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All posts for the month April, 2012

On delivering pizzas.

Published April 20, 2012 by mandileighbean

My little brother made his Confirmation today. It was a very nice ceremony, and I was happy to see so many students with their families. Afterwards, we had a nice pasta dinner.

I finished lesson plans, and plan to get my gradebook up and functioning this weekend.

I wish I had an update about the publishing of my manuscript, but alas; I am empty-handed. I sent in my unformatted manuscript so the editing process could begin and while that is underway, I am beginning to fill out the media forms. I am to provide the publishers with contact information for local media sources so the publishers can send out a press kit. It’s exciting but if I’m being honest, I’d rather be writing – just simply writing.

That being said, enjoy tonight’s prompt.

🙂

PROMPT: “Pizza Delivery Driver”
You’re a pizza delivery driver and it’s your last stop of the night. The house is on an unlit, unfamiliar street. As you ring the doorbell, you’re greeted by an unusual character who invites you in while he gets cash- and abruptly knocks you out cold. When you wake up, you’re tied to a chair. What happens next?

PIECE:

My eyes blinked slowly and out of sync. My left eyelid rose higher and just a moment before my right eyelid, so that it took a few blinks before the room surrounding me came into focus. At first, it was only two halves that my sluggish mind was having a hell of a time connecting. I went to bring my hands to my face to rub my palms up and down my cheeks in an effort to wake myself up, but my hands were tied securely behind me. The fear and implications of the realization were enough to jolt me to reality, and revitalize my lethargic senses. The room came into a startlingly specific kind of focus; the walls that were not quite white with the cobwebs hanging in the corners; the scratched, wooden floors that had probably been a point of pride some time long ago; the chair across from me; the emptiness of it all. I could find no identifying detail that would be used later to apprehend the individual who lived here, and who had clearly tied me to a chair.
I tried to recall what had happened. I was working at the local pizzeria, delivering pies for lackluster tips. My 1995 Ford Explorer was wheezing away from the pizzeria – and unknowingly away from the safe harbor there – towards an address I had never delivered to before. The rain had just let up and as I neared the destination, I let my foot off of the gas pedal so I was just rolling along, the rubber tires crunching against the damp pavement in the still night air. It was late, true, but it was eerily quiet. No one stirred, and there were no lights – not even lamps besides televisions that could just barely be seen through curtained living room windows. When I stopped outside 85 Potter Lane, the house was just as dark as the street and I debated on whether or not I should even get out of the truck, let alone walk up the driveway and knock. But I knew there was money to be made, cash to be in hand, so I willed the hair on my arms and neck to relax and headed for the front door. I knocked, and it sounded casual and sure.
That confidence with which I knocked quickly fed when the door opened and revealed a stooped, older man with delicate, fragile-looking hands that were clasped together and resting against his thin, frail chest. His hands were the first thing I noticed and from there, my eyes observed his dark blue velvet sweater, and loose jeans that had never been and never would be in style. He had no shoes to cover his wrinkled, nauseating feet and he was bald. I wonder if I observed everything I possibly could before meeting his eyes because in some unexplainable way, I knew it would be creepy. The lines were muted so that though he was older, his face did not show it. His eyes were nearly blank and unremarkable, as was his small and twitchy mouth. He smiled wide and it did nothing to disarm me. “Oh, pizza’s here,” he breathed. I could smell tuna and an abundance of patchouli – a combination that offended the nostrils and turned the stomach. “I just have to get some cash from my dresser. Won’t you come in?” He was still smiling.
I stepped in, smiling and holding the pizza box as if it ensured a barrier between the two of us. He shut the door behind me, and I silently prayed he would be quick in retrieving the money. I also scolded myself for my unwarranted feelings of distrust and hostility to this stranger who had so far been awkward and nothing more. Turning to look at a picture hanging on the nearest wall, the world fell to black.

I awoke tied to a chair, with only an empty chair before me to keep me company.

“You’re awake,” he breathed from somewhere close behind me. I couldn’t help it; I screamed and struggled against the ropes binding me.

“All the cash is in the car, and you can have all of it! Just let me go, please! Please don’t hurt me!” I screamed.

“I don’t want money,” he argued, sounding offended. “It’s not about what I want at all. It’s about what you want.”

“I don’t understand,” I readily admitted. Ignorance could translate to innocence.

“I saw you, looking around my home. You were looking to rob me, to take from my home!”

Clearly, this man was psychotic. “Sir, I was just looking around because there was nothing else to do! I swear, I had no intention of robbing you!”

“They sent you to spy on me, then.” He walked around the chair to stand before me, and his blank eyes were no wild. His hands were at his sides and his fists were clenched tightly. There was a palpable energy exuding from him, one of rage and paranoia. I swallowed hard.

“Sir,” I gasped, trying to relax and be rational, “I’m just a delivery guy. You ordered a pizza, so I brought it to your house. If you keep me here like this, you’re going to be in trouble.”

“Let them come,” he said. He seated himself in the empty chair opposite me. He leaned over to his left and pulled a knife that had been resting on the floor. Delicately, he placed it on his thigh and looked to me. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

My jaw dropped open and I screamed. What else could I do?
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On getting back up.

Published April 19, 2012 by mandileighbean

Okay – I know I promised myself that I would run while on vacation, and watch what I ate, and write every day. I also know that I did nothing of the sort. I am angry with myself, and I readily acknowledge that I am weak. But I simultaneously acknowledge that being weak is acceptable as long as I am not defined by my weakness. So here I am, trying again and for that, I am allowing myself a proverbial pat on the back.

Vacation was wonderful. I love my family and the time we spend together. I visited The Wizarding World of Harry Potter with my younger brother and was enamored with the theme park. My younger brother was a trooper, taking pictures and following me around as I flitted from attraction to attraction. He allowed me to be a nerdy, immature young woman and I love him for it. Clearly, the day we spent together was my favorite part of the entire vacation.

I saw Bruce Springsteen in concert at Madison Square Garden on Monday, April 9th. It was exhilarating, and most likely the closest I’ll ever come to having a religious experience. It inspired me to start work on a story involving an older musician coming to terms with his mortality despite the protests of his young lover and indifference of his numbed wife. What do you think? The inspiration is obvious, but I’m still working with the characters and themes, trying to twist them into something new, original and thrilling.

I was the candidate chosen for the maternity leave at the high school. I’m teaching senior English, and one section of creative writing. It is amazing, and I am incredibly excited. It hasn’t truly sunk in yet, and I need to be more disciplined in my lesson planning and classroom management. I’ve been so busy and tired that I’ve been letting things slide; for example, my first day in the classroom was yesterday, and immediately after school I had a final interview with the superintendent at the Board of Education office, then home instruction and then Confirmation practice with my younger brother. I did not get home until 8:00PM. Today, I taught, attended the faculty meeting, home instructed and now here I am, ready to write.

🙂

I hope you enjoy it.

PROMPT: “Inspiring Books.”
As writers, we all love to read good books for inspiration. What book inspired you as a writer and why?

PIECE:
I read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald in the tenth grade, when I was fifteen-years-old. I had never experienced love that was reciprocated, but it was the only thing I wanted and something that I still yearn for. I would do anything, be anyone and commit any crime to have a hand reach for mine out of desire. I thought I had that my sophomore year, but it all came crashing down around me the way things seem to do in high school. The boy didn’t like me; he just liked the attention that I freely gave. When I read Fitzgerald’s classic, I totally empathized with Jay Gatsby and intrinsically believed that novel was written specifically for me. It was that universality – though it is a dangerous term to use – that helped me to realize that I was not crazy or melodramatic, but human and that is a story worth telling. I gained so much confidence and comfort in Gatsby’s desperation and heartbreak and demise, and fell in love with the craft because of its possibilities as presented in The Great Gatsby. It truly is the great American novel.

On pulling pranks.

Published April 9, 2012 by mandileighbean

Today has been uneventful thus far, but tonight is going to be nothing short of spectacular; I’m going to a Bruce Springsteen concert at Madison Square Garden with Eric and Maeve. 🙂

THE PROMPT: “Best Prank”
What’s the best prank you’ve ever pulled on someone?

THE PIECE:
I’ve never really pulled a prank on anyone; I’m not the best at keeping secrets. My twin sister, on the other hand, is very adept at this skill. She scares the hell out of all of us on a daily basis, hiding in and springing from closets, creeping in doorways. She pulls pranks often, but the best she ever did was on April Fool’s Day last year. She convinced my mother and myself that my mother’s sister was pregnant, despite her age, her husband having had a vasectomy and the lack of desire to have any more children. My mom was beside herself, wondering if her sister had cheated on her husband, if her husband knew about the pregnancy and what it all would mean for the family. I remember standing in the bathroom before the large mirror on the wall to the right, just repeating, “Poor Pam.” The whole thing was a lie, and my twin sister was quite pleased with herself. She deserved the pat on the back, though; well-played.

On wishes.

Published April 9, 2012 by mandileighbean

Today was a great day. I had an absolutely wonderful time with my oldest sister and her family at the beach. Afterwards, I made myself an absolutely delicious spaghetti dinner. You know, sometimes, I think there’s no greater feeling than when you’re so completely stuffed with pasta that your chest becomes tight and breathing is momentarily impeded. Then again, maybe that’s just me. I had some beer and enjoyed some really great movies, too. I just watched this one movie titled, “All Good Things” starring Ryan Gosling, Kirsten Dunst and Frank Lagella. Apparently, it’s based upon the true story of the missing person case of Katie Marks. I’m currently investigating the veracity of the facts as portrayed in the movie, but OH MAN – it was so entertaining! Gosling and Dunst had a totally believable tortured chemistry; Gosling himself is so beautiful but there is something mysterious, and possibly dangerous, lurking beneath the surface, and that is truly where the attraction is. I really believe that a strong majority of women prefer attractive men who are vague and impossible to fully figure out. Hell, I’d even say that we all prefer a partner who keeps us on our toes and keeps us guessing. If there is no mystery, than what is left? In my opinion, that complacency I so fear is left. Also, that movie (for me, at least) really proves that well-known saying, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” It had me captivated because the male protagonist is mind-boggling; suspected of murder, cross-dressing, pretending to be mute, confessing to murder … he’s a strange, strange character who lives, breathes and currently resides in New York City. He’s a veritable goldmine of inspiration. There has to be more out there, no?

Excuse these ramblings – I had a few beers with dinner. That, coupled with the movies I watched, seem to have inspired me and stimulated my creative neurons. I hope you enjoy the result.

🙂

THE PROMPT: “Three Wishes”
You bump into a genie and she offers to grant you three wishes. What are your wishes and why?

THE PIECE:

Sean was on his way out; leaving the party that was, by all other accounts, still raging. He had to be up early the next morning for work and unlike some of his friends, he couldn’t meddle through the day hung over. A couple of years ago, in college, he would have certainly stayed past 2:00AM and convinced everyone else to stay as well. With an air of nostalgia hanging about his small smile, his feet hit the pavement outside the apartment building, and headed towards the right. Thinking back to college kept Sean distracted and as one foot was put in front of the other, he was unaware of the sights, sounds and smells around him – the same sights, sounds and smells that captivated so many others. Mindlessly, he reached inside his coat for his battered pack of cigarettes. Not pausing as he lit the cigarette he had chosen to dangle from thin lips, he bumped hard into another passerby. The cigarette fell to the ground, wet from the rain just an hour or so early, and his spirits fell with it. He looked to the stranger with a markedly adolescent pout.

“Oh hey, I’m sorry,” the stranger replied. The reply was not at all what Sean had expected – and not at all what Sean would have offered – so he focused on the human being before him. She was very thin with long, dark hair. He wondered if she had styled it or something, like before the rain came, because now it just hung heavily. Her eyes were ringed in dark, smudged eyeliner and mascara and Sean also wondered if she had been walking in the rain. Did she not have a car? Was she poor? Why was she being so nice? She pulled her hair back as best she could, but really, all it did was stick to her fingers and the wet mass was now surely knotted.

“It’s my fault, really. I should have been looking where I was going. Truth is I’m coming from a party and things are fuzzy,” he said, smiling weakly. Stepping closer, Sean asked, “Are you okay? You’re all wet. Do you need me to call you a cab or something?”

The lines in the young woman’s face seemed to lengthen and become smooth. A change of emotion was passing over her, but Sean was not sober enough to follow it. Her tone was kind when she said, “That’s very sweet of you, but really, I’m okay. I’m on my way to a party, too.” She indicated what she was wearing and Sean felt very stupid for not noticing earlier – she looked like Jasmine from “Aladdin.” The light blue bikini-kind of top with the billowing pants that rode the hips, complete with sandals, made for the perfect Arabian princess.

“I like your costume. Jasmine, right?”

She looked down to her feet, as if she were embarrassed. “No – actually, I’m supposed to be a genie.”

“I see that,” Sean suddenly insisted. “I totally see that! It’s well done.”

She laughed and shrugged good-naturedly. “You really are sweet.” She paused for a moment, perhaps to consider him, before she said, “Is there something I can do for you? Do you need more cigarettes?” Her dark eyes lighted at the fallen nicotine between them.

Sean shook his head. “Nah, I should quit anyway. I’m always game for three wishes.”

“Three wishes?” The young repeated the words because she was confused. Sean had thought he was being clever.

“Genies give three wishes, right?” he explained, feeling more and more stupid. How dare he try to be anything but buzzed and tired?

The young woman stood tall before him, straightening her back and squaring her shoulders. She shook her long, dark hair and looked incredibly proud. In a way that was more impressive than insulting, she looked down her nose at Sean and said, “Your wish is my command.”

“Okay,” Sean laughed. “First, I’d like enough money to pay off my student loans and never work again. I don’t have to be crazy rich, just comfortable.”

Nodding, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Why?”

Sean laughed. “Genies don’t have to know why. They never ask for reasons in the movies.”

She didn’t laugh or smile. She remained stoic.

“Well,” Sean began haltingly, “I hate my job. I only show up to the office for the paycheck because in this society, you need money. You need money for food and clothes and shelter, and you need it to be able to do what you want. For example, I would love to spend a week in every state in this country. I could do it in a year, probably, so I have the time. Hell, I have nothing but time. I have the desire, the opportunity, but not the means. I would need to pay for gas, food, hotels and to do that, I would need an income, but there is no income when you’re road-tripping. I just want to live, you know?”

“You have two more wishes.”

Sean was less amused and this time, answered brusquely. “I’d want the same for my family. Immediate family, that is; mom, dad and my two sisters and their kids.”

“Why?”

“I thought that would be obvious,” Sean sighed. “It’s because I love them and I care about them, want to share my happiness with them, and want them to have the same opportunities.”

She took a step backwards. “You have one more.”

“Look, this isn’t fun anymore. I’m sorry I ran into you. Enjoy your party.” Sean made to walk past the young woman, but she blocked his path, moving deftly. After all, she was sober.

“You have one more, Sean. Use it,” she said.

“Fine; I would love to bump into Christine Horton from high school and tell her I’m sorry. I’d tell her that I really did like her, and that I should have been man enough to admit that. I’d tell her I’m sorry no one would sit with her at lunch, and that I didn’t know they were going to read her diary out loud at the lunch table, or post copies of entries in the bathroom. I wish for this because it still bothers me. I think about her all the time and the awful things I did. I’d want her to forgive me.”

She softened and seemed to shrink before him. “There was no hesitation on that one. It’s late, you’ve been drinking and yet, that was surprisingly lucid and specific.” Covering her mouth with her hand, she mumbled, “You’ve been holding on to that one for a while.”

Sean pushed past her. “Goodnight; I’m sorry I knocked into you.” Decidedly grumpy, Sean was walking fast, mentally kicking himself for leaving the party at all. He had been so carefree and had so been looking forward to falling into bed with a dumb grin stretched across his face. Now he was bitter and regretful. Why couldn’t he have bumped into some hot chick? Why was it always the crazies he met? Why hadn’t he left well enough alone? Why had he tried to impress her with the cleverness he didn’t possess, drunk or sober?

Sean made it home some time later, crashing into bed.

He awoke late for work the next morning, just barely making it to the staff meeting on time. The meeting was long, tedious and awful. To avoid falling asleep at his desk, Sean decided to head out for lunch. He was devoid of cash, so he made a quick stop at the ATM. Green in hand, he waited for his receipt. It printed and as Sean turned to walk away, he read the information.

There was suddenly $500,000 in his checking account.

 

On stopping and starting, stopping and starting.

Published April 8, 2012 by mandileighbean

It’s been a few days since the last time I wrote, which is in direct violation of the goal I set, and the promise that I made not only to anyone reading this, but to myself. I am so sick of stopping and starting, of stopping and starting; I’ve never been all that successful at capitalizing on momentum, and I believe that is because I am lazy, selfish and weak. That may seem a harsh criticism, but it’s true. I’m not admitting these flaws to incite a pity party, but putting them in print does help to make them more manageable in an odd way. I am beginning anew, but with a renewed sense of determination that must be enough to help me see everything through; the writing, the weight loss, the employment search. While it is difficult to sincerely have faith in myself when I have continually fallen short of the mark, if I can cease the pessimistic thoughts and not accept contrived compromises – not become complacent and settle for a plan B – I can do it; totally.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, a wonderfully symbolic day for rebirth and renewal. I went to the Easter Vigil mass tonight, and it was definitely beautiful and moving. Usually I go to mass early on Sunday, but my family is in Florida currently. Also, my oldest sister and her family are going to the boardwalk tomorrow to celebrate the holiday and I am going to tag along.

On Monday, I’m going to see Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden with a couple of friends. Despite my love of writing, I know I would never be able to adequately express how excited I am.

On Tuesday, I am flying to Florida to visit with family until Monday.

But I promise that I will exercise, write, read, pray and be a better person every single one of those days.

Hope you’re excited for my prompt tomorrow 🙂

On farewell food fights.

Published April 4, 2012 by mandileighbean

I had an interview today for a long-term maternity leave at the high school. I think I looked nice, and more importantly, I think the interview went very well. I thought the same thing the last three time though, so who knows? One teacher gave me advice on dressing more professionally, and how to wear my hair and whatnot, and I appreciated the kind words, but it made me feel insecure and icky. I debated not going to the baby shower after school today, but I knew that I had to and in retrospect, I am very glad that I did.

I went to dinner with an old friend tonight. We went to Hibachi, and I stuffed myself like a big, fat pig. My friend is going through a rough time, and I was glad I could talk to him about it.

I’m not crazy about today’s prompt, so you’ll have to let me know what you think.

THE PROMPT: “Retirement Party Food Fight”
After 40 years at the same job, you are finally ready to retire. Your coworkers throw you a party with cake and ice cream. Everything is going well until the end of the celebration when they ask you to speak. Instead of using this opportunity to thank everyone, you reveal a deep, dark secret about your boss that leads to a massive food fight.

THE PIECE:

I remember standing at the podium – an aged, cheap wooden contraption that had been at the school as long as I had been. Most of the faculty had gathered in the large cafeteria, with its harsh halogen lights burning overhead, and their asses were all going numb from the uncomfortable benches and chairs that students were only subjected to for thirty minutes. Inexpensive plastic plates holding remnants of ice cream cake that had my name plastered on it, with the words “Happy Retirement.” Forty years ago, I walked through the doors of the high school and my boobs were firmer and further above my waist, my smile displayed more of my real teeth and my hair was longer. It seemed like forever ago, and as I looked out at the faculty members in attendance, I realized that they were infants – children, toddlers, and babies. Not a single soul had been present for my first day on the job, save for one, and he was my boss.
Mr. Smith was only a few years older than me when I started as an English teacher for the 12th grade, but he was older enough for me to be impressed and intimidated. He was charismatic and charming, and he was married. But that didn’t seem to matter to me when he took me by the hand and kissed me near his car, or when we slept together after the teachers’ convention in Atlantic City. After the sex, and after the mystery and intrigue had vanished, we hadn’t seen each other socially. He stayed with his wife and had a family. We were young, optimistic, romantic and stupid – I convinced myself that was all it was, and was comfortable with our past. For forty years, I had let sleeping dogs lie but for some reason, in front of these strangers, I opened my mouth and said, “I’d like to thank Mr. Smith for the best sex I’ve ever had. And for giving me a job, I guess.” I offered an awkward smile stretching across my crooked mouth, and met only silence.
Then suddenly, from the back of the crowd that was facing me with open mouths, I heard a woman shout, “You pig!” I closed my eyes and braced for the impact, because I was sure she had thrown something. I hoped it was just a plastic cup, or maybe some plastic cutlery, but a small piece of me feared it might be the knife we had used to cut the cake. Nothing hit me though, and I remained unscathed, so I opened my eyes. The young woman in the back, the newest hire in the foreign language department, had thrown a full cup of diet soda at Mr. Smith. Her hands were trembling at her sides, so she clenched them into fists and breathed deeply through her nose like a raging bull. I wondered if I should clarify that I had slept with Mr. Smith a lifetime ago, but then Mrs. Radner, another English teacher, stepped between Mr. Smith and the young woman. She had a freshly cut slice of cake upon a plate in her palm. She faced Mr. Smith on steady feet, and demanded to know how many others he had conquered.  He looked down at his feet, mumbled something quietly and whatever it was, Radner did not find it satisfactory. Not caring for dignity, and mustering up all the anger and shame that she could, she shoved the cake into his face.
Several faculty members gasped and shuffled backward. It became eerily quiet and again I wondered if I should say something, explain myself perchance, but then an older math teacher entered the circle and faced Radner. The math teacher, Mrs. Northampton, had cake of her own and slammed it into Radner’s face, screeching that Mr. Smith deserved more respect as a supervisor and besides, Smith was in love with her, and would be leaving his wife. Radner’s best friend, Ms. Schue, dumped the bowl of pretzels over Northampton’s head and told her she was crazy. Soon, all sorts of female faculty members were throwing condiments, entrees, appetizers and desserts at one another, while the male members stood back to watch with goofy, juvenile smiles.
I felt responsible, but enjoyed my removed position, and so I very discreetly stepped off the podium and headed to the double doors to the right, which was far from the fray. I had my purse, coat and car keys, so I was good to go. It wasn’t exactly the note I had wanted to end on, but I felt satisfied that no one would ever forget the day I left those hallowed halls of education. I was smiling in spite of myself, but stopped when I saw the ever-popular Mr. Smith, sitting just inside the exit doors, wiping cake from his face. He looked to me, and he looked ridiculous – covered in cake and deflated; somehow smaller than he had been just moments ago. “Happy trails, Linda.”
“Good luck, Frank,” I said. Then I left the building.

On blog comments.

Published April 3, 2012 by mandileighbean

At school today, I was the bathroom monitor. I read short stories to keep my mind from going numb, like my ass was from the uncomfortable seat. It was disheartening.

But then the attractive, young substitute who likes to paint and sketch and play guitar talked to me, and that went well, in spite of my social shortcomings and inability to keep from being awkward.

After school, Melanie and I enjoyed a late lunch. Stomachs satisfied, we decided to indulge our creative appetites and went for a walk along the railroad tracks near Melanie’s home. I have always wanted to take off running along tracks, to follow them to remote destinations. I imagine it’s an anachronistic desire, but it lingers all the same. We left the tracks to follow tracks in the dirt before heading back. It was definitely inspirational, not only visually but audibly as Melanie gave me awesome, awesome advice.

As inspired as I was though, I fear I fell short with this prompt. Critiques are encouraged! I would love to make this piece better. It falls flat, particularly at the end.

But, that being said, I hope you enjoy it.

THE PROMPT: “Not-So-Anonymous Commenter” You’ve been writing a blog for a number of months now without issue, and then suddenly you’re confronted with an anonymous commenter who posts unwarranted slams against you. A techie friend helps you use the commenter’s IP address to get the address of this rogue. You head to the house ready to pick a fight – but when you knock on the door, the person who answers is someone you know.

THE PIECE:

As an aspiring writer, I knew that it was important me to have a blog as a way to get my name out there and as a way to connect to my readers. I stumbled at first, trying to increase the amount of subscribers and figure out what kind of posts readers would want to read, but after a couple of months, I really hit my stride.

And then March happened. I hate March. Come to think of it, I have always hated the third month of the year. I can trace this intense dislike back to school, when March would roll around and time would slow impossibly because there wasn’t a single day off in the whole month. March was long, tedious and more often than not, brought misery through overstaying its welcome, and its gray, damp weather. I hated March, and maybe karma is the reason I suffered my first internet hater during March. Some nasty man or woman tore apart my writing, which would be fine if they offered a critique, but the anonymous hater didn’t. The attacks on my writing became attacks on my personal life, and I became incensed. I was enraged, to be honest, and I employed my techie friend to help track down the physical address of the hater via the IP address. I was fairly surprised when the address turned to be less than ten minutes from my own.

I picked a day towards the end of the month and drove over. Steam was pouring from my ears, and I knew my face and most of my neck and chest were flushed. The anger and anticipation of the confrontation became a palpable heat that radiated from me. I parked along the lawn of the house across the street, marched over and banged on the door. I was seething, and thought it might be best to forget the whole thing – at least until I calmed myself and brought myself under some sort of semblance of control.

Then the door opened.

My jaw nearly cracked against the concrete. Standing before me was the boy I had been in love with for all of middle school and most of high school. I hadn’t seen him in years, and was surprised to find that he had not really changed. All his physical traits and personality quirks I had found so attractive as an adolescent remained – as far as I could tell.

“Pam? What are you doing here?” He was smiling, as if I was coming to have drinks and catch up and be all cutesy and nostalgic.

“What the hell is your problem?” I roared. His face fell almost instantly.

“What?” His eyes darkened with what must have been genuine confusion, but I was not going to let up.

“Don’t act like you don’t know why I’m here! Been reading any blogs lately, huh? Left any rude comments?” I was leaning further into his home, his sanctuary, eyes wide and wild and breathing ragged. I hoped I was scary and intimidating.

He looked away and started picking at the paint on the doorjamb. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was an awful liar and he knew it – hence why he avoided eye contact and looked for a physical expulsion of his nervous energy.

“Bullshit! If you don’t like my writing, that’s one thing, but to call me pretentious and a fraud is awful! What did I ever do to you?”

He was shrinking in size somehow. He mumbled, “I’m sorry. I just –“

“Go to hell, asshole!” I turned and stormed away. I was proud of the dramatics of my exit, but also that I allowed my anger to have free reign. He had been rude and mean – that was plain and simple. There was no reason I had to listen to him excuse his actions, or try to rationalize his actions with some contrived explanation, or endure his apology that would be forced and anything but sincere. I felt vindicated, and decided that my next entry would be all about confrontations, and how sometimes they’re necessary. Everyone has a right to defend their creations, and everyone has a right to express their emotions.

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