afraid. I don't ever remember having any conversations with him growing up. He worked hard and that was kind of his of showing love; he took care of you and that was all he knew how to do. His parents never told him that they loved him much. He played basket ball in high school and was quite good, but neither of his parents ever went to a single game. He's always come to every important event in our lives and that means a lot. After I got to be a bit older I came to realize how much of a sap he is deep down inside. And I say that with the utmost affection. He is still quiet and strong, I'm still in awe of him, but he does talk a bit more than he used to and has even progressed to actually saying "I love you" ~Theresa

Lady Bugs and Thunderstorms:
All that talk about my mother brought back this memory. This is simply a wonderful example of my mother's wisdom I spoke of. As a kid, I was terrified of thunderstorms. And you have to understand that in Alabama thunder is very loud, lightening is huge, the wind blows, and the sky turns that velvety-purple-gray color. I was terrified, and when it would storm I'd follow my mom around hiding my face from it all, and I refused to be in a room by myself. I guess momma decided it was time for me to quit latching on to her every time it stormed because it did storm quite often from spring through fall, so she wrote a song for me. The next time it stormed she took me and pulled me out onto the front porch. It was a covered porch, but that is entirely beside the point. Here I was terrified to even stand by a window, and my mother who was supposed to love me was dragging me out into the mercy of the lightening. She sat down on the swing that my papa had attached to a large beam on the porch and pulled me into her lap. She made me sit there until it was all over. I cried for about the first ten or fifteen minutes, but my mother can make anything beautiful. By the end of it I was simply intrigued. It was an overwhelming calm to sit there with my mom. I don't know if you've ever noticed, but when the sky turns that purple-gray color it makes all the colors in the trees and things stand out in a wonderfully vibrant way. I could feel the thunder rumbling the slightly worn floor boards beneath my bare feet, and I could feel momma's heartbeat against my back, her voice right beside my ear. The static electricity in the air made all the hairs on my arms, neck, and legs stand on end. I was afraid to breath or blink. I still watch thunderstorms, and oddly enough I love driving through them, especially at night. Momma says that grandma (her mom) used to love driving in the rain to. Sometimes when I'm home, papa gets mad at me for running around and throwing all the windows open when it storms. Then he always looks at momma and shakes his head as if to say, "See what you've done." *smiles* he's not really angry though. ~Theresa
Ladybug:
Ladybug, Ladybug, why'd you come out?
When off in the distance is a big water spout?
Ladybug, Ladybug, I hear you pray
And on that green leaf's where I bid you to stay
On the green leaf when the wind is blowing
On the green leaf while the lightening's glowing
On the green leaf when the water's flowing
Ladybug, Ladybug, why'd you come out?
~By Cindy  (kinda cheesy, but for a kid it's wonderful)

Mother Dearest:
My mom was born and raised on the out skirts of New Orleans, Jefferson Parish to be exact. She was the baby of seven children so you can only imagine the stories she has about growing up. My whole life my mom has been of tender spirit. She gets her feelings hurt when she's not included in my life or misses out on anything important that happens to me. I think it may have something to do with her childhood because she often remembers being left out of a lot as she was after all the baby. My mom is the open giver in our family. She is forever present in our lives and in other's. I remember once right before I started high school momma got a job at the school as a substitute teacher and would also sometimes fill in for the secretary in the principles office. It was as if someone had hung a huge neon sign above the doors flashing the words "Mother figure available here." I don't know what it is, but people always talk to my mom. Most likely it has a lot to do with the fact that she is ever accepting, smiles at everyone, never brushes people off, she just radiates this good feeling and people flock to it like moths to the lamp light. I've always wanted to be like her. She has this way about her, this... wisdom that I find to be completely remarkable. She was always one of those vibrant and fun moms too, the type of mom that made people suck up to you in grade school just so they could come out to your house and hang around your mom. She used to chaperone field trips at the request of the teachers because she'd sing with the kids. My mom has quite a knack for music, and she is quite the song bird. I remember she used to sit with us (my siblings and I) on the front porch of our house and play the guitar out of this fat black book with different colored dots on it. We used to sing with her; for hours on end just out on the porch with momma. Many a summer was spent being lazy on that porch (not to mention fall and spring). When I was about fifteen or so I came across that book while cleaning off shelves in our house so papa could paint them... though I don't remember what's happened to it. She'd play piano to, and my younger sister and I were intrigued by it. We'd dance around the living room until we got dizzy and fell over. And momma was always good at coming up with kid stuff. She wrote a couple of children’s books that we never found a publisher for, she wrote songs and still does, and she has always been good at just talking to children. She is a school bus driver now and every once in awhile she still celebrates "break into song day." She is still taking care of people, pretty much anyone who is in need, and I still admire her for it, my mother dearest. ~Theresa

The Source of my Naivety:
I grew up Catholic, which is a difficult task to accomplish when living in the Bible belt of Southern Alabama. In any case my parents were always devout, which means they have never believed in divorce as a solution. My papa always worked off shore in New Orleans so my entire life from infancy onwards I have always seen him every other week. Kind of weird to think about that actually... he's only been with me through half my life. Anyway, we never had cable until I was in the fifth grade, and when I was a kid, kids in elementary school didn't know all about sex, guns, and rock 'n role. Most of them being protestant, their parents were much more strict than my own. My parents grew up in the laid back outskirts of New Orleans, where I was born. However my parents are all around good people, so I just grew up thinking it to be the norm. My mother has a wonderful talent in music. My whole life she has been able to hear one word and automatically know two or three songs that go with it. She plays the flute, piano, and the guitar. I'd love to tell you more about her, but that is another diary entry all together. My father is of more of a quiet nature and shows love in different ways than most people. He is an outstanding carpenter and has the kind of mind for numbers I only wish I had inherited. Growing up with my parents and my siblings was very much like growing up in a G-Rated Disney flick. My mom literally broke out in song on a regular basis, and we all always ate dinner together. We were never beaten, never verbally or sexually abused, and we took in people. Twice two of my cousins came and lived with us, and occasionally other kids whose families weren't so perfect would end up at our house for a few weeks. All of this stuff went completely over my head as a kid. It never even occurred to me to ask why my cousin Nicole was living with us instead of her mom or dad. It just was as it was. I went to a small school which also served as somewhat of a shelter. Nobody was ever threatened with anything more than a face full of dirt where I went to school. It's just like all those movies you see about south Alabama where being head of the football team or homecoming queen defines your social status for the rest of your life. I grew up with all of the right types of love... not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but my parents sure gave it one hell of a shot for my siblings and me. In any case though it did serve to make me quite naive about a lot of things. Of course I know much better now, not to mention much more. I'm kind of glad that I lived a naive childhood though. I think a lot of who I am has a lot to do with me only learning about some things when I was mature enough to comprehend them. ~Theresa

Angel with a Halo:
Angel is my best friend in the whole wide messed up crazy world. She’s got blond mermaid hair, big blue eyes, and a tan. The kind of girl guys these days go nuts over. There are very few people in this world that I love as much as I love her. When we met in fourth grade, I was a naive, geeky little kid who had lived a very sheltered life with both of her parents always around, never fighting. Not real fighting anyway. My siblings and I got on rather well, hadn't lost anyone important, didn't know death, didn't know much about the world in general. I thought for the most part that everything was peachy and that bad stuff only happened in books and movies. Angel, on the other hand, had been born to a sixteen year old girl, had witnessed her mom being tossed around by her dad, spent Christmas watching her mom throw the tree through the window and then watching her proceed to stomp all of the ornaments, took care of lil sister, knew what drugs were (mom used em). She was wise in the world compared to me. She got sent to live with her grandmother and that's how we met. I remember it being one of those instant friend things... it was almost as if we had never NOT been friends. We lived at each other's houses and took care of one another through grade school. She had a pervert uncle that lived at her house... I didn't know... she never explained. I just remember that if ever Nana went to the store or something she would lock us in her room and then we would sit in her closet until Nana got back. I never understood any of it except that Uncle Eddie Dean gave me a kinda creepy feeling. Her grandfather, Mark, used to make up these wild stories and we'd listen to them until we fell asleep... even at the age of like fifteen. They were great stories. She always had this crazy sense of humor, and I always secretly wished that I was like her. She had a bird named Fred that spoke, and I remember crazy Eddie got mad at her once and shot it. Shortly afterwards he got shipped off to Ohio somewhere. Angel used to spend Christmas, Easter, and summer with her mom up in Tennessee. Every time she went she'd come back saying she'd never go again. Funny that, she didn't have much of a choice. Anyway I never could wait until she got back, and when she would, we'd spend the night playing Mario and exchanging "what I did on my vacation" stories until four or five in the morning. Then we'd resolve to stay up and watch the sunset where upon we'd promptly fall asleep. Once her mom made her move to Tennessee for like 7 months. Longest seven months of my life. We both cried, but we wrote each other constantly. She used to address my letters to "Crazy Theresa Clarinet" because I used to play the clarinet and my middle is Claire. How embarrassing, what a goofy kid. We've been through so much I couldn't possibly write it all in one entry, so consider this a mere introduction of my best friend in the whole world.

A Compulsion:
Obsessive compulsive disorder runs in both sides of my family. Not always the full blown kind, most of just get a few certain compulsions we have no controll over. One of mine is school supplies for some odd reason. I just love them, in fact i own more school supplies than any one person should ever own in a lifetime. Whenever I go to a department store I just have to go over to the school supply section and stock up on notebooks, pencils, pens, crayons, markers, sharpies,scotch tape, white out, paper clips, scissors, glue sticks, rulers, hole punchers, sticky tabs, index cards, typing paper. Note books, pens and pencils are the worst though. I have a whole chest full of notebooks. Some of which have been written in, some which have never been used, and none of them are full. I have huge ziplock bags full of pens and pencils which i buy in packs at a time. I have a drawer full of all different sorts and sizes of markers. Once a month i go through them and throw out the dry ones. And I own sharpies in all sorts of colors... i have a cup full of just the black ones though. i have about seven rulers on my desk right now... some of which are broken... and three pairs of scissors all different sizes. wow.... i guess i am wierd. ~Theresa

The Kittens:
I'll start with Hades, because she is an inside kitten. She is also really a cat, a young lady kat and not a kitten, but The brat and I say kitten, so there! Hades is black with little white feet and eyes that look like glass. She is spoiled rotten and refuses to be ignored. If she feels no one is paying attention to her then she puts herself in the way in a kind of "excuse me, pardon me, love me" type of way. She only drinks water from the faucet and will meow until someone turns it on for her. She also insists on being in the bathroom when anyone is taking a shower. She jumps up on coffee tables and counters with the same little "Tada!" that Seinfeld's Kramer enters a room with. Her favorite toy is a small, soft, ping-pong sized ball with a sprout of feathers sticking out of the top. We like to attach it to a fishing pole and then watch her do back flips over it for hours. She will now sit in front of the fishing pole and meow until you play with her. My kitten is also a young lady cat and is henceforth un-named. She is an outside cat and a HUGE snob. This explains why she is un-named; she refuses to answer to one. I belong to her instead of vice/versa. She hunts like crazy, which upsets my great aunt who feeds her treats in a vain attempt to stop her from killing the birds. She understands what people say about her and has been known to attack anyone who refers to her as fat or "overly-fluffy." She is mostly white with black mask and cape type patches. She is long haired and has beautiful green eyes. The only way to approach her is to not. One must simply sit outside and ignore her until she decides to approach you. She loves to have her belly rubbed and has been known to roll off steps in sheer enjoyment. I spoil her with tuna and milk as my kitten deserves only the best. She is a queen who gives attention and affection only to those who are deserving.... or who happens to be around at the time she wants her belly rubbed. She also loves my feet and will hug them with her paws while rubbing her head against them. God forbid that she and Hades ever live in the same house. I fear the competition for attention would become quite fierce. ~theresa

The Time I Spent with Job:
Today my head is full of thoughts so I just have to write them down, before they drive me crazy. The relationship I had with Job was the first serious relationship I’d ever been in. it started the summer before my junior year in high school... and ended shortly after I started my freshman year of college. And it also seemed to be serious only one side of it... the other being more of a selfish nature. At first he was intriguing: a grunged out skater with very sad brown eyes and a knack for playing the guitar. Although I soon discovered that his greatest talent lay in his ability to always have someone looking after him somehow. He just has this amazing ability to pull and manipulate heart strings and people cater to his every need. It’s quite sickening to see when you are on the outside looking in. And so I lay entrapped, thinking he loved me, and loving him back for all I was worth. Eventually I began to notice things though. For example how it seemed every day he was walking a little more ahead of me than beside, and then one day it was as if I was expected to follow him into the next room if he got up and left without speaking to me. I began to notice that the only time he was in a good natured mood was after smoking enough weed to put a Rasta to shame, that even my attempts at bringing the light of happiness only made shadows in the room. Like a small flickering candle in a cavern of dark. We never watched movies I wanted to see, or ate at a place I wanted to eat at. We never spoke of things I enjoyed, spent time with any of my friends, or listened to music that I liked. I slowly became this extension of him, and he took me for granted as much as what he would his arm or his leg. Probably more like the leg though because oh how he stood upon me. All the time I convinced myself I was happy taking care of him, though whenever I was upset he made my problems seem petty and small. And he milked it for everything it was worth. And when I moved away to college and I couldn't cater to his needs he left, and then came back, and left again. He is now gone, I have banished any feelings of pity for him from my self. He occasionally writes me letters apologizing for his selfish behavior and berating himself with guilt. I think of it as a sham on his part to try and gain him some ounce of pity or sorrow from me. I simply discard them and get on with things. I refer to him as Job here because that is who I’m reminded of every time I hear him speak or read what he has written. Everything is bad news, and oh he does not deserve the hand he was dealt, and so on. He once said, "Its not that I don't believe in God, I do. .... I just don't think he likes me very much" and that is when I decided to call him Job. Self pity is a horrid state of affairs. In any case I do not wish him dead... I wish him only to go away and leave me alone. The brat says it is up to me whether or not he does leave me alone, and I think he is right. The less I let him bother me, the more he fades away. ~Theresa

The Brat:
If i do in fact manage to keep up with this diary thingy, you will probably often hear me speak of "my brat" so i feel it may be slightly important to give him a sort of introduction. The brat will always refer to my beloved Tim. We went to highschool together until he graduated, and sadly enough we never officially met until his senior year, (my sophmore). We ended up in an art class together and at the time i had a thing for his best friend. So naturally he would often wander over to my drawing table and we would have long conversations that we spent mostly discussing our annoyance with our classmates and our common disdain for our teacher, and all the reasons why i shouldn't date his friend. At the time he was a devoted atheist and i, a devout catholic, so we would often write each other letters where we would question each other's chosen religion. we seemed to delight in rooting out each other's doubts and then prodding them with encouragement-sticks. In short we got on rather well, but upon his graduation he moved away and began dating a girl there, and i dated his best friend. we always kept in touch and lied to each other about how great our relationships were getting on. at the end of two and a half years, his girl left him, and he became suddenly aware of how he hated her, as most of us do when dumped. shortly after, his best friend asked me to marry him, we were engaged for two weeks and then he said to me.."i don't love you anymore, it's not you, it's me" i agreed with him.It certainly couldn't be my fault if he didn't love me anymore... after long nights working out our hurt feelings and anger over the computer with one another for company, tim and i decided we meant rather more to each other than friends. surely we were at least GOOD friends. after about six months he decided to move back home, and stopped to visit me on his way. we are now more than good friends and take very good care of one another. He is still a devout atheist, and I, still a devout catholic. We watch movies and love popcorn. We spoil his kitten whose name is Hades, and my kitten who is un-named. We both love eddie izzard and cartoons and we steal each other's clothes for fun. why do i call him the brat? because he bloody well is one. ~theresa

April 13, 2004

the start of yet another diary which i very much doubt i will keep up with. personal description: i am average. brown hair, brown eyes, glasses, a slightly larger nose than i would have picked out, nothing really stands out. i'm not skinny, my brat would call me "voluptuously curvy" or "pleasantly squeazable" i would call me slightly overweight. maybe a bit soft 'round the middle. a geek to the core, i read for fun, play the piano, spend too much time on the computer, and avoid other students at my college. further updates as conditions merit. ~theresa