Safe Haven: (Prompt 27)

No one speaking.  No television set buzzing.  No music blaring.  No child yelling.  No car accelerating.  My expectations seem unrealistic living in such a busy world, but I truly value silence.  Constantly encompassed in chaos this is hard to find, but

in here it is quiet.

No onlookers glaring.  No promises unfulfilled.  No qualifications required.  No judgement.  My own faults are unwelcome.  Being quick to judge along with other traits we as human beings possess make it unbearable to surround myself with this planet's population.  But

in here no prejudice resides.

No illuminations protruding.  No sun burning.  No headaches forthcoming.  No warmth welcomed.  My dislike of brightness would be inconvenient to a "normal" person's average day.  Living is impossible without excessive amounts of light, but

in here it is shaded.

No assignments unfinished.  No applications to be filled.  No unwanted meetings scheduled.  My hours are limited leaving me stressed beyond belief.  Every waking moment is consumed by daily worries of finishing this, that, and the other thing.  But

in here there are no commitments.

No continuous wars.  No family members bickering.  No grudges held.  No feelings conflicted.  My firsthand experiences of human interaction create feelings that contradict one another.  Individuals existing in various communities hold a sense of pride and a obsesses over always being right, but

in here it is peaceful.

No self-esteem sensed.  No confidence lacking.  No assumptions painful.  No perfection defined.  My troubles unwillingly shape themselves around the opinions of others.  Publicized society obligates everyone must be the skinniest, the most adventurous, the tallest, the smartest, the prettiest, but

in here being oneself is always acceptable.

Where's My Pencil?

"Lindsey! Have you taken my crossword puzzle?"  My grandmother yells at me a few feet a way as if I can't hear her.

"Uhh, no... I don't use regular pencils.  I'm a mechanical pencil kind of person."  I defend myself.

"Where did you say you put it?" She squints at me trying to figure out what I really said.

Frustratedly I repeat, "I told you I don't use regular pencils."

"What?!?"

"I. DO. NOT. USE. REGULAR. PENCILS."

"So you don't have my pencil?"

Her handicap makes me feel ashamed of yelling.  "No, I do not."

She begins cleaning the counter in search of her pencil.  I see her go sit down without success in finding it.  "Could you please go look for me honey?  I'm tired and would like to rest my old legs." I nod and walk off as she opens the weekend paper.

Minutes later, I return to break the bad news I was unsuccessful in finding her favored writing utensil.

"I'm sorry I couldn't find it."

"Find what?  I don't need anything.  I'm just doing my crossword with that pencil you gave me for Christmas. You could help me out if you'd like. Here, four down is: "A Western Lake." It's five letters."  She looks at me in all seriousness.

Instead of laughing and criticizing her for now having her pencil which she just asked me if I had and not telling me before I looked everywhere, I say, "try Tahoe."

Procrastination Battle

Friday: This vacation is going to be different.  I'll do my homework at the beginning so I won't have to worry about it at the end of next weekend.  Also so I won't have to worry about it during the whole week and let it ruin vacation.  Oh, yeah!  That will leave Sunday free and I'll be able to watch the Oscars in peace.  Perfect.

Sunday: Cleaning my room was more important than doing my homework.  Yes it did take a day and a half to clean my room (and it's not even fully done), but it will be worth it in the end.  Now I'll be able to do my homework in here without stressing about the mess on the floor or the desk.  I'll be comfortable. I have all week to do it.  I can do it before the weekend and I won't have to worry about ending it lamely. Wednesday and Thursday sound like perfect homework days.  If I don't get to watch the Oscars, it won't be a fun night for me or anyone nearby.

Tuesday: I can't believe this.  How did I miss this online exam?  It wasn't on the page Sunday when it said the assignment was due, was it?  This is not okay.  I never miss homework.  This is so not like me. I don't know what to do.  This is going to ruin my average.  50% for tests?  I'm screwed.  Calm down.  Just e-mail him and tell him you overlooked it, be honest.  That's what they want, right?  Phew, so glad I was able to do that.  No questions. I am doing my homework tomorrow.

Friday: I had other things I needed to do Wednesday and Thursday.  I need the extra money, so working more will be worth more in the long run.  I haven't been able to hang out with Julie in weeks now because of our clashing schedules. Who knows when I'll be able to again.  Room is clean, no plans, tomorrow is going to be a perfect all day homework day.  Don't freak out, just continue watching this movie when you could actually be doing your homework.  What is wrong with me? Why do I have to procrastinate all the time? This is getting old.  Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Sunday:  How am I supposed to support Argo or Silver Linings Playbook while doing all this homework?  I don't think I'll ever win the battle of procrastination with my homework.

Canadian Journey

Our legs burn as we climb the inclined rocky terrain.  The two men walking ahead of us exchange words of excitement.  Their appearance doesn't suggest they are in the right shape to have the ability to speak.  Nicole and I attempt to hide our heavy breathing which makes us incapable of holding a conversation.  When we reach the top an attractive young man standing on extended white crane greets us.  The four of us climb the crane's ladder to join five other adrenaline seekers.

The worker begins speaking rapidly in French.  When he takes notice of mine and Nicole's expressions he asks if we are American and apologizes after we confirm his suspicion.  He sticks to speaking English which everyone knows.  After he explains what we are exactly going to be doing, he asks if any of us plan on being dipped in the water.  Nicole's hand shoots right up.  He tells her she'll be going first and walks her down the crane-like plank to harness and jump.

I wait for my turn while others around me speak in French.  A feeling of awkwardness overcomes me and isn't relieved until a new worker switches shifts and strikes a conversation.  The reality of what I'm about to experience has yet to hit me.  My only request is that the cord doesn't break.  I am made to watch one, two, three, four, five people jump before it's my turn.  As I am being harnessed I watch the guy before me take his dive.  The crew isn't allowed to push you, you must do it at your own free will, but this guy hesitated for five countdowns.  At this moment I was hit with an overflowing rush of anxiety.

I walk the plank.  I begin to feel slightly light headed as I stare below me at the crystal blue lake.  I am unable to locate my friends down below as a surge of extreme dizziness makes it hard to see.  I wonder to myself if this is normal but choose not to tell a soul.  I drove ten hours to be here, I wouldn't want something as small as fear ruin my chance of checking this off my bucket list.  I am hooked by my ankles.  I stand at the edge of the gate and a set of mixed feelings flood me. "FIVE!" anxiety; "FOUR!" excitement; "THREE!" determination; "TWO!" fright; "ONE!" the rush of free-falling.

A Narrative on a visit to New York City

It isn't nighttime but the foggy sky permits flashing billboards and lights to brighten up the small space occupied by people, buildings, and vehicles.  Cabs, red buses, vans, cars, trucks, and bikes speed through the strip designated to them at a pace on would think to be unsafe for the surrounding pedestrians.  Unlike my family, this fails to stop me from racing to the edge of the crumb covered sidewalk.

Without words, I make an attempt at hailing a cab by violently waving my hand above my head.  I am completely ignored by more than a dozen cabs.  The rest of my family casually walk up to my side and ask me what I'm doing.  Frustrated with their lack of punctuality I agitatedly indicate the fact that we must reach Ground Zero by five p.m.  After a small pause, I roll my eyes as I tell them it's now four fifty, a.k.a. rush hour.  I'm told to calm down, which has the opposite effect on me than the intentional suggestion.

Mom and the others walk towards the end of the sidewalk before I have time to make a scene.  After a deep breath and heavy exhale, I follow them and sulk while they attempt to hail a cab.  As much as I want to make the Ground Zero reservations, I get a sense of delight when her and my sister are unsuccessful.  A small smirk crosses my face.  Since I know it's going to be a while, I begin to observe my surroundings.

Worn in sidewalks are occupied by the most diverse of crowds.  Times Square at rush hour brings all kinds of people to the streets.  Tightly congested walkways are jammed packed with both tourists and New York natives.  Men and women.  Boys and girls.  Tall and slender.  Short and stout.  Every shade of skin color known to man.  Business people wearing suites of darker shades.  Women with skirts and men with ties.  Tourists studying maps wearing back-packs.  Small children holding their nannies hands  too small to be seen unless through a gap in the crowd.  Average Joe's walking about that don't draw eyes.

Eyes.  I realize dozens are fixated on us.  Uncomfortable, I stop studying the area around me and turn to my mom right as she attempts to open the back door of an unmarked black car.  As she gets hold of the door, the car takes off.  She stumbles back onto the sidewalk and my sister and I simultaneously burst out laughing and ask her what she was thinking.  She defensively claimed he motioned for her to open the door and she assumed it was a different type of cab.  Still laughing we walk further down the strip to see the same car sitting still with the driver motioning us to get in.

Mom, Amanda, and my uncle open the door and squeeze into the back seat leaving me to sit in the front.  A nicely dressed Middle Eastern driver opens the door for me.  In a heavy accent, he demands I get in fast.  I reluctantly slide into the leather seat. As I buckle up our driver explains how it is illegal for cabs that aren't yellow to pick passengers up in Times Square.

We give him our desired destination and he heads south towards Battery Park.  Right when I begin to relax, the true driver in him is exposed.  All New York taxi drivers are aggressive, but calling our driver aggressive is an understatement.  Whilst driving chaotically, he takes out a device similar in looks to an mp3 player, places an earphone in his left ear, and converses with someone in a different language.  My paranoia tremendously increases and I now feel more uncomfortable than ever.

The judgmental part of my persona has come alive.  Black car, foreign driver, talking in a different language on a device I've never seen, driving like a madman.  All red flags that lead a paranoid me to think he is conspiring something with the person at the other end of his conversation.  My mind races.  In it I keep repeating over and over that I don't want to die. I want to get out. Get out now.

My heart plummets as we come to a long line of traffic just blocks away from the end of this nerve wrecking journey.  When I thought I couldn't possibly be any more anxious, the extreme aggressive nature of our driver prompts him to cut out in front of a large moving truck almost leaving us crushed.   The fact he's done speaking with his "friend" doesn't ease my anxiety.

Right as the clock strikes five thirty, we're stepping out of the vehicle across the street where Ground Zero rests.  Mom hands him her last twenties because he can't take credit cards.  I walk away before she even says thank you.  I don't care that it's pouring or that I'm headed in the wrong direction. I don't even care if we're late and can't get in.  I'm just glad we're out of the black cab.

Walking away, I scold my mom and go on a judgmental rant on how I felt that whole ride and conclude with promising never to get in a black cab with no markings ever again.

Black & White, Then Add Some Gray

A vacuum makes a loud humming noise in the hall.  Two girls are immersed in some conversation close in proximity to the vacuum.  Someone in the office cackles loudly.  All this is heard with my ears.  My eyes are busy and absorbed in the Statistics final that sits in front of me on an off-blue desk.  I begin to rock back and forth in an attempt to distract from the noise.  Incapable of concentration, I pick up the test.  Test in hand, I make way towards the office and pass it in.  I left two questions blank.  Flustered being an understatement, I speed-walk to my car.  Open the door.  Clench my teeth.  Cuss angrily.  Stick the key in its ignition.  Speed off to Olive Garden for my 20th birthday celebration.





A purple vacuum hums and clangs around two blonde girls gossiping obnoxiously.  "Oh my gosh are you serious?"  Shut up. I mutter to myself.  I'm alone.  Just me and this Stats test I'm never going to finish.  "Hahahahahahahaha." A woman cackles much like a hyena.  More distraction.  I tap my pencil on the painted blue desk while rocking back and forth.  Somehow I manage to let myself believe that rocking will drown out the noise.  It doesn't.  My breathing starts to become rapid and each length of breath gets shorter.  The rocking gets worse.  The man vacuuming shuffles into the room that I only I occupy and apologizes.  Says, "sorry miss, didn't see you there."  He makes his way out.  I wonder if he saw the frustration in my rosy cheeks.  I look back to the test.  Flipping the pages, I begin to talk to myself.  Like saying the problem aloud will help me solve it.  It doesn't.  With the girls getting louder, the vacuum still running, and the cackling going on in a room adjacent to mine, I give up.  I put my crap in my bag.  Put the pages I've ripped apart back together.  I get up.  Hand my test in unfinished stuttering angrily, "I.. I.. I can't do it.  I'm d-done."  Hastily I leave without chance of being acknowledged.  Happy 20th birthday to me.

"I don't know why they're not paying me for this"

"I'm gunna jump in first!"

"No. I am."

"How about you two jump in together?" I interject before the feud of these six year old boys forces me to pull over into the breakdown lane.  I glance up into my rearview mirror and have to stop myself from laughing at the scowling looks being exchanged between the soon to be first graders.

Simultaneously they grumble, "fine."

Before I get a moment to thank them for being so mature, Aidan and Zac are already deep into a rapid conversation.  I let the boys chat without interruptions for the remaining five minutes of driving time.



I put the car in Park.  Without hesitation, Aidan and Zac open the car door.  I hear the doors shut and see them run from the white Impala as if their lives depended on it.  A smile spreads across my face and I get out and walk towards the backyard of mine and Zac's cousins' house.

"DON'T GET IN THE POOL BEFORE I'M AT THE POOL AND CAN SEE YOU!!!!!!!!" I scream at the top of my lungs to make sure I'm fulfilling my responsibilities as babysitter.

"Come on Lindsey!" Whines Zachary.

Aidan joins in, "yeah, we wanna go in."

Setting a bad example, I sprint towards them on the extremely large back porch.  By the time I reach them, I pant, "ju-... mp.  You... Can..  Jump."  Splash.



"Lindseyyyyy. Aidan's jumping over the side of the pool.  Look!" Zac points his finger to the green grass beyond the pool we're wading in.

"Zac, it's fine. He's already over. When he comes back I'll tell him that he shouldn't be doing it.  But you shouldn't tattletale like that.  It's not good. Okay?"  I look at him with a slightly stern expression to assert my request.

"K."

To make sure Aidan's alright, I swim over to the side of the above ground pool.  I hear him singing "I'm Sexy and I Know it" which makes me burst with laughter.

Walking towards me he winks and says, "watch this."

What this is, I'm not exactly sure.  The closest word for this is dancing.  He swats his hips, attemps to spin on the ground, and moves his legs ferociously about.  Once finished, he runs over to the pool and flops back in.

"Wow Aidan. You're a good dancer." I compliment.

"I know right? I mean, I don't know why they're not paying me for this," he rolls his eyes in frustration.

Webcam Rant

I'd rather you not leave me open as you change.  Yeah, I can see you alright.  More of you than I wish to see.  I liked it better when you were paranoid about people watching you through me when you first got this Macbook.  At least you were considerate then.  Is it too much to ask for you to cover me with a towel when you get ready for school?  Just because I'm covered doesn't mean that Queen will stop blasting through the speakers.

Speaking of speakers... Are you deaf?!?  Well if you aren't deaf by now, you will be soon.  I don't understand why you feel it's necessary to turn the volume up to the max.  On the other hand... I do enjoy the original artist's voice better than yours.  So you know what, keep maxing out the volume.  But ONLY if it's not some horrid pop song like... like.. Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe." Can you believe that song is nominated for "Best Song of the Year"? What artistry is there behind repeating the same thing over and over and over again?  None I tell you.  None! Zero! Zilch!

Something else that should stop repeating is your complaints.  Talk about annoying.  Come on, do you really think the reason you have so much homework is because your professors hate you?  The reason you're always whining about having so much homework is because YOU SAVE IT ALL FOR THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!!   For someone with a 3.9 GPA, you don't have much common sense.  Oh, and do NOT expect me to throw you a pity party.  It's YOUR fault.  

Kind of like you blaming your cat for that mysterious yellow spot on the rug.  You know what I'm talking about. Don't try to deny anything.  Mac was open and I saw it all go down.  Your carpet's not stained because of Kiara.  You need to stop bringing drinks into your room.  One of these days you're going to spill something and it will kill this computer.  You'll be screwed.  

But hey, I'll look on the bright side of things.  If you destroy the laptop, I won't have to watch you try and take pictures of yourself for yet another social media.  Talk about embarrassing.

Writing.. or Escaping

I think I think to much.  I know I think too much.  I need not think so much.

What I find odd is that only through three pastimes am I able to detach from this "think, think, think" mode.  Writing belonging to the trio.

Movie watching, reading, and writing are easy channels to escape.  To get out of my head.  Movies and books are a different genre of getaways compared to writing.  They've already been written for the audience.  But writing... That comes from me.  My thoughts.  My voice.  My escape.

The only way to escape is to pull from previous experiences.  Haunting thoughts, dreams, and ideals that possess me. (Not necessarily in an exorcism kind of way). They're no longer a burden.

The best image drawn with words for what writing does for me has already been done by J.K. Rowling.  It reads:

"This? It is called a Pensieve," said Dumbledore, "I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed in my mind. At these times," indicating to the stone basin, "I use the Pensieve.  One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into a basin, and examines them at one's leisure."

Using a a wand to extract thoughts and memories works much like the ink in my pen.  And journals, they act like my own personal Pensieve.  I often times do not dote upon what has been written down until I decide to with my own free will.

Prompt 11

"I really do love watching movies.  There's just always something so sad about them.  Each and every one," she looks at me with a request of understanding as we sit with our backs against headboard of my double bed.

A smile parts my mouth and exposes my teeth as I answer, "There's always an end to every story."

What I thought to be a very clever answer worthy of being noted as a quote was either not that clever, or she really wasn't looking for acknowledgment from me to begin with.  She shifted her skinny jean covered legs into a criss-cross position and continued on. "There's always death.  Someone's life always has to end.  That's how it is."

I nod stepping off my bed onto the cream colored carpet.  I make my way towards the thirty-two inch screen t.v. and manually shut it off.  "The question is, did you enjoy it?"

Stretching her arms above her head mid-yawn she replies, "I really liked it.  It was a good movie.  Just sad. That's all."

"I should probably get going, Linds.  Sorry, but the rents want me home tonight," she twists her back abruptly right and then left making an annoyingly loud cracking sound.  That can't be good.

"It's all good," I lie.

The rest of the house is quiet. As we walk out of the square shaped bedroom we are certain to keep our voices at a reasonable volume.  After slumping down the carpeted stairs I unlock the gold bolt on our front door to let her out.

"Hey, could you start my car for me please, I've got to go the bathroom. Please!!!!!" She begs.

I go to open the door and a sudden rush of fear and chills encompasses my body and I slam it.  "I can't."  I whimper.

"Okay, you're freaking me out.  I'm not going out to my car after you pull a stunt like that." She finishes zipping up her mid-calf back boots and stands in front of me expectantly waiting for me to do something.

"Alright, I'll run out with you.. I'm running right back in though."

We head out into the star-filled country night.  As she opens the door to her silver CRV, I look around ready to make a sprint for the house.  "I'll call you tomorrow," she says jubilantly.  I know she won't.

Prompt 9: To Clean, or Not to Clean?

It's an embarrassment.  Why would you want friends to come over and see this dump?  You're in college. You should know how to clean up after yourself.  Am I wrong?

The thing is, cleaning is lame.  It takes too much time out of other things that I could be doing.  Interesting things like; playing the piano, watching eight episodes of FRIENDS, reading another chapter of The Hobbit, Facebook creeping, painting my nails, playing Just Dance with my little brother, juggling, building the Big Ben out of LEGOs.

You know you're going to regret not doing it.  It's going to pile up, up, and up.  Before you know, you won't even be able to see your floor.  Take that back, you can't even see your floor right now.  For someone with perfection issues, it's quite ironic that this heap of mess is what you live in.

I admit.  It's getting to me now.  But if I just divert my attention to anything, say.... That Cosmo magazine over there, poof.  There goes my fretting.  It does get pretty bad at night though.  I just don't feel like doing it right now. I'm going to go downstairs for the fifteenth time in twenty minutes just to walk right back up here.

You know that sleeping in such a mess can ruin your sleep.  There have been studies that have shown it has more of an effect than you realize.  You know, sleeping in a dirty room?  Maybe that's why your sleeping has been such an issue.  There's a solution to every problem.  The simple one here, CLEAN YOUR ROOM.

I really should, shouldn't I?  I'll just go over here and begin with putting my movies back in alphabetical order.

Wow.  You're going to start with organization of something so minor like that, that isn't really even a priority right now.  Typical you.

Trust me. It'll take me half an hour or so.  It's always good for me to get start with something that interests me so I can get swept up into the whole cleaning momentum.  Organization is a good lead. It'll work.

You know it never does.

Alright.  So I'll start by categorizing the Holocaust movies first in alphabetical order.  Then I'll do the animated ones.  Then I'll do the movies with my favorite actors; Tom Hardy, Robert Downey Jr., and Jim Sturgess.  Then I'll do the rest! Okay. So here's The Reader. I love David Kross. He acts so well in this for such a young kid.  Ralph Fiennes is also in this, I forgot about that.  I haven't seen this in so long.  I'm going to watch it.

Told you so.

Prompt 10 (and/or) 12: The Eagle's Nest

Faded conversation mildly vibrates my left eardrum.  I can't quite make out what is being said.  I pull out The Great Gatsby and sit down, or more like up, upon a tall chair painted a deep brown.  I don't have right attention span to be reading right now so I shift my slightly worn book around in my hands and pretend to read.

One of the five girls I sit near gets up to leave. "See you later guys! Call me sometime!" She shouts to her presumed friends as she bounces out of the school cafe's entrance.

"Oh my gosh I cannot stand her," exhales a skinny blonde sitting behind a Macbook.

"I know!" chimes in a mousy haired girl with dark rimmed glasses.

My ears perk up as I strain to listen to the four "friends" beside me.

The largest of the four wearing clothes that are too tight for her figure decides she has something to say now. "She's so annoying.  I like how she comes in here to sit with us and feels like she has the right to talk like she is our friend. Like, seriously?"

Mousy hair pushes up her glasses and nods in agreement.

The blonde shuts her computer and begins to whisper, "Ugh she is so obnoxious.  I mean no one even likes her.  They just hang around her because she's pretty and stupid.  Guys like that combination.  It's ridiculous."

I strain even more so I can hear the rest of their conversation, but am unable to make out exactly what is being said.  One thing that's clear is they're still speaking about this pretty/dumb girl.  The girl being gossiped about reenters the cafe to pick up a designer bag and my assumption is affirmed when the four  girls at the table immediately shut their mouths and smile at the reason for their heated discussion.  They wave good-bye to her as she bounces out once again.  The second she's out of sight, the four girls laugh at themselves like the previous scene is hilarious.

I scowl at them behind my book with pure distaste.

Week 3 Theme: "It's All Over the News"

"I hate this place.  I just want to go home.  I'm in a man-made hell. SERIOUSLY!" I hiss.

Sitting in an almost deserted corner of the hallway, I bend my knees and place my face in the palm of my hands. I want to do anything but listen to the environment that surrounds me.  I hear her walking down the hall once again.  Her heavy footsteps are already beginning to make me angrier.  The thud, thud, THUD, of her squeamishly brown hospital socks triggers me from yards away.

Eyes puffy and red, I sneak a peek through the spaces between my fingers.  Oh it's her alright.  Milk carton in hand, she's headed right towards us.

Far from sheepishly I glare at her and begin my rant, "she needs to stay away from me.  I swear every single time I'm having difficulties she finds me.  It's like she has this... This.. Tracking device and I have a beacon shouting "Lindsey's having trouble! Lindsey's having trouble!"  Every. Single. Time.  You're MY staff and she needs to learn to stay the hell away.  I wonder what she'll have to say to me today.  Am I going to get yelled at for showering in OUR shower once again?  See this is why I can't handle it here.  I mean.  If she wasn't as old as my grandmother I would punch her in the face."

I take a breath and make eye contact with my staff.  "Don't look at me like that Joe.  SHE'S the one that makes ME feel like this.  I didn't ask to feel this way.  I don't friggen do it on purpose."  The continued disapproving look on his worn down face tells me I should stop talking.  I unwillingly oblige.

She's made it to our feet.  Fantastic.

"I'm going for a trip on the Mayflower this September," she begins with a raspy voice completely ignoring me and focusing entirely on my hired staff.  "You can come with me.  You and Greg.  I'll let you bring your wife.  We're going to discover America."

I roll my eyes.  This is the thousandth time I've heard this and yes, it's getting old.

She continues, "we'll have turkey, and milk, and eggs, and cheese, and bread.  All sorts of food."

Joe looks at her sincerely which makes heat rise to my face, "Why thank you Diane.  I feel honored that you'd--"

"Oh. My. God.  Are those brown leathered shoes you're wearing?" She frowns down upon Joe and before he can answer, "this is NOT okay! Those are the ugliest things I've ever seen.  You are NOT coming with us on our voyage.  It will just be Greg and me.  Humph. I cannot believe you would betray me like this."

To my surprise I have must force myself to stifle a giggle. I was unsuccessful and she spins towards me. Pointing her old bony finger right in my face she spits, "What the hell are you laughing at?"

"I don't know Diane.  Maybe it's the fact that you walk up and down the hall all day with a bottle of friggen milk in your hand, yet you claim you're a "vegan-vegetarian? Are you aware that TURKEY is a meat.  Vega-effing-tarians, DO. NOT. EAT. MEAT!!!"

At this moment Joe pulls himself up and stands in-between us.  "Diane maybe you should move on."  The way he speaks is sympathetic.  The tone of his voice contradicts what his long pony-tail and small hoop earring would suggest of his actual behavior.

When she starts speaking again my mind instantly strays from the admiration I have for Joe, to a stomach clenching hatred I feel towards most of my fellow patients.  Diane above all.

"How do whales have sex Joe?" Diane questions in a serious tone of voice.

I begin, "what the fu-" Joe cuts me off and nudges Diane in the direction of the nurses station.

She shuffles down the hallway, unwashed gray hair in all.  As Joe turns to me and apologizes, I hear what I believe to be her closing remark for the evening.

"It's the craze across America.  Little boys are getting sodomized. It's all over the news."

I have no more words.  A rush of guilt runs through my veins.  I mouth, "I'm sorry."