Reborn

She felt as if she was reborn. Millions of butterflies swarmed and beat against her stomach, and her head was still spinning from the excitement. It had felt so wonderful; so exhilarating. All of her senses seemed to have heightened to a new, supernatural level as the whirling world around her produced even more vibrant, beautiful colors than ever before.

The once peeling, dull wooden walls of the old barn exploded into sudden perfection as the sight of it spun into her view. She wasn't aware her feet had even brought her to this place. All she could experience was the instant purity of the Earth surrounding her. Opening its large creaking door, she stepped inside. Sunlight sparkled through the shafts from the ceiling, and rusting rakes and shovels glittered as the playful rays spread across their surface.

A small bird swooped through the doors, fluttering and flittering across the peaceful, slumbering tractor in the corner. Its song reverberated to the top of the barn's high ceiling. The beautifully antique beams across it remained silent and still, appreciating its beauty, while a small spider scuttled across them in anticipation for a better view.

With a content sigh, she slumped down on a bale of hay. Each tiny prick against her skin reminded her of how good it was to be alive.

"I Will Leave You In The Valley of Fire... I Shit You Not..."

In high school, Trevor and I were quite well known. We never missed the chance to perform in school assemblies, and we were constantly seen in the principal's office on many occasions after we were caught setting off the smoke detectors (accidentally of course,) or after we took one of the golf carts on campus out for a spin at the maximum 10 miles an hour out in the parking lot in wild circles.

Despite the fact we always seemed to get in trouble, we developed a very close relationship with our instructors who seemed to be slightly amused by our stupidity and always let us off easy. One of our favorites was our play director Andy who seemed to share the same sense of humor we did.

The annual High School Shakespeare Competition arrived, and two white vans were scheduled to drive the team the grueling 45 minutes to Cedar City from St. George. Trevor and I were assigned to a van with Andy, and we were having a blast making jokes and bouncing in our seats. We weren't immature; we were just living life in a very playful manner.

After our intense drive, we competed and won. Excitement was everywhere, and Trevor and I were thriving upon it. Everyone piled pack in the vans to go home, and Trevor and I babbled happily away to one another as we buckled our seat belts.
"Trevor...Trevor... What's that? No, you're supposed to look at where I'm pointing. Look Trevor! Look! Stop being a jerk! Look!"
"I'm not looking. Last time I looked you punched my arm. It's not funny, and I don't even get the joke."
"No, Trevor, I'm not gonna...just look. It's so funny. You're missing it!"
"I'm not--"
"Treeeeeeevor....Doooooooo it!"
"K... Only if you'll-- AHHHH! YOU PUNCHED ME!"
"Bahahaha. Did you get it? It was a joke. You totally didn't even see it coming."
"Shutup. I hate you. You suck."
"Trevor, what is that? Look!"
"I hate you. How about you look? Look, OH! Too late."
"Treeeeeeevor, you punched me twice as hard as I hit you..."

Now, to an outsider, th is may look like we were acting like small children. However we were really acting in an extremely mature manner that was just misunderstood by others.
After about five or so minutes, we wanted to included Andy in our fun. He probably was just in a "mood," because he didn't respond.

"Andy? Andy...hey. Hey, Andy! Annnnndy! Andy, come on. Look! Andy! Look back here! Annnnnndy! Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeey! What...Andy! Heeeeey! *snerk* Hahahaha. Hey Andy! Look what we--"

Suddenly, Andy spun around violently from the driver's seat; his face set in a scowl.
"I will leave you in the valley of fire...I shit you not."

Our mouths dropped open in shock. For the rest of the trip we remained quiet. Later, we came to the conclusion that we aren't obnoxious. People just don't understand us, that's all.

A New Life Story

Many girls have their lives planned out at a very young age. I remember my kindergarten classmates and I would all have discussions on how our future was going to roll out.

"I'm going to be a fairy princess and live in a castle..."
"Well I'm going to marry a millionaire..."
"That's nothing, I'm going to be a famous movie star and be ruler of my very own island."

I never shared the same dreams, and I hardly ever volunteered my "life story."
I learned my lesson once after I was laughed out of the group.

"I'm going to be a ballet dancer and have millions of men love me. What are you going to do when you're older Melissa?"

"I'm going to live in a cottage with a bunch of cats; maybe some dogs, and we'll all live in harmony together."

Now, I don't understand why I didn't come up with something grand and extravagant. I'm thinking that it was the same reason I could never have imaginary friends. I tried; I honestly did try to have dozens of invisible companions so I could "fit in with the times," but I always got bored. That, or my imagination was just as exciting as a goldfish's.

It's too bad I didn't keep in contact with any of my friends from our wee years. It would have been like an early high school reunion. Little Jill, who was going to be a model, gained 250 pounds and now changed her life story drastically. Or maybe tiny Suzy, who was going to be a vet, developed a severe case of allergies.

I can't be completely negative however. Even though I never quite fit in with girls my age, and developed extremely anti-social fantasies amongst their glamorous ones; I, too, had a change of plans. While my life of isolation amongst mammals seemed to be ideal; hormones developed and it wasn't quite the perfect dream anymore.

My plans changed from living alone to marrying a handsome French stud and moving to Europe. Soon my plan was forming into a reality. I fell in love with a gorgeous man I could only describe as a Greek God. He had curly blond hair, a wonderful personality, and a gorgeous smile that seemed to blind you whenever he flashed it.

Flirting followed, and I was falling deeper and deeper in love. We were obviously meant to be together; destined to love each other for eternity. I was longing only to hear the sweet, three little words that would make the butterflies in my stomach beat faster. "Melissa, I love you."

Three little words were eventually said to me, though they were not quite what I had in mind when instead a close friend came up to tell me: "Melissa, he is gay."

I was devastated. It took me forever to finally accept the truth; but the curse seemed to follow. Each and every man I feel head over heels for was just... how can I put this... not interested. Or if he was, it was because he was still in hiding and came clean only months after. (I still am unsure if our relationship had anything to do with his decision.) After years of denial, I finally accepted the truth, and realized that my life plan had changed yet again.

From living with animals, to marrying a French hunk, I went to unwillingly living a "Brokeback Mountain" life. I will find the man of my dreams, we'll get married, start a family, and he'll end up leaving me for the mailman or some other male.

I'm not happy about it, but at least I've come to accept it.

Dysfunction

“Where have you been?! “ She shrieked, her arms folded across her chest.

“Out,” he mumbled, slamming the door behind him, throwing down his jacket.

“OUT?!” her bellow bounced across the walls, making the house shake as her eyes narrowed dangerously.

“That’s right,” he replied as he shuffled across the living room.

“I thought we talked about this kind of thing…” Her voice shot an icy chill through the air.

“We have,” he said, flopping down on the couch and thudding his feet on the wobbly table in front of him.

“And…?” She trailed off, her foot beginning the usual obnoxious tapping.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” he muttered, reaching deep in between the cushions; yanking out a piece of stale pizza, a toothbrush, a dog collar and various other items until he finally found the remote.

“I’m just trying to figure out what happened,” she whined.

He pulled a wadded up booklet from his pocket and threw it at her, aiming for her face. “Go ahead,” he stated.

Smoothing it out, she gasped at the scantily dressed women on the gentlemen’s club program. “That doesn’t help,” she said with a giant, agitated sigh. She stared at him expectantly, and her foot tapping increased rapidly. After several minutes of silence, she held up the puzzle box and shook it in his direction. “You said you would help at least,” her voice slipped, if possible, into even more of a high-pitched whine that was sure to be the cause of many homicidal feelings and thoughts.

He shrugged. “Sure.” He began to approach her, hand outstretched for the puzzle.

“Ok,” she screeched, violently chucking the box at the wall; pieces exploding into the air like confetti. “That’s not what I’m talking about!”

He stopped dead, confused. “What’s what you’re talking about?”

“That I just can’t deal with this kind of…” she wavered, her hands flopping down from tearing at her hair, to limp at her sides.

He threw himself back down on the couch. “Forget it,” he pouted.

“What?” With a violent abrupt snap, her hands were back up to hair again, angrily pulling out large clumps.

“Forget it!” he spun around, his hand raised threateningly, about to strike her.

“Nothing,” she whispered. For a while, she stared at him, her eyes never leaving his except to steal a quick glance at the still raised hand. Finally she spun around, grabbing her keys and jacket from a hook on the wall. “I’m leaving.”

“Don’t,” he said, lowering his arm.

Slowly turning back, she looked at him, her large expressive eyes beginning to water. “Well?”

“Just...” he began in a voice barely audible. Slowly, he began to approach her; his steps steady and rhythmic. “…don’t leave.”

Her breathing began to get shallower; faster. “No?”

“No.” His lips found hers.

They shared a very unique relationship. Their way of life seems strange and different to many, however they are content. For five years they have lived this way, and, after time, they brought the gift of life into their homes with eight glorious and beautiful children; six of which who were recently committed to various psych wards, and two who remain happy, healthy, and married: to each other.

Shark Diving in Guatemala

Waitressing was probably not the best experiences I’ve had as a job opportunity. Not only was it waitressing; but I was employed at Denny’s: the family restaurant from hell. A typical day would include:

“My baby just vomited on the table. What can you do about that?”

“These fries are cold. Do you feel these? Here! Touch them! No! You have to see how cold they are! YOU EXPECT ME TO CONSUME THAT?!”

“Did my screaming child just run into the kitchen? Oh he’ll be fine. He likes to explore.”

“I didn’t know a grilled cheese sandwich came with cheese! Take it back!”

Lately however, I was assigned to working until three or four in the morning. This was a new shift. I quite often referred to this shift as the “Psycho Shift.” This was when all the strange people of the night came out and thrived through the darkness.

It had been a particularly gruesome day, and I was just wrapping up my “Psycho Shift.” A tall and rather attractive man came in and was sat in a booth. We made eye contact for a split second, and I lowered my gaze back down to the register I was signing out of. There were some complications and the manager came over to help me with the computer that only malfunctioned about a million times a shift.

Every so often I would look up, only to meet the eyes of the man in the booth. After a little bit, it began to grow quite awkward; this was beginning to happen way too many times to be coincidental. Maybe he was just zoning out, or maybe he just blanked out for a moment. I shrugged it off after I finally was signed out of the system successfully; I grabbed my bag from under the counter and began to leave.

“Melissa,” the man called.

I was confused for a moment, until I realized he had only read my nametag.

“Can you refill my coffee before you go?”

Homicidal thoughts flooded through my mind. I was off my shift, someone else should do. After a day like this, I could only think of bolting out the door. However, I didn’t want to appear rude; and it would only take a few seconds, right?

Wrong. After grabbing the coffee pot, I walked over and reached for his cup. Looking up at me, he asked quite sincerely: “How would you like to go shark diving in Guatemala?”

“Excuse me, are you serious?” I was caught by surprise. Was he even being remotely serious? Or was he that bored at 4 in the morning that he went to cause havoc at the only place open at this time?

“No, I’m dead serious. I mean it. I want to take you shark diving. Have you ever been?”

“Umm, no. I haven’t. But I don’t think—“

“Come on, you’d really enjoy it. I have a place…”

This man was pushy, and I still couldn’t believe that he was actually being serious. There was several minutes of awkward conversation:

“Can you see yourself with an older man? You’re very mature, and I really enjoy talking to you.”

Well, sir, if you enjoy awkward, fidgety conversation with a girl less than half your age who obviously can only think about the inviting bed calling to her after a grueling day, then I am confused at what would be a less stimulating conversation for you.

“Sir, I apologize, but I have to go…”

“I understand. Can I have your number?”

This is one of the many situations I have only succeeded in making worse by my inability of coming up with believable lies in the heat of the moment.

“I’m sorry sir, I…well, you see…I don’t have a phone.”

“You don’t have a phone? Do you live with friends? How do people get in contact with you?”

“They don’t. I live alone, and I’m probably…moving. Soon. Very soon. “

“When?”

“Uh, soon. I don’t know the exact date. All I know is that I’ll be leaving soon.”

“Oh. Well, then, do you want mine?”

This was getting ridiculous.

“Sir, I apologize. But I have to go. I have to…uh…be at my other job in a few hours. I really have to go.”

“I understand. But just know that I’ll be here for another hour. You can come back at any time, and I’ll be here. My offer still stands. When you change your mind, I’ll be here.”

I really don’t believe I have met anyone that pushy in a long while, and I was only glad to be out of there. One can only wonder how many girls were offered the “Guatemala Retreat” that night. Sure it would have been nice to spend a luxurious weekend scuba diving and lounging on the beach with a man I had met for only two seconds. Obviously it was destiny that I met this strange man at four in the morning at Denny’s. He was probably a keeper, and out of fatigue I passed up my chance on true happiness.

Yes, I made a decision too rashly. This man only had honest, true intentions, and I let them slip through my fingers. There is not a day that I don’t regret my mistake. That, and pigs also fly.

I'm Sorry Officer! I HAVE TO PEE!

The dark, residential street was quiet with the exception of an occasional dark barking. Driving past the small homes, I happily sang along to the Broadway show tunes crackling through my ancient speakers. It had been a good day, and I was happier than I had been in a long time. Nothing could put a damper on my night. Nothing. I was on top of the world!

However, once the “nothing can go wrong” speech is even slightly thought of, the usual stomach-sinking feeling kicks in almost abruptly. Almost instantly, flashing red and blue lights bounced of my rearview mirror.

Oops.

Well, great; of course. With increasing dread I pulled to the side of the road; while millions of thoughts coursed through my brain at incredible speed.

“I should tell him I’m on way to the hospital…no, that won’t work, he’d follow me… Umm, GAHGAHG! He’s almost to my window! I should tell him… umm, I’m going to throw up? I feel sick? AHH!!”

I jumped several feet into the air as the officer knocked on my window. Rolling it down, my mind was frantic.

“Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?”
My mouth hung open, still thinking of the right things to say.
“You were going sixty…in a thirty; and this is a residential street.”

Uh-oh. I had done it. I was officially screwed. I really had no idea I was going that fast; I didn’t have a clue. Overwhelming panic set in as I realized how much trouble I really was in.
“Whuh?! Really? Uh…I’m sorry officer…I ... I…” This was it. I had only a fraction of a second to attempt to save my life. “I…uh… HAD TO PEE! I’M SO SORRY! BUT I’M FEELING REALLY SICK, I HAVE TO PEE LIKE YOU WOULDN’T BELIVE, AND I JUST HAVE TO GO HOME REAL BAD!”

I could see the faint beginning of a smirk form on his lips. Good. This was good.

“License and registration.”

Handing them out the window, I began to make the situation extremely awkward, shifting and making grunt of “pain.” After taking a quick look, he handed them back.

“You do know that you shouldn’t speed, regardless of the situation, right?”

“Yes, of course officer. I’ve just never felt this bad before…I really can’t make it…”

He left after giving me only a warning. It was incredible, and my greatest moment of triumph. I had gotten out of an almost impossible disaster. Right after it happened, I called my friend Trevor telling him of my greatest feat. Weeks later, he got pulled over as well for a speed far less than mine. After hearing of my incredible moment of triumph, he decided to try. The officer, unimpressed with a teenaged boy’s frantic tearful, heartbreaking story of an near-exploding bladder, wrote him a ticket.

Bad Conditions

The wind howled and beat against the windshield of the car. We leaned forward, squinting into the darkness, trying to stay on the road. We were not used to this weather; coming from a city that experienced nothing but sunshine and extreme heat. Rain smashed against the glass, and our wipers went on strike; smearing streaks across the window. It was so dark we couldn’t even tell where we were going. However, we were too stubborn to admit that we were lost; driving dangerously. All of a sudden, something smacked violently against the side door. We had hit something, and fear swelled within us. Screeching to a complete stop, we could see the small, crumpled outline of what could only be a child. Slowly, and dazed, we opened the door as unexplainable dread rose within us as we began to make our way over to the dark mound. Unexpectedly, the figure began to crawl away, almost in fear. Squinting against the rain, we tried to follow, only to have it again try to run from us. Lighting flashed against the dark backdrop of the sky, and for a brief moment we could see the face of the child we had hit. It’s tangled face was fused with sticks and shrubbery. Our mouths dropped with shock. The beaten down child was: a tumbleweed. A very large, misshapen tumbleweed that crashed into the side of the car, and now lay limp in the middle of the road after the roaring wind died down. Needles to say: the decision to stop driving until conditions cleared up was made for us.

The Yoshi-Mobile

I have never been very good with cars. Sure, I knew basic maintenance; I wasn’t that stupid. I knew how to open the complicated gas tank to fill it, and I could run it through the car wash occasionally to keep the peeling exterior looking its best. I failed at other maintenance though. I mean, I wasn’t an expert.

My first car was a Pontiac Sunbird. Its shedding green paint would sparkle when the sun hit it just right, and the puff of smoke that erupted from the exhaust pipe every time the car started would float through the air like a dark, playful cloud. It was perfect; just plain beautiful.
I purchased it for about five hundred dollars from a close friend. “Don’t buy it from me,” she warned, “It’s a piece of crap. That’s why I’m selling it.” I was young, carefree, and desperate for a car and companion. With all signs pointing to only positive outcomes, I eagerly bought my very first car.

He ran very well for a while. He was my Yoshi-moble, and I was his driver. Nothing could separate us; jealous people, the world, not even the little red oil light the flashed warningly occasionally.

Each day I had to drive fifteen miles to fulfill my education as an eager student. For almost half of a year we spent each morning and afternoon together with complete happiness. That is, until disaster struck our joyful world. The once-inviting little red light, which normally gave a blinking, cheerful hello, was now stuck on an angry glare. For weeks I ignored it; and a week or so after that I grew irritated with its intentional havoc on our relationship.

Finally, I decided that no longer could I ignore it. I took Yoshi in to the repair shop where I heard devastating news. My car, I had been informed, had cancer. He had a tumor within its water pump, and if I did not take care of it soon, he would not last much longer. The surgery would cost about five hundred dollars; four hundred and ninety-five of which I did not have. Sadly, head hung low, I went out to meet my friend, who was not aware of the time he had left. He greeted me with a happy purr when he started, and I made up my mind that I would not let him know. I would continue to drive him until his last dying day, and we would stay happy.
After about two weeks, the dreaded day came. After about five minutes of driving, the oil light was joined by more enemies. The oil pressure needle was through the roof, and the check engine light flashed more than normal. I convinced myself that the Yoshi-mobile was actually fine. The Tunex employee had no idea what he was talking about, and that some wires were only experiencing a minor malfunction, hence the lights were flashing as a result. It meant nothing. Nothing!

Ten minutes into the drive, after convincing myself that everything would be fine, the engine began to smoke, and the faint scent of fire filled the air. Tactics changed abruptly. I went from denial to, well, slightly optimistic. “Please car, please. Just make it to school. That’s all you need to do now. You’ve been a good friend…a good…well, what I’m trying to say is…I loved you. Do you hear that? I loved you!”

BANG! The car jerked violently as the engine exploded. I was left in the middle of a crowded street with a dead friend. He had tried to be strong, but when he knew he was loved, he just let go. Putting him in neutral, I tried to push Yoshi to the side of the road. Several big, strong, capable men slowed down, not to help, but to laugh as I nearly killed myself trying to clear the road, and several other people also only slowed down to watch from their air-conditioned, still-living vehicles. Soon, I was sitting on the side of the road with my departed companion. Now people came to stop when the hard work was done. “Do you need help? Can I give you a lift?”
“No. I’m fine. Thanks.” After that happened, I realized it was a stupid mistake. I felt that I would betray the Yoshi-mobile if I left him on the side of the road. But now I realized that sitting with him alone would accomplish nothing. Grudgingly, I called a friend to pick me up, while I had a tow truck take the Yoshi-mobile back home.

It’s been almost two years now. I sold my poor dead friend to a man for spare parts, but he still resides within a special, deep part of my heart, and always will. I’ve had other cars since…two. One also passed on fairly early, and my current mode of transportation, a lively little truck named Snow Puff, looks like she’ll be a keeper. I haven’t made the same mistake I’ve done with the Yoshi-mobile. I’ve taken Snow Puff for annual checkups, and only deny the small things, like the faint smell of burning, or the oil she tends to leak quite a bit.

People tell me that I should buy a car that actual runs; that isn’t a hundred years old and a worthless pile of junk. But I pay no attention to their pessimistic way of life. I’ve made my choice; three times, three different cars. I stand by them.